The milk delivery—a pint of cream and a quart of milk—sat next to a container of geraniums on the porch. He touched the glass bottle. The milk was warm. So was the cream container. He rang again, then knocked, and after a few minutes, walked around to the back garden. Every window and door was closed and locked, although the curtains and blinds had not been drawn. Because she hadn’t returned home Tuesday afternoon, or because she’d left the house this morning before he got here? But he dismissed that idea as quickly as he thought of it. McLaren believed Dena wouldn’t play such an outrageous trick; she was in trouble.
No footprints marred the surface of the soil; no torn-off button or spot of blood littered the drive or pavement. No broken or bent plants or tree branches spoke of a lurking kidnapper.
The few neighbors who were out had no idea where Dena was, let alone knew she’d gone missing. Dena’s father, on being called, hadn’t heard from her. Nor had the relatives he’d talked to. Jamie sat in his car and rang up McLaren to report the lack of progress.
“Hardly a lack. You’ve established there’s no sign of a forced entry into the house, that there was no struggle outside to abduct her, and that no one was lurking near the house.”
“But I haven’t found her, or even a trace of where she could be.” He paused, debating if he should mention the police again. If ever there was a time to ignore past differences and call in the professionals… Jamie’s annoyance at McLaren’s stubbornness slipped out in an angry rush. “Something’s bloody well wrong, Mike, and you need to get the coppers on to this.”
“Not yet. This is the first place you’ve looked. Wait a bit before we do something stupid.”
Jamie knew what McLaren meant but purposely misread it. “The only stupid thing, Mike, is not getting the CID involved.”
“I don’t want anything to do with them, Jamie. We talked about this already.”
“Yeah, we did, and I still think you’re making the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. Her house looks all wrong. Something’s happened to her. The cops need to be told.”
“Because she doesn’t answer the doorbell, you’re ready to call in the Mounties.”
“It’s more than that, Mike. It’s the whole set-up. Your unreturned phone calls, her missed dinner date with you, her eagerness to get back together. These things don’t add up to a simple instance of forgetfulness. You know that, if you’d be honest with yourself. You were ready enough last night to admit it.” He sighed deeply before adding, “I don’t like the look of it, Mike. Where is she?”
“You’re right, Jamie. It smells. I’m not thinking straight.” He broke off for a moment, as if trying to made a decision. “Do something for me, will you, Jamie?”
“I’m outside her house right now. Of course I’ll do something for you. What?”
“Kick in the door.”
“Kick in?”
“Get inside. Smash down the door, break a window. Anything. I don’t care. But get inside that house.”
“I’ll force an entry in the least obvious spot, maybe around the back.”
“Fine. Whatever. Do a thorough search, Jamie. For Dena, for any lead as to where she might have gone. A thorough search.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“What luck did you have with the hospitals? I assume nothing, or you would’ve phoned me.”
“I did have luck. She’s not in any of them.”
“Smashing! How are you doing?”
A brief silence wedged in between their words. Jamie could imagine McLaren lying on the sofa, a bottle of beer on the nearby table, the curtains drawn against the sun. McLaren had a tenacious hold on his sanity anyway, just crawling from beneath a yearlong bout of depression. Dena’s disappearance didn’t aid his escape from his emotional quagmire.
Jamie tried again, consciously keeping his voice upbeat. “How are you, Mike?” He raised his gaze heavenward, praying that McLaren would sound focused and determined.
“I’m in hell. How do you think I am? Especially after your little pleasantry. I-I’ll go mad without her, Jamie. I want her with me—always. I-I love her more than my life.”
“I know, Mike.”
A sudden wall of silence fell between them and Jamie had a quick mental flash of McLaren downing a beer. He said quickly, “You still there?”
“Yeah, Jamie. Unfortunately.”
“What’s that mean?”
A drawn-out sigh answered him.
Jamie shook his head. The day was going downhill fast. He repeated his question.
“I’m not gonna top myself, so don’t worry.”
