Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Thanks.” Jamie exhaled loudly, already imagining the swift boot out the door if he got caught looking up the information.

  “Just don’t lose your job over it.”

  “I don’t intend to. Uh, Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, will you?”

  “I always am.”

  Jamie refrained from saying McLaren had not been careful the night of his altercation with Charlie Harvester. He looked up from his notepad and said, “The lads did a thorough search of the area, Mike. I don’t know what you’ll find there, but I’ll ring you back when I’ve got the info for you.”

  “I just hope our boys in blue overlooked something.”

  * * * *

  McLaren was running, his legs painful to move, his strides agonizingly slow as he struggled his way through the mass of beer bottles that had somehow filled The Hanoverian hotel lobby. He had just reached for the driver when his bedside phone rang, jerking him awake.

  He groped in the darkness, knocking over the bottle of aspirin and sending a book thudding to the floor. The ringing guided his search and after several seconds his fingers closed around the receiver. He leaned toward the bedside table, throwing off the bed sheet, and answered even before the mouthpiece was against his lips.

  There was no answer. The line was dead.

  Grumbling that some people should learn to dial more carefully, he hung up the phone and lay down. The sounds of the night seeped into his room—bleats of sheep, the bark of a fox, the faint purr of a car motor, the yowl of a cat. He turned over on his side and went back to sleep.

  The moon had not wandered much in its westward path when he was wakened again by the jangling phone. This time he sat up and grabbed the receiver on the third ring. His terse “Yeah?” was followed by silence.

  He barked his response again, and again there was no reply.

  Slamming the receiver back onto the phone, McLaren cursed the unknown caller and looked around the darkened room for something to throw. The book was on the floor, out of reach. He needed the two pillows, so they weren’t considered. Then he glanced at the alarm clock. Its luminous dial stated it was 2:45. Hell of a time for someone to be up and making calls. He fell back onto the mattress. His head hit the pillows, sending a soft ‘whoosh’ into the room.

  Was someone deliberately ringing him up, harassing him? He was ex-directory, so either someone had randomly dialed his number or the person knew him. He would have named Dena, but after today’s talk, he was certain she wouldn’t do that. So who was calling him? And why?

  He rolled onto his side again, punching up the pillow so he could see out of the window. The land lay quiet and dark, devoid of the earlier night noises. Everything beneath heaven was still and slumbering, it seemed, and McLaren shut his eyes, trying to do the same.

  Minutes later he gave it up as a bad job and sat up, leaning against the headboard. The caller had to be connected to something currently happening in his life; no one would wait a year for revenge. Unless he’d just been released from prison…

  McLaren stared into the blackness outside his window, more dense and real than the gloom inside his house. He had enemies in prison—what copper didn’t? But for someone to find out where he lived, what car he drove. That suggested tenacity and intelligence. Or a connection inside the police department.

  What copper would turn on another copper like this? Who would betray him to a con? The answer screamed at him with all the certainty of a slamming cell door. Charles Harvester.

  McLaren sat up, his body rigid, heart pounding. He pulled the pillow to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, squeezed it, wishing for the first time in a year that it were Dena. The room seemed to pulse in rhythm to the blood pounding in his temples. He fumbled for the glass of water beside the clock, found it, and drank it quickly. Wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, he tried to think. Even Harvester wouldn’t do that. They may have hated each other’s guts, but to set up something like this, something that smacked of revenge, after more than a year…

  He set the glass back on the nightstand and got up. Tossing the pillow onto the bed, he glanced at the clock. 3:03. Perhaps he could sleep late. If he ever got back to sleep. Funny thing was…he never had trouble sleeping when he worked on stonewalls.

  Perhaps because there was nothing threatening about them…or because he knew what to expect. Like the wall he had been working on when Linnet had interrupted him. He had sited down the wall’s length, making certain the addition was in keeping with the wall’s cant. Not an edge had ruptured the overall symmetry. Except for the absence of lichen wallpapering the stone face or moss wedging into minute recesses between stones, his work was indistinguishable from the original wall, blending into its ancient age. Was that part of the attraction of the work, cherishing the link to the original waller? Perhaps he, too, had been an outsider as McLaren was. Perhaps the ancient craftsman had found his comfort in sun, wind and kestrels soaring overhead, had shunned other men’s company, wanting only to get on with his life and job. Which was what McLaren wanted right now. Not dredging up recollections of injustices until your emotional wounds lay raw once more.

