Cold Revenge

by Jo A. Hiestand

  He grinned as he set it beside the garden tool and gingerly removed the lid of the shoebox. Inside were a carton of .38 caliber bullets, a Webley Mk IV .38 caliber revolver, and a woman’s silvery shoe missing its heel.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Webley Mk IV was a relic of World War II, McLaren thought, staring at the revolver and the box of ammunition. Were these items part of the glory-day relics of Danny’s grandfather? Was it the service revolver he had used in the war and retained on returning home? Many soldiers kept their side arms when the war ended, either their British pistols or German Lugers, souvenirs of their years overseas. This had to be the grandfather’s revolver. And it was a .38 caliber, the same size as the bullet that had killed Marta Hughes.

  It might not be evidence, but the shoe fit that definition. Especially if Danny’s fingerprints were on it.

  He pushed the soil back into the hole, tapped it down with his foot, then righted the sculpture and returned the garden tool. He replaced the lid on the shoebox and picked it up. Danny had hidden the revolver after using it to kill Marta, McLaren realized as he got into his car. Or Linnet had used it. Either way, the shoe and revolver linked Danny to Marta’s murder just as Linnet’s car and expensive clothes linked her to the stolen casino money. He set the box on his backseat, elated at the discovery.

  But the feeling didn’t last long. He still couldn’t place Danny at the murder scene.

  He slammed his palm into the steering wheel, frustrated that he was so near to closing the case. Had he missed something? He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, snippets of conversation reverberating in his mind.

  Danny’s wife had mentioned their car. Had it been drivable last year or had it been out of commission? Had he borrowed the friend’s car and, if so, what would that be?

  McLaren opened his eyes and sat up. SomeoneChad perhapstalked about Danny and Herb sharing the racecars and that Danny might have the second car at his home or stored in a garage. If so, Danny would have his own set of keys. Which meant his own transportation. But that still didn’t connect Danny with the murder scene.

  McLaren brought a map of the area up on his laptop. He had no idea from which direction Danny would have met up with Marta that night. Bakewell seemed obvious, since it was his home and the casino trip had lasted well into the evening. But if he and Linnet planned the murder, it seemed logical that Danny would be closer to the casino when he killed her.

  But that meant he would also need a car. His or Herb’s.

  The idea of tracking down the car nearly overwhelmed him. But maybe it wouldn’t become the proverbial needle in the haystack. He grabbed his mobile and rang up Jamie, telling him about the car, the gun and the missing shoe. “I know that heel I found at the stone barn will fit this shoe.” The volume of his voice underlined his belief. “You’ll see when you get it to the lab.”

  Jamie’s words rushed over the phone. “Hold on, Mike. Danny could say he found the shoe. After all, you found a heel. And as for the gun, he can always claim someone else fired it and planted it in his garden to incriminate him.”

  “If you’d let me finish”

  “Do you have proof he was at the murder scene?”

  “No, but I’m coming to that.”

  “Shoot.”

  McLaren let the pun pass without comment. “Can you look up a car registration for me?”

  “Probably. What do you want?”

  “Any cars owned by Herb Millington or Danny Mercer.”

  “Shared ownership, or just any cars each of them own?”

  “Any. Both. Just whatever you can find. Without getting caught.” He added the last phrase unnecessarily. Jamie would be careful.

  “You want it now, I assume.”

  “As close to now as you can make it. You can ring me on my mobile.”

  “What are you looking for, Mike?”

  “A way to catch a killer.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “A bit of time spent online. I’ll sit right here and wait for it. Call me when you’ve got something.”

  Jamie muttered that everyone had their methods, and rang off.

  Ten minutes later, McLaren answered his ringing mobile. “You got something for me, Jamie?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “I’ll let that pass. What did you find out about Danny Mercer?”

  “You don’t want to hear about Herb Millington’s vehicles?”

  “Sorry. The case is warmly embracing Danny at the moment. Does he own a racecar?”

