Cold Revenge

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Yes, I know Ms. Isherwood. Nice that she has a friend who can do this.”

  “Yes, indeed. It’s saved the shelter a lot of money, which of course pleases the Board.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And with a non-profit organization such as the Ark, such free services don’t go unrewarded.” She added the last part quickly. “Mr. Clark isn’t greedy. He shows his gratitude at the annual banquet that honors the volunteers and staff.” She smiled broadly and picked up the brochure. “And in Mr. FitzSimmons’ particular case, Mr. Clark’s showing his appreciation in a more practical way than a plaque or certificate.”

  “Oh, yes? What might that be?”

  She scooted the cardboard-backed sign toward McLaren and waited for him to read it. The sign was made of the same glossy white paper as the pamphlet but a large graphic of a book cover occupied half of the paper. A date, name, and small book blurb constituted the rest of the space.

  “A Dog’s Calling.” McLaren read the title aloud. “Sean FitzSimmons not only captures the heart of the working dog trained to help in tragic situations but also does it with love and great understanding.’ Sounds like an interesting book.” He angled the sign squarely on the countertop. “This is the writer, I take it, who wrote your new pamphlet.”

  “The very one. A remarkable chap. Quite talented. As you can see, we’re holding a book signing this coming weekend for his new book. I believe it came out this past week.”

  “How nice of you.”

  “It’s just a little thank you to him. I expect he’ll sell a lot of books. Such an interesting subject, these specially trained dogs.”

  “Specially trained…like dogs who sniff out bombs?”

  The woman laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t believe Sean has had experience in that field. Of course, I’m not sure, but this book seems to be about dogs that help disabled people. Fetching things and opening doors and waking up the owner if their medical problem worsens. Did you know dogs can detect changes in breathing?”

  “It does sound a fascinating subject.”

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to the signing. It’s too bad Verity can’t come.”

  “She fond of dogs, then?”

  “Oh, yes! But she’s especially interested in the subject. She always said she’d like to have a business where she and her dog would help in disaster or emergency aid, going to earthquake zones and finding people trapped beneath the rubble, or working with dogs that could detect cadavers. I think she reads every book or watches every television program on that subject.”

  “So she can’t come to the signing? That’s a shame.”

  “Yes, it is.” She lifted her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Of course, if it were up to me, I’d have her here in a heartbeat.”

  “But the Board wouldn’t like it,” McLaren guessed.

  “No.” She sighed and replaced her glasses. “They are immovable as far as that topic is concerned. I’ve asked. They said ‘no’ most emphatically.”

  “Perhaps you can give an autographed book to her. Not quite the same, I know, but if she likes the subject…”

  “Yes. That will have to do. It’s nearly like being here, I suppose.”

  “She’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness, I know.”

  “I don’t know about that, but it will ease some hurt. Maybe I could suggest she attend anyway. Perhaps she won’t be noticed in the crush of people. But it might do more harm than good if she were spotted. You never know about these parties. We’ve got a caterer coming in, so it should be a nice event.”

  “The author no doubt will be very happy with whatever arrangements are made.”

  “I suppose so. They’re not temperamental, are they? Authors, I mean. Not temperamental like operatic singers or rock musicians?”

  “Doesn’t that depend on the individual person?”

  “Could do, I guess. It’s just that I’d never known a writer before I met Sean. He doesn’t look like I imagined. The stereotypical look or preconceived notion that an author is all tweed suit and a pipe smoker.”

  “Sounds rather 1940s.”

  “I suppose it does. Sean is rather unconventional, so I don’t know why I expected that attire. He practically lives in a leather WWII bombardier’s jacket and jeans.”

  “A bombardier’s jacket?”

  “At least that’s what he wears in his publicity photo.” She walked behind the counter, pulled out a book, and handed it to McLaren. “Do you know him?”

