Jamie answered in a sleep-drenched voice but jerked fully awake after hearing McLaren’s voice. Fumbling for the bedside clock, he said, “What time is it?”
“Three minutes to six,” McLaren said, his voice edged with his apprehension. “Sorry for the ungodly hour, but I need your help.”
“You must, calling at this hour. Hold on.” He turned to his wife, who was stirring beside him, and said, “It’s just Mike, Paula.”
“Just so long as it’s not police work,” she mumbled before pulling the sheet over her head. “You need your day off.”
Jamie stood up, the handset of the cordless phone in his hand, and walked into the kitchen. He turned on the coffeemaker, grabbed a mug from the cupboard, and leaned against the edge of the worktop. “Okay, I can talk. What’s wrong?”
“Dena’s missing.”
The coffeemaker belched into the quiet. Jamie blinked, not certain he had heard correctly. “Dena! How do you know? What happened?”
McLaren related the night’s event and his conclusion. “You know her, Jamie. She wouldn’t set up an elaborate charade like this.”
“If she hated your guts she wouldn’t have tried for a reconciliation,” he agreed. “And there’s still no answer at her house or on her mobile, you said. Did you ring up her dad this morning?”
“No. We left it last night that he’d tell her to get in touch with me if he heard from her.”
“Did you check the hospitals again? Maybe she was brought in late last night.”
McLaren admitted he hadn’t. “But she’d have her ID with her. Surely her dad would’ve been called, and he would’ve called me.”
“Could do, I suppose. You call the hospitals, Mike—that’ll at least erase that possibility. I’ll look around, see if I can find out anything. Do you know what she was doing yesterday? I know she was coming over for dinner, but before that. Was she meeting a friend, or going shopping? It would narrow my search.”
“I haven’t a clue. She was talking with some people connected with the Kent Harrison cold case—she thought she’d have to do a bit of carrot-dangling with me. I don’t know who precisely she contacted, but it would have to be those named in the newspaper articles of the time. She wouldn’t have any way of knowing the minor players.”
“So,” Jamie said, grabbing a pencil and pad of paper from the message center, “people like Dave Morley, Blossom Armitage, the ex-wife and his girl friend.”
“I spoke to some of those, but no one but Morley said a thing to me about Dena preceding me.”
“Don’t know if they would, particularly. Dena’s just asking questions as a curious citizen. You represent The Law, no matter if you are once removed. Anyway, you don’t know what results she got, do you? Maybe no one aside from Morley spoke to her.”
“That’s true. The last I heard, she said she was going to meet a girl friend in Buxton, I think. She didn’t have anything particular to tell me. The previous day she’d left a message on my answering machine, telling me she had something to talk to me about. I assumed it was just about the cold case. A pep talk to talk me into taking it on.”
“So, no names were mentioned, then. She didn’t tell you that Clark MacKay ordered her out of his office, for instance.”
“Nothing. I’ve got nothing to go on as to where she was. Except when I last talked to her, she sounded like she was in her car.”
“Driving some place?” Jamie’s tone sharpened. He looked up from his note taking, the pencil point still on the paper. “Did she say where?”
“I don’t think she was driving. She said she could talk, so she wasn’t driving. But the acoustics didn’t sound right. You know,” he said, tired of going through the possible scenarios, “the full resonance of an enclosed space verses the thinness that the outdoors produces.”
“Were there any sounds you could identify?”
“Like a chiming clock tower bell, or ducks quaking or a train horn?” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the conversation and if anything had been in the background. But all he could recall was Dena’s voice and her enthusiasm and warmth flooding his soul. Opening his eyes, he said rather apologetically, “Nothing. Ducks would have steered you to Howden Reservoir, I guess.”
“Well, it was a good try. Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll find her. I’ll start with the key personnel in the case and work out from there. Luckily they aren’t scattered all over Derbyshire, so I’ll try the areas around her house and the castle first. I’ll find her,” he repeated, hoping McLaren would believe it.
