“No. A musician.”
The woman blinked. “Why? Did he buy something from me and he’s claiming something was wrong with the product?” She leaned forward and slightly to her right, looking for the man in the midway’s jostling crowd.
“I have a friend who’s interested in talking to anyone who might have known him.”
“Past tense.” Her eyebrow rose. “Why? What happened? If he died due to something here at the Minstrels Court, you should contact the police. I don’t know anything about anyone dying. Nothing like that happened here.”
“I didn’t say it happened here. I just want to know if you knew of the man. His name was Kent Harrison.”
The woman shook her head and flipped her long braid over her shoulder. “I don’t know a thing about this Kent Harrison or his sickness. If there was a problem with my product, he should have come back to me. I stand behind everything I make and sell. Now, if you’ve nothing else to say…” She turned toward a teenaged girl who was holding a bag of strewing herbs.
Eyeing Gwen, who was immersed in a bookseller’s wares a few tents down, Jerry walked up to Dena. He stuffed a small box into his jeans pocket. “Any luck?”
“Yeah. Bad.”
“Tough cheese.”
“You talk to anyone? Or just do a bit of shopping?”
“This is your idea, Dena. I want to stay on Mike’s good side.” He flashed her a grin before adding, “And it’s something for Christmas, so don’t say anything to Gwen.” He pushed the box deeper into his pocket and patted it.
“I’m as silent as the grave.”
FIVE
“That’s a grave assumption, Mike. Two people plotting Kent Harrison’s death.” Jamie Kydd’s voice was barely discernable against the background noise of the lunchtime crowd. Even with the air conditioning unit chugging its heart out, the canteen felt oppressive in the day’s heat. Every police constable and sergeant had shed his or her dark blue jackets in order to feel each surge of cool air. Jamie grabbed his jacket, rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and pushed his chair back to the table. He fought the impulse to talk more loudly into the mobile phone’s mouthpiece and instead walked out of the room. On the other side of the closed door he glanced the length of the corridor and, seeing no one, lowered his voice.
The quieter tone suited Jamie, complementing strangers’ mental match with his slight physique. Yet his body harbored hardened, toned muscles that seemed to surprise those getting into scrapes with the man. He nudged a lock of his light brown hair back into place, a common action lately as he fought to obscure his slowly emerging scalp. Satisfied, he leaned against the wall and added, “Any idea who these two people might be?”
“I’m not saying it’s true, just that it could be.” McLaren sat back in his desk chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, and momentarily closed his eyes. The boulder seemed to be surrounded by clumps of foxglove, mugwort, and sage. He opened his eyes and the image vanished. “If I’ve ever heard of any instance where two people could have been instrumental in someone’s death, this is it. It screams it!” He took a breath before muttering, “Smells of it, actually. Of all the bloody cases of hatred and murder and unjust—” He broke off again, aware of how he sounded. “I owe it to the victim to solve this, Jamie. It’s the decent thing to do. He needs his murder solved.” I need it solved, he added, feeling the quick flush of emotion from the injustice for the victim. “Don’t you agree it’s got the whiff of the fish monger about it?”
“I know what it sounds like, Mike. Carbohydrate andromedotoxin in his system…strangulation. But two people?”
McLaren didn’t have to see Jamie’s expression to know the man was shaking his head. Skepticism seeped into his tone. “What else could it point to? Two people, two methods of murder. You have to admit that’s odd.”
“I’ll give you ‘odd,’ but nothing else. The case has been investigated, Mike.”
“I’ll give you investigated,” McLaren said, mimicking Jamie’s phrase, “but it’s not closed, is it?”
“You know it’s not or you wouldn’t have rung me up. And on my lunch hour, yet.”
“You must’ve finished. I don’t hear the clatter and chatter of those happy diners.”
“I’ve moved out to the corridor. I couldn’t very well talk to you where dozens of coppers can overhear our conversation.” The hallway stretched a dozen yards in each direction, its cream-painted walls and brown-and-white lino floor throwing back Jamie’s soft voice. No footsteps marked a potential eavesdropper; no noise bounced back to him other than his own words. He thought once again how impersonal the place seemed. It could do with an interior designer to bring some warmth, maybe make the work environment a bit more cheery.