“One blessing for the day, at least.” He glanced at the house, at the front door and windows. McLaren must be near panic, letting me sift through Dena’s personal things. He cleared his throat, an idea forming in his mind. It might work, and it might also save McLaren’s sanity. “Uh, Mike?”
McLaren’s “Yeah?” was barely more than a grunt.
“Why don’t you search Dena’s house?”
“What?”
“You search her house. You need the physical activity. I’ll talk to her friends and people she may have interviewed to see if they know anything. Then I’ll drive around a bit, look for her car. Your sitting behind a steering wheel won’t do anything to relieve your stress. Besides, I don’t think it’s safe for anyone, you included, if you cruise the roads right now. You do the search and let me find her car.”
“That’d be fine. I-I’ll be right there. I’m dressed. I’ve got a key.”
“If you have a key, I won’t wait for you, then. I’ll get started looking for her car.” He refrained from stating that every minute was important to their search. “Concentrate on your job, Mike, and I’ll do what I can from my side. You’ll see. We’ll find her. With both of us on her trail we’ll have some answers very soon.”
“Sure. I know. I’ll have my mobile with me. Call me the minute you find out anything.”
“I will, Mike. Uhh…I know her car—a red MG—but do you know the registration plate number? I’d like to be certain the car’s hers if I find one fitting the description.” He scribbled down the number, thinking he would call in heavier guns for this job. “Got it.” He rang off in the middle of McLaren’s thanks.
Jamie started his car, and glanced at the number on his notebook page before screeching away from the curb.
****
McLaren peeled out of his driveway like a British Grand Prix driver charging past an opponent. The gravel splayed in a narrow arc, directed by the urgency of the tires biting into the loose surface. He was on the road and zoomed through the village nearly before the gravel had settled.
On the drive to Kirkfield he talked aloud to himself, as though he were hearing a friend’s statement. He repeated the sentence until it became a chant and a prayer, and the road blurred into a gray ribbon snaking between the hills. He was only half-conscious of the traffic, oblivious to the weather, concentrating on the voice drilling into his ear and brain. He found himself breathing in time to the chant, as if that helped with his meditation. Mile after mile the chant buzzed in his ears. “Jamie will find Dena. Jamie will find Dena. Jamie will find Dena…” On and on the cantor sang to him as the villages and farms scurried past him in hazy clumps. “She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine…”
But it was more than a chant, more than a childish crossing of his fingers to bring luck. The song was also part emotional anchor and medication, something he could mentally clutch in the midst of this maelstrom. And he needed this buoy for, although he hadn’t admitted it to Jamie, he had nearly given in to suicide last night. It would have been so easy to end the soul-destroying ache. So wonderful to sink into oblivion and not feel anything again. Beer and whiskey could do that, certainly, but he needed a permanent fix. Something to guarantee the intense hurt would never again consume him. So he had seriously considered killing himself. Debated, too, about the consequences of living lonely years without D
ena.
He’d taken a few sleeping tablets around two that morning, downed them in one quick head-back toss when he couldn’t endure the sleeplessness or the dark any longer. The rest of the pills he planned to take in half hour intervals, for he’d heard that the stomach would regurgitate too many taken at once. So he had placed the pill bottle, bottle of beer and Dena’s photo on his bedside cabinet, angling the clock to track the half hour intervals, moving the photo to see her face-on when he had lain down in his bed. But Dena’s eyes had mesmerized him as he had stared at her; her voice had sung to him, telling him she loved him and would live with him if he would only wait for her return.
It had been a dream, he knew now, driving to Kirkfield. A desperate handhold on that lifebuoy because he loved her more than his life. What would have happened, once Jamie rescued her, when she found out McLaren had ended his life?
