Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “You’re always encouraging me to get back with people,” he said.

  “I was thinking more about you and Dena, not a murder victim, however metaphorically you take that.”

  “Is that why you rang me up?” He had a suspicion she knew the significance of the day’s date. “Why aren’t you painting something? You run out of canvas or is your easel broken?”

  “I’m serious, Mike. You’ve been alone too long. You need to make an effort to get back with her, with your friends. With Jerry and me,” she added almost as an afterthought. “We miss being with you.”

  “Let me heal in my own way, in my own time, Gwen,” he snapped, the calculated cheeriness forgotten, the bitterness creeping back into his voice. “You don’t know what I went through or how I feel. You have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you. I just want to see you happy again and spending some time with us.”

  “It’ll happen, Gwen. Just don’t push me.”

  “No one is pushing you, Mike. We’re just concerned for your health. You’ve shut us out of your life. We can’t get near you. You’ve distanced yourself from us as surely as if you’d moved to Australia or the moon. You’ve shut down emotionally and spiritually, like you’re barricaded inside your house. You won’t share anything with us—your thoughts, your work, your feelings—”

  So that was it, his emotions again. “I’ll call when I’m ready, Gwen, and not before. I know you mean well, I appreciate your concern, but don’t hound me about this. I still need to sort this through.” He flipped the phone closed and tossed it onto the passenger seat. She would never understand his hurt and anger. She hadn’t the years and the history that made it so crushing.

  Suddenly hungry, he searched through the car’s glove compartment. Sometimes a Kit Kat or package of trail mix or packet of biscuits lurked between the maps and petrol receipts and tire pressure gauge. He slammed the compartment door closed. Nothing.

  Glancing back at the outdoor dining area, he considered going back and ordering something. Linnet had remained at the table after he left and was now making a call on her mobile phone. He watched her animated hands as she talked, silently emphasizing her conversation. He was still there when she paused several feet from his car, pursing her lips against the phone’s mouthpiece. Cooing to her boyfriend, he thought, as he heard the name Sean. Dena and I had been like that.

  A flash of bright red caught his eye and he half turned in his car seat to look. The rear half of a car’s back wing shone in the sun for a second, then disappeared behind the edge of a shop. He half leaned out of his car window, trying to see around the building. But the row of shops presented a seamless façade, at least as far as he could see from this viewpoint. He was about to start his car and zip up the side street, when Linnet held up her free hand and mouthed something to him. Exhaling heavily, he removed his hand from the ignition key, promising himself that he’d somehow find out if that had been Dena’s red MG, as he suspected. And if she were following him.

  Smiling, Linnet held the phone out to McLaren as she stopped opposite his window. “My boyfriend,” she explained. “Sean. He’d like to ask you something, if you have a minute.”

  McLaren shrugged and grabbed the mobile. “This is McLaren.” He glanced at Linnet for a hint of why Sean wanted to speak to him.

  “Hello, Mr. McLaren. This is Sean FitzSimmons, a friend of Linnet’s. Has she mentioned me to you?”

  What did the man mean? His life story? McLaren replied that Miss Isherwood had spoken of him.

  “I know this will sound positively bonkers, but I’d like to ask if you would answer some police questions for me.”

  Whatever McLaren had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. “Police—”

  The voice went on. “Nothing confidential. God, no! Just some procedural things.”

  McLaren glanced at the photos lying on the car seat next to him. How’d he get into this? What was Sean FitzSimmons on about?

  “I’m a writer,” Sean explained. “I write thrillers.”

  McLaren’s breathing returned to normal. “Oh, yes. Miss Isherwood mentioned that when we first met. I’m sorry I’d forgotten.”

  “No harm. I’ve got a plot I’m working on now for my current book. I have this situation that I’m not sure about. I was hoping that you, being a police detective, could—”

  McLaren stopped Sean right there. “No, I’m not a police officer anymore, Mr. FitzSimmons. Besides, I doubt if I’ll have time to confer with you. I’m taking on this job just to help out Miss Isherwood. After it’s finished I’ll return to my other line of work. Sorry I can’t help. Ask at any of the larger police stations. They’ve got officers who do that sort of thing. Best of luck.” He handed the phone back to Linnet and shrugged again, as though to say that was all he could do.

