Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I know there are such things as incompetent or uncaring cops, bribes, influenced juries.”

  Kathryn bent her head back and kissed his jaw. “I know you’re worried, honey, but I really don’t believe Helene’s got any chance at all with this. We’ll give her the elbow and you’ll see how fast you’re shut of her. Now, you hungry? What do you want?”

  “Another beer.”

  “No, you don’t. You want food. Everything looks less dire when you’re not so peckish.” She got up and turned on the lamp. “It’s better already. More cheery. What do you say to lamb chops, leftover bubble and squeak, and a salad? Stay there, it’s my night to cook.”

  He didn’t tell Kathryn, but he had no intention of moving. Looking back outside, he stared into the rain and wondered how he could get rid of Helene.

  * * * *

  The rain had not yet moved into the Hope Valley. Leaving Jamie in the pub, McLaren drove the few miles to his house, the stone farmhouse in which he’d grown up. Funny he’d never thought of it before, but now that he considered the house and the land, he’d been surrounded by his new career all his life, even as a child. Maybe his work as a repairer of dry stone walls had been inevitable, ordained from his birth. Maybe he’d gravitated to it when he resigned from the police last year, grabbing onto something that offered familiarity and comfort like an old friend, something that didn’t talk back or sabotage your future.

  He slowed his car as he made the turn by the cliff face. The wood was denser here and the road slightly narrower. As he passed the rocky outcrop he glanced in the rearview mirror, then leaned forward to peer around the bend. The road was deserted; there’d be no repeat of June’s incident.

  The car’s headlights swept across the spent long grass and wildflowers bordering the road. Leaves tinged with red, yellow and orange lay thick between the wizened stems, filling the air with the pungent aroma of dead vegetation. Several dried leaves by the roadside rose in a spiral and chased his car for a few yards before falling again to earth.

  McLaren settled back in the car seat and selected “Green Fields” by the Brothers Four on the CD. The slow tempo suited his mood; he had a lot to think about. He had even more a minute later, for as he turned the car into his drive he saw his garden shed on fire.

  He jammed on the car’s brake, set the hand brake, and leaped out. The roof and the side of the shed facing him were a wall of flames, greedily reaching to the lowest tree branches just feet above. McLaren ran to the front of the house, grabbed the garden hose, turned on the tap full force, and dashed back to the shed. He soaked the branches nearest the fire, then directed the water onto the structure. The wood snapped and sizzled when the water hit the hot surface. McLaren swept the stream of water back and forth, then dashed around to the other side of the shed.

  The fire had not taken hold here as strongly, although some fingers of flame lapped at the overhanging eaves of the roof. He sent a blast of water along the eave line, then soaked the three sides of the shed before returning to the main section of fire.

  The flames were more intense here, a blanket of heat that pushed McLaren back several feet. He angled his head to divert the full brunt of the temperature from his face, and squinted against the glare. The white paint crackled and snapped along the burn line and threw back the intense light of the flames. He shaded his eyes with his left hand, took a step closer to the fire, and felt the hair on the back of his hand curl and singe. But he retreated quickly as several asphalt shingles slid down the roof and landed where he had been standing. The grass turned black around the burning mass and he doused it with water until the pile sighed and smoke ceased to rise.

  He had just soaked the foundation, fearful that more dry grass and brush would catch fire and spread, when he saw a movement near the far corner of his house. He turned, staring for a precious moment. Yes, a dark figure rose from the bushes near his bedroom. He yelled and the figure bolted across the lawn.

  McLaren dropped the hose and charged after the figure. His way was lit for several yards by the light from the fire, his shadow jerking and stretching before him as he ran into the night. Even beyond the reach of the firelight he could make out the runner. Though the arsonist was hardly more than a murky movement on an indistinct backdrop, McLaren could track him easily enough. The crunch of dry leaves and the snap of old tree branches marked the runner’s route as clearly as if he’d yelled out his directions.

