Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “So we’re back to your wounded hiker. You’re sure you don’t know her.”

  “I wouldn’t swear to it in court but no, I don’t think so. You’re saying someone paid her to incriminate me?”

  “Or she did it on her own. Maybe you jailed her brother or boyfriend. I don’t know. Just watch out, Mike.”

  “I always do.” But last night’s attack proved that diligence didn’t always work.

  “Well, try harder. You’re scaring me to death.”

  “You’re scared? I was the one beaten.” But he knew what Jamie meant, and he was scared. Scared of the unknown assailant and scared of the door that seemed to be opening before him, beckoning him to walk into the past.

  “Not for long, though.” Jamie opened another beer and poured it into his glass. He took a sip before adding, “Not beaten in this case.”

  “Why? What are you on about?”

  “I spent the better part of the day nosing about in Hathersage, much to your relief.”

  “Relief? You must have learned something.”

  “Not as monumental as Copernicus’ discovery—”

  “I’ll tell you where it ranks.”

  “—but you will be impressed.” Jamie related what he had learned that morning, including the CCTV video surveillance. He ended, “This matches the description of the car that ran you off the road. We still have only a partial on the car registration number. The plate was partially out of camera range.”

  “This is outstanding, Jamie!” McLaren leaned forward, beaming. The darkness seemed to be receding. “We’ve got a car make and model, its color…”

  “Only a partial plate number. And I’m afraid I can’t follow that up and find out whose it is. It would mean my job if I was caught out.”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t ask you to. Of course it’s too dangerous.” He paused as he caught Jamie’s eye. They both recalled a similar event when a police officer had looked up a number on his off-duty time, only to be found out and fired. McLaren got to his feet. “You got more of the number than I did. Excellent! I can keep my eye out for the vehicle when I talk to the main players in this case. I’ll be careful. Don’t worry about me, Jamie.”

  “I’m more than worried about you right now.” He stood up. “What do you want? Can I get it? Your bruises are deepening in color. Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor? Need something attended to, stitched up?”

  “I’m fine. Just a bit stiff and sore. No, I don’t want anything in particular. Just couldn’t sit anymore.” He stretched slowly, testing his back and arm muscles. “I feel a bit better, so why do I still feel bad about this case?”

  “Yeah, well, you still look unsteady on your legs. Sit down before you fall down.”

  McLaren snapped his fingers, and he turned toward Jamie, the moment of triumph gone from his eyes. “Fall down. That’s it!”

  “I told you to sit—”

  “No! That’s not what I mean. This whole thing is tied to my downfall. Somebody wants my undoing. Either physically,” he said, massaging his bruised jaw, “or career.”

  “But you’re not in the job any longer. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “So it’s my death, then.” The words were barely above a whisper as the realization sank in.

  “Maybe not your death. That’s awful drastic. A lesson learned, perhaps.”

  “Which points to someone just released from prison.”

  “Unless Dena’s just getting around to giving you her opinion about your broken engagement.”

  McLaren snorted and sat down. “Wouldn’t take her a year to do that. Besides, a man attacked me. I can tell the difference, even in the dark.”

  “So she hired someone.”

  “You have no career as a comedian. This isn’t funny.”

  “Because you still have feelings for her or because you respect women in general?”

  “Just drop it, Jamie. I’m in no mood for this. My body hurts.”

  Jamie downed a mouthful of beer, cradled the glass in his hands, and said, “Have you given any thought to your other body, Marta Hughes?”

  “In what aspect?”

  “The recovery site. Why there? She didn’t live in Elton. Did she know someone there?”

  “That’s been nagging me, too. I aim to find out before too much longer.”

