Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  The doorbell’s sharp ring burrowed into his thoughts. He glanced at the clock. Just on to half past five. Hell of an early hour to be calling. Exhaling loudly, he struggled up from sofa, pushing his fist into the scatter pillow for leverage. The bell rang again, longer, seemingly incessant, as if the caller were eager to be let in. Or it was an emergency. Shouting that he was coming, McLaren stumbled into the front room, grabbing chair backs or edges of bookcases as he walked. He misjudged the corner of the display cabinet and slammed his thigh into the edge. Grimacing and grabbing his leg, he hobbled to the door and yanked it open. “Yes?”

  No one was there.

  McLaren limped outside. The sun was peaking over the eastern horizon, tinting the gray pre-dawn landscape with splashes of rose-hued light. Ashen shadows still claimed the western sides of the trees and shorter vegetation, wallowing nearly black in the thickets of roses and in the deeper wood. But the air at his front door was releasing the darkness and McLaren could just make out images, rather like the slow evaporation of fog along a seacoast. He ignored the dew-laden grass that shed its moisture on his shoes and stepped onto the patch of lawn. The willow near the far side of the house waved its leafy boughs, startling him with the impression someone stood there. But the breeze parted the dense, hanging branches to reveal nothing unusual at its base. Neither did the ancestral oak harbor anyone. Nor the clump of daylilies outside his bedroom window. The birdbath, too, stood alone, offering no sanctuary but for the birds frequenting it for water. He peered at the hedgerow lining his side of the road, but could discern no one crouching there. Besides, a person would have to be daft to hide in those brambles. Dafter yet to ring his bell at this hour. And why? He stood on his front step, taking one last glance around the area. No, no one was in the garden, drive or road. No vehicle other than his own was in sight. Muttering, he marched inside and slammed the door.

  An emphatic pounding on the kitchen door halted his return to the back room. He yelled again that he was coming before giving his thigh a quick massage. When he opened the door, no one was there. He cursed the impatient visitor in a rush of anger as he dashed down the steps.

  Again, only the gray light greeted him, the half-hinted shapes of trees, rock wall and bushes. Nothing moved to suggest human flight.

  This time McLaren walked around the house, calling to the visitor. He tripped over a tree root, unseen in the hazy light, and fell heavily, knocking the breath from his lungs. He lay there, cursing in pain, getting his wind back, then rolled onto his side and eased up from the damp earth. A check of the front and back gardens, his car and the blind side of the stonewall revealed nothing. Anger and frustration prodded him into the road, and he walked several hundred yards in both directions before admitting defeat. Minutes later he reentered the kitchen without having heard from or seen anyone.

  He paused at the electric kettle, thinking he would have a cup of tea. But the effort seemed too great at the moment, so he returned to the back room. A minute later he was oblivious to the dull aches in his thigh and chest; he fell asleep.

  He woke in what seemed like no time, but the clock indicated he’d been napping for nearly a half hour. Groaning, he grabbed the empty beer bottle and slowly stood up. The room was cold and dim in the early morning light, reminiscent of the aftermath of a party. He stretched, feeling in his back and neck the affects of his rock lifting and night on the sofa, the aftermath of excessive drinking and his fall, and the lack of sleep pounding in his head. Stumbling over to the window, he angled his head from side to side. His neck vertebrae popped, relieving some of the stiffness. He shoved the curtains open and daylight flooded the room, making him squint and lower his head. Without looking up, he left the room.

  He rinsed out the bottle at the kitchen sink, put it in the glass recycling bin by the back door, then wandered into his bedroom. The bed was unmade from the previous night’s sleep, the way it usually was except for the weekly change of bed linen. He hadn’t come to make up the bed, though. He went to the linen bin inside the closet, pulled out the shirt he’d worn yesterday and grabbed the scrap of paper from the front pocket. Unfolding it, he returned to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway and stared undecidedly at the phone. It was one way to dam the whispers in his head. But was it the best way? He glanced at the beer bottle lying in the nearly full recycling bin, the sunlight glancing off its shiny surface. There were other ways to drown the voices, to bring peace. But the paper in his hand seemed to exert a stronger pull. Maybe it was his cop’s curiosity. Maybe he didn’t want to drink himself into oblivion in order to forget. After all, that was a dangerous path on which to embark. So he filled the electric kettle with water, flipped on the switch, put a tea bag into a ceramic mug, and dialed Linnet’s phone number.

