Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Oh, sure, sure.” Tom pulled his shoulders backwards, as though they were stiff from washing the car. They were muscular, McLaren noted. And broad. The man did more than wash his car to stay in shape. “Didn’t mean nothing by it. Just curious. You know—talking about Marta again after this long.”

  “Did you see her leave that evening?”

  “Naw. I don’t stand at the front windows and watch people’s comings and goings. Though,” he said, winking, “she’s the exception I’d make if I did. Ya know?” He winked again and grinned.

  “You found her attractive, then.” This wasn’t McLaren’s intended line of questioning. He found it distasteful, especially about a deceased person, but he pursued it.

  “Sure! Who didn’t? A good lookin’ woman—brunette, hazel eyes, thin. Not too thin, though. She had enough padding where it counted, if you get my drift.” He patted a lock of his sun-streaked brown hair back into place.

  What a jerk. First class nit. He suddenly felt very sorry for Marta if she had been subjected to this salivating nerd. He said with great restraint, “Were you on friendly terms with the Hughes family? I understand you have a son. Do he and the Hughes lad get on well? Hang around together, play football, perhaps?”

  “Not particularly what you’d call mates. My boy’s got his own friends. Besides, he considers Chad Hughes a bit of a wimp.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The kid won’t join my boy and his mates on anything.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  “Oh, different stuff.” He bent over and started coiling the hose into a neat circle.

  “Are you referring to smoking marijuana?”

  Tom slowly let the hose sag to the ground. He straightened up and took a step toward McLaren. “Where the hell did you hear that? Hughes been talking?” He nodded toward the Hughes house.

  “Why does it matter where I heard it? Is that what you’re referring to?”

  “What the hell difference does that make in finding Marta’s killer?”

  “Because I heard that your son and his pals got in a bit of trouble with the police. Because if it’s true, and your son suffered for it—either from parental punishment or police keeping him under watch—he could have been angry at Marta Hughes for supposedly tipping off the coppers. And, if he did,” McLaren rushed on as Tom opened his mouth, “it gives him some degree of motive.”

  Tom held up his index finger and tried again. “Now, wait just a minute. You can’t come around here accusing my son of anything. That’s as far as that incident went. Rick’s been clean ever since then.”

  “Clean, or just not caught?”

  A minute passed as Tom seemed to consider something. His hand returned to his pocket and he forced a smile. “Well, I guess a parent never knows for sure, does he? I’d swear Rick gave it up when he broke from Danny. That’s Danny Mercer, his former mate. But, like I said…”

  “So you or your son harbor no ill feelings toward Marta or her son.”

  “Like I said, she was a real eyeful. Kind of hard to stay mad at something so gorgeous.”

  “Did your wife like Marta?”

  Tom shrugged and went back to rounding up the garden hose. “She never came straight out and said, ‘Gosh, I sure like Marta,’ but I think she did. They didn’t chat over coffee in the morning, but they talked when they met on the street. Talked about spring flowers and such. You know—women talk.”

  “Did your wife or you see anyone at the Hughes’ house the night it was broken into?”

  “Nope. We were either asleep or I was in my workshop in the garage and my wife was in the back room watching a film on the telly. This all came out in the trial, you know. No reason to rehash it.”

  “Your son…where was he?”

  Tom stood up and turned toward McLaren. “You intimating he did the break in?”

  “I’d merely like to know if he was out. Perhaps he saw a light on in the house where one normally isn’t. That sort of thing.”

  “Yeah?” Tom eyed him as though he wasn’t sure McLaren was telling the truth. He said, “Rick had been out earlier, at Danny’s house, but he was home by seven.”

  “You’re sure of the time?”

  “Sure I’m sure! We had our tea when he got back.”

  “And the break in was later.”

  “Don’t know when, exactly, but later that night.”

  “I understand Marta found the mess herself, that her husband wasn’t home.”

  Tom winked and tilted his head toward the house. “Usually it’s ‘while the cat’s away’ with me, but my wife was home that evening.”

