McLaren got up, picked up the spilled papers, and returned to the couch. He leafed through the pages, noticing that there were other similar notes jotted in page margins. All were suppers and all were a discreet distance from the police station in Ashbourne. After all, McLaren thought, still fuming, it wouldn’t do to be caught in public with a witness or suspect.
He laid the sheets of paper on the coffee table, walked into his bedroom and undressed. As he got into bed, he listened to the thunder rolling across the sky. It seemed to echo his own grumblings. Harvester had left the Staffordshire Constabulary at the same time McLaren had. But, unlike McLaren, who left the job, Harvester transferred to the Derbyshire Constabulary. And on that fateful day when Marta’s body had been found, officers from B Division had been thin on the ground. Harvester, in A Division, had been called in to help. The rest, as they say, was history. McLaren closed his eyes, cursing the past year, cursing Fate. He fell asleep to the sound of the rain against the windows, still cursing, but now it was at Harvester.
* * * *
A mental nudge so quiet, yet persistent, muscled into his dream. He’d been wrestling Harvester, had him around the neck and was about to plunge with him into a river when the obstinate whisper woke him. He blinked, staring into the night, trying to determine where he was. As the room grew recognizable, he sat up, the sheet falling from his chest. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside cabinet. 4:17. He groaned and sank back onto the mattress. His hands grabbed the sheet but he made no other move. Frowning, he looked at the ceiling. What was the problem? What bothered him so much that he’d woken?
He closed his eyes, trying to remember his dream. Was that it? Was it something about Harvester or Linnet? He propped himself up on his left elbow and stared out of his window at the night sky. He’d been fighting Harvester. They were about to plunge into a river… He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to loosen his tight muscles. But there had been something else. A voice calling to him. There had been no other people in his dream—just him and Harvester locked in a death-like grip. Where had the voice come from? A spectator on the shore?
He sat up, his body tensing as the voice sounded in his ear. It was feminine and sounded vaguely familiar. Dena? No. He concentrated, trying to recall the dream. The woman was short and thin and seemed to know him. Her voice was soft, barely audible, yet persisted, calling his name.
He stared at the clouds as they skidded across the sky. It was like that, he thought. She was obliterated by a mist on the shoreline. He strained to see her but the darkness thickened.
As he sank back onto the bed, the moon broke from an imprisoning cloud. The mist in his dream evaporated in a sudden gust of wind and the voice grew louder. McLaren sat up. The woman was Verity Dwyer.
Exhaling slowly, he wiped his forehead with the edge of the sheet. Why was she calling to him? Because maybe she was mixed up in Marta’s death after all, he reasoned. Because maybe she had stolen the casino winnings to finance her disaster dog business. He lay down and hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep until the early morning rain rattled against the gutters, prodding him awake.
* * * *
Two hours later he was in Castleton. He had showered, shaved and dressed hurriedly, as though he had to meet a deadline, but he had taken a few minutes to fill his travel mug with hot coffee. Breakfast was a cold slice of pizza, left over from dinner several nights ago. He ate it while he drove.
He was not in such a hurry, however, that he was careless. He drove slowly the length of the wet road on which Linnet lived, looking for her vehicle. It wasn’t there. She wasn’t home. He parked several cars down from her house, in case she returned before he left, grabbed the photo of Harvester, and walked up to one of Linnet’s neighbors.
“’Morning,” he said, smiling hopefully at the man.
The man, in his early thirties and dressed in a suit, had just locked his front door and was shifting his briefcase to his other hand. He paused, looked at McLaren, and asked what he wanted.
“Just a bit of help. It’ll take only a minute.”
“If you’re lost—” the man began.
“No. I wonder if you’d take a look at this photo and tell me if you’ve seen this man around here.” He held out Harvester’s photo and the man stepped closer.
“Why? What’s he done? You a copper?”
McLaren explained who he was and that the man in the photo might be involved in an old murder case.
“That right? Let me have a look.” The man took the photograph, looked at it for perhaps several seconds, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen him. Used to be around here quite regular. Haven’t seen him for a while. He the dead bloke?”
“When did you see him? Do you remember?”
“What…like a specific date?”
“An approximation will do. Last winter, this spring…”
“No. It was longer ago. Last spring. Yeah. That’s it. Last spring. Last year. He was here for a couple months. He was seeing Linnet, my next-door neighbor. They were dating for a while, probably until the end of May or so, then they must’ve had a hell of a row ’cause I’ve not seen him since.”
“When you say you saw him a lot, what does that mean? Did he pick up Miss Isherwood for dates? Mow her lawn? Fix things around her house?”
“He was around her house, all right, but I think it was more like a sort of live-in boyfriend. I’d see him come in the evenings and he’d still be here the next morning when I left for work. You figure out what that means.” He glanced at his watch and started toward his car.
“Sorry. One more question, please.”
“Sure. I thought you had finished. What else?”
“Was he here regularly, like every night, or every other weekend?”
