Last Seen

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “He’s not Aaron Unsworth’s son, is he?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “No. Just that his name sounded familiar. Not many Frasers around.”

  “I think I’m his last resort.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “He wanted Kent to help him on the road to fame, but when that didn’t work…” He shrugged, as though suggesting any port was good in a storm.

  “Hope he makes it.”

  “It’s an awful tough career. There aren’t many successes.”

  “Kent seemed to be on the verge. If you’ve got another minute, I’d like to talk to you about him.”

  Dave’s right arm straightened and laid across the body of the guitar, pulling it nearer to him, as though a wall to ward off unpleasantness. “What about Kent?” His eyes narrowed as he examined McLaren’s face. “If it’s about his death, I already talked to the coppers last year. I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “I understand you discovered him approximately twenty-four hours after he went missing.”

  The man straightened, his voice tightening. “What of it?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to get the facts correct. You’d been ringing his home and mobile phones prior to that, though. Beginning Sunday night when you left the Minstrels Court, correct?”

  “All that was in the newspaper account at the time, but yes. I tried getting him on both phones but he never answered. I finally went out looking for him Monday night.”

  “And you found him in the wood near his village.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “I agree. It was half past ten at night, dark. Dark enough in the village and the field, darker still among the trees. How’d you find him?”

  “What do you mean how did I find him? I looked for him. I saw him. He was lying next to that big boulder.”

  “Just like that? You didn’t hunt in the village or get someone to let you into his house?”

  “What are you hinting at?” Dave scooted to the ground and stood up, his hands around the guitar neck and holding the instrument vertically in front of him. “He—I couldn’t get him on his phones so I went to his house. I knocked and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I thought it odd because his car was parked in his driveway. I asked his neighbors if they’d seen him. They said no. I went back to my car and got the torch from the glove compartment and started looking around. I knew he liked to walk in the wood, so I went there. He could’ve gone there after our gig Sunday night, to clear his mind and think, or he could’ve gone Monday some time. I didn’t know, of course, but I knew it was a favorite spot of his. So I looked. He—I saw him right away. He was in plain sight, like he had just dropped over dead. Maybe he had, for all I knew. Heart attack. I didn’t know but I was scared. I rang up the police and they came and took over.”

  He related this while still holding the guitar upright, his words coming quickly in his agitation. Now that he was finished, he merely stood where he was, waiting for McLaren leave.

  “Why’d you wait so long to look for him? He was a business partner of sorts, you two were friendly enough.”

  “I already talked to some woman about this.” His tone announced his annoyance. “Why are you bringing this up again? Didn’t she tell you?”

  Great. Dena’s little jaunt into Sherlock Holmes-land is already messing up my investigation. He glossed over Dena’s sleuthing. “I assure you, Mr. Morley, I’m not working with anyone. My inquiry is entirely on my own.”

  Dave eyed him as though he didn’t quite believe McLaren.

  “So, if you don’t mind telling me…never mind this woman…why did you wait so long to look for Kent? You know how it looked to the police. To most everyone,” he added, thinking Dave Morley had earned his premier position beneath the spotlight.

  “Yeah, I know. But we weren’t brothers. Or Siamese twins. We liked each other well enough, but we weren’t best mates. So what if he didn’t answer his phone Sunday night? I thought it a bit queer, since he’d told me to ring him up, but stuff happens. Life gets in the way. Maybe something else came up, or there was an emergency. I didn’t know. I don’t have a copy of his calendar. We didn’t do things together, like pub-crawls or taking in a film or walking the Tissington Trail. We led separate lives. It was no big deal. I thought I’d talk to him on Monday.”

  “Did you eat together when you were performing?”

  “You mean, did we picnic together or go to a pub afterwards?”

  “Just what I said. Did you eat together? I don’t know about you and Kent, but I’m always ravenous after a performance. All that energy goes right to my stomach, I guess. I’m ready for a sandwich or steak, something more substantial than beer. You didn’t have a sandwich together, perhaps backstage, or grab something from one of the food vendors here at the castle?”

