Alan nodded, relaxing somewhat. “Now I remember. PC Shard. Ian Shard. He talked informally to Herb, made it look like he was asking if Herb knew some bloke, like he wanted information about this other guy. That’s how it started.”
“From the talk?”
“Yes. Herb must’ve suspected the officer’s chat was a ruse.” Alan poured out some more tea and added a lump of sugar. His teaspoon clanked against the sides of the cup as he thought aloud. “You’d think Danny, at least, would try to be a more upstanding citizen, from all the stories I hear about his grandfather’s glorious WWII record, the relics Danny grew up around. You’d think some of that would have…”
“But right after that your house was broken into and ransacked.”
“Like I said, Mr. McLaren, we all have our suspicions it was Herb, either alone or with Danny.”
“For revenge.”
“Or as a mute warning to keep away from him.”
McLaren considered the scenario for several moments. “Was anything damaged?”
“Not really. Just things pulled from drawers, the linen stripped from the bed, lamps knocked over, food from the fridge and cupboards dumped on the floor. That sort of thing.”
“How did they gain entrance to your house?”
“By the bedroom window. The police told us it was forced open, probably with a crowbar.”
“Would you mind showing me?”
“Not at all.” Alan sounded surprised and walked toward the bedroom when McLaren said, “I’m sorry. I meant outside. Would you show me the window from the exterior?”
“Oh. Yes. It’s this way.”
The two men went out the back door to the north side of the house. Holly bushes, cut low to form a three-foot-tall hedge, bordered the property line several feet from Herb Millington’s residence. A patch of lily of the valley claimed the area beneath the window, while bluebells, columbine and other woodland flowers fanned out toward the back garden.
“Of course,” Alan said as McLaren inspected the windowsill, “we’ve had it repaired. It happened last June, you recall.”
“Of course. I just wanted to see how far from the ground the window is, its proximity to plants or a storage shed.”
“We have one.” Alan pointed to the six-foot square metal outbuilding in the northwest corner at the back of the garden.
“But not near to the window to afford the vandals a privacy screen. I believe the holly hedge did that.”
“Yes. They probably squatted behind it to wait until no one saw them.”
“And you’ve no security light, I see.” McLaren scrutinized both corners of the roof.
“No. We’ve never felt we needed them. It’s been such a quiet neighborhood.”
“No alarm system either, then. Or family dog.”
Alan shook his head, looking rather embarrassed.
“Well, at least they didn’t break into your shed to grab a ladder.”
“No. We were spared that further bit of vandalism. The window provides easy entry to the house, the police reckoned.”
“Yes. What is it…four feet off the ground? As you say, easy access. All the person had to do was hop inside once they forced open the window.” McLaren bent slightly, looking at the brickwork. Nothing marred its surface. “Did the police find any signs of shoe scuff marks?”
“A white smear or two, yes.”
“Trainers.” He straightened up. “Was there any suspicion that they chose this room on purpose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you or the police believe the vandals were after something in the bedroom and, perhaps not being able to locate it and therefore being angry, vented their anger on the house in general? It would fit with Herb’s violent outbursts.”
“Oh, yes, I see. No, we thought at first that they might have been after money or credit cards or my wife’s jewelry, but none were taken. Just the general vandalism.”
“So no one room was targeted more than another. It’s not common knowledge in the neighborhood that you have a priceless collection of stamps, let’s say, and they couldn’t find it.”
“Good lord, no! Nothing like that. I admit I earn a nice salary, but I’ve never collected anything as an adult. Nothing expensive, I mean. I do have a rather extensive collection of beer memorabilia. Old tin trays, beer mats, advertising posters, pitchers and the like, in addition to several dozen bottles of different brands from around the world. But nothing in the class of rare stamps or coins. We use our money mainly on plants for the garden, and for holidays.”
“Then they entered your home because this window is lower off the ground than any other, or the holly hedges afforded sufficient cover for their entry.”
“I believe so. Would you like to see?” Alan led McLaren through the back garden to the south side of the house. There was no hedge, nor were there any large bushes or garden furniture. The land held only flowers and a pedestal birdbath.
“Hardly enough to hide behind,” McLaren said. “The other side does offer the best entry in terms of seclusion.”
“Yes,” Alan said as they reentered the house. “That’s what the police said, too.”
Back in the kitchen, McLaren looked at the door, trying to understand why it hadn’t been used as an entry point. Surely the rear of the house afforded more privacy than a side window. But the small light fixture above the door’s exterior and the double locks answered his question. No one would be foolish enough to stand under a floodlight while fighting with two locks. Number twenty Dunstan Terrace had probably seemed invincible to Alan and Marta.
“The police tried to make the connection between the bedroom entry and Herb Millington.”
“May I impose on your kindness for one more favor, Mr. Hughes?”
Alan’s head jerked slightly. He opened his mouth, then merely nodded.
“I’m sorry if it will be painful, but I’d like to see the bedroom.”
“Uh, certainly. It’s just here.” Alan again led the way. He opened the door and stood aside to let McLaren enter first, then slowly followed.
