“Again, I don’t know. But I didn’t have the impression they were all that close. They were friends to a degree, more than acquaintances. Well, it would have to be more than acquaintances if you’re in business together.”
“Because Dave and Kent weren’t a permanent duo, you mean?”
“That, certainly, but also because I never saw them eat together or leave together. But I suppose they could have done—I didn’t stand and watch them constantly. And I’ve had them here for the Minstrels Court for several years. You can ask some of the others who have been here for a while—vendors and musicians. Musicians are a close community, especially ones who sing early music. They know all the backstage goings on. And the vendors, being here the entire day, see a lot. Their booths are in an area adjacent to the stage.”
“I’ll ask around, thanks.”
Clark lay down his pen and sat back in his chair. The sunlight slanting in through the window illuminated the moisture on his forehead. “I do hope you are successful in your investigation, Mr. McLaren. As I said, I liked Kent Harrison. So many others did, too. I’d like to see the person responsible for his death to be punished.”
“I’ll try my best.” He got to his feet, folding the brochure and sticking it into his trousers pocket. “Well, as I said, if you happen to think of someone who might have been jealous of Kent Harrison, or had a quarrel with him, please let me know. I know a year is a long time to remember something, but if you do recall something…”
Clark stood up, banging his knee into the side of the desk. He grimaced and rubbed the muscle. “You’d think I’d learn. I’m constantly doing that.”
“One more question.” McLaren watched Clark’s expression slip from affable to wariness.
“Yes?”
“Have you installed CCTV cameras throughout the castle? Or in the car park?”
Clark blinked, and replied rather slowly, “Why, no. We have it budgeted for next year, though. Is that a concern?”
A light rap sounded on the closed office door and it opened swiftly to admit a tangle of long, red hair, a bulbous nose, a mouthful of teeth and a paper-thin arm through the opening. The owner of these parts seemed to be continuing a conversation started earlier elsewhere.
“Clark, if you’ve got a sec, I’d like to talk over the memorial for— Oh!” He stopped abruptly, his words, his entry into the room, his smile frozen on his face. His gaze shifted from Clark to McLaren and his smile slowly slipped into a grimace. Waving at Clark, he said, “Sorry! Didn’t know you were occupied. I’ll catch you later.”
Clark took a few steps toward the door. “Don’t be absurd. We won’t be another minute. We were just wrapping this up.” He turned slightly to face McLaren, tacitly underscoring the implication. “As long as you’re here…” He gestured toward the newcomer, then to McLaren. “May I introduce Adrian Galloway. Michael McLaren.” He paused as the two men exchanged pleasantries. Addressing McLaren, Clark said, “Adrian is the president of the local Kent Harrison fan club.”
Grass-thin and tall, Adrian eased into the room, his excitement momentarily curtailed until he assessed the situation. He held a clipboard jammed to near capacity with various lengths and colors of paper. A pen was clipped to the top page of paper.
Shaking Adrian’s hand, McLaren said, “I had no idea Kent Harrison was that popular.”
“Oh yes,” Adrian said in a rush of enthusiasm. “We’ve been in existence about a year and a half. Around the time ‘The Swans’ Courtships’ came out. A little before it, actually.”
“Mr. McLaren is investigating Kent’s death, Adrian,” Clark said, leaning against the edge of his desk. “I know you’ll be interested.”
“Of course!” Adrian cradled the clipboard to his chest. “I know it’s a trite thing to say, but I still can’t believe Kent was murdered. Not even after all this time. I mean, to take away a life through violence is one thing, but to murder such a talented, fine man as Kent…” He trembled and shook his head. “I just don’t understand it. The killer must have been insane.”
“Were you at his Sunday performance, Mr. Galloway?” McLaren eyed the man, wondering if he were always so energetic or if it was the result of talking about Kent.
“My, yes! Not only because I felt it my duty as local club president to support Kent but also because I loved him. Platonically,” he added hurriedly. “Such a fine musician and singer. A style all his own. So creative and yet so true to earlier music and its roots. He did nothing cheaply or demeaning, nothing that poked fun at our forebears or his fans. He was a true gentleman, a fine individual.”
