“But you’ve got the spark the others lack,” she said, opening her handbag. A crack of thunder accentuated her statement. “And even if you’re merely a concerned citizen, you must admit you have the skill and experience most of us lack. You’ve got your detective training to help…you.” She added the last word as though she had really wanted to say ‘me,’ perhaps. But she let that go for the present.
“What makes you so certain of that?”
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, Mr. McLaren—seventy-three years, in case it makes a difference to you—and experienced as much of humanity as I have…” She shrugged and watched his eyes. They were nice eyes, hazel in color and expressive, capable of conveying his thoughts and emotions. Which, at the moment, were annoyance and curiosity, in spite of his better judgment. And which also complimented his blue shirt. She broke her gaze and reached inside her bag. “What would it take to make my daughter’s case your full time job right now?”
He ran his fingers through his short blond hair, sank back into his chair, and snorted. This had the unpleasant ring of this past June. Here it was September, and through two cases and three months he had not altered his job choice or opinion about cold cases: he’d never get rich taking them on. And at age thirty-eight he’d lost the enthusiasm, or ignorance, of youth and knew he had to work hard for a living. Glancing at his watch, McLaren said, “More time and money.”
“More time and money than what? Than you’ve previously been paid?”
“Considering I got not a sausage from the last case I worked—”
“Client couldn’t pay you?”
“The client was my fiancée and I took the case on as a favor.”
“Too many favors don’t keep the roof over your head.”
“Like I say, it’s no way to get rich.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. McLaren.” She paused, drawing her checkbook from her bag.
“About taking on your case.”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I’ve got two jobs of work looming, Mrs. Ennis. I haven’t time—”
“Two cases to investigate?” Her eyes suddenly sparked into life, bringing a suggestion of color to her ashen cheeks.
McLaren shook his head, annoyed by the subject. He slapped his fist on top of the chair arm. “Dry stone wall repairs. Near Bakewell.” He was deliberately vague, not wanting her to come to his work site and pester him about the case.
“These bits of repair will pay you more than taking on Janet’s case.”
He pulled in the corners of his mouth, annoyed at the woman and his half-hearted attempt to rid himself of her. She had no right to question his choice of livelihood. Why should he alter anything to please her? He tugged at the knot of his plaid tie. It hadn’t bothered him until now.
She must have sensed his building resentment or seen the glare in his eyes, for she said, “I am sorry, Mr. McLaren. That was uncalled for. But you can appreciate how I feel. I’ve been trying for five years to get my daughter’s murder case opened again.”
“Let me guess.” He said it more sharply than he had intended, irritated with her, himself and the subject. “Our lads in blue won’t listen to you.”
“Nothing to make a song about, at least, no.”
“Deaf ears.” He leaned forward and picked up the bill for their tea. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ennis, but even if I did take on your case, I don’t think you could afford my fee.”
“You haven’t told me what it is.”
He named his price, watching her intently.
She didn’t flinch at the amount. “I’d double that if you could find Janet’s killer.” His right eyebrow rose in skepticism and as he opened his mouth to reply, she added, “I’m serious. I’ve got the money. I can give you a check for the amount, so you’ll know it’s good.”
Recovering his composure, McLaren leaned back again. “It means that much to you, then.”
“Yes. And it will to you, too.”
“The money’s nice, I admit, but—”
“Oh, I’m not referring to the money, Mr. McLaren, though I suppose that will be welcome.”
“Then what?”
“I meant coming up against your nemesis again and proving him wrong after all these years.”
“My nemesis.”
“Yes. Charlie Harvester. The man you tangled with, the man who’s responsible for you leaving your police job last year.”
THREE
“It couldn’t have been very pleasant for you,” Nora Ennis continued as McLaren took a deep breath. He felt his heart was going to explode in his chest.
