Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Match mine! My car…”

  “The driver’s description also matches you, sir. White male, late thirties, dark blond hair in a crew cut, hazel eyes.” The officer paused, perhaps assuming McLaren would deny something. When McLaren merely stared at him, the officer said, “Now, sir, if you would kindly step out of the car for a moment…” His hand was on the door latch and opening the door before McLaren could blink.

  As McLaren stepped onto the packed, bare soil of the verge, he stumbled slightly as the toe of his shoe became tangled in a tuft of grass. Steadying himself against the side of the car, he stuttered, “Wh-what’s this all about? I…I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. The driver of this car, your car, was just reported as driving erratically, as though he’d been drinking. Have you had anything to drink today, sir?”

  McLaren blinked, not believing this was happening. “Nothing alcoholic, which is what you mean, I assume. Just tea and coffee.”

  “Would you consent to taking a breath analyzer test, sir?”

  “Breath analyzer test!” My God, I’m about to be given the entire treatment: warning, statement of prescribed limits, declaration of moving traffic offence… McLaren took a step back and tripped over a rock protruding from the soil.

  “Yes, sir.” He eyed McLaren, sizing up how much the man had already consumed this morning. “Hands on the car bonnet, if you please, sir. For your safety as well as mine.”

  McLaren shook his head in disbelief and placed his hands on the front of the car. “But there’s no need for a breath analyzer test! I’ve not had a thing to drink, other than this morning’s tea and coffee. This is all—”

  “Ridiculous?” the constable supplied, walking around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the car door and looked inside.

  “Yes. I’ve been—” He stopped abruptly, aware that he had been about to say he’d been a cop. Besides holding no weight, he didn’t want his name or history made public.

  “You’ve been…what, sir?”

  McLaren tried to think of an answer. What could he say? He’d been framed? Converted through religion? Dry for a decade? A model member of R.A.C.? Ashamed of his relapse? He stared stupidly at the officer, trying to make sense of the situation.

  The officer bent forward and searched the car’s interior. When he straightened up again, he was holding a beer bottle in his gloved hand. A quarter inch or so of liquid sloshed around inside the bottle as the officer gently shook it. “How do you explain this, sir?”

  SEVEN

  Of course there had never been a question in McLaren’s mind that he would fail the breath test. The beer he’d finished off before breakfast would not be enough to register on the breath analyzer. He was completely under the prescribed limit of 35 microgrammes. Still, the realization that someone somewhere knew him, knew his car and registration plate number, and had reported him to the police was sobering. Frightening.

  The constable left him with a “Thank you, sir, and drive safely,” his motorcycle roaring into the distance. McLaren sat in his car, staring at the man until traffic and the bend in the road obscured him from sight, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The breath analyzer test had registered nothing; there was nothing wrong with his car registration, license or insurance. A waste of time for the officer; an inkling of some blunder for McLaren. He turned his car and headed back to Hathersage. That hiker, Karen Pedersen, had been in the passenger seat. Perhaps the bottle was hers.

  Despite his urge to hurry, McLaren kept the car’s speed under or at the limit. A handful of minutes slipped by as he lumbered behind an articulated lorry near Surprise View, unexpected scenery of the Derwent’s thickly-wooded valley and the boulder-studded slopes of the hills. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, increasing his agitation. The lorry’s motor growled as the driver shifted gears to slow the vehicle’s downward pace. As an outcropping of boulders crawled past his window, McLaren shoved a cassette tape into the tape player, and after several seconds of silence, the background sounds of pub patrons filled the car’s interior and his strong, baritone voice sailed over the noise of the crowd, followed by three other men’s harmonies and the supportive sounds of guitars, viola, and soprano recorder. My father’s walking on the street; my mother the chamber keys do keep; the doors and windows they do creak; I dare not let you in O, the lovesick lass told her soldier lover. “You’re not the only one who’s been betrayed,” McLaren muttered to the tape player. He let himself finish the verse of “Cold Haily Rainy Night” before he jabbed the player’s STOP button. He was in no mood for the song, no matter how much he liked listening to his folk singing group. Keen to get to the hotel and sort out this event, he swung his car around the lorry at the first opportunity, and a minute later parked in the Hanoverian Inn car park.