“Sure,” McLaren said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “I know you will, Jamie. That’s why I rang you up instead of going through the regular steps. You’re the best. You’ll find her.”
He rang off, giving Jamie his promise that he’d call him the minute he heard from Dena—and getting Jamie’s promise should he find her. He also promised he’d try to work on the case. “Keep your mind occupied,” was Jamie’s phrasing. He knows me, McLaren thought, setting his empty coffee mug in the dishwasher. Knows I’ll rush around the country like a mad man, trying to find her. Or slit my wrists in my depression. Or go insane, he added, staring out of the window at the just-risen sun. Which choice was better?
EIGHTEEN
Which choice was better? Jamie asked himself an hour later, getting into his car. He had showered, shaved and dressed faster than he thought possible at this early hour. But McLaren’s fright had crept over the phone. And for Michael McLaren to be shaken to the depths of his being meant that he loved that person very much. More than his own life.
They had discussed at length about involving Official Channels, a polite phrase McLaren mumbled between his clenched teeth. Jamie knew his friend’s real opinion, knew how he actually referred to them. But he also knew this was the proper way to proceed. Jamie leaned in that direction, reminding McLaren that with more manpower, police dogs, early press coverage, and local radio appeals Dena would be found faster than with their own makeshift two-man search. And since the circumstances of her disappearance implied a high level of concern, a team would be put on the case immediately, a team under the command of a DI or DCI. That gentle reminder alone might have squeaked past McLaren. But hearing the words “uniform branch,” “CID involvement,” and “search teams” opened the floodgates, and all of McLaren’s pent-up frustration and fear broke from him in a torrent of four-letter words. His maverick streak flared up, and he quickly killed any and all contemplation of constabulary involvement. Did he realize he could be gambling with Dena’s safety, Jamie asked. Yes, McLaren whispered, but he could not bring himself to crawl back to the people, however innocent these specific ones were, whom he still associated with the injustice heaped on him last year. Asking for police help, whether it came from Derbyshire, Greater Manchester, Staffordshire or any other constabulary, was akin to asking Charlie Harvester personally for help. Besides, if the Derbyshire lads became involved, word would leak out to Harvester, which was one thing McLaren never wanted. He would look for Dena for the rest of his life, if need be, but he would never let Harvester become a part of the search. It would be like letting the devil into Paradise.
Jamie had reluctantly agreed to McLaren’s heart-wrenching plea, to keep this between themselves. A decision that now, an hour later, already ate at Jamie’s heart and gut. He briefly considered ignoring McLaren’s entreaty and instead call in the Force, but that would destroy their friendship. And Jamie would rather die than do that.
So how should I begin, Jamie wondered as he turned his car key in the ignition. Search the places or zero in on people she might have talked to? He backed the car out of the garage, then paused as he stared up the road. Was he about to bring joy or devastation to McLaren? His throat closed up for one brief moment as he imagined McLaren’s grief over Dena’s disappearance. No matter what his search would reveal, he had to learn where she was. McLaren would do the same for him if Paula were missing.
There was not much traffic yet at seven o’clock when he le
ft his home in Castleton and turned off the B6061 onto the A6. He had decided to start at Dena’s house, maybe ask any neighbors up and about if they had seen her Tuesday afternoon. It was only Wednesday morning, so memories should still be fresh. From there…well, he told himself as he passed a lorry, from there I’ll see. It depends on what I find at her home. He settled back, his mind already forming the questions he’d ask, the people he’d talk to. Having a plan lulled him into believing he was in control.
He made good time getting into Buxton, for the office and store crowd had not yet hit the roads for work. He sailed around Buxton’s eastern edge, passing Morrisons grocery store, then zooming between the low, dark stonewall edging the copse and the River Wye. He was barely immersed in the tunnel of leafy trees and giant ferns when he was once more in the open, headed down the A515 for Kirkfield.