  He had thought them buried in the year he’d been here, this desperate attempt to keep his soul and body together when he had left Staffordshire to return to his home village in Derbyshire and to the work of a stonewall builder. He would never want for jobs, he had told himself. Not with the thousands of miles of walls crisscrossing the county. Even if the work was back breaking, it suited his mood. More than suited his personality. A loner, a maverick cop didn’t chase after the camaraderie of the work place office.

  The mantle clock struck the quarter hour and McLaren stretched, the faceless builder fading from his gaze, Harvester’s face grinning from the darkness.

  He walked over to the window and stood there, the cool breeze chilling his feverish body. Charlie Harvester. He hadn’t thought of the man in ages; he didn’t even know where he was. The first few months after McLaren had left the job, he’d heard snippets of office gossip—humorous cases or who was engaged or the current idiotic police regulation. It had diminished as the weeks of his absence increased, until he rarely heard from anyone in the department anymore.

  Taking a deep breath, McLaren leaned against the edge of the window, his eyes on the sliver of moon nestled in the branches of a birch. Was it only a year ago he had left? Dena had reminded him of the dubious anniversary date when she’d called last night. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. One year. Twelve short months ago he’d left in response to an injustice dealt him.

  It had started years before. When he and Harvester had been in police training school. He, the serious student who always made top marks in class; Harvester, the son of the Chief Constable, sneaky, getting by on instructor favoritism. On completion of their initial training course, their animosity had increased. Working in the same department, they had both attained detective status, though McLaren had one solid year’s experience before Harvester finally wormed his way in. It was constant comparisons after that: McLaren, popular, hardworking and intelligent; Harvester, shunned, not trusted, sliding by on his daddy’s name, and a brilliant example of the Peter Principle. He was also jealous of McLaren.

  Then one spring night, the years of ill feelings and envy exploded in one fateful event. McLaren had just finished with a case and was back at his desk, attacking the stack of papers menacing the entire office. He’d reached for his coffee when a colleague sauntered into the room and sat down in a chair. McLaren looked up, both grateful for and irritated by the interruption.

  “No action tonight?” McLaren eyed the detective from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Or maybe you’ve cleared up your backlog.” He smiled at the shared joke. There were always cases to work. They flooded their department daily, the new file folders placed on top of yesterday’s file folders, creating the stacks of miniature towers that threatened to consume their desks, their office and their lives.
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br />   “Just taking a breather. Thought I’d bother you for a bit. What are you working on?”

  McLaren shoved the open folder and his notepad away from him and leaned back in his chair. “A pub fight.”

  “Sounds fun, that.”

  “Six people involved.”

  “Bloody hell. Something else besides property damage?”

  “One chap’s in hospital. He’s bad off.”

  “Damn. Anyone talking?”

  “We’ll know soon,” McLaren said. “We’ve started interviewing those involved.”

  “Sounds like a mess.”

  “Even more of a mess. As our luck would have it, the assault happened just out of the range of the CCTV. We’ve no more idea right now of who beat up this poor bloke than my dog knows.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “It’s more serious than a black eye. The chap’s in the IC unit. Stabbing to the abdomen, arm and neck. Just missed the jugular vein, but…”

  “Damn.”

  McLaren nodded. “Hopefully it won’t turn into a murder charge.”

  “The chap’s that bad off, then,” the detective said.

  “Unfortunately, yes. He keeps wavering. At first, he showed signs of improvement. Then his blood pressure fell and it was looking bad for him. Last time I checked on him, he was improving. The hospital staff is cautiously optimistic.”

  “Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? Well, I wish him luck.”

