Cold Revenge

by Jo A. Hiestand

McLaren nodded to Sam and wished him good day. The older man leaned against his spade, got to his feet, and asked how he could help. “I recall that incident. Last June, it happened. Shocking. All I could think about for days after watching the news on TV. That poor lady gone missing. And then when they found her body later, in the wood…” His voice trailed off as he looked into the distance.

  “I realize it’s been a year, a long time to recollect anything, but I wonder if you remember if your neighbor Sean FitzSimmons was home all that evening, presuming he lived here then.”

  “That evening? When? All night? I went to bed around midnight. And yes, he was here last year. Has lived here, in fact, for years. Well, lived here except for those times when he was in prison. He’d been in twice before, I believe, before this last time. Small offenses, I understand. Well, depends on how you categorize small. But things like burglary and breaking into cars. Which always surprised me, because he’s a quiet neighbor. Not rowdy or prone to late night drinking parties. Keeps his place nice, too. Polite, pleasant man. I understand he’s written some books, too. Maybe he just got onto the wrong path for a bit but has settled down.”

  “Seen the light.”

  “Changed his way, yes. Whatever…he lets his place to a mate when he’s serving time so it would still be lived in. I guess he didn’t want trouble with burglars or vandalism. You know, if his place looked deserted.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds daft. Him in the nick and worried about others of his sort. Life’s strange.”

  “About him being here that night…” McLaren verbally nudged the man.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Do you know if he was in, perhaps due to his car being in the shop, or if he came home when you happened to look outside? Anything like that?”

  “I know exactly what happened. I remember it crystal clear because it stuck in my mind for days, it was so odd.”

  “Yes, sir.” McLaren waited, nearly holding his breath. If the man’s memory was good…

  “I retired last year, so I was staying up a bit later than during my working days. He’d just got out of prison a while before, perhaps a month or so, I can’t recall. Anyroad, Sean had been out earlier that day—probably either at his girlfriend’s or trying to find a job. I guess his writing income wasn’t that regular or that much so he had to find something like office or construction work.”

  “His girl friend…do you happen to know her name?”

  “Certainly. She’s over here often enough. Was before and after his stretches in the nick. Linnet Isherwood.”

  McLaren took the information straight-faced but felt his heart jump. It made sense. If Linnet had taken Sean’s favorite jacket to him prior to his release from prison, they had to have been more than acquaintances. He nodded. They hadn’t foreseen anyone getting that jacket information when they thought up Marta’s murder. The jacket definitely linked the two.

  “I didn’t actually see him leave or come home,” the man continued. “But I knew he’d gone some place rather unusual. His car had been clean that morning. I know, because I saw him washing it.”

  “And it was different later in the day?”

  “The next morning—I get up early to do a bit of gardening before it gets too hot—there was the car muddy as hell. Like he’d driven across a newly plowed field.”

  Or off-road in a forest, McLaren thought, recalling the spot where Marta’s body had been found.

  “I wondered where he’d been but never asked. Wasn’t my business, was it?”

  McLaren replied that it wasn’t but silently cursed that the man wasn’t nosy.

  “I learned years ago not to poke my nose into other people’s lives.” The man added it as though defending himself against McLaren’s unspoken condemnation. “So I was kind of surprised when Sean volunteered a bit of his private life to me.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “He wore a silver charm around his neck. On a necklace. I saw it on numerous occasions, so I was quite familiar with it.”

  “Must be unique for you to remember it.”

  “It seemed so to me. Most pendants or such that I’ve seen men wear are coins or medallions or religious symbols. This was suited more for a woman, I thought. Belonged on a charm bracelet, but he wore it on that necklace.”

  “And it was…”

  “A skier. Very lovely but odd. He was in a talkative mood, quite happy. He’d won several thousand pounds at the races. I guess that was why he wanted to talk. He must have given a bit to his girl friend Linnet, ’cause she’s been dressing fancier these days.” He picked up his spade.

  “When was this? That he’s had the charm, I mean.”

  “Oh, about a year ago, I guess. I think around the time his publisher accepted his first non-fiction book.”

  McLaren thanked the man and returned to his car. Lloyd grinned as McLaren started the motor. “That was profitable, then.”

  “As if you didn’t know. Thanks, Lloyd.”

  “If you need anything else…” He left unsaid that McLaren could phone him any hour of the day or night. “Thanks for the lift.” He got out at his house.

  “Any time. I’ll come back for that cuppa, shall I?”

  Lloyd waved over his shoulder as he walked toward his house.

  McLaren couldn’t remember later which route he took out of town. His mind played and replayed the snippets of information and the problems they produced. If Sean hadn’t yet found work, how did he afford to live? Could be it was off his savings, or the money from Marta’s casino win…If the latter, what did Linnet give him at the pub? And why give him money a year after Marta’s death? The questions multiplied, persistent and mocking, as he drove to Verity’s home.

  He stopped for a quick snack, hungry since he’d had only part of his lunch at the pub in Buxton, then got to Youlgreave and Verity’s house mid-afternoon. Verity was unloading groceries from her car. Helping her was her former boss, Neal Clark.

