“Was she as particular about her every day clothes? Nice looking, name brands…that sort of thing.”
“I guess. I don’t really know. She didn’t walk around in a frumpy T-shirt or worn out slippers, if that’s what you mean. But like I said, I don’t know women’s brands. She always looked good, dressed to the nines.”
“Evidently she had the bank account to support this, then.”
“Sure. Why not? She made good money from the music and the performances. From her catering company, too. She wasn’t hurting for anything that I know of. She wouldn’t have planned on giving us raises at the end of the year if she couldn’t afford it.”
“Sounds like a generous lady.”
“She was that. Gave her mum a nice coat and a new telly. She could buy damned near anything she wanted, within reason.”
“No yacht or private jet.”
“No. Maybe in a few years.” His voice trailed off and his face blanched, as if his unvoiced “had she lived” reverberated off the tearoom walls.
“Did she have enough money to buy drugs?”
“What, like cocaine?”
“Or pot. Maybe she wasn’t a user but she could have bought it anyway.”
“And given it away because she was so generous, you mean?” Bruce snorted, throwing back McLaren’s word. “Janet and drugs didn’t mix. She didn’t use and she didn’t buy. Simple as that. Black and white, her opinion was on the subject. She had her rules for the trio and we knew them and knew what it meant if we violated those rules. She lived by those rules, too. I suppose she had enough money to buy anything like that, but she didn’t.”
“So no one in the trio used. How about other associates or friends? If someone used pot, for instance, did her rules pertain to them?”
The back of Bruce’s hand ran across his mouth and he nodded. “Yeah. Funny, but I haven’t thought of that in five years. Guess I shut it away after…” He tapped his knuckles against his lips, his gaze on McLaren’s face. “Our first set was over one night and I thought about nipping outside for a breath of air. Some of those clubs get kind of stuffy, you know. I’d just turned the corner from where our room was when I saw Janet and Miles by the back door. They were arguing so I stopped.”
“Miles Tyson, her fiancé. Could you make out what they were discussing?”
“Was hard not to. I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but the subject and Janet’s anger drew my attention.”
“She was mad, then.”
“Explosive, more like. She caught Miles backstage selling pot to a club janitor. She was furious but Miles said it was no big deal. He tried to laugh it off but Janet saw nothing funny about it. She told him she wouldn’t tolerate any drugs around her and it made no difference if he was a dealer who didn’t use or if he was an addict, she wouldn’t have it.”
“When was this?”
Bruce screwed up his face, thinking. “Oh, a month or two before the accident.”
“Not later, then? Say, a week before she died?”
“No. It was at The Soul’s Dance, a jazz club in Manchester. I remember the date because that was our second appearance there. We’d played it six months prior and the management wanted us back. Janet was jubilant, said we were about to hit the big time if a club like The Soul’s Dance asked for a return engagement. She pointed out again the necessity for us to be professional, well mannered and prompt. Said a good impression was worth as much as a thousand quid spent elsewhere on marketing. Reminded us that one bad performance or bad attitude, or rudeness shown by us could have vast repercussions.” Bruce sagged forward in his chair. “The music world is small. Word travels fast among club owners and concert bookers. If an act is difficult to deal with, if members are impolite or trash the dressing room, for example, the act’s out of a job. Janet didn’t want that. Well, none of us wanted that. We’d all worked our bums off getting to where we were. Which is why she was over the top with Miles. All that yelling for a bit of weed.”
“Had you ever seen Miles smoke pot?”
“Never. That’s why this was such a shock, hearing him admit he sold the stuff. He never gave any indication around me that he did that. I never smelled it on him, either, so I assume he was clean.”
“What was Miles’ reaction to Janet’s tirade?”
“Cool as a cucumber. I could see he wasn’t perturbed by her concern. He tried to tell her it was no big deal, that he hadn’t sold that much. He said he’d never get caught with anything on him, that he knew how to keep his stuff from being found, so there wasn’t a question of him getting nabbed by the police for intent to sell. The amount was under the limit for prosecution.”
“What did you think that meant? Have you any idea where Miles would have hidden the drug prior to selling it, if that’s what he implied?”
“I suppose somewhere in his house. Maybe he had a wall safe behind a picture or kept it in a canister marked Flour in the kitchen. I’ve not been to his house so I don’t know where he could hide something like that. And it wouldn’t make sense to keep it at a friend’s place. Every time he wanted to sell some, he’d have to go to the friend’s house. Too inconvenient.”
“How long did the argument last?”
Bruce shook his head. “I didn’t time it, if that’s what you mean. I came in on them when it was already going on. But I stood there listening for maybe a minute. When they broke it off I still had most of my break left.”
“What happened, what was the outcome?”
“I never found out ’cause they walked off. Miles opened the street door and followed Janet outside.”
“Taking their altercation somewhere more private.”
“Don’t know about that, but the alley’s good enough for that sort of thing. I felt embarrassed at having listened, but I was curious about Miles. He always professed to be such an upright bloke, supportive of Janet and the group. I don’t know. People always amaze me.”
Which, McLaren thought as he rose to leave, was as good a way to say it was another instance of someone letting someone else down.