An eruption of thunder and lightning roared overhead, accentuating last June’s roar of words and shouts now whirling in his head. Rain pelted the window beside their table, ran down the glass and collected in a stream on the outside sill before dripping onto the pavement. The water lay in wide puddles or ran across the concrete to deepen the streams beside the curb. A bus lumbered up the road, spraying the water high into the air. McLaren watched a rain drop slide down the windowpane and collect others to it before it, too, dropped and broke onto the sill.
“Harvester.” McLaren managed to squeak out the distasteful name before his throat closed up. He turned back from the window and took a long sip of coffee before he could continue. “Harvester couldn’t have worked on your daughter’s original case. What’s he got to do with this?”
Now that she had McLaren’s interest and apparent agreement to take on her case, she allowed herself a smile. She hadn’t had much to smile about in five years, especially from the way the police had treated her. Now that this ex-cop sitting in front of her appeared to want to help she could see a bit of sunshine squeezing through the clouds. She nodded, stating that she was aware Harvester, as well as McLaren, would have been in their early thirties five years ago. “I know Inspector Harvester wasn’t the senior investigating officer on the case.” She poured herself another cup of tea. “Or should I more properly call him Detective-Inspector Harvester? It sounds more respectful.”
“Of which neither you nor I concur with, am I right?” He gave her a knowing look, having heard the slight edge to her voice when she had said the copper’s name.
“You haven’t lost your detective skills, at any rate. Am I that transparent?”
“When it comes to Harvester, yes.”
She smiled, noting McLaren’s avoidance of Harvester’s title. “You seem a capable man in many ways. I know brawn doesn’t necessarily equate to brains, but you’re muscular, tall and well built. Surely you can handle anything that comes your way without too much difficulty.”
“I’ve had my tussles and have usually won, yes.”
“And you can’t be much of a dunce if you’re a detective.” Her gaze seemed to enter his soul. “I think I’ve found the man for the job.”
McLaren colored slightly at the compliment and tried to gloss over it. “Right, then. You’ve done your research, got my interest and attention.” He downed the last of his coffee and set the mug on the table with a thud. “What’s your angle?”
“Nothing more than needing your help, Mr. McLaren. I told you about Janet.”
“You mentioned Harvester,” he reminded her, rather gruffly. “He’s obviously involved in the case, or you wouldn’t have brought up his name. Not even as a lie to rope me into reviewing your daughter’s murder. Since Harvester was with the Staffordshire Constabulary at the time your daughter died, and your case happened here in Derbyshire, in Darleycote, I believe you said.” He paused while she nodded. “And the fire was investigated by the Derbyshire Constabulary.” He paused, letting the significance sink in. “Well,” he continued, “he can’t have an obvious tie to your case.”
“No, but he has something to do with it now, because he is with the Derbyshire CID at the moment.” She paused and McLaren looked at her expectantly. The laughter from a nearby table floated over to them, filling the silence in their conversation. McLaren had nearly decided to tell Nor
a Ennis that he wasn’t interested in the case, no matter if he would be able to personally escort Charlie Harvester to jail for something as trivial as littering, when Nora said, “He reviewed the case when I talked to him.”
“And?”
“And he tossed it aside. He thinks I’m a nutter and should be in Bedlam.”
“Besides the obvious that Harvester is…” He paused, embarrassed that he had nearly called Harvester a four-letter word in front of the woman. Swallowing quickly, he said, “He’s a nit and doesn’t know his—” He felt the heat flood his cheeks, acutely aware that his feelings were running wild and he was losing control of his better judgment. He exhaled heavily and flashed an apologetic grin before finishing. “And he doesn’t know when to come in out of the rain. Why would he think you are anything other than a grieving mother?”
Nora glanced down at her trembling hands, squeezing them together as if in prayer before answering. “I’ve been diagnosed with early stages of dementia.” She said it so simply, so unemotionally, that McLaren nearly didn’t catch the significance of her statement. He mumbled his sympathy and asked if she had any family to help her. “No. I had only the one child, Janet.”
