Thrusting his left hand under a large bough, he pulled at the branches with his right. His fingers touched something smooth. Trying to determine the object’s identity, he felt along the flat surface. It tapered slightly. McLaren yanked harder at the branches but the bough did not shift. He stood, ignoring the dampness of his trousers. Tugging and kicking the trunk did not budge it from its position. He picked up a fallen branch and used it against the trunk as a lever. It snapped in two at the first hint of pressure. He turned toward the barn, exasperated, his eyes moving toward the upper story. A long-handled rake and shovel leaned against the wall in the loft. They would make acceptable levers. But to get them he would have to enter the barn again, mount the stairs, and confront the dark and the nightmares. That was not an option. Not now. One time was enough to flirt with the memories that he had shoved into the recesses of his mind. He could not face them again so soon.
He threw down the branch and strode to his car. Getting in, he told himself the car needed a wash anyway. The engine started with a purr and he eased the vehicle off the road. The depression paralleling the tarmac wasn’t long, slanting upward and flattening out to meet the general lay of the land. Yet, the grass and wood dock were thick in patches, perhaps hiding holes or broken bottles. He set the parking brake, got out, picked up a dead branch, and jabbed into the vegetation. The soil was solid, yielding no surprises. He tossed away the stick and got back into his car. The hell with proper procedure.
The earth was firm, erasing the question of getting stuck. He steered around one of the large, fallen boughs and stopped in front of the trunk. It looked larger when viewed from within the car. Yet, he reminded himself, the top part was rotten and would probably break off when the trunk started rolling. With that thought to cheer him, he backed up and aimed the car’s front bumper directly at the trunk’s midsection. He stopped when the bumper nudged the wood. He took a deep breath as his foot pressed down slowly on the accelerator.
Nothing happened. For all the engine’s groan, the downed tree remained where it was. McLaren applied more pressure and the car crept forward, the tires digging into the earth. The trunk stirred, finally inched forward hesitantly as it came against bumps of packed soil and tufts of grass. Chunks of bark slid off beneath the bumper as the dead wood rolled. When McLaren judged he had cleared the site, he braked, letting the trunk come to rest against a small birch. He backed the car, angled sharply to the right, and drove back onto the grassy verge of the road.
When he walked back to the trunk, he saw that he had shifted it a good half dozen feet from its original spot. The exposed ground stretched pale tan and brown the length of the trunk; no plants struggled toward the sunlight. McLaren smiled. Maybe the search team hadn’t bothered to shift the dead wood; maybe they’d been too rushed or considered it too far from the body, which had been near the barn.
He saw the silvery object immediately. He squatted and pulled it from its imprisonment in the damp soil. Flicking off the mud, he rotated it slowly, looking at it with a growing sense of excitement. It was a heel from a woman’s shoe, a high-heeled shoe. A dress shoe. The sunlight glanced off the silvery patina and he blinked. Jamie’s words sounded in his mind: victim’s right shoe missing.
Feeling clever, he put the heel on the grass and continued prodding the rest of the soggy earth. The area was large and his fingertips soon became sore and dirty, but he had no thought of stopping until he’d searched it thoroughly. He started his hunt at the tree’s midsection, where the shoe heel had been buried, and worked steadily, slowly toward the larger end of the trunk depression. He found nothing. Returning to the midsection, he searched toward the crown. Quarter of an hour later he was rewarded for his meticulous work. His fingers closed around something hard.
He drew it from its near imprisonment and flicked off the globs of mud. It was circularor had been before it had brokenabout the size of a walnut shell and black or dark blue. He got up and walked to a dry patch of soil, where he wiped the object across the grass. Mclaren slowly rotated it, trying to make out what it was. He pulled his handkerchief from his back trousers pocket, spat repeatedly on the object, and cleaned off the major portion of mud with the linen. It still had mud wedged into the ridged rim, but he knew what it was. A poker chip. A fragment of a chip, actually. He angled it so the sun slanted across its surface. Was there printing on it, or just the usual design found on most commercial chips? Was it from Noah’s Ark or a custom-printed chip from a casino? Either way, he smiled as he carried the treasures gingerly back to his car. It was prophetic. Hadn’t he always been called in to clear up messes when the chips were down?