* * * *
McLaren exchanged tapes in his car’s tape deck and sang along to “Time is Winding Up” as he drove to the pub. He wasn’t bragging when he acknowledged he had a good singing voice. Many people had told him that. So it always astonished him when he sat with his sister Gwen in church and heard the cacophony that she called singing. She sang hymns out of tune with a gusto that belied her search for the correct note. God would surely give her high marks for trying.
The Split Oak doubled as McLaren’s office away from home and his favorite drinking spot. He had no set day to meet Jamie there, usually whenever they had a case to talk over or Jamie’s wife was out of town or McLaren needed his friend. Which, considering the array of choices, made their meetings there fairly constant.
The pub’s interior of polished oak paneled walls, old porcelain pitchers, jugs and plates, and age-yellowed maps never failed to cheer him, no matter how grueling his day had been. The welcoming embrace he felt on entering the main room was nearly as soothing as Dena’s. It took him back to his childhood, where great aunts and uncles and grandparents welcomed him to their Victorian-style homes. Clutter was not his thing, but he couldn’t deny that within the paneled interior and old plates ringing the walls he sensed a coziness and embrace. Maybe the personal objects of past lives stretched invisibly to him, linking him with those others. He never had those warm and fuzzy feelings when he walked into a modern décor building.
Jamie signaled to McLaren as he entered the pub and, after getting his pint at the bar, McLaren joined Jamie at the table.
“You look fine,” Jamie said as McLaren took a sip of beer.
“Why shouldn’t I?” McLaren asked, setting the glass mug down on the beer mat.
“Just checking your health before I hit you with the bombshell, that’s all.”
McLaren eyed his friend. Jamie’s jokes were nothing new to McLaren, but this approach made him wary. His hand wrapped
around the mug and he cautiously said, “Why? What do you know, or am I suppose to buy you a round before you let me in on the secret?”
“I’ll have another Bass, ta.”
McLaren glared at Jamie but got up to get the drink. When he returned to the table, he said, “This better be worth more than the two quid I just paid out for your pint.”
“You’ll think it a bargain and praise my sleuthing ability, on top of that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let ya know. Spill it.”
“I assume you refer to my golden titbit and not the beer.” He grinned, the light catching the hints of red in his otherwise light brown hair. The hair color suited him, McLaren thought. A soft hue to go with Jamie’s light laughter. A darker shade would have visually shortened him. Which would come as a greater surprise to those unfortunate enough to discover the hardened, toned muscles in the man’s slight physique.
“It will be the beer—and in your lap, too—if you don’t cut the clowning and tell me.”
Jamie nodded, said something about impatience and people having no time for humor. “You may find it interesting to know that a quantity of marijuana was found in Janet Ennis’ house.” He eyed McLaren, waiting for the reaction.
It wasn’t slow in coming.
“What?” McLaren looked around the immediate vicinity. No one seemed to have heard him or paid him any attention. He lowered his voice and said, “Are you daft? Pot? In Janet’s house? Where’d you hear this?”
“I’m sure. And I didn’t hear it any place. I read it in the police report.”
“Who was the SIO?”
“Like, you’ll believe it if it’s some bloke you respect?”
“Trust is a more accurate word, but yes.”
Jamie eyed his friend. They didn’t have to voice Harvester’s name. The inference was there. Jamie mentioned the senior investigating officer’s name, then added, “He doesn’t lie, Mike. You know him. Straight as an arrow. Never been a suspicion of anything underhanded or not quite illegal under his command.”
“Yeah, I know. I just can’t imagine Janet Ennis with pot in her house. Where’d he find it? How much was there? If you tell me she was cultivating it in the basement, I’ll move to Fiji and become a hermit.”
The hermit comment very nearly hit the mark. McLaren had been dangerously close to embodying that trait months following his resignation from the police. And while Fiji didn’t seem like his friend’s style, Jamie couldn’t be certain it wasn’t in McLaren’s future.
“The team discovered a large quantity of marijuana.” Jamie watched McLaren. “Fifteen ounces. Evidently she, or whoever it belonged to, didn’t want it found, for it had been placed beneath the sofa.”
“A bit of a nod to secrecy, I agree, but it is a Class B drug.”
“Five years plus a fine,” Jamie said. “If they don’t get a caution instead.”
“Bit of an odd place for someone to keep her pot if she’s a regular user. Why not the coffee table or kitchen cupboard?”
“There you’ve got me. I’m not a user.”
“Fifteen ounces.” McLaren mulled over the implication. “That’s enough to traffic. You don’t know if she did, I assume.”
“This is the first occurrence of any drugs in her possession—first we know about, at least. Doesn’t look good for her, does it?”
McLaren shook his head. Cannabis and Janet Ennis didn’t add up. Not that musicians were all saints. Back stage culture was well known. But he couldn’t conceive Janet’s personality with smoking pot. Or selling it.
Jamie said, “You ready for another non sequitur?”
“Sure. Might as well get it all over with at once.”
“The plastic bag that the pot was in…” He paused, readying himself for McLaren’s reaction. “The bag was devoid of fingerprints.”
TWENTY-ONE
No yelp came from McLaren this time. He muttered a barely audible “Bloody hell” and stared at the tabletop.