  They crashed through the bushes separating his front garden from the road, the brittle branches cracking under the assault. Rubber squeaked against stone as the assailant scrambled over the low stone wall. A thud, as if the shoe hit a log, was followed by an exclamation, then the crunch of more dead leaves until the rubber soles found the tarmac.

  McLaren was just seconds behind. Knowing the landscape better than his assailant, McLaren avoided many of the downed tree boughs and tangle of thistles that clawed at the other person. Yet he had got a later start in the chase and his eyes had had to adjust from the brightness of the fire to the black night. As he vaulted over the stone wall, he calculated he would catch up with the man on the road. And on a flat, unencumbered surface he rarely lost a race.

  Once he felt the road beneath his feet, McLaren stopped. Should he search up or down from here, or go back for a torch and look through the underbrush lining the lane? But he’d waste valuable minutes if he returned for the light and the man would get away. He stood in the dark, breathing heavily and listening. No leaves or branches cracked, no footsteps slapped against the tarmac. There was no scatter of gravel along the verge. The runner seemed to have vanished.

  McLaren jogged up the road, in the direction of his house. He had jumped his wall farther south, several dozen yards down from the large willow that sat near the edge of his front garden. If the runner had gone this way, moving slowly along the road, his bulk would have blended in with the mass of the wood. He would be making for his car, no doubt parked farther up, beyond McLaren’s house. There was no other place he could logically be headed to; McLaren had passed no car on this road.

  As he sprinted past his drive, he glanced to his left. The shed had collapsed and was now a burning pile of lumber and garden tools. The nearby trees and grass had not ignited. He dashed ahead, barely aware of the scent of charred wood hanging in the air.

  Several hundred yards north of his property line, he admitted he was wasting his energy. He had passed no one or no car; he had heard nothing but his own labored breathing and the thud of his shoes on the hard-packed road. No movement caught his attention, no shape suggesting a person stood out in the landscape. Begrudgingly, he ran back.

  He found the same thing south of his property—or didn’t find anything. The road and the wood bordering it seemed to hold nothing more sinister than nocturnal creatures and clumps of thistle. He turned and walked back, keeping to one side of the road, peering into the blackness. Only the call of an owl answered his unspoken question.

  The fire had died to nothing more than a campfire by the time he got back. Yellow flames mirrored in the puddles of water threw back the color and light but it was nothing extraordinary. He picked up the hose and sprayed several areas until the flames died. He stuck the nozzle of the hose into the top of the smoldering mass and found a branch on the ground near his drive. As he picked up the hose and redirected the stream of water, he stirred the debris and checked for live embers. Curls of smoke escaped into the air but nothing snapped or winked at him. He spread the burnt remains as thinly as he could over the grass, then soaked the area again until puddles collected and seeped together. He would have remained there longer but the sky cracked with sound and rain pelted the earth.

  He seemed to feel nothing—no cold, no wetness. Only exhaustion and anger. He slowly returned to the tap, turned off the water, and coiled the hose. It was a strange object, part of it cold and stiff, part of it warm and flexible. He wiped his hands on the wet grass, got the key from his car, and, after fumbling with the kitchen door lock and d
oorknob, entered his house. He peeled off his wet shoes and clothes at the door, left them on the floor, and took a shower.

  When he’d brewed himself a cup of coffee and warmed a plate of leftover roast beef and carrots, he wandered into the back room. He wasn’t in the mood to fool with a proper place setting; the comfort of the sofa appealed more to him. He sat down, ate his supper in silence, and thought through his day.

  The acrid smell of the spent fire had crept into the house but he kept the windows closed. Opening them would bring in more of the stench; he didn’t want it in the furnishings and his clothes as a lingering reminder of his enemy.

  Of course the obvious question was the man’s identity. Was his arsonist the same one who had torched Janet’s studio? Had he frightened someone with his questions, frightened someone so much he had to silence McLaren? Get rid of him?

