His eyes strayed to a tiny photo on the wall. It hung between the bookcase and a large, antique map of Derbyshire. It was a photo of Dena, encased in an oval, wooden frame. Funny he hadn’t seen it when he’d removed the other traces of his life before he left the job. Maybe the light from the table lamp brought it out of the shadowy recess. He hardly ever sat here…He muttered something beneath his breath as he stared at the oval shape. The photograph was too small to make out facial features at this distance but he knew her expression, knew the tint of her eyes and the way his camera had caught on the light on her cheek and the wind-blown hair. He cursed his forgetfulness from his house cleaning. When he felt better he would box it up with the rest of the remnants from that life. He had no desire to remember last spring.
Last spring. Last May. There was something else about that time. He struggled into a sitting position, his heart pounding in his chest. A name and scene flashed across his mind’s eye. He slowly leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, his breathing coming faster as the face of Charles Harvester danced before him. Charlie Harvester; the colleague who had tried to arrest McLaren’s friend Nigel for attacking the burglar invading his pub. The burglar had lunged at Nigel with a broken beer bottle before Nigel had fought back with a fireplace poker. Defended himself and his wife, McLaren remembered, the anger he thought he’d buried now filling his heart. Was the burglar out of prison? Was this some nasty taunt to tell McLaren that he was free and about to seek revenge? Perhaps he’d enlisted the aid of one of his toe rag mates to harass McLaren.
If someone overheard him and Jamie talking in the pub last night maybe Marta Hughes’ killer was hinting, not too subtly, to back off the case. But had beer anything to do with her murder? As McLaren reasoned again, sinking back against the couch cushions, a beer bottle had to mean something to McLaren, had to be associated with his recent attacker or with someone he had wronged in the past.
Neither Linnet nor the cashier at the casino had mentioned that alcohol had been a concern the night of Marta’s win. Had there been an altercation at the casino, possibly between a drunken roulette player and Marta, and this was the man’s revenge for McLaren taking the case? But that suggested that the casino customer knew McLaren was working on the case. And knew where McLaren lived.
He exhaled slowly, the back of his hand massaging his forehead. There were several possibilities, but which was the correct one? He got to his feet and, again using the furniture as handrails, lumbered into the kitchen. Standing at the end of the worktop, he stared at the fridge. How badly did he want a drink?
The ringing doorbell interrupted his mental debate. Yelling that the door was unlocked and for Jamie to come in, McLaren trudged back into the front room.
“Come and get it while it’s hot.” Jamie set the bags of fish and chips on a magazine laying on the coffee table. “No mushy peas. They were out of them. I know you won’t mind. Hey, you here? You really should lock your door, Mike. Any hooligan could barge in. You could be God! What the bloody hell happened to you?” He stared open-mouthed at McLaren as he walked up to the table.
“Now you give me advice about that hooligan. Some friend.”
One of the bags of food fell onto its side but Jamie didn’t notice. “You want a doctor? You okay? God, you look like hell. Those bruises…What happened?”
McLaren turned toward the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
“Sit down. I’ll get it. You look like you shouldn’t even be walking.” He stayed until McLaren was seated in a straight-back chair, then darted into the kitchen. Minutes later, he returned with a tray loaded with plates, utensils, beer, and glasses. When he’d poured out the beer and handed the glass and a plate of fish and chips to McLaren, he sat on the couch. “Now.” He swallowed a few chips before settling down to business. “Let’s have it. What the hell happened?”
McLaren rested the glass on his thigh. “You won’t believe it. Even I can barely believe it.”
“I won’t know if I believe it or not until I hear it. Give.”
“There’s not much to tell, actually. It happened too fast.”
“You sound like a ruddy victim in a police report.”
“I feel like one.”
“Fine. I sympathize, Mike. What happened?”
“When I left you at the pub and drove home I parked the car in my usual spot.”
“Where it is now?”
“Yeah. I got out, locked it, and walked up to the kitchen door. I don’t recall being aware of anything unusual. I had no sixth sense that something wasn’t right. I got my key out to unlock the door and that’s it.”
“What does that mean?”
“All I remember is walking up to the door and then waking up on the kitchen floor.” He flexed his jaw. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
“You must have unlocked the door before you were jumped.” Jamie ignored the question. “Right. You crawled inside sometime later. I can’t see your assailant graciously carrying you in. From the looks of you, he wanted to kill you.”
“Bloody nice thought. Thanks.” He chewed on a chip as Jamie rambled on. “You probably blacked out from the exertion of getting to the kitchen. When did you regain consciousness?”
“Not long ago. When you rang.”
“What time? I’ve called a few times today. Wanted to astound you with my sleuthing.”
“I don’t know what time. Yeah, I do. Seven something. The last time you called, then. When I asked you to come over with dinner.”
“Little after seven, then. So you were out nearly twenty-four hours. God, I’d hate to see the bloke you tangled with.”
“I probably got the worst of it, Jamie. He wasn’t lying on the ground outside, was he?”
“I came in the front door.”
“Right.”
“But I’ll ease our minds.” Jamie jogged to the back door, opened it, looked around, then closed it and returned to the front room. “No one outside.”
