Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  * * * *

  Jamie’s afternoon matched his morning as far as gathering useful information was concerned. The local doctor was adamant that he had treated no one of Karin Pedersen’s description, nor had his receptionist received a call from such a person. However, to appease what he diagnosed as Jamie’s anxiety, he consulted his appointment diary. No, he informed Jamie, sitting back in his desk chair, he had not seen anyone with a cut on that day. Or the day prior or afterwards, he added, flipping the pages. Was Jamie certain he had the correct village, he suggested, blinking behind his round spectacles. Perhaps his friend was in Hatton. Perhaps Jamie had misunderstood.

  Jamie assured the man he had not misunderstood and stood up.

  “If the wound was only superficial,” the doctor continued as Jamie was about to thank him for his time, “perhaps she merely cleansed it herself. Nothing wrong with soap and water.”

  “That’s a possibility, I’m sure. But I think the cut required something more extensive. It bled rather profusely.”

  “Of course, there are the hospitals, if the wound required stitching up. Have you inquired at Buxton or Chesterfield?”

  “No, sir. I thought I’d ask around this area first.”

  “And there’s always the chemist’s.”

  Jamie drew back his hand and blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Here in the village. Just down the street. You’ve not inquired in there, I assume.”

  “No, sir. Frankly, I hadn’t thought that far.”

  “Could be your friend purchased an antibiotic ointment and some sort of first aid dressing. You know, sterile gauze, adhesive plaster or those pre-medicated cloths. If her knee needed attention but she didn’t want to have it properly attended to, she might have looked after it herself.” He smiled as Jamie thanked him and hurried from the office.

  The chemist’s shop was on the edge of the business district, up the road from the establishments Jamie had called at that morning. It was a small building, squeezed between a mountain bike/camping centre and the pub, its façade the same grey stone that comprised every building in the village. Health and beauty products sprawled across the interior, extended ledge. The placard above the door proclaimed ‘Hathersage Chemist Shop’ in white lettering against a black background. Jamie said a mental prayer, took a deep breath, and walked inside.

  The aroma inside the shop was a heady mixture of perfume, soap, sachet, hand lotions, and chocolate. His second observation was the shop’s orderliness, from the straightness of the head-tall sales shelves to the white-and-black checkered ceramic floor. He pushed the triangular gate on the waist-high railing that separated the shop proper from the entry, passed the tower of stacked plastic carrier baskets, and sought out the shop assistant.

  He had finished his recital and was preparing to be disappointed again when the clerk said, “Yes, your friend was in here.”

  “You’re sure?” He replied more slowly than usual, forcing the excitement from his voice, hoping he sounded mildly interested. “Friday.”

  “Oh, yes.” The woman nodded. She removed her glasses and wiped the lenses before putting them on again. “I recall her quite well. A cute girl, though rather thin, with a mass of curly hair. Red as fire. You couldn’t help but notice her, even without the wound to her knee. I thought it should be seen to properly—you know, by our doctor—but she insisted it looked worse than it was. I suppose she knew what was best for her.”

  The buzzer above the door alerted the clerk to a woman entering the shop.

  Jamie let the clerk answer the woman’s question about the location of the cough medicine and move on before he asked, “She bought items for her cut knee, then?”

  The woman looked at Jamie as though it were obvious. “Certainly! Some astringent, a large sterile gauze and some adhesive plaster. She had a few scrapes on her palms—probably from bracing herself when she fell—but they were quite minor. She also bought some energy bars and a bottle of fruit juice. I guess she was going to continue with her hiking.”

  “She said that?”

  “Well, no. But she had her rucksack with her and she was dressed for hiking. You know, shorts and cotton top and hiking boots. I just assumed that she would do, seeing as how she bought what a lot of hikers buy. Food, I mean.”

  Jamie nodded slowly, running his index finger across his chin. Mike will be glad to know he’s not going insane. But what’s this hide-and-seek game really mean? He considered his earlier question, that Karin had changed her accommodation plans purely as an economic measure, then tossed it out. If she had, why hadn’t the bed-and-breakfasts in the area any record of her stay?