  “Meaning—”

  He shrugged. “You know how it is. You try for a bit of action on the side, but it doesn’t always work.”

  “Not with Marta Hughes, at any rate.”

  Tom spread his hands out, as though he were a helpless pawn in the Whims of Life. “Let’s say, I know where her son gets that wimp quality.”

  “She wasn’t interested in you, evidently.”

  “A real square. I couldn’t even get past the neighborly hello with her.”

  McLaren left with a noncommittal ‘Thanks’ on his lips and in agreement with Verity Dwyer that Tom Millington was a jerk.

  He was headed toward his car when he saw a young man working in the front garden of the Hughes house. McLaren jogged over as the boy threw a weed onto the small pile beside him. Looking at McLaren, he stood up. “Do you want something?”

  “Are you Chad Hughes?” McLaren said, thinking the boy had to be. He’d seen Marta’s photograph and even if Marta had been a brunette and this boy was blond, there was no mistaking the same hazel colored eyes. Or the expression that stared at McLaren.

  “Yeah. I’m Chad.”

  McLaren introduced himself in the way that was quickly becoming a rote rendition. When he’d finished, he asked Chad how he was getting on.

  “What you really mean,” Chad said, tossing his trowel onto the stack of weeds, “is how I’m coping with Mum’s death. What it’s been like this past year. What am I supposed to say besides rotten? It’s been hard for me, sure, but especially for my dad.”

  McLaren nodded, knowing Chad and Alan were constantly reminded of Marta; she was everywhere in the house.

  “And you’re also wanting to know if I’ve got any ideas about the whole thing.” Chad tilted his head so he could see McLaren’s eyes. “You are, aren’t you, or you wouldn’t be chatting to me. Nice as you might be, you’re a stranger, and strangers just don’t pop over to talk. So you want to ask about her death, who could’ve done it or a motive.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” McLaren smiled, warming to the young man.

  “Besides the obvious suspect, you mean.”

  McLaren glanced at the Millington house. Tom had carried the hose into his garage and was now walking back to the front door. He waved at Chad and McLaren before calling, “Good luck,” and going inside.

  “Slimy bastard.” Chad’s face flooded with color.

  McLaren wanted to agree but instead said, “Why do you say that? Do you suspect Mr. Millington of killing your mother?”

  “Him or Rick.”

  Tom came back outside with a broom and began sweeping the front path, whistling.

  McLaren watched Tom make his way down the flagstones for several seconds before saying, “Why do you think it’s one of them?”

  “Because it’s their style.”

  “What—murder?”

  “Not intentionally, no. But they’re both hooligans. Only difference is their age.”

  “You say this because—”

  “I got into it with Mr. Millington shortly before my mum died.”

  “A fight?”

  “Yeah. He’d made some indecent remarks about my mum and I couldn’t take it anymore. I came after him. A bit later, my mum was dead. I think he came after her.”

  THIRTEEN

  “You don’t know how I’ve blamed myself,” Chad said, blotting his eyes
with the side of his hand. It was a large hand, as befitted his tall, powerful build. The skin was tanned and roughened from yard work, contrasting greatly with the paler, smoother skin that played around the edges of his T-shirt sleeves and neckline. Chad tilted his head back, looking skyward, and his voice matched his inner anguish. “God, if I’d just kept quiet. If I’d just ignored it, mum would still be alive.”

  “Perhaps not,” McLaren said as Chad lowered his head and looked at him with tear-moistened eyes. “Not if someone else killed her.” He spoke lowly, choosing his words carefully, aware of the pain deep within the teenager’s eyes.

  “What? Like, who?” Chad’s voice was hopeful, yet challenging, defying McLaren to produce a more likely suspect, or to relieve him of his guilt.

  “I’ve just begun investigating, Chad. I don’t know yet.”

  “At least you’re honest.” He ran the back of his hand across his nose, then pressed it against his khaki shorts.