  But silence worked both ways. What might have been burnt on purpose, at his place or Janet’s, could cover up something missing from the burn site or destroy something planted at the site. And if he focused on the deliberation of arson, he need look no further than his garden shed tonight. The side facing the road had been torched first and more aggressively than the other three sides. Therefore, the arsonist had wanted McLaren to see the fire as he drove up. But what was the message he was supposed to get? Of course he had angered someone, but was the burning of his shed and the fire on his drive to underscore that anger? Or was it something more?

  He rubbed his head. His whole body ached with the sudden, deep fatigue that hits after a tense event. He set his empty plate on the side table and stretched his legs out in front of him. What had he and Jamie said in the pub about arsonists?

  Grabbing his coffee mug, he stared at Dena’s photograph. He’d planned on phoning her tonight, but he needed to think—about his fire and Janet’s death. He leaned back and considered the possibilities.

  Most arsonists were male. That was a statistic no one could refute. That arson was the crime of a coward also had numbers to prove the claim. Fire was easy to set and the instigator didn’t have to confront his victim. The comfort of distance, time and domination empowered these people and gave them a sense of worth they didn’t ordinarily feel. Consequently, their victims tended to be easily controlled, either by being smaller and weaker than the arsonist, or by being made defenseless.

  McLaren took a sip of coffee. Did anyone he’d spoken with fit these criteria? Helene didn’t match the definition of a coward, nor did anyone in Janet’s group of friends and acquaintances. Who felt disrespected or powerless in his or her life?

  He wrapped his hands around the mug. There was more to the arsonist profile, though. Victims, if they ended up in the fire and weren’t merely inconvenienced with property loss as he had been tonight, were often made defenseless. Whether that happened through unconsciousness or other means, the object was to dehumanize the victim.

  He paused again, his gaze wandering to Dena’s face. She’d been attacked and abducted recently. Thank God she’d not been the victim of an arsonist. But had Janet suffered that fate? Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office pathologist, mentioned the depression in Janet’s skull; a microphone was in the debris of her studio and Alan had mentioned they never rehearsed there. Yet Cheryl couldn’t conclusively match the same brand and model of microphone to the skull injury during the post mortem examination. But the incongruity of the mic being in the studio suggested foul play, at least to McLaren.

  However, even if this were true, the method of murder was less personal, less confrontational than a gun or knife demanded. Could it have been a revenge arson after all? Janet not being an intended victim?

  “What do you think, darling?” he asked Dena, draining the last of his coffee. “Am I completely round the twist on this one?” He got to his feet and turned out the light. Women committed most of the spite arsons for that reason; it eliminated the closeness needed in using a gun or knife.

  But when he finally got into bed an hour later, the questions still whirled in his mind. There were other motives prompting revenge arsons. One of which was labor disputes. He closed his eyes, thinking of Sean and Alan, and breathing in the stench of wet ashes.

  TWENTY-THREE

  McLaren poked through the ashes the next morning, hoping to find some clue as to the arsonist’s identity. But other than the certain odor of petrol, which could have come from the can he stored in the garden shed, nothing presented itself as suspicious. He tossed the stick over the stone wall, returned to the kitchen, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sat down at the table. The button he’d found yesterday morning seemed to wink at him from the tabletop.

  He picked it up, unconcerned about compromising the owner’s fingerprints. There would be none. The fire would have obliterated them. He admitted he wasn’t up on fashion, but he did know that the Firetrap brand was expensive. He could probably get several pairs of his jeans for the price of one Firetrap pair.

  Which suggested the jeans owner was well to do. In Dena’s league, though he had never seen her in that brand of jeans. Still, there were others connected with Janet’s case who were wealthy.

  His mind racing, McLaren grabbed the phone and called his sister. Gwen was the perfect person for his scheme. He told her so when she answered.

  “Because you look the part,” he said, trying to quell her skepticism.

  “The part. What part? This is illegal, Mike. You’re saying I look like a burglar or con man?”