Chapter Sixteen
In other circumstances, McLaren would have hesitated about getting into his car wearing wet, muddy clothing. But the car’s exterior was also wet and muddy from the trunk rolling, andperhaps even more importanthe was tired and wanted to wrap up his day.
He leaned slightly to the left as he looked at the fragment of the poker chip. His makeshift cleansing had removed most of the mud and he could now see a bit of writing on its face. Part of the paint was scratched but he could make out the first two letters: ON. Could be part of a word, like ‘one,’ he thought, recalling a slogan on one of the animal shelter’s chips: One pet, one heart of unconditional love. Of course, it could also stand for the amount of the casino chip’s worth: One hundred. He sighed heavily and looked at the rim. The edge of the chip also seemed to have a band of white on it, like the usual chips found at a casino. But the Noah’s Ark chips had also had that, so he was really no closer to a solution.
He laid the chip fragment and the high heel on the car seat, yanked his mobile phone from his pocket, and called Neal Clark. He whistled tuneless as he waited for the phone to be answered. It was on the fourth ring. “When Marta met you before she went to the casino, how was she dressed?”
Several seconds passed before Neal recovered from his surprise to answer the question. “How? You mean, evening clothes or jeans? That sort of thing?”
“Yes. Do you remember the shoes she was wearing?”
Again a lapse of silence fell between them. A rook shrieked to an unseen companion before flying to another tree. “I think she wore high heels. Yes.” His voice grew stronger as her image cemented in his mind. “A blue and silver dress with silver-toned high heels. Is that what you want?”
McLaren rang off, thinking it was perfect.
Linnet Isherwood echoed the dress and shoes color also, but added that the dress had cap-sleeves and had been knee-length. “She wore a silver bangle bracelet. It was a Möbius strip design with some phrase engraved on it. And she also wore a necklace of blue beads. Does that help?”
McLaren assured Linnet it did and asked one more question. “Did she ever wear a charm of a skier, either on a bracelet or necklace?”
“No, not that I recall. Not that we were the greatest of friends, so I can’t swear. But I never saw one. Sorry.”
He assured her it didn’t matter and thanked her before hanging up.
Asking Marta’s husband, coworker Verity Dwyer, and three other friends about the silver charm produced nothing but verbal head-scratching, confusion, and strong denials that she ever owned it. Alan flatly denied Marta had such a piece. “I saw her everyday, in all situations,” he said rather hesitantly, leaving Marta’s state of undress to McLaren’s imagination. “She didn’t have anything remotely like that. She went in for finer jewelry, like silver chains and bangle bracelets, semi-precious gems. Charms were too…” He tried to find the right word. “…too cute.”
“You knew every piece she had, then.”
“Certainly. Her jewel box sits next to my tray where I keep my cufflinks, tie tacks, and such. I’ve seen the box’s contents thousands of time. She never owned a charm like that, or any charm.”
Which just about closed that subject.
He frowned, trying to recall if the computer reports he had printed out had mentioned clothes or jewelry. He had no recollectio
n of it, if there had been. Maybe Jamie hadn’t emailed that. He punched Jamie’s phone number into his mobile.
“You find anything at the barn, then?” Jamie asked.
“You free for a drink?”
“Yeah. Always. When? Now?”
“No. I need to get home, shower and change out of these muddy clothes.”
“Muddy clothes? What the hell have you been into, Mike?”
McLaren related the tree trunk adventure, giving only the broad scenario. “I’d like your opinion on this, Jamie. If you’ve got time tonight.”
“How can I refuse? My cop’s curiosity is up.”
McLaren rang off, revved the car engine into life, and drove home.
