Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Are you always so cautious, Mr. McLaren?” Linnet nodded toward his left hand.

  He glanced down at the tabletop, at his hand that covered the small notebook. His fingers curled to lightly run across the opened spine. “I’ve never been accused of writing legibly, but there’s always a first time that someone else can read my scrawl.” Pausing with the pen tip on the paper, he reread the notes he had jotted down, then asked for the phone number and address of Marta Hughes’ home.

  “I haven’t said a thing of her husband, Alan,” Linnet said, watching McLaren notate the information. “I didn’t feel it was my place. Also…” She watched a tourist take a photo of Peveril Castle before continuing. “I thought you decided against taking the case. Yesterday you seemed—”

  “A little voice convinced me to change my mind.”

  “Then I salute the little voice.” She raised her glass toward McLaren and finished the last of the juice, then set the glass on the tabletop. He thought how well it complimented her lipstick—dark crimson and catching the light. She brought a folded sheet of paper from her handbag and handed it to him. Paper clipped to it were several photos.

  “Key players, I take it,” he said, slipping the pictures from the clip and opening the paper.

  “In happier times, too.” Her voice held a suggestion of regret and sadness. “But most of our youthful days were happier, weren’t they?” She had forced a cheerful note into her tone as she watched him examine the faces and scan the typed information. She added, “Alan and Chad…you can figure out. They’re the man and teenager. That’s Marta with them.”

  He brought the photo closer to his eyes so he could stare at the woman he was trying to help. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, a brunette with hazel eyes that looked amusingly at the photographer. She came up to her husband’s chin, which she clutched with a thin hand. The husband was a graying brunet and while her son had inherited her eye color, he was blond. McLaren had no time to comment on this, for Linnet said, “The others…” She leaned forward, her left arm bent and supporting her, and tapped each photo as she mentioned their names. “The group shot is Marta, her boss, Derek Fraser, and Emlyn Gregg, who is the vet for the shelter. This—” She skipped over the others in the photograph and pointed to the woman to the extreme left. “That’s Verity Dwyer.”

  “The wrongly suspected coworker.” McLaren looked at the woman in the photo. Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight and her blue eyes smiled back at him.

  Linnet explained, “Yes. Suspected of killing Marta, though that wasn’t proved. But she was convicted of stealing money from the shelter. She’s three months into her sentence. She was— Oh, it’s extremely involved.”

  “I’ve got more time than money. Tell me.”

  FIVE

  McLaren settled back in the chair. The wrought iron had lost its coldness and now just held the unyielding support he needed. He moved the notebook to his lap and eyed Linnet.

  She pushed the empty glass to her right, as though considering how best to tell the story, then said, “As I explained yesterday, Verity and Marta worked at the same place.”

  “An animal shelter. On Blackbeech Road. Noah’s Ark, I recall.”

  Linnet blinked in surprise, then said with a somewhat tremulous voice, “Uh, yes. Quite right. I’m impressed with your research.”

  “It’s included in the price.” He allowed himself a quick flash of a smile, took a sip of coffee, then asked her to continue.

  “Well, Verity and Marta became friends. Because they considered themselves friends, Marta asked Verity for the loan of two hundred pounds.”

  It was McLaren’s turn to blink. “Why so much? What did she need it for, did she say?”

  “Same thing she always needed money for. Same thing she did on our girls’ night out.”

  “Gambling. She couldn’t take money out of her bank account or ask her husband?”

  “They’re well off, but not dripping rich, if you understand me.”

  “If that’s true, her husband must get a nice pay packet. Marta can’t make much, working in a charity shelter.”

  “She didn’t. But Alan does. He’s in senior management…at National Westminster Bank.”

  “So they live on his money, for the most part.”

  “Yes. And because he works at National Westminster—”

  “Their accounts are with that bank. She couldn’t withdraw cash on her own?”

  “Certainly. She often did. But Alan didn’t know about her gambling. Well, that’s not exactly true. He knew she went to the casino—that we both went—but he thought it was just for fun, a few times a year. She didn’t tell him every time she went or how much she lost.”

  “He was under the impression, then, that it was just a pastime like everything else she did.”

  “She had become more and more addicted to it. Oh, not that she played every night or every weekend. But she was showing the signs of the addict. She tried to keep it from Alan, so of course she couldn’t withdraw the money. He would have seen the reference to it on their monthly statement and asked her what the money was for.”

  “And Christmas or a birthday, presumably, was too far away to furnish her with that story.”

  “I’d loaned her all the money I could, so she turned to Verity.”

  “Was she in the hole to you or anyone? If she asked people for money—”

  “She always paid it back, Mr. McLaren. That was the weird thing about it. Marta may have loved to gamble, but somehow she usually won. Even on the nights she lost heavily, she’d win huge on her return trip.”

  “So she always had money from her winnings to repay her debts.” He tapped his pen against the notepad as he considered his next question.

  Linnet threw the last of her Danish to the sparrows, watching them flock to the offering.

  Over the noisy chirping, McLaren said, “You said yesterday that Verity stole some money. I assume this comes into play in the broad picture of what happened to Marta.”

