“Near the Winnats.”
“You’re not even on the A6 yet, let alone the A515!” Jamie yelled as though envisioning McLaren tearing down the road at 70 mph and wrapping his car around a convenient tree. “What the bloody hell are you playing at? If you’re not killed, you’ll get stopped for speeding or reckless driving. Look, Mike, I’ve got to get Dena to my place. She’s been through hell and she needs to rest. Meet us at my house.”
“That’ll take you a twenty minutes’ drive up from Ashbourne. Can’t you wait fifteen damned minutes for me?” Another few seconds of silence answered him before he said, “Ask Dena. If she’s too tired and wants to go to your house, I’ll abide by her decision. But ask her, will you?”
Seconds later Jamie said, “She wants to wait here for you. Frankly, Mike, I don’t think you deserve her, but that’s for you two to settle. We’ll wait. We’ll be here—whenever you get here. But for God’s sake, slow down!” He said it with a plea in his voice, as though he knew McLaren wouldn’t, that the words wouldn’t even register in McLaren’s brain.
“So who’s Stephen Howard?” McLaren said, marginally calmer. “Do you know anything yet?”
Jamie sighed, sounding as if he was tired of trying to hold McLaren in check. “Never been in trouble with the law, if that’s what you mean, and I believe you do. Not so much as a speeding ticket. I checked while I was waiting for the PC and police surgeon to arrive. He owns a van removal company. Howard Fleet. Heard of them?”
“No.”
“They’re based in Derby. Quite the company. Not only local business, but the continent, Australia, Canada, and the odd one or two moves to America each year.”
“With a fleet of large vans, Howard could’ve shifted Dena anywhere, and we’d never have found her.”
Jamie agreed. “Moved out of the country, even. But why? Any idea?”
“If they were holding her for ransom, her father would’ve been notified before this. I can’t quite figure it. Anything unusual about the company?”
“Nothing’s been reported. And I don’t think they’re involved with smuggling illegal immigrants into the Kingdom. Or with any dope runs. Howard seems all above board and a regular businessman. His wife is Sarah Howard. She’s employed at Honor Insurance Agents, in the Derby office.”
“Nice and convenient. They can ride to work together.”
Jamie let the sarcasm pass without commenting. “The firm’s headquartered in Manchester but has branches all over the Midlands and Lake District.”
“What’s the connection between the removers and the insurance agency?”
“Pardon?”
“What’s going on between the two businesses that involves Dena?”
“You’re trying too hard, Mike. Don’t look for villainy under every rock. There’s no problem with either company or with the Howards. Steve worked his way up through the industry and formed his own company.”
“Who’s he to Ron Pennell, then?”
“Ron says he was house sitting for a friend.”
Even over the phone, McLaren could hear the quotes around the words. He didn’t need to see Jamie’s wink or the hand gestures. “The friend being Steve Howard, I assume.” He muttered something as he came up to a slower moving driver.
“We’ll find out quick enough, Mike. Despite Ron not talking.”
“Not yet.”
Jamie ignored his friend’s veiled threat. “Ron’s enjoying the hospitality of the Derbyshire Constabulary. There’s no use you puzzling out how to include him in Howard’s beating.”
“I can always dream, Jamie. Did Dena say how she was kidnapped? We know where, but how it was done? Did she see who did it? Was it this Howard chap? I can’t see Ron Pennell doing it, even if he doesn’t have strict hours of employment. He hasn’t the conviction of a just cause, never mind if he’s trying to protect his own hide.” He exhaled sharply, the image of the sixty-five year old man refusing to meld with the strength needed to haul Dena out of her car.
“She hasn’t said a thing about it. Now’s not the time to ask her, either. She needs”
“Yeah. You told me. A shower, a cuppa, and some major sleep.”
“Those aren’t just words, Mike. She’s all in. She’s been through a hell of an ordeal.”
“I know she has!” He barked his frustration as he zoomed around a tractor. “And so have I! I’ve been worried sick about her. I nearly lost my mind! She’s all I could think about, Jamie. What she was going through, where she might be. I didn’t want to live without her.” This last sentence had been more subdued than the previous anger-filled speech. “Just coming up to Heathcote.”