  Taking Jamie’s silence for concern, the clerk said, “I shouldn’t be alarmed, sir. She suffered a cut knee. It wasn’t life threatening.”

  As though not hearing, he said, “What time was she in here? Do you remember?” That would answer his question. If it was soon after McLaren delivered her to The Hanoverian’s door, she could have continued her trek, perhaps stopping the night at Bamford or Nether Padley. But they were a good several hours’ walk from Hathersage, never mind they were the village’s closest neighbors. And if she were headed for another village, why not ask McLaren to drop her there? Unless she changed her mind after he left, having seen the hotel’s price list. But what would it mean if she had left hours later…

  The clerk smiled, as though giving assurance and proclaiming it was the easiest answer in the world. “That I do recollect. It was nearly five o’clock.”

  “You’re certain?” McLaren said he’d dropped Karin at the hotel just after noon.

  “Yes, sir. I remember because we close at five on Fridays. Pardon me.” She checked out the woman with the cough syrup, paperback novel, shampoo and box of facial tissues.

  Jamie waited impatiently, arms folded across his chest, and read the weekly specials posted on the display board near the stack of carrier baskets.

  The clerk thanked the woman for her patronage as Jamie turned back to her. The buzzer sounded once more, this time announcing the customer’s departure. The clerk moved a stack of advertisements to the side of the counter, took a deep breath and patted her graying hair into place. “Now, then. About your friend…I thought, when she came in, that she’d probably be the last sale of the day.”

  “Was she limping?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Like she had sprained her ankle. Or did she seem fit, other than her cut knee?” Jamie was afraid of the answer but needed to know Karin’s physical state. McLaren had mentioned her injured ankle. If it had really been hurt, Karin wouldn’t have hiked any farther that day. She should still be here in Hathersage.

  “No, sir. At least, not that I recall. I think I should have noticed, though. And if the ankle had really bothered her, wouldn’t she have bought an elastic bandage or small splint or something to bind her ankle? She bought the other items for her knee…”

  Jamie agreed that made sense. Still, the entire episode seemed bizarre. “This was at five o’clock,” he said woodenly, trying to understand the timing.

  “This is important, isn’t it?” The woman angled her head, studying Jamie’s expression. He was frowning, but it was through puzzlement, not fear.

  “Yes, it is.” He took a deep breath, mentally flipped a coin, then said, “She’s missing. I’m trying to find her.”

  “In that case…” She snapped her fingers and beckoned Jamie to follow her. “Just back here. Won’t take us more than a few minutes. Oh, Chris…” She called to a young man who was stocking the shelf with plastic combs and hair coloring dye. “Watch the register for a few minutes, will you? Ta. There’s a dear.”

  “Where are we going?” he said as the woman walked to a small room that jutted out into the main floor area. One side of the room had a wall-to-wall window, the glass of which was dark. Probably one-way viewing, Jamie thought as the woman unlocked the door and flipped on the interior light.

  “We may look eighteen hundreds on the outside,” she said as
Jamie entered the office, “but we’re twenty-first century in here.” She indicated the small console that held a wood-encased panel of buttons, small lights and a toggle switch. Above the panel a half dozen small TV monitors, each one displaying a different image, showed bright against the wall on which they were mounted. A telephone receiver was affixed to the wall, affording instant communication.

  Jamie glanced at the monitors showing the store’s aisles and customers, then eyed the screen revealing the pavement outside the front door. A man stopped to light a cigarette before crossing the road. A cyclist came into view then rapidly shot out of the frame as he pedaled down the street. “Impressive.” Jamie shifted his eyes from the monitor to the clerk’s face. “Have a lot of trouble with shoplifting?”

