“So it’s my death, then.” The words were barely above a whisper as the realization sank in.
“Maybe not your death, Mike. That’s awful drastic. But a lesson learned, perhaps.”
“Which points to someone just released from prison.”
“Unless Dena’s just getting around to giving you her opinion about your broken engagement.”
McLaren snorted and sat down. “Wouldn’t take her a year to do that. Besides, a man attacked me. I can tell the difference, even in the dark.”
“So she hired someone.”
“You have no career as a comedian. This isn’t funny.”
“Because you still have feelings for her or because you respect women in general?”
“Just drop it, Jamie. I’m in no mood for this. My body hurts.”
Jamie downed a mouthful of beer, then cradled the glass in hand. “Have you given any thought to your other body, Marta Hughes?”
“In what aspect?”
“The recovery site. Why there? She didn’t live in Elton. Did she know someone there?”
“That’s been nagging me, too. And I aim to find out before too much longer.”
After breakfast the following day, McLaren searched for some clue to his attacker. It wasn’t that he had no confidence in Jamie’s exploration, but a night hunt via torch wasn’t McLaren’s idea of thorough. After all, most crime scenes were sealed off and reconnoitered by daylight. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same. So, with the sunlight slanting through the trees, he poked among the bushes, perennials and grass. He found it some yards from the kitchen door, as though the wind had played with it before tiring of the game and dropped it, or it had slipped unnoticed from a pocket. A scrap of paper barely larger than his index finger. Ordinarily, he would have wadded it up and dumped it into the rubbish bin, but he turned it over. In bold, jagged script, his house address scrawled across the paper. He set it on his kitchen table before driving back to Elton.
Elton’s residents gave McLaren no new leads that Monday morning even though he asked at the pub, the bed-and-breakfast and the vicarage. No one recognized Marta’s photo when he showed it, other than from last year’s splash across the newspapers. So the killer with Marta dead or alive in his car had deliberately headed here. But why? Because he knew the area and felt safe here?
Which would signify that Marta’s killer had either lived in or been employed in Elton.
McLaren noted the time as he drove to the Hughes home. It was nearly eight thirty, an odd hour for his errand. Alan may have left for the bank, but he hoped to catch him at breakfast, where they could talk in less intimidating surroundings and without the interruption of the banker’s job. He exhaled slowly on seeing the family car in the driveway, and jogged up to the front door.
When asked again about family, friends, and coworkers, Alan and Chad still couldn’t explain why Marta had been at Elton. They had no family there, nor did Marta have friends in the area. “Though,” Alan suggested somewhat as an after thought as he shrugged into his suit jacket, “one of her colleagues from the Ark may live there. I really don’t know. I never met them. I just knew their names.”
McLaren eyed the man’s hands. They held no signs of a fight. He opened his notebook. “Would you mind giving them to me? I can ask around.”
“It’s been a while, of course. Let me think.” He picked up his briefcase, set it by the opened front door, and stared at something above McLaren’s head. A police siren screamed several streets away, underscoring the faint tick of the clock on the mantel. Alan nodded, evidently content with his mental list. “Right. Verity Dwyer, the coworker Marta knew best. She’s in jail, I think. Over that trouble with the funds.”
“Not in jail. Doing community service.”
“I knew it was some sort of sentence. Anyway, then there’s Emlyn Gregg. He’s the vet. At least, I suppose he’s still there. I believe there’s another assistant or two, but I don’t know their names. Marta hardly worked with them. I heard only snippets about them. And of course, the boss, Neal Clark. Have I forgotten anyone, Chad?” He turned to his son, who was sitting in the chair next to the front window.
“Other than Linnet Isherwood, that’s the lot.” The reply came flatly.
“I’ll see if some of them live in Elton.” McLaren pocketed his notebook and pen. “Verity lives in Youlgreave, but that’s close enough for my purpose. Thanks, Chad.”
“Personally, I think you’re on the wrong track, Mr. McLaren.”
“Oh, yes? In what way?”
