The examination of the car park lasted for nearly a half hour. McLaren shifted his position several times to keep out of the searcher’s view, for that’s what the person obviously was doing. Looking for something. But what? Or was it just nerves, perhaps returning to the scene of the assault to find something that might have been left behind? He could think of no other explanation that fitted this midnight visit.
The figure finished his hunt and retraced his steps, but more haphazard this time. He hurried, the light flitting over patches of gravel that looked newly disturbed. When he’d finished with the lot, he walked around the perimeter, venturing onto the lawn and periodically probing the grass. Several times he would straighten and throw something toward the Hall, a twig or stone or coin, McLaren thought. Once the figure even pried something from the soil, but dropped it with an angry “Hell.”
He stood at the patch the torchlight playing over the expanse of gravel in random bobs and jerks. It disappeared behind some trees, focused on the roots and soil around the trunks, then emerged to shine again at waist-level as it pointed at the ticket booth.
The footsteps moved faster this time, the crunch of gravel firm and headed toward McLaren.
He kept the booth between them, creeping as quickly as he could to the opposite wall as he corkscrewed around. The figure evidently didn’t hear, his light and gaze on the ground. When the light suddenly snapped off and only the rumble of thunder sounded, McLaren froze. Should he remain there or move? What was the person doing?
Despite the warmth of the night, perspiration soaked McLaren’s shirt. His pulse throbbed in his throat. He considered tiptoeing around the booth’s corner and jumping the man, but if he mistook the man’s position, coming face-on, and the man saw him…
The gravel shifted and the steps turned the way they’d come. McLaren stepped back as the light played into the lot. When the figure cleared the booth, McLaren lunged forward.
His fingers reached for the man’s clothing as he found himself falling. The torches crashed to the ground, and McLaren and his adversary were plunged into darkness. Arms and legs thrashed as both men fought for control. McLaren grabbed a wrist but felt it turn and slip from his grasp. His palm pushed against the ground to keep him upright, but he crumpled as a shoe kicked his side. He fell in a rush of pain and blackness.
He shook his head desperate to remain conscious, aware of the footsteps that now ran to the road. The light bounced, marking his assailant’s journey. It cut off as it reached the car, and for an instant the headlights revealed jeans and the lower portion of a yellow T-shirt. The door slammed, the engine revved, and tires screeched as they reclaimed the tarmac. The silence after the car’s retreat was nearly deafening.
McLaren got to his knees, his right hand on his ribs, and stared at the road. Nothing but the stench of exhaust fumes remained to show the car’s existence.
This is twice I’ve been attacked, he realized, feeling his heart thudding in his throat. Granted this meeting was coincidental, but the Beresford Dale encounter was planned. I was followed, but by whom? I’d spoken with all the key players in the case by that time, but I can eliminate those who hold steady working hours. But Booth, Fraser, and Ron come and go as they please. Unless Ellen, Clark, and Sheri, who obviously had flexible hours, and weren’t chained to their offices, added the side trip to their workday. Man or woman could’ve rigged the wire at the river. That took no strength. But the wire that strangled Kent…
Now he’d been tripped by a wire, the intent clearly to kill him. He exhaled heavily, not feeling as encouraged as he had minutes ago. He fingered his scalp. No broken skin. He tested his side, and stood up. Nothing seemed to be broken, but he flexed his muscles and tested his back. When nothing screamed at him, he walked to where the torch lay and he picked it up.
Something winked at his feet. He flicked the torchlight several times, making certain the glint in the gravel was other than a piece of cellophane or metal pull tab. The object was a shiny solid about thirty-five millimeters long. He turned it over with the tip of his pen. A Fender heavy flat pick stared back at him, its tortoise-shell coloring bright under the light.
He pushed it onto a page from his notebook and stared at the hole in the pick’s center. Kent Harrison hadn’t performed at Rawlton Hall, according to everyone he’d talked to. Ellen had been pursuing him, but had he played here? McLaren straightened up, folded it in the sheet of paper, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. It wouldn’t be here one year after Kent’s death. Besides, it was pristine; no gravel, cars or shoes had scuffed it. And it was far enough away from his scuffle, so his assailant wouldn’t have just dropped it.
