Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I—she didn’t tell me. I didn’t hear anything more from her after I talked to Millington, so I assumed it was a thing of the past. I didn’t know he was still harassing her until I overheard one of his remarks some weeks later. The evening before she and Linnet went to the casino.” He turned the swivel chair toward him and slowly sat down.

  “When you heard him talking to your wife, did you confront him again, tell him to leave Marta alone?”

  Alan riffled the corner pages of his appointment diary, staring at the desktop. A tea trolley rumbled past the office door and into the open reception area before he said, “I was going to, but I didn’t have time that night. Marta and I met some friends for dinner and went to see a play at the theater. The Twisted Plot, if you need to check up on my whereabouts. It was past midnight when we got home. I promised myself I’d talk to Millington the following day.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No. Marta left work, Friday, at noon, went to her brother-in-law’s, and then met Linnet at the casino.”

  “Why did that stop you from talking to Millington? You were home that evening, weren’t you?”

  “Later I was. Chad and I went out to eat, then I helped him with his homework. By the time I thought of Millington again, it was late. I figured it would wait until Saturday morning. Then, that night, when she didn’t come home, I forgot about it.”

  What kind of husband would forget about speaking to his wife’s tormentor, McLaren wondered as he left the office. A coward? A man no longer in love? A man suspicious that his wife and neighbor actually had the affair? McLaren crossed the spacious lobby, aware of Alan’s stare and the whispered conjectures of the cashiers, aware of his hard-soled shoes clacking on the terrazzo floor. Aware of the suspicions and questions shouting in his brain, reminding him that Alan had no alibi for that questionable period of time. Had there come a point when Tom Millington’s innuendoes became actuality or imagined actuality, and Alan finally snapped, taking out his anger on Marta in one gunshot to her head?

  * * * *

  The casino in Nottingham was not particularly busy, but it was only late Saturday morning; it would see its bulk of customers later that night. He parked away from the majority of cars clustered as near to the entrance as they could get, and walked up to the canopied main entrance. The lights declaring the casino name were blaringly bright even in the daylight, and McLaren wondered how much of their profit went to pay for the electricity bill. About as much as they spent on their landscaping maintenance, he thought, watching several gardeners weeding a perennial border. Clumps of ornamental evergreens, pruned into a smooth geometric form belying their realness, created a backdrop for terra cotta pots overflowing with annuals and signs proudly proclaiming the casino’s round-the-clock accessibility. No leaf littered the grass; no cigarette butt marred the pavement. The entire place was immaculate and artificial.

  The interior was too. He nodded to the doorman stationed at the large glass and brass double door and walked into the gaming room. It was a blaze of red, gold and white, with chrome furniture and recessed ceiling lighting that pinpointed specific areas: blackjack, craps, baccarat and roulette. The slot machines, with their lights and noise, lined the perimeter of the room like pagan gods that the players placated with coins and prayers. The poker tables were isolated from the commotion, probably in that next room, he thought, giving the players quiet in which to think.

  McLaren walked over to the nearest roulette table. Several people were seated around it, talking and drinking and moving their chips. Columns of red, white and black, dotting the green cloth like confetti left over from someone’s win. The croupier’s voice floated over the conversation at the table. “No more bets, please. No more bets.” The wheel spun and he flipped the ball onto the bowl again. The roulette ball clacked around the roulette bowl as the croupier looked at the table patrons. “Twenty-nine noir. Twenty-nine noir wins. Thank you, sir.” He accepted the tip from the winning player as he pushed the chips toward him, then started the process over again, calling for bets.

  McLaren strolled into the manager’s office, introduced himself and asked to speak to the croupiers who were on duty when Marta was at the casino. The man consulted last year’s work schedule, compared it to who was working now, and told McLaren that of the four croupiers on duty then, two had quit, one was on holiday, and the other man was due in on the hour. “If you’d care to wait…” He indicated a leather sofa along the far wall, facing his desk.

  “I’ll stroll around, thanks just the same,” McLaren said. “Maybe play a hand of twenty-one while I wait. What’s the croupier’s name who I’ll be talking to?”

  The manager told him and added that he’d be coming in the employee entrance in the rear of the building. “He’ll be at the first table, closest to the main door, if you miss him.”

  McLaren thanked him and left the office. He was halfway through his beer when he decided to try to meet the employee outside. Besides being less noisy, the outdoors afforded less temptation to hurry to his table, less nervousness at being overheard. He paid for his drink, left by the main door, and hurried around to the back of the building. Deck chairs, garden tables and clusters of tub plants dotted the lawn, creating restful areas for staff breaks. McLaren eased into a canvas chair, found it sturdy and comfortable, and waited. Ten minutes later his man showed up.

  “I wonder if you might remember a particular customer,” McLaren said after explaining why he wanted to talk to the man.

  The croupier eyed McLaren, perhaps wondering if this was legal.

  Sensing the man’s hesitation, McLaren added, “The manager, Mr. Pollard, said you were working that night.”

  Anyone could call the casino and find out Pollard’s name, but why go to so much trouble just to find out about an old win, the croupier reasoned. He glanced at his watch. He had time. Slowly, he said, “Perhaps. Which customer would that be, sir? June of last year?”

