“Who is we, Mr. Pennell?”
“Clark MacKay and I.” He lowered his head and brought his hands to his lap. Staring at his clenched fingers, he said more quietly, “We just wanted her out of the way for a few days. While that ex-police detective ran around talking to people. We hadn’t planned to kidnap Dena. It was a spur of the moment idea.”
“If you were concerned with Mr. McLaren’s questioning of people, why kidnap Dena?”
“She’d spoken to me at the Minstrels Court. She said she was asking questions about Kent Harrison for a friend of hers who was interested in reviewing the case. We thought she was really an undercover officer investigating people from the original case. Clark didn’t want the case reinstated because he feared Kent’s dirty laundry would be aired, that it would tarnish his image, and the events Clark had planned would fall through. Clark had a lot of money riding on Kent, even a year after the murder, and he feared he would lose all that if the police probed again into Kent’s life. There’s usually some scandal not too deep if you dig for it. I got frightened and told Clark that evening. We didn’t know what to do. When that ex-detective talked to Clark we really thought things from Kent’s not-too-pristine past would come to light and destroy the plans. That’s when Clark got the idea of kidnapping Dena. We thought that if she were out of the picture, the questions might stop. We thought she was the chief investigator.” He’d spoken in a nearly non-stop gush of breath. When he finished, he sat back, his gaze still on Jamie, and waited.
“How did you abduct her? From her car?”
Ron nodded, his face flushing with color. “Clark followed her that day. We were near to panic by then. He figured the only way to stop her asking questions and dredging up Kent’s murder was to abduct her. So when she stopped in that lay-by, he figured it was the best place and time to grab her. She had just finished talking on her mobile, so she wasn’t aware Clark walked up to her. That’s when he hit her on the back of the head and carried her to his car.”
Clark had picked a good spot for the abduction, Jamie agreed. Secluded from the A515 by a stand of trees, neither he nor Dena would attract any unusual attention. Jamie sat up and asked where they had kept her.
“Two places, actually. The first night in a basement room of Rawlton Hall.”
“The manor house?” Jamie’s eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Why such a public place? Weren’t you concerned you’d be found out?”
“It was the only place we could think of. We waited until closing time and everyone had gone. I had borrowed a key from Ellen Fairfield about six months ago. She thought nothing of it. I mean, if a painting or silver service was stolen it’d point to me.” He traced his thumb across his palm. “I go there some evenings because I’m working on a large project. Ellen wants the gardens redesigned and I needed to consult the historical drawings and books to be certain my ideas were accurate for the period. Besides, they had more space than I have, so I could make scaled sets and then pop outside to see the actual gardens, see if it would work with the house architecture.” He wedged his fingers beneath his thighs and continued in a monotone. “We carried Dena into the basement room and left some food for her. We figured she’d be well hidden because no one goes into that room any more. The staff member who had it as an office retired and most of the furniture was moved out. Ellen had decided not to replace the person.” He paused, his eyes large and bright with anxiety.
“Did Ellen know about any of this, either the kidnapping or how you used the basement room?”
Ron shook his head, protesting her guilt. “She has no reason to go down there. I worked with her for two years until quite recently when I set up my own business. I felt the odds favored Ellen’s continued neglect of the basement, so we assumed Dena would be safe there for a day or two. I didn’t want to keep her too long in such a public spot, though. Anyone could’ve found her there.”
“So you moved her.”
“Yes. Late at night. We put two crushed sleeping tablets in her evening meal.”
“Where did you put her?”
“Where you found her.” Ron’s voice was barely audible. “My friend’s house in Ashbourne.”
Jamie read the address for the tape recording. “Why there and not your own house or Tutbury castle?”
“I couldn’t lodge her because I was frightened my wife would find her. By the time we’d shifted Dena to the house we were scared. It had seemed a good idea at the beginning, but the longer we had her, the more frightened we became. I asked Clark how we were going to let her go. I knew she couldn’t identify either of us because we moved her only when she was out cold, and every time we brought her food we’d wear that costume. We never spoke to her, either. That way she couldn’t ID us by our voices.” He paused, moving his tongue over his lips. “That’s why we dressed up, so she wouldn’t know who we were. I mean, you don’t take all those precautions if you’re going to kill someone, for Christ’s sake! We were going to let her go!”
