Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  The grass was flat at the tree’s trunk, as though it were a popular spot for picnickers. A crushed lemonade carton and a small notebook suggested someone had left in haste not too long ago. As he bent over to pick them up, he noticed a large stone, approximately a foot tall and rounded, barely visible among the mass of tall weeds and ivy. A nice spot to sit and sketch. Or write. Pocketing the notebook, he walked over to the stone and began yanking up the plants in a yard-wide circle. He had nearly cleared the ground when he discovered a silver charm of a downhill skier tangled in the dense stems near the roots. Probably from a bracelet. He picked it up, blew off the soil and dust, and slipped it into his pocket.

  The remainder of the area yielded nothing unusual.

  This spot, farther away from the stone building, had not been subjected to the ruthless search of the previous year, for the grass grew even and thick between the gravel side of the road and the edge of the wood. Clumps of Queen Anne’s lace and wood dock dotted the patch of green, waist-high and impenetrable in its exuberant growth. Several large boughs from the trees fringing the glade had crashed to earth at one time. A large tree trunk angled out from the forest’s border. Bramble and creeping thistle, tall and reaching for the sun, seemed to explode from the ground around the trunk. McLaren abandoned his casual search of the low depression alongside the road and lifted the boughs. Nothing but matted grass met his eye. He poked through the growth with the broken branch, then with his fingers, feeling the wet earth beneath. Still nothing. He stood up and gazed at the trunk. Tiers of many-zoned polypore fungi enveloped one end of the trunk. The sunlight played upon the half-circled brackets, enhancing the browns, grays and tans that radiated out in wavy rings. The top of the trunk had splintered, possibly from its fall, but the mid section of the dead wood looked solid. Had it been here last year?

  He waded through the stinging plants, the prickly leaves and thorns tearing at his flesh and clothing. Ignoring the angry red welts and drops of blood, he pushed aside the plants with his feet, then stepped on the stems to crack them and keep them from springing up again. After clearing the entire length of the trunk, he got on his hands and knees. The exposed earth beneath the edges of the trunk was damp. No yellowish grass or wildflowers stretched outward into the clearing. The wood had been there a while, McLaren reasoned, but had the search crew moved it? He needed to see if anything was trapped beneath it.

  Thrusting his left hand under a large bough, he pulled at the branches with his right. His fingers touched something smooth. Trying to determine the object’s identity, he felt along the flat surface. It tapered slightly. McLaren yanked harder at the branches but the bough did not shift. He stood up, ignoring the dampness of his trousers. Tugging and kicking the trunk did not budge it from its position. He picked up a fallen branch used it against the trunk as a lever. It snapped in two at the first hint of pressure. He turned toward the barn, exasperated, his eyes moving toward the upper story. A long-handled rake and shovel leaned against the wall in the loft. They would make acceptable levers. But to get them he would have to enter the barn again, mount the stairs, confront the dark and the nightmares. That was not an option. Not now. One time was enough to flirt with the memories he’d shoved into the recesses of his mind. He could not face them again so soon.

  He threw down the branch and strode to his car. Getting in, he told himself the car needed a wash anyway. The engine started with a purr and he eased the vehicle off the road. The depression paralleling the tarmac was not long, slanting upward and flattening out to meet the general lay of the land. Yet, the grass and wood dock were thick in patches, perhaps hiding holes or broken bottles. He set the parking brake, got out, picked up a dead branch, and jabbed into the vegetation. The soil was solid, yielding no surprises. He tossed away the stick and got back into his car. The hell with Proper Procedure.

  The earth was firm, erasing the question of getting stuck. He steered around one of the large, fallen boughs and stopped in front of the trunk. It looked larger when viewed from within his car. Yet, he reminded himself, the top part was rotten and would probably break off when the trunk started rolling. With that thought to cheer him, he backed up and aimed the car’s front bumper directly at the trunk’s midsection. He stopped the car when he felt the bumper nudge the wood. He took a deep breath as his foot pressed down slowly on the accelerator pedal.