  “I’ll be doing the burglary,” he said, getting slightly irritated that she hadn’t shown any enthusiasm. “You’re just going to engage the person in conversation.”

  “Super. What am I supposed to talk about? I don’t even know this…what? Suspect? Killer?”

  “Don’t over dramatize. You always over dramatize things. Just talk to her for a few minutes until I give you the high sign.”

  “Something subtle, I’m sure. Like an owl hoot or a meow.”

  “I’ll type up a list of questions you can ask. You’ll be taking a survey. Simple enough, even for you.”

  “I thought you said I was perfect for this and now you’re belittling my help.”

  “Sorry. I’m just anxious to get this going.” He waited for his sister to think it through. Gwen was older than he, fifty to his thirty-eight. She had the creative streak in the family, a fine artist who enjoyed a local reputation and earned a nice living through her painting. Looking about as average as anyone, McLaren conceded, mentally picturing Gwen’s gray-streaked brunette hair and five and a half foot frame. Add her ready smile and the dog. He cleared his throat, getting impatient. “Well? Will you help me?”

  “Did I ever tell you how persuasive you are?”

  McLaren snorted. “Cut the soft soap. You want to help or not?”

  “What kind of survey are you going to prepare?”

  “It makes a difference?”

  “On the way I dress, yes.”

  McLaren sighed. This was turning out to be more complicated than was necessary. His gaze fell on a photo of Gwen, her husband and their dog, a standard sized poodle. “Pet ownership. Dog food and such. Bring Lafayette along. It’ll add authenticity to the thing. Pick me up in an hour. She’s seen my car.” He rang off and started creating a list of poll questions.

  “You look very nice,” he said, after Gwen had picked him up. He turned slightly in the seat to pet the poodle sitting behind him. “Hi, Lafayette. Ready for your big role?” Repositioning the clasp on Gwen’s necklace, he added, “Perfect, in fact.”

  “Enough like a pollster, then.” She flicked a piece of lint from her gray suit jacket.

  “Yeah. Here’s a clipboard with the list of questions. And a can of dog food. Give it to Eva for participating in the survey. People love getting free stuff.”

  “Where’d you get a can of dog food?”

  “Jerry brought a couple dozen cans when I babysat Lafayette last spring, remember? And here’s a badge I made for you.” He tossed the can onto the back seat, th
en angled the name badge with ‘Noah’s Care’ printed across the top toward her so she could see it. The cardstock rectangle was encased in a transparent plastic nametag holder. He leaned to his right and pinned the name badge on Gwen’s jacket lapel.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Marian Joseph. Your company is Noah’s Care, by the way.”

  “Mary and Joseph? Are you kidding? I already sound like a phony.”

  “No one looks at nametags. Anyway, Eva will be looking at your dog and trying to keep hers calm.”

  “Calm? What’s she got…a Doberman?”

  “A boxer. Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

  “I’m glad one of us thinks so. Where am I going?” She slowed the car as it neared the end of the village.

  “Chesterfield.” He gave her the address.

  “What’s with your get-up?” She eyed McLaren’s dark blue shirt and cotton twill trousers and the clipboard he carried. A baseball cap of the same color, enlivened with a nondescript embroidered logo on the front, perched on the back of his head.

  “Camouflage. If anyone sees me, I hope I’m mistaken for a workman.”

  “Reducing the suspicion of your prowling about their back garden. Super. How are you going to work this? Did you think that far ahead?”

  “You’ll let me out at the top of the street. I’ll walk down a bit, then cut across the back gardens. You and Lafayette go up to the door of Eva’s house, and when she answers, you engage her in the poll. I’ll slip into her house through the back.”

  “Slip into her house is a euphemism for burglary, Mike. Don’t you care about getting caught?”

  “I won’t get caught if you do your part well enough.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Give me three minutes once I’m inside. You can engage her for three minutes.”

  “Sure, but one slight problem besides you getting nicked. How do I know when to start marking time?”