Jamie exhaled loudly. For all of their impulsiveness, they seemed to have thought the plan through very well. “And you chose your friend’s house because…”
“They’re out of town. Sarah and Steve. I’m house sitting. Well, to a degree. I know what I told you, but I really was keeping tabs on the house. Water the plants, feed the canary…” Ron grimaced, as though expecting Jamie or the other constable to rush from the room to arrest Clark. Instead, they both sat there in silence. The tape squeaked again. “No one knows Clark or me in that neighborhood. I thought that in case a neighbor did connect us with Dena’s kidnapping we couldn’t be identified since the neighbor wouldn’t know our names.”
“And you did all this because you didn’t want Dena to reinvestigate Kent Harrison’s murder and jeopardize the success of the forthcoming fete.” Jamie leaned forward so that he nearly touched Ron. “Did you want to shut her up because you or Clark had killed Kent? Maybe your brother was connected to it, too. You wanted to protect Trevor.”
Ron’s denials still rang in Jamie’s ears as he left the room.
McLaren leaned his head back and considered possible suspects. Aaron, one of Kent Harrison’s neighbors, might have been slipping hydrangea buds to Kent, gradually poisoning him for weeks, but Kent hadn’t died from plant poisoning. Aaron had been dealing with his wife who’d left him. And there was the sticky question of motive. Aaron had no reason for killing Kent, none that McLaren had been able to discover. Trevor, however, did fit nicely into the murderer role. With his wife dying of cancer, he wanted to win the school scholarship for the cash. It could help with medical expenses.
And Ron had been at the Minstrels Court that Sunday night. The event had ended at eleven o’clock. Ron had stayed till closing time, making sales, talking to people, and closing up his booth. He finally left at half past eleven, seen by the security guard in the car park and by Clark MacKay as he locked up the castle. Ron couldn’t have driven from Tutbury Castle to Kirkfield and killed Kent, even if he conveniently met him in the forest so he wouldn’t have to transport his body. He hadn’t the time. Not even if the witnesses were wrong and had him leaving the castle an hour earlier.
McLaren made a note to check with Ellen Fairfield about the lengthy meeting.
So, he thought, sitting in his car, he was at a dead end. What to do?
He rubbed his forehead, his mind dizzy with the day’s scenes. One in particular nagged him, shimmered more than the rest. He’d been at the school. He’d spoken with a group of students who still remembered Kent’s kindness…
McLaren sat up, his mind on fire. He’d been going about it all wrong, concentrating on jealousy and anger. First class berk! How many times had he heard that Kent helped everyone? If Kent had not helped someone, and that someone had not only expected and counted on help but had also been angry enough…
McLaren rang up Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office forensic pathologist who worked periodically for the Derbyshire Constabulary. As he waited through the ‘hold’ music, he saw t
he elements of the case fitting together in his mind. And it all hinged on the victim. Kent Harrison and his time with Lorene—a troubled student who sought his counsel. Kent, who’d advised her on her pregnancy. For that’s why she left school before finishing the term, McLaren believed. And that pregnancy resulted in a child’s birth and the adoption of that child by Fay Larkin. Kent Harrison, the great helper, the solution provider of everyone’s problems. Did McLaren see or just imagine the baby having the same shaped nose as Lorene’s?
The music cut off abruptly and Cheryl’s voice kicked him back to his present question. “What can I help you with, Mike? Another case?”
He heard the hint of interest in her voice, imagined her leaning forward in her desk chair, the rush of requests momentarily forgotten. “No, still the same one,” he said, amused that Cheryl would think he’d cleared up the Harrison murder so quickly. “I’d like the details of the postmortem, if you’ve got a moment.”
“Asphyxiation.”
“Through strangulation.”
“Yes. I thought I told you.”