  “Not now. I know many of the bigger stores, as well as most town centers, have a security guard monitoring the cameras. We do during the busy times. But when we don’t, there’s always the videotape for the court trial.” Smiling, she patted the small countertop on which the control console sat. “It’s paid for its cost many times over.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Besides recording shoplifters in the act, these closed-circuit television cameras also were powerful tools as preventive surveillance such as sports events and in locating missing persons. If Karin had passed enough of these CCTV cameras, he’d have a nice record of her journey.

  The shop clerk pulled out Friday’s tape recording and had slipped the cassette into a recorder. As she rewound it, she said, “Not only do I know your friend was in here at five o’clock, the date and time are displayed on the tape. Now, then.” She stopped the tape and she and Jamie watched the next few minutes of footage in silence.

  Karin’s bright red hair was immediately identifiable as she entered the shop. The clerk was correct in her memory of Karin’s purchases, but it was after she left the shop that Karin proved most interesting to Jamie. He leaned closer to the monitor. The clerk, sensing Jamie needed to see something, enlarged the image showing the exterior scene.

  Karin stood outside the shop, to the right of the door, still in the CCTR camera’s range. She lodged the bag of purchases under her left arm and withdrew her mobile phone from her rucksack. After punching in a number, she waited for several seconds, then talked into the phone. The call lasted only ten seconds or so before Karin rang off and slipped her phone back into her sack.

  His eyes still on the tape recording, Jamie asked, “Is that it? Does she leave?”

  “No. She was still there when I closed down. I don’t know when she left, though. I lock up and leave by the back door.” She nodded toward the screen but Jamie didn’t notice, his attention was on Karin.

  Pedestrians and cars passed Karin, shadows on the pavement and on the storefronts across the street shifted positions slightly, and still she remained in front of the chemist’s. Jamie was beginning to wonder if she had stood there all night when a car slowed, angled into the open space along the curb, and waited while Karin walked up to the passenger door. An indistinguishable form leaned across the front seat and opened the door. Karin dumped her rucksack and purchases from the chemist’s into the back seat before getting into the car. Seconds later, the car drove off.

  Jamie stood up, hardly believing what he’d seen. If Karin had a friend with a car, why hadn’t the friend been summoned to drop her in Hathersage? And if McLaren had deposited her on the hotel’s doorstep just after twelve o’clock, what had Karin been doing for four, five hours before this friend had arrived? Where was she now?

  The clerk was taking the tape out of the recorder as Jamie turned and leaned against the counter. Shoving the cassette back into its box, she said, “Was that any help to you?”

  Jamie assured her it was, thanked her, and left the store, more optimistic than he had been in hours. But what really made him whistle as he slid behind the wheel of his car was that he had the mysterious car’s make and model—a gray Mercedes CLC coupe—with a registration number that began YV59.

  EIGHTEEN

  Late afternoon slanted through the western windows of McLaren’s house when he finally regained consciousness. The kitchen floor was hard and cold, an alien bed for him, but he hadn’t been aware of any surroundings other than the strange blackness that engulfed him and the cacophony of sirens and screeching car tires. He lay as he was, on his back, staring at the white ceiling, trying to understand why every one of his bones and muscles raged with pain. He carefully lifted his right arm and held it up so he could see it without moving his neck. It was fresh agony to move it, to hold it steady so that he could focus on it. His muscles screamed to be free of their burden, but he forced himself to keep it there. He shifted his head downward, bringing his chin closer to his chest so that he could better see this arm. He winced. His bare flesh and shirtsleeve were caked in smears of dried blood. Same with his left arm. He dropped his arm, laying still, his eyes closed, forcing himself to remember what had happened. He had returned home late Saturday night. He and Jamie had met at the pub, he had driven home, got out of his car…

  A wave of pain coursed through his right arm and shoulder as he turned over, pressing his palm against the linoleum. His elbow buckled in his agony and his side hit the floor. He remained how he had fallen, amazed at the intensity of the pain, closing his eyes and losing track of time.

