Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Marta…”

  “The driver tripped the speed camera, which took the photo. The registration plate number showed up nice and clear.”

  “Linnet Isherwood didn’t mention that.”

  “The woman who started you back on your illustrious career.”

  “Don’t know how illustrious or starting me back, but she came to me, asking me to reinvestigate the case.”

  “Which you rushed into.”

  “I didn’t rush into anything,” McLaren said, slightly annoyed. “I gave it some thought.”

  “While she was talking, I expect.”

  “I gave it a good deal of thought, Jamie. I wasn’t eager to plunge back into all this. You ought to understand that.”

  Jamie nodded. He knew what McLaren had suffered. Stepping back into detective mode, even privately, took deliberation. “I know you, Mike. You love police work. You couldn’t have said no to Linnet Isherwood even if it meant your life. It’s in your blood. It’s like a siren song, calling to you from a great distance, luring you back to the job.”

  “Always did like the sound of fire engine bells and cop car sirens. Nothing beats a good adrenalin rush,” he said, half jokingly, then sobered. He did love the job. Helping people, solving puzzles, righting injustices. It was a siren song, beckoning him to pick up those unrighted injustices, but if there would be any adverse effects from his now-amateur meddling… He stared into his beer, then asked where the ticket had been originated.

  “Just south of Elton,” Jamie said. “Twenty-three forty-seven hours.”

  “And we know she left the casino at twenty-three hundred hours,” McLaren said. “Or close enough to call it that. Heading toward Elton or from Elton?”

  “Toward,” Jamie said. “Heading north.”

  “So we know she was alive at that time.”

  “Or someone else was speeding, anxious to dump her body.”

  McLaren snorted, still convinced Marta had been killed at the barn. “What road was this?”

  “Along the A61, north side of Ripley.”

  “Not the A615 going into Matlock, then, or the B5057 going into Elton where her body was found.”

  “Sounds as though she was going home after all, heading north toward Chesterfield.” Jamie picked up his glass and took a drink. The singers finished their song and those people listening applauded.

  “I read the reports you sent, Jamie. Thanks.”

  “Get any ideas from them?”

  “Don’t know about ideas, but it’s interesting that Linnet Isherwood was briefly under suspicion.”

  Jamie set down his glass, his face grim. “Because her husband left her and the kids prior to all this financial trouble of Marta’s, you mean?”

  “Isn’t that good enough motive?”

  “They ruled her out because she didn’t leave the casino in Marta’s car.”

  “Yeah. My friend, the goon at the casino car park, admitted Marta and Linnet left in their own cars. The casino cashier confirmed that, too. Told me the cops had seen the two women leaving separately on the CCTV tape.”

  “And there is no photo of Linnet Isherwood’s car, as there is of Marta’s as she tripped the speed camera. You know, Mike, if Linnet had been following Marta home, about to take Marta for another ride after Marta had parked her car, Linnet would’ve been speeding, too! She’d be going just as fast in order to keep up with Marta. Linnet couldn’t let Marta get out of her sight. After all, Marta might not have been going straight home, and Linnet wouldn’t have known that.”

  “Spoiling some kidnapping plan or such.” McLaren’s fingers drummed against the side of his empty beer mug.

  Jamie eyed his friend’s glass. “You need another? My round, I think.”

  McLaren shook his head. “No. Just that…talking about cars… You got another few minutes or so?” McLaren asked without glancing at his watch.

  “Sure. I’m a grass widower this weekend. Paula’s at her folks’—”

  “I’ve got a couple mysteries of my own—personal— I’d like your opinion of.” He told Jamie about the beer bottles—the ones found in and on his car, the missing bag at Noah’s Ark, the bottle thrown at him when he was forced off the road—and about the disappearance of Karin Pedersen. “Normally, I’d let all this go,” he said, his fingertips stroking the lip of his glass. “I’m beginning to think I’m losing my mind. I saw Karin enter the hotel but the clerk denies she was there. I saw all those bottles on my car, bagged them to bring to you—”

  “Thinking I could get them printed for you.”

  “—but they disappeared from my car! I swear they were there, Jamie. I know I locked my car before I went into the animal shelter. I always lock my car. It’s a habit.”

  “You couldn’t have forgotten just this once, Mike?”

  McLaren frowned, staring at his friend. “No! It’s a habit. You think that just because I’m not a copper anymore, I ignore a basic safety—”

  Jamie waved away McLaren’s argument. “I know it’s hardly likely, but you had your mind on the case, on questioning the shelter employees.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about the case that hard! Anyway, why would anyone steal a bag of empty beer bottles? It’s absurd.”

  “Suppose the bloke didn’t know it was empty bottles? Suppose he strolling past your car, glances inside, sees a big paper bag, thinks it’s something expensive, something he can sell, so he reaches in and grabs the bag, only to find out later when he opens it in a nice, safe alley, that it’s just rubbish.”

  “Because,” McLaren said, his voice growing tired, “the bag was open, so this accommodating thief could see what was in the bag before he snatched it. Because he couldn’t just reach into my car since—”

  “I know, I know. The car was locked.”