He frowned, wondering if the pick actually meant something. Maybe guitar picks weren’t that unusual. Those punched with holes might be somewhat more rare. But one person of his acquaintance narrowed the suspect list. He grabbed his mobile and jogged back to his car as the clouds ripped apart.
****
McLaren hadn’t slept much that night. Sunrise Thursday morning found him awake and dressed and out of the house. Not that the morning was much different from most others, but the knowledge that Dena was at Jamie’s, that she could have been with McLaren, made the house walls press in on him until he was near to panic. Now that she was so close, he felt more alone than ever, more aware that he wanted her to share his life. He wanted to drive to Jamie’s to look in on her, but he knew she would still be asleep. Might be asleep for most of the day. So he swallowed his impatience and heartache with his coffee and hurried from the house.
He breakfasted at an umbrella table in the outdoor eating section of the hotel in Castleton, a village lying minutes from McLaren’s village of Somerley and centuries from the present. Castleton held on to its ancient heritage and landscape with a fierceness any old Highland chief would have admired. Nestled in a valley in the High Peak district, it sometimes enjoyed and endured seclusion when wintry storms howled through the deep gorge of The Winnats mountain pass, cutting them off from the rest of the dale. Yet even in winter’s worst offering the village had company. The ruined keep of Peveril Castle towered over them, high on its nearly inaccessible hill, whispering of its glory days in the late 1100s. All in all, McLaren thought, scanning the horizon from the hotel courtyard, a serene, attractive place to live.
He had deduced part of the case before falling asleep last night, and had put together the rest of the pieces while breakfasting. The jigsaw puzzle of people and motives seemed clearer with each passing moment. Sitting back in the chair, he allowed himself a minute to think through it again, wanting to make certain the pieces fit together. Both Fay Larkin’s and Kent Harrison’s extended absences from their jobs coincided with Lorene’s abandonment of her school studies. Because, McLaren reasoned, the two adults were with Lorene as she gave birth to a baby girl. Without the support of her family, Lorene had turned to her favorite teacher for advice, and he and Fay had become surrogate parents, being by her side for the birth. Booth hadn’t stated it in so many words, but why lie about it? If Lorene had become pregnant outside the blessing of marriage, her parents may well have turned their backs to her. So, helpful Kent Harrison steps in and picks Lorene up at Tutbury Castle at night. Kent and Fay, who were going to be married, saw Fay’s predicament as a blessing. Adopt the baby, thereby making them a family and relieving Lorene of the embarrassment of an obvious pregnancy, as well as alleviating the burden of a child.
He stirred his coffee, smiling at the way life worked out at times. Yet, even if Kent had solved Lorene’s pregnancy problem, as well as his and Fay’s desire to create their own family, one answer remained unsolved. Who had killed Kent?
McLaren exhaled slowly, oblivious to the warmth of the sunlight already heating the stone walls of the hotel. A rook called noisily from a tree bough and turned its head, as if eyeing McLaren’s half finished piece of toast.
Dawdling over coffee wasn’t an option this morning, but he did order a second cup, needing to go over motives and alibis of
the key players. Of the people associated with Kent, however tenuously, Clark, Sheri and Dave appeared to have alibis. The remaining suspects could have been anywhere, doing anything. And as for motive… McLaren nearly threw the coffee cup in his frustration. Everyone seemed to be angry or jealous of everyone else. Especially at Kent. But why that had been, McLaren still couldn’t fathom. Kent Harrison had been an uncommonly caring person who helped anyone who asked. Why kill someone like that? The answer hit McLaren as he reached for the cup. He had started down this trail yesterday, but had been sidetracked. Standing, he threw a couple of pound coins onto the table and strode toward his car. He hit the B6061 on his way to Kirkfield, cursing his blindness. Just because someone had asked Kent for help didn’t mean Kent had complied. There was one person then, and still was, frantic for musical help.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
If Kent had refused to help someone, McLaren reasoned as he drove toward Somerley, and that someone had become angry, especially when seeing Kent helping others…
McLaren leaned forward, nearly hugging the steering wheel. That one person ignored by Kent, perhaps had been so desperate that his rage had led to murder.