  “It was last year. Third of May. Verity hadn’t any money of her own to loan Marta. That’s why this turned so tragic. Verity took some cash from the cash drawer. Yes, I know,” she added as McLaren swore, “it was stupid, dangerous and unethical.”

  “Besides dishonest.”

  “Sometimes you do stupid, dangerous and dishonest things for a friend, not stopping to think how it might turn out.”

  “Verity got caught in a trap of her own making, I assume.”

  “Marta swore Verity to secrecy and said she’d pay it back the next day, after she won. Marta went to the casino that night and promptly lost everything—the shelter’s money and her own. She was devastated. She didn’t know how she was going to tell Verity.”

  I know the feeling, McLaren thought, phrases of his conversation with Dena welling in his mind. Breaking bad news, especially news that reflects badly on the teller, is always hard. Even as a cop, he’d never found an easy way to tell anyone that their world was about to be knocked out of orbit. He rubbed his forehead and glanced at the sparrows. One grabbed a large crumb and flew away with it to eat in peace. Dena had taken their engagement breakup rather peacefully. At least there had been no screaming. Just tears as she quietly asked questions. McLaren gave his forehead one last vigorous rub and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “Had this ever happened before? Not her losing; her taking the shelter’s money or getting a personal loan from Verity, and then having to explain why she couldn’t repay the money promptly?”

  “No. As I said, Marta usually won, but on the few times she had borrowed money from someone, she could always win it back within a few days.”

  “You said Marta didn’t frequent the casino that regularly.”

  “She did when she owed someone money. She’d go back the next day or so in order to win it back. It preyed on her mind if she couldn’t reimburse the person. She felt strongly about her debts.”

  “So she returned to the casino the next da
y or so.”

  Linnet grimaced, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, two days later she became ill. She was out of work for a week.”

  McLaren paused, as though mulling over the consequences. “Did she get back to the casino then?”

  “No. More back luck. The shelter’s treasurer appeared on the tenth while Marta will still at home, and—”

  “Don’t tell me. Discovers the shortage. Ouch. Is that why Verity was suspected of Marta’s murder? You told me yesterday that she wasn’t charged with it, I recall. But something obviously happened in conjunction with this gambling episode and the theft. What?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes. When Verity couldn’t explain the discrepancy, she was arrested.”

  “Why? Had she stolen money before, but they overlooked it for some reason?”

  “She was the only person who ran the gift shop. It’s in a room off the main reception area. And because she is the only person with access to the cash.”

  He opened his mouth to say something but Linnet continued, “The register is locked overnight, you see.”

  “And Verity has the only key.”

  “Yes. Well, Derek, her boss, and the treasurer have keys. But Derek wasn’t even under suspicion of the theft.”

  “He have an alibi for the time in question?”

  “I believe so. Anyway, he wasn’t ever seriously considered as a suspect.”

  McLaren snorted and shook his head.

  “Verity works ten to four, Tuesdays to Saturdays. The rest of the time the shop section is closed. Verity took the money from that cash drawer, thinking it wouldn’t be missed so readily. Sales for the dogs and cats and other animals up for adoption are transacted at the main register in the reception area. That’s always busy. Marta knows the money’s counted each morning, at the beginning of shift, so the employees know how much change they have for the day’s business.”

  McLaren nodded, his eyes fixed on Linnet’s face. “Good news, bad news.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, the discrepancy was discovered and Verity was blamed.”

  “Due to the limited access of the cash drawer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell of a finger-pointer, that.” He picked up his coffee. The cup was cold to his touch. He started to angle in his chair, searching for the waiter. Last time McLaren had seen him, the man was chalking items on the menu near the street. As McLaren grabbed the chair’s arms, Linnet said, “Maybe it’s nothing, but I think someone’s fooling about near your car.” She nodded toward McLaren’s Peugeot as he stood up. “I could be wrong, but I thought…” Her voice trailed off as McLaren said, “I’ll be right back,” and darted across the road.

  Of course no one loitered at the off side of the car. He hadn’t expected that. And the far side, along the pavement, harbored no one other than the usual tourists consulting guide books or taking photographs, and villagers hurrying to shops for the day’s marketing. McLaren paused at the passenger door and squatted as he looked at the door lock and window. No tell tale pry marks marred the pristine paint job. He tried the door latch. The door remained closed.

  If anyone had been tampering with the car, was he farther down the block, waiting until McLaren returned to the hotel café? Unnerving thought.

  McLaren jogged to the corner, eyeing everyone as he passed, glancing into alleys and store windows. No one seemed to be watching him. When he got to the end of the block, he jogged back, again passing the same people and stores, again looking for suspicious activity. At the end of the row of shops, he paused, unsure if he should try the opposite side of the street. But what good would that do? If someone had been trying to break into his car, he wouldn’t be leaning against a lamppost, advertising his wait. McLaren turned and walked back to the hotel.

  “Anything?” Linnet asked as McLaren reclaimed his seat.

  “Not even a sparrow,” he said as one lone bird landed on the back of a vacant chair.

  “Sorry. Guess I was wrong.”

