Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  His eyes traveled to Dena’s photo and he thought of Linnet and her comforting visits to Sean. Prison was a place to be endured, to mark time until you were free. Had Sean appreciated Linnet’s friendship, supporting him even when he had made a bad choice? Perhaps the book’s dedication was his repayment for her time and concern.

  Dena seemed to stare at him as the dusk thickened, turning the air gray and the furniture into dark, textureless shapes. A copper’s life wasn’t much different than a prisoner’s, in some aspects. Cops needed love and support if they were to emotionally and mentally survive their jobs. It was hard enough dealing with an abusive public who were drunk and called you four-letter names, hard working with demanding superiors and coworkers who tried to sabotage your work or who simply hated you, were jealous of you. Hard to work through cases, make arrests, clean up crime, lower statistics to please the higher-ups, get reports written up and submitted on time. To do all this without someone at home who loved you, sympathized with the pressures, understood your moods… Well, that was asking for a mental or physical breakdown. Cops needed to come home to warmth, where they could relax and be human beings and not have to fight those job-related problems. He stared back at Dena, just discerning her smile in the fading light. Was she smiling, holding out her hand? Had he made a mistake one year ago? Was it too late to bring her into his life…if she still wanted him?

  He wriggled into the depths of the cushion and propped his shoeless feet on the edge of the coffee table. What had he missed that he could never regain? Was there any love left in her? In him?

  He shifted position, rolling over on his hip. Something hard dug into his flesh. Leaning back into the couch, he straightened his leg and thrust his hand into his jeans pocket. He pulled out the silver charm and the scrap of paper.

  The charm clattered onto the tabletop, startlingly loud in the quiet. He unfolded the paper. He didn’t need to see the handwriting; he knew what it said. But the dark, spiky scrawl held his gaze as though he could still see it in the half-light. For, the obvious was clearly visible to McLaren now. His attacker had been sent deliberately to his address.

  TWENTY-ONE

  McLaren stared at the paper, oblivious to the mantel clock striking the hour and the fox yapping somewhere on a neighboring ridge. Who hated him so much that he would be targeted like this? Who had he hurt in his career? He wasn’t even a cop anymore.

  His fingers slowly relaxed, the flesh returning to its normal hue, as he thought about the criminals he had arrested. Many had uttered threats at him—that was almost expected from both sides of the law. Most he had forgotten on leaving the courtroom; many he had talked about with Jamie or colleagues; very few produced insomnia.

  Still, this scrap of paper was different. It spoke of some great hatred, perhaps long standing, and the need for revenge.

  Pain shot through his upper arm as he reached for the silver charm. He grabbed his shoulder and winced, settling back into the cushions. The bookstore clerk had averted her eyes when he bought the book today. Perhaps she was afraid he was a gang member and would bring the violence that obviously was a part of his life into her store. Conversely, Marta Hughes’ boss at the animal shelter hadn’t seemed to notice his bruises. Maybe he was more in tune with animals and their needs. McLaren gingerly touched his jaw and drew his fingers across the mottled flesh. At least the swelling had begun receding.

  He took a deep breath and sat up. Grimacing, he grabbed his tea. The liquid had cooled and tasted of sugar and milk. He set the cup on the table and paced the room. The only criminal in his life right now, albeit indirectly, was Sean FitzSimmons. Were he and Tyrone Wade Antony, the pub burglar, mates? Had Sean decided to carry out some sort of punishment on behalf of his friend? McLaren shook his head. It seemed far fetched for so short a prison sentence as burglary, no matter if Antony was a persistent offender. There had to be another connection. He paused beside the coffee table, looked again at the charm, and opened his hand. The paper scrap slowly fell onto the table, coming to rest on top of the skier. McLaren swore, turned out the light, and went to bed.

  * * * *

  Tuesday morning dawned with a clear blue sky and a fresh breeze from the west but McLaren didn’t notice. He rang up PC Ian Shard and asked if there had been further complaints about any of the three Chesterfield teenagers and drugs. Shard replied emphatically that their little run-in with the law seemed to have dampened their taste for illicit drugs. “Obviously, I could be wrong,” he added, “but I’ve neither heard anything further about them nor been personally involved in additional cases. And I don’t believe it’s because Mrs. Hughes isn’t around to ring us up. There are other residents on that lane who keep an eye out for that sort of thing.”

  “Any more burglaries in the area?”

  “You mean, like what happened at the Hughes home?”

  “Yes. Was that an isolated incident, or was it part of a string—either before or since?”

  “You trying to get info on the Hughes murder, then?”

  “I’m simply asking about their break-in, if there were other homes broken into at the time.”

  “Yeah, with an eye for the big prize. Look, McLaren, I’ve heard about you. I know you’re an ex-cop. Staffordshire’s not that far away that news doesn’t travel. Your Big Man Status there doesn’t give you any authority around here. So my advice is to take what I just gave you and leave well enough alone.”

  “Sounds like some sort of threat, Shard.”

  “You’ve got an overactive imagination, mate. I’m handing you some advice, that’s all. Thought you could use it.”

  “The information about the Hughes case is public record.”