  “Yes. She was with another lady. Perhaps at your table.”

  “You expect me to remember one person out of the thousands that play at my table?”

  “You’d remember her.”

  “Looker, was she?”

  “She won big.”

  “How big?”

  “Over two hundred fifty thousand.”

  The man smiled, as if enjoying a private joke or seeing Marta in his mind’s eye. “Oh, that one. Made a bit of history, she did. She wasn’t at my table that night, but I heard about it. Talk to the cashier—she talked to the woman. Still talks about it. She’s on duty now, probably. I’ve got to get to work, mate.”

  McLaren thanked him and walked back to the front of the casino. After asking at several stations, he found her.

  Yes, she’d been on duty that night. Yes, she still remembered it. How could she not? It had been a huge win; one of the casino’s largest payouts for roulette.

  “Do you remember anyone watching her, or following her from the casino?”

  “I heard she was killed.” The cashier shook her head. “Real pity, that. Excuse me.”

  McLaren stepped aside as a customer came up to the casher to change her chips into cash.

  “Thank you, sir. Sorry about the interruption. Yes, I remember her. She was pretty and was so excited about her win. I don’t mean I lack feelings for any other murder victim, but this lady seemed to be going through a hard time. Marta, her name was. She was a regular. You get to know their names, you know.”

  “What do you mean hard time? Did she talk to you about something specific?”

  “No. But I heard a bit of her conversation with her friend. What is her name…”

  “Were they talking very loudly? Could someone have overheard them?”

  “I don’t think it was overly loud. At least, no one hung around them or loitered near the Women’s. They’d gone in there to count their chips. I just heard a bit of their chatter when they came up to me to cash it in. They were talking about buying back something. The other woman s
aid Marta could then sleep easier, so I guess it was a big purchase or maybe getting something out of hock.”

  Buying back her conscience, McLaren thought. Or her friendship from Verity. A cheer rose from a group of people standing around a slot machine and a man jumped up, yelling excitedly. “No one seemed overtly interested in her or followed her?”

  “No. I was watching because, as I said, it was a huge payoff. They talked about her bet, which was straight up on one. Her friend laughed and said wasn’t Marta glad she had switched from her corner bet of nineteen, twenty, twenty-two and twenty-three—she’d evidently been betting that combination quite a while. Anyway, as I said, I was a bit concerned about them being alone, without some man with them to protect all that money, but she had her friend with her, and they did look around the room. I guess they were making sure no one was following them.”

  McLaren nodded, considering something.

  “I don’t think they had any trouble in the car park, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she added.

  “Pardon?”

  “You thinking someone could’ve gone out another exit and killed her in the car park?” She shook her head. “The police had the same idea. They took the CCTV tape. They couldn’t find anybody on it. Just the two women leaving and a few people arriving. No one came up to them.”

  “I guess they’d be able to see that,” McLaren agreed.

  “They’ve still got it.”

  “What—the tape?”

  “They’ve not released it yet because they haven’t found her killer. I guess they still want it for evidence. You know, in case they find somebody and they need to refer to the tape.”

  “Was there any suspicion the two women met someone in the car park?”

  “You’ll have to ask the coppers, sir. But I testified at the trial as to what happened inside. About anyone seeming interested in them—that sort of thing.”

  “Which there weren’t.”

  “No, not apart from when they first won. You know—their cheering and the people at their table being excited.”

  “Only natural.”

  “I watched them as they left, as I said, and no one tailed them. They left in separate cars, I believe, so it would’ve been harder to go after them, if that was some bloke’s intention. How would he know whom to follow? Maybe the other lady took the money as a precaution. You know,” she said when McLaren looked blank. “Confounding the would-be robber.”

  The police are confounded too, McLaren thought as he thanked the cashier and left.

  * * * *

  McLaren didn’t leave the area immediately. He walked around the building, studying the exits, the plantings of shrubbery, the locations of the CCTV cameras. Was it possible someone slipped out another door, waited for Marta, and kidnapped her? But the cashier said nothing like that appeared on the security tape. He drew a notebook from his pocket and circled the building again, sketching it and the positions of the cameras and security guards. Was it possible the cameras hadn’t caught everything? Could someone, perhaps knowledgeable with the casino set-up, have waited beyond the camera’s view on purpose?

  He wandered over to a guard stationed at the car park and asked.

  The guard viewed McLaren as though he were planning the heist of the century. “Why do you ask?”

  McLaren explained that he was investigating the Hughes murder.

  “Well, the coppers have already been over this,” he said briskly, turning back to the CCTV screen in his small booth. “If you want to know something, ask them.”

  “I’m here and I’d like to know your opinion. After all, you work with the security system. I thought you’d know if there were areas that weren’t covered, if it needed improving. You do an important service to your clientele, but if the cameras miss some area, like just outside casino property—”

  “Look.” The guard exhaled heavily and turned again toward McLaren. He was as bulky as a slot machine, with narrow eyes that seemed to weigh everything they saw before filtering it to his mind. Which probably spun with the rapidity of the machine and came up three lemons just as often. The guard leaned his arm against the hut’s windowsill. “I don’t install the things, pal. I just watch the monitor. There was nothing to see that night.”