Dena’s house looked deserted. Still, he parked, got out of his car, and rang the front door bell. He listened, barely breathing as he prayed she’d appear. But no sound came from inside the house—no radio, television, conversation or ringing phone. It was as if all the interior contents had been scooped up, leaving a four-sided stone shell.
The milk delivery, a pint of cream and a quart of milk, sat next to a ceramic container of geraniums on the porch. He touched the glass bottle. The milk was warm. So was the cream container. He rang again, then knocked, and after waiting for a few minutes, walked around to the back garden. Every window and door was closed and locked, although the curtains and blinds had not been drawn. Because she hadn’t returned home Tuesday afternoon, or because she had left the house this morning before he got here? But he dismissed that idea as quickly as he thought of it. Dena wouldn’t play such an outrageous trick; she was in trouble.
No footprints marred the surface of the soil, nothing like a torn-off button or spot of blood littered the drive or pavement. No broken or bent plants or tree branches spoke of a lurking kidnapper. The house and grounds appeared normal, as if Dena had just left on an errand. Which might be what really happened, Jamie thought. And while on that errand or on her way to meet a friend, someone abducted her.
The few neighbors who were out had no idea where Dena was, let alone knew she had gone missing. Dena’s father, on being called, had not heard from her. Nor had the relatives he had talked to. Jamie sat in his car and rang up McLaren to report his lack of progress.
“Hardly a lack,” McLaren said, the phone handset imprisoned between his left ear and shoulder. He sat on the edge of his bed, bent over, struggling into his shoes. “You’ve established there’s no sign of a forced entry into the house, that there was no struggle outside to abduct her, and that no one was lurking near the house.”
“But I haven’t found her. Or even found a trace of where she could be.” He paused, debating if he should mention the police again. If ever there was a time to ignore past differences and call in the professionals. Jamie’s annoyance at McLaren’s stubbornness slipped out in an angry rush. “Something’s bloody well wrong, Mike, and you need to get the coppers on to this.”
“Not yet. This is the first place you’ve looked. Wait a bit before we do something stupid.”
Jamie knew what McLaren meant but purposely misread it. “The only stupid thing, Mike, is not getting the CID involved.”
“I don’t want anything to do with them, Jamie. We talked about this already—”
“Yeah, we did, and I still think you’re making the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. Her house looks all wrong. Something’s happened to her. The cops need to be told.”
“Because she doesn’t answer the doorbell, you’re ready to call in the Mounties.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the whole setup. Your unreturned phone calls, her missed dinner date with you, her eagerness to get back together. These things don’t add up to a simple instance of forgetfulness. You know that, too, if you’d be honest with yourself. You were ready enough last night to admit it.” He sighed deeply before adding, “I don’t like the look of it, Mike. Where is she?”
McLaren’s shoe slipped from his grasp, thudding onto the floor. He stared at Dena’s photo, smiling at him from his bedside cabinet. His heart rate kicked into high gear again. “You’re right, Jamie. It smells. I’m not thinking straight.” He broke off for a moment, trying to make a decision. “Do something for me, will you, Jamie?”
“I’m outside her house right now. Of course I’ll do something for you. What?”
“Kick in the door.”
“Kick in—”
“Get inside. Smash down the door, break a window. Anything. I don’t care. But get inside that house.”
“I’ll force an entry in the least obvious spot, maybe around the back.”
“Fine. Whatever. Do a thorough search. For Dena, for any lead as to where she might have gone. A thorough search.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m trying not to.” Having finished with his shoes, he straightened up and walked into the front room.
“What luck did you have with the hospitals? I assume nothing, or you would’ve phoned me.”
“I did have luck. She’s not in any of them.”
“Smashing! How are you doing?”
A brief silence wedged in between their words. Jamie could imagine McLaren lying on the sofa, a bottle of beer on the nearby table, the curtains drawn against the sun. McLaren had a tenacious hold on his sanity anyway, just crawling out from beneath a year-long bout of depression. Dena’s disappearance did not aid his escape from his emotional quagmire.