  “Really? Tell that to the Super. I’ve given you what you asked for. Now, trot along and repair a wall.”

  The click cut off McLaren’s next remark.

  He sat for several seconds, the noise of the disconnected phone line falling on his unhearing ears. Where was he with the case? In which direction should he proceed? He hung up the receiver, finished his coffee, and drove into Castleton.

  The sun had not yet peeked above the mountain ridge when he parked opposite Linnet Isherwood’s house. It would be nearly noon before sunlight slanted directly onto the road and rooftops. McLaren consulted his notebook, making certain of her address, and scanned the house nameplates. That was it—the two-story with the bright green door and trellis of morning glories. ‘Morning Glory,’ he read, thinking the house name appropriate. As he started to get out of his car, he saw Linnet rush out of her front door. He was about to call to her, but something about her determined expression made him stop. He sank back into his car seat, wanting to melt into the shadowy car interior, and watched as she jogged up to a car and unlocked its door. McLaren’s hand froze on the interior door handle. The car was a gray Mercedes CLC coupé, registration plate number YV59.

  McLaren sat frozen to the spot, trying to sort through the confusion and meanings of the mental images crowding his mind. Why was Linnet driving the car that had picked up Karin Pedersen in Hathersage? Was Linnet linked with his traffic stop or the beer bottle? Were she and Karin merely friends? He jammed the car key into the ignition, switched on his car’s motor, and followed Linnet’s flight, vowing he’d tail her until she met up with Karin.

  The A6 into Buxton was heavy with Tuesday morning traffic, for which McLaren thanked his guardian angel. He could keep Linnet’s car in sight without running the risk that he’d be seen. He was also thankful that she evidently was headed into the town, for tailing her to a lonely moor, for example, would have blown his whole operation. It would be hard to remain hidden behind some heather.

  Having reached Buxton, Linnet drove up Terrace Road and turned right into the car park opposite the town hall. Three cars separated them as McLaren noted her slow drive through the lot. He paused to let a mother pushing a pram cross the entrance, then drove in and parked several rows from the Mercedes. He bought a pay-and-park ticket, displayed it on his car’s c
enter console, then, despite his complaining muscles, dashed off to follow Linnet.

  The town hall clock showed 11:20 as McLaren passed the building, a dark two-storey Victorian edifice showing the years of coal smoke and car exhaust fumes. He passed to the east of the hall, heading back the way he had come, jogging down the sharp incline of The Slopes, a grassy area overlooking the rest of the town below. McLaren stayed behind a crowd of tourists and office workers, glad of the near-noontime rush and the sunny day. His sunglasses and baseball cap helped with anonymity.

  At a bench near St. Ann’s Well, a short, dark-haired man smiled as Linnet came up to him. He tossed his newspaper into the rubbish bin before giving her an ardent kiss. More than friends, McLaren thought as he pretended to tie his shoe. And more interesting every day.

  The man was Sean FitzSimmons.

  McLaren didn’t need the author’s book jacket photo to identify him. He’d stared at the face hard enough to burn it into his mind. As he slowly straightened up and watched Sean slip his arm around Linnet’s waist, McLaren recalled Jamie’s information about the leather jacket. How involved was Linnet with Sean? How long had she known him before he’d entered prison? His past didn’t seem to bother her, judging from the kiss she returned.

  McLaren watched the couple walk back up the hill and cross High Street. He followed at a slower pace. They strolled past several shops before ducking into The Old Sun Inn. Probably going to have lunch. He hung back from the pub’s entrance. He lingered by the doorway, giving the impression he was studying the menu displayed in the front window and letting several more customers find tables, before entering.

  The pub smelled of hot meat pies, warm breads and brewed coffee. He walked partway into the front room, scanned the area as though looking for a lunch date, then spotted Linnet and Sean near the back corner of the adjacent dining area. A snug, actually, turning his back on the smaller, intimate room. He took a table closer to the front in the main room, putting distance and a dozen tables between them. He also snuggled up to an ancient grandfather’s clock that leaned against the wall. Perfect. The broad front and far side of the clock’s wooden case afforded cover as good as a boulder. He could lean forward casually and have a straight view of them, then lean back against the wall and sink from sight. Besides the cap, he also wore a large bandana around his neck. He pulled it up higher, so its folded edge came up to his jaw, and angled his chair slightly so he could rest his right shoulder against the wall. Then he ordered lunch and watched the show.

  They had chosen an atmospheric setting for whatever they were about to do, McLaren thought, glancing at the pub’s interior. It had been a coaching inn, catering to travelers and horses. The past still clung to the building, a whitewashed exterior and antique-filled interior. A cheering fire would fill the stony hearth in the winter, he thought, and the leaded casement windows tattooed with frost. But now the June sun angled through the open windows, crowding the room with the warmth and scents of summer.

  He leaned forward, glancing at Linnet and Sean. Even if he had been seated at the next table, McLaren doubted he could have heard their conversation, for the couple seemed to keep their conversation low, their heads bent only inches apart. He also doubted their apparent need of secrecy, for the room was noisy with the clatter of china and cutlery and the drone of other customers. Canned music plugged up any brief voids when the droning stopped. McLaren picked up his coffee mug from the low, knee-high table and held it casually in front of his face. He took slow, periodic sips, as though he were content to linger over lunch, having nothing else to do the rest of the day.

