Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Verity nodded, knowing to what McLaren was referring. “I’ve been Xing off each day, counting down this sentence. It’ll be wonderful to resume my life, as I call it. Those I don’t know how many friends I’ll have left. But I’ll see, won’t I?” She tried to smile, to make light of her situation, but only managed to look pathetic. Resettling herself in her chair she said, “What happened to rekindle interest in her case? I thought it had gone cold.”

  “It has. I’ve been asked to do some investigation on the side. Entirely as a private concern.

  “Meaning you’re not a copper.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But you were.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course! I can spot one a mile off. Even an ex-cop has an air about him. When you’ve been around them as much and as long as I have…” She shrugged and fluffed up her shoulder-length auburn hair.

  He relented, his eyes locked into her gaze. “You’re right, Ms. Dwyer. I was a cop. But now I’m trying to get to the bottom of Marta Hughes’ death.”

  “I see. A highly trained citizen.” She tilted her head slightly, as though thinking through something. The refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen before she added, “So you have no authority, then. You can’t haul me into the nick for refusing to talk to you.”

  A smile, so fleeting that it was barely discernible, flashed across McLaren’s face. “I can’t. But I’m hoping you’ll agree to help me.”

  “For the sake of justice or to help out a mate of yours who botched the case in the first place?”

  “Justice is always a concern, Ms. Dwyer. It shouldn’t make any difference if the injustice was directed toward a cop or a person connected to the case.”

  “Justice is blind, in other words, like the statue.” She eyed him, trying to discern the cause behind this new probe, the motivation for his involvement. “You weren’t connected with the original case, were you? I’d have remembered you.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself that it’s because you’re nice to look at. Though I am partial to blonds.”

  He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Because you’ve had every one of those marked off calendar days to recall who worked on your case and who testified in court?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Just so I’m not one of your nightmares, that’s all right.”

  She picked up the packet of cigarettes on the side table but made no move to slip one from the pack. Instead, she said, “Who hired you? You can’t tell me you’re doing this because you miss being a copper.”

  He hesitated, wondering himself if that were true, the questions he had just asked himself minutes ago resonating in his mind.

  Verity read his hesitation. “Just want to be back with the boys, then. You need the adrenalin rush, the after-work beer with your mates.” Her voice hardened, as though she had lumped him with the stereotypical copper who let off steam with one-too-many beers and affairs.

  Feeling the need to defend himself McLaren said, “This isn’t about me, Ms. Dwyer. It’s about your friend. Should it make a difference who hired me? Isn’t my pursuit of Marta Hughes’ killer grounds enough for you?”

  “Certainly it matters! If you’re working for someone I think is guilty of the crime, or who Marta hated—”

  “You’ll refuse to say anything.”

  “Are you working for someone like that?”

  “Who would that be, Ms. Dwyer? I’ve just met you; I have no way of knowing whom you suspect.”

  “True. I forgot.” She tapped the pack against her index finger and pulled out the cigarette. “I also forgot you’re not a cop and might not know all the personnel or pertinent information.”

  “I do know you and Marta were friends as well as coworkers.”

  “And, being friends, I should rush to help you.”

  “I don’t know why you shouldn’t. If there is a reason,” he said as she lit the cigarette and took a puff, “that’s as important as anything else you might tell me.” He waited in the quiet room, looking at the framed certificates of appreciation and merit that claimed the wall in the adjoining room, studying her face as she had done his, judging her character and her hurt over her treatment at the hands of the English legal system.

  A group of young children ran down the street, laughing and calling to an adult to hurry before Verity replied. The cigarette dangled from her fingers as she once again looked at McLaren. “You’re right, Mr. McLaren. Justice shouldn’t be dependent on anyone. I was Marta’s friend. I’ll help you just as I tried to help her. Which, if you haven’t heard, is how I ended up convicted of theft.”

  “What is the length of your sentence? I see it’s up in two weeks.” His eyes strayed again to the calendar and the large red, circled date a few days away.

  “I received a community order for eleven months. It’s been the longest months of my life, Mr. McLaren.”

  “I believe you.” He refrained from saying it was a better sentence than serving time in jail. Verity knew that.

  “I’m assigned to a homeless shelter. I do some cooking and cleaning there. Kind of fitting, don’t you think?”

  “In what way?”

  “Marta and I worked in an animal shelter, taking in strays and unwanted pets. I’ve just moved up a notch in the chain, looking after stray and unwanted people. Though some might call it a step down, I suppose.”

  “Tough work. And your sentence was due to your conviction of theft from the animal shelter.”

  “Yes. A stupid mistake, that, stealing the money for Marta.”

  “Money she didn’t pay back.”

  “She told me she would return the money the following day.” Her words came louder and faster now that the painful subject had been opened. Her hand holding the cigarette fell onto the chair’s arm and she leaned forward. She practically shook as she screeched, “But she didn’t! That’s how the discrepancy was discovered. The organization’s financial officer came by and checked the books.”

  “You didn’t know he was coming?”

  “No. It’s always unannounced.”

  “To keep everyone on their toes.”

