Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Those aren’t just words, Dena. They’re what we have to remember if we’re to keep the floodgates closed on our emotions. We experience a wider range of emotions in our shift than most people do in their day. We’ve seen it all so we’ve experience it all: anger, pity, pride, excitement, revulsion, fear, cowardice, envy, hate. But we keep all that bottled up, keep it beneath our public face so we can do our job because the victim is counting on us to handle the situation. We can’t cry and effectively do our job, for Christ’s sake! Trouble is, you don’t understand what we see. You expect us to act like automatons doing our job, then come home spewing out emotions and confiding our souls. It’s not that easy! We can’t turn our feelings off and on like a water spigot.”

  “I know, Michael. I’ve experienced it.”

  “We’ve had to suppress our feelings for the safety of our jobs.” He paused, aware that he had been implying he was still part of the ‘we’ and ‘our’ he had just mentioned, aware again of the honeysuckle scent of her, the dark eyelashes that cast shadows on her eyes. “We…we live in a world of orders, Dena. If we’re not giving an order to someone, we’re receiving orders from the top brass. I can’t just turn off twenty years of police training the minute I step into the house. My very life depends on my unemotional demeanor on the job.”

  A phrase of a song slipped outside as a waiter opened the door and entered the pub. When it had grown quiet again, Dena said rather reluctantly, “I understand that, Michael. But it’s more than that. I can’t get close to you! You’ve put up a wall around yourself.”

  “If I have, it’s nothing personal. It’s left over from my old job.”

  “So you want me to smile and just take your orders and love your silent, stand-offish attitude.”

  “Of course not! But you can understand I can’t switch it on and off so easily. You should know I’m trying to learn how to do it.” He looked at her, wanting her to say she realized his dilemma that she had been too demanding in wanting him to pour out his feelings to her. But she merely stared at the table, her eyes lowered, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, as though she were considering something.

  A lifetime passed before she spoke. Her voice had not softened in those few moments; the edge was still there, a sign of her frustration and pain. She shifted in her chair so she squarely faced him. “Fine. Smashing. Whatever you say, Michael. I’m tired of it all.” She laid down her pen but kept her fingers on top of it. “I repeat, are you thirsty? You want a beer?” She eyed him when he grabbed the back of a chair. “You’re awfully dressed up. Trousers, cambric shirt, tie. You quit early from work? Must have. No stone dust in your hair, no work boots. What’s the matter?” She eyed him, the concern evident in her brown eyes.

  “Mind if I sit down?” He remained standing until she nodded, then he pulled out the chair. The wrought iron legs screeched against the flagstone paving. He lifted the chair for the remainder of the way and then set it down, angling it toward Dena. “No, I won’t have anything,” he answered as he took a seat. “You’re drinking wine.”

  Startled, she said, “Uh, yes. I always do.”

  “You drank a beer once, I recall.”

  “Did I?” She screwed up her mouth, clearly puzzled at the subject. “Yes, I did. At your birthday party. But it was a shandy.”

  “Still, you did have a beer once. The night of my folk group’s first appearance. A Bass.”

  “What a memory! Fine, I had a beer. That once. And I disliked it. Is this why you’re here? To see if I’ve developed a taste for beer?”

  “Actually,” he said, his voice softer, “I just spotted your MG and thought I’d talk to you.”

  “Was it something I said last night? I haven’t seen you for a year, Michael. Not since you left your job.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “About what? Not seeing me, or leaving your job?” The sheet of stationary rustled in a breath of wind. Dena set her mobile phone on it.

  “Both. It’s just that—”

  “You’ve been hurt. I know that, Michael! So does everyone near to you. Your parents, your sister, your brother-in-law, your friend Jamie. We know what you went through and we feel for you. We always will. You got a rotten deal. But there has to be an end to your wound licking. You have to shake it off and get on with your life. I’ve waited for a year, hoping for an overture of love.”

  He pulled in the corner of his mouth and looked past her shoulder, staring at the church tower at the end of the street. The sunlight glanced off the brass cross topping the steeple and tinted the gray stones gold. A magpie floated down from the half-closed bell louvers and settled on a bough of a stately oak.

  “If that’s too strong a word, an overture of friendship, then. You can’t keep your feelings and yourself walled up forever. You can’t live like that. You are a warm, caring person. At least, you used to be. I believe you still are, deep inside. That warmth and caring drove you into police work in the first place, Michael. But you can’t become stony and unfeeling like those damned stonewalls of yours.”

  “Were you in Castleton this morning?” He had shifted his gaze so that he now looked at her face, judging the truth in her eyes.

  “Pardon?” Her eyebrow arched. “What’s Castleton got to do with—”

  “A lot. At least, it could. I need to know. Were you in Castleton?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “We were talking about you and your feelings and your life from here on out.”

