“You’re a walking encyclopedia, Lloyd. And don’t give me that retirement bit. Thirty-five years in the job was just the preface. You’re still as interested in Bakewell goings on as you were when you were in uniform.”
“So that’s why you dropped by. I should have known it wasn’t for my scintillating conversation.” He grabbed his latchkey and laughed. “Come on, then. I’ve just the chap you need to talk to if you want news about Mr. FitzSimmons.”
During the short drive back to Sean FitzSimmons’, McLaren told Lloyd how he had become involved in Marta’s murder case. Lloyd kept quiet throughout the narrative but when McLaren had finished, he said, “So now you’re shifting stones to find a murderer hiding under one of ’em.”
“That’s about it, yes.”
“Well, I’ll pray for your success. I remember that case. Nasty, it was. You need to catch who killed her.”
“With your help, I hope to. This it, then?” He parked in the same spot he had a quarter of an hour ago and glanced at Lloyd.
“That’s also the chap you need to talk to.” He nodded to a man about sixty years old. “Shall we?” He got out of the car and walked briskly up to the older man, forcing McLaren to hurry after him.
Sam Browder was weeding his perennial border but looked up when Lloyd and McLaren approached. He shaded his eyes from the sun, his glove soiled with damp earth and bits of grass. Lloyd introduced McLaren, assured Sam it was completely unofficial and that nothing would be noted down, then walked back to the car.
McLaren nodded to Sam and wished him good day. The older man leaned against his spade, got to his feet, and asked how he could help. “I recall that incident. Last June it happened. Shocking. All I could think about for days after watching the news on TV. That poor lady gone missing. Then when they found her body later, in the wood…” His voice trailed off as he looked into the distance.
“I realize it’s been a year, a long time to recollect anything, but I wonder if you remember if your neighbor Sean FitzSimmons was home all that evening, presuming he lived here then.”
“That evening? When? All night? I went to bed around midnight. Yes, he was here last year. Has lived here, in fact, for years. Well, lived here except for those times when he was in prison. He’d been in twice before, I believe, before this last time. Small offences, I understand. Well, depends on how you categorize small. Things like burglary and breaking into cars. Which always surprised me, because he’s a quiet neighbor. Not rowdy or prone to late night drinking parties. Keeps his place nice. Polite, pleasant man. I understand he’s written some books, too. Maybe he just got onto the wrong path for a bit but has settled down.”
“Seen the light.”
“Changed his way, yes. Whatever, he lets his place to a mate when he’s serving time so it would still be lived in. I guess he didn’t want trouble with burglars or vandalism. You know, if his place looked deserted.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds daft. Him in the nick and worried about others of his sort. Life’s strange.”
“About him being here that night,” McLaren reminded the man.
“Oh, right. When that woman went missing.”
“Do you know he was in, perhaps due to his car being in the shop, or if he came home when you happened to look outside? Anything like that?”
“I know exactly what happened. I remember it crystal clear.”
“That would help immensely, sir.”
“I remember because it stuck in my mind for days, it was so odd.”
“Yes, sir.” McLaren waited, nearly holding his breath. If the man’s memory was good…
“I retired last year, so I was staying up a bit later than during my working days. Anyroad, Sean had been out earlier that day. I’ve no idea where he was, but he was probably either at his girl friend’s or trying to find a job. He’d just got out of prison a while before—perhaps a month or so, I can’t recall—and was applying for all sorts of jobs. I guess his writing income wasn’t that regular or that much so he had to find something like office or construction work.”
“His girl friend…do you happen to know her name?”
“Certainly. She’s over here often enough. Was before and after his stretches in the nick. Linnet Isherwood. A tall blonde woman. Quite pretty.”
McLaren took the information straight-faced but felt his heart jump. It made sense. If Linnet had taken Sean’s favorite jacket to him prior to his release from prison, they had to have been more than acquaintances. He nodded his head. They hadn’t foreseen anyone getting that jacket information when they thought up Marta’s murder. The jacket definitely linked the two.