  “Or keep us honest.” She colored and paused, realizing her verbal slip referred to her. “Anyway, I was caught with my cash drawer short, the money missing and unexplained.”

  “What are we talking about? How much?” He knew from the case report, but he wanted to hear it from her, to see if she’d try to sugarcoat her guilt.

  “One thousand pounds.”

  “Damn.”

  Verity smiled and took a drag on her cigarette. “My sentiments exactly, Mr. McLaren. I was damned. In the eyes of the financial examiner, the animal shelter higher-ups, the police and the court.”

  “You said you took it—”

  “Stole it,” Verity corrected, sitting up straighter, defying McLaren to challenge the truth. “Marta took it—supposedly for twenty-four hours—so she could go to the casino. Roulette was her weakness. She played fairly frequently but she usually won. She’d make incredible winnings. So when she asked for the money, I really didn’t think we’d get into trouble. If she didn’t win, she’d go back the following day or so and play again. She’d wind up with enough money to repay everyone’s loans.”

  “Everyone? She’d done this before, this taking cash from friends or from the animal shelter’s till?”

  “From friends, yes. There were three or four she usually touched. But from the shelter? No. That’s why I hesitated to give her the money at first. Yet, she had such a good record of winning and prompt repayment. Well, I knew she’d return the money, so I finally gave it to her.”

  Again he asked a question he could have answered, but he wanted Verity to tell him. “Gave it to her. What does that mean? Did you have access to the office safe?”

  “No. Just my own cash register. I work one specific register; the one in the gift shop. That money is my responsibility. I
have the key to unlock the register in the morning and when the day is over I relock it. I also count up the day’s transactions and balance the drawer at the end of the day.”

  “So, because you had this particular cash register under your jurisdiction, you could get her the money.”

  “It never dawned on me that we’d be caught! I still can’t quite believe it.”

  “Seems like a huge amount of money to have in a charity agency, if you don’t mind me saying so. A thousand pounds. Is that normal, or were you about to deposit it in the company’s bank account?”

  “It was a lot, which is why Marta knew to ask me. Usually all our tills carry three hundred pounds so there’s enough money to make change in the store and for customers who might adopt the animals.”

  “Where does the other seven hundred come from?” He looked at Verity as though he expected her to say she always carried that amount in her handbag.

  “From the back room. We hide that amount back there in case there’s some emergency. It’s come in handy more than once.” Her voice drifted off, as though recalling her court testimony.

  “How many people know about the seven hundred? All of the staff, or just a few? Did this reserve amount ever vary?”

  “I think we all knew about it. Well, all the clerks, I should say. And our boss. But I doubt if the vet knows about it. He really has no need to know. He’s just concerned with the health of the animals; he doesn’t come out into the main area unless he takes in a sick animal.”

  “How many clerks are there? Exactly how many people would know about the cache?”

  Verity screwed up her lips, mentally ticking off the staff. The ash from her cigarette dangled precariously over the arm of the chair. “Six, I think.”

  “Including Marta?”

  “Yes.”

  “You all knew about the extra seven hundred in the back.”

  “Well, we didn’t talk about it during our breaks, of course, but I think we all did. Our boss made sure we all would know about it in case something happened and we needed the money. For an emergency,” she repeated.

  “It is always kept in the same place, I take it. Well, it would be—how else would you know where to find it if you needed it.”

  “Yes. The boss had debated about the whole thing for rather a long time. He felt uneasy keeping seven hundred in the shelter, but he’s a person who likes to be prepared.”

  McLaren refrained from calling him a Boy Scout and instead asked where the hiding spot was.

  Verity looked at him, judging his honesty and need to know.

  “I’m not going to burgle the place, Ms. Dwyer,” he said. “If there’s any hesitation on your part, you needn’t tell me.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Mr. McLaren, but I’d rather not.”

  “That’s fine. The place was easy to get to, though.”

  “Yes, but not obvious.”

  He thought about people hiding money beneath their bed mattresses or inside biscuit jars and wondered briefly if the back room had an unused teapot.

  “So, you see, Mr. McLaren, it all pointed to me. Oh, the backroom money could have been stolen by any of the other clerks there, but the cash from the till—”

  “Pointed directly to you, yes. When was all this? I know you said you’re serving an eleven month sentence, but when did you give Marta the money?”

  “Third of May last year. The examiner came the tenth of May, as it turned out, and found the discrepancy in the drawer.”

  “But a week!” McLaren couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “If Marta had a week to replace the money…”

  “She got ill two days after she took the money, on five May. She had said on the third, when she took the money, that she’d go back to the casino in two days to play the wheel again if she didn’t win that night. I remember we laughed about that because she hardly ever loses.”

  “And she became ill before she could return to the casino.”

  “Yes.”

  McLaren grimaced, mentally picturing the women’s panic. “You were arrested…when?”