“I didn’t think so, but thanks for checking.”
They sat, eating their dinner, each trying to make sense of McLaren’s attack. As McLaren took a swallow of beer, Jamie said, “Do you know what he hit you with? Had to have been more than his fists. You’re cut.” He nodded at McLaren’s arms.
“I’ve my theory, but give me your opinion, if you’ve the stomach for it. Or perhaps it’s bad timing.” His fingers touched his bandaging as he waited for Jamie’s answer.
Jamie put his plate and glass on the table and came over to McLaren as he pulled off the gauze. He angled his head slightly to get a better look at the wound. “Beer bottle. Or something round and that size. But I’d say beer bottle. Nice jagged rim to gouge you with.” He sat back down and picked up the beer glass. “Do we agree?”
“Yeah, but there’s no prize for guessing correctly.”
“Don’t need one, Mike. Just having you still in the Land of the Living is my prize.”
McLaren avoided his friend’s eyes, suddenly embarrassed. He flashed Jamie a quick smile before relaying his theory.
“Do you know if Tyrone Wade Antony is still in the nick?” Jamie asked on hearing McLaren’s idea of the pub burglar.
“Haven’t had time to check. This only occurred to me a half hour or so ago.”
“I can find out. Did you look outside to see if this yobo left anything? You know, torn off button, house key, wallet, blood spotting.”
“My blood’s probably the only thing out there, but have a look if you want to play detective. I’m not up to crawling around. Especially not in the rosebush. I think that’s where he hid.”
“Right. Just give me half a tick.” He jogged into the kitchen, grabbed the torch that was recharging an electrical socket, and trotted outside.
McLaren had finished his fish and was downing the last of his beer when the kitchen door banged shut. A few stamps on the floor told him Jamie was knocking bits of grass, rose leaves, and twigs off his shoes. There was a dull click as he evidently plugged the torch back int
o the outlet, and a metallic clatter as his latchkey fell onto the tabletop.
“Bloody rose.” Jamie dabbed his fingertip on his tongue and then applied his saliva to the scratches on his arm. “I should send you the bill for a new shirt.”
“Find anything?”
“Besides discovering how low my tolerance of pain is? Sorry, old man. Neither hide nor hair.”
“I’d have liked you to unearth something a bit more concrete, like a driving license, but I’ll pretend I’m content.”
“Written documents are rather nice, aren’t they? Now what’s the matter? What did I say?”
McLaren snapped his fingers and held up his hand. “God, what a complete berk I am. I forgot about the notebook.”
“What are you on about?”
“Yesterday when I was poking around the site where they found Marta’s body, I found a notebook. It was at this little picnic area, near that rundown barn.”
“Yeah, I know the spot.”
“I grabbed it, intending to leaf through it to see if it had any bearing on her case, and I forgot about it. You don’t think that’s what my attacker was after?”
“Could be, I suppose, but that would imply that he was there and saw you take it, Mike. You didn’t see anyone there, did you? Any happy picnickers or birders tramping through the wood?”
“No. I’d swear I was the only one there, and I’d been inside the barn and across the road at that clearing.” He caught his breath as he envisioned the scene. “He could have been in the wood.”
“Like several yards in, so he was hidden yet could see you in the clearing?”
“Yeah.”
“How far is that clearing from where you found the notebook?”
McLaren stared at the ceiling, trying to estimate the distance. “Probably too far away. Maybe several hundred yards.”
“Did you have the notebook in your hand when you placed it in your car, or had you stuck it in your trousers pocket?”
“Uh, I had it in my pocket.”
“You don’t sound like you could swear to that in court, Mike.”
“Yeah, I put it in my pocket. I saw it on the ground, picked it up, pocketed it, and did a fingertip search of the area. I took it out and laid it on the car seat when I got back into the car after looking at the tree trunk site.”
“So the notebook should be in your car now.”
“Would you mind?”
“Why not? The night’s young. Be right back.” Jamie left the room, grabbed the torch and door key and ran out to McLaren’s car. Seconds later he had locked up and strode into the front room. “This what you’re worried about?” He dangled the small notebook before McLaren’s eyes before dropping it on his lap.
“At least I didn’t dream that.” He opened the cover. “Thanks.” He flipped through the pages, making noncommittal sounds . When he got to the last page, he closed the book and tossed it onto the coffee table.
“No good?”
“Nothing pertinent in it. Somebody’s nature journal.”
“Waxing lyrical over fungi and bird’s eggs and first crocus of the spring, no doubt.”
“It could have been something. Ow! Damn.” He grabbed his upper arm and pressed his fingertips into his aching flesh.
Jamie picked up his beer and relocated to the couch. “You know, Mike, when you first took on this case, I didn’t give it much thought. I mean, it seemed straight forward enough. But now…”
“I’ve tried to figure out what Marta’s case has to do with beer, but unless there’s something in her past that I don’t know, I can’t see it.”
“You know what I think?” Jamie sat forward. “I think it’s connected to your disappearing friend, Karin Pedersen. Didn’t this all start with the beer bottle in your car, when the cop stopped you?”