It was a measure of their friendship that Jamie hadn’t hesitated to meet him. McLaren toweled off after a quick shower. He had left his muddy clothes in the middle of the kitchen floor not wanting to trail the dirt through the house, and now changed into jeans and a tee-shirt. And, he admitted as he combed his hair, that Jamie didn’t need to ask where to meet. The Split Oak, in Somerley, had become their standard meeting place. Not because the food or drink was outstandingthough both were very goodbut because it was convenient to both men. McLaren lived in Somerley; Jamie lived five minutes down the road, in Castleton.
The car park at The Split Oak was full that night and McLaren had to leave his vehicle opposite the grocery shop. It had closed hours ago but a small security light shone from the shop’s interior. He walked along the pavement, passing the newsagent’s, a clothes shop, bakery, and combination gift shop/tearoom. The space between the bakery and gift shop housed a small park where one of the shops in the row had been demolished. It was more of a rest spot. McLaren passed the grassy rectangle that had been filled with a few small trees, some park benches, and a sundial. Nothing more than an environmental use of space. He crossed in front of the streetlight throwing a yellow glow onto the grass and pavement. His shadow, black and thick, stretched across the road, losing itself in the darkness at the foot of the buildings. He quickened his step, conscious of the guitar music filtering from the pub’s open door and the rumbling in his stomach. He passed Jamie’s car, parked along the curb, and entered the pub.
As many others of its era, it had been a coaching inn during the days of Elizabeth I and King James VI. A refuge from the night and storm. And from highwaymen. It had offered a slice of comfort in the wilds of Derbyshire’s mountains and moors, a spot of civilization for which travelers were only too glad to pay. The slate roof sagged across the oak beam ceiling and the casement windows let in blasts of winter when the wind blew westerly across the moor, but it held history and charm and ghosts, perhaps, within its thick-set walls. And a good acoustic band on Saturday nights, McLaren mentally added as he joined Jamie at his table.
McLaren finished the last of his dinnersoused mackerel, glazed carrots, leeks with brown butter, and fruit salad. He bypassed his usual favorite: soles in coffins, and opted tonight for the lighter fare. The mackerel had been extraordinarily good and he was thinking of ordering something else, but felt content for the moment to work on his pint. The pub was noisy with the laughter of weekend fun and the competition of a darts game. Which suited McLaren fine. There was less chance of being overheard. He leaned back, balancing the glass beer mug on his knee, and watched his friend down a forkful of cider cake before he told about finding the silver charm and shoe heel. When Jamie had been duly impressed, McLaren explained why he wanted Jamie’s help.
“What bothers me,” McLaren said as a cheer erupted from the direction of the darts game, “is that Marta Hughes’ body was dumped. Not so much the physical dumping, because you have to get rid of the body somehow, but that it would require some amount of strength to drag it out of a car.”
“Unless she was killed there.”
“Which might just be correct. Look, her car is sitting prettily at her house. No unexplained blood, hair or fingerprints were found. And I can’t see someone waylaying her on the road, dumping her at the stone barn, going back to get her car and then leaving it at her house. Besides the question of logistics, like how the hell did he get away from Marta’s house if he drove her car there, it doesn’t make sense. First of all, why risk all that maneuvering? Someone might see you either as you got into her car or drove her car or parked it at her house. Second, why even bother to do that? If she was waylaid, why not leave the car where it was? And third, since the lab boys found nothing foreign in her car, I can’t see some bloke cocooned in a macintosh or sweats, gloved and wearing a plastic bag over his head to keep his DNA out of the car. Even gloves and clothes will leave trace evidence. No, she was alive when she got home, Jamie, but she got into someone’s car, was driven to the barn outside Elton, and probably killed there.”
Jamie laid his fork on the plate and nodded. “But from what you’ve told me, Mike, for all that Herb Millington seems a somewhat likely suspect and has muscles even the Incredible Hulk would be jealous of, he might not be able to shift a dead body by himself. That’s dead weight, pardon the pun.”
“But his mate, Danny, is an odd jobs man.”
“And being a helpful bloke and friend, he could have helped Herb with the body. Sure.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Why would she get into either Danny’s or the Millingtons’ car? You said she had this ongoing problem with Herbie. She wouldn’t go anywhere with him, especially at night. That makes no sense.”