“I still think Herb Millington was involved in Mum’s death.”
“Because his advances were refused?”
“Yeah.”
“Millington would be that angry to kill your mother?”
Chad shrugged, as though comprehending another person’s temperament was nearly impossible. “Like we talked about, maybe not deliberately kill her. But stuff happens. You know.”
“And you think Herb got into an argument and perhaps went home and got a gun and shot her.”
“Yeah. Something like that. And he got scared and” He swallowed, the words hard to say.
“And hid her body,” McLaren finished.
Chad nodded. “It’s not so daft, is it? I’ve heard of stuff like that happening. People panic.”
“Well, motive’s a bit weak, in my opinion, but deaths have happened from arguments that got out of control. I’ll look into it.”
“It’s not that weak, Mr. McLaren.” McLaren paused in the open doorway, noting the boy’s unscathed hands, and let Chad continue. “Not if you know him..” Chad reiterated what they’d discussed a couple of days ago.
“Danny influences Herb, does he?”
“I don’t know how much and I don’t know in what ways. We know Mr. Millington’s temper is out of control, but I’ve seen Danny egg him on, laughing and teasing him, which makes Mr. M even madder. It’s like Danny’s playing a game. He laughs like a hyena when Mr. M breaks something.”
“Does Danny goad Mr. Millington on purpose, or do you think it’s just a reflex action since he’s not very intelligent?”
“You’d have to ask a psychologist, Mr. McLaren. I don’t know about mentality and ingrained behavior, but Danny’s never shied away from a fight or from provoking Mr. M.” Chad pressed his lips together, suddenly ill as he recalled past events.
Alan muttered that both men should be under a psychiatrist’s care. “It’s a shame, really. Herb may have a temper but the outbursts are usually confined to his house. Danny explodes wherever and whenever anything ticks him off, even in public places. I’ve seen it.”
McLaren asked if Danny had ever been jailed for violence.
“I have no idea. Do you, Chad?”
“No. And I don’t want to get that involved with him to know.”
McLaren mumbled his agreement, then frowned. “What’s his wife think of all this? I assume he’s married…”
“I’m not acquainted and I’ve never heard him discuss her. Not that I hang around Mr. M’s to hear them chat, but I’ve heard enough comments about Mrs. Millington to know those two gits do talk about their wives.”
“You wouldn’t know where Danny lives, do you?”
Chad muttered that he thought it was Bakewell, but he wouldn’t swear to it.
McLaren sighed, disappointed on hearing the village name. Bakewell was about six miles from Elton, as the crow flew.
He tried another approach. “Would you know any of their haunts? Other than the race tracks. Do Danny or Herb hang out in the old barn outside of Elton?” The mental images of cigarette ends, empty beer bottles, discarded fast food wrappers, and the half-burned candle shone in his mind.
“I don’t know,” Chad said slowly. “I’m trying to remember anything they said… No, I don’t think so. Do you know, Dad?”
Alan shook his head and picked up his briefcase. “Because Marta’s body was there, you mean?”
McLaren nodded. When neither Alan nor Cha
d said anything more, McLaren said, “Well, I’ll check into this. I appreciate your help.”
“Uh, McLaren…” Alan followed McLaren outside and paused on the front walk. “I know Chad wants to help, but I wouldn’t put much weight on what he said about Danny Mercer’s temper. We’ve never had anything to do with him. He comes to visit Herb and stays over there. So there’s nothing that warrants Danny and my wife getting into an argument.”
“I’m still going to talk to Danny, but thanks.”
“Then you’re in luck. That’s him next door now.” He nodded toward the neighboring house. McLaren turned around.
“Thanks for saving me the trip. I’m sorry to make you late for work.”
“Quite all right. I’m not that important.”
“Well, thanks again.” He nodded to Alan and walked to the Millingtons’ house.