  She smoothed the wrinkle from the sleeve of her blouse. “Fifteen June. The company’s director had given me four weeks to come up with an explanation and to return the money. Of course I couldn’t come up with a thousand pounds. Not in four weeks. I barely have anything in the bank, and I’d just spent a large sum on a new roof.” She flicked the ash into the ashtray on the coffee table. Some of the ash fell onto the ashtray’s lip and over the edge, onto the tabletop. Verity didn’t seem to notice. “I could ask anyone for the money. It was tempting, and I toyed with the idea for a while, but it was too embarrassing. What was I to say to them? I couldn’t say a friend of mine had taken the money from our work place and I was covering for her.”

  “So you took the blame.” If it were true, Verity was an exceptional friend.

  “I did all the usual stuff people do when they need money. I tried to sell some things—my good silverware, a rare book—but it wouldn’t have been enough. I suppose I should have sold my car, but…”

  “They’re hard to part with once you’ve become used to independent travel.”

  “Not that so much, but yes, they are nearly essential. I had a friend who was interested in it, and he came over one evening to look it over. But he took nearly two weeks to give me a definite answer. By the time he refused, it was too late to advertise or find another interested party.”

  “You didn’t tell the company’s director about all this? If he had known your efforts, wouldn’t he have extended the pay-back period?”

  She took another puff on the cigarette. “I honestly don’t think it would have made any difference. He was bound by the board’s decision. I do admit I was fairly frantic by then. It felt as though the walls were closing in. I would never survive a prison term. I was more scared of the prisoners than standing trial and the remainder of my life, being branded a criminal and not knowing how friends and acquaintances would greet me once I had finished my time. Part of it’s the fear of the unknown, I realize. And seeing what hard prison time has done to people. Many come out bitter and angry, having no faith in anyone or anything, finding no joy in the simple things they once did. Part of it was the complete feeling of being alone that never left me, day or night. I’m a rather timid woman, as you might guess, Mr. McLaren, and I’ve never been particularly outgoing or joined many groups. As a consequence, my friends number a mere dozen or so. Of those, I have one or two really close friends.”

  “And they couldn’t help you raise the money.”

  “I didn’t ask. They didn’t know about any of this until the trial began.” She paused, watching McLaren’s face as it registered his astonishment and pain. “You think it’s funny, I know. Strange that I wouldn’t talk to a friend. I learned early in life, Mr. McLaren, to keep my hurts and disappointments to myself. No one likes a whiner.”

  “Hardly whining, Ms. Dwyer. This was your reputation, the rest of your life.”

  “Even so, I told no one other than my brother.”

  “And he didn’t help.” He said it more harshly than he intended, his voice cracking from the stupidity of the entire episode.

  “No, he didn’t.” She raised her hand, the cigarette smoke curling into the air above her head. It drifted in the faint breeze coming in from the open window, catching the sunlight before fading against the blue-gray backdrop of the room’s walls. “I know you’re already judging him, Mr. McLaren, but please don’t. You’re wrong.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pronounce a verdict against your family, especially when I don’t know him.”

  “It’s natural, I know, but as I said, you’re wrong. My brother couldn’t help simply because he’s in prison.”

  The surprise registered in McLaren’s face. He blinked and opened his mouth slightly.

  “Wealstun,” Verity added.

  “In West Yorkshire.” He cleared his throat.

  “Yes. I won’t bore you with his cri
me, sentencing or history—they’re public record and can be looked up—but now perhaps you’ll understand why I couldn’t ask him.”

  Or your friends, McLaren thought. The newspapers would have had a feeding frenzy if word had leaked out that a convicted criminal’s sister was charged with theft. And from a charity!

  “In spite of how this all turned out, the company’s director is a kind person. I think he didn’t want to go through the arrest and trial rigmarole, but he was being pressured by the board.”

  “But of course, a thousand is a lot of money to come up with. Not just for you, Ms. Dwyer, most people.”

  She nodded and exhaled slowly. “It was a nightmare. I couldn’t understand what was going on, what was happening. I knew I was guilty of theft, I assumed the rights as owner of the money when I gave it to Marta, but I couldn’t tell my boss or the director.” She rotated her cigarette, as though looking for something, then said, “I just remember vividly when the police came and handcuffed me. God!” She avoided his eyes, even now humiliated by the event.

  “The date of your trial and sentencing?”

  “July. I am grateful for the community order instead of jail time, of course, but…”

  “Of which you got eleven months. Yes, it’s better than breaking rocks,” he said, then realized he broke rocks nearly every day. The difference was that he was a free person and chose to break rocks to repair stonewalls, whereas Verity… He coughed, trying to gloss over the verbal faux pas, and said, “Where was Marta through all this? I assume she knew about your arrest and the trial. It must have gone on for a bit. Why didn’t she speak up?”

  “That was one of the things I had to work through emotionally, Mr. McLaren. I still have to work through. I felt betrayed at first. Marta was my friend. She should have spoken up, but she didn’t.”

  “Because…”

  “Marta’s husband is a big man in the community. He holds some senior management position at National Westminster Bank. She didn’t say anything because she didn’t want the story to get out.”

  “Wife of bank vice president, or whatever, involved in stealing money.”

  “Exactly. It would have ruined his reputation.”