  Nothing happened. For all the engine’s groan, the downed tree remained where it was. McLaren applied more pressure to the pedal. The car crept forward, the tires digging into the earth. The trunk stirred, finally inched forward hesitantly as it came against bumps of packed soil and tufts of grass. Chunks of bark slid off beneath the bumper as the dead wood rolled. When McLaren judged he had cleared the site, he braked, letting the trunk come to rest against a small birch. He backed the car, angling sharply to the right, and drove back onto the grassy verge of the road.

  When he walked back to the trunk, he saw that he had shifted it a good half dozen feet from its original spot. The exposed ground for the length of the trunk stretched pale tan and brown; no plants struggled toward the sunlight. McLaren smiled. Maybe the search team hadn’t bothered to shift the piece of dead wood; maybe they’d been too rushed or considered it too far from the body, which had been near the barn.

  He saw the silvery object immediately, where he judged he had touched it beneath the large bough. He squatted and pulled it from its imprisonment in the damp soil. Flicking off the mud, he rotated it slowly, looking at it with a growing sense of excitement. It was a heel from a woman’s shoe, a high-heeled shoe. A dress shoe. The sunlight glanced off the silvery patina and he blinked. Jamie’s words sounded in his mind: victim’s right shoe missing.

  Feeling clever, he laid the heel on the grass and continued prodding the rest of the soggy earth where the trunk had lain. The area was large and his fingertips soon became sore and dirty, but he had no thought of stopping until he searched it thoroughly. He started his hunt at the tree’s midsection, where the shoe heel had been buried, and worked his way steadily, slowly toward the larger end of the trunk depression. He found nothing. Returning to the midsection, he searched toward the crown. Quarter of an hour later he was rewarded for his meticulous work. His fingers closed around something hard.

  He drew it from its near imprisonment of the earth and flicked off the globs of mud. It was circular—or had been before it had broken—about the size of a walnut shell and black or dark blue. He got up and walked to a dry patch of soil, where he wiped the object across the grass. Holding it up, he slowly rotated it, trying to make out what it was. He pulled his handkerchief from his back trousers pocket, spat repeatedly on the object and cleaned off the major portion of mud with the linen. It still had mud wedged into the ridged rim, but he knew what it was. A poker chip. A fragment of a chip, actually. He angled it so the sun slanted across its surface. Was there printing on it, or just the usual design found on most commercial chips? Was it from Noah’s Ark or a custom-printed chip from a casino? Either way, he smiled as he picked up the shoe heel and carried them gingerly back to his car. It was prophetic. Hadn’t he always been called in to clear up messes when the chips were down?

  FIFTEEN

  In other circumstances, McLaren would have hesitated about getting into his car wearing wet, muddy clothing. The car’s exterior was also wet and muddy from the trunk rolling, and—perhaps even more important—he was tired and wanted to wrap up his day.

  He leaned slightly to his left as he looked at the fragment of the poker chip. His makeshift cleansing had removed most of the mud and he could now see a bit of writing on the chip’s face. Part of the paint was scratched but he could make out the first two letters: ON. Could be part of a word, like ‘one,’ he thought, recalling a slogan on one of the animal shelter’s chips: One pet, one heart of unconditional love. Of course, it could also stand for the amount of the casino chip’s worth: One hundred. He sighed heavily. The edge of the chip also seemed to have a band of white on it, like the usua
l chips found at a casino. But the Noah’s Ark chips had also had that, so he was really no closer to a solution.

  He laid the chip fragment and the high heel on the car seat, yanked his mobile phone from his pocket, and called Neal Clark, Marta’s brother-in-law. “When Marta met you before she went to the casino,” McLaren said when Neal answered the phone, “how was she dressed?”

  Several seconds passed before Neal recovered from his surprise to answer the question. “How? You mean, evening clothes or jeans? That sort of thing?”

  “Yes. Do you remember the shoes she was wearing?”

  Again a lapse of silence fell between them. A rook shrieked to an unseen companion before flying to another tree. Neal said slowly, “I think she wore high heels. Yes.” His voice grew stronger as her image cemented in his mind. “A blue and silver dress with silver-toned high heels. Is that what you want?”