“And your husband?” He glanced at her ring finger. It was bare.
“He divorced me soon after Janet’s death.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Heart breaking, but not an unusual event, he thought. So many couples divorce after a child’s death.
A flash of lightning lit up the sky across the street but Nora seemed not to notice. She laid her checkbook on the table and opened it. “I’ve had nearly five years to get over it,” she said quickly.
“No one does completely.”
“No, they don’t. At least, I didn’t.” She paused, her pen ready to write. “Do you want half your fee now? I don’t know how this works, but I suppose a retainer of some amount is appropriate.”
“I haven’t said I’d take the case, Mrs. Ennis.”
“Oh!” Her round eyes mirrored her surprise.
For an instant McLaren thought she looked incredibly young. A teenager, or a child, perhaps. Startled and slightly hurt, as though not receiving an expected gift.
Her shaking hand went to the collar of her cardigan. “Sorry. I just assumed.”
“You were telling me about Harvester and his dismissal of your case.”
“That makes a difference to you?”
“I don’t know until I hear it. Would you mind telling me?”
“Not at all.” She laid the pen on the table, closed the checkbook and wrapped her hands around her teacup. The restaurant was not crowded, being a late Monday morning, and she spoke slowly, making certain she included all the pertinent details. “Every few months I go into the Buxton or Matlock police station to see if they’ve learned anything more about Janet’s death. Buxton, because I live in Buxton, and Matlock because Darleycote—the village Janet lived in—is right outside Matlock. Just north of it.”
“I know the spot, thanks.”
“I don’t nag them, please understand that, Mr. McLaren, but I feel I need to keep the pressure on them or else Janet’s death could slip into a permanent cold case.”
“Seems natural enough to me. So why does Harvester consider your inquiry a waste of time…for that’s what it sounds like from your description.”
“Mr. Harvester knows I have dementia. So he thinks, as I said, that I’ve lost my reasoning faculties and my memory.”
“Just because a person has dementia—”
“But there’s more. Harvester deduced my dementia, probably from my many visits to the station and from talking to him. He has dismissed me as having an obsession with the case and has hinted rather strongly that I’ve made up the whole thing.”
“Impossible. If the police have a report and your daughter died—”
“But it’s the way in which she died, and the verdict that labeled this case an accident, that has Harvester convinced I’m rattling on without good cause. That and the television film have made up his mind.”
“What television film?”
“Candidate for a Cold Case.” The words came out slowly, hardly more than a mumble, as though the very title damned her cause with McLaren. She let the significance of the title sink in, and in the pause was aware of the music playing in the background. ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’—an old song, a song Janet had sung. An omen? Nora pulled at the hem of her cardigan, smoothing out the bunched-up fabric, and again sought McLaren’s gaze. “It was on some time ago. I don’t even know if a DVD or anything is available. It was about a girl’s death, very similar to Janet’s case. Harvester knows the film and thinks I have confused the film with my daughter’s death.”
“Because you have dementia.”
Nora nodded, slightly embarrassed to hand McLaren the same facts that had led Harvester to his conclusion.
“Doesn’t surprise me that he’d not bother to investigate something so simple.” McLaren felt the familiar tensing of his neck muscles and was aware of his quickened breathing. Every time he came in contact with Charlie Harvester, however remotely…
“He won’t believe me, Mr. McLaren. In my working life I was a professor of anthropology. A rather good one, if I may repeat the opinions of my colleagues. I am the recipient of several honors and have written studies that are used in advanced degree courses at universities. Two years ago I finally retired but have tried to keep my mind active by being guest lecturer at universities and schools, and by serving as a guide on field trips to half a dozen countries.”
“But all this made no difference to…him,” McLaren said, unable to speak Harvester’s name. “Despite your intelligence and your obviously brilliant career.”