  * * * *

  The shadows had begun their slow creep into the kitchen when McLaren finally managed to sit up. He had grabbed onto a table leg and hauled himself upright. Now, sagging against the leg, he could see the wall clock. 7:17. In the evening? He turned his head, making sure the sun was not playing tricks. It hovered above the western line of horse chestnuts, poplars and oaks claiming the crest of the hill. The top of the near stonewall glowed in the heavy, golden light and already cast a purple shadow that sought the eastern rim of the field. No, McLaren conceded, the sun was not crazy. I am. What had happened to the morning? What day was it?

  The annoying sound, faintly remembered from his nightmare, returned, jarring him fully awake. He glanced outside again, nearly expecting to see a police car parked outside on the patio. It wasn’t until the third or fourth ring that he realized the sound was the ringing of his home phone.

  He tried leaning forward and getting onto his knee in an attempt to stand, but surges of nausea engulfed him. He fell back to his sitting position and slumped to his stomach. The light rocked wildly between piercing brightness and smothering blackness as McLaren pulled himself toward the phone, bracing his elbows and knees against the floor and scooting ahead inches at a time. The worktop looked to be a mile above his head as he stopped at the counter’s base; he knew he could never stand in time to answer the insistent ringing. He reached above his head, fumbled for the long, coiled cord, and pulled. The phone crashed to the floor. He righted the phone base and grabbed the receiver in a none too steady hand. “Hello? Yes?”

  “So, you’re finally home.” Jamie’s voice poured over the phone like a lifejacket flung to a drowning man.

  McLaren nodded. His jaw, he discovered, hurt like hell and was difficult to move.

  “You there?” Jamie asked, concern replacing his jest.

  “Yeah. Barely.”

  “Why? Where’ve you been? I’ve been ringing all day. You been busy?”

  “Not in the way you mean.”

  “You take a day off from the Marta Hughes case? What’d you do—spend the day with Dena or do some urgent stonewall work?”

  “I’d feel better if I had, but no. I’ve been right here, evidently.”

  “Evidently? What’s the matter, Mike? Someone there? Can’t you talk? Say something about the weather if someone’s there and you’re in trouble.”

  “Now you sound like a bloody spy movie, Jamie.”

  “Well, at least you’re all right.”

  “No, but I’ll let that pass right now. You doing anything tonight?”

  “Why? Want to meet at the pub again?”

  “I’d rather you come here. Bring someth
ing for dinner, if you can. Chinese take-away or fish and chips. I’ve got stuff to drink.” He winced at the thought of beer.

  “Sure, Mike. Only, you sound strange. You ill? I still don’t believe you’re not being held hostage or something. Say something about Dena if you need me to call the cops.”

  “Just bring the bloody food, if you would. Hurry up.” He replaced the receiver on the phone, pushed it aside, then sat there for a moment, breathing deeply. His neck hurt like hell, hurt more than merely sleeping on it wrong would produce. Or straining the muscle when he’d tried getting up. The area throbbed and burned, a deep pain that came from the muscle. He got to his knees, then pulled himself to his feet and, holding onto furniture as though he were walking on a storm-tossed boat deck, stumbled into the bathroom.

  He pulled off his shirt, torn and blood-streaked below the site of the throbbing flesh, and dropped it onto the floor. He flipped on the fluorescent light fixture and stared into the mirror above the sink. A patch of broken, red skin stared back. He winced as he leaned closer to the mirror. The edges of the wound were jagged, as though the skin had been jabbed and the weapon then twisted. It had bled profusely, McLaren thought, for not only was his shirt bloodstained but the wound was also a mass of dried blood and raw flesh. It wasn’t as deep as a knife wound, but it was deep enough, situated at the side of his neck just behind the jugular blood vein.

  He stood upright, exhaling slowly, his eyes still on the wound. God, if he’d been hit an inch more toward his throat… He closed his eyes, sickened by the thought of bleeding to death, of the narrow escape. Staring again into the mirror, he could easily and vividly see the lesser wounds to his arms and hands. Dried blood probably makes it look worse than it is, he told himself. Still, he’d evidently fought hard, judging by the numerous smaller cuts and scrapes covering his arms and hands, and the bruises that were changing colors from deep violet to green.