  * * * *

  After breakfast the following day, McLaren searched for some clue to his attacker. It wasn’t that he had no confidence in Jamie’s exploration, but a night hunt via torch wasn’t McLaren’s idea of thorough. After all, most crime scenes were sealed off and reconnoitered by daylight. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same. So, with the sunlight slanting through the trees, he carefully poked among the bushes, perennials and grass. He found it some yards away from the kitchen door, as though the wind had played with it before tiring of the game and dropped it or it had slipped unnoticed from a pocket. A scrap of paper, barely larger than his index finger. Ordinarily, he would have wadded it up and dumped it into the rubbish bin, but he turned it over and glanced at it. In bold, jagged script, his house address sprawled across the paper. He set it on his kitchen table before driving back to Elton.

  Elton’s residents gave McLaren no new leads that Monday morning even though he asked at the pub, the bed-and-breakfast and the vicarage. No one recognized Marta’s photo when he showed it, other than from last year’s splash across the newspapers. So the killer with Marta dead or alive in his car had deliberately headed here. But why? Because he knew the area and felt safe here?

  Which would signify that Marta’s killer had either lived in or been employed in Elton.

  When asked again about family, friends and coworkers, Alan and Chad Hughes still could not explain why Marta had been at Elton. They had no family there, nor did Marta have friends in the area. “Though,” Alan suggested somewhat as an afterthought, “one of her colleagues from the Ark may live there. I really don’t know. I never met them. I just knew their names.”

  “And they are… Would you mind giving them to me?” he said, flipping open his notebook. “I can ask them.”

  “It’s been a while, of course. Let me think.” He leaned his head against the chair back and stared at something above McLaren’s head. A police siren screamed several streets away, underscoring the faint tick of the clock on the mantle. Alan nodded, evidently content with his mental list. “Right. Verity Dwyer, the coworker Marta knew best. She…she’s in jail, I think. Over that trouble with the funds.”

  “Not in jail,” McLaren corrected. “Doing community service.”

  “I knew it was some sort of sentence. Anyway, Verity was her closest friend at the shelter. Then there’s Emlyn Gregg. He’s the vet. At least, I suppose he’s still there. I believe there’s another assistant or two, but I don’t know their names. Marta hardly worked with them. I heard only snippets about them. And of course the boss, Derek Fraser. Have I forgotten anyone, Chad?” He turned to his son, who was sitting in the chair next to him.

  “That’s the lot,” Chad said flatly.

  “I’ll see if some of them live in Elton,” McLaren said, standing up. “Verity lives in Youlgreave, but that’s close enough for my purpose.”

  “Personally, I think you’re on the wrong track, Mr. McLaren.”

  “Oh, yes? In what way?”

  “I still think Tom or Rick Millington was involved in Mum’s death.”

  “Because Tom Millington’s advances were refused?”

  “Yeah. Rick might’ve been bent on revenge for when Mum told the cops about him and Danny smoking weed.”

  “The Millingtons would be that angry to kill your mother?”

  “Well, maybe not deliberately kill her. But stuff happens. You know…slang-matches turn into anger. And that can turn into murder.”

  “And you think either Tom or Rick got into an argument and perhaps went home and got a gun and shot her.”

  “Yeah. Something like that. They got scared and—” He swallowed, the words
hard to say.

  “And hid her body,” McLaren finished.

  Chad nodded. “It’s not so daft, is it? I’ve heard of stuff like that happening. People panic.”

  “Well, motive’s a bit weak, in my opinion, but deaths have happened from arguments that got out of control. I’ll look into it.”

  “It’s not that weak, Mr. McLaren.”

  McLaren paused in the open doorway and let Chad continue.

  “Not if you know those two. They’re bullies, both of them. Rick might not be too bad if it weren’t for his mate, Danny Mercer. Danny’s two years older than Rick and I think there’s a sort of older-and-wiser aura that Rick applies to Danny.”

  “Danny influences Rick, does he?”

  “I don’t know how much and I don’t know in what ways, other than the marijuana. Danny got Rick involved with it.”

  “A shame, really,” Alan said. “Rick was a nice, polite child before he took up with Danny.”

  “He’s got money,” Chad added. “Danny, I mean. He has to have or else he couldn’t buy drugs, could he?”