McLaren agreed. “I thought maybe I was too close to it, or had lost my edge. I’ve been out of the job for a year.”
“If you’ve lost your edge, Mike, I’m the Chief Constable.”
McLaren eyed his friend’s physique. “You’ll have to add a few stone.” He lapsed into silence while Jamie tapped his foot in time to the music. Moments later, he snapped his fingers.
“What?” Jamie shifted his attention back to his friend.
“Why does it have to be Danny’s or the Millingtons’ car? Maybe she got into someone else’s car.” He cocked his right eyebrow and watched the astonishment grow on Jamie’s face. “Well?” He smiled as he grabbed his beer.
“Certainly makes more sense if she got into Verity’s, for instance.” He saluted McLaren with his mug. “Speaking of driving, I’ve done some digging around and I came across a speeding ticket.”
“Must be more remarkable than issued to A.N. Other, I take it.”
“You’ll be interested.” Jamie took a swallow of ale.
“You sound confident.”
“You will be interested,” he repeated. “I know you.”
McLaren smiled. “That’s why we’re here.”
“You ready for this, or do you want to keep making smart comments all night?”
“I’m ready to be awed.”
Jamie looked around and leaned forward a bit, as though sharing a conspiracy. The band started singing about lost love. “I don’t know why I’m doing you this favor, after your last comment, but…” He rushed onward, giving McLaren no time to reply. “I did a bit of digging around for you. Limited use, I know, since I can’t get into the police files on this one.” He grimaced, silently apologizing, but McLaren shook his head. It would be worth Jamie’s job if he were caught doing unauthorized work such as that, even on his time off. Jamie nodded at McLaren’s meaning and continued. “Anyway, I do know that your victim, Marta Hughes, received a speeding ticket the night of her murder.”
“Marta…”
“The driver tripped the speed camera, which took the photo. The registration plate number showed up nice and clear.”
“Linnet Isherwood didn’t mention that.”
“The woman who started you back on your illustrious career.” Jamie swallowed another mouthful of beer.
“Don’t know how illustrious or starting me back, but she came to me, asking me to reinvestigate the case.”
“Which you rushed into.”
“I didn’t rush into anything,” McLaren said, slightly
annoyed. “I gave it some thought.”
“While she was talking, I expect.”
“I gave it a good deal of thought, Jamie. I wasn’t eager to plunge back into all this. You ought to understand that.”
“Of course I do. But I know you, Mike. You love police work. You couldn’t have said no to Linnet Isherwood even if it had meant your life. It’s in your blood calling to you from a great distance, luring you back to the job.”
“Always did like the sound of fire engine bells and cop car sirens. Nothing beats a good adrenalin rush,” he half-joked, then sobered. He did love the job, he admitted to himself. Helping people, solving puzzles, righting injustices. It was a siren song, beckoning him to pick up those unrighted injustices, but if there would be any adverse effects from his now-amateur meddling…He stared into his beer, as though contemplating something, then asked where the ticket had been originated.
“The ticket was issued just south of Elton,” Jamie said. “23:47 hrs.”
“And we know she left the casino at 23:00 hours,” McLaren said. “Or close enough to call it that. Heading toward Elton or from Elton?”
“Toward,” Jamie said. “Heading north.”
“So we know she was alive at that time.”
“Or someone else was speeding, anxious to dump her body.”
McLaren snorted, still convinced Marta had been killed at the barn. “If she never saw Marta alive after they left the casino, Linnet wouldn’t know about the ticket, though, would she?”
“Good point. What does it prove?”
“I don’t know yet. What road was this?”
“Along the A61, north side of Ripley.”
“Not the A615 going into Matlock, then, or the B5057 to Elton where her body was found.”
“Sounds as though she was going home after all, heading north toward Chesterfield.” Jamie picked up his glass and took a drink. The singers finished their song and those people listening applauded.
Cold Revenge Page 17