“How late did you stay?”
“Why, until he had finished his set.” Adrian blinked repeatedly, as though trying to make sense of such a ridiculous statement.
McLaren smiled. “Yes, I expected that. What I meant was, how late did you stay at the Minstrels Court after Kent had concluded his set? A few minutes, until closing?”
“Not long.” He made little hand gestures of placate to Clark. “No insult intended, Clark. I adore the Court, certainly, but by the time Kent had finished and I had talked to a few club members, it was going on to ten o’clock and I had an early start to my day Monday, so I packed up my tent and crept into the night, as it were.”
“Did you see Kent in the car park? Perhaps see someone with him, or hear a conversation he had?”
“Dear, no. I only wish I had. I’d be able to help the police solve this dreadful murder. No, I hurried straight to my car. I had two other club members with me, and I had to drop them at their homes on my way home.”
“And you got home, when?”
“Not much before midnight, I shouldn’t think, though I didn’t exactly consult my watch. One member lives in Buxton—easy enough to drop off on my way—and the other lives in Leek.” Looking at Clark, he said, “I have never yet figured out which is the swiftest route to or from Tutbury. Take the A520 into Leek and then shoot north to Buxton, or take the A515 to Ashbourne, then the A523 into Leek and proceed to Buxton on the A53.” Without waiting for Clark’s opinion, Adrian said, “Well, it probably doesn’t make much difference. I’m more than happy to pick up anyone I can. It makes such a nice showing at Kent’s performances, doesn’t it, having club members in the audience.”
“May I have the names and contact information for these two members who rode with you?” McLaren held his notebook and pen toward Adrian, who slowly accepted it. “If you don’t mind.”
“Oh, not at all!” He hastily scribbled down the information and handed the pad and pen back to McLaren. “Checking up on all suspicious parties, eh? Well, ordinarily I might take umbrage, but if it will help to catch this killer lurking about, I’m more than helpful.”
“Can anyone substantiate when you yourself arrived home?”
“Just my partner. Unfortunately, I woke her up. But I guess that doesn’t count as a witness, does it? Same sort of thing as a wife can’t testify against her husband.”
McLaren thought the two club members would substantiate Adrian’s whereabouts and the time.
“She wasn’t half annoyed. Said I wasn’t the only one who had to get up early to get to work the next day.”
“What is your occupation, if I might ask, Mr. Galloway?”
“Why, certainly you may ask! I’m a set designer for Granada Television productions.”
“Interesting work.”
“Why, yes. It is.”
“Granada Television. You live in Manchester, then?”
“Well, Knutsford, actually.”
“Cheshire.”
“Yes.”
“And your club headquarters?”
“The office is situated in my house. There is no clubhouse or other official site. We are in existence now, mainly, to assure continuation of Kent Harrison’s memory and his recordings, of which there are an appallingly few number. And now, sadly, to hold annual memorials for him.”
McLaren held out his right hand. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Galloway. I appreciat
e your help. And you, of course, Mr. MacKay,” he added, nodding at Clark.
Clark grimaced. “Glad to help, though I didn’t do much, did I? Just seemed to rabbit on about the Court. Not much else useful information.”
“Maybe something will occur to you later, now that you talked about the festival.”
“Probably not. Oh, not because I have such a bad memory. Because there isn’t anything for me to tell you about anger or jealousy or quarrels. Kent Harrison was such a likable chap, never made an enemy, always helpful in whatever way he could be.”
“His helpfulness extended beyond giving Dave Morley a set on stage, then.”
“Certainly! There are pupils at his school who were coached by Kent, friends who came to him for personal problems. I know because he made a joke of that. But he also had a remarkable memory for people and would bring folks together to help each other.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I don’t know all of them, but I do know he introduced Blossom to Aaron Unsworth.”
“They get married?” McLaren frowned. He’d talked to the chef yesterday in his home. Was Blossom the deserting wife whom Aaron had talked about?