McLaren uttered a soft oath. “Probably wouldn’t do. Too busy gobbling down egg and cress sandwiches, or sausage rolls. What’s the special today?”
“Why’d you ring me up before you’ve eaten? You’re always in a foul mood when you’re peckish.”
“Am not. Anyway, you’ve changed the subject. I just want someone who’s in charge of the case to consider the possibility that two people might be involved with Kent Harrison’s murder. There is someone in charge of the case, isn’t there?”
“Not officially. It’s classified as Cold. And don’t ask me to make inquiries. Any new information poking through this morass would automatically scream for attention. Someone would be on it like a dog on a bone. Or a cop on a robber,” he added, thinking the comparison not too far off the mark.
McLaren nearly threw the receiver across the room. Sighing, he mentally counted to ten before saying, “If I turn up anything, can I at least tell you about it?”
“You can tell me anything, you know that.”
“I’m not talking about true confessions. I’m serious, Jamie.”
“I know you are. That’s what concerns me. But fine. Nose around, ask questions.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hold on. A possible ear.” He paused, pressing the mouthpiece of his mobile phone against his stomach as two constables walked up to him. Nodding to them, he waited until they had entered the canteen and the door had closed before continuing. “Sorry. All clear.”
“Who was it? Your governor?”
“Little pitchers. But I still didn’t want them to hear.”
“Thanks.”
“But really, Mike, I’m not convinced this is such a smashing idea. If you ask the wrong person and he gets mad. Well… Last month’s confrontation was bad enough.” He didn’t want to add that McLaren might have been seriously injured or might have died from the assault, didn’t want to voice their shared opinion that it could happen again if he took on this cold case. But was McLaren deafened to advice, even to his own counsel that might normally have warned him to avoid the investigation? Did he feel only the excitement of the hunt, sense another wrong being righted? Jamie glanced at the in-house poster on the opposite wall—a close-up photo of wrists handcuffed together. The caption read “Accessories are in this season.” Farther down the wall another poster showed an empty jail cell, its door open. The statement read Vacancy. Mike is like that, Jamie thought, turning his back on a poster of a police car—the two tones lit, its back seat open—proclaiming Preferred Seating. To the point. Inventive. Single-minded. Just so his tunnel vision doesn’t land him in hospital. He nearly spoke this last thought aloud, his concern hard to contain.
McLaren cut off his response. “There won’t be a repeat performance from last month. At least, if there is, the victim/aggressor roles will be reversed. Now, save your breath. I’m grateful that you care, but I’ll just ask a few questions to see if there’s anything that the original investigation missed. People sometimes talk after the spotlight’s died down.”
“I’m a copper; you don’t have to tell me.” Jamie glanced at his watch, then said rather hurriedly, “Time for my delightful repast is over, Mike. Gotta go.”
“Glad we could have lunch together.”
“Sure.”
“Why now? Did the case fascinate you, or does the one-year anniversary mean something? Or is some relative of Kent Harrison’s twisting your arm? And if so,” Jamie added quickly as he heard McLaren’s deep breath, “why haven’t they gone to the police? Why seek you out? I know you well enough to realize you’re not hung up on fame or publicity, so your name in the newspaper’s not your goal.” A hesitation on the other end of the phone line gave Jamie the answer. “Oh. Dena.”
“I haven’t promised her anything.”
“But you’re interested, or you wouldn’t even be doing preliminary work.”
“Like I said, Jamie, I owe it to the victim. If two people did want him dead, that’s a lot of hatred. I need to see what caused it and to bring him some justice. That’s it, pure and simple.”
“Admirable.” Jamie paused, worried once more about McLaren investigating a case on his own. “Who will you talk to first?” The canteen door opened, letting out a blast of talk. “Sorry. Who?”
“Where the smart cop always begins—with the spouse.”
“Not the girl friend?”
“At last! We’re talking motive.”