  McLaren rang off, thinking it was perfect.

  Linnet Isherwood echoed the dress and shoes color when McLaren rang her up, but added that the dress had cap-sleeves and had been knee-length. “She wore a silver bangle bracelet—a Möbius strip design with some phrase engraved on it—and a necklace of blue beads. Does that help?”

  McLaren assured Linnet it did and asked one more question. “Did she ever wear a charm of a skier—either on a bracelet or necklace?”

  “No…not that I recall. Not that we were the greatest of friends, so I can’t swear. I never saw one. Sorry.”

  He assured her it didn’t matter and thanked her before hanging up.

  Asking Marta’s husband, coworker Verity Dwyer, and three other friends about the silver charm produced nothing but verbal head scratching, confusion and strong denials that she ever owned it. Alan flatly denied Marta had such a piece. “I saw her everyday, in all situations,” he said rather hesitantly, leaving Marta’s state of undress to McLaren’s imagination. “She didn’t have anything remotely like that. She went in for finer jewelry, like silver chains and bangle bracelets, semi-precious gems. Charms were too…” He tried to find the right word. “…too cute.”

  “You knew every piece she had, then.”

  “Certainly. Her jewel box sits next to my tray where I keep my cufflinks, tie tacks and such. I’ve seen the box’s contents thousands of time. She never owned a charm like that—or any charm.”

  Which just about closed that subject.

  McLaren frowned, trying to recall if the computer reports he printed out had mentioned clothes or jewelry. He had no recollection of it, if there had been. Maybe Jamie had not emailed that. He punched Jamie’s phone number into his mobile.

  “You find anything at the barn, then?” Jamie said.

  “You free for a drink?”

  “Yeah. Always. When? Now?”

  “No. I need to get home, shower and change out of these muddy clothes.”

  “Muddy… What the hell have you been into, Mike?”

  McLaren related the tree trunk adventure, giving only the broad scenario, before saying, “I’d like your opinion on this. If you’ve got time tonight.”

  “How can I refuse? My cop’s curiosity is up.”

  McLaren rang off, revved the car engine into life, and drove home.

  * * * *

  It’s a measure of our friendship that Jamie hadn’t hesitated to meet me, McLaren thought as he toweled off after his quick shower. He had left his muddy clothes in the middle of the kitchen floor, not wanting to trail the dirt through the house, and now changed into jeans and a tee shirt. And, he admitted as he combed his hair, that Jamie didn’t need to ask where to meet. The Split Oak, in Somerley, had become their standard meeting place. Not because the food or drink was outstanding—though both were very good—but because it was convenient to both men. McLaren lived in Somerley; Jamie lived five minutes down the road, in Castleton.

  The car park at The Split Oak was full that night. McLaren had to leave his car opposite the grocery shop. It had closed hours ago but a small security light shone from the shop’s interior. He walked along the pavement, passing the newsagent’s, a clothes shop, bakery and combination gift shop/tearoom. The space between the bakery and gift shop housed a small park where one of the shops in the row had been demolished. It was more of a rest spot, McLaren thought, passing the grassy rectangle that had been filled with a few small trees, some park benches and a sundial. Nothing more than an environmental use of space. He crossed in front of the streetlight throwing a yellow glow onto the grass and pavement. His shadow, black and thick, stretched across the road, losing itself in the darkness lying at the foot of the buildings. He quickened his step, conscious of the guitar music filtering from the pub’s open door and the rumbling in his stomach. He passed Jamie’s car, parked along the curb, and entered the pub.

  As many others of its era, it had been a coaching inn during the days of Elizabeth I and King James VI. A refuge from the night and storm. And from highwaymen. It had offered a slice of comfort in the wilds of Derbyshire’s mountains and moors, a spot of civilization for which travelers were only too glad to pay. The slate roof sagged across the oak beam ceiling and the casement windows let in blasts of winter when the wind blew westerly across the moor, but it held History and Charm and ghosts, perhaps, within its thick-set walls. And a good acoustic band on Saturday nights, McLaren mentally added as he joined Jamie at his table.