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it,” she said, pocketing the phone. “I love him to death but he’s basically lazy. He thought you could sort out his plot problem for him. It’ll be fine. And, uh, thank you again for taking all this on.” She flashed him a smile before continuing down the street.

  Thank me when you see how this turns out, he wanted to say. He turned the key in the car’s ignition, hesitated as though weighing the odds of finding Dena on the road from Castleton, then eased away from the curb. He’d do a bit of research in the public library before talking to Marta’s near and dear.

  * * * *

  The reference librarian furnished McLaren with what press cuttings and reports she had from the murder investigation. The coroner’s hearing had been big news in the local newspaper, which gave McLaren a break. He sat at a table, making notes of the medical information, the police findings, and statements from those who knew Marta. The bullet that killed Marta was, as Linnet told him, a .38 caliber, but no extensive ballistic tests had been conducted with known guns; the bullet had been too badly smashed up inside Marta’s skull.

  He visited the police station that had handled the investigation and read through those files and statements. They corroborated the information from the inquest. At least no one had changed his story. When he closed the last report he sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The reading per se hadn’t brought on his headache; his brain thudded from the amount of information he absorbed in so short a time. Like being back in university, cramming for a test, he thought. The constable accepted the returned files with the same wary monotone he had uttered when first handing them over. He glared at McLaren, muttering something about the average citizen playing at Inspector Morse. McLaren felt the familiar race of his heart, the tightening of his throat. Had the officer heard about McLaren and his departure from the Force? Or was it just that someone outside the job requested access to the case notes? He had no way of knowing. And it really didn’t matter. McLaren slammed the door behind him as he left to talk to Alan and Chad Hughes.

  * * * *

  He was on the eastern side of Castleton, having just emerged from the Winnat’s Pass, when he noticed a hiker limping toward him along the side of the road. He slowed to glance at the woman—a habit from his cop days. She leaned heavily on a walking stick, took a step, then stopped to rub her ankle. But the thing that held McLaren’s attention was the hiker’s bloody knee. He stopped the car on the grassy verge and called to her. She looked up, not certain where the voice had come from, then noticed McLaren waving to her.

  He let two cars pass before he called again. “You’re hurt. Do you need any help? I can phone someone or give you a lift someplace.” He eyed her knee, assessing if it were a hospital job.

  As though her back hurt, she stood up slowly before replying, “I have no fear that I won’t live. Thanks for stopping. Everyone else…” An articulated lorry and motorcycle whizzed past, kicking up a plume of dust, as though illustrating her unfinished remark.

  “Yes, I see. Too busy.”

  “Or too afraid of a hitchhiker.”

  “You wouldn’t be afraid of them, if it came to accepting a lift?” He too
k in her small, thin frame. Even though she had the well-developed calf muscles of a walker, her biceps didn’t impress him. Besides, the area was desolate, more renowned for its heather, lonely moors and rock outcroppings than for immediate help should anyone try to assault her.

  Perhaps sensing his concern, she pulled something from her pocket. She held it up so McLaren could see it—a pocketknife. “I can hold my own.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Two motorcycles bulleted past, filling the air with exhaust fumes and noise. McLaren sat back in his seat and waited until the sound and stench had dissipated before turning again to the hiker. “Since we don’t have to worry about you holding your own, how’s your Trust level? Want a lift somewhere? Or does that take the Glory out of your adventure?”

  “I’ve had enough of that for today, thanks. I’d like a lift, if it wouldn’t take you out of your way.”