  “I guess we must have done sometime. Sure.” Dave ran his index finger along one of the guitar strings, causing faint squeaks as it vibrated. “Why wouldn’t we? I can’t recall any specific times, but we probably picked up fish and chips or a pastie along the way.”

  “You’re awfully vague about it.”

  “It’s not something I put in my diary, for God’s sake! If we were hungry, we got something to eat. I didn’t perform all the time with him, you know. He was the main draw. I just appeared infrequently. We were friends but not that close.”

  McLaren let a group of chattering teenaged girls walk past before he spoke. “I’d think even an acquaintance, and you were more than that, would be concerned about his absence that Sunday night. Forget the partner angle. You weren’t exactly enemies, for God’s sake. Didn’t you have the least bit of human decency to be worried about him, about anyone who hasn’t answered his phone for twenty-four hours?”

  “It’s not as easy as you make it sound! Nothing’s that black and white.”

  “Really?” McLaren’s voice took on an edge. Of all the self-centered, unfeeling berks he’d ever encountered… “You hiding something, Mr. Morley?”

  “What?”

  “You’re hard of hearing as well as forgetful?”

  “You’ve no call—”

  “I’m talking about a murder, Mr. Morley. The murder of your friend and occasional singing partner. Though from the impression I’m getting, I’d phrase it as the murder of your occasional friend and singing partner. What really happened? You two have a dust-up? You fight about billing order or repertoire or something?”

  “No! We never did.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to admit you followed him Sunday after leaving the castle, continued the argument, and killed him? Were you that bloody cheesed off that the argument escalated into murder?”

  “You’re wanting me to carry the can for Kent’s death. Well, I’ve news for you, mate. I’m not about to. Because,” he added quickly as McLaren began to speak, “I didn’t do it. I wasn’t watching from the wings, wanting Kent to die so I could grab the spotlight. What do you take me for? I loved Kent as a friend. Why would I want to kill him?”

  McLaren eased off, having accomplished his objective. “Surely, if he didn’t answer his phones by the next morning—”

  “I couldn’t do anything. You’ve got to understand this.” David clasped his hands and practically whined. “I was stuck, unable to do anything further. Well, not what I wanted to do, not right away. I-I’m a clerk in a music shop.” He fumbled for the right words. “We—I didn’t have the luxury of taking off work whenever I like. I started my shift first thing in the morning and worked all day Monday, until I left the shop for the Minstrels Court. I figured Kent would be there for our set. He wasn’t. It was the first time in the four years we’d sung together that he missed a gig. I was anxious and panicky. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I had enough material to fill an entire slot. I could hardly think. It was late by then, Monday night, eight o’clock. We were supposed to go on at any minute. All I could do was get through a solo set, hoping Kent was just late, that maybe he’d had
a flat tire or had been sick or something. I finished the set three quarters of an hour later and he still wasn’t there. It was so odd, so unusual for him to forget a performance date. By that time I was convinced he was sick. Maybe too ill to get to a phone. He was my pal and I cared about him. When I’d finished talking to some fans, had changed from my costume into my regular clothes and had driven to his house, it was ten o’clock.”

  “And then you talked to the neighbors, looked around the village, and then went into the wood.” He said it with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes. The wood was dark. There was no bonfire or candles or torches anywhere. But he sometimes sat in the dark like that. You know…stargazing, looking at the moon and waiting for the night birds to sing. He was like that. Loved the natural world. So I didn’t really think the police or anyone would imagine it odd that I would go to the wood to look for Kent, even look at night.”

  McLaren nodded, relaxing in the mental image. It would seem strange to an outsider or someone wrapped up in city life, but he often sat outside on his stone wall or on the grass, looking at the night sky, listening for owls or nightjars to cry into the stillness.

  Dave glanced at McLaren, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s why I went straight way to the wood when I couldn’t rouse him at home. I sure didn’t expect to find him dead.” His tone had softened and the volume had decreased to hardly more than a whisper as he finished his narrative. The eagerness McLaren had seen in Dave’s eye when introducing himself had died, replaced by a dullness that spoke of sadness.