“Not much longer.”
“How’s Dena holding up?”
“She’s fine. She’s in my car. Her head’s against the headrest, her legs are curled up on the seat, and she’s looking at the street. Despite being tired, she looks very peaceful.” The silence welled up between them. “I know what you’re thinking, Mike.”
“Yeah? You taking mind reading lessons?”
“You’re thinking if there’s one bruise or cut or bump on Dena, you’ll kill him. You’ll drag him behind your car until he’s half dead, then finish him off by beating him. And when he looks at you in the last seconds of his life, you’ll smash in his face with a rock. Right?”
“It’d be tempting, but no. If I were caught and sentenced that would leave Dena alone again. She’d be no better off then than if I’d had gone ahead with suicide. And even if I set the scene to look like an accident, I’d still be prime suspect. I’d be no use to her dead or in prison. I won’t leave her.”
“See that you follow your own advice, then. Where are you?”
“Just coming to the sign indicating Mapleton. Why?”
“I don’t think Ron Pennell is the killer, Mike.”
“Kent Harrison’s killer, you mean? Why? If Ron kidnapped Dena, doesn’t that imply his involvement with Kent’s murder?”
“Not necessarily. Dena’s kidnapping could be a completely unrelated incident.”
“Holy hell! How many cases do you want?”
“Less than you think.”
“Then why do you think Ron isn’t involved in Kent’s murder?”
“Nothing concrete. Just a hunch. You know about hunches.”
“Just about there, Jamie. Where—Oh. Got you.” He braked opposite the house. As he turned off the engine, Dena saw him and jumped out of the car. He ran up to her and grabbed her.
Jamie gave them a minute alone, letting McLaren assure himself that Dena was suffering only from aching muscles and the last vestiges of fright. He flipped his mobile closed, shoved it into his pocket, and walked up to them.
McLaren asked Dena again if she wanted medical attention at the hospital.
“No, Michael,” she said, faintly amused at his concern. “A bruise or two, a little knot on my head is the extent of it.”
McLaren had her bend her head down while he felt the swelling. His face darkened as he ran his fingers over her facial bruise. “Who did this to you, Dena? Who abducted you? Was it Ron? Steve Howard?” He stopped abruptly, staring at her. “He didn’t…” He paused, taking a breath. He tried again, his voice calmer and quieter. “He didn’t attack you…in any other manner?”
Laying a hand on his chest, Dena assured him she was all right. “No one came near me. I don’t know who grabbed me. It might’ve been Ron, since Jamie followed him here, but I can’t say.” Her gaze turned to the front of the house and she seemed to see it for the first time. She returned her attention to McLaren. “Someone fed me, left food for me, I mean, but no one ever did anything else. Nothing else.”
He nodded and hugged her again.
“I hate to intrude,” Jamie cleared his throat noisily, “but I really think it best if Dena get some rest now. You can see her later, Mike.”
“After tea time?” he asked hesitantly, his gaze shifting from Dena to Jamie, as though asking permission.
Jamie clampe
d his hand on Dena’s upper arm and led her to his car. He called over his shoulder. “And don’t keep ringing me. She needs some serious sleep more than anything else.”
McLaren nodded and leaned against his car, watching until they turned onto the main road. Sighing heavily, he thought it best to release his tension by talking to Clark MacKay.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Free to focus more fully on Kent Harrison’s case, McLaren made a quick stop at Tutbury Castle, thinking Clark’s broader view of castle entertainers, event-goers, vendors, and enthusiastic fans might provide the name of a person Kent had slighted. Or, if not a name, some hint of anger that might have been bubbling beneath a calm exterior. Clark’s assurance that Dave Morley had shown no resentment over the solo CD hadn’t convinced McLaren, and he said so.
Frankly astonished that McLaren asked, Clark said, “Kent made it a point to help everyone.” He handed McLaren an event flyer. “Everyone wished Kent success and he, in turn, wished that same success for everyone else, no matter their walks in life. It’s contagious, you know. You do a good deed for someone and that person in turn helps another.”