  “Really? No one followed her outside the casino, stopped to congratulate her, even from several yards distant?”

  “A few people did that, sure, but they were cleared in court. There was one bloke who spoke to her, but he kept his distance and walked off as she got into her car. I saw her drive off.”

  “No one else, no one who you or the police would term ‘suspicious,’ then.”

  “No. I was asked by the cops here, and I was asked again at the cop shop. The cops even looked at the tape themselves. Nothing like that showed up on the cameras. Not even walking out of camera range.”

  “I realize that, but I thought that if you could tell me how far the cameras record the scene, I could get an idea of where Mrs. Hughes’ killer—”

  “You hard of hearing or just obnoxious? I told you I didn’t see nothing. I got nothing to do with how the cameras are set up. I didn’t hear a thing that night. No one could’ve conked her in the car park. I would’ve seen that on the monitor. If someone needs aid, I get involved. If they need the RAC to fix a flat tire, I ring ’em up. But other than that—”

  “Sure. Coffee and donuts till it’s time to leave.”

  The man stood up, his eyes mere slits, his lips drawn back. “You bloody—”

  “A woman was murdered,” McLaren snapped, matching the guard’s voice tone and volume. “If you don’t care about that, about helping find her killer, you’re as pathetic as the scum who topped her.” He stood there, his feet apart, waiting for the man to charge out of his booth, ready for a fight.

  Instead, the guard grabbed a pad of paper and his pen and said, “What’s your name again?”

  “McLaren. Do you need me to spell it?”

  “I can spell it. B-A-S-T-A-R-D.”

  “Funny.”

  “I’ve got something else that’ll make you die laughing, matey. You’re barred from coming back here, understand?”

  “You can try, but frankly, I don’t think you’ll succeed. Thanks for your time. You’ve renewed my faith in bouncers—all brawn and no brains.” He walked to his car, the guard’s opinion of McLaren heard far beyond the walls of his booth.

  * * * *

  McLaren left the casino and stopped in a lay-by to put a mobile call through to Ian Shard, the police constable who had talked to Rick Millington. As the phone rang, McLaren considered the possibility of someone waiting outside the range of casino cameras and confronting Marta. A winning that large would tempt many people. But if the police hadn’t seemed concerned about that, and Marta’s friend Linnet hadn’t seen anyone following them… He rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps there was another angle.

  If there was, PC Shard couldn’t supply it other than reiterate that Rick Millington and his mate Danny Mercer had evidently been read the riot act by their parents. “Other than one of them getting into it with Mrs. Hughes,” the constable said, sounding tired, “I haven’t any other ideas.”

  “Can you tell me exactly where Marta Hughes was found?” McLaren would never tell Chard, but he was testing the constable. And the investigating team in general. How thorough a search had they done?

  “You going to look that over?”

  He would ask that. Every good detective worth his salt viewed the crime scene. Charts, videos and photos were as good as they went, but they didn’t replace actually viewing the area. “I’d like to see it,” he insisted. “It may suggest something to me.”

  The constable hesitated, unsure if he’d be injuring his career if his Superintendent found out. After McLaren’s repeated request, the constable finally said, “Just outside Elton. On the western end. Before the road splits for Youlgreave and Middleton.”

  “Where? Anything you can point me to?”

  Th
ere was a grunted. “One second.” There came the squeak of a metal file drawer opening, a rustle of papers, and a mild oath quickly following several heavy thuds. A chair squeaked and a rattle of metal against something ceramic seeped into McLaren’s ear. Another second or two of silence, then moments later, PC Shard sighed and said, “Got it. Just don’t let on you got it from me, understand?”

  “Your name won’t come up.”

  “Yeah, well, it better not, mate, or I’ll get the sticky end.”

  “Nothing will mar your perfect career, Shard.”

  “Well, it better not. My wife’s got used to a roof over her head.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of moving her. Let’s have it.”

  “Like I said, it’s just before the road branches. It’s on the Elton side. You know where that ruined barn is? On the western side of that. Between the edge of the barn and the road.”

  “In that depression.” McLaren nodded as he visualized the spot.

  “Right. I don’t think you’ll find anything, but I hope you do.”

  “Thanks, Shard. That’s at least two of us.”

  * * * *

  The town of Matlock lay between Nottingham and Elton, practically in a straight line on a map. The roads were nearly as accommodating, for the A6 ran into and west of it before it snaked northwest into Bakewell. From the A6 at Matlock, Marta could have cut over to Elton using the small road out of Brightgate or gone slightly north to get on the B5057. Either route would have taken her into Elton quite easily and quickly. If she had driven back to Matlock on the night of her disappearance. McLaren hoped he was about to find out.

  He had the address of Marta’s brother-in-law—provided by Alan Hughes—and decided this was the perfect time to question the relative.

  He followed the A6 into the town, turned left onto a major, connecting street, and wound around the western end of town until he turned down the sought-after road. The brother-in-law’s residence was at the bottom of the cul-de-sac.