Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “How you kept your cool is beyond me, Mike.”

  McLaren tore his gaze from Harvester’s retreating back and stared at the speaker. Jamie stood beside him.

  “Never let your enemy know what you’re thinking, Jamie. Or let them believe they have you rattled.”

  “Fine, if you can do it. You seem to have done it. I wouldn’t have guessed you two hated each others’ guts. You seemed quite matey when I came up on you. You been taking a correspondence course on acting?” He’d meant it as a joke to lighten the tension that was still palpable but McLaren seemed not to hear.

  McLaren shook his head. “What a nasty piece of work he is.” He bit off the words, now that he could release his anger.

  Jamie’s hand landed on his friend’s shoulder. “A lot of us agree with your assessment, if that makes you feel better.”

  “A piece of shit. Nothing more.”

  “Come on, Mike.” Jamie guided McLaren toward the far end of the building.

  McLaren muttered another uncomplimentary remark as Harvester’s car turned onto the High Street. He tried to shrug off Jamie’s hold but Jamie’s grip was too firm.

  “Not until you’ve calmed down,” Jamie said, tightening his grasp on McLaren’s forearm.

  “The man’s a—”

  “I’m sure he is,” Jamie cut in quickly as parents with children walked past them. “What’s the problem tonight?”

  “Isn’t seeing that man reason enough?”

  “This smacks of something more than merely running into Harvester again. What is it?”

  McLaren sighed deeply and seemed to go limp. Jamie released his holds and the two men sat down on a bench at the edge of the square. “Oh, nothing specific, everything specific.”

  “That clears it up just fine.”

  “You know my history with him.”

  “Sure. But tonight’s confrontation seemed more recent in origin.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “So, what happened?”

  McLaren recounted the evening’s event and his anger over Nora Ennis’ treatment. “None of this would’ve happened, none of it—Nora’s years of smashed hopes, ridicule, shuffled around from cop to cop, the arsons at my place, Dena put in jeopardy… None of it if Harvester had followed up on Nora’s plea to reopen the case. He’s treated her shamefully and set all this in motion. And for what good? Not a bloody thing. It’s been a waste of time and emotions and jeopardized lives. The man ought to be kicked off the Force. What an excuse for a human being.” Having released his anger, McLaren sat on the bench, his forearms on his thighs, staring into the night.

  Jamie leaned forward so he was shoulder to shoulder with his friend. He didn’t reply immediately, but let the sounds of the night wash over them. A family and two dating couples passed them before Jamie said, “I totally agree.”

  A miniature poodle yapped at them as it trotted past. The dog’s owner pulled on the leather lead, admonished the dog and apologized to McLaren and Jamie as he hurried by.

  When McLaren didn’t reply, Jamie said, “You’ve done what Harvester has repeatedly failed or refused to do, Mike. You’ve taken Nora Ennis at her word, believed enough of her story to investigate when Harvester couldn’t even get up out of his chair. The coroner’s verdict was open, leaving some doubt about the whole bloody incident. You went ahead, reviewed the various reports, talked to people. Everything Harvester should have done if he was any kind of decent cop. Or human being. No, Mike. You’ve every reason for feeling as you do. And I think that makes you the better person.”

  The quietness of the night welled up between them again, with McLaren gazing into the distance. Somewhere behind them a mobile phone rang and was answered quickly by a giggling teenager.

  Jamie waited until a motorcycle had traveled down the High Street before saying, “You want that drink you talked about earlier?”

  The question startled McLaren. He pulled his thoughts from Dena and Nora and turned toward Jamie. “Sorry?”

  “Man, you must be somewhere else. You hear anything I just said?”

  “Sure. Every word.”

  “I doubt it but I’ll let it pass. You want to go inside?” He nodded toward the pub.

  “If you don’t mind…”

  Jamie nodded. “’Course not. We’ll make it another night, then.” He stood up, ready to walk with McLaren back to their cars. McLaren remained seated.