Danny Mercer, a compact bundle of barely-contained energy and muscle, was ringing the front door bell as McLaren came up the front walk. He turned on hearing McLaren’s approach and made no pretense of hiding his curiosity at seeing such an equally tall and muscular man appear seemingly from nowhere. Danny exhaled loudly and jammed his hand into his pocket, saying that the family didn’t appear to be at home.
“Could be at work,” McLaren suggested.
Danny snorted and flipped his ponytail over his shoulder.
“Actually,” McLaren stood with his feet slightly apart, “I wanted to speak to you, if you have a minute.”
“Me? Why? You selling something?”
“I’m not selling anything. If you’re Danny Mercer. Alan Hughes pointed you out.”
Danny glanced at the Hughes house, as if expecting Alan still to be pointing. He leaned against the white porch column. It nearly matched the color of his hair. “Oh, yeah? Why’d you need to know? Who are you?” His voice had risen slightly, betraying his agitation, but his eyes darted back and forth, as if trying to discern McLaren’s character and reason for apparently hunting him down.
“Mike McLaren, but I doubt my name means anything to you. I’m investigating Marta Hughes’ death. It happened last June, you may recall. You knew Marta, I’m told.”
“Yeah? Who told you?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“Yeah. You a copper?” His eyes narrowed, betraying his suspicions.
“No, I’m not.” McLaren reasoned that it wasn’t a lie, though he could have added information to his statement. But Danny didn’t seem the type to snuggle up to anyone in that profession, no matter how flimsy the prior association. He watched the man’s arm muscle flex, giving life to the open mouth of the cobra tattooed just above his right wrist. No scratches, as might result from a close encounter with a rose bush, dotted his flesh.
“You’re just trying to help Chad and his dad, then.”
“Yes.”
“You must have some experience in this sort of thing, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sniffing about, asking questions. That kind of thing.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“You said that.”
“Do you want to help the family or not, Mr. Mercer?”
Danny scrolled through images on his smartphone as he strolled to the edge of the porch. He stopped, his attention on the screen.
The man’s eyes shifted as they evidently read the sought-after bit of information. He gave Danny several seconds, then repeated his question. When silence replied, McLaren coughed. Danny typed a phone number into the keyboard and held the phone to his ear. McLaren pushed Danny’s arm to his side and grabbed a handful of his tee-shirt, pulling Danny toward him.
“What the hell you doing that for?” Danny tried to step back, but McLaren held him firmly.
“I asked you a question. Twice. I’d like an answer.”
“You got it.” He tried to raise the phone but McLaren clamped his free hand onto Danny’s arm.
“You’re not being very civil, Danny. And you’re wasting my time.”
“Hard cheese.”
McLaren rolled his fist, pulling the shirt fabric more tightly across Danny’s chest. “You seem unconcerned about a woman’s death. Even if you didn’t know her, I’d have thought common decency would dictate you’d want to see her murderer brought to justice.” The words slipped out before he was aware of it. He swallowed quickly, hoping he’d shown no chink in his façade. “Now, I’ll ask you nicely again. And it’ll be the last time, so I suggest you reply.” He eliminated what little distance there was between them, smiling as they stood chest to chest.
Danny nodded rapidly, his breathing shallow. “Sure. Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Thank you. That’s better. I’d like your knowledge. Chad Hughes says you’re around here a lot, seeing Herb Millington. I just wondered if you had seen anything or anyone the night of Mrs. Hughes’ death.”
“Seen anything? Like what? The bloke sneaking into her house?”
“That would be helpful.” McLaren smiled, easing the tone of his voice and the tension on the shirt material. “But I thought that since you’re here so much you might have heard something. Like someone going by on the street.”
“I’m just mates with Herb. I don’t know what goes on around here. You’d best ask a neighbor.”
“I will. But I was hoping you might also have something to tell me.”
“That sounds like you want a confession.”
“You guilty of anything?”
Danny shook his head, his gaze on McLaren’s fist as he released the shirt.
“So what about that? Did you have a fight with Marta Hughes, maybe become so mad at her that you went back later and shot her?”