Jamie tried again, consciously keeping his voice upbeat. “How are you, Mike?” He raised his gaze heavenward, praying McLaren would sound focused and determined.
“I’m in hell. How do you think I am? Especially after your little pleasantry.” Glancing at his car key on the coffee table, he said, “I-I’ll go mad without her, Jamie. I want her with me—always. I-I love her more than my life.” Now that he had admitted his feelings to another person, they seemed stronger, more real. As if he couldn’t deny their existence or the hold on his heart.
“I know, Mike.”
A sudden wall of silence fell between them and Jamie had a quick mental flash of McLaren downing a beer. He said quickly, “You still there?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“What’s that mean?”
A drawn out sigh answered him.
Jamie shook his head. The day was going downhill fast. He repeated his question.
“I’m not gonna top myself, so don’t worry.”
“One blessing for the day, at least.”
McLaren stared at the key, wondering if he should help Jamie search, if he should stay by the phone in case Dena called, if he had the personal resolve to go on with the case while Dena haunted his mind. He whispered, “I won’t have a life if—”
“I’ll find her, Mike,” Jamie broke in, his voice sharp. “I’m good at this, remember?”
“Sure. Yes. I know. It’s just that…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I know how you feel.” He glanced at the house, at the front door and windows. McLaren must be near panic, letting him sift through Dena’s personal things… He cleared his throat, an idea forming in his mind. It might work…and it might also save McLaren’s sanity. “Uh, Mike?”
McLaren’s “Yeah?” was barely more than a grunt.
Jamie continued. “Why don’t you search Dena’s house?”
“What?”
“You search her house. You need the physical activity. I’ll drive around a bit, look for her car. Your sitting behind a steering wheel won’t do anything to relieve your stress. Besides, I don’t think it’s safe for anyone if you cruise the roads right now. You do the search and let me find her car.”
“That…that’d be fine.” He paused, not knowing what to say. If he could find some evidence that showed where Dena had gone. “Thanks, Jamie. I-I’ll be right there. I’m dressed. We won’t have to break in at all, then. I’ve got a key. She ga
ve it to me last year when we…” He trailed off, realizing he was talking complete nonsense.
Jamie seemed not to notice. “If you have a key, I won’t wait for you, then. I’ll get started looking for her car.” He refrained from stating that every minute was important to their search. “Don’t worry, Mike. Concentrate on your job and I’ll do what I can from my side. You’ll see. We’ll find her. With both of us on her trail we’ll have some answers very soon.”
“Sure, Jamie. I know.” He considered suggesting a few places to look for the car, but just as quickly disregarded it. That would be as great an insult as if he had deliberately called Jamie some derogatory name. He said, “I’ll have my mobile with me. Call me the minute you find out anything.”
“I will, Mike. You don’t have to tell me. Uhh…I know her car—a red MG—but do you know the make and registration plate number? I’d like to be certain the car’s hers if I find one fitting the description.” He scribbled down the plate number, thinking he would call in heavier guns for this job. “Got it.”
“You’ll ring me the first second you find something.”
“Yes, Mike. Stop worrying.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He rang off in another stream of apologies.
Jamie pocketed his mobile and stared once again at Dena’s house. Maybe I should wait until Mike arrives. From the state he’s in, he’ll break the front door down while he’s turning the key in the lock. He’s that concerned. But I understand. He loves the woman. It’s also in his demeanor to care about people. It’s what made him a super copper, and what makes him a top-notch private investigator—if he ever acknowledges that’s what he’s become. That drive to help the victim, to see that justice rules in the end. That’s Michael McLaren. The guy who believes that bending a few rules is worth it because the end will always justify the means. Victims first, criminals and their rights a bloody poor second. That’s Michael’s badge and code, and there probably aren’t many victims whom he’s helped who would disagree.
Turning the key in the car’s ignition, Jamie glanced at the car registration number on his notebook page before peeling away from the curb.
Swan Song Page 15