  “I try to be.”

  Chad stared at McLaren, trying to make him out, then smiled. “I think you are. You wouldn’t admit it if you weren’t. You’d be all bluff and swagger, coming on like some of those super tough telly cops.”

  “I never was a Dirty Harry.”

  Again Chad smiled. He leaned against the corner of the house, near the front door, and said, “Mr. Millington was always making cracks about mum. It got to the point where I just couldn’t stand it anymore so one day I punched his lights out.”

  “This was over what?”

  “He always did hint stuff. This time he flat came out and said it.”

  “Hint stuff…like what? Sexual innuendoes?”

  Chad avoided McLaren’s eyes, as though embarrassed by the subject. He said rather lowly, “Yeah. He always made remarks about how smashing Mum looked—well, ‘always’ being several months, I guess. At least it was several months that I knew about it so I guess it went on for a while. He’d say how she should be a model…or something else.” He paused, his face reddening.

  “I’ve found that those types of people are usually all talk, Chad. It takes two to tango.”

  “Sure, I realize he was probably all mouth and no trousers, just acting macho, but it hurt. My mum never did a thing to deserve it. She never flirted back; she never dressed…indecently. She never went over to his house alone. She was a decent lady and I got sick and tired of him suggesting improper stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know. Like, sleeping together.” Chad mumbled this last statement so softly that McLaren could barely hear it.

  “That’s what caused the fight?”

  “Yeah. Mum and I were outside and as she started to go in the house, Millington calls after her that he had a few minutes free, and since both of their spouses weren’t home…well, you get the idea.” Again he blushed, but he doubled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the door.

  “That’s when the fight started.”

  “I couldn’t let that go, could I?” He searched McLaren’s eyes for a sign of approval or exoneration.

  “I don’t think most sons, brothers or husbands would.”

  “He’s had it coming to him for ages. This was just the last straw. He’s got a dirty mind and a dirty mouth, and I had to stop his abuse of my mum.”

  McLaren nodded, his eyes on the Millington house. Was Millington’s wife the target of Tom’s verbal abuse? Worse yet, was it also physical abuse? “Did your father know about this?”

  “About Millington’s talk, you mean?”

  “That or how she felt about it?”

  “I guess he would have done. That’s hard to keep quiet, isn’t it? I mean, Millington wasn’t exactly secretive about it. He’d stand in his front garden and yell stuff at mum. I guess Dad could’ve heard it.”

  “Had your father ever said anything to Millington or to your mother? Did you ever see your father mad?”

  Chad chewed his bottom lip while he considered McLaren’s questions. Finally, he shook his head. “I think I would’ve heard if Dad had known. He’s a pretty quiet guy on the whole, though he does explode if he’s pushed too far. But really, nothing much rattles him. Good bank material, if you know what I mean.”

  “Steady in a crisis.” But maybe not in his personal life.

  “Yeah. I think if Dad had known about all this he would’ve said something to Millington ’cause he’d be madder than hell at Millington. Dad wouldn’t have let it go on so that mum was continually harassed like that.”

  Or let his son play the husband’s part by telling Millington to leg it. “So you think Tom Millington got back at your mother because you defended her.”

  “I know it probably sounds far fetched, Mr. McLaren, and I don’t think he planned it. I mean, he didn’t sit at the table plotting to kill her. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? That’s a bit over the top! But if he got mad at her…like one night he came up to her and said something about me and him getting into a fight, and he was mad at me because I knocked him out flat and he was mad at mum for not…well, with all the stuff that happened—”

  “He pushed her, perhaps, but a little too hard, and she fell, hit her head, he saw that she had died accidentally.”

  “Yeah. Something like that. You’ve seen him. He’s a mass of muscles. He could easily have knocked her down.” He kicked the bottom of the door. “I don’t think he hid in the bushes and ambushed her. But he’s got a temper. He might’ve got into a shouting match with her and things got out of hand, like you said.”