“I didn’t actually see him leave or come home,” the man continued. “But I knew he’d gone some place rather unusual.”
“Oh, yes?”
“As I said, I first assumed he was at his girlfriend’s place or out looking for work. His car had been clean that morning. I know, because I saw him washing it.”
“His car looked different later in the day?”
“I saw it the next morning. I get up early to do a bit of gardening—before it gets too hot. There was the car. Muddy as hell. Like he’d driven across a newly plowed field.”
Or off road in a forest, McLaren thought, recalling the spot where Marta’s body had been found.
“Since I get up early, I know his car had been through something late that day, perhaps that night. I wondered where he’d been but I never asked. Wasn’t my business, was it?”
McLaren replied that it wasn’t but silently cursed that the man wasn’t nosey.
“I learned years ago not to poke my nose into other people’s lives,” the man added, as though defending himself against McLaren’s unspoken condemnation. “So I was kind of surprised when Sean volunteered a bit of his private life to me.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“He wore a silver charm around his neck. On a necklace. I saw it on numerous occasions, so I was quite familiar with it.”
“Must be unique for you to remember it.”
“It seemed so to me. Most pendants or such that I’ve seen men wear are coins or medallions or religious symbols.”
“This one wasn’t.”
“Not at all. I thought it was suited more for a woman. Belonged on a charm bracelet, but he wore it on that necklace.”
“And it was…”
“A skier. A downhill skier. Very lovely but odd for a man to wear. Sean said he knew I’d seen him wear it so he decided that day to tell me. He was in a talkative mood, quite happy. He’d won several thousand pounds at the races, he said. I guess that was why he wanted to talk. He must have given a bit to his girlfriend Linnet, ’cause she’s been dressing a bit fancier these days. Anyroad, I was curious enough to listen, for I had been wondering about the charm. He said it was from a dear friend and he cherished it. Life’s funny,” he said again, picking up his spade. “Takes all sorts, doesn’t it?”
“When was this? That he’s had the skier charm, I mean.”
“Oh, about a year ago, I guess. I think around the time his publisher accepted his first nonfiction book.”
McLaren thanked the man and returned to his car. Lloyd grinned as McLaren started the motor. “That was profitable, then.”
“As if you didn’t know. Thanks, Lloyd.”
“If you need anything else…” He left unsaid that McLaren could phone him any hour of the day or night. McLaren knew that. “Thanks for the lift.” He got out at his house.
“Any time. I’ll come back for that cuppa, shall I?”
Lloyd waved over his shoulder as he walked toward his house.
McLaren couldn’t remember later which route he took out of town. His mind played and replayed the snippets of information and the problems they produced. If Sean had not yet found work, how did he afford to live? Is it off his savings, or the money from Marta’s casino win? If the latter, what did Linnet give him at the pub? And why give him money a year after Marta’s death? The questions multiplied, persisten
t and mocking, as he drove to Verity’s home.
He stopped for a quick snack, hungry since he’d had only part of his lunch at the pub in Buxton, then got to Youlgreave and Verity’s house mid afternoon. Verity was home, unloading groceries from her car. Helping her was Derek Fraser, her former boss.
McLaren remained in his car, alternately hiding behind an open newspaper and watching Derek. He and Verity weren’t on bad terms as McLaren had imagined, for Verity spoke readily enough to Derek. She even laughed in response to something he said and nodded toward the house. The man picked up the last bag and followed her inside.
It was too good to pass up, as the saying goes. McLaren tossed the newspaper onto the car seat, got out of his car and jogged up to the house. He paused slightly, judging where the kitchen might be, then walked around to the back. A small flagstone patio led off the kitchen door and held several wicker chairs, matching table and a cluster of ornamental shrubs in large porcelain pots. He stood behind the tallest cypress and listened at the open window.
The conversation seemed to be nearly over. The thud of tins hitting the table and the squeak of cupboard doors opening and closing intruded into the speech but McLaren could make out several sentences. He leaned closer, wanting desperately to see what was happening, but reluctantly refrained from peering over the windowsill.