  “He and the person you don’t care to hear about jointly own one car that is registered for autograss racing. Danny owns another car strictly by himself.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Mini.”

  McLaren glanced at the membership information. Danny was in Class 4, which sported a lot of Minis. And although that wasn’t conclusive, it tightened the noose a bit more snugly around the man’s neck. “Herb’s name isn’t on that car registration?”

  “No. Just Danny. Why? Have you got something?”

  “Yeah.” He related what he had learned from his phone call to the racing club.

  Jamie muttered that McLaren must have Irish blood in him. “I’ve never heard anyone with more gift of Blarney than you have.”

  “I can’t help it if she got the impression I was a copper.”

  Jamie refrained from commenting. “So, is that it? Where are you with Danny?”

  “Well, right now I need you to accompany me if you’ve got the time when you get off.”

  “Accompany you where? To the Mercers’ house?”

  “No. I need official police presence when we confront Linnet Isherwood.”

  “When we confront her? This is your case, Mike. You’re doing very well without the lads in blue.”

  “But I’ll need you to make the arrest. I’m a civilian, remember?”

  “Just barely. Maybe I should loan you my warrant card.”

  “I’ll take that as a joke and not as a serious suggestion. Bring your handcuffs and anything else you want. You can follow me in your squad car.”

  “Uhh, Mike…”

  “Yes?” His breath caught in his throat, fearful that Jamie would suggest he contact the Chief Constable.

  “You’re not going to be doing anything illegal, are you? I mean, I’m not going to get a reprimand or something for helping you.”

  McLaren let out his breath. Jamie hadn’t suggested that McLaren go it alone. “We’ll review the case before we drive over to Linnet’s. If you feel I’m totally round the twist, I’ll bend to your opinion and call it off.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be on the street when you get out. Find me.” He rang off and headed to The Crispin Inn in Ashover, feeling he owed himself a celebratory lunch and a hand washing.

  Early twilight was descending on the village of Castleton; the last vestiges of color clung to the western sky. The eastern side of Peveril Castle loomed dark and forbidding against the curtain of pale pink and yellow, gray shadows slowly consuming the land. Down in the dale where the village nestled, the sunlight had already vanished, yet still anointed the rooftops and treetops with an ochre-hued mantle. McLaren and Jamie parked halfway down the road from Linnet’s housea precaution in case she remembered the make, color and model of McLaren’s car or happened to see the police car. They also checked the back garden, making certain no one was there who might be a potential problem. When they were satisfied that they weren’t walking stupidly into a trap, McLaren rang the front doorbell.

  Through the open window he heard the bell ringing deep with the house. Music sounded and a wooden-legged chair was shoved back. The soft padding of shoes thudded on a hard floor, then the click of metal as the dead bolt moved in the doorframe. There was a squeak of protesting hinges and moments later Linnet Isherwood opened the front door.

  “Mr. McLaren!” Her exclamation nearly caught in her throat on seeing him. She forced a smil
e but it quickly faded as her hand went to her throat. “I-I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You’ve something to discuss about Marta’s case?” Her eyes had drifted from McLaren’s face to Jamie’s, then to his uniform. She glanced back at McLaren. “You brought a police officer? You’ve solved the case, then? Are you going to make an arrest?” She smiled again but remained in the open doorway.

  McLaren answered her questioning look by asking if they could come in.

  “Why, certainly. Of course!” She stepped aside, opened the door wider, but remained there as they walked into the front room. “You’ll have to excuse my attire. I-I wasn’t expecting anyone. I was exercising.” By way of confirmation, the music in the back room erupted into a loud tattoo of drums, brass and strings. She gave a half-hearted smile, as if unsure she should turn off the music or not.

  “Would you care to join us?” McLaren motioned to the sofa. “This is Constable James Kydd. Derbyshire Constabulary.” He added the distinction as if it were an afterthought.