  “Does he have an after school job, or does he get an allowance from his parents?”

  “Just his mum. His dad left years ago after the divorce. He still lives at home. Well, being seventeen, he would. Last I knew he worked at the greengrocer’s on Vantage Way. He’d have the money, then, if he lives at home.”

  “Do Danny or Rick hang out in the old barn outside of Elton?” The mental images of cigarette ends, empty beer bottles, discarded fast food wrappers and the half burnt candle shone in his mind.

  “I don’t know,” Chad said slowly. “I don’t think so. Do you know, Dad?”

  Alan shook his head and exhaled loudly. “Because Marta’s body was there, you mean?”

  McLaren nodded. When neither Alan nor Chad said anything more, McLaren said, “Well, I’ll check into this. I appreciate your help.”

  “Uh, McLaren…” Alan followed McLaren outside and paused on the front walk. “I know Chad wants to help, but I wouldn’t put much weight on what he said about Danny Mercer. We’ve had minor run-ins with him, but nothing major. Nothing that warrants him and my wife getting into an argument.”

  “I’ll still talk to Danny, but thanks.”

  “I know for a fact that he worked during and after Marta’s murder. I’ve seen him at the greengrocer’s. So I don’t know what that proves or what Chad was trying to imply.”

  “Perhaps I can determine that. I’m sorry to make you late for work.”

  “Quite all right. I’m not that important.”

  “Well, thanks again.” He nodded to Alan and walked over to the Millingtons’ house.

  Danny Mercer was ringing the front door bell as McLaren came up the front walk. He turned on hearing McLaren’s approach and seemed startled, slightly fearful on seeing such a tall, muscular man appear seemingly from nowhere. Danny pressed his lips together, trying to appear nonchalant, and said that the family didn’t appear to be at home.

  “Could be at work,” McLaren suggested.

  Danny snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “Actually,” McLaren said, standing with his feet slightly apart, “I wanted to speak to you, if you have a minute.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why? Who are you?” His voice had risen slightly, betraying his agitation, but his eyes darted back and forth, trying to discern McLaren’s character and reason for apparently hunting him down.

  “Mike McLaren, but I doubt my name means anything to you. I’m investigating Marta Hughes’ death of last June. You knew Marta, I’m told.”

  “Yeah? Who told you?”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “Yeah. You a copper?” His eyes narrowed, betraying his suspicions and his history with law enforcement.

  “No, I’m not.” McLaren reasoned that it wasn’t a lie, though he could have added information to his statement. But Danny didn’t seem the type to snuggle up to anyone in that profession, no matter how flimsy the prior association.

  “You’re just trying to help Chad and his dad, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have some experience in this sort of thing, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sniffing about, asking questions. You know.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “You said that.”

  “Do you want to help the family or not?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Your opinion. Chad Hughes says you’re around here a lot, seeing Rick Millington.”

  “What of it?”

  “I just wondered if you had seen anything or anyone the night of Mrs. Hughes’ death.”

  “Seen anything? Like what? The bloke sneaking into her house?”

  “That would be helpful,” McLaren said, smiling. “I thought that since you’re here so much you might have heard something. Like someone going by on the street.”

  “I’m just pals with Rick. I don’t know what goes on around here. Ask a neighbor.”

  “I will. But I was hoping you might also have something to tell me.”

  Danny sat on the front step, declaring his position as family friend. He glared at McLaren, who still remained a few feet from him. “That sounds like you want a confession.”

  “You guilty of anything? Besides your drug use?” Danny started to get to his feet but McLaren pushed him back down. “I’m stating a fact, Danny, not slandering you. You’ve got a police record.”

  “So I made a mistake. That was last year. I’m clean now.”

  “Really? I hope so. Back then, last June just before Mrs. Hughes died, I heard you might have been angry with her over her reporting you to the police.”

  Danny colored but pressed his lips together.