That rage still percolated a year later, focused on Ellen Fairfield. The curator could’ve given a boost through employment, but evidently hadn’t. Yes, it made sense when viewed from this angle.
The village stirred in the early morning light—people leaving for work, shopkeepers sweeping the pavements in front of their stores, aromas of freshly baked bread and fried breakfasts perfuming the air. McLaren turned his car onto Dena’s road and moments later parked opposite Kent’s neighbor’s house. Aaron Unsworth and his son, Fraser, lingered by their car, talking about the Minstrels Court.
A man across the street straightened up from weeding his perennial border. McLaren jogged up to him and introduced himself. “Sorry to bother you so early, but if you could give me thirty seconds, I’d be grateful.”
The neighbor nodded and dusted his garden gloves on his jeans.
“Do you know Fraser Unsworth?”
“Certainly. That’s him talking with his dad.” The man nodded toward the teenager. “Do you want to be introduced?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I meant do you know his guitar playing, if you know how good he is.”
“I’ve just heard him now and then. If you’re thinking of asking him to perform somewhere, I have to tell you in all honesty he’s not ready. Never will be, if I’m any judge. He’s very bad, despite his practicing. I guess some people have musical abilities and some don’t no matter how hard they try.”
“Fraser has been trying.”
“For years. Fraser asked a semi-pro musician who used to live here, for lessons. Music lessons, stage performance lessons, repertoire help.” The man shook his head and grimaced.
“The lessons didn’t help?”
“He never got the lessons. At least, not from Kent. I never saw Kent over here.”
McLaren thanked him and walked back to his car. Despite the heat that was already building, McLaren kept the car windows closed and rang his house. He hated to wake Dena, but he needed to talk to her. Jamie’s wife Paula answered with a cheery good morning.
“Morning, Paula. It’s Mike.”
“I figured it would be. I didn’t even have to glance at the caller ID. You want to talk to Dena, I assume. Jamie’s already at the station.”
“Only if she’s awake,” he said hurriedly. “I know she needs her sleep—”
“Believe it or not, she’s right here. We’re having a cuppa and a nice girl chat. One minute.”
A muted word reached McLaren’s ears as he heard the phone receiver being handled. Then Dena’s voice greeted him.
“Sorry to wake you,” McLaren said, feeling guilty.
“You didn’t. I’ve been up and showered for half an hour. I’m about to have my second cup of tea, so this is progress. Did you want to tell me you love me?” The smile came over the phone.
“Constantly.” He tried not to think of Dena dressed in one of Paula’s nightgowns, her hair uncombed, her eyes bright with sunlight—looking defenseless and desirable at the same time. Watching Aaron and Fraser, he said, “I realize you didn’t spend every moment of every day staring at your neighbors—”
“But…”
“…but what’s your opinion of Fraser Unsworth’s guitar playing?”
“If you mean can he turn pro, catapult to stardom on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ or land a paying gig in a pub…no. At least not within the next decade.”
“As bad as all that?”
“Awful. I don’t really know about his singing ability. That seems to be whatever the current fad dictates.”
McLaren nodded. Some of the rock bands he’d been subjected to were comprised of guys who sounded as if they were shouting instead of singing. Perhaps ‘rage’ was in. “How about if he took voice lessons?”
“I think you have to have a good base, don’t you? Like pleasing tone or ability to carry a melody?”
“And you know for certain Fraser doesn’t possess this.”
“Well, I’ve heard him a few times when he practiced outside. Unless he was imitating something other than a singer.”
“I get the idea. How about his musicianship? Any hope that he could turn into an instrumentalist or a backup guitarist for some singer?”