  “As long as it’s in Derbyshire, I think I can manage it.” He leaned across the front seat to unlock the passenger-side door as the woman discarded the impromptu walking stick. Ordinarily, he would have got out and opened the car door for her. But he thought that might be considered a threatening movement, knife or no knife; her ankle would have prevented her escape. “I won’t be offended if you want to keep your knife at the ready…if it’ll ease your mind about accepting the ride.”

  “I already decided on that.” She settled into the seat, fastened the seat belt and closed the car door before he asked where they were headed. “The Hanoverian, in Hathersage, if that’s not too much bother. I’ve got a room booked for tonight.”

  “No bother at all. Right on my way, in fact. You…” He paused as he checked his rearview mirror, then accelerated quickly as the car claimed the road. “You will be all right there? You don’t want me to find you a doctor in Hathersage?”

  She had bent forward to examine her knee. McLaren glanced at the red patch of skin as she gingerly touched it. “Looks nasty. Is it still bleeding?”

  “Not much. Just an occasional ooze, I think, when I bend it. Ouch.” She straightened up. “Mum always says I never leave well enough alone.”

  “Here.” He yanked a cotton handkerchief from his shirt pocket and held it out. “Not exactly a sterile gauze pad, but it might help.”

  She murmured her thanks as she accepted it and wrapped it around her knee. “The only good thing about this is that I didn’t rip a pair of jeans.” Tugging at the hem of her walking shorts, she added, “Skin heals and is cheap. A ruined pair of jeans would cost me twenty or thirty quid.”

  “Then again, wearing a pair of jeans might have protected your knee and prevented your cut.”

  “I guess we’ll never know, will we?” She gave the handkerchief one last knot and leaned back.

  “I still think you need someone to look at that. You couldn’t have washed the wound properly.”

  “I poured some of my drinking water on it. It’ll be fine.”

  McLaren made a sound like a disgruntled cough and glanced again at her leg. Her sock was damp. “Water won’t help your ankle.”

  “It’s not sprained. Just a little sore from my fall. I’ll be fine in the morning.” She settled her rucksack against her feet before transferring the open knife to her left hand. Holding out her right hand, she said, “I’m Karin Pedersen, by the way. Thanks for stopping.”

  McLaren glanced at the extended hand, grasped her fingers in what he hoped would pass for a handshake, then concentrated on the road. “Mike McLaren. My pleasure. You on a walking holiday, then?”

  Karin returned the knife to her right hand and settled back into the seat. “Yes. I started this past Sunday. I have until this Friday to tramp about.”

  “Do you walk a lot?”

  “You mean, hiking like this? Over the moors?”

  “Yes. Or just stroll after tea, down your street.”

  “I like to walk. It’s a great stress reliever. Plus I meet interesting people and get some smashing photos of the land.”

  “So you’re a photographer.”

  “Not really. Just amateur stuff. But it’s fun.”

  “You’re not scared walking about like this on your own. Your boyfriend doesn’t mind, doesn’t worry about you.” He’d estimated her age to be in the early twenties, but without a wedding or engagement ring on her finger, he could only guess at the boyfriend.

  “Not at all. You forget I have great peace of mind.” She waved the knife as he said, “I didn’t forget.”

  They lapsed into a brief silence, McLaren occupied with unwanted mental images of Marta Hughes’ body sprawled in roadside weeds. Of course he knew hardly anything of Karin Pedersen, but her life was just beginning and he didn’t want to read about her premature death.

  McLaren stopped his car in the Hanoverian’s car park and glanced at the tall inn. Its grey stones were blackened with the soot of decades of coal fires and the exhaust of countless passing cars. But the inn sign, depicting a somber king, showed the effect of its recent cleaning, for the sunlight glanced off the painted surface. “This all right, then?” he asked, looking at the side entrance. “You want my phone number in case you aren’t well enough to walk tomorrow morning?”

  “You seem a rare type,” she said, swinging open the car door.

  “I’d ask what type, but I’m afraid of the answer.”

  “White knight. Gallant. Helpful. Awfully kind of you but I repeat, I’ll be fine once I rest up a bit. Besides, I have my mobile. I’m just as capable of calling my boyfriend as you. Or picking up the bedside phone to summon the hotel proprietor. Thanks for the lift.”

