He had thought them buried in the year he’d been here, this desperate attempt to keep his soul and body together when he left Staffordshire to return to his home village in Derbyshire and to the work of a stone wall builder. He would never want for jobs, he had told himself. Not with the thousands of miles of walls crisscrossing the county. And even if the work was back breaking, it suited his mood. More than suited his personality. A loner, a maverick cop didn’t chase after the camaraderie of the workplace office.
The mantel clock struck the quarter hour and McLaren stretched, the faceless builder fading from his gaze, Harvester’s face grinning from the darkness.
He walked to the window and stood there, the cool breeze chilling his feverish body. Charlie Harvester. He hadn’t thought of the man in ages; he didn’t even know where he was. The first few months after McLaren left the job, he heard snippets of office gossiphumorous cases or who was engaged or the current idiotic police regulation. But that had diminished as the weeks of his absence increased, until he rarely heard from anyone in the department any more.
Taking a deep breath, McLaren leaned against the edge of the windowsill, his eyes on the sliver of moon nestled in the branches of a birch. Was it only a year ago that he’d left? Dena had reminded him of the dubious anniversary date when she called last night. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. One year. Twelve short months ago he’d left in response to an injustice dealt him.
But it had started years before, he reminded himself. When he and Harvester had been in police training school. He, the serious student who always made top marks in class; Harvester, the son of the Chief Constable, sneaky, getting by on instructor favoritism. On completion of their initial training course, their animosity had increased. Working in the same department, they both attained detective status, though McLaren had one solid year’s experience before Harvester finally wormed his way in. It was constant comparisons after that: McLaren, popular, hardworking and intelligent; Harvester, shunned, doubted, sliding by on his daddy’s name—a brilliant example of the Peter Principle. He was also jealous of McLaren.
And then one spring night, the years of ill feelings and envy exploded in one fateful event.
McLaren had just finished with a case and was at his desk, attacking the stack of papers menacing the entire office. He’d reached for his coffee when a colleague sauntered into the room and sat in a chair. McLaren looked up, both grateful for and irritated by the interruption.
“No action tonight?” McLaren eyed the detective from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Or maybe you’ve cleared up your backlog.” He smiled at the shared joke. There were always cases to work. They flooded the department daily, the new file folders placed on top of yesterday’s, creating the stacks of miniature towers that threatened to consume their desks, their office and their lives.
“Just taking a breather. Thought I’d bother you for a bit. What are you working on?”
McLaren shoved the open folder and his notepad away and leaned back in his chair. “A pub fight.”
“Sounds fun, that.”
“Six people involved.”
“Bloody hell. Something else besides property damage?”
“One chap’s in hospital. He’s bad off.”
“Damn. Anyone talking?”
“We’ll know soon.” McLaren stretched, suddenly exhausted. “We’ve started interviewing those involved.”
“Sounds like a mess.”
“Even more of a mess. As our luck would have it, the assault happened just out of the range of the CCTV. We’ve no more idea right now of who beat up this poor bloke than my dog knows.”
“Bloody hell.”
“It’s more serious than a black eye. The chap’s in the IC unit. Stabbing to the abdomen, arm, and neck. Just missed the jugular vein, but…”
“Damn.”
McLaren nodded. “Hopefully it won’t turn into a murder charge.”
“The chap’s that bad off, then.”
“Unfortunately, yes. He keeps wavering. At first, he showed signs of improvement. Then his blood pressure fell and it was looking bad. Last time I checked on him, he was improving. The hospital staff is cautiously optimistic.”
“Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? Well, I wish him luck.”
McLaren pointed with his cup to the electric kettle on top of the metal file cabinet. An assortment of ceramic mugs, a box of tea bags, a canister of coffee, packets of sugar and a pint bottle of milk crowded the kettle. A beer mug held several metal spoons.
The detective sighed. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get back.”
“Tough case?”
“Not really. Just tedious.” The man yawned, throwing back his head. “Isn’t it the end of our shift yet? Sunrise ought to happen just about now, shouldn’t it?”
“Sorry, mate. It’s only three.”
“Damn. Well…” He made no move to leave, sitting there and glancing at McLaren’s desk. “Here’s luck to that chap in hospital. I know Charlie Harvester’s not your favorite subject…”
McLaren’s snort cemented the unspoken, shared opinion of the other man.
“…but at least his case of assault sounds easily sorted out.”
“Not that I want to hear, particularly, but I suppose you’re about to tell”
“An old man. Oh, must be 70 if he’s a day. He coshed a burglar on the head.”
“A round of applause for the old man. Where was this…a home invasion?”
“No, oddly enough. A pub. The old man lives upstairs. Why? What’s the matter?”
McLaren’s fingers blanched as he gripped the edge of his desk. “Who? When? What’s the address?”
“Bloody hell, man, what’s the matter?”
“What pub?” McLaren shouted, halfway getting to his feet. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know the bloke’s name. I just heard this roundabout.”
“When?”
“When did I hear”
“When did this happen?”
“Now. Quarter of an hour ago. Harvester’s still at the scene. Why?”
“Where? What pub?” McLaren was standing now, leaning over his desk, a menacing tower of anger.