“Sorry. I didn’t explain that at all. No. Blossom Armitage. She’s an herbalist. She has a booth every year at the Minstrels Court. She’s also in business for herself.”
“Kent introduced Blossom and Aaron because Blossom wanted to learn to cook?”
“Could have done, but I doubt it. Aaron Unsworth is a chef, a highly skilled one. He wanted to write a cookbook containing recipes that used all natural ingredients. Being a next-door neighbor to Aaron, Kent knew of Aaron’s project, and introduced Aaron to Blossom, who is a highly successful businesswoman. I don’t know the status of Aaron’s cookbook—if it’s published or even finished—but I don’t think Blossom would be your killer. What would she have to gain?”
Precisely what I’m going to find out, McLaren thought as he made his way to the vendors’ tents. Who wanted Kent Harrison dead?
THIRTEEN
Who wants me dead? What else could it be if not my death? Ransom? Am I kidnapped? Dena turned her head and was instantly assaulted with a wave of nausea. She felt as though she were on some grotesque fair ride—a chairoplane or up-and-down roundabout or devil’s wheel. Something that tilted and spun more violently than a merry-go-round or a big wheel. Her hand went to her forehead as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. The pain in her head erupted behind her eyes and in her ears, showing her fireworks and setting off sirens. She remained with her left arm stiff and propping her upright at an angle, trying to make sense of the throbbing that multiplied into hundreds of drums and gongs the second she moved her head. Days seemed to pass as she fought to keep her stomach down. As the screaming faded she slowly opened her eyes.
A small room, she thought, her eyes still half shut against the light and the blazing images. A small room. But where? She carefully opened her eyes, testing the pain and the noise inside her head. When nothing more intense than a rocking sensation washed over her, she slowly looked about.
It did seem to be a small room, for a tiny window was set into the wall to her right. The door opposite the window was closed—probably locked, Dena thought—and painted the same color as the walls, a pale beige that hinted at a house or institution. A school? A warehouse? Another door, smaller than what she considered to be the main door, was set into a neighboring wall. Nothing but a metal chair and a paper bag occupied the room. And the faint aroma of fish and chips. She leaned forward, careful not to move her head, and got on her hands and knees. Taking small movements, she crawled to the chair.
The journey took forever, the throbbing in her head and the ache in her knees giving it the feel of miles. The floor, cold against the palms of her hands, turned into an unyielding snowfield. Even in the insipid sunlight, it threw back brilliant reflections that hurt her eyes. The ceramic tile ran smooth and hard beneath her, light green and flecked with darker green and white. Again she thought of a school and warehouse. But the floor appeared to be new, unscuffed and highly polished as befitted an area newly laid. Or barely walked on.
When she reached the chair, she sat cross-legged on the floor, and grabbed the bag. Ordinarily she shunned this takeaway restaurant chain, but she laid the paper bag on her lap and rolled back the folded top. The fish and chips aroma rushed from the bag, beckoning her as emphatically as if she’d been Samson succumbing to Delilah. She hesitated only momentarily, negating her concern that the food was poisoned. They would have killed me outright, she reasoned, reaching into the bag for a piece of plaice. They wouldn’t be keeping me alive, feeding me.
The suspicion that it could be her last meal whispered to her as she picked up the chunk of fried fish. She’d heard about that on television newscasts, read about it in newspaper articles. “The condemned man ate a hearty last meal.” Well, if it was her last meal she wasn’t going to her death hungry. Which she was.
She ate more quickly than she intended, than she normally did, barely chewing before she swallowed each mouthful. The fish was still warm, and she had a sense of it being light and crispy on her tongue before she swallowed. A capped Styrofoam cup emblazoned with the same company logo held water, and Dena drank greedily, finishing most of the contents before she set the cup back on the chair seat. She grabbed several chips, thick cut and slathered with vinegar, and pushed them into her mouth. Her teeth crunched into the crisp exterior as she quickly swallowed and reached for more chips. This time she chewed more slowly, aware of the skin on the potato slices, the roughness of the salt, the smell and sting of the vinegar as it washed against the raw skin inside her cheek. She swallowed slowly and finished the fish.