  McLaren pointed with his cup to the electric kettle on top of the metal file cabinet. An assortment of ceramic mugs, a box of tea bags, a canister of coffee, packets of sugar and a pint bottle of milk crowded the kettle. A beer mug held several metal spoons.

  The detective sighed. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get back.”

  “Tough case?”

  “Not really. Just tedious.” The man stretched, throwing his head back. “Isn’t it the end of our shift yet?”

  “Sorry, mate. It’s only three o’clock.”

  “Damn. Well…” He made no move to leave, sitting there and glancing at McLaren’s desk. “Here’s luck to that chap in hospital. I know Charlie Harvester’s not your favorite subject…”

  McLaren’s snort cemented the unspoken, shared opinion of the other man.

  “…but at least his case of assault sounds easily sorted out.”

  “Not that I want to hear, particularly, but I suppose you’re about to tell—”

  “An old man—oh, must be seventy if he’s a day—coshed a burglar on the head.”

  “A round of applause for the old man. Where was this…a home invasion?”

  “No, oddly enough. A pub. The old man lives upstairs. Why? What’s the matter?”

  McLaren’s face drained of color and his fingers slowly blanched as he gripped the edge of his desk. “Who? When? What’s the address?”

  “Bloody hell, man, what’s the matter?”

  “What pub?” McLaren shouted, halfway getting to his feet. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know the bloke’s name. I just heard this roundabout.”

  “When?”

  “When did I hear—”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Now. Quarter of an hour ago. Harvester’s still at the scene. Why?”

  “Where? What pub?” McLaren was standing now, leaning over his desk, a menacing tower of anger.

  “I don’t know. Yeah, I do. It’s in Tutbury. The Broken Wheel. Hey!” He yelled after McLaren’s darting figure. “Where you off to?”

  His reply was the slamming of the office door and the stirring of loose papers in the breeze following McLaren’s departure.

  The drive into Tutbury, past the castle and to the pub, had passed in a dark blur. Road, trees, buildings slipped past his car window as he thought of Charlie Harvester and what had probably happened at The Broken Wheel. McLaren leaned forward, peering into the blackness beyond the reach of the car’s headlights, and pressed down on the accelerator pedal. The car shot ahead, took the turn into the village on two wheels, and gained speed on the straight lane. He flashed past a row of houses, barely missed a fox as it crossed the road, then braked in front of the pub and dashed up the front walk. He left his car, headlights on and the door open, sitting squarely in the middle of the road.

  Inside he found the usual bustle of police constables and detectives, fingerprint technician and photographer, and the myriad others needed at a scene. But the unusual find alarmed even him, a ten-year veteran of the job. An angry Charlie Harvester was reading Nigel Forester, the pub’s owner, his rights.

  “What the hell’s going on?” McLaren yelled, his gaze darting between Nigel and Harvester. “Nigel, are you all right? Where’s Maureen?” He glanced around the room, expecting to see her sitting at one of the pub tables.

  “Maureen’s in hospital, Mike.” Nigel’s voice shook and he blinked repeatedly, trying to hold back the tears. He sat in a chair, his face bruised and cut from some physical altercation.

  “Hospital! Why? What’s happened? Are you all right? You need medical attention?” He glanced at Nigel, then at the constables huddled in the background. When no one spoke, he yelled the question again.

  “Mrs. Forester has been taken in an ambulance,” Charlie Harvester replied, his voice stunningly calm in the sea of agitation.

  McLaren turned, focusing his eyes, anger and energy on the police detective. The man approached McLaren, tapping a pad of paper against his left hand. “Why?” McLaren shifted his gaze back to Nigel. “What happened? Did—” He seemed to see Nigel’s wounds for the first time. Turning back to Harvester, he said, “Was Maureen injured in the break in?”

  “You seem to know a lot about this case, McLaren,” Harvester said. “How’d you hear about it?”

  “I want to know about Maureen. Why did you call an—”

  “She’s suffered a heart attack.”

  “God!” He turned his eyes to Nigel, who was silently crying. “How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Nigel raised his head. His cheeks were wet from his tears. “I don’t know. She just kind of moaned, clutched her chest, and collapsed.”