  He had nearly talked himself into hanging up when she answered the phone. He could have hung up or apologized that he had a wrong number, but something within him made him answer her expectant ‘Hello?’ He poured the boiling water into his mug and said, “Good morning, Miss Isherwood. Michael McLaren. I’ve thought it over and I’ll investigate the murder case.”

  FOUR

  In the few seconds before she answered the phone, he looked around his kitchen, perhaps truly seeing it for the first time. Though why, he could not later remember. An ordinary room, perhaps smaller than most, comprised of white appliances standing stark against royal blue walls. Police lantern blue, his mates in the job joked on seeing it when they had descended on him for poker or to watch the game on the telly. Nothing adorned the walls except a battery-operated clock. Navy blue and white cotton curtains bracketed the windows; the electric kettle and a toaster were the only smaller appliances he owned. Essentials for his life in an equally elementally furnished room. Now, as he listened to the phone ring, he gazed at the walls. He had vowed to repaint them last autumn, needing to cover up the reminder of his days with the police.

  Yet, he was about to plunge into detective work again, he told himself as he listened to Linnet’s excitement. Was he kidding himself that he could investigate a case alone? What would happen when the Derbyshire Constabulary got wind of his nosing about? Would there be repercussions?

  But the questions faded to trivialities as Linnet asked if he wanted to meet somewhere to get more information.

  “Might be best,” he said, ever cautious of overheard phone conversations. “When?” He tried to ignore his mounting heart rate but if he were honest with himself, he’d admit he wanted to be back in the job. However distant it would prove. And, he thought as he looked around his kitchen, if he were excruciatingly honest, he would own up that he was also doing it for the money. Stonewall repair work may be easy to come by, but it didn’t pay as much as his police job. So he fought back the rush of adrenalin and jotted down meeting time and place on the pad of paper. “Bring along photos of anyone Marta knew, if you have them,” he added, tapping the tip of the pencil on the paper. “It’ll help.”

  He rang off, excitement and dread and a tinge of fear surging through his body. Had he lost his mind? Was he about to step back into the fire?

  He shuddered, and his eyes caught sight of the smooth rock he used as a paperweight. It normally brought remembrances of the hike last April with Dena. Yet, now it whispered to him, mocked him. Was he about to trade the stones that formed his career for the stony silence of annoyed acquaintances? The paperweight stone was as different from the sharp-edged rocks comprising his dry stonewalls as his life had become after abandoning his police career. Yet, here he was, about to plunge into detective work again. Was he making a mistake? He felt at ease repairing stonewalls, so why leave his comfort zone for a potential hornet’s nest? Because he needed the money?

  A glance at the clock told him he had an hour to kill before leaving to meet Linnet. He wandered over to the dining room table to study the map of Derbyshire again. It was purely a time waster; he knew Derbyshire as well as any constable or Royal mail postman. True, Elton was farther south than his village of Somerley, but he
had roamed the county in his youth and probationary days, been on holidays to the Manifold, Matlock Bath, Ashbourne and Hathersage. So why was he consulting the map? To take him back to a less troubled time?

  His phone rang and he answered, grabbing it absent-mindedly, not looking at the caller I.D. display, his mind still on Elton, the village where Marta Hughes’ body had been found. So the feminine voice that wished him good morning more than destroyed his contemplation; it dragged him out of the room and plunged him into cold water.

  “Dena?” He managed to squeak out her name before his throat constricted.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, too, Michael.”

  He wiped his hand across his forehead, suddenly damp with sweat. A glance at the calendar confirmed the suspicion burgeoning in the back of his mind. 12 June. One year to the day that he unceremoniously shoved her from his life. Now it sounded as though she were trying to nestle back in.