  “That’s all right. I didn’t get in my morning jog before I came.”

  “Then it wasn’t in vain.” She smiled, her voice taking on a lighter tone.

  Jotting something in his notebook, he said, “Always best to be sure. Someone could have been trying for a quick grab, though there’s nothing in my car that’s visible. Or valuable.”

  “I would have felt terrible if something had been stolen and I never said.”

  “I applaud your call to good citizenship, then.” He settled back into the chair again. The morning sun had warmed the wrought iron and the heat felt good on his stiff muscles. “So, you were telling me about Verity. She was blamed for the missing money due to the limited access of the cash drawer.”

  “Yes. It was awful. A farce, in my opinion. The trial began several months later and she began serving her sentence last year in June.”

  “So they didn’t pin the murder on her, then. Just the cash theft.”

  “Yes. They knew it wasn’t embezzlement because the money had gone missing immediately from the till, in one lump. The prosecution tried to link this to Marta’s murder, but they couldn’t make a case of it.”

  McLaren rubbed his eyes, imagining the court proceedings. He could almost hear the prosecution ranting that Verity had hired a hit man to rob Marta after she had won big at the casino. But the robbery had gone wrong and Marta wound up dead. “So Verity is convicted of theft and nothing more.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It would’ve been hell to go through the process of overturning a false conviction of murder, the lawsuits for false imprisonment, the retrial. She was lucky in that aspect.”

  “Her defense council couldn’t come up with anything that the jury believed, I take it.” He tossed the pen and notebook onto the table and finished his coffee. It had grown cold during the interval but he barely tasted it. The whole story stank, as far as he was concerned. As for circumstantial evidence… He’d seen many cases solved with just this type of reasoning and evidence no more concrete than theories, bad personal histories and gossip. “Marta never confessed to the theft, then.”

  “No.” She started to reach for McLaren’s hand, then thought better of it and laid her hand on her lap. Her voice softened as she searched McLaren’s face for his reaction. “Please don’t judge her too harshly, Mr. McLaren. She was actually a good person. She was a loyal friend and would do anything for anyone.”

  “Except tell the truth when it would free them from a prison sentence.” He’d said it so bitterly his cheeks flushed immediately afterwards. Embarrassed at his outburst, he shifted the blame for his red coloring by fanning his face with the notebook. In a less accusatory tone, he added, “We’ve all been guilty of transgressions, Miss Isherwood. Some just have more severe penalties than others. I know.” He left unsaid the offense leveled against him; Linnet had known of it before she had searched for him.

  “You’ll still take the case?” She leaned forward slightly as she opened her handbag. “I know it’s probably a bit more than you expected, but none of us believe Verity’s involved any way in Marta’s death. She’s not that sort of person. She just had the misfortune that the treasurer showed up when he did. If Marta had lived—” She broke up and avoided McLaren’s eyes, feeling the rush of heat to her cheeks. She ran her tongue over her lips and looked at him as she continued. “Marta would have paid back the money. She’s not a thief. You’ll help us, won’t you? You’ll take the case?”

  McLaren nodded and watched Linnet’s pen make out a check for a down payment. When she had signed it and handed it to him, she said, “Her husband, Alan, would certainly be glad to talk to you. He doesn’t say so, but I know he’s dying inside.”

  “I better see him immediately, then.”

  Linnet searched McLaren’s eyes for a sign of understanding or sympathy. He merely stared at her, as though he hadn’t yet decided on something. Linnet said, “The police couldn’t find the killer. Maybe it was because too much time had elapsed before they found her body. But I
don’t believe everyone they questioned could have proved their alibis, could they? You’ll be able to find her killer?”

  He stood up, folded the check and slipped it into his pocket, and thanked her before replying, “Slugs aren’t always under the first rock you turn over.”

  SIX

  Linnet Isherwood had satisfied his curiosity as to why she knew so much about the financial problems with the confession that she’d sat in daily for the duration of the trial. Or, as she actually stated it, when your best friend’s been murdered, each fact is branded upon your heart.

  McLaren sat in his car, coaxed the check from his pocket, and stuffed it more securely into his wallet. He’d have to wait until Monday to deposit it, but it comforted him knowing a transfusion for his account was less than two days away.

  His mobile phone rang; he looked at the caller I.D. display before answering. Dena wasn’t going to catch him again. Though it was nearly as bad, he conceded, answering the ring. It was his sister. He took a deep breath, silently cursed, then forced a cheerfulness that he didn’t feel into his voice. Perhaps his sister wouldn’t notice the strain. “Hi, Gwen,” he said a little too brightly. “Up awfully early, aren’t you?”

  “You forget about the early bird, Mike.” Her voice was strong and laced with the Derbyshire accent of their upbringing.

  “Which are you—the bird or the worm?”

  “Better not ask. I’m still deciding. You at work?” She didn’t have to specify his job; she’d emotionally held his hand through his decision to leave the police and had encouraged him to take up the stonewall repairing, believing he needed time away from people in order to heal.

  “Yes, but not what you think.” He told her about his decision to look into the cold case.

  The silence on the other end of the phone told him she either was surprised or disapproved of his decision.