“What goes around comes around,” McLaren said, smiling.
“Something like that. Even Dave wished him the best.”
“A strange thing for Dave to say, considering they were a duo. Were they splitting up?”
“Not that I know of. Kent was about to release a solo CD. He had a half-dozen songs on it. I heard the demo. Frankly, I think it would’ve plunged him onto the charts again and made his name.”
“It was that good?”
“Yes. At least, I thought so. And I’ve heard every musician at every castle event. He dug up some obscure song—from the Renaissance or Middle Ages or somewhere—and gave it a bit of a modern rhythm and some unusual chords.”
“How did Dave feel about that? The solo recording, I mean.”
“Don’t know, do I? But even if he was disappointed, there might have been another CD in the offing—one featuring them as a duo.”
McLaren thought he better find out straight from the horse’s mouth.
****
Dave Morley’s shift at the Joyful Sound Music Shop didn’t start for another quarter hour. That’s what a clerk announced rather hurriedly to McLaren as the store’s phone rang. McLaren mouthed “thank you”. A fine Martin D-35 caught his eye and he stood in front of it, wondering if he could take it from the rack on the wall and try it out, when a feminine voice said, “Kent played a Martin, you know.”
McLaren turned to find Sheri Harrison standing at the end of the aisle.
“A beautiful instrument. Do you play, Mr. McLaren?”
“Mrs. Harrison.” McLaren briefly abandoned the idea of trying out the guitar. “I could ask you the same thing, finding you in this shop.”
“Me, play?” Her laugh rippled into the air. “Heavens, no. I’m just an admirer of those who do. Play well, I should stipulate. But you must play, and play rather well yourself, or you wouldn’t be admiring such a fine instrument. That’s not a beginner’s guitar.”
McLaren raised his eyebrow, unsure of her meaning.
“I don’t mean to imply beginners aren’t deserving of fine instruments. I meant that a parent wouldn’t want to gamble spending so much on a professional quality guitar at the offset of the child’s musical adventure. What if it’s a passing fancy? What if the child is bent on becoming a ballerina or engine driver the following week?”
“Burning desires often are just flashes in the pan. Do you play something? Piano, perhaps?”
Sheri waved away McLaren’s suggestions. “No, but I’ll satisfy your curiosity why I’m here. I need to talk to Dave Morley.”
“We’re both here to talk to him, then.”
“You may go first. I know your time is precious. I’ll browse among the tin whistles, kazoos and comb-and-papers. Or content myself with looking at the guitar strings and things. Always so fascinating how something as simple as a piece of wire, when stretched so taut, can produce such delectable sounds.”
“A piece of magical science.”
“I never talked to Kent about the science behind it, but Dave would probably explain it if I asked. I’m just solidifying the memorial for Kent. Making certain Dave knows what he is to do. That sort of thing.”
“You’re doing this at the Minstrels Court?”
“What better place? That’s where we associate him as being.”
“Clark isn’t in charge of this?”
Sheri pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m either being punished or doing penance.”
“What did you do?”
“I’m exaggerating, obviously, but Clark says I need to get over the bitterness of the divorce, so he’s put me in charge of the memorial. You’d think he’d take it on, being castle curator and me just a tour guide, but he insisted I do this. I wish I didn’t have to.”
He sensed the change of tone in her voice, and wondered if it was attributable to fatigue or evulsion for the subject of the event. Whatever the reason, her professionalism pushed her on with the assignment. “Maybe he hasn’t the time, or he believes you’d do a better job of it, since you were married to Kent.”
“Do a better job at blackening his name, you mean.” She laughed lightly, as though attempting to glide over her feelings. “I’ll do a good job of it, don’t worry. I’ll bite my tongue, slap a smile on my lips, and amuse anyone who asks with family anecdotes and tales of life at home. Don’t fret that I’ll tarnish the gold. They’ll never hear that he had time for students but none for me. Kent will remain the plaster saint of his fans. I can lace my office coffee with DeWar’s and my evening cuppa becomes Tanqueray. For the duration only, not to worry.” She ran the tips of her fingers over the top of a box of picks. “It’ll be character building to see if I can fool everyone. They’ll think I was his biggest fan.”