“Don’t worry, Verity.” It was Derek’s voice, soothing and reassuring. A cupboard door banged shut. “I’ve got it figured out.”
“I’d like to believe you, Derek.” Verity sounded tired, as though she’d been living on hope too long. “But I don’t see how.”
“Leave that up to me. What’s twenty thousand pounds? The way I look at it is we owe it to you.”
Another door closed, drowning Verity’s reply, if there was one. A chair scraped across the floor and a cat mewed before Derek said, “Think it over. It can’t miss.” His voice faded and McLaren ran back to his car, just getting in and closing the door before Derek and Verity appeared at her front door. Verity waved to Derek, calling her thanks to him as he drove off.
She remained there for a moment, standing in the open doorway like a bronze statue, perhaps looking after Derek’s departing Lexus. Her hand left the doorknob and crept to the doorjamb, supporting her weight as she leaned forward slightly. She plucked a spent rose from the bush nearest the door, then seemed to remember something and returned to her car. McLaren called to her as he came up the walkway.
Verity peered into the late afternoon sun, unsure at first who was coming toward her. She had grabbed a small paper bag from inside the car and now shifted it to one arm as she shaded her eyes against the glaring light. When she recognized McLaren, she seemed to relax. She paused as McLaren grabbed the remaining paper bag and slammed her car door shut, then preceded him into her house.
“Just set it down anywhere,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “Vegetables from the greengrocer’s and some frozen items.”
McLaren followed her and put the bag on the table. He stood there, unsure if he should offer to help put things away, if he should talk while she worked or if he should wait until she was finished.
Verity solved the dilemma by telling him to sit down and offering him a cup of tea. “I won’t be a minute, if you can wait while I get the cold things into the fridge.” She opened the freezer compartment and shoved a carton of ice cream into its frozen interior. “I almost forgot about them.”
No wonder, with your unexpected company. “No hurry,” McLaren said, enjoying the feel of the room. It was smaller than his own kitchen but boasted the lighter color scheme of apple green, pink and white. Appliances seemed to be new or nearly so, their exteriors free of smudges. The floor was hardwood and shone with a just-waxed brightness. He waited until she reappeared from the depths of the pantry before asking if she had heard about Marta’s casino winning. “I don’t mean if you heard that she won,” he clarified as Verity folded one of the grocery carrier bags. “If you heard what had happened to it.”
“You didn’t?” she asked, picking up the second bag. “No, of course not. You weren’t involved.” She stuck the second bag inside the first bag and hung it on the pantry doorknob. “You think I, as an interested party, would have heard. Or at least kept tabs on the case.”
“Something like that, yes.” He looked at her, hoping she hadn’t taken offense, then grinned as she smiled.
“It’s become my main hobby. I used to knit and embroider, but not since—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.
“If it’s too painful,” he began when Verity shook her head and said, “You think it’s too painful to talk about or think about? God! That’s all I do think about! It’s an obsession with me. Not like stalking, but close.” She leaned against the refrigerator door and asked if he wanted a cup of tea.
“No, thank you. I just popped in to ask a question.”
“Well, pop away. Anything to help, as the saying goes.”
“About the money…”
“Oh, right. What happened to the money?”
“If it was ever found.” He knew but wanted to hear her answer, to see if she could be trusted as truthful.
“I know it wasn’t with her when the police found her body. Well, it wouldn’t be, would it, if someone found her first, or if her killer took it? But I never heard if they found it later. I kept up with the story through newspaper articles and the telly. But I never heard that anyone had found the money and turned it in. I was always hoping someone would find it. It would have meant a lot, you know.”
“Kind of make up for the money missing from the animal shelter,” McLaren supplied.
“Yeah. Something like that, although it still wouldn’t have cleared me of the conviction of stealing that money. Still, anything found in connection with Marta would have been nice to hear.” She exhaled loudly, puffing out her cheeks, and rubbed her forehead. “God, that seems a million years ago.”
