SEVENTEEN
The improbability of the situation didn’t hit him at once. But as the blackening mound cracked from a sudden eruption of flame, McLaren leapt from his car. He ran around to the front of his house, grabbed the nozzle of the garden hose, turned on the water spigot and raced back to the driveway.
Flames at least three feet tall blazed in the thickening dusk, casting gigantic shadows across the hard-packed gravel drive. The flames bobbed like a boxer, coming back stronger and stretching for the sky, as though wishing to join the dark gray sky with the quickly blackening debris at its base. The flames glared yellow and white, blinding in their brightness and the backdrop of the darkening land.
McLaren flooded the burning mound with water, aiming first at the fire’s base and then spraying the top of the heap. The flames quivered and snapped at the deluge, as though screaming in their death throes. A finger of fire reached for McLaren as he redirected the water to that section. He stepped back, bending to avoid the flame, and soaked the mound until the water seeped from the rubble and pooled around his feet. He grabbed a stone, lay it near the smoldering remains and set the nozzle on the stone so that the jet of water pelted the heap. Then he ran to the tool shed in the back garden.
On being thrown open, the doors banged and vibrated slightly against the wooden structure. McLaren yanked a rake from the tool rack on the wall and ran back to the dying fire. As he raked through the burnt debris, tendrils of steam and smoke spiraled up from the still-hot remains. He pulled the charred residue from the fire’s center, spreading the ashes and chunks of debris in a wide arc on the drive. Then he tossed the rake onto the grass, picked up the hose, and again wet down the smoky remains. It sizzled and hissed as the water hit hot spots, and the steam shone light gray in the light from the car’s headlights.
McLaren spent several minutes alternately raking and watering the mound. When he was satisfied he’d extinguished the fire, he turned off the headlights and looked down at the mess of ashes and water. No red spark winked at him. An occasional sigh as the fire breathed its last seeped into the stillness, but other than that, it lay black and dying at his feet.
McLaren turned off the water and recoiled the hose, laying it near the house foundation. After locking his car, he unlocked the kitchen door and walked inside. As he laid the keys on the table, he glanced at his feet.
His shoes and lower portion of his trousers were sodden and splattered with ashes. Water oozed down his legs, into his socks, and seeped from his shoes. The floor was fast becoming a small pond.
He pulled off his shoes, socks and trousers, wadded them into a bundle, and deposited them on the top of the washer. Then he picked out a change of clothes, went into the bathroom, showered and redressed. As he was toweling his hair dry, it hit him.
For the fire to be burning as he drove into the driveway, the arsonist must have started it a minute or so before McLaren arrived home. The man must have been in the area, perhaps watching McLaren battle the blaze. Cursing himself for a fool, McLaren snatched a torch from the kitchen and dashed outside.
He walked around the house, playing the beam of the torchlight behind the bushes and clumps of flowers near the house foundation. Not that he expected the berk to be lurking there—if he ever hadbut he needed the assurance that he had checked. He jogged over to the stone wall paralleling the road and searched along its base on both sides for several hundred yards. The other section of wall that ran perpendicular to the road harbored no one, nor did the far side of the tool shed. He snapped off the torch and stood in the twilight, thinking.
Had he just obliterated any footprints or clues at the arson scene, not only while he extinguished the fire but also while he searched the area? And the fire itself…he knew the color of the flames and the smoke denoted the substance burning, whether accelerant had been used or if the fire was natural. Did that signify anything? He walked back to the house, poured a beer, made himself a roast beef and cheese sandwich, and rang up Jamie.
“You’ve ruffled someone’s feathers,” Jamie said, his voice sounding more concerned than amused.
“Great. I called you up to hear what I already know.”
“I’m just saying that I don’t want a repeat of June’s case, that’s all. Have you such a short memory?”
McLaren swallowed a bite of sandwich and muttered, “No. It’s all too vivid.” He glanced in the direction of the kitchen, as though expecting to see himself unconscious on the floor, where he had managed to drag himself after the beating.
“Then take it easy, for God’s sake. Someone’s upset with your investigation. I don’t want to visit you in hospital.” The other obvious visitation place he left unstated. “You have any suspicion who could have started the fire? Did it do any damage?”
“That’s the odd thing, Jamie. Whoever set the fire chose the driveway, where it would burn more or less harmlessly. If he was serious about this thing, why didn’t he torch the tool shed or my house? That would’ve made a lovely blaze.” He took a quick sip of beer. “Because he wanted to make a statement. The fire served to warn me, not physically threaten me.”
“Very slight difference between a warning and a threat, Mike. But I agree that it would have been at a nastier location if this person seriously thought to harm you. I repeat—who have you talked to who might be threatened by your questions?”
McLaren stretched, suddenly overcome with fatigue. “Well, maybe five people, not counting Nora, the mother.”
“Why not count the mother?”