  McLaren shook his head, oddly relieved that he didn’t know Sean FitzSimmons. He stared at the brown eyes looking seriously from the back of the book jacket photo, feeling his body tense up. The pub burglar who had threatened McLaren’s elderly friend and caused his own altercation with Charlie Harvester had worn a leather bombardier’s jacket. For one second, he thought…

  “Nice photo, isn’t it?” The woman went on. “I suppose he went to a professional to have it done.”

  “Yes.” McLaren’s gaze was still on the jacket as he handed the book back to her.

  “Will you be at the signing this weekend?”

  “I’m not sure, but thank you for the invitation.” He left with an idea taking shape in his mind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  McLaren didn’t leave the animal shelter car park immediately. He sat in his car and phoned Jamie to find out about Danny and Sean FitzSimmons’ police records. As he put it to Jamie, “I know FitzSimmons isn’t the scum who attacked Nigel, but he still made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I can’t place where I’ve seen him, but find out about him and ring me back.”

  After a quick lunch grabbed at a Chinese restaurant, McLaren drove back to Elton. Killers usually dumped bodies at spots they knew, where they felt they wouldn’t be seen. They knew the area, wanting a quick-in-quick-out location.

  According to Neal and Alan, Marta had grown up in town, had worked during the summer in town. But had Marta’s killer lived in Elton as a child? Had he worked here, as an adult or after school?

  Nothing seems different, McLaren thought as he wandered into the barn. Early afternoon sunlight angled through the gaping windows and the hole in the roof, underscoring the forgotten, dusty farm implements and the discarded tin cans from recent trespassers’ meals. He made the rounds of the barn, ground, and loft, but found nothing new from his original search. Though what he expected to find, he couldn’t have said. Still, he felt the pull of the place, as though something whispered beneath the straw or behind the shed door. He walked outside, inexplicably glad to be free of the darkness and the closeting walls, and made for the makeshift campfire ring.

  He picked up a castoff branch and poked through the fire ashes. Nothing presented itself in the black residue. Nothing hid beneath the large stones placed in a circle forming the pit. Other than a piece of crumpled aluminum foil left from cooking. He picked up the foil and flattened it out. Parts were blackened from the fire, but sunlight glanced off the clean, silvery sections. Shiny. Like the little charm he had found here.

  He pulled the charm from his pocket. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a lightweight denim shirt. The charm, too, caught the light and it threw back, brighter and mesmerizing. Was it just some lost trinket from a girl’s bracelet after all? Alan Hughes had been adamant that Marta had never owned such a charm.

  He shoved it into his pocket as he walked back to his car.

  Shoppers crowded the bookstore in Bakewell that afternoon. A large, colorful poster on the wall above the cash register proclaimed Sean FitzSimmons’ forthcoming book signing, but McLaren bought the book anyway and was soon seated in his car at the car park along the river. The sun beat down on him; he leaned against the car seat, letting his aching body soak in the warmth. The throbbing in his shoulder had lessened slightly and he closed his eyes, taking in long, deep breaths of new-mown grass, the river, and the wet shore. His left hand lay in his lap but he flexed the fingers of his right hand. They were still stiff, having delivered t
he majority of his blows. The knuckles and back of his hand still held the small cuts and scrapes from the fight, but the swelling had resided. Soon the bruises on his face would fade and the scar on his neck would be the only lingering physical reminder of the attack.

  A child ran past his car and McLaren opened his eyes. The parents hurried after her, calling her name as they reached her. McLaren sat up, rubbed his eyes, and grabbed the book. Its jacket was identical to the display graphic in Noah’s Ark, showing a golden Labrador dog with a mobile phone in its mouth. Skipping the glowing endorsements on the cover, McLaren opened the book and leafed through the front matter. Publisher, publication date, ISBN were duly noted without sending up flares. He turned over the page.

  The dedication leaped from the paper and seized his throat. He re-read the words before their implication sank in. ‘To my Songbird, my love and support. It’s downhill from now on.’ Downhill. The skier charm from the area outside the barn. And songbird. There were dozens of songbirdslarks, thrushes, warblers, pipits, chats. And a dozen varieties of finches. He stared at the dedication again, his palm suddenly clammy. Finches. The linnet was a finch.

