Cold Revenge

by Jo A. Hiestand

He stared at the clouds as they skidded across the sky. It was like that, he thought. She was obliterated by a mist on the shoreline. He strained to see her but the darkness thickened.

  As he sank back onto the bed, the moon broke from an imprisoning cloud. The mist in his dream evaporated in a sudden gust of wind and the voice grew louder. McLaren sat up. The woman was Verity Dwyer.

  Exhaling slowly, he wiped his forehead with the edge of the sheet. Why was she calling to him? Because maybe she was mixed up in Marta’s death after all. Because maybe she had stolen the casino winnings to finance her disaster dog business. He lay down and hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep until the early morning rain rattled against the gutters, prodding him awake.

  Two hours later he was in Castleton. He had showered, shaved and dressed hurriedly, as though he had to meet a deadline, but he had taken a few minutes to fill his travel mug with hot coffee. Breakfast was a cold slice of pizza, left over from dinner several nights ago. He ate it while he drove.

  He wasn’t in such a hurry, however, that he was careless. He drove slowly the length of the wet road on which Linnet lived, looking for her vehicle. It wasn’t there. He parked several cars from her house, in case she returned before he left, grabbed the photo of Harvester, and walked up to one of her neighbors.

  “‘Morning.” He smiled hopefully.

  The man, in his early thirties and dressed in a suit, had just locked his front door and was shifting his briefcase to his other hand. He paused, looked at McLaren, and asked what he wanted.

  “Just a bit of help. It’ll take only a minute.”

  “If you’re lost…”

  “No. I wonder if you’d take a look at this photo and tell me if you’ve seen this man around here.” He held out Harvester’s photo and the man stepped closer.

  “Why? What’s he done? You a copper?”

  McLaren explained who he was and that the man in the photo might be involved in an old murder case.

  “That right? Let me have a look.” The man took the photograph, looked at it for perhaps several seconds, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen him. Used to be around here quite regular. Haven’t seen him for a while. He the dead bloke?”

  “When did you see him? Do you remember?”

  “What…like a specific date?”

  “An approximation will do. Last winter, this spring…”

  “No. It was longer ago. Last spring. Yeah. That’s it. Last spring. Last year. He was here for a couple months. He was seeing Linnet, my next-door neighbor. They were dating for a while, probably until the end of May or so. I’ve not seen him since.”

  “When you say you saw him a lot, what does that mean? Did he pick up Miss Isherwood for dates? Mow her lawn? Fix things around her house?”

  “He was around her house, all right, but I think it was more like a sort of live-in boyfriend. He’d come in the evenings and he’d still be here the next morning when I left for work. You figure out what that means.” He glanced at his watch and started toward his car.

  “Sorry. One more question, please, sir.”

  “Sure. I thought you had finished. What else?”

  “Was he here regularly, like every night, or every other weekend?”

  “It was every weekend, or just about. This went on until the end of May. Must’ve been real sudden.”

  “Why do you think that?” McLaren took a step closer, not wanting to miss what the man said.

  “Well, Linnet must have been crazy in love with him. I’ve never seen her smile so much or even sing when she was pottering about in her garden. Her husband had left her, I guess you know, and I thought she’d never get over that. Then along comes this chap, the one in your photo, and it was like instant love. She was over the moon. Then I don’t see his car or him any more and she’s back in her depression again. She cried for weeks. Literally. Sobbing. I didn’t think she’d ever get over him.”

  “It does take some people a long time to recover from a broken heart.”

  The man nodded, consulting his watch again. “Probably a bit more than just a boyfriend-girlfriend breakup, if you ask me, ’cause she took to wearing a ring around her neck.”

  “Sounds like an engagement ring.”

  “Could be for all I know. But he must’ve made it up to her.”

  McLaren looked interested. “Oh, yes? Are they back together, then?”

  “No. At least, I haven’t seen him around. Maybe she goes to his place. I don’t know. But someone sent her that fancy car of hers. Last August, I think.”

  “Why do you say that? She couldn’t have bought it?”