Silence greeted Jamie’s question as scenes of June’s case flashed in his mind’s eye. Why, indeed, not count Nora? If it had happened once… McLaren finished his beer and slumped into the sofa cushions. Besides, if the woman had bouts of confusion, if reality and fantasy were so mixed in her mind that she acted out her delusions or the past, it could very well have happened. McLaren sighed heavily, not liking where the case was heading. He said, “I don’t want to think she’s responsible, that’s why. She’s had a hard few years. She’s trying to get to the truth about her daughter’s death. Someone that determined, that devoted…well, I just can’t consider her as my arsonist.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Jamie’s frustration and anxiety exploded into McLaren’s ear. “That’s first year probationer talking. No. It isn’t. I’m mistaken. A first year cop wouldn’t be that dumb. That’s Dim-witted and Head-in-the-Sand talking. Thick as two planks and one sandwich short of a picnic talking. If it was anyone else—Dena or your sister or me—you’d be foaming at the mouth, telling us to open our eyes and see that Billy Hughes or Doctor Crippen or Fred West weren’t the innocents they looked like. You’d be screaming at us that killers don’t usually look like monsters.” He took a breath, aware of his tightening neck muscles and the heat in his cheeks. Sometimes Mike could be so bloody nonchalant about his safety.
Jamie tried another tack. “Was there time for anyone you talked to today to get to your house and set the fire? Follow you home previously, I mean, so he’d know where you lived, then set the fire today? When did you finish up for the day?”
“A bit after teatime, I guess, though I didn’t note the exact time. I interviewed those people, as I said, then had a late lunch and did some research in the Chesterfield library for a bit. Maybe an hour.”
“Why Chesterfield? A bit out of your way, isn’t it?”
“Janet’s dad, uh, steered me to Temple Normanton, to confirm his alibi. Since I was there…”
“That library’s as good as any, sure.”
“After that I drove home.”
“Could anyone have followed you? How would someone know where you live?”
“Well, I didn’t hand out a card with my address on it,” McLaren barked. “Give me credit for some intelligence.”
“Not such a big concession. Even a moron has some intelligence.” As soon as he spoke, he knew he shouldn’t have. Silence wedged between them, and Jamie could envision McLaren’s
clenched jaw. He apologized, hoping he hadn’t strained their friendship, and added that his wife could supply McLaren with a long list of his other faults.
There was no response. Not for several more seconds, during which time Jamie considered apologizing again. But he was mad. It was admirable to help people, but Mike needed to think before leaping into the raging river. His tunnel vision frequently obscured any thoughts for his own safety. Jamie was considering apologizing again when McLaren said, “I know. I’m an idiot at times.”
Jamie nodded, frankly amazed McLaren hadn’t contested the point. “I don’t know about being an idiot, Mike, but you’re enthusiastic.”
“Nice way of saying I’m a nit.”
“I appreciate that you want to help people, that you’re trying to right the original wrong, but you won’t solve the case or endear yourself to your friends if you’re severely hurt. Think about that before you throw yourself in front of a speeding bus.”
“Why do Charlie Harvester any favors, right? He couldn’t get rid of me while we worked together, so why should I delight him now with a lengthy hospital stay?”
“Shelving Harvester for the moment, do you think anyone could have followed you home, Mike?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.” He started to reach for the beer mug, realized it was empty, then sank back into the sofa again. “Looking back, I didn’t realize I was always so damned careful when I was in the job. You know, Jamie. That’s drummed into us until it becomes second nature. But I was so damned, I don’t know…happy, confident, optimistic—and submerged in singing along to the tape in my car.”
“You weren’t checking your rear view mirror as frequently as you normally do.”
McLaren grunted and swung his legs onto the couch. “You do have a way with words. I would’ve said I did a complete cock-up and deserved what I got.”
“But it still doesn’t explain how whoever it was knows where you live. Following you home implies the fire wasn’t started when you were snuggled inside your house, you weren’t eating dinner or sleeping. The fire was already burning when you drove up. Which means your friend already knew where you live.” He let McLaren consider the implications before adding, “Who would know that? And don’t say Nora Ennis. I assume she knows, at least.”
“Yes, she does. But I can’t imagine her giving anyone my address. Why would she do that? There’s no need for her to do that.”
“I’d be rich if I knew a lot of things. Well, it’s something to keep you awake tonight. What else?”
“The color of the flames and the smoke.”
“What about them? Were they odd?”
“The fire burned primarily yellow and white. The smoke was thick and black.”
“I assume you don’t know what your lovely conflagration consisted of, what the arsonist burnt.”
“I’ll have a look in the morning. Poking about now, in the dark, won’t get me any answers. But no, I don’t know, although yellow and white flames usually denotes a petroleum base, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. And black smoke.”
“I guess he soaked whatever he used for the core of the fire with petrol or something similar.”
“You might detect an odor. All of the petrol might not have burned off.”
“Don’t know what that will tell me, but you’re right.”
“When you poke about tomorrow, you might find some sort of timed device. That might tell you something more.”
“What, like some rigged up gadget? A timer? God, I hope this berk isn’t that sophisticated.”
“Doesn’t have to be that elaborate. I was thinking of a candle. He could have put it inside something, like a cardboard box to protect it from the wind, set the thing beside the combustible material, lit the candle and left, and then when the candle burned down far enough it sets off the fire. Don’t need an Einstein for that.”