  He stared out the open car window, across the River Wye, his mind superimposing the silver skier charm over Linnet Isherwood’s figure. Was she the songbird and skier? Was the charm hers? If so, why was it at the site where Marta’s body had been found?

  Turning back to the first page of the book, McLaren read the list of ‘Other Works by Sean FitzSimmons.’ Though this current book was the only non-fiction work listed, Sean had been busy. A series of thrillers, judging from the titles. Slowly closing the book, he silently cursed himself. Linnet had mentioned that she had an author friend; he had even spoken to the man on his mobile when he’d met Linnet at Castleton. He hurled the book at the passenger door and sank against the seat back.

  What had he got into? What did it all mean?

  A group of ducks quacked noisily near the stone bridge as they fought for the bit of bread and dandelion leaves thrown down to them. Bits of bread, he thought. Pieces of the whole. Is that what he had now, pieces of the murder case?

  His copper’s sixth sense nagged him until he retrieved the book from where it lodged between the door’s interior and the side of the seat. Propping the book against the windscreen, he maneuvered it so the sunlight fell on it, pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of the book jacket back. A minute later, he emailed some questions and the photo of Sean Fitzsimons’ smiling face to Jamie.

  On the drive back home, Sean’s charming grin seemed to dance ahead of McLaren on the road. Both the animal shelter’s flyer and the bookstore’s poster had touted the man’s ‘current’ book. McLaren slammed the heel of his palm into the steering wheel. He was an idiot, no better than a probationary copper, losing his edge, taking the phrase to mean another nonfiction book. He hadn’t remembered the novelist Sean.

  The tea things were washed and drying in the dish drainer when Jamie phoned that evening. McLaren glanced at the caller ID display, not in the mood to talk to his sister, and was relieved to see Jamie’s number. He answered with a hopeful “I’m all ears, lad,” and grabbed a pen and a pad of paper before sinking back against the sofa cushions.

  “You didn’t mention payment in that little email you sent,” Jamie said.

  “Same as usual. Unless it’s the knock-your-socks-off variety information you’re about to give me.”

  “Don’t know about that, but I’m looking forward to the beer.”

  “You found out something, then.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “You’re a bloomin’ marvel, Jamie. Now, what is it?”

  “In answer to your questions, in no particular order, number one: Danny Mercer has no convictions. Not for drug possession, distribution, use.”

  McLaren exhaled, shaking his head. “So he wasn’t lying when he said he was clean.”

  “Refreshing to have someone tell the truth for once.”

  “What about G.B.H. or theft or something?”

  “He’s the type who would assault someone, you think?”

  “From what I’ve seen and heard, I do. Both he and his pal Herb Millington seem top-heavy with muscles and anger.”

  “Don’t ask me about Millington, Mike. I didn’t know I had to look for a record for him. But nothing on Danny Mercer.”

  “He’s either been incredibly lucky with his punches or he hasn’t done anything.”

  Jamie said he wouldn’t know, and continued. “Number two: your prince charming author, Sean FitzSimmons, has previous convictions for burglary.”

  “Hell.”

  “Ditto. He served his time in and was released from HM Prison Wealstun in West Yorkshire.”

  McLaren opened his mouth to respond but stopped short. Wealstun. Verity Dwyer’s brother was currently in Wealstun. Was it important? He shoved aside the question for the moment. “Right. Wealstun. Category C prisoner.”

  “Then to HM Prison Sudbury”

  “God, what a joke Release On Temporary License is, doing community work.”

  “Do you want to hear this or just make editorial comments?”

  “Go on.” He exhaled loudly.

  “But FitzSimmons wasn’t without female company this whole time.”

  “Hell.”

  “You said that, Mike. He had visits from Linnet Isherwood.”

  “Damn.”

  “She brought him all sorts of lovely things a month before his release. So he’d feel right at home when he sniffed the fresh air of Freedom.”