  “And my feelings and my life, and our relationship—if it’s to continue or improve or get back to where it was…”

  “Depends on Castleton this morning. Honestly, Michael!” She picked up the wine glass and took a sip before replying. “I don’t know what you want. Will you believe my answer?” Her gaze shifted to his eyes. They were dark and unreadable except for the suggestion of desperation. Setting down the glass, she said, “This really means a lot, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Well, I don’t know what you want—”

  “I want the truth, Dena. Just that.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever given you, Michael. From the first day we met. And when I fell in love with you, I told you so we wouldn’t be playing games. It’s not fair to play games with someone’s emotions.”

  “About this morning…”

  She took a deep breath and leaned forward so that she was closer to him. “No. I wasn’t in Castleton.” She watched as he slowly let out his breath. “I don’t know whether I’ve helped or hindered my cause with you, but I wasn’t in Castleton. Will you tell me why you wanted to know? You weren’t involved in a hit and run, were you?” She angled her head, trying to see his car.

  “It was a hit and run, Dena, but not that sort.” He stood up and looked down at her.

  “You’re going? Just like that, without telling me anything?” She was aware of his great height, of the annoyance building within him. Had she said something to anger him? What had happened in Castleton that mattered so much? Holding out her hand toward him, she said, “Please, Michael. Tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s troubling you.”

  “You want to help me?”

  “Of course!”

  “Even after all this time, after how you felt last night?”

  “That was anger talking last night. I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t feel something toward you.”

  “But love turns into hate sometimes. Just pick up a newspaper or listen to a television news program. There are dozens of stories about spousal abuse and murder.”

  “What happened in Castleton… Should that lead me to murder you? Or you murder me?” she added quickly as he took a deep breath.

  “No. That’s extreme.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just a little mystery I have to solve, that’s all. Good night, Dena.”

  “This isn’t the end, is it?” she called after his retreating figure. “Y
ou’re not running out on me again…”

  “I’ll be around.” He turned toward her, his hands in his trousers pockets.

  “So will I, Michael. At the same phone number and the same street address.”

  “Just so I don’t hit and run again in your life, right?” He wished her good night again and left.

  Why would she put the beer bottle in my car when I made it plain I didn’t want her around? He got into his car. The last rays of sun hit the west-facing roof tiles, ignited a house’s brass weather vane in brilliant ochre and red, and shimmered through the tops of the trees. There was at least another hour of sunlight on the hills, but here in the valley the shadows were already forming and it would be dark soon. He turned his car onto the road to his house, just beyond the village proper, the questions and suspicions crowding his mind. Why would she get tangled up with someone who doesn’t want her? It made no sense.

  McLaren passed the last house in the string of wall-to-wall residences along the road’s northern side. A light burned in the front room, ready for the twilight. He entered the smaller lane that led to his house, a narrow strip of black among the greens and browns and grays of the landscape. As he emerged into the clearing, the limestone rock face on his left reflected the sun’s light with a near-blinding intensity. It was a relief when his car gained the gloom of the wood again.

  He was rounding the bend where the wood was its densest. A sliver of light glanced off the water that fell from the rocky crevice dozens of stories above. The pool where the water collected was deep and cold, inviting to animals and small boys. The memories of summer swims were sharp in his mind, then he quickly jerked the car wheel. A car raced from the leafy darkness, its nearness frightening. McLaren jammed on the brakes, steering the car as far to the left as possible. As he heard the sickening sound of metal scraping against stone, a flash came toward him and heard the blare of a horn. A moment later a beer bottle slammed into his door and crashed onto the road. He jerked his head to his right. The other car disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  He took a deep breath, then slowly got out of his car. Dust hung in the air like the questions crowding his mind. He covered his mouth, trying not to breathe, but the dust seeped into this nose and mouth. Coughing, he pulled open the car door and sat inside with the windows rolled up until the dust had dissipated. He shook his head. He’d braked within inches of a massive oak tree. But the passenger side of the car hadn’t escaped so luckily. It was nestled against the cliff face.

  He slowly walked to the far side of his car, his head lowered, searching the ground. Near the rear of his car, several yards back, he found what he wanted. He picked up a rock and judged its weight, much as he did when working on stonewalls. The rock eclipsed his hand. Curling his fingers around the rock, he walked several dozen yards farther up the road, in the direction from which the other driver had come. Tracks from his tires showed plainly on the damp patch of earth near the bend. They were the only marks on its otherwise clean surface. The other driver had not even tried to stop or swerve.

  McLaren turned and strode back to the center of the road opposite his car. He didn’t attempt to cap his anger. He ran several feet, his right hand slightly behind him, his left shoulder leading, as a thrower revving up for the launch of a javelin. Seconds later he threw the rock after the long-departed car. The rock arched into the air, clipped a few leaves from low-hanging tree branches, then dropped onto the tarmac several hundred yards down road.

  He drove slowly home, anger at odds with the confusion that tried to make sense of the incident. The accident, he could understand. The road was narrow and curved at that point. It was fairly dark and hard to see. But why throw a beer bottle? Was it related to the beer bottle incident earlier today?