  “With her husband gone and her working those piddling jobs? I don’t think so. This came from someone with a lot of cash to spare. Sorry, mate, I’ve got to hop it. Hope that helps.” He was down his walk and out his front gate before McLaren could thank him.

  McLaren sat in his car, turning over the new information in his mind. End of May last year was around the time he and Harvester had left the Staffordshire Constabulary. After the pub burglary incident when he had thrown Harvester into the rose bushes. Was this the reason for the beer bottles that kept cropping up in his life? Were they a subtle reminder about the pub burglary and Harvester’s absence from Linnet’s life? Had she been in love with Harvester and he left her due to the pub incident?

  He rubbed his forehead, trying to understand the whispers that echoed in his mind. Linnet wore a ring on a chain. He’d seen it the first time he had met her. Was it Harvester’s ring or her engagement ring? And now she had evidently taken up with Sean FitzSimmons. What did that mean? Was it nothing more than looking for a meal ticket, or was it something more?

  He pictured her again as he sorted through the questions. Her husband had left her; Harvester had left her. She had been financially strapped. So how does a woman desperate for money get expensive clothing? And a Mercedes a mere two months after Marta Hughes is killed?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He glanced again at Linnet’s house, the questions whispering to him. When her husband had left, she’d been nearly desperate for money. Whether intentionally latching on to Harvester or not, she had reasoned she would soon be financially safe. The diamond ringmost probably an engagement ringthat she wore spoke mutely of that brief episode. But when Harvester left Staffordshire, Linnet tried to get money from Marta when she won at the casino. McLaren felt sure of that. Be a good idea to find out if Linnet had access to a gun.

  But it didn’t make sense. If Linnet was mixed up in Marta’s murder, as he now thought, why had she hired him to find Marta’s killer? Then the photograph in Harvester’s bedroom stood out with alarming clarity. If she still had feelings for him, as the ring implied, and Harvester had broken the engagementperhaps due to his Staffordshire disgrace and his uncertain futurethen maybe all this had been set up for McLaren’s failure.

  He nodded, sitting back in the car seat. Linnet had known he wasn’t in the job anymore—that he had never worked as a private detective. Yet she had come to him when she could have hired an experienced investigator. She probably was assuming he would fail and then she and Harvester would get a huge laugh over it, with Harvester spreading the news around the office. McLaren sat up. Sure. And the beer bottles were just a little touch to remind him of his tangle with Harvester during the pub burglary, to rub it in and hint that he wasn’t clear of him yet.

  McLaren swore softly and grabbed the ignition key. But was Harvester involved in this? McLaren couldn’t see how he would be, if he were busy with the runner murder in D Division. No. Harvester was just a personal sideline with Linnet. She needed someone else to help her. Probably someone used to being a thug and in constant need of money. And who better to fit both criteria than her ex-con friend Sean FitzSimmons. Or ruffian Danny Mercer.

  McLaren turned in his car seat, considering his next move. He had spoken to everyone associated with the case and gleaned all that he could get, he was sure. So how could he catch the killer? And quickly, too, if
the suspect was nervous and considered doing a bunk.

  An empty plastic bag tumbled down the road, pushed by the wind. McLaren stared at it, as if he had never seen trash blown about. A smile crept across his lips and he turned the key in the car’s ignition switch. He was back at the stone barn in fifteen minutes.

  He had whispered prayers during the drive to Elton, hoping against all common sense that the sheet of paper he had seen last week was still there.

  He braked his car opposite the barn, and ran to the tufts of tall weeds defining the edge of the road. The trash still lay imprisoned among the thick stems. He pushed a few stems aside. Thankfully, the grass and weed stalks held it firmly.

  He withdrew it by its corner and angled it in the light. An edge had cracked off and the printing had faded somewhat but the logo and membership name were still plain enough. He placed the paper on top of his wallet, wanting to protect it against further breakage, and walked back to his car, where he looked more closely at it.

  It was a membership to the racing club near Chesterfield. The autograss association logo took up the header on the paper; Danny’s name and racing number were printed on the Club’s member information line.