“It was every weekend, or just about. This went on for the entire time I saw his car here. Then, he leaves the end of May. Must’ve been real sudden.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, Linnet must have been crazy in love with that man. I’ve never seen her smile so much or even sing when she was pottering about in her garden. Her husband had left her, I guess you know, and I thought she’d never get over that. Then along comes this chap—the one in your photo—and it was like instant love. She was over the moon. Then I don’t see his car or him anymore and she’s back in her depression again, just like when her husband left. She cried for weeks. Literally. Sobbing. I didn’t think she’d ever get over him.”
“It does take some people a long time to recover from a broken heart.”
“Probably a bit more than just a boyfriend-girlfriend breakup, if you ask me, ’cause she took to wearing a ring around her neck.”
“Sounds like an engagement ring.”
“Could be. I don’t know. But he must’ve made it up to her.”
“Oh, yes? Are they back together, then?”
“No. At least, I haven’t seen him around. Maybe she goes to his place. I don’t know. But someone sent her that fancy car of hers. Last August, I think.”
“Why do you say that? She couldn’t have bought it?”
“With her husband gone and her working those piddling jobs? I don’t think so. This came from someone with a lot of cash to spare. That Mercedes must’ve cost something. Sorry, mate, I’ve got to hop it. Hope that helps.” He was down his walk and out his front gate before McLaren could thank him.
McLaren sat in his car, turning over the new information in his mind. End of May last year was around the time he and Harvester left the Staffordshire Constabulary. After the pub burglary incident when he threw Harvester into the rose bushes. Was this the reason for the beer bottles that kept cropping up in his life? Were they a subtle reminder about the pub burglary and Harvester’s absence from Linnet’s life? Had she been in love with Harvester and he left her due to the pub incident?
He rubbed his forehead, trying to understand the whispers that echoed in his mind. Linnet wore a ring on a chain. He’d seen it the first ti
me he had met her. Was it Harvester’s ring or her engagement ring? And now she had evidently taken up with Sean FitzSimmons. What did that mean? Was it nothing more than looking for a meal ticket, or was it something more?
He stared at her house, picturing her again as she got into her car. Her husband had left her; Harvester had left her. She had been financially strapped. So how does a woman desperate for money get expensive clothing? And a Mercedes a mere two months after Marta Hughes is killed? He turned the key in the ignition and headed for Danny Mercer’s home.
TWENTY-THREE
The questions kept whispering to McLaren as he drove to Danny Mercer’s house. He needed a few more bits of information before he could hand the case over to the police. He was surprised to feel the prickles of excitement coursing through his blood, the adrenalin start to surge and shove him into a state of being he thought long lost. The same sensation grabbed him now as it had when he had heard police sirens as a kid, or when he was deeply involved in a case featuring a child or elderly person. He always expected and accepted the euphoric rush; he was astonished it still could claim him a year after leaving the job.
As he approached the Mercers’ home, McLaren thought again about Linnet. When her husband had left her, she’d been nearly desperate for money. Whether intentionally latching on to Harvester or not, she reasoned she would soon be financially safe. The diamond ring—most probably an engagement ring— she wore spoke mutely of that brief episode. But when Harvester left Staffordshire, Linnet tried to get money from Marta when she won at the casino. McLaren felt sure of that. He also needed to find out if Linnet had access to a gun.
He parked the car in front of the house but made no move to get out. Something wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. If Linnet was mixed up in Marta’s murder, why did she hire him to find Marta’s killer? Then the photograph in Harvester’s bedroom stood out with alarming clarity. If she still had feelings for Harvester, as the ring implied, and Harvester had broken the engagement—perhaps due to his Staffordshire disgrace and his uncertain future—then maybe all this had been set up for McLaren’s failure. He nodded, sitting back in the car seat. Linnet had known he wasn’t in the job anymore, that he had never worked as a private detective. Yet she had come to him when she could have hired an experienced investigator. She probably was assuming he would fail and then she and Harvester would get a huge laugh over it, with Harvester spreading the news around the office. McLaren sat up, looking at the Mercer house. Sure. The beer bottles were just a little touch to remind me of my tangle with Harvester during the pub burglary, to rub it in and hint that I wasn’t clear of him yet.
McLaren swore softly and grabbed the ignition key. Was Harvester involved in this? McLaren couldn’t see how he would be, if he were busy with the runner murder in D Division. No. Harvester was just a personal sideline with Linnet. She had used someone else to help her. Probably someone used to being a thug and in constant need of money. Who better to fit both criteria than her ex-con friend Sean FitzSimmons? McLaren got out of the car, slammed the door, and strode up to the Mercers’ house.
Danny’s mother answered the door. She was dressed in a tailored suit, a mug of coffee in one hand. She kept her free hand on the edge of the door, as though barring McLaren’s entry into her home or guarding some secret. Her reaction on hearing McLaren’s introduction and the reason for his visit was to take a sip of coffee and look incredulous. She also protested.
“You’re on the wrong track,” she said, her voice faint, keeping the conversation between the two of them. Her eyes held a mixture of fear and denial, as though the topic exhausted her and she didn’t want to deal with another authority figure. “Danny’s a good boy. He’s not doing drugs any more. That was last year. He’s left that all behind. He’s learnt his lesson.”