So, with more inner strength than he knew he had, he had shoved his fear deep within himself, returned the pill bottle to the mirrored bathroom cabinet—hiding it behind the mouthwash and electric shaver—washed the remaining beer down the kitchen sink, and had downed cup after cup of freshly brewed coffee while walking off the effects of the pills. He’d wandered outside around half past three and sat on the top of the stone wall, the coffee in his hand, his gaze fixed on the sickle moon resting in a puff of dark gray clouds. The air even at this early hour hadn’t been chilled enough to shock the encroaching sleepiness from his system, but he kept downing coffee and walking. And uttering ardent prayers to God. He had even succeeded in slowing his racing pulse by the time he reached Dena’s house.
The house interior held the quiet air of a deserted place. McLaren called out Dena’s name as he closed the front door, praying to hear her answer. But the quietness remained, nearly overpowering. Fear he had never known icicled down his back and he called again, more loudly. Still no answer.
Fighting the impulse to run through the house, he conducted a methodical search room by room. He overlooked nothing—drawer contents, notes scribbled on paper, appointments marked on calendars, condition of her bedroom and bathroom, contents of her fridge, clothes in her wardrobe. He played her recorded phone messages, searched for blood spatter and discarded buttons and muddy shoe prints and cryptic messages scrawled on mirrors or walls or nap of the carpet. He opened every wardrobe, pantry, and closet door. He looked beneath the bed and sofa and behind the draperies. He walked through the basement, moving and peering behind stacks of luggage, disused furniture, and storage cartons. He glanced inside the washer and dryer. He walked through the garage, opened the old freezer, looked behind sacks of fertilizer and potting soil and boxes of terra cotta planters. He poked beneath the bushes circling her house. He walked around her house, noting window and door conditions, shrubbery and flowers, and mulched beds.
Nothing.
He locked the front door and painfully returned to his car.
****
Jamie turned south onto the A50. Tutbury Castle may be off the normal search track, but it and McLaren’s case were tied together. The castle and its Minstrels Court event had inspired Dena to involve McLaren in Kent Harrison’s murder. The idea wasn’t so much of a stretch; maybe Dena had run into trouble there.
But two hours later Jamie mentally posted the castle and environs in the “no starter” column. He had questioned the car park attendant, castle staff, and booth sellers, driven along every road in the village, and watched for Dena’s red MG along the A515 as he headed north again toward Kirkfield. The tarmac thread he followed was slim, for the vast countryside surrounding the thoroughfare could hold its secret quite well if Dena were kept in a barn, machinery shed, or house. Lonely farms, disused coal mines, caverns, cities. Where should he look? She might not even be in Derbyshire any more. He swore at the hopeless task confronting him. A police helicopter search would be nice, but he hadn’t the authority to request it. As he stopped in Ashbourne to buy something for breakfast, he realized he was on a fool’s errand. Willingness, time and physical availability were fine as far as they went, but the coldness of Reality threw up roadblocks to his eagerness to help. Dena could have gone anywhere: just driving the roads to Derby or Belper or Wirksworth was a challenge, for she could have taken any route, detoured to any village or town farther afield. If she’d made for some place north or east of her house, if she’d gone to Manchester or Sheffield or Birmingham, or even London, he’d never find her in such large cities.
Jamie next spent some time talking to Dena’s closest friends. No one had heard from her or seen her recently. Hotels were equally unproductive. He rubbed his head. Just thinking about the hundreds of B&B’s in the area gave him a headache. He might find her after a few years’ search.
He tossed his half-eaten scone at the sparrows congregating at the base of the old market cross, returned to his car, and rang up McLaren.
“Find her?” McLaren asked, answering on the first ring.
“Not yet.” He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Look, Mike, this is a waste of time.”
A tinge of anger tinted his words. “What do you mean?”
“I’m one bloke. One man to comb a thousand square miles. There is no way on God’s green earth that I can search every house, building, lorry, coal mine, and cave in the county. Even if you joined me, we’d never do it. Not even taking into account that she might be in Nottingham or Bolton or—”
“Okay, I get your meaning.” Sounds of his ragged breathing came over the phone.