“Just making certain.” He was close to finishing the case and didn’t want to make a stupid mistake.
“Right. He sustained a blow to the head, probably to render him unconscious, and had enough cyanogenetic glycoside in his body to be fatal in another few hours.”
“But it didn’t come to that,” McLaren supplied, recalling his notes. “He was strangled with a wire.” It was easy to assume it was from a guitar, considering the music connections, but there were other kinds of wire. He wasn’t going to assume.
“It wasn’t recovered, Mike, but it left traditional marks around the neck, a fairly deep cut into the skin that could only have been made by a wire. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thanks, Cheryl.”
“Awfully short call this time. Does this bode well for you?”
“You’ll no doubt hear one way or the other. Thanks.” He closed the phone, cutting off her goodbye. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, he sank back into the upholstery. The landscape rocked wildly. More than that, Kent’s face peered at him. If Kent had died by strangulation with a wire, could it have been a wire guitar string? Fay had mentioned that someone had cut Kent’s guitar strings. Or, to be precise, four of them. Twelve, ten, eight and seven. McLaren picked up his notebook and wrote down the string numbers. Why not cut all the strings, if the person had set out to vandalize Kent’s instrument? The lower two strings, he could understand, snipping them in a hurry. But only one of the two E’s had been cut. The vandal had skipped the eleventh string to cut the lower string in the next pair, one of the A’s. Yet, strings eight and seven were both cut. Why cut both D’s and not both A’s and E’s? McLaren stared again at the paper, writing and rewriting the string names in a variety of doodles while he thought. He nearly stopped breathing when one of the scribbles seemed to jump from the page. D-E-A-D. The guitar strings hadn’t been cut as an act of vandalism; they’d been cut as a warning. They screamed of hatred and of premeditation.
McLaren turned his key in the ignition and roared out of the car park. Only one person he could think of who knew about guitar strings: Dave Morley.
But Jamie’s phone call altered McLaren’s plans.
“Jamie. What’s going on?”
“More than I’d like. Ellen Fairfield’s in hospital.”
“Anything serious?”
“I haven’t seen her. I’m still at the station. One of the constables responded to the 999 call and I learned from him that she was attacked.”
McLaren nearly choked on the word. “You’re kidding!”
“I’d just spoken to her several hours ago. Maybe if I’d arrived later…”
“Where did this happen? Anyone see it?”
Jamie relayed the information, scanty as it was. The attack occurred in the car park at Rawlton Hall as she left for the day. A man hit her but was scared away by the gardener before he could do anything else…if he intended to. No, the gardener didn’t hear a thing, he merely came out of the storage shed after putting away his tools. No, he didn’t see the bloke’s face but he was dressed in a denim jacket, jeans and a cloth cap, if that helps. Yes, he put in the emergency call. No, Ellen didn’t get a good description, either. Yes, she’s all right but for a few scrapes and a very sore head where it met the weapon, but she’s being kept overnight at Uttoxeter Hospital for observation.
“Do you think the bloke wanted her mobile or handbag?” McLaren suggested it more from routine than something he believed.
“How should I know?”
“Isn’t it odd that someone we’re interviewing in this case is now attacked?”
“It could be a simple assault. They’re common enough. But I do agree it bears looking into. And, off the record, Mike, I can’t believe it’s a coincidence, even if it occurred at closing time and the place was practically empty.”
McLaren thought back to the Hall and grounds. The storage shed sat hundreds of yards from the main building, parenthesized by a handful of arborvitae. A guard’s booth at the entrance to the car park served as both ticket seller and watchman location. Besides sporadic clumps of yews and boxwood, nothing else could be effective cover for an attacker bent on surprise. The man had to have hidden behind Ellen’s car.
“Sounds very plausible. Anyway, I have to get back to the interview room. Clark MacKay’s just arrived.”
“Is Ellen capable of receiving visitors?”
“I wouldn’t know, but I wouldn’t think so. If it’s only a simple blow to the head it wouldn’t require police at the doors or screened entry.”
“Did the constables find anything at the scene that might give a lead to the attacker’s identity?”