McLaren glanced at the Noah’s Ark calendar hanging on the back of the kitchen door and took a chance. “Marta’s husband wasn’t implicated in her death, I know. Do you know anything about Linnet’s husband?”
“Herb? I know he left her right around the time of Marta’s death. I don’t know when exactly. I can ring up a friend if you need to know.”
“That’s not necessary right now, thank you. Do you know why he walked out? I think I heard that Linnet and her children were in financial trouble because he left.”
“I don’t know the reason they parted. Linnet and I weren’t that close for her to confide in me. But I do know she was having a rough go of it for quite a while, nearly a year, I think. Well, you would do, when your husband takes off like that, and him bringing in more than half of the household income. Linnet’s back on her feet, but only just. It’s been hard on her and on her kids. She’s had to do without things and get a second job, working some weekends. The only saving grace is that her kids are older. Late teens and early twenties, I believe. Three of them. So even though the demand for school uniforms and such isn’t there, and the oldest one lives away from home, she’s still got to put food on the table and pay the utility bills. The younger one—eighteen, I believe—helps out with an after school job, but it’s not easy.”
“Sounds as though she could use a bit of financial help.”
“If you’re hinting she stole Marta’s money because they were at the casino together, you’re wrong. The cops made that clear when they questioned the car park attendant and the cashier at the casino. No one saw Marta hand over any money to Linnet in the casino or in the car park. There’s nothing on the CCTV surveillance tape that even suggests they stopped in the car park so Marta could hand money to Linnet. The tape shows them getting into their separate cars and driving off. It’s very clear. And I doubt they stopped somewhere on the road. That wouldn’t make any sense. The police were thinking like that at the beginning because Linnet was in financial difficulty by then, but they cleared her because she and Marta left in their separate cars.�
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“There’s no speed camera photo of Linnet’s car racing along after Marta,” McLaren finished.
“That ought to prove something,” Verity said. “Don’t those speed cameras give a time when they’re tripped like that?”
McLaren nodded, thinking it a solid alibi.
Verity continued. “I think they finally divorced.”
“Do you know when?”
“No. As I said, we’re not really that chummy. I think it was toward the early part of this year. End of January or first part of February. She must have got a decent settlement out of him ’cause the few times I’ve seen her, she’s been dressed nicely. Unless she frequents the charity shops.”
“Nothing wrong with that. A friend pointed me in the direction of one last Christmas. I’ve been thankful to him ever since.”
“Nothing like a true friend to help smooth out life’s bumps. Linnet was lost without Herb, but she’s got a good friend in Sean. Do you know Sean FitzSimmons? He writes, I think. Having a book signing at the shelter soon, I believe I heard.”
“I think that’s correct, yes.”
“Linnet probably thanks her lucky stars daily that she met Sean. He takes good care of her.”
“I’m sure she does. How did she meet him?” Don’t tell me it was through a prisoner welfare program, McLaren thought. She doesn’t seem like the philanthropic sort.
“One of those odd twists some lives take. She met Sean through a mutual friend.”
“That does happen sometimes.”
“Yes. Purely by chance, though. Linnet was at a pub and just happened to come upon her friend, who was drinking with Sean. The friend introduced them and—” Verity snapped her fingers.
“Instant attraction, I take it. Who’s the obliging, timely friend?”
“You might know him, I don’t know. He’s a cop. His name’s Charlie Harvester.”
TWENTY-TWO
McLaren had a lot to think about on the drive home. Was Harvester somehow tied to Sean FitzSimmons, a convicted criminal, and to Linnet? It seemed bordering on the fantastic, but given Sean’s criminal history and the fact that they were acquaintances, if not drinking buddies… McLaren turned onto the B6061 and stopped momentarily in a lay-by, ringing up Jamie on his mobile phone. “I need a favor, Jamie,” McLaren said, his mind torn between what he’d heard about Harvester and Linnet’s statement about her financial situation. What was going on? Was all this associated somehow?
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