Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “How old are Rick and his friends?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but he’s probably fifteen or so. Danny I know is a year or two older. He could be seventeen. Though the whole lot of them act much younger.”

  “But they didn’t take to your wife’s friendly advice.”

  “It was like they never heard her. They continued with the drugs.”

  “Did Marta or you speak to Rick’s parents about this?”

  Alan snorted and screwed up the corner of his mouth. “Several times. Deaf ears must be a family trait.”

  “Or nothing between them. So the parents were not amused, I take it.”

  “We have our suspicions that they, or at least the father, smoke, too. Or his clothes get their delightful odor from Rick’s weed.”

  “So, if the parents didn’t lift a finger to stop the drug use—”

  “Marta talked to the police. I don’t think that got us anywhere either. Rick was never jailed.”

  McLaren was going to say there was such a thing as evidence and catching the suspect in the act, but instead replied, “How did this marijuana use lead to the ransacking of your house?”

  “As I said, we don’t know if Rick and his mates did it or not. The police couldn’t prove a thing. A constable did talk to them, I remember.” He pressed his lips together as he sought for the officer’s name. In the moments of silence, McLaren heard a lawn mower engine start up with a long series of coughs. As the motor caught, it settled into a lower pitch.

  It was a nice street, McLaren thought, recalling each home’s neat front garden, trimmed grass and swept front steps. Well looked after and quiet, like this kitchen, crisp in its white, green and blue color scheme. The street held no derelict buildings or litter that silently spoke of urban crime. Perhaps that’s why urban crime in such peaceful neighborhoods was so startling. Even behind the most expensive façade, people were criminals. Drug use was just one example.

  “Right.” Alan relaxed somewhat. “Now I remember. PC Shard. Ian Shard. He talked to the kids. Gave them a warning, too. That’s how it started.”

  “From the warning?”

  “Yes. When my wife contacted PC Shard a week or so later, telling him that Rick and his mates were still smoking marijuana, the constable talked to their parents. You’d think Danny, at least, would try to be a more upstanding citizen, from all the stories I hear about his grandfather’s glorious WWII record, the relics Danny grew up around. You’d think some of that would have—”

  “The kids got in trouble with their parents, then,” McLaren surmised. “Well, all except Rick, I assume.”

  “I don’t know one way or the other. The constable’s talk to the Millingtons might have got Rick in trouble, I suppose.”

  “But right after that your house was broken into and ransacked.”

  “Like I said, Mr. McLaren—we all have our suspicions it was Rick, either alone or with Teresa and Danny.”

  “And, as you said, if they did do it, they’re about the right age for it. That’s the sort of act that juveniles do.”

  “Yes. Revenge.”

  “Was anything damaged?”

  “Not really. Just things pulled from drawers, bed linen stripped from the bed, lamps knocked over, food from the fridge and cupboards dumped on the floor. That sort of thing.”

  “How did whoever it was gain entrance to your house?”

  “By the bedroom window. The police told us it was forced open, probably with a crowbar.”

  “Would you mind showing me?”

  “Certainly.” Alan sounded surprised and began walking toward the bedroom when McLaren said, “I’m sorry. I meant outside. Would you show me the window from the exterior?”

  “Oh. Yes. It’s this way.”

  The two men went out the back door and McLaren followed Alan to the north side of the house. Holly bushes, cut low to form a three-foot-tall hedge, bordered the property line several feet from the Hughes’ residence. A patch of lily of the valley claimed the area beneath the window, while bluebells, columbine and other woodland flowers fanned out toward the back garden.

  “Of course,” Alan said as McLaren inspected the windowsill, “we’ve had it repaired. It was last June, you recall.”

  “Of course,” McLaren replied. “I just wanted to see how far from the ground the window is, its proximity to plants or a storage shed.”

  “We have one,” Alan volunteered and pointed to the six-foot square metal outbuilding in the northwest corner at the back of the garden.

