Siren Song
Page 16
Neal Clark was probably forty, McLaren judged as he sat in the front room and looked at the man. Of medium height, he had a superb physique. Not bulging with muscles, but his arms and thighs were well toned, in keeping with his flat abdomen. Works out, McLaren thought. Or heaves car bodies for a living.
“So you want to talk about Marta,” Neal said after McLaren stated the reason for his call.
“If you’ve no objections.” McLaren eyed the man, judging if he still hurt from his sister-in-law’s death. “If it’s not too painful a subject.”
“Not my topic of choice, but I’m okay with it. What do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to ascertain her movements that night.”
“The night she died.”
“We assume she did, but without a witness—”
“You don’t know exactly when it happened.”
“Had she ever talked to you about any problems she was having, or anyone who might be bothering her?”
“Like, did she have any enemies?” His blue eyes, vivid and nearly mesmerizing in their gaze, seemed to hold the pain of losing Marta, registering what his face did not betray. The thin lips were set in a straight, firm line; the eyebrows neither arched in surprise nor lowered in sadness. The face was a mask, shielding the world from his thoughts and ache.
“Something like that, yes. Had she talked to you about a particular person she was concerned about, or any troubles she had? I understand you and she saw each other that day.”
“Yes, for lunch. Here. I don’t mean here in my house. We met in town. We do that fairly frequently. Well, more so after my wife—her sister’s—death a few years ago. Hit-and-run car accident,” he said, slightly slower. “Marta spent the afternoon with me until she left to meet a friend in Nottingham. They were going to the casino.” He picked up a chip from the side table and handed it to McLaren. The casino’s logo and name were printed on the chip.
“Did she patronize the place frequently?” He flipped the chip across his knuckles, as many poker players do while they are waiting for their turn.
“I know she went often, but I don’t know to what extent. We didn’t talk about that—either that day or any day.”
“What did you talk about that day, if you don’t mind telling me.”
Neal sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his short, red hair, as though kneading his brain. “Yes, I do. We talked about her neighbor and her co-worker. We also talked about Alan’s birthday and would he prefer a small family gathering at their place or should we go someplace for the afternoon and evening, like the racetrack or maybe biking along the Tissington Trail. I even suggested we try rock climbing at Windgather Rocks near Whaley Bridge, but I think Marta was a bit nervous about that.”
“Alan’s a bit of an adventurer, then.”
“Don’t know how adventuresome he is, but he likes sports and activities like this. I always thought it odd that he wound up as a banker.”
“Not the type to sit behind a desk?”
“I suppose he’s had to, for the sake of his career. But I always thought he’d be more suited to something more active. They should’ve lived in a village, I thought. He’s that sort of person.”
“Did you and your sister grow up in a village?”
“No. In Buxton. We had summer jobs in Buxton, too. I always envied the kids who were camp counselors, but we were confined in town.”
“I sometimes think that many of us never get to live where we’d be most happy. It puts a damper on our urge for kayaking, for example, if we’re trapped in a town.”
“That’s why we were thinking about doing something like this for Alan’s birthday, which was June twenty. He liked a bit of outdoor excitement now and then.”
McLaren made no comment about the date, but thought again what a tragedy Marta’s death was for those who loved her.
“He came to my studio on one of his birthdays and gave wire sculpture a try, but I don’t think it had enough action for him.”
“Your studio?”
“Yeah. I’m a silversmith, though I concentrate on art objects like that.” He gestured toward the sculpture on his fireplace mantle.
“It’s nice.”
“Oh, ta. One of my earlier creations. It’s supposed to represent Persephone returning to the world after her six-month sojourn with Hades. I’ve titled it ‘Spring’s Renewal.’ First one I cast. Usually I work in wire, but…” He shrugged as if to say a person had to broaden his talents. “Anyway, as I said, I work mainly on art objects and jewelry. I’ve got a few pieces in galleries but the main portion are made on consignment.”
“Congratulations.”
Neal flashed a quick smile, his eyes on the sculpture.