McLaren went to the window, raised the lower half of the casement, and leaned out. He looked at the ground near the foundation, at the near side of the hedge, and at the windowsill. Satisfied, he straightened up, turned, and asked Alan what items had been disturbed in the room.
Alan frowned for a moment. He tugged at the collar of his cotton shirt as though he had difficulty breathing, then crossed his arms on his chest. “Why, uh, I believe they yanked the clothes from the dresser drawers.”
“All of them?” McLaren asked, his gaze on the large, wooden bureau. It occupied most of the wall at right angle to the bed.
“Yes. They were pulled out randomly, not lined up…you know. Only the bottom drawer contents were dumped on the floor. The other drawers had been opened and rifled, the clothes disarranged.” He glanced at the window as though seeing the intruders entering the room.
“And the sheets were off the bed, I believe you said.”
“Yes. Everything on the floor. Even the mattress. I guess they’d been looking beneath it for something.”
“Not necessarily. Could be just plain cussedness.” McLaren glanced around the room. The queen-sized bed was on the wall opposite the window, a good location to catch the breezes. An upholstered chair angled out from the corner, near the closet. The small bedside cabinet was close to the door and matched the wood of the bed. “That was disturbed too, I assume.”
“Yes. They’d gone through the airing cupboard, too. Taken things off the linen shelf, shoved aside our hanging clothes. Nothing broken, though.”
“Just disarray. Thanks. I’ve seen enough.” McLaren was glad to leave the room, with its mementos of Marta’s life: her photograph still propped on top of the dresser, smiling at Alan; her jewel box and perfume bottle of cut glass; a favorite straw hat, no doubt, topping one of the bed posts; a watercolor of some Mediterranean vista, done by Marta, he noticed, seeing her penciled signature.
/> Alan cut McLaren’s burgeoning sadness short as he stopped at the baby grand piano in the front room. Its sleek, ebony side shone in the sunlight. “They did the same sort of thing in here. Cushions from the sofa, some of the pictures off the wall, a lamp knocked over.” He gestured toward a tall, wrought iron lamp with an open filigree pedestal. “That Windsor chair overturned, but not broken, thank God. The ends of the curtains either were stuffed behind the sofa or laid across the back.”
“Sounds like they were looking for something. The piano was undamaged?”
“Yes. On first seeing the mess I feared they might have cut the wires or poured water or something onto the soundboard, but it was fine. Easy enough to clean up.” His gaze shifted to the piano as he swallowed slowly.
McLaren trailed his fingers along the instrument’s top before he jammed his hand into his pocket. He nodded, glancing around the room once more. “Well, at least it wasn’t too bad.”
“No.” Alan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “We got off lucky.” He pressed his lips together, and McLaren wondered what constituted ‘unlucky.’ Alan picked up the sheet music on the piano top and pinned it against his chest as he crossed his arms. “We phoned the police, of course, and even though they couldn’t prove Herb or Danny was responsible, privately we believe they did it so Marta would keep quiet in the future. A little harassment sometimes works wonders.”
It was McLaren’s turn to press his lips together. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one with a helpful acquaintance. Someone else was being taught a lesson.
Chapter Eight
McLaren sat in his car in front of the Hughes home, fighting the all too familiar anger and sadness that filled his heart and soul. Marta Hughes had been loved; some piece of trash had taken her life, taken her from her husband and son, disposed of her in an obscene way. No one deserved to be tossed away like a sack of rubbish. His fist slammed into the upholstery of the passenger seat in his frustration. Had she died over her casino winning or was it something else, something connected to her work or her family or friends? And did the stone barn where her body was recovered have any significance? She didn’t live in Elton. And according to Alan, she didn’t know anyone there. Nor had she been born there.
McLaren breathed deeply while he took in the neighboring residences, his mind trying to make sense of Alan’s account of their house break-in. The man had seemed surprised to find McLaren on his doorstep. But Alan was helpful, eager to relay anything that might discover Marta’s murderer and bring his nightmare to a close.
Leaning his head against the car seat, McLaren rubbed his temples. The simple quest for Marta Hughes’ killer was fast turning into a branched road, with nagging questions down each path. Had the ransacking of the Hughes home anything to do with Marta’s death? Was something else behind the vandalism, something Alan Hughes wasn’t telling? And why had Marta stopped at her brother-in-law’s house after winning at the casino? Did that hold the key to the mess?
McLaren gazed down the road. Other questions needled him. Hathersage lay the way he had come. Beyond that was Castleton. Were either or both of those places linked to Karin Pedersen’s disappearance? Had she secreted the beer bottle in his car and then rung up the police? Why? She and he were strangers. But if she wasn’t responsible, was it Dena?
Scratching his head, McLaren leaned forward. The houses beyond Six Mills Road petered out swiftly, giving way to the green and gray countryside of dales, mountains, streams, stone house villages, and stone walls. Why had he abandoned, even briefly, his wall work? Was it ego that whispered he could solve a cold case where equally competent police detectives had failed? Or was it something else—something deeper than ego, a need to be accepted again, to vindicate himself, to yield to the siren song of police work? To remove the blot from his name? He jammed the key into the ignition slot, started the engine, and shot away from the curb in a roar of racing motor, screeching tires, and muttered self-contempt.