“Man, you’re daft. Why would I even talk to her? I wouldn’t know her from Adam.” He returned his mobile to his pocket. “I didn’t do anything to her.”
McLaren patted Danny’s chest and smoothed away the fabric wrinkles. “If you do hear anything and want to talk, tell Alan or Chad Hughes. They know how to reach me. Thanks for your help.” McLaren walked back to his car, aware that Danny was watching his every step.
The next stop on McLaren’s itinerary was Noah’s Ark. Hopefully he could speak to a different employee this morning.
Chesterfield bustled with Monday morning traffic and he had to wait nearly a quarter of an hour for an accident to be cleared from a road, but he breezed the rest of the way to the animal shelter. There were no other cars out front, so he parked near the front door. Anything to save a bit of pain.
The bell at the front door announced his visit and set off a cacophony of barking from the back pen area. The young woman arranging a display of pamphlets and a sign of a book at the front desk looked up and asked McLaren if she could help him. She was a different employee than the receptionist he had talked to previously, and he was glad to get someone else’s information. After he had introduced himself, she said it was time that the police found Marta Hughes’ killer.
McLaren agreed but refrained from pointing out that if anyone found the killer it would be he, not the police, and instead asked if she had any idea why Marta would be in Elton on the night of her death. “Sometimes you overhear a casual remark.” He paused, tacitly giving the woman permission to gossip. “If she was going to meet a friend near there, or if she had a family member living there, that would explain it.” He smiled encouragingly and picked up a pamphlet.
“I’m afraid not. I didn’t know a thing about her after work life. And especially not that day.” She shrugged, signifying she wasn’t included in Marta’s social affairs.
“So you don’t know why Marta would be in Elton. You don’t know if she knew anyone in the area, or if she met anyone there for some reason. Girls’ night out at the pub…”
“No. Of course I’d like to help.” She leaned against the edge of the counter, frowning. She was short, which forced her to look up to meet McLaren’s gaze. She appeared to be in her early fifties, a graying brunette with large, brown eyes that blinked at McL
aren from behind tortoise shell spectacles. The pamphlet she held sagged between her fingers as she thought back to last year. “Of course, the whole thing was a tragedy. Not just Marta’s terrible death.”
“What else happened?”
“Why, the scandal with Verity Dwyer.” Her tone implied that McLaren should know about it. “It was dreadful. When the money went missing, the boss had no alternative but to let her go. He obviously hated to do it, but his hands were tied. The Board, you know.” She grimaced and looked slightly green, as though reliving the event or hearing the board members’ angry voices.
“Since the money disappeared during her shift, yes. It must have been difficult for Mr. Clark to do, letting her go.”
“Especially since they were kin. Well, by marriage.”
“Mr. Clark is Marta’s brother-in-law, I believe.”
“Yes. Quite right. He said he felt bad about having to terminate her position.” She laid the pamphlet on the counter and pushed the glasses farther up on her nose. “I still keep in touch with her. Still ring her up occasionally, see how she’s doing, if she wants anything.”
Besides her job back.
McLaren picked up the pamphlet the woman had just put down. It was a tri-panel brochure, full color, on slick paper. The shelter’s logo shone predominantly on the cover. “Nice job,” McLaren said, meaning it. He read a sentence aloud, admiring the wording. “‘Shelter from Life’s storms comes in many forms. Noah’s Ark. Here for you when it floods.’ Nice.”
She beamed. “Yes, isn’t it? What’s nicer is that the shelter didn’t have to pay for it. Not the graphic layout or the copywriting.”
“Really?” McLaren opened the brochure and glanced at it before refolding it. “One of the staff do it, then? This looks professional quality.”
“No one here could do that. We’re quite lucky in that a friend of the shelter is a writer.”
“A friend…like a volunteer?”
“No, he doesn’t put in any hours here. But he helps out like this. He’s a friend of Linnet Isherwood. Do you know Linnet? Perhaps you might, since you’re working on Marta’s case. Linnet and Marta were friends.”
Cold Revenge Page 22
