McLaren pushed the soil back into the hole, tapped it down with his foot, then righted the sculpture and returned the garden tool. He replaced the lid on the shoebox and picked it up. Danny had hidden the revolver after using it to kill Marta, McLaren realized as he got into his car. Or Linnet had used it. Either way, the shoe and revolver linked Danny to Marta’s murder just as Linnet’s car and expensive clothes linked her to the stolen casino money. He set the box on his back seat and rang up Jamie, telling him about the gun and the missing shoe. “I know that heel I found at the stone barn will fit this shoe,” he said, the volume of his voice underlining his belief. “You’ll see when you get it to the lab. Right now I need you to accompany me if you’ve got the time when you get off.”
“Accompany you where? To the Mercers’ house?”
“No. I need Official Police Presence when we confront Linnet Isherwood.”
“When we confront her? This is your case, Mike. You’re doing very well without the lads in blue.”
“I’ll need you to make the arrest. I’m a civilian, remember?”
“Just barely,” Jamie said, laughing. “Maybe I should loan you my warrant card.”
“I’ll take that as a joke and not as a serious suggestion. Bring your handcuffs and anything else you want. You can follow me in your squad car.”
“Uhh, Mike…”
“Yes?” His breath caught in his throat, fearful that Jamie was going to suggest he contact the Chief Constable.
“You’re not going to be doing anything illegal, are you? I mean, I’m not going to get a reprimand or something for helping you.”
McLaren let out his breath. Jamie hadn’t suggested that McLaren go it alone. “We’ll review the case before we drive over to Linnet’s. If you feel I’m totally round the twist, I’ll bend to your opinion and call it off.”
“Fair enough. Thanks.”
“I’ll be on the street when you get out. Find me.” He rang off and waited for Jamie, feeling he owed himself a celebratory meal and a hand washing.
* * * *
Early twilight was descending on the village of Castleton and the last vestiges of color clung to the western sky. The eastern side of Peveril Castle loomed dark and forbidding against the curtain of pale pink and yellow, gray shadows slowly consuming the land. Down in the dale where the village nestled, the sunlight had already vanished, yet still anointed the rooftops and treetops with an ochre-hued mantle. McLaren and Jamie parked halfway down the road from Linnet’s house—a precaution in case she remembered the make, color and model of McLaren’s car or happened to see the police car. They also checked the back garden, making certain no one was there who might be a potential problem. When they were satisfied they weren’t walking stupidly into a trap, McLaren rang the front doorbell.
Through the open window he heard the bell ringing deep with the house. Music sounded and a wooden-legged chair was shoved back. The soft padding of shoes thudded on a hard floor, then the click of metal as the dead bolt moved in the doorframe. There was a squeak of protesting hinges and moments later Linnet Isherwood opened the front door.
“Mr. McLaren!” Linnet’s exclamation nearly caught in her throat on seeing him. She forced a smile but it quickly faded as her hand went to her throat. “I-I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You’ve something to discuss about Marta’s case?” Her eyes had drifted from McLaren’s face to Jamie’s, then to his uniform. She glanced back at McLaren. “You brought a police officer? You’ve solved the case, then? Are you going to make an arrest?” She smiled again but remained in the open doorway, unsure if their presence warranted a private talk or if a brief sentence or two on the doorstep was sufficient.
McLaren answered her questioning look by asking if they could come in.
“Why…certainly. Of course!” She stepped aside, opened the door wider, but remained there as they walked into the front room. “You’ll have to excuse my attire. I-I wasn’t expecting anyone. I was exercising.” By way of confirmation, the music in the back room erupted into a loud tattoo of drums, brass and strings. She gave a half-hearted smile, unsure if she should turn off the music or not.
“Would you care to join us?” McLaren asked, motioning to the sofa. “This is Constable James Kydd. Derbyshire Constabulary,” he added as if it were an afterthought.
Linnet nodded, closed the door slowly and leaned against it. She was dressed in designer-label black leotards, halter-top and soft-soled ballet-style shoes. A red and purple print scarf was tied around her waist; a matching hand towel lay across the back of her neck. She eyed the two men as they waited for her to sit down, then hesitantly moved to a chair near the front window. She sat but the men remained standing.