  “You’re not outdoors, working on a wall? I didn’t know where you’d be, but I thought I’d try your house before I tried your mobile.” She hesitated, unsure of what to say or how to say it once the words did come to mind.

  In the brief silence Dena’s mental image faded, to be replaced by that of Linnet Isherwood. She still unsettled him. Was it her green eyes or the nearly imperceptible pleading in her voice? Or the way she had discovered his whereabouts? He thought himself fairly isolated from the world, from the source of his wounds, but she had tracked him down not only to his village but, more importantly, to the wind-swept hill where he worked. No matter how, she disturbed him. And more than keeping him from his repair work.

  McLaren picked up the rock on the table, cradling it in his palm and hefting it several times, judging its weight. A good weapon. If hurled hard enough and accurately enough. Enough to kill a man… He set it back on the table, shaking off the images of death he’d seen during his police career. But the stonewall on which he’d been working stood rock solid in his mind’s eye. As did his meeting with Linnet. He had returned a stone to the pile near his feet that morning. It needed trimming; it was too long to fit the spot he had been repairing. The first few top courses of stone fanned out at his feet, pushed from the wall by a sheep or horse struggling to leap over it, probably. He had eyed the length of the wall. Other similar spots needed repair, the usually smooth top jarringly jagged in sections, the stones jumbled against the wall’s base or strewn into the field.

  He fought the nearly ingrained urge to investigate, to see if clues to the inept jumper’s identity could be found. That feeling died quickly when he picked up his stone hammer, reminding him that he was no longer a detective. Just as the images of Linnet and the wall now finally crumbled beneath Dena’s voice.

  McLaren shook the last impression of that morning’s thirst-defying heat from his mind and said, “No. I’m not out. I’m still at home.”

  “A bit unusual, isn’t it, being Friday morning?”

  “Good to know your calendar’s not slow,” he said, trying to think of something to say. He knew it was inane, that he should have been friendly, but a kernel of fear was gaining a toehold in his heart.

  “God, you haven’t lost your manners. You always did know how to sweet talk me.” She let the silence grow between them and McLaren heard her faint breathing in his ear.

  “You didn’t ring me up just to remind me of the date, Dena. What do you want?”

  “I would’ve thought that was obvious, Michael. If the date isn’t significant—”

  “It’s not exactly the occasion for flowers and chocolate. I repeat: what do you want?”

  “You.”

  A dog barked in his neighbor’s back garden, bringing a bit of normalcy to the surreal conversation. McLaren closed his eyes, mentally counted to ten, and said, “It’s over, Dena. One year ago it was over. Or don’t you remember standing outside my door, crying—”

  “You don’t need to remind me, Michael. It’s all too well engraved on my mind, thank you.”

  “Then what—”

  “As you said, it’s been a year. I thought…I hoped enough time had passed that you missed me, that you wanted to get back together. I know how much you’ve been hurt, Michael. You know I do. I was with you through the entire ordeal. I understand. But you can’t be bitter all your life, darling. You’ve got to pick up your life and move on. Just because someone did an unspeakable—”

  “Look.” McLaren’s voice cut through her sympathy like a cleaver slicing through meat. “I appreciate you must still be hurting, too, or you wouldn’t have rung me up. I’m sorry for that. Sorry you’re in pain and sorry I ended our engagement. However—” he said as he heard her intake of breath, “I’ve no desire to renew our relationship or engagement. Don’t take it personally. I’d feel like this about any woman in my life. I’m just not ready to relive that segment or open myself up to those memories.” He paused, aware of his racing heart, aware that it was a lie. He had opened his heart to memories simply by staring at her photo and the chief constable’s commendation. And now he was going to be a cop in all but name when he started looking into Marta Hughes’ death. He pulled in his bottom lip, his upper teeth pressing into its flesh, as he considered what next to say. He didn’t want to hurt her; there was enough pain in both of them to last the rest of their lives. But he didn’t want to feed her false hope…

  “You needn’t change your phone number, Michael. Don’t worry that I’ll be retaliating by ringing you at two a.m. Have a nice life.”

  She rang off before McLaren could apologize.