McLaren nodded and picked up his glass. He held it up to the light, as though he were going to salute someone with it. “I didn’t know the bottle was there until the officer found it.”
“And all that was minutes after you left Karin at the hotel.”
“Quarter hour, maybe. I don’t know precisely. I just know I was startled to see the cop pulling me over.”
“You know, whoever made the call to the police about you driving drunk, had to know your car.”
McLaren’s fingers encircled his glass, holding on for dear life.
“He had to know the make and the model.”
“You’re saying it’s Karin?”
“Not necessarily. I don’t know how or if she’s mixed up in any of this. But she had a good look at your car when you stopped to give her a lift. She could have phoned from any shop in Hathersage. Or on her mobile. Could be someone else, too. Someone who knows you.”
“Like Dena?”
Jamie shrugged, reluctant to confirm McLaren’s suspicion with words.
“That’s daft!” He set the glass on the beer mat. “Why would she phone in a false report? How would she know I was in Hathersage?”
“You don’t know, Mike. She could have been following you.”
McLaren rolled his fingers into a fist and slammed it against the arm’s chair. “Watch your mouth! Why the hell would she do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying that someone who knows you, who knows your car, rang up the local cop shop and reported your erratic driving. You don’t have any suspicions?”
McLaren shook his head and slowly straightened his fingers. “It’s absurd! This whole thing. And it all started with Karin Pedersen and that damned beer bottle the cop found in my car.”
“I don’t suppose he could have planted it, could he?”
Chapter Twenty
McLaren stared at his friend. “Planted it?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a bad copper, Mike. There are always payoffs if you look for them, rewards for doing a favor for someone. Drugs seized during a raid, money from some bloke wanting to avoid jail time, money or gifts for your blind eye. You know what goes on.”
“Sure, but I’ve never been a party to any of it.”
“I didn’t say you were. I just suggested this copper might be. You’ve also heard stories of ‘evidence’ planted by the police to get a conviction. Maybe somebody has it in for you and paid this copper to slip the bottle into your car. Did he seem suspicious?”
“No. And I don’t think he could have had it secreted on his person.” McLaren reached for his glass, saw it was empty, and sank back into his chair again. “Besides, I was watching him. He didn’t get that close to the passenger seat to slip it in without me seeing him. A pack of weed, sure. He could have palmed it. But a bottle? They’re rather large and cumbersome. You ever try slipping one out of your jacket in a hurry?”
“So we’re back to your wounded hiker. You’re sure you don’t know her?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it in court but no, I don’t think so. You’re saying that someone paid her to incriminate me?”
“Or she did it on her own. Maybe you jailed her brother or boyfriend. I don’t know. Just watch out, Mike.”
“I always do.” But last night’s attack proved that diligence didn’t always work.
“Well, try harder. You’re scaring me to death.”
“You’re scared? I was the one beaten.” But he knew what Jamie meant, and he was scared. Scared of the unknown assailant and scared of the door that seemed to be opening before him, beckoning him to walk into the past.
“Not for long, though.” Jamie opened another beer and poured it into his glass. He took a sip. “Not beaten in this case.”
“Why? What are you on about?”
“I spent the better part of the day nosing about in Hathersage.”
“You must have learned something.”
“Not as monumental as Copernicus’ discovery…”
“I’ll tell you where it ranks.”
“…but you’ll be impressed.” Jamie related what he had learned that morning, including the CCTV video surveillance. “The car was
headed east. There are only four shops farther on, and I looked at their CCTV tapes. The car didn’t stop and I couldn’t make out anything I hadn’t seen in the chemist’s tape. But the car matches the description of the one that ran you off the road. We got a partial on the car registration number.”
“This is outstanding, Jamie!” McLaren leaned forward, beaming. The darkness seemed to be receding. “We’ve got a car make and model, its color…”
“But only a partial plate number. And I’m afraid I can’t follow that up and find out whose it is. It would mean my job if I was caught out.”
“Sure. I wouldn’t ask you to, Jamie. Of course, it’s too dangerous.” He paused as he caught Jamie’s eye. They both recalled a similar event when a police officer had looked up a number on his off-duty time, only to be found out and fired. McLaren got to his feet. “But you got more of the number than I did. Excellent! I can keep my eye out for the vehicle when I talk to the main players in this case. I’ll be careful. Don’t worry about me, Jamie.”
“I’m more than worried about you right now.” Jamie stood up. “What do you want? Can I get it? Your bruises are deepening in color. Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor? Need something attended to, stitched up?”
“I’m fine. Just stiff and sore. No, I don’t want anything in particular. Just couldn’t sit any more.” He stretched slowly, testing his back and arm muscles. “I feel a bit better, so why do I still feel bad about this case?”
“Yeah, well, you still look unsteady on your legs. Sit down before you fall down.”
McLaren snapped his fingers, and he turned toward Jamie, the moment of triumph gone from his eyes. “Fall down. That’s it!”
“I told you to sit”
“No! That’s not what I mean. This whole thing is tied to my downfall. Somebody wants my undoing. Either my career or else physically.” He gingerly massaged his bruised jaw.
“But you’re not in the job any longer. That doesn’t make sense.”
Cold Revenge Page 21