  “Nora gave me use of Janet’s cottage. I went there today. It was like walking into a cathedral. I was where she lived and wrote music and walked through the wood. How many fans—whether they’re into music or books or sports or whatever—get to wander around their idol’s house, let alone be granted permission to actually use it?”

  Jamie looked at McLaren, wondering where this was leading.

  “I was thrilled to be there, am thrilled to have the use of it. But I wasn’t in awe of her. She was a great talent and could’ve been even greater, but I felt no hero worship of her while I was there.”

  Did Jamie understand? His support was important. His condemnation would be devastating.

  Jamie patted McLaren on the shoulder. “Yes. It’s kinda like finding out Father Christmas was really your dad all along. It’s a shock, maybe a disappointment because your fantasy has died, but you still love your dad and you still love Christmas.”

  McLaren got to his feet and walked with Jamie into the pub.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Harvester parked his silver colored Jaguar sports car in his garage, got out, and locked the car’s doors. The car had been a present from his dad, a Chief Constable when Harvester had gone through police training, and it had turned a lot of heads—in envy and in contempt. There’d been no way he could have afforded the car as a probationary officer; there was still no way he could afford to buy a car like this now. So he took extra care of it, being certain the doors were always locked, even in his garage, and regularly seeing to its maintenance. He patted the right rear wing as he walked past the car, almost as absent mindedly as he used to pat his wife, stepped outside, and locked the garage doors before walking into his house.

  The aromas of his cooked breakfast assaulted his nose the moment he walked through the back door into the kitchen. Lunch had been hardly more than a snack: a bag of crisps, a cup of weak tea, and a piece of cake leftover from an officer’s retirement party. Plus, he had worked late, missing his tea. The beer and packet of pork rinds in the pub would’ve helped allay the hunger he now felt, but he’d hardly touched them, so intent was the conversation he’d had with a friend. Consequently, he was now ready for something more substantial. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and put a piece of cod in a skillet on the stove. Moments later the fragrance of frying fish filled the air and Harvester changed into jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and slippers before looking over the day’s mail.

  In addition to the usual circulars and junk mail, two letters caught his interest. One was from a friend—a colleague, more accurately—in Edinburgh, and the other letter was from his son. Harvester wandered into the kitchen, sliced some cabbage and an apple, mixed them with a little sugar, pepper and butter, put them on the stove to cook, and sat to read his letters.

  His son, Emory, had written from school, turning the English class writing assignment into a letter for Harvester. Emory lived with his mother, Harvester’s ex, in Bolton. They had moved there after Dagmar’s divorce from Harvester, nine years ago. She seemed to be getting on fine—a good paying job in the city’s museum, a boy friend, and a house. Emory, Harvester read, turning over the sheet of paper, wanted Harvester to come up for Christmas. Or at least St. Nicholas Day.

  Nice thought, but Dagmar probably would have something to say about that. He read on. ‘I want to be a police officer, like you, Dad. When you come for Christmas, you can tell me what I need to do to be one.’

  Harvester smiled at the naiveté of his eleven year old. If it were only that easy, a few lessons. He glanced down the hallway, ha
lf expecting to see into his bedroom. If he still had his helmet, he’d bring that along, give that to Emory. Or would it be better to discourage the boy? He’d die if anything happened to Emory while in the job. Society was becoming more violent. You saw it all the time on the television. Criminals didn’t care if they hurt officers or not. Respect, in general, was just an archaic word in the dictionary. It barely meant anything to some police officers, either.

  His fingers gathered the letter into his palm, crushing the paper. He didn’t need to look any further for an example of that than last June. The burglary at that pub in Staffordshire. The disrespect shown in front of his men. McLaren.

  Harvester uncurled his fist, letting the crumbled paper drop to the floor. He uttered an emphatic “Damn.” McLaren, in Harvester’s opinion, was the poster child for Disrespect. For arrogance and lawlessness and smugness, too. The room seemed to shimmer and grow darker until everything dissolved under an image of McLaren’s face. McLaren’s face shouting at Harvester, red with anger after the rose bush incident.