  Dave removed his hat and crushed it in his hands. Showing reverence during prayer, McLaren thought. Or hanging onto a floating bit of wreckage.

  McLaren let the silence drop between them as he considered Dave’s account. It sounded reasonable, something a timid or indecisive person might do. But was that Dave Morley? He didn’t seem like it now. Merely a sad individual, perhaps regretting that he hadn’t acted more quickly at the outset, perhaps fearful McLaren was stirring up trouble. But McLaren knew many people who sported a Jeckle-and-Hyde personality—soft-spoken, perhaps timid, when at work or in public, self-confident and personable when performing…or doing something he loved. So Dave still was not eliminated as a suspect. He may have needed Kent to boost his own career, but jealousy sometimes doesn’t take long range plans into account.

  ****

  Fraser Unsworth lounged on the grass near the stage, humming to himself and playing air guitar. He nodded when McLaren asked if he could talk and, McLaren thought later, looked annoyed and embarrassed.

  “So, Fraser, you’re a guitarist, I hear.” McLaren settled opposite the teen and plucked a blade of grass.

  “I’m trying to be, yeah.” Fraser laid his hands in his lap and shifted slightly so the sun wasn’t in his eyes.

  “It’s a slow process. I play, and I’m painfully aware of it.” He wriggled the fingers of his left hand, hoping the pun was understood.

  “You ever hear Dave?”

  “No. Nor Kent. I understand he was quite good.”

  Fraser nodded and leaned back, his arms supporting him. “The best. That recording of his was a smash hit on the radio. I learned his arrangement and played along with it.”

  “Super way to learn. I used to mimic several folk musicians when I started. I probably spent more on CDs than I did on clothes or food.” He wrapped the grass around his finger, then let it flutter to the ground. “What do your parents think of your guitar playing?”

  Fraser glanced to his left, focusing on something. “Dad’s okay with it. He likes folk. He’s prez of Kent’s fan club.”

  “How about your mother?”

  Fraser shrugged. “She never said. When she was with us, she spent more time on her painting and lining up exhibitions at galleries. Mainly local stuff, but she went to Munich a few times. I guess she had a good following there.”

  “Are your mates impressed with your playing?”

  Fraser sat upright and grinned at McLaren. “Yeah. I’m the best one in our group. My girl’s always asking me to play.”

  “Did she like Kent’s music?”

  “Yeah. She turned me onto him, actually. She was a fan before I’d ever heard him, probably for a year or more. She’d stay out till all hours when she attended his gigs.”

  McLaren said that’s how he’d been when he first latched onto a group or musician he liked. He let the conversation drop as he stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I guess your dad keeps late hours at Kent Harrison events, being fan club president.” He plucked another grass blade, threw it over his head, and watched it float down. “He mentioned he came home late the night Kent last appeared at the Minstrels Court. It must cut into your time together if he’s gone so much.”

  “It’s not so bad. I stayed up so we could talk when he got back. I was upset. I wanted to talk about mom leaving. We went into the back and talked for about an hour.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got some time with your dad.” McLaren got up, stretching, wished Fraser good luck, and walked to his car.

  Chapter Fourteen

  So, what is his long-range plan? Dena wondered as she finished the last of the meal. He’s got to have one. He can’t keep me here forever. Wherever I am. She put the cling wrap, paper napkin and juice container into the paper bag and crushed it into a heap before depositing it in the waste bin. The meal had been a homemade affairthe cling wrapped sandwich, mismatched plastic utensils and juice carton spoke of items from someone’s kitchen cupboard. Does it mean, then, that her abduction was more impulsive than planned? If so, why? What had she done to instigate this? More to the point, she thought, getting up, has her captor negotiated with her dad over her release? He’s got to be waiting for a kidnapping payoff.

  The thought did little to cheer her. Did kidnappers always release captives unharmed after they were paid?