  “So angry that you might have approached her, argued with her. And that argument might have got out of hand.”

  “You’re barmy! Over a little bit of weed? I wouldn’t get mixed up in a murder. Go harass someone else.” He paused, his gaze on McLaren’s bruised face, then grinned as he thought of a quip. “Looks like you tried to already, but didn’t succeed.”

  Ignoring him, McLaren said, “So what about that? Did you get into a fight with Marta Hughes, maybe get so mad at her that you went back later and shot her?”

  “Leave me alone! I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave me alone.” He pulled his mobile from his jeans pocket. “I didn’t do anything to her. I got enough trouble with the coppers from the marijuana last year and from my mum. Now, get out of here.”

  “If you do hear anything and want to talk, let Chad know. He can get in touch with me. Thanks for your help.” McLaren walked back to his car, aware that Danny was watching his every step.

  * * * *

  The next stop on McLaren’s itinerary was Noah’s Ark. Hopefully Emlyn Gregg, the vet, would be working this morning.

  Chesterfield was bustling with Monday morning traffic. He had to wait nearly a quarter of an hour for a car accident to be cleared from a road, but he breezed the rest of the way to the animal shelter. There were no other cars in the front car park, so he parked near the front door. Anything to save a bit of pain, he thought as he carefully got out of his car.

  The bell at the front door announced his visit and set off a cacophony of barking from the back pen area. The young woman at the front desk looked up from the computer monitor but McLaren pointed to the man near the front window and the woman went back to her typing. The man McLaren assumed to be the boss, Derek Fraser, was arranging a display of pamphlets and a stand-up sign of a book. He affirmed that he was Derek Fraser and stopped to talk to McLaren, saying it was time the police found Marta Hughes’ killer.

  McLaren agreed but refrained from pointing out that if anyone found the killer it would be he, not the police, and instead asked if Derek had any idea why Marta would be in Elton on the night of her death. “Sometimes you overhear a casual remark,” he said, tacitly giving the man permission to gossip. “If she was going t
o meet a friend near there…or if she had a family member living there, that would explain it.” He smiled encouragingly and picked up a pamphlet.

  “’Fraid not. I’m rarely here, and when I am…” He shrugged, signifying he wasn’t included in his employees’ social affairs.

  “So you don’t know why Marta would be in Elton. You don’t know if she knew anyone in the area, or if she met any of your staff there for some reason. Girls’ night out at the pub…”

  “No. Of course I’d like to help.” Derek leaned against the edge of the counter. He was a short man, which forced him to look up to meet McLaren’s gaze. He appeared to be in his early fifties, a graying brunet with large, brown eyes that blinked at McLaren from behind tortoise shell spectacles. The pamphlet he was holding sagged between his fingers as he thought back to last year. “Of course, the whole thing was a tragedy. Not just Marta’s terrible death.”

  “What else happened?”

  “Why, the scandal with Verity Dwyer,” he said, as though McLaren should know about it. “It was dreadful. When the money went missing, I had no alternative but to let her go. I hated to do it, but my hands were tied. The Board, you know.” He grimaced and looked slightly green, as though reliving the event or hearing the board members’ angry voices.

  “Since the money disappeared during her shift, yes. It must have been difficult to do, letting her go.”

  “And there was all the money from the back room,” he added, trying to cement his decision. “She was such an outstanding employee. Never a hint of previous trouble. But this was rather serious. I felt rather bad about it all, about having to terminate her position.” He laid the pamphlet on the counter. “I still keep in touch with her, you know. Still ring her up occasionally, see how she’s doing, if she wants anything.”

  Besides her job back. McLaren picked up the pamphlet Derek had just put down. It was a tri-panel brochure, full color, on slick paper. The shelter’s logo shone predominantly on the cover. “Nice job,” McLaren said, meaning it. He read a sentence aloud, admiring the wording. “‘Shelter from Life’s storms comes in many forms. Noah’s Ark. Here for you when it floods.’ Nice.”