“Not unless he’s improved since the last time I heard him.”
“When was that?”
“Last month.”
“Ouch.”
“Precisely.”
“Could Kent have helped him, do you think? Better yet, did Kent help him?”
“With guitar lessons?”
“That, yes, and anything else—tips on getting into the music business, stage presence, maybe a name to contact.”
“You’re joking.”
“Am not. Do you know?”
“As you said, Michael, not that I spend every moment of every day staring at the residents on my street, but in all the years Fraser’s been thumping away on his guitar, I’ve never seen Kent over there. If Fraser’s taking lessons, it’s at Kent’s house or somewhere else.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“What? That Fraser wants to get into music?”
“No. That Kent wouldn’t help him. The chap’s known for his benevolence. He helps everyone he meets, if I’m to believe what I’ve heard.”
“He did.”
“So why didn’t he help Fraser?”
“You’re the detective, Michael. You find out. But it is odd, now that you bring it up. Kent was the kind of person who’d give you the shirt off his back if that’s what you needed. I don’t understand either why he ignored Fraser.”
Dave Morley practically repeated Dena’s statement verbatim. He’d never seen Fraser Unsworth taking lessons at the shop, nor had he ever heard Kent mention giving lessons to Fraser. “Not that we talked about every thing in our private lives,” Dave explained over the phone, “but Kent spoke of other students of his. Outside school, that is. He had given guitar lessons to a number of people, and I never heard Fraser’s name come up. You’d think if he was anywhere near performance level, Kent would’ve given him a few minutes to sing during our gigs.”
After ringing off, McLaren called Dena again. She sounded amused to talk to him so soon but listened thoughtfully to his question.
“You said Kent gave of himself to anyone—well, just about anyone—who asked.”
“Yes. It was well known.”
“And you said he’d give the shirt off his back.”
“I meant it figuratively, Michael. But he did give whatever he had, if he could spare it or not.”
McLaren’s breath caught in his throat. He asked rather sharply, “Like what? Do you know any specific thing?”
“This is important, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I remember once or twice seeing Kent give money to Fraser’s friend. Just a pou
nd or two. He’d do that periodically, give a bit of money to someone. And one time he drove somewhere with some bloke. I don’t know if he took him to a shop or the bus depot or where. I’d heard them talking in Kent’s front garden.”
“Anything else?”
“Just something of no consequence.”
“What?”
“Last spring—last year, not this year—”
“Months before Kent was murdered.”
“Just that last spring Fraser wanted to try out for a music group at school. He wanted desperately to get into the group, to make a good impression with the judging committee. Kent gave Fraser a new guitar capo and guitar strap, and a box of flat picks.”
“Do you know what kind?”
“Of picks?”
“Yes. And capo.”
“You’re serious.”
“Please, Dena.”
“I should think flat picks that he used. Fender heavies with holes punched in them.”
“You know this?” He couldn’t keep the astonishment from his voice.
“Yes. He constantly lost them. I’d find them on the pavement outside his house and he’d joke about keeping a supply in his car.”
And he threw them out to the crowd as souvenirs, McLaren recalled. “You wouldn’t know about the capo, by chance.”
“Fraser stopped Kent as he came home one day from school. Kent had just got out of his car and they talked on the pavement. Kent opened his guitar case and handed Fraser a capo. One of his own. One of those made of the thick, heavy elastic and grommets near the ends to tighten it.”
****
Jamie arrived in a police car devoid of flashing blue lights or screeching siren. In fact, he rolled up behind McLaren’s car so smoothly and silently that his tap on McLaren’s car window was the first McLaren knew of Jamie’s arrival. McLaren reiterated his case findings to Jamie, running over his reasoning in case he had overlooked anything. Jamie listened without interrupting, mentally sliding the puzzle pieces together as McLaren talked. At the end of the explanation Jamie nodded toward Fraser, who sat on his front porch strumming his guitar. “You do the talking. It’s your case.”
Last Seen Page 26