She looked up at McLaren. “A police officer? Then you are making an arrest in the case.” Her voice cracked but she pulled a limp smile from a recess of her soul. “Th-that’s wonderful news. Who is it? Can you tell me?” Her gaze switched to Jamie, as though mutely inquiring if it would be proper police procedure. When Jamie didn’t speak, she focused on McLaren. She turned toward Jamie, though, when he cautioned her. She listened, unbelieving her senses, his words making no sense. When he finished, she got to her feet. Her mouth had gaped open in surprise but she closed it as she alternately stared at each man. In the stillness McLaren could hear the last bars of her recorded exercise music, a selection of Handel, he thought. Or Haydn. Then abrupt silence filled the house as the CD ended.
Linnet’s hand went to her throat again, as though she needed a physical touch to convince her she was not experiencing a nightmare. Her voice shook from fright but it was abnormally loud as she said, “Me! This is absurd. You’ve made a mistake. I went straight home after our casino outing. Anyway, why should I kill Marta? We were best friends.”
“Exactly,” McLaren said. “Being best friends, you expected Marta would bail you out of your financial difficulty with her big roulette winning.”
“That’s ridiculous. I was nowhere near Elton.”
“Maybe not that night, but you were later.”
“Oh, really? When was that supposed to be?” Her voice had regained its strength and her anger underscored her words. “Why would I even go there?”
“You planted a silver charm. The type used for bracelets and necklaces.”
“Amazing. The police never said anything about a charm, and they searched the area when Marta’s body was discovered.”
“No, they didn’t find it because you hid it there after I took the case.”
She glared at him but fright shone plainly. “Absurd.”
“I found it, though. Just as you hoped. Look familiar?” He took the silver skier charm from his jeans pocket and held it so that Linnet could see it.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It should. You’ve seen two of them. The first one you gave Sean FitzSimmons on the publication of his novel. There’s the author photo on the dust jacket. He’s wearing it on a chain around his neck. The dedication of his book even mentions it. And links you to it,” he said, pointing to the silver skier. “It was probably some token between you two. I don’t know and right now I don’t care. You got it away from him and planted it at the crime scene to implicate him in the murder.”
Linnet started to protest but McLaren cut her off.
“The second charm you gave him in Buxton. I saw you hand it to him just before you parted after lunch. This is that charm.” His fingers closed over the charm and he returned it to his pocket.
“What a furtive imagination you have. This doesn’t prove a thing. You could have bought that charm at any jewelry store.”
“I could have done, but I didn’t. I got it from Sean. But if you’re so sure I’m lying, ask him.” He pulled out his mobile phone and held it out for her. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to know if I’m lying or not?”
Linnet made no move for the offered phone, instead chewing her bottom lip. Her face had drained of color but she did not reclaim her chair. A car backfired in the str
eet before she said, “I-I believe he’s out of town.”
“The phone reaches around the world.”
“No.” She shook her head but her eyes held the desperation of a caged animal. “I-I don’t want to disturb him.”
“That had bothered me for a while.” McLaren shoved the phone into his pocket. “I thought for a while that Sean killed Marta. He was a good choice, wasn’t he?”
“What do you mean? Sean and I are—”
“Friends? Lovers? No. Not really. Maybe that’s what he believes, but he’s nothing to you. Not in that sense. He’s a tool, isn’t he? You tricked him into believing you cared for him but you used him. He’s a great decoy, Miss Isherwood. I congratulate you on finding him.”
Linnet shifted her weight onto her other foot and tried to look nonchalant, but the fear still shone in her eyes. “Decoy?”
“Certainly! You thought I’d zero in on him, didn’t you? Sean FitzSimmons, ex-con and perfect murder suspect. The police would find out about him and look no further. He had many skills you needed. One was his record as a burglar and car thief. You asked him to break into my car—subtly so I would begin to doubt my reason—and steal anything he could find. I applaud his skill. He accomplished it in broad daylight without leaving a trace on my car. But he was probably surprised to end up with that bag of beer bottles. Did he show them to you?”