  An icicle of fear pricked her back. Dena saw herself left in the room, no food, no air, no light. She was tied up and thrown from a car, left to freeze in the wintry wilds of Kinder Scout. She was knocked unconscious to breathe in carbon monoxide fumes in a deserted garage. She was shot in the head as Michael ran up to her…

  She trembled, her mouth quivering as she fought to control her imagination and emotions. Of course this was absurd. She watched too many films, read too many novels. He was feeding her, wasn’t he, whoever he was? He hadn’t thrown her into an abandoned, filthy warehouse or kept her bound. For whatever reason, he was treating her well, with respect, keeping her alive. She pushed back a strand of hair, somewhat comforted by this explanation, and wandered over to the window.

  Although the view was virtually obliterated, Dena got on the chair and strained to see outside. Whether the car park was deserted or filled, she couldn’t say, and she found herself disappointed in not knowing if others were nearby or if she were alone. The light had lessened, a faint yellow tinted with hints of pink. The flowerpots appeared more three-dimensional than they had earlier, the sunlight lingering on the western-most sides and leaving the opposite sides in shadows that would slowly advance to hide everything. The thought of night suddenly frightened her and she eased off the chair, plagued again by the fear of the unknown. I’m supposed to sleep here? Without a blanket? She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering, unsure if the thought of a cold night on a cold floor bothered her more than spending the time alone in a vacant building.

  She sat down, scooting to the edge of the seat, unwilling to let the cold of the metal seep into her back. She would be chilly enough lying on the floor without hurrying her discomfort. Leaning forward, she tried to thinkof the reason for her kidnapping; of her father, at his home in Manchester and who was blissfully going about his daily routine; of Michael, who might be unaware of her predicament, yet would be dangerously obsessed to find her.

  Despite her previous caution to avoid the chair’s cool metal, she slid backward and sagged against the chair back. She was aware of nothing: no temperature, no
sound, no shifting of light as McLaren’s face floated before her. His hazel eyes held her gaze, caring and concerned, intense in his love and determination to find her. She heard him speak, though his mouth remained smiling. Words that reassured her of her rescue, that whispered of his love, that offered her an anchor of hope in the storm had threatened her sanity and spirit. He moved, and the sunlight caught a flaxen streak in his dark blond hair. His arms went out to her, offering refuge and warmth and healing. She got to her feet, ready to go to him, when the door to the room opened. No sound came from the space beyond the door, no voice or footstep or running machinery. She seemed to be floating in a bizarre landscape where time had ceased to function and the sole inhabitant stared mutely at her. For, framed in the open doorway, silhouetted against the florescent light in the hallway, stood a tall figure dressed in dark coloring. A rubber mask of a smiling Margaret Thatcher covered his face. His hands were gloved, the left holding a coil of rope, the right holding something dark that glistened in the light. He stepped into the room, not speaking, yet making his desires known with the gesture of the gun.

  ****

  This nightmare couldn’t last, Dena reasoned, straining to see in the new darkness that surrounded her, clinging to her like a spider’s web. That she’d be able to see through; this blackness is absolute. Thick.

  And yet, not quite. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, pinpricks of light wriggled into her space. The gloom lessened slightly and she distinguished less dark shapes around her. She tried to move but found her arms and legs bound. A rectangle of duct tape secured her mouth. Like a lamb. A lamb ready for the slaughter.

  Did a lamb know where it was heading when it was led from its pasture? Did seeing make any difference to it, calm it? She had been blindfolded for the trip to the new location. Her captor had done it neatly, thoroughly, taking no chance she would see where she was being led. And swiftly, perhaps fearing he would be discovered in his shameful deed. The blindfold had been augmented, a fabric bag thrust over her head. That darkness had been complete but not as terrifying as the blackness that now engulfed her. Perhaps it had been the ride here, the knowledge that another living person—no matter if it was her captor or not—was within several feet of her, that she wasn’t alone. Perhaps it had been the smell of the July night, warm and sweet with the scents of still warm earth, watered foliage, and blooming honeysuckle. That blackness had given her hope that he still wanted her alive, still had a use for her. The gloom that invaded the new prison hinted at danger.