  McLaren typed the name of the club into his smartphone and then punched in the phone number. He whistled a snatch of “The Poor Murdered Woman” under his breath, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the injustice of Marta’s death, Verity’s sentence, and the killer’s year of freedom. He broke off when a voice on the other end of the line asked how she could help.

  McLaren went through his usual introduction, though merely stated he was investigating an incident. “I wonder if you can tell me of any events Danny Mercer may have attended in June last year.”

  The woman said she’d be pleased to help in whatever manner she could. Yes, Danny Mercer had participated in a number of races, particularly in June. In fact, he had raced every weekend. She gave the dates and asked if she could be of further assistance.

  McLaren said that was all he wanted, thanked her, and rang off.

  Two race dates danced off the page: they flanked the date of Marta’s trip to the casino. He exhaled deeply and muttered, “Idiot.”

  He was already heading back to Bakewell as he closed his phone.

  The Mercer house was a small dwelling on an equally small street. The houses echoed each other in color and structure, showing no imagination. Perhaps they echoed their owners’ lives, McLaren thought as he parked and got out of his car. Or testified to the financial struggle of those dwelling within.

  Danny’s wife responded to the ringing doorbell by yanking the door open. She looked to be ten years younger than Danny, just past her teenaged years, but already there were circles beneath her eyes and a slight twitch to her left eye. Was it a result of life with Danny, or nerves due to her job? She eyed McLaren, perhaps wondering why he was there so early on a Tuesday morning, and shifted the mug of coffee to her left hand. It was gray, the same color as the bakery uniform she wore. She kept her free hand on the edge of the door, as though barring McLaren’s entry into her home or guarding some secret. Her reaction on hearing McLaren’s introduction and the reason for his visit was to take a sip of coffee and frown.

  “You say Linnet just found Dan’s racin’ membership card?”

  “Linnet Isherwood. She and he have a mutual friend, Herb Millington.” He paused, waiting for the wife to recall the names.

  “Why’s she not handin’ it over to Dan instead of you, if you said she has it?”

  McLaren smiled, looking sheepish, and scratched the side of his head. “It would be better, but she broke her leg last evening and with the cast on, well, she can’t get around too well, so I’m acting as delivery boy.”

  “She could’ve posted it, save you a trip.”

  “True, yes. And she was going to do that this morning, but she fell last night.” McLaren shrugged, holding out his hands as if to say he merely followed orders. “This way, Linnet will know Danny has it. It’ll ease her mind.”

  The woman nodded, indicating it seemed to make sense. “This Linnet. It could be Lin. He’s talked about a Lin at times. I’m not clear on her last name. I thought it was Esterwad, but I wouldn’t swear to it. But Lin, now…”

  “So your husband does know Lin, then.”

  “He knows a Lin. I suppose it could be the same woman you’re talkin’ about. But if it isn’t, I’m not certain you’re at the right place, Mr…What’s your name again?”

  “Ellison.” He grabbed his former fiancée’s surname and spoke in an even voice. “Mike Ellison. They’re more acquaintances rather than friends. They know each other from the racing club. They belong to the same one.”

  “I can’t recollect her, but maybe we met at one of the meets.” She kept her voice low, holding the conversation between them. “Does she race?”

  “Yes, though she takes it as more of a hobby than your husband does.”

  “That’s probably true.” The woman glanced behind her, as though she could see the back of the house. “There’s not many things my Dan throws hisself into, but racin’ is one of ’em.” She returned her gaze to McLaren and held out her hand. “I can take the paper and see that Dan gets it.”

  “Sure, but I’d like to talk to him as long as I’m here. It’s about an upcoming event at the club. Is he home? May I speak to him?”

  “He left about a half hour ago. He went to work. He’ll be back in time for tea, if you want to come back then. Or I can tell him to phone you.” She eyed him, not knowing what a talk between her husband and this man involved. “You want to leave the membership with me, then?”

  “I may as well keep it until I see him tonight, if that’s all right.”