“I haven’t heard. I’ve been conversing with Ron.”
“Sure. Have a good time with Clark. I assume he’s mixed up in all this.”
“I wouldn’t be talking to him here if he weren’t.”
McLaren rang off and headed for the hospital in Derby.
****
Uttoxeter Hospital, resplendent with its glass entryway, sat between a spaghetti-pile of roads and among trees. The sun hovered at the top of the leafy mass, casting blue shadows that angled eastward. McLaren parked near the emergency entrance, checked his watch, and entered.
A nurse in the emergency room consulted her computer, said Ellen Fairfield would be kept overnight for observation, and directed McLaren to a room on another floor. “You are a family member, aren’t you?” she asked as he turned.
“Pardon?”
“Visitation by close family members only.”
He hesitated, his mind racing.
“Is your name on our list?” The nurse leaned closer to the computer screen. “Approved names only. Sorry.”
McLaren nodded, and said he’d write Ellen a get well note.
He returned to his car, donned his baseball cap and a long sleeved shirt, and walked in the main entrance. He bought a magazine on British history, a pack of chewing gum, and a box of chocolates in one of the gift shops. He popped a stick of gum into his mouth, began chewing, then took the lift up.
The ward hummed with hospital staff, conversations, and visitors. McLaren considered faking a delivery slip but when he located her room he shoved his mobile into his pocket. No police constable stood guard. He wouldn’t be challenged.
McLaren stopped outside the room, staring at the magazine and chocolates, and wondered if it was a good idea after all. Ellen’s injuries evidently didn’t demand the emergency or intensive care rooms. Just overnight obs in an undistinguished room, as the nurse said. But would he be bothering her recuperation?
He knocked on the door. An emphatic “Come in” sounded, and he entered. No visitors or police officers gathered around her. She was alone, her head bandaged, and reading a book, but she set it down on seeing him.
“Mr. McLaren?”
“I just heard you were here.” He walked up to her bed and handed her the chocolates and
magazine. “I hope your stay isn’t long.”
She thanked him for the gifts, laying them beside her on the bed. “I kept insisting I was fine, but they wouldn’t let me leave.” Her hand touched the gauze pad taped to her forehead. “Something about making certain I had no concussion. I wasn’t hit that hard, but I guess a rock can do more damage than one suspects, never mind the headache. I have the impression my assailant started to grab my neck, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Anyway, I’m not dwelling on my impression or the cut on my head. The nightmares will be bad enough.” She wriggled, sitting up straighter. “I expect I look worse than I am. At least the scrapes from the fall onto the gravel are painful.” She twisted her arm and glanced at the red cuts.
“Head injuries are nothing to take lightly. What’s overnight if it will save you grief later?”
“I suppose so.” She sank into her pillow and pulled the sheet up. “Though this forced relaxation isn’t my idea of time well spent. I’ve a ton of work to do at the Hall. I’m up to my ears in planning an event, and here I sit.” She gestured at the novel she’d been reading and grimaced.
“Is the event something new, or next year’s version of a current program?”
“Oh, it’s new. I’ve been planning it for more than a year. I hope to give Clark MacKay’s Minstrels Court a little competition with my own group of musicians and historical actors. Reenactments are popular, but I’m going to give people the chance to play-act along with the professionals. They won’t get to do that very often.”
“Did Kent ever appear in your venues? Perhaps Dave was angry that Kent had gone solo at the Hall and left him at Tutbury.”
She shook her head and assured him that she had done nothing other than offer a bigger venue to Kent Harrison. “I’ve got publicity connections that Clark MacKay can only wish for,” Ellen said, giving a faint smile as if she imagined her victory.
But the triumph had never materialized, for Kent had repeatedly, unwaveringly refused her job offers. He wouldn’t betray Clark’s kindness and trust. Clark had given Kent his first professional chance, offering him a spot at the Minstrels Court when the rest of his singing buddies were holding down their weekend gig at the pub. He had confidence that Kent was destined for stardom and he felt compelled to help the singer on his way.
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