“Good to hear it. I hope he has. Is he home now? May I speak to him?”
“He left about a half hour ago. He’s looking for work. He’ll be back in time for tea, if you want to come back then…” She eyed him, not knowing what a talk between her son and this man involved.
“If I have time, I shall, thank you.”
“Trouble is,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb, “once you’re labeled as a druggie, you got it for life. People always look at you queer, especially the police. They think you’re up to no good, whatever you do. Even just walking along the street or on his way to his friend’s house. But Danny’s quit all that. He’s a good boy. He always has money, so he’s not a drain on society or on me.”
“Contributing to the household, is he? What is he…seventeen? That’s commendable.”
“Yes, it is. I suppose he feels like the man of the house since his father died last year. There’s nothing he can’t do for me, helping with the housework, mowing the lawn… He gave me a lovely gift for my birthday this last May. A lovely garden sculpture. He even installed it in the back garden all by himself. Now,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “doesn’t that show you he has money and is thinking of me? Lots of boys his age wouldn’t give much thought to their parents, but Danny does. He’s always bringing me some little something.”
“You’re fortunate to have such a caring son. Some parents can’t say that.”
She set her coffee cup on the hall table and picked up her briefcase and car key. “Yes, I am. I realize that, and compliment Danny on many things. Even when he lost his job just after Christmas last year, I commiserated with him. I made certain he felt all right about it, that it didn’t affect his self-esteem. So many times it does, you know. You work hard and then you get fired for no fault of your own, really. Just because the economy is down or the after-Christmas rush is over. It’s hard on anyone’s ego to be let go like that, without warning, so I made it a point to praise his job finding efforts each day. It’s hard to find work when you’re so young and haven’t much experience. He needs the praise right now.”
McLaren nodded reassuringly but thought it odd. If Danny wasn’t working since last December, how did he get the money for the garden sculpture this May? Sculptures weren’t cheap.
He thanked Mrs. Mercer for talking to him and walked back to his car. He sat there, pretending he was talking on his mobile phone, but he kept an eye on the house. When Mrs. Mercer drove off several minutes later, McLaren remained in his car in case she returned for a forgotten item, or Danny came home. It wouldn’t be the first time a teenager had drawn the wool over someone’s eyes. Even with a mother so adamant about his good behavior, Danny could still be up to something when mother was working. Or late at night when she was sleeping.
He leaned his head against the headrest, the conversations with Alan and Chad Hughes echoing through his mind. It was certain Danny had been involved in drugs—Marta had seen it and reported him to the police. But was Danny’s mother telling the truth when she said that was past behavior? Did breeding tell or did environment mold you? Danny’s grandfather held a distinguished World War II record; Danny had been reared around the relics of that record. Had the stories he heard steered his life’s path or had his hooligan mates negated all that?
When a quarter of an hour passed without any further house activity, McLaren walked into the back garden. The sculpture rested in a small, grassy clearing surrounded by clumps of Siberian iris, hosta and rhododendron. It seemed a perfect place for it, shady and quiet, reminiscent of fairy haunts he had imagined as a child. The sculpture, in fact, was a 3-dimensional metal fairy. Her open wings could have lifted her in flight at any moment, but she balanced on top of an elaborate metal pedestal, one leg bent and the toes of the other leg firmly soldered to the pedestal.
Stifling a groan, he laid the ornament on its side. The ground beneath the pedestal’s base was bare. No yellowed, dying grass had been smothered by the pedestal. Meaning, the ground had been disturbed for some reason. Odd for something that had required no concrete platform or inner support rod.
McLaren scanned the yard. A three-pronged cultivator sat on a garden chair near the back door
. He grabbed it and quickly clawed at the soil. The digging was easy, unlike the hard packed soil that greeted him whenever he planted something in his garden. It took him only seconds to scrape away the earth and reach the object buried inches below. He leaned closer to the hole and laid the cultivator beside him, wanting to use his fingers for the final few seconds’ work. Carefully he maneuvered his fingers beneath the object, feeling the cardboard give slightly against his grasp. As he pushed the box up, he brushed the remaining soil from its top, finally lifting it and holding it in his hand.
He grinned as he set it beside the garden tool and gingerly removed the lid of the shoebox. Inside were a carton of .38 caliber bullets, a Webley Mk IV .38 caliber revolver, and a woman’s silvery shoe that was missing its heel.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Webley Mk IV was a relic of World War II, McLaren thought, staring at the revolver and the box of ammunition. Were these items part of the glory-day relics of Danny’s grandfather? Was it the service revolver he had used in the war and retained on returning home? Many soldiers kept their side arms when the war ended, either their British pistols or German Lugers, souvenirs of their years overseas. McLaren stared at the weapon. This had to be the grandfather’s revolver. And it was a .38 caliber, the same size as the bullet that had killed Marta Hughes.
It might not be evidence, but the shoe fit that definition. Especially if Danny’s fingerprints were on it.
Siren Song Page 27