  “Plus, I don’t recall there being anyplace especially close where he could stop to examine his ill gotten gain. I parked so that the passenger side, where the bag sat, was parallel to the street. It’s a busy thoroughfare, Jamie. Besides the cop working the traffic accident, there was a street cleaner. There were pedestrians, shopkeepers, drivers. All these people passing by that damned animal shelter. I can’t see the chap taking such a risk.”

  “Maybe he looked the part so no one paid him any mind.”

  McLaren rubbed his head, excruciatingly tired. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that if he wasn’t dressed as a rag and bone man, and if he strolled up to your car from a believable direction—”

  “Like, he looked as though he came from the shelter, where the car was parked.”

  “—so no one happening to see this would question his proximity to your car, and he looked as though he were unlocking your car door with a key, except that he was reaching into your car through the open window.”

  “The damned car was locked!” McLaren reiterated.

  “Could or could not be correct. But if he jimmied the car open…” His eyebrow went up as he left the inference unsaid. “Not everyone uses a sticky jam knife to open letters, Mike.”

  McLaren exhaled slowly as he considered the possibility. “Could do, I suppose. I hadn’t considered a professional thief with proper tools. Still, it’s a hell of a chance to take, breaking into a car in broad daylight.”

  “Murder’s also a hell of a chance to take, but someone did.”

  * * * *

  On the drive home, McLaren considered all the angles of his two personal cases, as he called them. Jamie had suggested that the hotel clerk might just have been protecting his guests when he denied Karin Pedersen was staying there. “Doesn’t want to get involved,” was how Jamie had phrased it. “You’ve been a copper long enough to know about reluctant witnesses.” The beer bottle episodes were a bit more puzzling, and he promised McLaren that he’d think about it.

  The trip back wasn’t long, perhaps five minutes, but McLaren slowed on approaching the sharp bend where he’d had the near collision with the bottle-throwing driver. The car headlights threw brilliant
ly bright patches of light onto the road and into the canopy of leaves overhead. Tree boughs jumped out of the darkness in the headlights’ glare, seeming bigger and more threatening than in daylight. McLaren passed the rock cliff, a sheet of light grayness, and then the great oak that marked the road to his house. He turned off. Immediately the crunch of gravel replaced the lullabying hum of car tires on tarmac, and he slowed as the tires sought more traction in the loose base.

  A perfume of honeysuckle announced his arrival at the widened spot in his drive, and he steered the car over to the place where he always parked. He turned off the engine but sat in the car for a half minute, letting the scents and sounds of the June night wash over him. Roses, early blooming lilies, and hesperus cast off their intoxicating aromas with the abandonment of a woman; a nightjar and barn owl called out to some unseen mate. Downwind, a fox yapped, then the land fell quiet.

  Last time I’d sat in the car on a June night, he thought, inhaling deeply of the scene of honeysuckle, was last year with Dena. He bent his head, leaning it against the steering wheel, recalling the kisses and conversation, the plans for their shared future. Then he had left the job and all that had ended. His happiness had also ended and Dena’s departure created a wound in his soul that he thought would never heal.

  McLaren eased out of his car, suddenly tired from the day’s pursuits and acrobatics. He slammed the door, making certain it was closed, and turned the key in the lock. Despite his belief that it was a regular habit, he paused and turned back toward the car as he clicked the remote lock device. The yellow parking lights blinked on and off and the car horn beeped into the quiet of the night. He tried the door latch, making sure the automatic locking system was working. The car was secure. He turned and made for the kitchen door.

  Trying to recall it later, he couldn’t decide if he’d heard anything prior to the event or if it’d just not registered. Like sounds or sights too common to be memorable.

  In a rush of power and near silence, an arm shot out of the darkness as he unlocked the back door. Fingers gripped his throat and a hand grabbed his upper arm and twisted him around. A knee slammed into his stomach and something solid and heavy smashed into his head. His hand groped at the air, at anything solid, to keep himself from falling. Laughter…or the owl’s hoot…bounced in his ears. A blinding pain caused his stomach to tighten…echoes of crunching gravel…then darkness and oblivion.

  SIXTEEN

  Jamie Kydd did more than think about it, as he had phrased it to McLaren before going home that night from the pub. He rose uncharacteristically early Sunday morning. Uncharacteristic because when his wife was out of town, Jamie usually slept until eight or so. But McLaren’s stories of the disappearing hiker and the reappearing beer bottles invaded Jamie’s dreams. So he disregarded his regular grass widower routine and was showered, shaved, dressed and out of the house as the first slants of sunlight hit the chimney pot.

  For all his kidding last night, Jamie believed McLaren’s statement. Habit aside, no cop would walk away from his unlocked vehicle. So what was the answer? That the car had been broken into was obvious. And by a professional, for they had found no chipped paint or torn weatherstripping around the door when they examined the window last night. Would a professional risk breaking into a car, in daylight, for a bag of empty bottles?

  Jamie turned the question over in his mind as he drove to The Hanoverian Hotel in Hathersage. The bottles episode seemed to have begun with McLaren’s rescue of the injured hiker. But again, why? Jamie glanced at his watch, determined to find out the answer to that and to Karin Pedersen’s disappearance before he was much older.