  McLaren remained in his car, alternately hiding behind an open newspaper and watching Neal. He and Verity weren’t on bad terms as McLaren had imagined, for Verity spoke readily enough to him. She even laughed in response to something he said and nodded toward the house. Neal picked up the last bag and followed her inside.

  It was too good to pass up, as the saying goes. McLaren tossed the newspaper onto the car seat, and jogged up to the house. He paused slightly, judging where the kitchen might be, then walked around to the back. A small flagstone patio led off the kitchen door and held several wicker chairs, matching table, and a cluster of ornamental shrubs in large porcelain pots. He stood behind the tallest cypress and listened at the open window.

  The conversation seemed to be nearly over. The thud of tins hitting the table and the squeak of cupboard doors opening and closing intruded into the speech but McLaren made out several sentences. He leaned closer, wanting desperately to see what was happening, but reluctantly refrained from peering over the windowsill.

  “Don’t worry, Verity.” Neal said, soothing and reassuring. A cupboard door banged shut. “I’ve got it figured out.”

  “I’d like to believe you, Neal.” Verity sounded tired, as though she’d been living on hope too long. “But I don’t see how.”

  “Leave that up to me. What’s £20,000? The way I look at it is we owe it to you.”

  Another door closed, drowning her reply, if there was one. A chair scraped across the floor and a cat mewed before Neal said, “Think it over. It can’t miss.”

  His voice faded and McLaren ran back to his car, just getting in and closing the door before Neal and Verity appeared at her front door. She waved to Neal, calling her thanks to him as he drove off.

  She remained there for a moment, standing in the open doorway like a bronze statue, perhaps looking after Neal’s departing Lexus. Her hand left the doorknob and crept to the doorjamb, supporting her weight as she leaned forward slightly. She plucked a spent rose from the bush nearest the door, then seemed to remember something and re
turned to her car.

  The conversation bothered McLaren. If Marta had stopped at Neal’s on the way home that night to give him the money she’d won, had he taken it from her, killed her and transported her to the barn? There was no evidence he had. No unexplained deposits in his bank account, no sudden accumulation of luxury items. The police had checked that during their investigation. Of course, Neal may have the money, sitting on it until he felt safe using some of it. But nothing pointed to him. He was a non-starter as far as the police and McLaren were concerned.

  McLaren let the scenario fade and called to Verity as he came up the walkway.

  She peered into the late afternoon sun, unsure at first who was coming toward her. She had grabbed a small paper bag from the car and now shifted it to one arm as she shaded her eyes against the glaring light. When she recognized McLaren, she relaxed. She paused as McLaren grabbed the remaining paper bag and slammed her car door, then preceded him into her house.

  “Just set it down anywhere,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. “Vegetables from the green grocer’s and some frozen items.”

  McLaren followed her and put the bag on the table. He stood there, unsure if he should offer to help put things away, if he should talk while she worked, or if he should wait until she was finished.

  Verity solved the dilemma by telling him to sit down and offering a cup of tea. “I won’t be a minute, if you can wait while I get the cold things into the fridge.” She opened the freezer compartment and shoved a carton of ice cream into its interior. “I almost forgot about them.”

  No wonder, with your unexpected company… “No hurry,” McLaren said, enjoying the feel of the room. It was smaller than his own kitchen but boasted the lighter color scheme of apple green, pink, and white. Appliances seemed to be new or nearly so, their exteriors free of smudges. The floor was hardwood and shone with a just-waxed brightness. He waited until she reappeared from the depths of the pantry before asking if she’d heard about Marta’s casino winning. “I don’t mean if you heard that she won,” he clarified as Verity folded one of the grocery carrier bags. “If you heard what had happened to it.”

  “You didn’t?” She picked up the second bag and flattened it on the worktop. “No, of course not. You weren’t involved.” She stuck the second bag inside the first bag and hung it on the pantry doorknob. “And you think I, as an interested party, would have heard. Or at least kept tabs on the case.”

  “Something like that, yes.” He looked at her, hoping she hadn’t taken offense, then grinned as she smiled.

  “It’s become my main hobby. I used to knit and embroider, but not since” She broke off, pressing her lips together.

  “If it’s too painful…” he said when Verity shook her head, and said, “You think it’s too painful to talk about or think about? God! That’s all I do think about! It’s an obsession with me. Not like stalking, but close.” She leaned against the refrigerator door and again asked if he wanted a cup of tea.

  “No, thank you. I just popped in to ask a question.”

  “Well, pop away. Anything to help, as the saying goes.”

  “About the money…”

  “Oh, right. What happened to the money?”

  “If it was ever found.” He knew but wanted to hear her answer, to see if she could be trusted as truthful.

  “I know it wasn’t with her when the police found her body. Well, it wouldn’t be, would it, if someone found her first, or if her killer took it? But I never heard if they found it later. I kept up with the story through newspaper articles and the telly. But I never heard that anyone had found the money and turned it in. I was always hoping someone would find it. It would have meant a lot, you know.”

  “Kind of make up for the money missing from the animal shelter,” McLaren supplied.