  The woman glared at McLaren, seemingly miffed that he evidently didn’t trust her. “Suit yourself. Just tryin’ to save you a trip back.”

  “I appreciate that, but I live in Matlock.” He chose the town due to its nearness to Bakewell and the Mercers’ house, implying it wasn’t putting him out to return. Also, a large town like Matlock could harbor thousands of people that Danny Mercer wouldn’t know. Far better anonymity than a village. McLaren flashed a smile, as though the eight-mile drive was a stroll in the park. “I’ll get back a bit before tea, then, so as not to miss him. What kind of car does he drive?” He glanced at the driveway. It was empty. “Just so I’ll know he’s home when I come back. I don’t want to disturb you if he isn’t in.”

  “His car don’t work. Hasn’t worked proper for ages. I tell him he needs to get a real car, but he won’t listen.” She scowled, as if to say “Men!”

  McLaren commiserated with her situation.

  “I hate takin’ the bus.” She set down her cup on the hall table and picked up her handbag. “At least he got the statue here before his car broke down.”

  “Statue?”

  “A nice thing for my garden. We would’ve had to wait another week for it to be delivered if Danny couldn’t pick it up then to have it all set up in time for my birthday.” She smiled tentatively, as if recalling the gift. “But he got it loaded, brought it home, and worked like a Trojan to get it in place. But he’s like that, my Dan is. Always helpin’ whenever me or the neighbors need him. He fixed Mrs. Carthy’s step walk for her, and he picked up old Murphy’s groceries. And he got me my statue.” She stepped outside and closed the door. “I never did get such a nice birthday gift as that statue last year.”

  “I’m glad your wish was filled, then.”

  “Oh, I never asked for it. Danny just said he thought it’d look nice in the garden and did I want one? I said yes, never dreamin’ he’d buy one so quick. But now that it’s there, I’ve grown to love it.”

  McLaren thanked Mrs. Mercer for talking to him and walked back to his car. He sat there, pretending he was talking on his mobile phone, but he kept an eye on the house. When Mrs. Mercer left several minutes later, McLaren remained in his car in case she returned for a forgotten item, or Danny came home. It wouldn’t be the first
time a husband had drawn the wool over a wife’s eyes.

  He leaned back against the headrest, the conversations with Alan and Chad Hughes and Mrs. Mercer echoing through his mind. Danny’s wife had just painted Danny as a shining citizen. Was that the true Danny, or was the Hughes’ version more fitting? Did breeding tell, or did environment mold you? Danny’s grandfather held a distinguished World War II record; Danny had been reared around the relics of that record. Had the stories he’d heard steered his life’s path, or had his hooligan mate negated all that?

  And why this need to buy a statue, especially when his car wasn’t working?

  When a quarter of an hour passed without any further house activity, McLaren walked into the back garden. The sculpture rested in a small, grassy clearing surrounded by clumps of Siberian iris, hostas and rhododendrons. It seemed a perfect place for it, shady and quiet, reminiscent of fairy haunts he had imagined as a child. The statue, in fact, was a two-foot tall metal fairy. Her open wings could have lifted her in flight at any moment, but she balanced on top of an elaborate metal pedestal, one leg bent and the toes of the other leg firmly soldered to the pedestal.

  He grabbed the base, picked it up and laid the ornament on its side. The ground beneath the base was bare. No yellowed, dying grass had been smothered. Meaning, McLaren thought, the ground had been disturbed for some reason. Odd for something that had required no scraping away of the lawn, no concrete platform, or inner support rod.

  McLaren scanned the yard. A three-pronged cultivator sat on a garden chair near the back door. He grabbed it and quickly clawed at the soil. The digging was easy, unlike the hard packed soil that greeted him whenever he planted something in his garden. It took only seconds to scrape away the earth and reach the object buried inches below. He leaned closer and laid the cultivator beside him, using his fingers for the final few seconds’ work. He maneuvered his fingers beneath the object, the cardboard giving slightly against his grasp. As he pushed the box up, he brushed the remaining soil from its top, finally lifting it and holding it in his hand.