McLaren didn’t reply for a moment, his mind trying to recall something he’d heard a while back. As the conversation became clearer, he sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and leaned forward. His voice was low and tense. “He wouldn’t have had to get here before me today, Jamie. He could have been here, waiting for me, and ignited the fire when he was sure that I drove into Somerley.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. You said the fire was burning when you drove into your driveway.”
“It was. And the bloke could’ve been sitting safely in his car, laughing like a hyena as he watched me run around.”
“Then how—”
“Maybe my arsonist wasn’t someone I talked to today. Maybe it was from the group I talked to yesterday.”
“Then someone could’ve followed you home yesterday.”
“Yeah. And now knows where I live and fixed this warm reception for my return home today.”
EIGHTEEN
When Jamie recovered his composure he stuttered, “Uh, yeah. Sure. Makes sense. You were trailed to your house yesterday.” He broke off, the idea of some sinister, dark clad person tracking McLaren upsetting.
“I’m not saying that was how it was done,” McLaren returned. “Just that it would explain it.”
“Did you see anyone running away when you drove up?”
“Well, no.” McLaren yawned stretched again. “He could’ve been along the hedgerow by that time. Besides, it’s amazing how an inferno attracts your attention.”
“I believe it. Did you look around for tire tracks or trampled vegetation?”
“That wasn’t exactly on my mind, Jamie. After putting out the fire, it was too dark to explore. I’ll tackle that tomorrow. Besides, those are enough knotty problems for tonight. I need to relax my brain.”
“I just hope you relax your slap-dash method. Call if you need anything. And that doesn’t include a stretcher.”
Jamie rang off before McLaren could fire off his comeback.
McLaren finished his sandwich, took the dish and mug into the kitchen and put them into the dishwasher. He double-checked that the back door was locked, kicked off his shoes and turned off the light.
But he wandered into the back room and put on Janet Ennis’ CD. As the first song wove through the room, McLaren lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Darkness permeated the house and filled it with the mixture of nighttime magic and his apprehension of things associated with the night. He could have moved into his bedroom, turned on the light and read a bit to hold the monsters at bay. But he remained in the dark room, letting Janet’s voice wash over him, and thought.
Nora seemed emphatic about the circumstances of Janet’s death. The firefighter he had talked to yesterday underscored those circumstances, thereby lending credibility to Nora. But did Nora talk to McLaren during one of her lucid periods? Did she swing between rationality and fiction? And if so, during one of those fantasy moments did she confuse him with someone else, did she see his house as Janet’s and act out the fire episode by setting a fire on his driveway?
Those were hard questions to answer, and as Janet sang about the falling autumn leaves McLaren got up and padded into his office.
He flicked on the desk lamp, woke his computer, and typed Candidate for a Cold Case in the computer’s search bar. Seconds later he scanned the film credits. He nearly shouted and rang up Jamie as he read the film’s release date: November 2008. Two years after Janet had died.
McLaren sat back in his chair, his gaze alternately on the computer screen and his phone. Jamie helped him keep his thinking straight, but what did he need to talk over with his friend? The facts were not arguable. Charlie Harvester was wrong when he suggested to Nora that she wove the film into Janet’s accident. The movie wasn’t around when Janet died; she had nothing to confuse.
McLaren returned to the search bar and scrolled through the offerings. He opened a newspaper article and took notes as he read it. When he finished, he smiled. After he sifted through the fire debris tomorrow, he would contact the writer of the article. He put the computer to sleep, turned off the desk lamp, brewed a cup
of coffee and returned to the back room.
Janet was in the middle of “Love Me or Leave Me” and McLaren stood by the large window and looked out into the night-wrapped world. It was easy to imagine another era, to place Janet in that time of velvet-voiced singers lamenting their unrequited love. He could picture her on stage, the audience in darkness and a spotlight picking her out of the gloom. Her seamless sound would entrap the listeners, bring them to her world to show them her broken heart.
Like a vocal version of Eddy Duchin, McLaren thought, amazed he had dragged the 1930s pianist’s name from the recesses of his mind. Lyrical and silky, swan’s down floating on unruffled water—that was Duchin’s style. Satin smooth in a sea of boisterous jazz and swing. A caress in the turmoil of the day.
McLaren took a sip of coffee, letting the warmth of the liquid, and Janet’s voice, transport him back in time. His dad had talked about the torch singers who performed during World War II, the women who braved the rough conditions of the front line or who toured the military canteens to bring a bit of Home to the troops. The subjects of the songs didn’t vary much: women who loved and were left broken hearted, lost love, a love for someone who knew nothing about her, a romance that shaped a relationship. They carried a torch for their loves and sang about it in a bluesy, melancholy style. Though a few male singers were known in the field, women dominated. It was as though their hearts broke more easily or they could convey their grief more convincingly. The songs spoke to a generation who were forced apart by war and who knew the agony of separation and losing a love.
“She’d like you to have it,” Nora had told McLaren when she gave him the CD. “You’ll know my daughter better by listening to her. She is her voice, Mr. McLaren. That’s Janet. There’s nothing phony or stage-face about her. She is the same person wherever she is and that’s the person you hear in her voice.”
Torch Song Page 15