  He parked his car in the wide space off-center of his driveway, put the leftover fish and chips in the microwave to heat, and rang up his mate, police detective Jamie Kydd.

  TEN

  “The damn thing about this,” McLaren said when Jamie answered his phone, “is that I didn’t get the registration number on his damned car.” Having given his friend the details of the incident he was now releasing his anger and frustration between his gulps of beer.

  “I would’ve thought your car’s condition would’ve been the worst part,” Jamie said, laughing. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped black hair and settled back into the upholstered chair. When it looked like this would be a long phone call, he had taken his mobile phone into the lounge. Nothing like comfort to ease difficulties.

  “It’s scratched,” McLaren admitted, setting the bottle down with a thud that even Jamie could hear. “A minor dent to the left front wing, but nothing serious.”

  “And it’s drivable.”

  “If it weren’t, I’d still be running after the berk.”

  “And you’d smash his face in when you caught up with him, I know.”

  McLaren’s grunt acknowledged his agreement.

  “Did you get a look at the car or see any occupants?”

  He hesitated, aware he was going to sound like the majority of victims and witnesses he had interviewed during his police career. At Jamie’s urging, he finally said, “It was a Mercedes coupe. A dark color. Green, I think. Yeah, a hunter green. I don’t think it was navy blue or black. Registration number begins YV. That’s all I could get. I think there was someone in the back seat. I think he threw the beer bottle.”

  “The back seat? Implying there were three or more people in the car?”

  “Because he was in the back and not in the front passenger seat?”

  “You don’t think he was deliberately sitting in the back so he could toss the bottle at you?”

  “Well…”

  “That implies it was premeditated, Mike! The whole thing staged and done on purpose! God, what’ve you been doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To warrant this? Have you made an enemy of someone?”

  “I’ve been out of the job for a year now.”

  “You think those thugs you sent away will forget you just because you’re no longer a cop?”

  “A year or more’s awfully long to hold a grudge and do something about it. Besides, if you don’t remember, I was stationed in Staffordshire. I now reside in Derbyshire. That’s a hell of a big distance between the station and my house.”

  “You moved back to Derbyshire on purpose, I know.”

  “Yeah. For just this sort of thing—so none of those toe rags could find me.”

  “Well, unless some farmer is upset at the way you mended his stonewall, someone’s mad! What’s with this beer bottle episode, anyway? You still think it’s related to that walker you picked up this morning?”

  McLaren picked up the beer, looked at it, screwed up his mouth, and set it down again. He needed a clear head to sort out everything. “I don’t know, Jamie. That’s why I rang you up.”

  “The impartial outsider looking at this unemotionally.”

  “I thought perhaps something would stand out.”

  “Like, you forgot that the hiker was drinking a Duvel when you stopped to assist her.”

  “Nothing that expensive,” McLaren said, recalling the price of the Belgian ale. “But something like that, yes. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Well, unless you haven’t told me something, I can’t see how this is connected with your cold case. Probably just coincidence.”

  “Don’t give me that, boy. You know my opinion of coincidence.”

  “Things do happen. And the beer bottle’s not part of your cold case.”

  “Which is another reason I needed to talk.” He speared a chip, now barely more than lukewarm, with his fork. He didn’t care particularly what he ate, as long as he could fill his stomach. Breakfast was a long time ago.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I had hoped you’d be part brain, but I’ll let that pass.”

  “Fine. Shoot.”

  “Good word choice.”

&nbs
p; “What, shoot? You weren’t shot at too, were you?”

  McLaren shook his head. There was no mistaking the anxiety in his friend’s voice. “No. I’m referring to the cold case. Marta Hughes murdered and dumped along the roadside.”

  “Sure. So what do you want? I didn’t work on that case, Mike. Derbyshire Constabulary not withstanding, lad, I’m in A Division. Was last year when that happened, too. Elton’s in B Division.”

  “I know. I just thought you could get your hands on some information for me.”

  The silence at the other end of the phone grew uncomfortable and McLaren was about to apologize when Jamie said, “What kind of information? If it’s something about running a car through the police national computer—”

  “No. Nothing so risky.” He pushed the bottle away from him and forked another chip. He knew that PNC checks were strictly controlled, monitored internally by the Force. He also knew PNC use for anything other than official use resulted in officers being sacked. It was a chance and ramification he would never ask Jamie to take. He laid the fork back on the plate and said, “You’ve got access to the police reports.”

  “Yes.” His answer sounded wary.

  “I’d like to know about the place her body was found—the exact location.”

  “Are you daft?”

  McLaren seemed not to hear Jamie. He continued. “How far out from Elton, on the left or the right side of the road? Where was she found precisely? If you can’t get me a copy of the photos—” He held the phone away from his ear as Jamie’s yelp boomed over the receiver. “Let me know exactly. I’d like the pathology report. And the biologist’s, if you can wrangle that, too.” He paused and Jamie snorted, “You’ll give me a few minutes to rustle this up, I hope.”

  “Whenever you get it is fine.”