  Linnet nodded, closed the door slowly, and leaned against it. She was dressed in designer-label black leotards, halter-top, and soft-soled ballet-style shoes. A red and purple print scarf was tied around her waist and a matching hand towel lay across the back of her neck. She eyed the two men as they waited for her to sit down, then hesitantly moved to a chair near the front window. She sat but the men remained standing. Looking up at McLaren, she said, “A police officer? Then you are making an arrest in the case.” Her voice cracked but she pulled a limp smile from a recess of her soul. “Th-that’s wonderful news. Who is it? Can you tell me?”

  Her gaze was fastened on McLaren, as though mutely inquiring if it would be proper police procedure, but she turned toward Jamie when he cautioned her. When he’d finished, she got to her feet, alternately staring at each man. In the stillness McLaren heard the last bars of her recorded exercise music, a selection of Handel. Or Haydn. Then abrupt silence filled the house as the CD ended.

  Linnet’s hand went to her throat again, as though she needed a physical touch to convince her she wasn’t experiencing a nightmare. Her voice shook from fright but it was abnormally loud as she said, “Me! This is absurd. You’ve made a mistake. I went straight home after our casino outing. Anyway, why should I kill Marta? We were best friends.”

  “Exactly. And, being best friends, you expected Marta would bail you out of your financial difficulty when she won big.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I was nowhere near Elton.”

  “Maybe not that night, but you were later.”

  “Oh, really? And when was that supposed to be?” Her voice had regained its strength and her anger underscored her words. “Why would I even go there?”

  “You planted a silver charm. The type used for bracelets and necklaces.”

  “Amazing. The police never said anything about a charm.”

  “They didn’t find it, and that’s what first bothered me. Constables are quite good at fingertip searches. Nothing escapes their exploration. They wouldn’t have overlooked this, not anything so shiny. They overlooked it because you hid it there after I took the case.”

  She glared at him but fright shone plainly. “Absurd.”

  “I found it, though. Just as you hoped. It hasn’t been in the ground long. The metal’s still shiny, not tarnished as it would be after a year. Look familiar?” He took the silver skier charm from his jeans pocket and held it so that Linnet could see it.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “It should. You’ve seen two of them. The first one you probably gave Sean FitzSimmons on the publication of his novel. There’s the author photo on the dust jacket. He’s wearing it on a chain around his neck. The dedication of his book even mentions it. And links you to it.” He pointed to the silver skier. “It was probably some token between you two. I don’t know and right now I don’t care. You got it away from him and planted it at the crime scene to implicate him in the murder.”

  Linnet started to protest but McLaren cut her off. “The second charm you gave him in Buxton. I saw you hand it to him just before you parted after lunch.” His fingers closed over the charm and he returned it to his pocket.

  “What a fertile imagination you have. This doesn’t prove a thing. You could have bought that charm at any jewelry store.”

  “I could have done, but I didn’t. I got it from Sean. But if you’re so sure I’m lying, ask him.” He pulled out his mobile phone and held it out for her. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to know if I’m lying or not?”

  Linnet made no move for the offered phone, instead chewing her bottom lip. Her face had drained of color but she didn’t reclaim her chair. A car backfired in the street and seemed to prod her into replying. “I-I believe he’s out of town.”

  “Phone reaches around the world.”

  “No.” She shook her head but her eyes held the desperation of a caged animal. “I-I don’t want to disturb him.”

  McLaren continued, shoving the phone into his pocket. “I thought originally that Sean had killed Marta. He was a good choice, wasn’t he?”

  “What do you mean? Sean and I are”

  “Friends? Lovers? No. Not really. Maybe that’s what he believes, but he’s nothing to you. Not in that sense. He’s a tool, isn’t he? You tricked him into believing you cared for him but you used him. He’s a great decoy, Miss Isherwood. I congratulate you on finding him.”

  Linnet shifted her weight onto her other foot and tried to look nonchalant, but the fear still shone in her eyes. “Decoy?”