  His footsteps crunched on the gravel, making indentations as he walked hurriedly to the front of the building. A strip of grass, nearly a foot wide, kept the gravel from spreading onto the main road and immediately deadened the thump of his boots. He stepped onto the pavement curling around to the front door, stopped to let a lady pass, then sprinted up the four steps. His hand gripped the brass door handle and he yanked impatiently at it.

  The hotel’s front door closed gently behind McLaren as he stepped into the hallway. A runner carpet of an intertwined floral design done in tans, oranges and greens softened the sound of his steps. He ignored his reflection in the gilt-framed Georgian style mirror and strode down the hall.

  The name suited the inn-turned-hotel; it seemed to have been pulled from an upper class house of the 18th century, with its dark wood paneling and silver sconces. A large reception desk lifted from an ancient pub stood guard in front of a row of wooden cubbyholes for guests’ mail. McLaren marched over to the desk and slammed his fist down on the chrome reception bell.

  Faint though it was, the bell’s ‘ping’ evidently sounded loudly enough. The tone had barely died when a tall, thin man materialized at the far end of the cubbyholes. He seemed to be part of the ancient building, clothes, hair and eyes the same dark hue as the wood, his skin the tone of the polished brasses over the fireplace. A fireplace large enough to roast oxen, McLaren judged, then turned to the gaunt man as his “May I be of service?” broke the stillness.

  “Please,” McLaren replied, bracing his left palm on the edge of the desk and leaning forward. “I believe you have a Karin Pedersen registered here.”

  “The name does not sound familiar, sir.”

  “Perhaps not, but she arrived here about an hour ago. I wonder if you could ring her room and let her know I’d like to talk to her.”

  “We’ve had no one arrive in the last hour, sir.”

  “Well, maybe it’s three-quarters of an hour. I’m not sure of the time. But I know she’s here. She had a reservation for the night.”

  “I can assure you, sir—three-quarters of an hour or one complete hour—we’ve had no one arrive yet today. There are a number of guests scheduled to arrive later, nearer tea time, but no one has registered any time today.”

  McLaren stared at the clerk as if the man had lost his mind—or was trying to convince McLaren that he’d lost his. Leaning completely against the counter’s edge, he said, “She has to be here! She has a reservation! I dropped her off myself, just an hour ago, at your car park.”

  “I assure you, sir, no one has—”

  “She entered your side door. I watched her. She walked inside. Maybe she has a different name…” he said, trying to make sense of the clerk’s information. “Maybe she’s married and registered under her married name. Could that be it?” His fingers gripped the edge of the counter as the room began to tilt.

  “Perhaps. What name did you say, sir? I’ll look it up.”

  “Pedersen. Karin Pedersen. I know that’s her name. At least, that’s what she told me.” Why would she lie? McLaren wondered. She didn’t seem to be on the run from something. If she were, people hiding from the law or from angry bo
yfriends didn’t take a leisurely hike through the Derbyshire Dales; they take the fastest exit they can and bury themselves in the anonymity of the city.

  The clerk flipped slowly through the small stack of registration cards, silently reading them as he said, “These are all from this week. There is no Karin Pedersen registered.”

  “She has to be here! I gave her a lift in my car. We came from the direction of Castleton. She walked into your hotel—”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve looked through the cards and I’ve informed you there is no one here by that name. I don’t know how else to convince you.”

  “A small, thinly built woman. In her early twenties. Vivid red, curly hair.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Her knee was cut pretty bad. It had been bleeding and she had tied a handkerchief around it.”

  “As I said, sir, no one of that description has registered here.”