  “But not near to the window to afford the vandals a privacy screen. I believe the holly hedge did that.”

  “Yes. They probably squatted down behind it to wait until no one saw them.”

  McLaren looked at both corners of the roof. “You’ve no security light, I see.”

  “No. We’ve never felt we needed them. It’s been such a quiet neighborhood.”

  “No alarm system either, then. Or family dog.”

  Alan shook his head, looking rather embarrassed.

  “Well, at least they didn’t break into your shed to grab a ladder.”

  “No. We were spared that further bit of vandalism. The window provides easy entry to the house, the police reckoned.”

  “Yes. What is it…four feet off the ground? As you say, easy access. All he or they had to do was hop inside once they’d forced open the window.” He bent over slightly, looking at the brickwork. “Did the police find any signs of shoe scuff marks?”

  “A white smear or two, yes.”

  “Trainers.” He straightened up. “Was there any suspicion that they chose this room on purpose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you or the police believe the vandals were after something in the bedroom and, perhaps not being able to locate it and therefore being angry, vented their anger on the house in general— pulling items from drawers, stripping the sheets from the bed, knocking over lamps.”

  “Oh, yes, I see. No, we thought at first that they might have been after money or credit cards or my wife’s jewelry, but that wasn’t taken. Just the general vandalism.”

  “So no one room was targeted more than another. It’s not common knowledge in the neighborhood that you have a priceless collection of stamps, let’s say, and they couldn’t find it.”

  “Good lord, no! Nothing like that. I admit I earn a nice salary, but I’ve never collected anything as an adult. Nothing expensive, I mean. I do have a rather extensive collection of beer memorabilia—old tin trays, beer mats, advertising posters, pitchers and the like, in addition to several dozen bottles of different brands from around the world, but nothing in the class of rare stamps or coins. We use our money mainly on plants for the garden—several rather exotic hostas and the like—and for holidays.”

  “Then they entered your home because this window is lower off the ground than any other, or the holly hedges afforded sufficient cover for their entry.”

  “I believe so. Would you like to see?” Alan led McLaren through the back garden and to the south side of the house. There was no hedge to afford cover, nor were there any large bushes or garden furniture. The land held only flowers and a pedestal birdbath.

  “Hardly bulky enough to hide behind. The other side does offer the best entry in terms of seclusion.”

  “Besides, the window is farther off the ground here.”

  McLaren tilted his head, mentally measuring the window’s height from the ground, which sloped toward the south. “What’s the elevation here, do you know?”

  “The land is nearly a yard lower on this side of the house. The slope runs like this for the rest of the street, in fact.”

  “This window, then, is approximately seven feet from the ground here.” He screwed up his mouth, picturing the break-in, then walked over to the birdbath. It was brown-painted aluminum, sporting a bowl with fluted edges and a slender, curved base. Placing his hand on its rim, he shook it. “Wouldn’t afford much help with a leg-up.”

  “
No. The police thought at first it might have been used as a sort of step ladder, just like you suggest, but the pedestal wouldn’t support anyone’s weight, let alone someone climbing up on it. Besides, they determined it hadn’t been moved.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “They tipped it over to see if the pedestal base covered a different patch of grass.”

  “Different blades pressed down.”

  “Yes. They couldn’t determine that it had been moved. Besides,” Alan said as they reentered the house, “it simply wouldn’t have borne a person’s weight. It would have fallen over on the first attempt to climb on it.”

  They were back in the kitchen. McLaren had looked at the door, trying to understand why it hadn’t been used as an entry point. Surely the back of the house afforded more privacy than a side window. But the small light fixture above the door and the double locks answered his question. No one would be foolish enough to stand under a flood light while fighting with two locks. Number twenty Dunstan Terrace had probably seemed invincible to the Hughes family.

  “The police tried to make the connection between the bedroom entry and Rick Millington,” Alan said as they stood in the kitchen. The aroma of the baking chicken filled the room.