  “What about his son? You said he might have committed murder.”

  “Rick?” He screwed up his mouth. “That piece of trash?”

  “He had a run-in with the cops, I understand, and your mother instigated it.”

  “He could have done, sure. He’s got his dad’s temper. He also hangs out with a piece of garbage called Danny Mercer. They all smoke pot. Mum talked to them, told them the dangers of that stuff, and everything else. When they just ignored her, she finally talked to the police about it. She—” He paused, his gaze shifting back to McLaren. “She felt very strongly about that sort of thing. About stopping abuse and keeping the neighborhood free from problems.”

  “Were Rick or Danny angry about that?”

  “Yeah. They got it from both sides—their parents evidently came down hard on them, and some police constable talked to them. It didn’t sit well with Rick, I know, ’cause he yelled over to me one day that me and my mum better watch our backs.”

  “Is he the sort who makes good on his threats?”

  “He does to some extent. I’ve seen the results of his anger at school and around the neighborhood. He’s not afraid to use his fists; there are a bunch of kids who know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his kicks and punches.”

  “Is he a bully?”

  Chad considered the question for a moment before replying, “All the kids he’s beat up, at least the ones I’ve seen, are smaller than he is, so yeah, he’s a bully. But he’s not above lying in wait for someone if the bloke is bigger than Rick. That’s how he works, Mr. McLaren. He slinks around, planning how to get even. But yeah, I think he could’ve attacked my mum if he ambushed her one night.”

  “So it wouldn’t take much to overpower a woman as tiny as your mother if her attacker was as big and sly as Rick Millington.”

  “That’s the gist of it.”

  * * * *

  McLaren got the gist of Alan Hughes’ temper thirty minutes later. They were in Alan’s office, a wood-paneled room with large windows that looked onto the bank’s lobby. The Venetian blinds had been drawn up—presumably so Alan could keep an eye on the morning’s activities or the employees could see he also worked part of his weekend—and Alan was standing behind his desk, facing McLaren. Perhaps the blinds should have been down; Alan’s crimson face would not be visible to customer and clerk alike.

  “You’ve got a nerve even suggesting that,” Alan exploded, his fist hitting the top of his desk. “My wife was k
illed. Her body was dumped by the roadside like she was a bag of rubbish. And you ask if I knew about Tom Millington and her.”

  “I’m not saying they had an affair, Mr. Hughes.” McLaren kept his voice low. He was all too conscious of a few looks they were getting from curious customers and employees. “I just wanted to know if you think Millington could have actually forced your wife—”

  “To do what—have the affair?”

  “I was thinking more of accosting her one afternoon or evening.”

  “God, this sounds like some Victorian melodrama. No, I don’t think so.”

  “You knew about the harassment, however.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you do anything about it?”

  “Like what—go over there with a gun and threaten him to stop it?”

  “I hope not. Maybe talk to him, tell him that his advances weren’t appreciated.”

  “Yeah, I talked to him. Once. When Marta came into the house with her face red and crying. She didn’t want to tell me what had happened but she finally did.”

  “And you went outside then to confront Millington?”

  “You’re damned right I did. He was in his garage. I told him he had better stop his foul suggestions or I’d beat him to within an inch of his life.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Is that all? What the hell more do you want me to do? Choke him? Punch him in the stomach? Kick him in the groin? Yes, that was all.”

  “That stopped the harassment?”

  Alan opened his mouth, took a breath, then blushed. He grabbed the back of his leather chair and said more quietly, “Well, no. At least, not right away.”

  McLaren frowned. “Oh? When did it stop, then?”

  “Well, it didn’t.” His voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper and his face suddenly drained of color. “I-it went on right up to her death.”

  “How long was this? From the time of your confrontation to the night of your wife’s disappearance?”

  “A month. I talked to Millington in May.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything more to him if his attentions continued? Didn’t you know what was happening? Did your wife not tell you Millington was still bothering her?”