  McLaren threw his head back and exhaled slowly. The plaster grape clusters and cupids on the ceiling shifted in and out of focus. He closed his eyes, trying to think. This was beyond a joke. Then he lowered his head, stared at the clerk and said slowly, “All right. Could she have registered while you were on break? Do you have another employee who was on duty an hour ago?”

  “I am the only front desk staff during the day. Another clerk takes over at four o’clock, and someone else is on call during the night. I am the only person here right now. This is my normal working time.”

  “No one relieves you if you…you know…there’s a call of nature?”

  The clerk drew himself up to his full height and his voice turned cooler. “There are arrangements, certainly, but that has not happened during the time you say this person supposedly came into the hotel.”

  The front door opened, causing the long fabric panels at the opening of the reception area to move. An older couple sauntered down the hall, talking about their dinner reservations, then disappeared from McLaren’s view. He turned back to the clerk. “Would you at least check your registration book to see if she has a room for tonight? Maybe I’ve got the time wrong…” That was not possible, but anything to appease the clerk into looking.

  Sighing, he opened a large monthly planner. He flipped several pages, consulting dates prior to and after the day’s date, then set the open book in front of McLaren. Pointing to the day’s column, he said, “This is highly irregular, allowing you to view this book. I assume you won’t believe me if you do not see it for yourself. As you can see, sir, there is no reservation for Karin Pedersen. Now, if there is nothing more—”

  “She has to be staying here! She can’t walk anyway. She fell and bloodied her knee. Perhaps she went to a clinic or saw a doctor. Is there one in town?”

  The clerk eyed McLaren as though he had just walked into the room nude. “Hathersage is a village, sir. The nearest medical facility—”

  “Okay. Fine.” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to stimulate his brain. Closing his eyes for a moment to concentrate, he said slowly, “Maybe she found a local doctor. Is there one in town? Surely someone’s name must be on file for a guest who might become ill during the night.”

  “We keep a supply of medical supplies here, sir. If a guest is truly in need of professional care, we dial 999 or drive them to the Devonshire Royal Hospital in Buxton. I have seen no one of her description, nor have I seen this knee you keep referring to. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “But she came in here, damn it!” he exploded. “I dropped her off. She entered the hotel by the side door! She told me her name; I talked to her for quarter of an hour.”

  “No one has registered.”

  “She has a reservation for tonight! She’s got to be here!” He leaned over the counter and grabbed for the cards. The frantic glance of dates and names still failed to reveal Karin Pedersen’s name. Silently admitting defeat, he dropped the stack onto the counter and leaned his back against it. “Why would she lie? There’s no point in it. Why would she come in here if she has no room…”

  The clerk gingerly stepped forward and said in a strained voice, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. If you don’t leave the premise immediately, I shall have to phone for the police.”

  “No need to trouble yourself, mate. We already know each other.”

  Murmuring something unintelligible, the clerk picked up the stack of cards and disappeared into the small inner room behind the cubbyholes.

  McLaren nodded and walked into the hall, pausing in front of a painting of King George III. Looking up at the portrait, he said, “Got the name of a good psychiatrist, Georgie? I’m going to need one very soon.” The door eased shut on his retreating figure.

  Sitting in his car in the hotel car park, McLaren thought over the sequence of events. Nothing made sense other than Karin Pedersen had changed her mind about the overnight stay and moved on. But her cut knee would necessitate someone driving her. He eyed the hotel sign, a stylized portrait of George III, and wondered briefly how long the paint lasted in these harsh Derbyshire winters before he walked over to the payphone on the side of the hotel. The yellow pages had one listing for a doctor in the village and the next nearest one was in Chapel-en-le-Frith, which was more than ten miles distant. Buxton and Chesterfield were heavily represented and seemed the most logical choice for care if her knee was cut deeply. Still, McLaren wanted to be certain. The call was answered almost immediately, and nearly as immediately McLaren was back to no solution. The doctor had not treated a Karen Pedersen, the receptionist informed him. He had treated no one that day with a cut knee—had he tried the hospital in Buxton?