Verity Dwyer, Marta Hughes’ one-time coworker, was unlocking the front door of her home when McLaren parked his car opposite her house. He called to her, wanting to relieve any concern she might have. She remained by the door and waited for him to speak, her handbag securely wedged under her arm. When he had introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit, she nodded, opened the door, and led him into the house.
“So, you’re investigating Marta’s murder.” Verity seated herself on the sofa across from him, the late afternoon sunlight on her face, and stared at him.
She’s had time to master the meaning behind uttered words, McLaren thought, watching her gaze. Had time to interpret the subtle shifts in facial expressions or moods that flitted across the eyes. No doubt her time working through her community service sentence told her the truth behind the eye movements and voice inflection even when the words were lies. No wonder she’s scrutinizing me, in no rush to tell me anything, not anxious to relive the horror of the past year.
McLaren shifted in the chair, content to proceed slowly, to take in her blue eyes and the freckles that splashed across her nose and cheeks, her hands that looked older than her thirty-five years, dry and calloused from rough work. Sometimes printed information was better, he thought, watching Verity’s frank gaze. It doesn’t lie to your face.
He inclined his head toward the wall calendar in the next room. “Your time is almost finished, I see.”
Verity nodded, sighing. “I’ve been Xing off each day, counting down this sentence. It’ll be wonderful to resume my life, as I call it. Though I don’t know how many friends I’ll have left. But I’ll see, won’t I?” She tried to smile, but only managed to look pathetic. She resettled herself in her chair. “What happened to rekindle interest in Marta’s case? I thought it had gone cold.”
“It has. I’ve been asked to do some investigation on the side. Entirely as a private concern.”
“Meaning you’re not a copper.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you were.”
“You think so?”
“Of course! I can spot one a mile off. Even an ex-cop has an air about him. When you’ve been around them as much and as long as I have…” She shrugged and fluffed her shoulder-length auburn hair.
He relented, his eyes locked into her gaze. “You’re right, Ms. Dwyer. I was a cop. But now I’m trying to get to the bottom of Marta Hughes’ death.”
“I see. A highly trained citizen.” She tilted her head slightly, as though thinking through something. The refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen, filling the awkward silence. She pursed her lips before she went on. “So you have no authority, then. You can’t haul me into the nick for refusing to talk to you.”
“I can’t. But I’m hoping you’ll agree to help me.”
“For the sake of justice or to help out a mate of yours who botched the case in the first place?”
“Justice is always a concern, Ms. Dwyer. It shouldn’t make any difference if the injustice was directed toward a cop or a person connected to the case.”
“Justice is blind, in other words, like the statue.” She eyed him, perhaps trying to discern the cause behind this new probe, the motivation for his involvement. “You weren’t connected with the original case, were you? I’d have remembered you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Don’t flatter yourself that it’s because you’re nice to look at. Though I am partial to blonds.”
He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Because you’ve had every one of those marked off calendar days to recall who worked on your case and who testified in court?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Something like that, yes.”
“Just so I’m not one of your nightmares, that’s all right.”
She picked up the packet of cigarettes on the side table but made no move to slip one from the pack. Instead, she said, “Who hired you? You can’t tell me you’re doing this because you miss being a copper.”
He hesitated, wondering himself if that were tr
ue, the questions he asked himself minutes ago resonating in his mind.
Verity supplied an answer. “Just want to be back with the boys, then. You need the adrenalin rush, the after-work beer with your mates.” Her voice had hardened, as though she had lumped him with the stereotypical copper who let off steam with one-too-many beers and affairs.
Feeling the need to defend himself, McLaren said, “This isn’t about me. It’s about your friend. Should it make a difference who hired me? Isn’t my pursuit of Marta Hughes’ killer grounds enough for you?”
“Certainly it matters! If you’re working for someone I think is guilty of the crime, or who Marta hated.”
“You’ll refuse to say anything.”
“Are you working for someone like that?”
“Who would that be, Ms. Dwyer? I’ve just met you. I have no way of knowing whom you suspect.”
“True. I forgot.” She tapped the pack against her index finger and pulled out the cigarette. “I also forgot you’re not a cop and might not know all the personnel or pertinent information.”
“I do know you and Marta were friends as well as coworkers.”
“And, being friends, I should rush to help you.”
“I don’t know why you shouldn’t. And if there is a reason,” he said as she lit the cigarette and took a puff, “that’s as important as anything else you might tell me.” He waited in the quiet room, looking at the framed certificates of appreciation and merit that claimed the wall in the adjoining room, studying her face as she had done his, judging her character and her hurt over her treatment at the hands of the English legal system.
A group of young children ran down the street, laughing and calling to an adult to hurry. The cigarette dangled from her fingers as she once again looked at McLaren. “You’re right. Justice shouldn’t be dependent on anyone. I was Marta’s friend. I’ll help you just as I tried to help her. Which, if you haven’t heard, is how I ended up convicted of theft.”
“What is the length of your sentence? I see it’s up in two weeks.” His eyes strayed again to the calendar and the large red, circled date a few days away.
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