“If you or I had been on the case,” Jamie said when the silence grew too thick between them, “we would’ve been so skeptical that we wouldn’t have been able to sleep.”
“Cynicism does that, yes,” McLaren said. “Who wipes off his fingerprints from anything he touches in his own house?” He mumbled, “Bloody hell,” again and took a long drink of his beer.
“Have you talked to anyone who has a motive?”
“For killing Janet or for planting the pot?”
“Both. Either. It might be the same person.”
McLaren recounted the people he’d spoken to and his impression of their motives. “As to alibis…” He shrugged, as though it had no bearing on his investigation. “Everyone has one. No one has one. They were all together or alone. I don’t know right now who’s lying. I need to think.” He downed the last of his beer. The glass mug thudded onto the beer mat.
“That reminds me. You think any more about who could’ve set that fire at your house?”
“A frightened suspect.”
“Who is…?”
McLaren’s right eyebrow shot upward and he snorted. “You’re joking.”
“You must have an idea.”
“I repeat my earlier statement—everyone. No one.”
“Can’t be. Think, Mike. Who did you tick off or anger? No one commits arson without motive. Even those lunatics who set fires because they like to see them burn have a reason.” He looked at McLaren to see if a flicker of suspicion lit his face. “When was the fire again?”
“Yesterday.”
“Wednesday. Okay. Who’d you talk to Tuesday?”
McLaren leaned forward, his forearms on the tabletop. “Nora. But I can’t see her setting a fire. Why would she ask me to take on the case and then turn around and sabotage it?”
“You’re forgetting this past June.”
“No, I’m not. I’ll never forget June. I just don’t think Nora would do that.”
“Fine. Wear your blinkers. Who else?”
McLaren ticked off the names on his fingertips. “Helene Brogan, Janet’s partner in the catering company.”
“How’d she seem? Angry Janet had died and left her managing the business by herself?”
“Not at all. Very helpful and concerned.”
“May be a front, may not be. Who else?”
“Dan Wilshaw. He was Janet’s pianist.”
“How’d he come across?”
“Quite believable. Sorry for Janet’s death. Seemed like a true friend.”
“I can’t see him killing her and doing himself out of a job.”
“Unless there’s some personal problem that got out of hand.”
“Is there?”
“I’ve not discovered anything yet. Alan Ross, Janet’s bassist, is a real piece of work, though. About as low on the scale of Humanity as anyone can get.”
“No empathy for her death, I take it.”
“Oh, he’s got heart, but it’s all for himself. He was mad as hell that Janet didn’t pay him more. One of their discussions about his salary could’ve got out of hand.”
“Wonder how you could find out.”
“But I didn’t talk to him until today.”
“Cancel Mr. Warmth’s humanitarian award for the year.”
“Janet’s father is also in the running for the award.”
“Terrific group of guys she surrounded herself with. Next.”
“Janet’s neighbor, Ian O’Connor, came in while I was talking to Miles Tyson. Miles was Janet’s fiancé. But Ian’s a minor player. He’s not involved with Janet’s trio or her catering business. Just seemed like a friendly sort who liked his neighbor.”
“So the barking dog or late night noise angle is out. Still, I suppose any of these people could have a motive that’s not obvious yet.”
McLaren nodded and slowly rotated his empty beer mug. The crowd at the far end of the room loudly encouraged a new player to try his hand at Ringing the Bull, a game in which the objective is to throw a metal ring onto a
metal hook on the wall, with the ring connected to a rope and the rope suspended from the ceiling. The ring is then swung in such a fashion that it settles on the hook. The player held back, seeming to want to be coaxed. McLaren turned back to Jamie. “I can’t rule out any of them following me home. I hate to admit it, but I wasn’t particularly diligent watching my back side.”
“So anyone could have followed you and learned where you live, then set the fire yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“Or even phoned someone later.”
“Meaning what?”
“Someone you rattled or angered could’ve rung up a muscle-bound lad, who came over once your angry suspect learned where you live.”
“Super.”
An ear-splitting cheer rose from the game players as the newcomer’s ring throw made two complete circles before landing squarely on the hook.
McLaren said, rather as an afterthought, “I also talked to Corey Chappell. He’s one of the firefighters who attended Janet’s fire.”
Jamie looked enviously at McLaren. As a working police officer, Jamie wouldn’t have been able to pursue that route, but McLaren had no such restriction.
“Corey was belligerent at first,” McLaren confessed, “and didn’t want to talk.”
“But you persuaded him.”
“Good word choice. I can’t see him starting the fire on my drive, though.”
“You ever hear of the lust for power, when arson is committed by firefighters?”
* * * *
Eva Lister picked up the phone receiver. The ringing that woke her from her nap stopped immediately and she stumbled into the kitchen. Pinning the receiver between her shoulder and side of her head, she filled the electric kettle with water before seating herself at the table. “It’s about time you called.” Her tone held the annoyance of disrupted sleep and martyrdom. “What took you so long?”
“First time I could call. I can’t exactly talk freely about this, you know.”
“So you got rid of little prying ears, I assume.”
Torch Song Page 19