  She got out of the car, then grabbed her rucksack with her free hand. Her weak ankle buckled and, in trying to regain her balance, the rucksack tipped, spilling much of its contents onto the ground.

  “Let me help—” McLaren started before Karin held up her hand.

  “No big deal. Mia culpa. I didn’t latch the flap when I pulled out the bandana to wipe off my knee. It’ll only take me a second…” She bent over and moments later had the contents back inside the pack. “There. Sorry about holding you up.” Her hand rested on the edge of the upholstered seat as she leaned inside. Again extending her hand, she added, “Thank you again, Mr. McLaren. I don’t know when I would’ve hobbled in if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Glad I could help. I hope the rest of your ramble is uneventful.”

  “You and me both.” She dragged her rucksack out of the way and slammed the car door. As McLaren shifted into first gear, she crossed her fingers and waved them at him. She was still waving as his car regained the main road, rounded the bend and lost her from sight.

  McLaren could never recall later exactly what time it happened, but he did recall it was outside the Longshaw Estate. Blue, flashing lights of a police motorcycle swiftly loomed in his rearview mirror and a yellow-jacketed police officer waved him over. McLaren sighed, confused and curious at once. He hadn’t been speeding. He was always conscious of the posted limit signs. Besides, that had been one of his crusades when he was a constable. So why was this officer stopping him?

  He turned off the car’s engine, placed his hands on the steering wheel, and watched the officer approach his car. McLaren turned slightly toward the officer, his raised eyebrow mirroring his bewilderment. First time he’d ever been on the receiving end of a traffic stop.

  “Yes, Officer?” McLaren said, aware of the remembered identical question echoing in his mind. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Name please, sir,” the constable replied, flipping open his leather-bound booklet.

  “McLaren. Michael. If I did something—”

  “Is this your vehicle, sir?”

  McLaren glanced around the car’s interior, as though expecting it to have changed. He moved his hand to the top of the center console in an effort to shift his body so he could glance into the open hatchback section.

  A warning, a clearing of a throat and the words, “Hands on the steering wheel, sir, where I can see them,” stopped Mc
Laren’s inspection. He murmured, “Certainly. Sorry,” and settled back into his seat.

  The constable stepped slightly away from the car door yet kept his eyes on McLaren. He spoke briefly into his shoulder microphone and seemed, to McLaren, to be talking to someone for an eternity. He heard snatches of the conversation, but didn’t need the entire dialogue to know that his car was being run through the p.n.c. listings, that it was insured, that it had a current M.O.T. certificate. He also knew it would be verified as not stolen, but that didn’t help his anxiety or confusion as to why this was happening in the first place. The officer finally jotted something down in his notebook and returned to his original position at the car door. Staring down at McLaren, the officer said, “You admit this Peugeot 207 is registered in your name, correct?”

  The second misgiving that something was wrong kicked him alongside the head. Was his number plate light burnt out? “If you would tell me what is wrong, officer—”

  “Have you been in continuous possession of this car today, sir?”

  “Continuous…”

  “From the time you started your journey to this moment?”

  McLaren could feel his throat tighten. He fought to keep his breathing even as he replied, “Yes. I’ve been in the car continuously since I started, haven’t left this seat. What—”

  “Where did you begin your trip, sir?”

  “Castleton. Mid-morning. I don’t know the exact time. Close to eleven o’clock, I should think. If you would tell me—”

  “What is your destination?”

  “Chesterfield.” He hoped that was enough. If he had to give Alan Hughes’ home address and explain why he was going there, this would turn into a can of worms.

  “Thank you, sir. You have a driving license, I assume.” The officer looked at McLaren as though someone in his late thirties should know the law.

  “Certainly. I can produce it if it’s required. Would you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “Yes, sir. Our station received a phone call about a red, three-door Peugeot 207, with number plate numbers that match yours.”