“People go through a lot without letting on they’re hurting.”
“My hurt is that I’m a party to this. Oh, sure, he had talent. I don’t take that from him. But it’s ridiculous, all this hype. How long’s this going to go on…forever? People will forget. Other singers will come along and eclipse Kent. We should drop this now, but Clark wants it. Thank God it’s just to be a short thing. Ten or fifteen minutes before the last set on the last evening. Dave and Fay will play two songs that he and Kent were working on for their next recording, and the memorial will end with the recording of Kent singing ‘The Swans’ Song.’ Ludicrous.”
“I wish you luck of it, Mrs. Harrison.”
She thanked him and wandered off, leaving him alone with the guitars. He had just about decided to take down the D35 when he heard a woman asking if she could help him. He paused, dropped his arms, and turned toward the speaker. A girl smiled at him. Her short-cut red hair set off her blue eyes in an unsettling way, and he found himself staring at her. When she repeated her question, McLaren said he was waiting for Dave Morley.
“Certainly. Though, if you have questions about that guitar I could get another clerk. String instruments aren’t my forte. If you’d like piano music, we’ve got a nice selection.”
She looked the type who would hover, trying to be useful to impress her boss. He needed to be alone when he talked to Dave. “Thank you, but I came to speak to Dave. It concerns his late singing partner.”
“Kent Harrison?”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. He was my favorite teacher at school. My name’s Lorene, by the way. Lorene Guard.” She extended her hand, almost shyly, he thought, but appeared eager and hopeful, clinging to the remembrance of Kent’s personality and wanting to help. “I still can’t get over his death. It was such a shock.”
He judged her to be about seventeen years old, the right age for enrollment in the Grange Hall College.
“It was horrible when we found out. None of us could believe it. The whole school went into shock. Mr. Harrison was so well loved and such a super teacher. Nothing’s the same wit
hout him. Whoever killed him’s never been caught. Is that why you want to talk to Dave? Because he knew Mr. Harrison?”
“I’m reinvestigating Kent Harrison’s death, Lorene. Old cases occasionally are looked at in the hope that new information has surfaced, or people recall something after the turmoil’s died down. I’m talking to those who knew him. Since you knew Mr. Harrison and you know Dave—”
She replied before he could ask. “Dave had nothing to do with Mr. Harrison’s death. I know that.”
“How?”
“He’s not the type.”
“Doesn’t get angry? Doesn’t get jealous…what?”
“Doesn’t get emotional. He just sort of glides through life without being bothered by anything—excitement or failure.”
McLaren nodded, thinking of several people he knew who took life as it came to them, seeming to accept good news and bad news with equal reaction.
“Dave’s younger than Mr. Harrison was. He’s also less talented, so he needed Mr. Harrison if he was going to get anywhere with his music.”
“Which is why you believe Dave didn’t have anything to do with Kent’s death.”
“Isn’t your shift over yet?” A teenaged boy who appeared to be comprised of tattoos and blue denim stood behind McLaren. The question, barked in a surge of impatience, startled McLaren. He jerked around, his cop’s instincts in high gear, and stared into dark eyes.
“Another few minutes, Booth.” Lorene gestured toward the boy. “This is Booth, Mr. McLaren. Booth Wragg. Mr. McLaren’s asking me—”
“Nothing about guitars,” Booth said, eyeing them. He glanced at his watch, then at the store clock. “So, when, then? You through on the hour?”
“You know I am.” Her face blanched. “I’m sorry, Mr. McLaren. Usually Booth is—”
“What?” He crossed his arms on his chest, waiting for an answer.
Dave Morley entered the sales area from the back room, his eyes taking in who was there.
Booth snapped, “Okay. Your replacement is here. You’re off work. You’re free to go.” He grabbed Lorene’s arm, telling her to hurry up.
“Let me get my bag. Sorry, Mr. McLaren.” She apologized as Booth pulled her toward the checkout counter. “Good luck to you.” She disappeared into the back room, emerged seconds later with her handbag, then followed Booth out of the store.
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