Linnet remained silent, her arms crossed on her chest.
“To ice the cake, in case the coppers were a bit slow in suspecting him, you planted the charm near the spot where they found the body. Was it supposed to have been lost when Marta fought Sean for her life?” His last words exploded in his anger and he stepped toward Linnet.
“You’re insane. You have no proof for any of this. Now, if you’re quite finished, I wish you’d leave. I have other things to do than listen to fiction. I would sue you for slander if it weren’t so laughable.”
“Fiction is another element of it, isn’t it? Sean is a fiction writer, an author of thrillers. He’s good at thinking up plots. Did you get him to plan where, when and how to kill Marta? Or had you thought of it by the time you’d met him? I’m sure you didn’t talk this over with your friend Charlie Harvester.”
Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but McLaren went on. “I know about you two. I heard it from a very reliable source, how matey you once were. Might still be, for all I know. After all, you’ve still got his ring.”
She’d had enough time to think and pounced on McLaren’s statement. “What ring? Am I wearing any ring?” She held out her hands so the men could see her fingers. They were bare. “You’re obsessed, McLaren. Was your mother frightened by a jeweler?”
“This ring.” He strode toward her. His hand shot out and he grabbed the necklace she wore. He yanked on the chain, pulling the bottom length of it out from beneath her halter-top. A diamond ring slid down the length of the twisted silver. He threw the chain at her and her hand clamped over the ring. “You must still love him, though I don’t know why, after he broke off your engagement.”
Jamie’s hand wrapped around McLaren’s upper arm, pulling him away slightly from Linnet.
“You may have killed Marta for her money—after all, she won more that night at the casino than you had ever seen, and you were desperate for money after your husband left.”
“Ridic—”
“But you hired me for revenge.”
“Revenge? For who? When?”
“Revenge for Harvester. You still love him. You found out—probably from him—about the pub incident. You thought I needed to pay for Harvester’s ultimate disgrace and reprimand. So you hired me, probably thinking I’d fall on my face with this case and make a fool of myself. The beer bottles were a nice touch. Did Sean give me my lesson?” His hand went to a bruise on his cheek. “It took me a while to realize where I’d seen him. I thought it was from my days in the job, but it was the night of my beating. I just had a glimpse of him by the lamplight from my kitchen table, but I couldn’t place his face for a while.”
A smile gradually claimed Linnet’s face as she stared at McLaren. She leaned against the fireplace mantle, her fingers toying with the ring that hung from the necklace. “At least he did something right. I’d written your home address down for him so he’d know where to find you. I dashed it off, in a hurry, never thinking I should have typed it out. He told me how he ambushed you.” She gave a short laugh and shook her head. “We thought you’d mess it up,” she said, her voice bitter. “We thought all the fight had gone out of you and that the case had grown too cold for you to discover anything. We—” She took a deep breath before correcting herself. “I thought you’d latch on to Sean as the killer and I’d get my revenge when Charlie proved Sean’s innocence in court. I didn’t really want you to solve Marta’s murder. You were smarter than we thought.”
“Too bad you weren’t a tad bit smarter.”
She frowned, fearful she had overlooked something. “What?”
“You wrote down my address for him.”
“So?”
“I have no doubt a handwriting expert can match that to the check you wrote me to retain my services. Rather distinct handwriting you have, Linnet—bold, jagged script.”
She stepped toward him, her hand raised, but Jamie caught her wrist and forced her arm down. Shrugging, she relaxed. “You think you know it all, don’t you, McLaren? But you don’t. You haven’t any idea what happened to Karin Pedersen…or about those beer bottles.”
“Your doing, I suppose.”
“Of course. I knew where you were going after you left me in Castleton when we talked. I had an idea the route you’d take and let Karin know. She’s a friend.”
“Mobile phones are a wonder, aren’t they?” He snorted.