“I’m not begging off, Mike. You know I want to help. I’ve already been to the castle, looked around there, scanned the A515 from Ashbourne coming and going. But I can’t cover the whole ruddy county. It’s impossible.” He waited for McLaren to say something, but the silence that returned his statement maddened him. Why the hell was McLaren so pigheaded? Couldn’t he see they were playing around with Dena’s safety? Jamie tried again, speaking slowly to keep a check on his growing annoyance. “I’ve phoned her friends. No one’s heard from her. You haven’t heard from her. It’s time to go through official channels, Mike. I shouldn’t have to tell you. A missing person, especially when it involves these circumstances and the degree of suspicion we already have, should be taken seriously. You need to include the police.” He waited for an explosion of anger, for a scathing opinion of police skills, but heard instead McLaren’s reluctant agreement.
“You’re right.” McLaren’s voice sounded reluctant and relieved. “But would you mind calling it in? I-I can’t manage that. Talking to…calling it in.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He knew the real reason McLaren wanted to dodge reporting Dena’s disappearance. Even if he avoided speaking with someone he knew, he’d have to give his name. And that might be remembered, and the gossip of his former job could start again.
On hanging up, Jamie phoned the Ashbourne police station, one of Derbyshire Constabulary’s sectional stations, and relayed the car description and registration plate number. While explaining that the car owner appeared to be a missing person—and one under mysterious circumstances—the dispatcher interrupted him.
“An officer located the vehicle minutes ago. There’s no sign of the driver. Nor have there been any reports phoned in to the RAC or nearby garages from a motorist requesting help.”
Jamie’s breathing nearly stopped. He grabbed a pen and his notebook. “Where? Still in Derbyshire?”
“On a lay-by on the A515, west of Tissington.”
West of Tissington on the A515. Jamie had missed it, the village being farther north from his route down to Tutbury. He silently cursed himself for joining the A515 south of Fenny Bentley when he left Kirkfield and, thus, south of Tissington. Was this good or bad news that the car was just minutes from Dena’s house? “I know the spot. Please tell the officer not to touch anything. I’ll be right there.” He rang off, his mind racing. So, where was Dena?
Chapter Eighteen
Where was her release money? Dena wondered. Was
her dad still talking amount, or actually getting it? The thought of her paid ransom and subsequent release cheered her until she realized kidnappers didn’t always play fair. Once they got the money she might be dumped along a road or tossed into a lake. She was an unnecessary upkeep easily disposed of.
Although still bound, she had struggled into a sitting position. Her entire body ached with the cold of inactivity and a hard sleeping surface. She bent her head forward, stretching her neck muscles and feeling her neck vertebrae strain and pop into place. She got to her knees and arched her back before sinking onto her calves. Feeling better, she glanced around. Morning light crept into the room through a gap between the window and curtain, giving the space shape and color denied her the previous night. Instead of a terror-filled black hole, it had become a pale lilac rectangle. A stack of cardboard boxes filled the far corner. Left over from moving? Was she in a house? The wall color implies a residence rather than an office or warehouse. And if it’s a house, she thought, rocking forward onto her knees again, maybe there are houses nearby, with people I can signal.
Hours and minutes had ceased to have any meaning. Her stomach ruled, dividing her waking time into segments of Hunger and Fullness. She judged the march of time by her meals and the light within the room. And though she assumed she had been held captive for two days, she needed to know her location, needed to know if she could signal to anyone.
As if a baby again, she inched across the room, forcing each knee in turn forward. After many minutes she came to one of the room’s corners. Angling herself so that her back leaned against one wall and her shoulder pressed the other, she pushed at the walls, using her leg muscles as leverage. She fell several times, once on her knees, and winced at the pain. But she righted herself again and maneuvered into position, pressing her body into the wall. By the time she stood up, she was out of breath and aware of every pain in her body. She hobbled to the window and grabbed the edge of the curtain with her teeth. As she moved her head the curtain parted just enough for her to release the fabric and poke her head between the two panels, letting it lay against her as she looked outside.
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