“So you tried the silversmith lesson and Alan didn’t wax enthusiastic.”
“He didn’t complain, but I think once was enough.”
“And did you decide on something?”
“I believe Marta opted for going to a gun club and doing some target shooting.”
“Alan likes to do that?”
“I don’t know. He’s never done it, as far as I know.”
“They why did Marta suggest it? Had Alan expressed a desire to learn?”
“Probably because he’d never done it before. Or because it’s one of my hobbies. She knew how much I enjoy it.”
“So you talked about the birthday that afternoon. You said you also talked about her neighbor and co-worker. Would that be Verity Dwyer from the animal shelter and Tom Millington, her neighbor?”
“Yes.” Neal sat up and leaned forward, his elbows on the tops of his thighs. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and looked at McLaren with the same pain-filled eyes, yet his voice had tightened, as though holding back anger or disgust, and his words came lower and faster, nearly clipped in his desire to finish the subject. “I told her she needed to tell Alan about that sleaze bag Millington. That would stop the harassment. Or let me come over there and beat the bastard to within an inch of his life, but she didn’t want me to get involved. Said she’d handle it.”
“And Verity?”
“Her conscience was bothering her and she didn’t know what to do.”
“What bothered her?”
He grabbed another poker chip from the small bowl on the table and ran his thumb over its ridged edge. “About the money. I suppose you know about it.”
“The money from the shelter.”
“Yes.” Neal’s fingers closed around the chip, pressing against it until his fingers blanched. He nodded as he considered something.
McLaren didn’t rush the man, but looked around the room. It was uncomplicated, simple, straightforward in its façade, as Neal was. Furniture of simple wood or chrome frames held solid colored fabric. A brown carpet stretched into the adjoining room—the dining room—where the same hue was picked up in the large, burlap-matted watercolor above the table. Another watercolor, smaller and matted in pale blue mat board hung over the sofa. No knickknacks other than a small silver sculpture, metal-cased clock and a box of matches occupied the fireplace mantle. There seemed to be nothing to dust or conjure up memories.
As though sensing he was wasting McLaren’s time, Neal finally said, “She’d not hesitated in loaning the money to Verity, but now she was having second thoughts that Verity would ever repay it.”
The small clock chimed the hour, its tone so soft it would have been lost if Neal had still been talking. McLaren grabbed the poker chip he’d been flipping with all the tenacity of a man holding onto the edge of a cliff. The sun seemed to sink immediately below the horizon and he strained his eyes to make out Neal’s face in the haze that threatened to engulf him.
“Marta loaned Verity money?” He tried to speak calmly, keeping the astonishment from his voice, but his voice had cracked after uttering the first word. He covered up his shock by coughing.
Neal jerked his head up, seeing McLaren’s raised eyebrow. “Why…yes. I thou
ght you knew.”
“I’d heard something about the money,” he said, not untruthfully, “but not the full details.”
“There’s really not much to it. Verity needed several hundred quid for some bills that had piled up. She didn’t want to borrow from the bank, which would have added to her financial problem, and she was desperate to get it taken care of. I guess her creditors were applying pressure.” He slumped back in his chair and relaxed his hold on the chip in his hand. “Anyway, Marta loaned her the money. I don’t know how much, but it was a sizable chunk. That’s why she was headed to the casino that night. She wanted to win big so she could replace the money she’d loaned Verity before Alan found out. He’s a real stickler about that sort of thing. Don’t lend money to friends or relatives.” He tossed the chip back into the bowl and crossed his legs. “Seems to me there are times to make exceptions.”
McLaren stared at the watercolor above the mantle. It had been painted by Marta and depicted another probable holiday spot. Switzerland, he guessed, scrutinizing the snow-capped mountains and herder’s hut. A car horn sounded on the street, bringing McLaren back from the depths of the painting. “And the casino…did she come back here after she finished that night?”
“That timeline of yours again?”
“Yes. I’d like to find out where she went and when. It could help pinpoint who was with her.”
“As to that, I’ve no clue. She didn’t come back here. Sorry.”