  “Certainly! You thought I’d zero in on him, didn’t you? Sean FitzSimmons, ex-con and perfect murder suspect. The police would find out about him and look no further. He had many skills that you needed. One was his record as a burglar and car thief. You asked him to break into my car subtly so I would begin to doubt my reason. You told him to steal anything he could find. I applaud his skill. He accomplished it in broad daylight without leaving a trace on my car. But he was probably surprised to end up with that bag of beer bottles. Did he show them to you?”

  Linnet remained silent, her arms crossed on her chest.

  “And to ice the cake, in case the coppers were a bit slow in suspecting him, you planted the charm near the spot where they found the body. Was it supposed to have been lost when Marta fought Sean for her life?” His last words exploded in his anger and he stepped toward Linnet.

  “You’re insane. You have no proof for any of this. Now, if you’re quite finished, I wish you’d leave. I have other things to do than listen to fiction. I would sue you for slander if it weren’t so laughable.”

  “Fiction is another element of it, isn’t it? Sean is a fiction writer, an author of thrillers. He’s good at thinking up plots. Did you get him to plan where, when, and how to kill Marta? Or had you thought of it by the time you’d met him? I’m sure you didn’t talk this over with your friend Charlie Harvester.”

  Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but McLaren went on.

  “I know about you two. I heard it from a very reliable source, how matey you once were. Might still be, for all I know. After all, you’ve still got his ring.”

  She’d had enough time to think and pounced on McLaren’s statement. “What ring? Am I wearing any ring?” She held out her hands so the men could see her fingers. They were bare. “You’re obsessed, McLaren. Was your mother frightened by a jeweler?”

  “This ring.” He strode toward her; his hand shot out and he grabbed the necklace she wore. He yanked on the chain, pulling the bottom length of it from beneath her halter-top. A diamond ring slid down the length of the twisted silver. He threw the chain at her and her hand clamped over the ring. “You must still love him, though I don’t know why, after he broke off your engagement.”

  Jamie’s hand wrapped around McLaren’s upper arm, pulling him slightly away from Linnet.

  “You may have killed Marta for her money.”

  “Ridic”

  “But you hired me for r
evenge.”

  “Revenge? For who? When?”

  “Revenge for Harvester. You still love him. You found out, probably from him, about the pub incident. You thought I needed to pay for Harvester’s ultimate disgrace and reprimand. So you hired me, no doubt thinking I’d fall on my face with this case and make a fool of myself. The beer bottles were a nice touch. Did Sean give me my ‘lesson’?” His hand went to a bruise on his cheek. “It took me a while to realize where I’d seen him. I thought it was from my days in the job, but it was the night of my beating. I just had a glimpse of him by the lamplight from my kitchen table, but I couldn’t place his face for a while.”

  A smile gradually claimed Linnet’s face. She leaned against the fireplace mantel, her fingers toying with the ring that hung from the necklace. “At least he did something right. I’d written your home address down for him so he’d know where to find you. I dashed it off in a hurry, never thinking I should have typed it, that you might compare it to the check I wrote to retain your services. He told me how he ambushed you.” She gave a short laugh and shook her head. “We thought you’d mess it up.” Her voice grew bitter. “We thought all the fight had gone out of you and that the case had grown too cold for you to discover anything. We…” She took a deep breath before correcting herself. “I thought you’d latch on to Sean as the killer and I’d get my revenge when Charlie proved Sean’s innocence in court. I didn’t really want you to solve Marta’s murder. You were smarter than we thought.”

  “Too bad you weren’t a tad bit smarter.”

  She stepped toward him, her hand raised, but Jamie caught her wrist and forced her arm down. Shrugging, she relaxed. “You think you know it all, don’t you, McLaren? But you don’t. You haven’t any idea what happened to Karin Pedersen or about those reappearing beer bottles. Did they upset you?”

  “Your doing, I suppose.”

  “Of course. I knew where you were going after you left me in Castleton when we talked. I had an idea the route you’d take and let Karin know. She’s a friend.”

  “Mobile phones are a wonder, aren’t they?” He snorted.