  Bending over, Harvester picked up his son’s letter. He placed the pages on the kitchen table and smoothed the paper flat. That’s the sort of thing to which Emory might be subjected. Smart mouth criminals, even disobedience from his own colleagues. What a way to earn a living. There must be something else Emory could do.

  Harvester snapped his fingers. A smile crept across his face. There was something else he, Harvester, could do. Something to get back at McLaren for the defiance and egotism he’d shown that long-ago night. Something so remarkable that it would ensnare and humiliate McLaren. A payback for last June. And for tonight’s confrontation outside the pub.

  But it would have to be cleverly laid, this trap. So convincing that McLaren would not hesitate to become involved. And harsh enough that he would know what had happened to him, who had perpetrated it. And why.

  And, perhaps, roping in that bloody mate of his, the git who had stood by McLaren last June and again tonight. He was begging for a rap on the knuckles or a slap, too. Or something worse.

  Harvester grinned, already enjoying the virulent revenge and imagining McLaren’s disgrace. But his smile soon faded. He leaned back in the chair, his mind a confusion of images and words. What in the hell could he do to entrap McLaren? What would seem so real, so dire that McLaren would jump into the situation without thinking? And where could Harvester do this? Someplace where it wouldn’t be evident that Harvest had anything to do with it. Revenge was sweet, but it had to be planned well in order to succeed. He’d get no second chance to publicly ridicule McLaren.

  He abandoned the scheme for the moment, stirred the vegetables and flipped the fish, and returned to the table.

  The letter from Derek Parry, Harvester’s police colleague in Edinburgh, tried to fill in Harvester on five years of Life. The topics were confined to one or two sentences apiece, but the feelings rambled on much longer. Harvester sighed heavily, skimmed the pages of handwriting, and wondered why he was reading this. He glanced at the skillet and saucepan on the stove; the meal was under control and he had little else to do but wait for everything to cook. He poured himself a glass of wine and resumed reading the letter.

  Bus trips to Culzean Castle, fishing with his new rod, the money spent on keeping his car running, problems with starlings and voles, teeth problems, thinning hair and gaining weight, his wife’s sister moving in with them…

  The back of the last page killed the groan that was welling up in Harvester’s throat. His colleague wanted Harvester to visit him.

  Derek had just joined a shooting club and would Harvester be interested in coming up for a long weekend to do some clay-pigeon shooting? They could also do a bit of archery or fishing, depending on when Harvester could make it. If not now, winter was good. The Christmas/New Year week was nearly overflowing in Edinburgh with concerts, ghost walk tours, festive lights displays and such. Or there was always skiing in the highlands and climbing. And Hogmany wasn’t to be missed. Edinburgh seemed to be the center for the rowdy New Year’s Eve street party of drinking, noise and singing. Did any of this sound interesting?

  The pages slowly sank to Harvester’s lap as he gazed at the calendar on the wall. Was it a sign that he should do this? Bolton, where his son lived, would be more or less on the way to Edinburgh. If he left early enough…

  And if he thought hard enough…

  Harvester dished up the fish and cabbage, got a pen from the pencil holder, and sat at the table. His food turned cold as he leaned over the back of his son’s letter and listed his ideas for his revenge against McLaren.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The fire wasn’t big Friday night. That was a blessing. Plus, Helene had been alerted by the barking of her dog. Still, the rubbish on her drive had burned long enough and done enough damage, spreading to a small, wooden planter flanking part of the drive, to make her nervous.

  She and her husband poked through the debris Saturday morning, when the fire had cooled overnight. They found nothing at all useful to tell them who or why. Helene was all for calling the police, but her husband vetoed the suggestion, laughing it off as a teenage prank. “We’ve the dog,” he said, extolling the obvious, “and the burglar alarm for the house. We’re fine. It’s probably a one time thing.” But he went inside and rang up his insurance agent.