“I brought a letter from my doctor, who explained my condition and assured Mr. Harvester that I am lucid and know what happened to Janet, but he won’t listen or believe me. I don’t know if he’s too busy or what, but nothing seems to persuade him to look into the case.”
“So you’ve come to me.”
“The police and the firefighters were of the same opinion, that day Janet burned household rubbish in the incinerator and the burning got out of control and set the artist studio on fire. But she didn’t.”
“You know this for a fact? Were you there?”
“I wasn’t there, but I know my daughter. She would no more burn anything outside in unsafe, drought conditions than she would hold up a bank. It’s not in her nature. You see, as a child and into her teen years Janet was a Girl Guide. She was also a nature lover, even as an adult. She cared for the earth and its wildlife. She would know better than to run such a risk. A fire in those conditions…it’s inconceivable.”
“And that’s why you believe her death was not an accident. That someone else, perhaps, started that fire with her inside the studio.”
Nora pulled a photograph from a battered manila envelope and handed it to McLaren. The glossy paper had lost some of its sheen in spots, probably from rubbing against the contents of the bag, McLaren thought, and there were a few creases and damaged spots, but on the whole the photo had held up well. He found himself gazing at a thirty-something-year-old woman with dark brown eyes and shoulder-length brunette hair hinting at a 1940’s style. Her off-the-shoulder blouse emphasized the older era.
“This is Janet’s publicity photo,” Nora said, watching McLaren’s face. “Her fiancé, Miles Tyson, took it. Well, not officially her fiancé at that time…but later. He’s a professional photographer. That’s how they met, in fact. It’s a very good likeness. I always thought it caught her kindness. Sometimes that’s hard to see, isn’t it? People usually are concerned that the photo show how beautiful or handsome they are. Not that Janet wasn’t, but her kindness made her more beautiful. And I think it shines through here. But besides her talent, she was kind. Helped people all the time. Gave down-and-outers a hand up. She felt deeply for people. But I guess that isn’t what you need to know.” She shook her head and laid her hand on top of McLaren�
��s as he tried to return the photo. “Keep it. I’ve had it long enough. It needs to go to the man who will find the arsonist, her killer.”
FOUR
That had been this morning. He was home now. The storm had spent itself, leaving a fresh washed scent in the air. Seated in his back room, with the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, he tried to think rationally. Of course he didn’t want to get mixed up in a repeat of the Linnet Isherwood case. But Nora Ennis did seem sincere. And totally cognizant despite the early dementia development. Was there really something he could investigate?
He took another sip of coffee before re-reading the notes Nora Ennis had given him. Janet Ennis’ entire life had been reduced to one sheet of paper. Succinct, plain and short. Devoid of the colorful detail that makes life worth living. Settling back into the sofa, he grabbed the photographs. Nora had included a casual shot along with the professional portrait. The candid photo showed a confident, happy young woman dressed in worn blue jeans, a maroon T-shirt and sandals. She sat on top of a low stone wall, a flower in her hand and held out, as if offering it to the photographer. He laid that aside and picked up the second photo. The youthful face showed no signs of aging, so presumably the two had been taken about the same time. Janet still smiled, confident in her career, perhaps, and the underlying confidence shone from her eyes. But in the more formal, studio pose she seemed full of fire and ready to tackle anything.
McLaren sighed, the familiar feeling of infuriation creeping over him. He had stayed behind at the restaurant after Nora Ennis left, deliberating over whether or not it had been wise after all to agree to take the case, drinking the coffee pot dry and ordering another sandwich and hot tea, finally—much to the waitress’ annoyance, for it looked as though she were about to end her shift. But he had remained at the table, slowly finishing his meal and staring at Janet’s soulful eyes. Not that a woman’s eyes or beauty ever had any professional effect on him. He learned long ago not to get trapped by physical looks. But the story did intrigue him, especially when coupled with Harvester’s refusal to look into the case again. Maybe Nora and Janet deserved a second chance.
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