  “You rang 999?”

  “Not I. Your mate, here, did it. Maureen just collapsed as he came in. I was going to ring 999 anyway, for the burglar, but—” He paused, the scene too vivid to talk about.

  McLaren glanced at Harvester, as though silently confirming what had happened.

  “When was that?” McLaren said, returning to Nigel. “The burglar needed an ambulance? Why? What went on?”

  Nigel pulled in his lips, reluctant to speak. After McLaren repeated his question, Nigel said, “He needed medical attention.”

  “Euphemistic way of putting it,” Harvester grunted, “but it’s adequate. If you need convincing, McLaren…” He indicated the fireplace poker that a Crime Scene Investigator technician was examining. The wrought iron tool had a definite curve to its otherwise straight length. “What’s that tell you?”

  “Not bloody much,” McLaren snorted.

  “Look, McLaren.” Harvester grabbed McLaren’s shoulder and turned him around.

  Shaking off the detective’s hand, McLaren scowled. “Let go of me, Harvester.” The words were low, barely audible, but remarkably calm.

  Harvester shrugged and crossed his arms across his chest. “This is my case, if it’s not perfectly clear to you. My case. I got the call. I interviewed the victim and the assailant. I arrested the guilty party—your friend, Nigel Forester, as it turns out. So what you’re doing here, sticking your nose into something that doesn’t concern you—”

  “Doesn’t concern me!” His bark was a mixture of amusement, disbelief and anger. “I thought the welfare of any honest citizen was my concern. Every copper’s concern. Just because you got the call doesn’t preclude me from being concerned.”

  “Could it be something more than that?” Harvester asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

&nb
sp; “Seems to me you’re a bit over the top with your ‘concern’ bit.”

  “When I come to find the pub owner apparently arrested merely for protecting his property against a-a—” He barely glanced at the bent poker. “Against a burglar engaged in questionable activities…yes, I am concerned.”

  “As I said, your concern seems more than a cop would express. Could you be guilty of something else?”

  “Harvester, you’re full of crap.”

  “And you’re overreacting. You’re upset because I’ve just arrested a friend of yours.” He smiled as McLaren reddened. “Score one for me, I think.”

  Trying to keep his voice in check, McLaren said, “What’s Nigel Forester done to warrant this outrage?”

  “Assaulted Mr. Tyrone Wade Antony. To be specific, assault with intent to kill.”

  “Assault! The hell he did. He was defending his property and life. And protecting Maureen, too, if I know Nigel.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, McLaren.” He nearly laughed, then recovered himself as the police photographer walked into the room. “Galls, doesn’t it? The ace detective, the top cop of the team, and you’re wrong. Well, it may surprise you to know that we have proof.”

  “Like what?” McLaren bit the words off in his growing anger.

  “Mr. Forester attacked Mr. Antony with that fireplace poker.”

  McLaren looked at the pub owner and asked softly, “Is this true, Nigel?”

  The older man nodded. He looked older than his 70 years at the moment, his white hair vivid in the light of the police work lamps, his face white from shock. “But just because I was defending myself. He’d broken into the pub by the back door. I heard the door bang open as it hit the cases of empty bottles I’d put inside the door. I rushed downstairs. Maureen and I were in our bedroom, getting ready for bed.” He paused, his eyes overflowing with fear at his arrest and his questionable future.

  McLaren could envision the upstairs living quarters. He’d been up there many times, ever since he’d been seventeen years old. Nigel Forester had saved him from drowning in a nearby lake, strolling past by chance and hearing McLaren’s friend screaming for help. Nigel had swum out to McLaren, got him into a lifesaving hold, and brought him back to shore. Since that day, twenty-one years ago, McLaren had practically cemented himself to the older man’s side, mowing his grass, washing his car, painting the walls of their living quarters. Anything and everything to repay for his saved life, especially so because a third boy in their group had drowned before Nigel could help. McLaren knew he could never even the score, but he appeared monthly to do some chore or just sit and chat over a pint or cup of coffee.