I am too, McLaren thought, walking back to his car. Just who the hell is telling the truth about the missing money?
FOURTEEN
McLaren got to the stone barn late afternoon. He had left Nottingham by the A610, continued up the A6, and stopped for lunch in the village of Cromford. Traffic was heavy, being the height of the tourist season and a Saturday, so he was later leaving than he had wanted. At Grangemill he took the B506 north before turning west for Elton. The village never failed to fascinate him, from the stone church and churchyard several steps above road level, to the pub of sporadic business hours, to the ancient stone circle on the nearby moor. I should live here, McLaren thought as he drove past the centuries-old inn now accommodating a bed-and-breakfast. It’s a paradise of stone farm buildings and fields, enough to keep me in cold, hard cash for years.
He turned off the main road, poked along behind a tractor, then spotted the stone barn. It matched the image in the emailed photo. He glanced at his notes from Jamie’s phone call. West of the village, a half-mile out, on the right side of the road. He smiled, hoping good luck would be with him.
The building was remarkably preserved, its walls upright and solid. The roof had lost some tiles, but it was sturdier than similar structures McLaren had seen. Near the roof’s peak, a large hole permitted sunlight, rain and birds into the loft, the heavy bough of the overhanging oak still cradled in the opening. A few sunflowers poked from this void, where their seeds had taken a foothold. On to the eastern side of the barn, the years hadn’t treated the lean-to as kindly, for the two adjoining walls were little more than piles of stone, moss and lichen-covered where they wallowed in the shade. Of the two remaining walls, birds had built nests and weeds had wrapped their tendrils around the window frames.
McLaren parked on the left side of the road, half amused at the remnants of his detective skills, and walked over to the barn. The weeds and grass were high in the open space, higher still near the building’s foundation and in the ditch bordering the road. He jumped the ditch, hoping he was not treading on something hidden in the grass, and wandered over to the barn.
The wooden door stood solid and grim, its exterior battered from decades of abusive weather. But the door held firm even if its paint had faded and cracked, the wood where it was exposed to the elements dull and rough. Splinters at the doorjamb, opposite the door’s dead bolt, spoke of someone’s attempt to enter the building—kids bent on mischief, or the farmer, who had misplaced his key? The door stood slightly ajar now, revealing a black-as-night interior. McLaren stood to one side of the door, his cop’s instincts on edge as he placed his open palm on the wooden panel and eased the door open. The hinges complained fiercely, squealing into the stillness with the intensity of a suspect yelling for his lawyer.
McLaren remained where he was, staring into the interior, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Great place for a murder.
Why had she ended up here? Had whoever picked her up at her house driven her here for a meeting? If so, did they talk inside the barn? The building had to have some significance. Otherwise they could have talked outside most anywhere. McLaren looked again at the ground leading to the barn door. Maybe her body had simply been thrown here.
McLaren snapped on his torch and played its brilliant beam around the barn’s interior. The dirt floor was spotted with cigarette butts and crumpled packs, beer bottles and discarded crisps packets. A teenager’s rendezvous.
He went inside, cautiously shining the light on the floor, and picked his way over the rubbish. The torchlight revealed nothing unusual, nothing that looked as though it had been there for a year. Shifting the torch beam from side to side, he walked around, peered into the corners, gazed up at the rafters, tipped over the old buckets and wooden crates and bales of straw. Nothing.
The wooden steps leading up to the loft were dust-covered and cobweb-strewn. But dust settles and cobwebs gather in a year, McLaren thought as he angled the torch beam along the stonewall and up to the landing, then back onto the step nearest his feet. It seemed solid enough. He pressed his right shoulder against the wall and carefully climbed the stairs.
His right hand held the torch and though it accented the backless steps and showed where to place his feet, he felt ill at ease. No handrail kept him safely on the staircase; it must have fallen or been yanked off years ago. He groped for the reassuring coldness of the stones behind him. The blackness closed around him, thick and still except for his labored breathing and shuffling gait. A wooden plank groaned as he put his weight on it and birds above in the loft chatted excitedly, yet silence quickly descended and in that abrupt quiet he felt as much alone as he had ever felt in his life.