  He stood there, staring at the phone receiver, picturing Dena tearing up his photo—if she hadn’t done so a year ago. She was entitled to her anger; he’d been a jerk. But his anger, his sense of justice…

  The mantle clock struck the hour and McLaren realized the irritating beeping sound was coming from the phone. He hung up slowly, torn between ringing her back and letting go. His fear won, and he quickly showered, shaved and dressed. He grabbed a quick cup of tea and downed a slice of toast before heading out of the door. He cleared his car of his work tools and consulted his note once more before treading down on the car’s accelerator. The Peugeot’s tires squealed as they bit into the roadway and the speedometer continued to keep pace with McLaren’s racing mind.

  The village fell behind him in a blur of gray and green, giving way to the gray and green of the surrounding countryside. Stonewalls, rock cliffs, hedgerows and trees melted into an indistinguishable mass as he concentrated on the ribbon of black asphalt and Marta Hughes. He was barely aware of the roadside sign declaring ‘Castleton’ as he turned left onto the A625, so many times he had driven the route. But as he parked opposite the hotel and got out of the car, he was more than aware of the umbrella tables in the outdoor dining section, the person chalking the day’s lunch special on the two-sided blackboard by the wrought iron gate. He felt alive for the first time in a year.

  Linnet saluted him with a glass of tomato juice and waited until McLaren joined her at one of the tables before she spoke. She was dressed similarly to the previous day, but had changed to a short, floral-printed silk skirt instead of the ankle-length cotton piece. Her T-shirt was of the same green hue as yesterday’s. A silk scarf of the same print was tied loosely around her neck, obscuring most of the silver chain and the ring dangling from it. “What would you like?” she asked as McLaren took the chair opposite her. The chair leg scraped across the pebbled concrete, startling the sparrows attacking a bread crust on the pavement.

  “I assume you mean from the menu, which rather limits the options.”

  “Cuts out world peace, wisdom and happiness, then. Pity.” She returned his smile and pushed aside her handbag.

  McLaren sighed deeply and gazed at the hotel’s façade. Flower boxes and planters overflowed with red geraniums, a brilliant splash of color against the ash-gray stone of the building. The front door, hung on massive brass hinges, was propped open with a brass kettle filled with books. “Looks like someone’s
going to do some major reading,” he said, nodding toward the volumes. “Not worried about theft, I take it.”

  “I believe they’re free. There’s a sign, though you probably can’t see it…” She craned her neck to see the door. “Yes. They’re donated by various libraries as well as by some locals. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it, finding a new book you might like. Now, what would you like, other than the afore-mentioned non-menu items? I’m buying. Part of the investigator’s fee—plus expenses I think you said. You might as well begin the Expense bill right now.” She watched him as he half turned in his chair to read the chalked menu on the side of the building. “I can recommend the juice, if that has any weight with you.” She rocked the glass slightly. The juice caught the sunlight and momentarily looked like a pool of blood.

  McLaren shook his head, and the image, if not his headache, vanished. Craning his head to his right, he called to the waiter, “I’ll have some coffee, please. Black.” The man nodded, left his chalk and sign, and wandered into the hotel.

  “Bare coffee, as my sister calls it? No latte? No cappuccino? Nothing like mocha hazelnut?”

  “No. Plain and simple, like me.”

  “Just the essentials. I see.” She smiled, holding the glass in her hand as though waiting to toast their collaboration.

  McLaren sat back in the chair, feeling the cold metal dig into the soreness of his back. It jolted him awake more than the beer and tea had earlier this morning. More like the water up at the wall repair yesterday. The afternoon had been blisteringly hot, the heat coming off the pasture and rock face like someone had opened an oven door. He had tilted back his head, taking gulp after thirsty gulp of the cool water before tipping some on top of his head. Its coldness had hit his scalp with the sharpness of a rock edge. He had shaken off the excess water, gasping as he ran his fingers through his hair, combing the dark blond locks back into their crew cut style. That was how the metal chair back bit into him today—sharp, frigid and jerking him awake. He waited until the waiter had brought his coffee before continuing with his questions.