“We weren’t one hundred percent certain you’d drive that way, mind you, but it was no big deal if you didn’t. Karin faked her wound and sat by the roadside. I gave her your car description. It was simple—all she had to do was wait and wave away other offers of help…if there’d been any. As I said, if you didn’t show up…well, no harm done. It was just a bit of fun designed to annoy you.”
“And the beer bottles?”
“That was Sean. We wanted to remind you of that little pub episode with Tyrone Wade Antony and your dismissal from the Force. And Charlie Harvester. Did it work?” She smiled, lowering her eyes like a 1920s vamp.
“Harvester didn’t have anything to do with the murder, did he?” McLaren said as Linnet shook off Jamie’s hand. “Or with framing Sean.”
“No.” She said it almost as a shout of victory. “We just talked about ‘wouldn’t it be wonderful if one day Michael McLaren fell flat on his face?’ but Charlie had nothing to do with any of this. I was the only one involved.”
“Hardly you alone, Linnet. You had to have help. As you pointed out to me, you were home. Danny Mercer wasn’t.” The faintest smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched the shock register on her face.
A faint noise, like a door latch catching in place, came from the back of the house. Linnet pushed herself away from the mantle and said rather loudly, “Danny Mercer? Whatever made you think Danny is mixed up in Marta’s death, Mr. McLaren? Is that why you brought this police constable with you?”
Another sound, louder and sharper, cracked the brief silence. The bang of a door slamming and the rattle of Venetian blinds hitting a window jabbed McLaren into action. As Jamie handcuffed Linnet, McLaren ran into the kitchen.
TWENTY-FIVE
The blinds were swinging as McLaren yanked open the door. He paused momentarily on the threshold, looking for Danny, wary of an attack or weapon. The sound of running feet came from the direction of the road, and McLaren dashed down the alley and to the front of the house.
Danny ran down the center of the road, dodging oncoming cars and glancing back, his figure bright in the car headlights. He paused at a new Skia and tried to insert his key but he couldn’t control his shaking hand. As McLaren
charged up to him, Danny abandoned his car and sprinted down a side road.
The daylight was rapidly failing, the parked vehicles, rubbish bins and clipped shrubs dark shapes against a murky backdrop. McLaren paused at the mouth of the side road, trying to distinguish forms in the gloom. A movement to his left centered his attention for an instant, but it was a dog sniffing at the refuse bins. McLaren jogged slowly down the street, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, making no noise other than his ragged breathing. He kept a zigzag course, crossing and recrossing the road to peer behind bushes and cars, any place Danny might be hiding.
He turned sharply toward the sound of scraping metal, his body tensing, his heart rate increasing. A man was dumping rubbish into his refuse bin.
At the house next door to him, an older woman opened her front door and the light from her front room spilled onto the front pavement. McLaren dashed over to the cypress standing like a sentinel at her front gate and glanced behind it. No Danny.
Neither the man nor woman had seen Danny, either. Or at least they didn’t admit to it when McLaren asked them.
He had jogged to the end of the road and was about to retrace his steps when a shape emerged from the front garden ahead of him. He stopped abruptly, startled by the sudden movement and the realization that the massive form was two people walking close together, holding hands. As the couple moved into the faint light from the house, the girl smiled tentatively at McLaren. The boy, however, mumbled something in her ear and nuzzled her neck with his forehead. His left hand, McLaren noticed, was around the girl’s shoulders. His right hand was in his jeans pocket. The girl shifted her eyes from the boy to McLaren, then repeated the gesture as her lips silently formed the word help. McLaren nodded and walked past them.
The older woman eyed the couple as she finished setting out her rubbish, then called her dog and went inside. The front door closed with a dull thud and the road sank back into darkness.
McLaren turned and charged after the couple, covering the scant distance in seconds and shouting for the girl to run into the road. As McLaren grabbed Danny’s left arm, he angled it behind Danny, using it as leverage to simultaneously release the girl and force Danny to the ground. The girl scooted behind a parked car and crouched down, her fingers gripping the back bumper, her head peeking above the boot as she watched the fight.
Siren Song Page 28