  McLaren sat heavily in his car seat, confused and frustrated. His fingers reached for the tape, yet rested on the cassette’s edge. Was this a ‘message’ from Dena? A flex of her muscles to show she could upset his life? She said this morning that she wouldn’t harass him with phone calls, but maybe this was her harassment—setting the cops on him, inconveniencing him. But the beer bottle… He hadn’t seen her today, hadn’t told her that he’d be in Castleton. She couldn’t have done anything.

  His gaze drifted over to the passenger seat, then out the car window toward the direction of Castleton. He imagined the small lanes of the village, the stone shops and the castle ruin perched on the hill overlooking the comings and goings of the residents. He had parked across from the hotel, sitting in the outdoor dining area with his back toward his car. Could Dena have planted the beer bottle while he was speaking with Linnet? Was she the person Linnet believed she had seen at his car? If Dena had done it so quickly and casually that she hadn’t drawn attention to herself, she could have bent over, cracked open the door, and jammed the bottle in the floor well between the passenger seat and the door. Maybe he hadn’t locked the door after all; maybe she had pushed down the door lock…

  He rubbed his forehead, trying to envision the scenario. Could it have happened? Was he imagining enemies at every corner? He shoved the cassette tape back into the dashboard tape player, adjusted the volume to the next song, “The Blacksmith,” and leaned his head against the headrest. What was wrong with this supposition? What was he overlooking? Castleton’s main street shimmered in his mind’s eye, Linnet’s face and the waiter at the chalkboard sign and the road lined with cars had seemed normal. But somewhere, some time, something odd had happened and he needed to figure it out.

  He sat up, leaving the blacksmith’s fair lady to ponder her own doubts, and turned the key in the ignition switch. The car engine roared into life but he let it idle. Yes, he thought as he slowly nodded. Dena’s red MG. He’d swear in court the car he’d seen had been hers. A burst of applause from the recording drowned his muttered “Damn.” Swinging the car onto the main road, he grumbled, “I hope the cheers are prophetic,” and headed to Chesterfield.

  * * * *

  Marta Hughes’ husband, Alan, poured McLaren a second cup of tea before explaining his last statement. They were seated in the kitchen of Alan’s house, warm from the mid-afternoon sun and the
chicken casserole baking in the oven. Alan, a graying brunet in his late forties, leaned forward, his forearms on the chrome edge of the tabletop, and nodded toward the front room. “Most of the damage was in there,” he said, his voice weary with having to relive the event.

  McLaren settled the cup back onto the saucer, eyeing the room through the kitchen doorway. Nothing was out of place, but he could imagine the wreckage. He’d seen dozens of such rooms during his police career. “So the coppers never discovered who ransacked your home, then.”

  “No. But we had our suspicions.”

  “We?”

  “The police, my family, and the neighbors.”

  “Did you all come to the same conclusion as to the suspect?”

  “Yes. Without even having to discuss it. Rick Millington and his group.”

  “Who’s Rick Millington? Have you—family, neighbors or police—had run-ins with him before?”

  “A neighbor kid. And no, not run-ins, but he’s brushed up against the law before.”

  “So he has a reputation, then.”

  “Unfortunately. Nothing really major. No assaults or car theft or the like.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “Drugs.”

  “He’s a dealer?”

  “No. Well,” Alan said, picking up his cup and holding it, “at least, I don’t think so. But we believe he uses and his mates do, too.”

  “Is that why so many people believe Rick Millington is your culprit?”

  Alan took a sip of tea, then nodded. His fingertips drummed on the table’s glass top. “Many of us have smelled marijuana on him. Smell it coming from his back garden, too. In fact, that’s how this whole mess started.”

  “Your home being ransacked.”

  “Yes. Marta used to see them quite often, sitting in front of Rick’s house, smoking. ‘Them’ is Rick, his girl friend Teresa, and his mate Danny. Marta talked to them several times, in a friendly way, telling them what they were getting involved with, where drugs could lead, but they ignored her.”