A mouse scurried across the step, its tail carving a thin trail in the dust. McLaren stopped, pushing his back against the wall. The beam of the torch threw the rodent into exaggerated relief, a monster of light tan fur startlingly bright against the darkness beyond. He watched the mouse scuttle across the plank and jump onto the floor before he let out his breath. Dark spaces did that to him—pushed memories into the open and unleashed demons from their locked cages. He stood there for a moment, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, listening for the faint rustle of cellophane or dry leaves as the mouse dove for cover, waiting for the rest of the pack to high-tail it to safer quarters. But the only sound was the caw of a rook somewhere overhead and his heartbeat in his ear.
He slowly panned the torch’s beam across the remainder of the steps, hoping he would see no other mouse. The steps were vacant except for wisps of hay, dust and dried clumps of mud. McLaren aimed the light back at his feet and climbed, the methodical, measured thump of his footsteps thudding into the interior space. The light angled against the wall, revealing chinks where the mortar had cracked and fallen, fingerholds of moss, and a seedling wedged into a crevice and holding on with all the tenacity of its roots. He brushed off a strand of cobweb and felt along the wall with his free hand, as Braille writing slides beneath reading fingers, the stones slipping beneath him as he ascended. Step by cautious step he climbed, dislodging the hay strands and dust.
Occasionally a stone’s rough edge caught his shirt or dug into his flesh, and he silently berated the stonemason for his hurry or clumsiness. By the time McLaren reached the landing, his shoulder was sore and bruised from the pressure of his body leaning and rubbing against the stones. But the stability of the wall had saved him from a fall—and had kept the memories at bay. He shone his light around the loft.
It was brighter up here. Sunlight seep
ed through the jagged hole in the roof and illuminated sections of the enclosure. A large barrel crowded into one corner and some old farm tools leaned lazily against the wall. A coil of rope, its ends frayed and probably chewed by mice, sagged over the barrel top. A dirt-covered padded horse collar hung around the newel post on the landing. McLaren walked into the room.
The straw was thick in places, barely covering the wooden floor in others. It smelt of dust and mold and there were tunnels near the far wall—probably where animals had hollowed out nests or warrens. He kicked apart the burrows, the old fear taking hold of his mind and heart. The disturbed straw laced the air with dust that turned a golden tan in the shaft of sunlight. It fell heavily, rather than floating, to the floor. He shook his head, holding his breath until he stepped away from the clumps, and coughed.
A stump of candle and a box of matches lay on the windowsill nearest the road. A chipped china saucer bearing clumps of candle wax sat on the floor. Damned kids. They want to burn down the place? He strode over to the window, picked up the candle and matches, and shoved them into his back pocket. He took a slow look around the area. As he turned back toward the landing, he saw the glint.
An empty beer bottle snuggled half in, half out of the straw, the sunlight glancing off the smooth, amber glass. It seemed to wink at McLaren, the golden gleam fading and glowing as a tree branch waved outside in the breeze, its leaves sporadically masking the sunlight. He watched it for several seconds, mesmerized by the trick of the light until the glint faded. More rubbish, he thought, leaving the bottle where it lay and clumping down the steps.
The ground outside the barn had grown over in the year since the cops’ fingertip search. McLaren stood in a patch of sunlight, envisioning the line of constables crawling over the ground shoulder to shoulder, pulling up grass and weeds, clearing the area down to the bare earth. They would bag everything they found: cigarette ends, pull tabs from beverage cans, cellophane package wrapping, scraps of paper, broken lipsticks, broken combs, earrings, coins, keys, inkless pens, plastic straws, paperclips… Anything and everything. There was no indication at the outset of a case what way it would turn and what may prove important. So it was all bagged and preserved. Which was why, one year later, McLaren was surprised to see that the land had recovered so well, swathed in a healthy mix of grasses and flowering plants. And why he walked over to the large oak tree to the north of the barn, several yards away. He’d find nothing where the police had searched.