  He was halfway into his ham and tomato sandwich when Linnet and Sean paid their bill and left the pub. They hadn’t left so quickly that McLaren hadn’t seen Sean’s back jeans pocket. It was stuffed with a bulky envelope.

  McLaren left the uneaten half of his sandwich on the plate, grabbed the bill, and thrust it and more than enough money at the cashier before sprinting from the pub. Linnet and Sean were waiting for the pelican crossing lights to change on the High Street as McLaren jogged toward them. He stopped short, turned to look in a store window and wished for a horde of tourists to swamp the pavement. When the light changed they crossed the road, then turned right and walked toward the car park. McLaren slowed to a leisurely stroll, always keeping several people behind them. Sean walked Linnet to her car and waited while she opened the door before giving her a goodbye kiss.

  McLaren paused at the corner of the town hall building, pulled his cap low on his forehead, and pretended to consult his watch. He saw Sean smile, pat the pocket that bulged from the bulky envelope, and accept something from Linnet. As she got into her car and drove off, Sean turned and crossed the car park, heading back toward the Slopes and Terrace Road. McLaren hesitated only for a split second before he dashed toward Sean and knocked against his right shoulder, throwing him off balance. As Sean stumbled and tried to keep from falling, McLaren grabbed his right arm and hand, steadying him.

  “Frightfully sorry.” McLaren brushed off Sean’s back and shook his hand. “I do most sincerely apologize. I hope I haven’t hurt you.” He placed his hands on Sean’s shoulders and turned him around as though inspecting for broken bones or torn clothing.

  Sean shook off McLaren’s hands and straightened his shirt. “I’d think you could be a bit more careful about where you’re going. It’s crowded, if you haven’t noticed.” He brushed his hands together.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m late back to my car. The ticket’s about to expire. You’re all right, then?” He said it more as a statement than as a question, but he frowned as he looked at Sean, all concern.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Only, be more careful. There are mothers and children about.”

  “I know. I apologize. Sorry.”

  “You said that,” Sean replied, gritting his teeth. “You’re either a flaming berk or you’re squiffy.”

  “Right, guv’ner. I confess. I’ve had a couple. You know…” He grabbed Sean’s shirtsleeve and leaned toward him, as though whispering something secret. “Boss’ birthday lunch. Couldn’t not go and then keep my job, could I? Had to have a couple with the boss to show him respect and good wishes of the day and all that. All the good wishes I could think of, the old bastard.” He turned slightly, as though looking for the restaurant that held his employer.

  “Well, you overdid it, mate. And you’re tiresome, to boot. Now, hop it!”

  “Certainly, sir. Right you are, sir. Immediately.” He saluted Sean and nodded. “Now, where’s the car?”

  “How should I know? If you weren’t sloshed, you’d know, you berk.”

  McLaren pulled himself up to his full height, blinked, and said seriously, “If I weren’t drunk, I’d take offense at being called a berk, but between you and me—” He smiled and patted Sean on the shoulder. “That’s okay.”

  “If you keep this up, I’m calling a copper. Now, lay off!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He swayed slightly, holding on to Sean’s upper arm as though it were a lifeline. “Well, if you’re sure you’re not hurt…”

  “I’m fine.” He turned quickly, shook off McLaren’s clinging hands, and walked briskly down the hill.

  “I’m fine, too, mate,” McLaren said as he jogged to his car. He waited until he was back on the A6 before he uncurled the fingers of his right hand. In his palm lay a silver charm of a downhill skier.

  * * * *

  Telephone Information was very accommodating; it gave McLaren the home address of Sean FitzSimmons. McLaren scribbled it down on his notebook, closed his mobile phone, turned the car around, and followed the A6 southeast toward Bakewell.

  He entered the town from the north, the A6 becoming Matlock Street. The Catholic church and Bath Street slipped past before he came to the small roundabout at the junction of four streets. He paused before he could ease into the traffic flow around the circle, the town busy with Tuesday business and tourists. Once clear of the intersection, he turned right
onto King Street, lined with shops, passed the huge building on the corner, and turned onto Butts Road. He parked cattycorner from the address he’d been given and looked around. It was a quiet street, several blocks from the busy town center and lined with trees. If the bulky envelope in Sean’s back pocket was money from Marta’s casino win—not farfetched, since the money had never been found—Sean could afford some nice items for his home. Or a lengthy holiday somewhere exotic. Wasn’t that how people usually spent their money? McLaren took off his bandana and cap, and drove to Lloyd Farmer’s house.

  The retired police sergeant welcomed McLaren with a grin and an offering of a cuppa, but McLaren declined, stating what he needed. “I thought you could introduce me to a friend of Sean FitzSimmons,” McLaren said, twirling his car key on his index finger. “Or a neighbor.”

  “Someone who knows the lad.” Lloyd nodded. “Nothing like a bit of info straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “I know you’ll have kept up with everything going on in town.”

  “Retirement or not, eh?”