  “Because the Millington house borders that side of yours?”

  “Yes. They’re on our north side, next to that window.”

  “But the police couldn’t place Rick here.”

  “No. I suppose it was just a coincidence anyway.”

  “That the intruders chose the window nearest the Millington residence.”

  “Yes. After all, as you’ve just seen, it does offer the best and most logical point to enter the house.”

  “May I impose on your kindness for one more favor?”

  Alan’s head jerked slightly. His eyes widened as he tried to anticipate what McLaren would ask. He opened his mouth, then merely nodded.

  “I’m sorry if it will be painful, but I’d like to see the bedroom.”

  “Uh, certainly. It’s just here.” Alan again led the way. He opened the door and stood aside to let McLaren enter the room first, then slowly followed him.

  McLaren went to the window, raised the lower half of the casement, and leaned out. Then he closed the window, turned around and asked Alan what items had been disturbed in the room.

  Clearly not expecting the question, Alan hesitated for a moment, frowning. He pulled at the collar of his cotton shirt as though he had difficulty breathing, then crossed his arms on his chest. “Why, uh, I believe they pulled the clothes from the dresser drawers.”

  “All of them?” McLaren asked, his gaze on the large, wooden bureau. It occupied most of the wall at right angle to the bed.

  “Yes. They were pulled out randomly, not lined up…you know.” He stopped, embarrassed by the absurdity of his answer. Of course a housebreaker would not stop to line up drawer fronts in a neat line. Avoiding McLaren’s eyes, he said, “Only the bottom drawer was pulled all the way out. It was on the floor with the contents dumped beside it. The other drawers had been opened, as you would when you were going to get a pair of socks or a sweater. But the drawers had been rifled; the clothes were disarranged.” He glanced at the window as though seeing the intruders entering the room.

  “The sheets were off the bed, I believe you said.”

  “Yes. Everything. Sheets, the duvet, the pillow. Everything on the floor. Even the mattress was partway off. I guess they’d been looking beneath it for something.”

  “Not necessarily. Could be just plain cussedness.” McLaren looked around the room. The queen-sized bed was on the wall opposite the window, a good location to catch the breezes. An upholstered chair angled out from the corner, near the closet. The small bedside cabinet was close to the door and matched the wood of the bed. “That was disturbed too, I assume.”

  Alan glanced at the cabinet and self-consciously moved the ginger-jar style lamp nearer to the bed. “Yes. Everything was opened. They’d gone through the airing cupboard, too. Taken things off the linen shelf, shoved aside our hanging clothes. Nothing broken, though.”

  “Just disarray. Thanks. I’ve seen enough.” He was glad to leave the room, with its mementos of Marta’s life: her photograph still propped on top of the dresser, smiling at Alan; her jewel box and perfume bottle of cut glass; a favorite straw hat, no doubt, topping one of the bed posts; a watercolor of some Mediterranean vista, done by Marta, he noticed, seeing her painted signature.

  Alan cut McLaren’s burgeoning sadness short as he stopped at the baby grand piano in the front room. Its sleek, ebony side shone in the sunlight. “They did the same sort of thing in here. Cushions from the sofa, some of the pictures off the wall, a lamp knocked over—” He gestured toward a tall, wrought iron lamp with an open filigree pedestal. “That Windsor chair overturned, but not broken, thank God. The ends of the curtains either were stuffed behind the sofa or lay across the back.”

  “Sounds like they were looking for something. The piano was undamaged?”

  “Yes. On first seeing the mess I feared they might have cut the wires or poured water or something onto the soundboard, but it was fine. As I said, Mr. McLaren, we got off fairly lucky. Just things mainly dumped onto the floors and tipped out of drawers. Easy enough to clean up.” His gaze shifted to the piano as he recalled the chaos. He swallowed slowly, his eyes nearly overflowing with the pain of that night and with losing his wife.

  McLaren trailed his fingers along the piano top before he jammed his hand into his pocket. He nodded, glancing around the room once more. “Well, at least it wasn’t too bad.”