SIX
“I know your motive is admirable,” Jerry said as he stopped his car opposite Dena’s house. It blended in with the others on the lane, a two-story stone cottage embraced by its neighbors—being one of several in the row of houses—and emphatic flowering window boxes. A previous owner’s difference of opinion had topped Dena’s house with a darker colored roof, giving it an air of rebellion and individuality in the dreary sea of otherwise light gray slate. The string of residences was the last vestige of the village’s southern end; beyond it sprawled the farmland, meadows and wood. The northern end melted into the village proper, merging into the High Street, along which shops huddled cheek-by-jowl. The High Street, in turn, curled about to the A515 west of Parwich, losing its village flavor when it disappeared in the tangle of roads that converged in Buxton. But all that lay to the west and beyond the slight rise of the hills. Jerry’s attention was on Dena.
Extracting her keys from the clutter in her handbag, she said, “But will Michael believe it, admirable as the motive may be? You know how he gets, Jerry.”
“Isn’t that like asking the Trojans to accept the gift of another horse? Okay, okay,” he added quickly, seeing Dena’s frown, “bad joke. But opening a cold case—and especially having an ex-police detective open it—is not my idea of a good time had by all. Even if you prod Mike into investigating it he may not be successful this time if he starts poking about. And if he fails…”
Dena’s voice was nearly a whisper. “He may sink back into his depression.”
“At the critical time, too. Just as he’s making overtures to shake it. And if he slips back, he may never get out. Do you want to be responsible for that?”
* * * *
She had left Jerry and Gwen in a whirlwind of emotions, anger being the major one. Anger that he thought her senseless or stupid. Anger that he had no idea of the depth of her love for McLaren. Fearful that Jerry might be right about getting McLaren interested in the cold case. Worried he wouldn’t be interested in the cold case and slip back into his apathy. Now, thirty minutes later, she merely felt wretched and impatient with McLaren, Jerry, and life in general.
She set down her coffee mug and walked into her back room. Apple-green, red, and white, the room held a mix of new and antique pieces. A white wicker rocker and green, red and white plaid sofa framed the large fireplace. Photographs of landscapes and wild birds grabbed the wall space between the white-framed windows. Though highly polished, her grandmother’s desk carried the scars from a long, useful life. Her great grandmother’s cream pitcher, sporting a blue-and-cream checkerboard design, served as her pencil holder.
Sitting at her desk, Dena turned on her computer. A minute later she was reading an on-line newspaper article of Kent Harrison’s death.
Tuesday, July 12. The pastoral calm shattered late Monday when the body of Kent Harrison, 45, was discovered in the wood bordering the village of Kirkfield, Derbyshire. Harrison, an apparent murder victim, had been missing since late Sunday evening when he had left Tutbury Castle where he had been performing in the Minstrels Court festivity. Fellow musician and sometimes-singing partner Dave Morley said he had been trying to contact Harrison since 23.00 hrs Sunday. “He had told me just before we parted Sunday night to ring him up a bit later,” Morley said. “We were going to talk about our performance for Monday. When I couldn’t get him on the phone, I grew worried. I drove over Monday night, walked to the wood, and that’s when I found his body.” Although police refuse to comment at this point, it looks as though Harrison had been strangled. His guitar, wallet, money and keys were still in his car or on his person. Police are unsure of a motive, but urge anyone who may know anything about Harrison or his death to contact them. Morley, a shop clerk at Joyful Sound Music, said Harrison’s passing is a great loss to the music world. Harrison taught sixth form classes in music at Grange Hall Performing Arts College in Ashbourne.
Dena leaned back in her chair, staring at the computer monitor. The article blurred, unnoticed. She was no detective, but did Dave Morley’s statement make sense? Why hadn’t he and Kent Harrison talked right then, before they parted Sunday night? Why ring up later and confer over the phone? And if Dave had been so worried about Kent, why wait twenty-four hours before driving over to look for him Monday night? And why look in the wood outside the village, of all places?