  “Yeah. Something like that, although it still wouldn’t have cleared me of stealing that money. Still, anything found in connection with Marta would have been nice to hear.” She exhaled loudly, puffing out her cheeks, and rubbed her forehead. “God, that seems a million years ago.”

  McLaren glanced at the Noah’s Ark calendar hanging on the back of the kitchen door and took a chance. “Marta’s husband wasn’t implicated in her death, I know. Do you know anything about Linnet’s husband?”

  “I know he left her right around the time of Marta’s death. I don’t know when exactly. I can ring up a friend if you need to know.”

  “That’s not necessary right now, thank you. Do you know why he walked out? I think I heard that Linnet and her children were in financial trouble because of it though.”

  “I don’t know the reason. Linnet and I weren’t that close for her to confide in me. But I do know that she was having a rough go of it for quite a while, nearly a year, I think. Well, you would do, when your husband takes off like that, and him bringing in more than half of the household income. Linnet’s back on her feet, but only just. It’s been hard on her and on her kids. She had to do without things and get a second job, working some weekends. The only saving grace is that her kids are older. Late teens and early twenties, I believe. Three of them. So even though the demand for school uniforms and such isn’t there, and the oldest one lives away from home, she’s still got to put food on the table and pay the utility bills. The younger one is eighteen, I believe. He helps out with an after school job, but it’s not easy.”

  “Sounds as though she could use a bit of financial help.”

  “If you’re hinting that she stole Marta’s money because they were at the casino together, you’re wrong. And I doubt if they stopped somewhere on the road. That wouldn’t make any sense. The police were thinking like that at the beginning, but ruled it out.”

  “And there’s no speed camera photo of Linnet’s car racing along after Marta,” McLaren finished.

  “That ought to prove something. Don’t those speed cameras give a time when they’re tripped like that?”

  McLaren nodded, thinking it a solid alibi. “But it didn’t capture the driver’s face. It was too dark.”

  Verity continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I think they finally divorced. I think it was toward the early part of this year. End of January or first part of February. She must have got a decent settlement out of him ’cause the few times I’ve seen her, she’s been dressed nicely. Unless she frequents the charity shops.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. A friend pointed me in the direction of one last Christmas. I’ve been thankful to him ever since.”

  “Nothing like a true friend to help smooth out life’s bumps. Linnet was lost without her husband, but she’s got a good friend in Sean. Do you know Sean FitzSimmons? He writes. He’s having a book signing at the shelter soon, I heard.”

  “I think that’s correct, yes.”

  “Linnet probably thanks her lucky stars daily that she met Sean. He takes good care of her.”

  “I’m sure she does. How did she meet him?” Don’t tell me it was through a prisoner welfare program. She didn’t seem like the philanthropic sort.

  “One of those odd twists some lives take. She met Sean through a mutual friend.”

  “That does happen sometimes.”

  “Yes. Purely by chance, though. Linnet was at a pub and just happened to come upon her friend, who was drinking with Sean. The friend introduced them and” Verity snapped her fingers.

  “Instant attraction, I take it. Who’s the obliging, timely friend?”

  “You might know him, I don’t know. He’s a cop. His name’s Charlie Harvester.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  McLaren had a lot to think about on the drive home. Was Harvester somehow tied to Sean FitzSimmons, a convicted criminal, and to Linnet? It seemed bordering on the fantastic, but given Sean’s criminal history and the fact that they were acquaintances, if not drinking buddies…

  McLaren turned onto the B6061 and stopped momentarily in a lay-by, ringing up Jamie on his mobile phone. “I need a favor, Jamie,” McLaren said, his m
ind torn between what he’d heard about Harvester and Linnet’s statement about her financial situation.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “It’s a bit shady,” he said slowly, as though giving Jamie a chance to back out.

  “Lovely. I need a bit of excitement.”

  “Right.” He relayed the information about Harvester and Sean being acquainted, but refrained from saying how he knew this. “I need Harvester’s work schedule.”

  “What? You mean during Marta’s death?”

  “No. Now. Currently when he’s working. If it’s tonight, that would be the best news I’ve had all day. Can you find out?”

  “What’s going on, Mike? Are you going to ambush him?”

  “Is he still with Derbyshire Constabulary?” It was all he could do to talk about the man, let alone think of Harvester now working in a constabulary in McLaren’s home county. “He-he hasn’t transferred back to his old job in Staffordshire, or somewhere else?”

  “Far as I know he’s still here, in B Division. Look, Mike, what’s going on? Are you going to do something dangerous?”

  “Not rushing into a burning house, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Now I know it’s dangerous. Or at least illegal. No, on second thought, if it is illegal, don’t tell me.”

  “You’re turning into your mother, Jamie.”

  “I’ll take that to mean personality-wise and not physically.”

  “Ring up the station and ask a daft question. Shouldn’t be too hard to think of something.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Mike. And just what am I supposed to ask?”

  “Anything that sounds important, that gives the impression you need information that only Harvester would have from a case he’s working on.”

  “Oh, fine. How do I know what he’s working on? He’s not exactly sitting at the next desk.”

  “Fake it. Make it sound ambiguous. Top secret. There’s enough stuff going on these days that nobody wants to stick their necks out and get involved in another officer’s case.”