  “No,” Alan said, hastily wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “We got off lucky.” He pressed his lips together, and McLaren wondered what constituted ‘unlucky.’ Alan picked up the sheet music on the piano top and pinned it against his chest as he crossed his arms. “We phoned the police, of course, and even though they couldn’t prove Rick or his cohorts were responsible, privately we believe that they did it so Marta would keep quiet in the future. A little harassment sometimes works wonders.”

  It was McLaren’s turn to press his lips together. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one with a helpful acquaintance. Someone else was being taught a lesson.

  EIGHT

  McLaren sat in his car in front of the Hughes home, fighting the all too familiar anger and sadness that filled his heart and soul. Marta Hughes had been loved; some piece of trash had taken her life, taken her from her husband and son, disposed of in an obscene way. No one deserved to be tossed away like a sack of rubbish. His fist slammed into the upholstery of the passenger seat in his frustration. Had she died over her casino winning or was it something else, something connected to her work or her family or friends? And did the stone barn where her body was recovered have any significance? She didn’t live in Elton. According to Alan, she didn’t know anyone there. Nor had she been born there. McLaren took several deep breaths while he took in the neighboring residences, his mind trying to make sense of Alan’s account of their house break-in. The man had seemed surprised to find McLaren on his doorstep. But Alan was helpful, eager to relay anything that might discover Marta’s murderer and bring his nightmare to a close.

  Leaning his head against the car seat, McLaren rubbed his temples. The simple quest for Marta Hughes’ killer was fast turning into a branched road, with nagging questions down each path. Had the ransacking of the Hughes home anything to do with Marta’s death? He couldn’t believe a group of teenagers would commit murder over a few smoked joints. Was something else behind the vandalism, something Alan Hughes wasn’t telling?

  McLaren gazed down the road. Hathersage lay in the direction he had come. Beyond that was Castleton. Were either or both of those places linked to Karin Pedersen’s disappearance? Had she secreted the beer bottle in his car and then rung up the police? Why? She and he were strangers. But if she was not responsible, was it Dena?

  Scratching his head, McLaren leaned forward. The houses beyond Six Mi
lls Road petered out swiftly, giving way to the green and gray countryside of dales, mountains, streams, stone house villages and stonewalls. Why had he abandoned, even briefly, his wall work? Was it ego that whispered he could solve a cold case where equally competent police detectives had failed? Or was it something else? Something deeper than ego—a need to be accepted again—to vindicate himself, to yield to the siren song of police work? To remove the blot from his name? He jammed the key into the ignition slot, started the engine, and shot away from the curb in a roar of racing motor, screeching tires and muttered self-contempt.

  * * * *

  Verity Dwyer, Marta Hughes’ one-time coworker, was unlocking the front door of her home when McLaren parked his car opposite her house. He called to her as he swung open the door. She remained by the closed door and waited for him to speak, her handbag securely wedged under her arm. When he had introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit, she nodded, unlocked the door, and led him into the house.

  “So, you’re investigating Marta’s murder.” Verity seated herself on the sofa across from him, her back to the late afternoon sun, and studied his eyes. She’d become a master at interpreting the meaning behind uttered words, the subtle shifts in facial expressions or moods that flitted across the eyes. During her time working through her community service sentence, she’d learned that eye movements and voice inflection told her the truth even when the words were lies. So she took some time scrutinizing McLaren’s face and mannerisms, in no rush to tell him anything, not anxious to relive the horror of the past year.

  McLaren, too, was content to proceed slowly, to take in her blue eyes and the freckles that splashed across her nose and cheeks, her hands that looked older than her thirty-five years, dry and calloused from rough work. He knew of Verity Dwyer’s situation from Linnet and from his recent research. Sometimes printed information was better; it doesn’t lie to your face. He nodded toward the wall calendar in the next room. “Your time is almost finished, I see.”