  “Goodies such as…”

  “A leather jacket.”

  “Many people wear leather jackets, Jamie. I’ve got one. You’ve got one.”

  “Bombardier style? Shades of World War Two?”

  “I know that’s what buddy Sean’s wearing on that book jacket photo that I emailed you, but…”

  “It’s a dead ringer for the jacket the lovely Linnet brought him in his last throes of prison life.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I rang up one of the guards there when I got your questions and the photo. Of course, I can’t swear it’s the same jacket, Mike, but it’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “I’d hate to take odds. Did you find anything on the other question?”

  “The one about Tyrone Wade Antony’s restful stay compliments of Her Majesty’s prison service?”

  “Yeah.” McLaren grimaced hearing the name of the pub burglar and forced Charlie Harvester’s grinning face from his mind. “Where is he? He still in?”

  “He’s still a guest, occupying a cell in Strangeways.”

  “Manchester. Category B convicted prisoner. Good. Close, but not the same country club, then.”

  “Still trying to work out where you saw Mr. FitzSimmons?”

  “Maybe he was a model prisoner, learned the errors of his way, and kept to the straight and narrow on his release. The name doesn’t ring a bell with me.”

  “Don’t let the name fool you, Mike. I knew a killer whose last name was Pope.”

  “I usually don’t forget faces, but he has me stumped all around.”

  “Maybe it was a particularly nasty case and you’ve forgot it.”

  “Well, it’ll probably wake me up some night.”

  “And about your bosom pal Alan Hughes being at the theater…”

  “I can tell from your voice. He was.”

  “At least the four theater tickets were used, Mike. Unless his wife went with someone else, but that still doesn’t give him an alibi for her murder. That was Thursday evening and she disappeared on Friday.”

  “I figured it was a stupid question.”

  “But the urge to track down every lead is still strong. I know.” Jamie let McLaren sigh heavily before adding, “I checked on this other theater-going couple for you.”

  “Jamie, you’re”

  “I know. Flattery is always welcome, ta.”

  “You’re a
lso full of”

  “Intelligence and thoughtfulness. Thanks. I know how you cherish a thorough job. Anyway, this is a tradition stretching back several years. Both couples have occupied these seats for as long as they’ve been going to this theater. The Hughes and the Russells. It’s a small building and the staff knows them by sight.”

  “So there’s no question they weren’t there.”

  “Not unless they have identical twins or were swathed in actor’s makeup, no.”

  “Which, as I said, is not really proving anything since the dates don’t match. And I can’t believe in a convoluted mess like Hughes hired someone to kill Marta. That doesn’t make sense either. Well, thanks for the help, Jamie.”

  “You can thank me with a beer Friday night. Stay healthy.” He rang off and McLaren laid the phone beside him on the couch and leaned back.

  The house was quiet, wrapped in the sounds of early evening. Gold-hued sunlight streamed through the west-facing windows, gilding the top of the leather chair and the book spines lined up on the shelves. Leather and books. A man’s room. Warm, yet solitary. Would another human presence make it more comfortable?

  It had been filled with others’ presence years ago, he recalled. As his childhood home, growing up here, sharing everyday life with his parents and sister. Celebrating the large milestones of Christmas and birthdays, sharing the enthusiasm of smaller triumphsa first solo bicycle ride, an outstanding school report, a first job and the first car it brought. He stared into the hallway, expecting to hear the sound of his father’s whistling, his mother’s laughter at a joke his sister told. He shifted his gaze to the window and the front garden. He hadn’t changed it when he’d bought it. He hadn’t the courage. The rope swing, grayed and smaller than he remembered, still hung from the elm in the back garden. His mother’s birdbath still stood under the willow. His sister had told him he was making a mistake when he bought the house. She’d warned him that the memories would be too real and painful for him to find peace there. But he purchased the house anyway, moving in last July on quitting the job and Staffordshire. Gwen was wrong. The memories were soothing. He was content to live with the ghosts and the voices that echoed down the hallway.