  The hotel was stirring by the time Jamie left his car in the hotel car park. The village bakery was doing a brisk business, as was the newsagent’s. Already cars were parked along the main road. And probably winding up the hill to Little John’s grave, Jamie thought as he glanced at the church tower just peeking out of the blanket of trees. He watched a couple—obviously tourists—stop on the pavement and consult a map before he entered the hotel.

  The aromas of fried eggs and ham, grilled tomatoes and brewing coffee hit his nose as he closed the front door. It also reminded him of the inadequacy of his own breakfast, a day-old scone and a hurriedly consumed cup of tea. He pretended that the smells weren’t there and walked into the reception area.

  Even at this early hour, a clerk was on duty, freshly scrubbed and dressed immaculately. He looked up as Jamie came up to the front desk, smiled, and wished him good morning.

  “Good morning to you,” Jamie responded, flashing his brightest smile. He didn’t feel particularly cheery, having slept only a few hours, but he put on a good show. His police training was good for more things than handing out speeding tickets.

  “May I help you, sir?” the clerk asked, setting down a stack of letters. “Do you wish a room?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you could help me in another capacity.”

  The clerk’s smile remained plastered to his face, but a doubtful look crept into his eye. “Certainly. If I can, sir.”

  “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Karin Pedersen. I’m concerned about her whereabouts because she was supposed to have phoned me last night and I haven’t heard from her. She’d mentioned she was staying here, so I’m hoping you might know something about her. She’s a small woman, in her twenties, with red curly hair—”

  “The woman is known to me.”

  “Wonderful! Is she staying here?”

  “But not in the capacity you believe.”

  “Oh, yes? She’s changed her plans, then?”

  “I know nothing of her plans.” The clerk picked up the letters. “Nor do I know anything of her.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know of her, that is all. I do not know her. She is not a guest of The Hanoverian.”

  “If she’s not a guest, how do you know of her?”

  “Because,” he said, already exasperated, “yours is not the first inquiry about this woman. There was another gentleman Friday. He was quite insistent that this person was lodged here. I had a rather difficult time persuading him she was not. In fact,” he said, squaring up the stack by tapping the envelope edges on the desktop, “I really do not believe I convinced him. He left muttering. I fully expect him to return. And when he does…” He nudged the phone a bit closer to his right hand.

  “This is extraordinary! Karin distinctly told me she was spending the night here. I can’t believe it!” Jamie turned slightly so he could see the side door that led to the car park. “I hope nothing happened to her. Though I expect she would have rung me up if she’d been delayed. She’s hiking,” he added, turning back to the clerk. “You don’t think she could have fallen, do you? Have you heard anything on the news?”

  “I heard nothing on the news or from any other source. In fact, the other man inquiring for this person mentioned something about her having a scraped knee, I believe it was. I seriously doubt that had your friend suffered from such an injury, it would have detained her. Now, if you don’t have anything further, I have a lot of work to do.” He placed the letters in the Out tray on the desk and walked over to the postal card display rack.

  Jamie walked slowly toward the door. From the depths of the hotel he could hear a vacuum cleaner being run. Across the hall, behind the closed doors, the softer sounds of conversations and the rattle of china plates drifted over to him. He turned toward the clerk, who was inserting new cards into the stand. “There couldn’t be a mistake, could there?”

  The man looked up, a card in his hand. “A mistake?”

  “My friend couldn’t have registered with someone else, while you were at tea, perhaps?”

  “There is no such person registered at this hotel. If you do not believe me, perhaps you will believe our reservation cards.” He strode over to the desk and produced the same stack of cards he had shown earlier to McLaren. Jamie glanced at each card as the clerk flipped through them, nodding at the obvious co
nclusion. When the clerk had returned them to the box, he said, “I trust you are satisfied your friend is not here, has not been here, and has no reservation to stay here. Now, if you don’t mind, as I said, I have work to do. Good day, sir.” The clerk returned to the card stand as Jamie walked from the room.

  He paused by the front door, his mind trying to make sense of the situation. McLaren had jested that he was going insane, and now Jamie nearly believed him. But if he had seen Karin enter the hotel, Jamie wasn’t going to doubt him. Something had the stench of week old fish.

  He half turned, bent on questioning a staff member, and had taken a step toward the rear of the building, when he abandoned the idea. If something odd was going on at the hotel, surely the staff had been instructed not to say anything. Even if a maid had seen someone fitting Karin Pedersen’s description, it didn’t prove it was Karin. There could be another red haired guest. He decided to catch one of the staff on a cigarette break, outside the hotel, and walked across the road to the bakery.

  A woman placing croissants in the large, glass display case looked up when Jamie entered the shop. He nodded at her and glanced around the main room as he approached her. The shop’s age was immediately apparent in its blackened oak timbers, white plaster walls, and sloping ceiling. But certainly not in its fare, Jamie thought as the scents of warm bread, pastries and tarts beckoned to him. He felt the same response from his stomach that he had at the hotel, but this time he didn’t ignore it. He bought a cinnamon scone and a pot of tea and sat at one of the small tables overlooking the street.