She logged on to another website. The article read nearly the same as the previous newspaper account but gave a more personal slant by adding that Kent Harrison had been a well-known folk musician on the brink of national stardom. His recording of ‘The Swans’ Courtships’ had sold out of its original press run and had reached the number three spot on one radio station. Yet, despite the fame and fans, Kent Harrison remained true to his teaching career and looked forward to his students…
Blah blah blah, Dena muttered, glancing over the remainder of the article. A photo, probably courtesy of his website or from his manager, accompanied the article. It showed him on stage, smiling, his left hand gripping the neck of his guitar, his right arm raised to greet the crowd. She studied his face—radiant with joy, his brown eyes slightly obscured at the outer corners by folds of skin. His brown hair appeared too dark to be natural, but it could have been the angle at which the photographer took the picture. Still, Kent looked younger than his forty-five years, more like an overgrown university student than a teacher of students.
She checked one more website, read essentially the same thing—with the inclusion that Kent Harrison was recently divorced—and logged off, thinking it amazing how the media abbreviated a person’s life.
As she turned off the computer, she glanced at the clock. Mid-afternoon. Plenty of time. If she was going to pry McLaren from his stonewall work she had best get the proper lure. And what better one, she thought as she grabbed her purse and keys from the kitchen table, than her prime suspect? The Venetian blinds banged against the back door window as she left to talk to Dave Morley.
SEVEN
McLaren banged the phone receiver down, impatient to get started. His notepad held what information Jamie had time to relate: Kent Harrison had been found Monday at 22:30 hrs by the boulder 117 yards into the wood bordering Kirkfield. Sporadic singing partner Dave Morley had the dubious distinction of locating the body, deliberately beginning his search outside Kent’s house and then fanning out into the field and forest. He had looked near the boulder, he had told officers, because Kent liked to sit there to play guitar, read and compose.
“He was a real outdoors lover,” Dave had said during the interview. “He loved nature for itself, but he also loved to sit and observe. Birds and such. I always knew that if I didn’t find him at his house
, I could probably find him by the boulder.” So the wood wasn’t such an illogical spot to search as the investigating officers had first supposed. They believed Dave had tried contacting Kent as often as he claimed, for a check of his phone records confirmed this. But as to whether Dave had dumped Kent’s body earlier, after killing him Sunday night, or merely located the body…well, that they couldn’t prove. Kent’s car sat in his driveway, testifying that he had arrived home. Or someone had driven him home. A meticulous search of Dave’s car confirmed Kent had been a passenger. But when? Suspicion may have been in the officers’ minds, but finding Kent’s hair, shed skin cells and fingerprints did not automatically damn Dave. As he pointed out, and as the officers believed, Dave and Kent often rode in each other’s cars; it saved the cost of petrol when they sang at the same venues.
The lab techs extracted a small amount of DNA from Kent’s car that couldn’t be matched to any known person involved in the case. The few strands of head hair had been tagged and stored for that hopeful day when they’d come up with a match. But it, too, might have been transferred in a completely innocent manner. How many strands of hair, skin cells and fabric particles does the average person carry away from someone else, only to shed the foreign hair elsewhere? Still, the hair needed saving.
Jamie promised in a stealthy whisper that he’d email McLaren one or two photos of the area where the body had been found. Or, as he had murmured, barely audible, “Red Riding Hood’s wolf lurks nearby.”
McLaren had hung up, comprehending the danger Jamie faced if he were discovered scanning and emailing the photos, yet appreciative beyond words that he had his friend’s help. Some coppers did have big ears, as Jamie had alluded to, and loved nothing better than to gossip or report rule breakers.
He picked up the phone’s receiver again but held it, staring at it. He found himself thinking again of Charlie Harvester, another detective at the Staffordshire Constabulary. A nasty piece of work. A copper whose hatred of McLaren snaked back to their police training days. McLaren seemed not to hear the phone’s incessant dial tone as the sounds of that May night resonated in his mind. Harvester yelling and mocking in his guttural blast of anger. The arrivals and departures of police cars. The soft click of cameras recording the crime scene. Coughs, whispers and jokes from the attending officers and technicians. The thud of McLaren’s own heartbeat.
Swan Song Page 3
