“I suppose he’s had to, for the sake of his career. But he seems more suited to something more active. At least that’s the impression I always had. They should’ve lived in a village, I thought. He’s that sort of person.”
“Did you or your wife grow up in a village?”
“No. In Buxton. We knew each other since school.”
“So you knew Marta, too.”
“Yes. There was a time when I considered marrying Marta, but Alan came along and proposed to her before I ever got my nerve up to ask her. I turned my eyes and heart toward Marta’s sister and never was sorry about my choice. We were very much in love.”
McLaren made no reply. There was nothing he could say.
Neal continued, his voice hazy, his eyes staring at something McLaren couldn’t see. “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.”
Neal nodded, brightening. “That’s why we were thinking about doing something like this for Alan’s birthday, which was 20 June.”
McLaren didn’t mention the significance of the date, thinking again what a tragedy Marta’s death was for those who had loved her.
“We went to a studio on one of his birthdays and gave wire sculpture a try, but I don’t think it had enough action for him.”
“So you tried the lesson and Alan didn’t wax enthusiastic.”
“He didn’t complain, but I think once was enough.”
“Did you decide on something?”
“I believe a couple years ago Marta opted for going to a gun club and doing some target shooting.”
“Alan likes to do that?”
“He did then. I don’t know if he’s continued or not.”
McLaren shifted in his chair and glanced at the wall clock. The day was getting on. “So you talked about the birthday that afternoon. You said you also talked about her neighbor and co-worker. Would that be Herb Millington, her neighbor, and Verity Dwyer from the animal shelter?”
“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 sleazebag 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?”
“Marta’s conscience was bothering her and she didn’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
He grabbed another poker chip from the small bowl on the table and ran his thumb over its ridged edge. “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 facade, as Neal was. Furniture of simple wood or chrome frames held solid colored fabric. A brown carpet stretched into the adjoining roomthe dining roomwhere 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 mantel. There seemed to be nothing to dust or conjure up memories.
As though sensing he was wasting McLaren’s time, Neal finally spoke. “Marta hadn’t hesitated in loaning the money to Verity. She always did such generous things for friends. But now she was having second thoughts about her impulsive action. After all, it was a lot of money that she was out, and she had grown afraid that Verity would never repay it.”
Chapter Fifteen
The small clock chimed the hour, its tone so soft that 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 thought 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 money from the bank. The interest would have added to her financial problem. 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. He must have ‘Don’t lend money to friends or relatives’ tattooed on his chest.” 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 mantel. 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.”
McLaren opened his mouth to say Marta had told Linnet she was stopping at Neal’s on the way home. Instead, he faked another cough and merely looked at the man. “I just wondered.”
“Sorry, but I can’t tell you any more.”
I’m sorry too, McLaren thought, walking back to his car. And just who the hell is telling the truth about the missing money?
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 open 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 yea
rs 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. Scraps of paper, plastic carrier bags, and a sheet of stationery were trapped within the stems where the wind had blown them, trapped for a long time, judging by the faded print and the cracked and shredded edges. The sunlight glanced off the stationery’s imprinted logo and the bags, and winked to him as he jumped the ditch. He pulled the broken-off stems from his shoes and wandered 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 buildingkids 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 outstretched 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 cellophane 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 beam from side to side, he walked around, peered into the corners, gazed up at the rafters, tipped over the old buckets and wood crates and bales of straw. Nothing.
The wooden steps leading 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 along the stone wall 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 felt 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 chattered 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. The mouse scuttled across the plank and jumped onto the floor before McLaren let out his breath. Dark spaces did that to himpushed the memories into the open and unleashed the 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 jumped for cover, waiting for the rest of the pack to hightail 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 groped 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 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 rubbing against the stones. But the stability of the wall had saved him from a falland had kept the memories at bay. He shone his light around the loft.
It was brighter up here. Sunlight seeped 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 space.
The straw was thick in places, barely covering the wooden floor in others. It smelled of dust and mold and there were tunnels near the far wallprobably 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. Did they want to burn down the place? He strode 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 clomping 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.
The grass was flat at the tree’s trunk, as though it were a popular spot for picnickers. A crushed lemonade carton and a small notebook suggested someone had left in haste not too long ago. As he bent to pick them up, he noticed a large st
one, approximately a foot tall and rounded, barely visible among the mass of tall weeds and ivy. A nice spot to sit and sketch. Or write. He pocketed the notebook, walked over to the stone, and yanked up the plants in a yard-wide circle. He had nearly cleared the ground when he discovered a silver charm of a downhill skier tangled in the dense stems near the roots. Probably from a bracelet, he thought. He picked it up, blew off the soil and dust, and admired its shiny surface before he slipped it into his pocket.
The remainder of the area yielded nothing unusual.
This spot, farther from the stone building, had not been subjected to the ruthless search of the previous year, for the grass grew even and thick between the gravel side of the road and the edge of the wood. Clumps of Queen Anne’s lace and wood dock dotted the patch of green, waist-high and impenetrable in its exuberant growth. Several large boughs from the trees fringing the glade had crashed to earth at one time. A large tree trunk angled out from the forest’s border. Bramble and creeping thistle, tall and reaching for the sun, seemed to explode from the ground around the trunk. McLaren abandoned his casual search of the low depression alongside the road and lifted the boughs. Nothing but matted grass met his eye. He poked through the growth with the broken branch, then with his fingers, feeling the wet earth beneath. Still nothing. He stood up and gazed at the trunk. Tiers of many-zoned polypore fungi enveloped one end of the trunk. The sunlight played upon the half-circled brackets, enhancing the browns, grays and tans that radiated out in wavy rings. The top of the trunk had splintered, possibly from its fall, but the mid section of the dead wood looked solid. Had it been here last year?
He waded through the stinging plants, the prickly leaves and thorns tearing at his flesh and clothing. Ignoring the angry red welts and drops of blood, he pushed aside the plants with his feet, then stepped on the stems to crack them and keep them from springing up again. After clearing the entire length of the trunk, he got on his hands and knees. The exposed earth beneath the edges of the trunk was damp. No yellowish grass or wildflowers stretched outward into the clearing. The wood had been there a while, McLaren reasoned, but had the search crew moved it? He needed to see if anything was trapped beneath it.
Cold Revenge Page 16