“I don’t know. Yeah, I do. It’s in Tutbury. The Broken Wheel. Hey!” he yelled after McLaren’s darting figure. “Where you off to?”
His reply was the slamming of the office door and the stirring of loose papers in the breeze.
The drive into Tutbury—beyond the castle and to the pub—slid by in a dark blur. Road, trees, and buildings slipped behind his car window as he thought of Charlie Harvester and what had probably happened at The Broken Wheel. McLaren leaned forward, peering into the blackness ahead of the car’s headlights, and pressed down on the accelerator. The car shot ahead, took the turn into the village on two wheels, and gained speed on the straight lane. He flashed past a row of houses, barely missed a fox as it crossed the road, then braked in front of the pub and dashed up the front walk. He left his car, headlights on and the door open, sitting squarely in the middle of the road.
Inside he found the usual bustle of police constables and detectives, fingerprint technician and photographer, and the myriad others needed at a scene. But the unusual find alarmed even him, a ten-year veteran of the job. An angry Charlie Harvester was reading Nigel Forester, the pub owner, his rights.
“What the hell’s going on?” McLaren yelled, his gaze darting between Nigel and Harvester. “Nigel, are you all right? Where’s Maureen?” He glanced around the room, expecting to see her sitting at one of the pub tables.
“Maureen’s in hospital, Mike.” Nigel’s voice shook and he blinked repeatedly, trying to hold back the tears. He sat in a chair, his face bruised and cut from some physical altercation.
“Hospital! Why? What’s happened? Are you all right? You need medical attention?” He glanced at Nigel, then at the constables huddled in the background. When no one spoke, he yelled the question again.
“Mrs. Forester ha
s been taken in an ambulance.” Charlie Harvester spoke quite calmly in the sea of agitation.
McLaren turned, focusing his eyes, anger and energy on the police detective. The man approached McLaren, tapping a pad of paper against his left hand. “Why?” McLaren shifted his gaze back to Nigel. “What happened? Did” He seemed to see Nigel’s wounds for the first time. He turned back to Harvester. “Was Maureen injured in the break-in?”
“You seem to know a lot about this case, McLaren. How’d you hear about it?”
“I want to know about Maureen. Why did you call an”
“She suffered a heart attack.”
“God!” He turned his attention back to Nigel, who was silently crying. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know.” When Nigel raised his head, McLaren could see the man’s cheeks were wet from his tears. “I don’t know, Mike. She just kind of moaned, clutched her chest, and collapsed.”
“You rang 999?”
“Not I. Your mate, here, did it. Maureen just collapsed as he came in. I was going to ring 999 anyway, for the burglar, but…”
McLaren glanced at Harvester, as though silently confirming what had happened.
“When was that?” McLaren returned to Nigel. “The burglar needed an ambulance? Why? What went on?”
Nigel pulled in his lips, reluctant to speak. After McLaren repeated his question, Nigel said, “He needed medical attention.”
“Euphemistic way of putting it.” Harvester grunted, obviously fed up with the entire incident. “But it’s adequate. If you need convincing, McLaren…” He indicated the fireplace poker that a Crime Scene Investigator technician was examining. The wrought iron tool had a definite curve to its otherwise straight length. “What’s that tell you?”
“Not bloody much,” McLaren snorted.
“Look, McLaren.” Harvester grabbed McLaren’s shoulder and turned him around.
Shaking off the detective’s hand, McLaren scowled. “Let go of me, Harvester.” The words were low, barely audible, but remarkably calm.
Harvester shrugged and crossed his arms across his chest. “This is my case, if it’s not perfectly clear to you. My case. I got the call. I’ve interviewed the victim and the assailant. I’ve arrested the guilty party, which is your friend, Nigel Forester, as it turns out. So what you’re doing here, sticking your nose into something that doesn’t concern you.”
“Doesn’t concern me!” His bark was a mixture of amusement, disbelief and anger. “I thought the welfare of any honest citizen was my concern. Every copper’s concern. Just because you got the call doesn’t preclude me from being concerned.”
“Could it be something more than that?” Harvester’s eyes narrowed, mirroring his anger and contempt for the man before him.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Seems to me you’re a bit over the top with your ‘concern’ bit.”
“When I come to find the pub owner apparently arrested merely for protecting his property against a…a…” He barely glanced at the bent poker. “Against a burglar engaged in questionable activities…yes, I am concerned.”
“As I said, your concern seems more than a cop would express. Could you be guilty of something else?”
“Harvester, you’re full of crap.”
“And you’re overreacting. You’re upset because I’ve just arrested a friend of yours.” He smiled as McLaren reddened. “Score one for me, I think.”
Trying to keep his voice in check, McLaren said, “What’s Nigel Forester done to warrant this outrage?”
“Assaulted Mr. Tyrone Wade Antony. To be specific, assault with intent to kill.”
“Assault! The hell he did. He was defending his property and life. And protecting Maureen, too, if I know Nigel.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, McLaren.” Harvester nearly laughed, then recovered himself as the police photographer walked into the room. “Galls, doesn’t it? The ace detective, the top cop of the team, and you’re wrong. Well, it may surprise you to know that we have proof.”