  McLaren finished the last of his dinner—soused mackerel, glazed carrots, leeks with brown butter, and a bowl of fruit. He bypassed his usual favorite, soles in coffins, and opted tonight for the lighter fare. The mackerel had been extraordinarily good and he was thinking of ordering something else, but felt content for the moment to work on his pint. The pub was noisy with the laughter of weekend fun and the competition of a darts game. Which suited McLaren fine. There was less chance of being overheard. He leaned back, balancing the glass beer mug on his knee, and watched his friend down a forkful of cider cake before he told about finding the silver charm and shoe heel. When Jamie was duly impressed, McLaren explained why he wanted Jamie’s help.

  “What bothers me,” McLaren said as a cheer erupted from the direction of the darts game, “is that Marta Hughes’ body was dumped. Not so much the physical dumping, because you have to get rid of the body somehow, but that it would require some amount of strength to drag it out of a car.”

  “Unless she was killed there.”

  “Which might just be correct. Look, her car is sitting prettily at her house; there’s no evidence of blood; no hair or fingerprints were found that couldn’t be accounted for. I can’t see someone waylaying her on the road, dumping her at the stone barn, going back to get her car and then leaving it at her house. Besides the question of logistics—like how the hell did he get away from Marta’s house if he drove her car there—it doesn’t make sense! First of all, why risk all that maneuvering? Someone might see you either as you got into her car or drove her car or parked it at her house. Second, why even bother to do that? If she was waylaid, why not leave the car where it was? And third, since the lab boys found nothing foreign in her car, I can’t see some bloke cocooned in a macintosh or sweats, gloved and wearing a plastic bag over his head to keep his DNA out of the car. Even gloves and clothes will leave trace evidence. No, she was alive when she got home, Jamie, but she got into someone’s car, was driven to the barn outside Elton, and probably killed there.”

  Jamie laid his fork on the plate and nodded. “From what you’ve told me, Mike, for all that Rick Millington seems a somewhat likely suspect, he’s only fifteen years old and can’t drive.”

  “But his mate, Danny, is seventeen.”

  “And being a helpful bloke and friend, he could have driven his car and helped Rick with the body.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me. If father Tom did it, that eliminates the car driving problem.”

  “Why would she get into either Danny’s or the Millingtons’ car? Was she that friendly with them?”

  “I thought maybe I was too close to it, or
had lost my edge. I’ve been out of the job for a year,” he reminded Jamie.

  “If you’ve lost your edge, I’m the Chief Constable.”

  McLaren eyed his friend’s physique. “You’ll have to add a few stone.” He lapsed into silence while Jamie tapped his foot in time to the music. Moments later, he snapped his fingers.

  “What?” Jamie shifted his attention back to his friend.

  “Why does it have to be Danny’s or the Millingtons’ cars? Maybe she got into someone else’s car.” He cocked his right eyebrow and watched the astonishment grow on Jamie’s face. “Well?” He smiled as he grabbed his beer.

  “Certainly makes more sense if she got into Verity’s car, for instance.” He saluted McLaren with his mug before adding, “Speaking of driving…I’ve done some digging around and I came across a speeding ticket.”

  “Must be more remarkable than issued to A.N. Other, I take it.”

  “You’ll be interested.” Jamie took a swallow of ale.

  “You sound confident.”

  “You will be interested,” he repeated. “I know you.”

  McLaren smiled. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “You ready for this, or do you want to keep making smart comments all night?”

  “I’m ready to be awed.”

  Jamie looked around and leaned forward a bit, as though sharing a conspiracy. The band started singing about lost love. “I don’t know why I’m doing you this favor, after your last comment, but—” He rushed onward, giving McLaren no time to reply. “I did a bit of digging around for you. Limited use, I know, since I can’t get into the police files on this one.” He grimaced, silently apologizing, but McLaren shook his head. It would be worth Jamie’s job if he were caught doing unauthorized work such as that, even on his time off. Jamie nodded at McLaren’s meaning and continued. “Anyway, I do know that your victim, Marta Hughes, received a speeding ticket the night of her murder.”