  Helene wandered into the garage, away from her husband’s hearing, and phoned Sean on her mobile. Her agitation turned to anger by the time he answered.

  “Think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?” she snapped in response to Sean’s sleepy “Hello?”

  “Helene?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who this is any more than you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

  “That fire you set last night.”

  “Fire? At your place?”

  “Just don’t think you can get away with it. The dog’s going to be outside at night, from now on. I’m giving you a warning, which is more than you deserve. Now, you’ve one more day to come up with the money, or I go to the police.” She drew in her breath in an effort to regain her composure. “I think you’ve just locked yourself in jail and thrown away the key, darling. Arson on top of murder. Not exactly leading the life of a reformed criminal, are you?”

  Sean summoned his courage from the depths of his soul. “I don’t think a blackmailer would phone the police to report the person she’s blackmailing. I suggest you think that over.”

  “But—” The dial tone buzzed in her ear. She rang off, not feeling as confident about the call as she had a moment ago.

  * * * *

  McLaren woke slowly Saturday morning. Besides being stiff, his head reverberated with the clanging of a hammer inside his skull. He sat on the edge of his bed, his feet on the cold wooden floor, and thought again about the evening. Charlie Harvester was enough to bring on any headache, but the phantom skulking around Dena’s car and the subsequent race over the countryside had definitely impacted him physically. What a way to start the day.

  He showered longer than normal, hoping the pelting of hot water on his leg and lower back would ease the stiffness from his muscles. When he had dressed in navy blue trousers and a blue-and-red print shirt, he wandered into the kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee.

  As the coffee brewed, he sorted through the items from Janet’s house. He had spread them out on his dining room table last night but now, after he’d had some time to let the information and possible significance of the find perk in his brain, he wanted to look at everything again.

  He picked up the sheaf of newspaper clippings. Beneath them lay the small envelope. He’d not opened it yesterday, his attention on the tape recording. But now he slit open the envelope and extracted photos and pieces of folded paper.

  The handwriting appeared to be Janet’s, for she had titled the first page ‘Connie and me. Sisters.’ Janet filled the pages with brief paragraphs of outing
s she and Connie had shared, birthdays and thoughts of their futures. The dates between entries were rather far apart, but considering that Janet might not have been able to always meet up with Connie—due to catering or concert dates, and getting away from Nora—that didn’t surprise McLaren. And considering the twelve years’ age difference between the two girls…

  He leafed through the photographs. Janet and Connie shared the same intense, brown eyes and slender build. But Janet’s hair was brunette and Connie was a redhead. Certainly a dead giveaway to her parentage, he thought as he remembered Stuart’s reddish eyebrows.

  A more recent photo showed Janet, Connie and Alan. McLaren stared at the photo, not trusting his eyes. Hadn’t Stuart Ennis said Nora didn’t know of Connie? If so, how had Janet come to know her? He turned the photo over, hoping for some scribbled information, but the back was bare. He looked at the picture again. A happy group, all smiles. Probably taken near the time of the car crash, for the three were leaning against a red Ford Ka. A section of a low stone wall ran across the left side of the scene. Alan held a key toward the photographer. His new car?

  Behind the car, her face and shoulders just visible, smiled Nora. McLaren nearly dropped the photo in astonishment. He peered closer at the face, took the photograph into the kitchen and looked at it under the light above the sink. Yes. It was Nora. Her hand rested on Connie’s shoulder. He couldn’t mistake Nora even with her dark hair and youthful complexion. Perhaps she had grayed after Janet’s death. Losing a daughter and an almost-daughter within a year or two of each other might do that.

  He leaned against the edge of the table, his mind racing. Why would Stuart lie about Nora not knowing about Connie? If Nora knew about Connie, which was evident from the photo, why hadn’t she mentioned Connie to him? Because Connie had no connection with Janet’s death, obviously, but wouldn’t she have been mentioned just as a piece of information? And if Stuart weren’t lying, was Nora keeping her knowledge from Stuart? Why wouldn’t she tell Stuart that she knew about his daughter?