“Like what?” McLaren bit the words off in his growing anger.
“Mr. Forester attacked Mr. Antony with that fireplace poker.”
McLaren looked at the pub owner. “Is this true, Nigel?”
The older man nodded. He looked older than his seventy years at the moment, his white hair vivid in the light of the police work lamps, his face pale from shock. “But I was defending myself. He’d broken into the pub by the back door. I heard the door bang open as it hit the cases of empty bottles I’d put inside there. I rushed downstairs. Maureen and I were getting ready for bed.” He paused, his eyes overflowing with fear at his arrest and his questionable future.
McLaren envisioned the upstairs living quarters. He’d been up there many times, ever since he’d been a teenager. Nigel Forester had saved him from drowning in a nearby lake, strolling past by chance and hearing McLaren’s friend screaming for help. Nigel had swum out to McLaren, got him into a lifesaving hold, and brought him back to shore. Since that day, twenty-one years ago, McLaren had practically cemented himself to the older man’s side, mowing his grass, washing his car, painting the walls of their living quarters. Anything and everything to repay for his saved life, especially so because a third boy in their group had drowned before Nigel could get to them. McLaren knew he could never fully repay the man, but he appeared monthly to do some chore or just sit and chat over a pint or cup of coffee.
McLaren’s sense of Right, his need to help others, blossomed. Two years later he had joined the police service. When he had completed his initial training, at the top of his class, he had honed his determination to serve where and how he could.
“I could hear him.” Nigel took a deep breath to steady his voice. “I knew where he was, even in the dark. There’s a floorboard that creaks. I snapped on the overhead light and surprised him with the cash register till in his hand. He was emptying it into a sack he had with him. He’d also put some bottles of liquor or beer into it. I heard the coins hit the bottles as they fell into the sack. I saw a crowbar on the countertop. The tool wasn’t mine. I don’t own one. He smirked at me and called me a name. I guess the crowbar was too far away from him ’cause he reached into the sack and brought out a bottle. He had hold of it by its neck. He hit it against the edge of the serving counter so the bottom of the bottle broke off. Then he rushed at me holding the edge toward me like he was going to dig it into me. I was scared, for me and for Maureen. As he ran up to me, I picked up the fireplace poker and hit him.”
Chapter Twelve
“Hear that, McLaren? It’s a confession. Mr. Forester struck Mr. Antony.” Harvester smiled slowly, the smirk broadening into a grin as though it were a personal triumph.
McLaren glanced around the bar area, perhaps expecting to see great pools of blood. The oak-paneled walls, stone floor and fireplace were as he remembered them. The massive beams, nearly black against the white plaster ceiling, had not changed. Yet the room’s warmth and intimacy had become cold and menacing from the night’s event and Harvester’s presence. McLaren doubled up his fingers, ready to slam his fist into Harvester’s leer, then shoved his hand behind his back. “Since when are the police so protective of a burglar? You make me sick, Harvester.”
Harvester grinned, unconcerned with McLaren’s opinion. “I’ve cautioned Mr. Forester and he acknowledged that he understands it. There’s nothing you can do. We’ve got the evidence of the assault”
“What evidence? If you’re talking about fingerprints on the poker, that’s no evidence. It’s his poker! I’m taking this up with the Superintendent.”
“What’s the matter with you, McLaren? You hard of hearing? Or just so thick skulled that you don’t understand? I said, it’s not your case. Mr. Forester attacked Mr. Antony so severely that the wrought iron poker bent over his head, for God’s sake! That’s proof of an assault. That and Mr. Antony’s blood on it. It’s a clear case of Section 18, causing grievous bodily har
m. And, if Mr. Antony dies, it’ll become a case of murder.”
The years of antagonism seemed to solidify into this exact moment. And now, in his friend’s pub, McLaren felt the determination to help others, the need that had sent him into the Force in the first place, growing within him. The anger and frustration at seeing Nigel Forester so wrongly arrested spilled out. He strode to the CSI officer, grabbed the poker, and marched into the men’s loo. Turning on the cold-water tap, he thrust the poker under the running water. As he moved the poker back and forth, he wiped the blood and hair from the tool. When he had removed all the physical traces, he straightened the poker over his knee. Satisfied, he strode back into the main room and threw the poker onto a table. The poker bounced once as it thudded against the table’s wooden surface.
“Now where’s your evidence?” McLaren barked, hatred in his eyes as he glared at Harvester.
Every eye in the room was fixed to the poker, now clean of recognizable prints, blood, and hair.
Harvester shifted his gaze from the table to McLaren’s face. He stared at McLaren, matching his anger as he yelled into the silence. “I’ll have you up before the Chief Constable, McLaren! You’ve just destroyed vital evidence in a case.”
“Nigel Forester stays right here.” He took a step toward Harvester and slammed his fist into his cupped hand.
The two constables in attendance exchanged nervous glances, but remained where they were.
“I’ll have your job, McLaren.” Harvester’s hiss slid beneath the constables’ ragged breathing. “Yours and anyone who assists you. You’re interfering with a police case.” He didn’t have to look at the constables to make his meaning clear.
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