There was no serviette proper in the paper bag—an oversight by her thoughtful abductor. Dena licked her fingers, then wiped them against the folded paper circling the exterior of the cup. Feeling better, she moved the cup to the floor, next to the crumpled up paper sack, and eased onto the chair. The cold metal bit into her back and for the first time she realized she must be in an occupied building. No one would run the air conditioning for one person.
This thought stilled some of the fear inside her. Wherever she was, she wasn’t alone. If she were in a public building, would anyone hear her if she called for help? But if she weren’t, if she was in her captor’s house, would her cries antagonize him? Would he come in and beat her into silence?
I need to know where I am. Probably not location, as a specific town or building, but general area. Then I can deal with my captivity.
Turning her head toward the light, she stared at the window. It was set high on the wall, as if it made room for a tall bedroom chest of drawers or bookcase. Or shelving to hold supplies, she added. A storeroom? A hospital? But wouldn’t a public place need an Exit sign above the door? There was none, she realized as she looked again at the door, but that did little to set her in a specific place. She turned back to the window.
The light eased through the window in pale yellow streams, broken by shifting shadows across the glass pane. If I knew where I was, which way the room was oriented, I could figure out if it’s morning or early evening. It can’t be Monday. Didn’t this happen on Monday?
She tried to think, to remember what she’d been doing, where she’d been before she woke up in this room. Had she been here a few hours or a few days? Did anyone even miss her? Would anyone find her car?
Dena stretched out her legs and pulled up the bottoms of her trousers. Rotating her legs slowly she looked at her skin. A small deep blue bruise tattooed the outer side of her right calf. Probably hit it on the car door when he dragged me out, she realized. She checked her arms and gingerly fingered her neck and face. She felt no cuts or dried blood. The bruise seemed to be the only physical souvenir of her abduction. Other than stiff muscles, she corrected herself and bent her knees again.
She placed her left hand on the chair seat and pushed herself to her feet. She stood for several seconds, wary of faint
ing, but the room remained still. Too still, for she heard nothing. Using her knees she nudged the chair over to the window, again traveling slowly, for she didn’t want to bend over and risk blacking out. The window seemed even higher now that she stood at it, but she centered the chair below it and placed her foot on the seat. As she eased herself up, she grabbed the windowsill and peered outside.
An eye level view of black asphalt striped in white paint greeted her. Several cars were parked within the confines of these strips but the majority of the tarmac was empty. A group of houses appeared at the farthest end of the car park, for that’s what it seemed to be. Their backs lined up along the lot and fences of high wooden pickets or stonewalls contained the back gardens. Trees edged the left-hand side of the car park, but what lay to the right Dena could not see. A vigorous clump of daylilies leaned against that edge of her window, obliterating further view.
I must be in a basement. But where and in what type of building? Her fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill as she stood on tiptoe, trying to see farther to each side. Tarmac covered nearly all the expanse before her, coming up to the window just inches below its bottom edge. The daylilies swayed in the breeze, alternately throwing the room into shadow and light.
Now that she could give a description, vague though it would be, she realized she could ring up Michael. Or 999. Even if she couldn’t get an address, couldn’t the police trace her mobile phone call, figure out the area from where it came? Surely that, with her description, would lead them to her and she’d be rescued. She looked at the room—her shoulder bag was not there. She patted her pockets. No mobile. She’d laid it on the car seat when she’d finished talking to Michael. No help would come. Sagging against the windowsill, she gave in to the fear welling within her and cried.
Minutes crawled by. Maybe it was hours. She wasn’t sure. Time became measured in the creep of the sunlight across the floor, the beat of her heart, the breaths she took. No sound reached her ears but her sobbing. She was aware only of her desperation, fear and the cold room. And the presumed images of her demise.
Swan Song Page 10
