Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I still don’t remember such a person. I’m sorry. Perhaps she talked to someone else in the office.” She said it as a suggestion, perhaps hoping McLaren would give up and leave.

  He glanced again at the nameplate on Fay’s desk. “Were you working Monday and Tuesday?”

  Fay stiffened. This bordered on personal information. She said, rather reluctantly, “Yes.”

  “If you were away from your desk, for lunch or whatever, would someone sit here without bothering to change the name plate?”

  “Certainly. If this lady came up to the counter while I’d been called away or on break, and one of the nurses or filing clerks saw her, that person would undoubtedly come up to my desk, stand here and talk to the lady. Just as I am now.” She titled her head slightly, assessing McLaren’s reaction. “Unless she were looking for me specifically, she’d probably assume the nurse or clerk she talked to might be me.”

  “I know for certain that she spoke to a Fay Larkin.”

  “Well,” Fay reached for the ringing phone, “I can offer no further explanation. It’s not my aim to oppose you or become your adversary, but you’ll just have to believe me when I tell you I did not speak to her.” She answered the phone, silently dismissing McLaren.

  Maybe you’re not the only adversary I need to talk to, he thought as he walked back to his car. Dena could have spoken to someone else but not had time to add that name to her list. Yes, the other opponent tied to this case. The complaining neighbor who reported Hart’s musical sessions to the coppers. Ron Brennan.

  TWENTY

  Ellen Fairfield eyed Jamie’s warrant card and was overwhelmed by apprehension. Didn’t police officers show up at work places and homes when they had bad news to relate? She leaned against the newel post of the great hall’s Jacobean staircase and nodded in acknowledgment to her name.

  “I’m conducting an inquiry into the disappearance of Dena Ellison,” Jamie said, his voice taking on the usual business tone he used for police matters. “I understand she spoke to you recently.”

  Ellen stared at him, uncertain if she should admit or deny meeting up with the woman. After all, if Dena had got into some trouble—probably accusing someone of murdering Kent Harrison—why should Ellen get involved? Ellen didn’t know anything about Dena or where she had gone after leaving the Hall. But if I lie and say I didn’t talk to Dena, and the cops find out… Ellen weighed the punishment for lying against the hassle of getting involved in a police investigation. Either way, it promised to hold all the fun of a fair.

  “You did speak to Dena Ellison,” Jamie said, implying Ellen had best say something very soon.

  She nodded, her hands still grasping the newel post.

  “And…”

  “She was fine when she left. I didn’t watch to see her get into her car, but I assume she was fine. I mean,” she said, her throat suddenly dry, “none of the staff found her car abandoned in the car park or anything. So she must have left here without any problem.” She had nothing more to say. It was the truth, too. Surely she wouldn’t be suspected of foul play in Dena’s disappearance. Being a murder suspect, however lightly, was bad enough.

  “When was this? Do you remember?”

  “No, not really. Afternoon, I think. Mid-afternoon or later. She hadn’t an appointment. She just showed up.” Her fingers traced the head of one of the grotesques in the wooden post. “I talked to her for a minute or two, but honestly, it wasn’t the most convenience time. She hadn’t phoned ahead for an appointment.”

  “What did you speak about?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your conversation with Dena Ellison. Surely she came here to talk about a specific topic. What was it?”

  “Oh. She wanted to find out if I had any inkling as to why Kent Harrison was killed—a musician who was murdered last year. She wanted to know if I’d heard anything that night at Tutbury Castle. She said she was investigating with a friend of hers.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  Ellen inhaled sharply. It was happening again…the police questioning, the suspicion, the pain of Kent’s death… She said rather sharply, “I told her I didn’t know a thing about Kent’s murder, that I hadn’t been to the castle, and that I didn’t know who would want him dead. It was a ridiculous waste of time and frankly I was put out by it all.”

  “Because she hadn’t rung up for an appointment.”

  “Well, that, yes, but also because she took her role as Sherlock Holmes so seriously. I mean, she wasn’t a police detective; not even a private eye. What right did she have going about asking people questions? I thought her impudent and asking for trouble, and I quickly had enough of Dena Ellison and her feeble hobby.”

  And you probably showed Dena your ill manners before showing her the door, Jamie thought as he left the Hall.

  * * * *

  McLaren phoned Jamie on his drive back to the performing arts college, but got his voice mail. Probably still talking to Ellen Fairfield, McLaren thought, and rang off after leaving a short, frustrated message. He wouldn’t allow himself to become hopeful.

  A helpful teacher directed McLaren to Ron Brennan’s classroom, a spacious room in the academic wing of the building. While the majority of the college—floor space and classes—highlighted the performing arts, basics were also taught. Such as history. McLaren knocked on the wooden door, then entered the room.

  Colored posters of monarchs from the Plantagenet and Tudor reigns gave faces to the names in the history books; maps of the British Isles illustrated the changing territories of wars’ winners; a banner depicting the timeline of one thousand years of major events hung between the two large windows. All in all, a visual way to learn in this entertainment-demanding culture.

  The man at the desk looked up, perhaps expecting a faculty member or student. He smiled tentatively and stood up. “Yes? You’re looking for someone?”

  “Mr. Brennan?”

  “Yes.” He began reaching for a file folder. “I’m sorry, but do I know you? Are you one of the parents?” Of medium height, graying hair and blue eyes, Ron Brennan looked at McLaren, waiting for a name. He blinked expectantly.

  “My name’s McLaren.” He hesitated ever so slightly, wanting to rush ahead with the question of Dena’s whereabouts, but knew he had to tread gently if he didn’t want Ron Brennan to join the lengthening line of those with selective memories. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your former colleague, Kent Harrison. If you have the time…”

  “Kent?” His voice took on a wary edge. He looked as though he were a student called before the head master. “What about him?”

  McLaren explained the reason for his visit, then asked if anyone at the school could have been jealous of Kent. “Including faculty,” McLaren added, recalling Hart Pennell’s statement.

  “You’re thinking someone was jealous of his popularity with the students? That’s ridiculous! No one would kill someone over that. What an absurd idea. You’re wasting your time pursuing that line, McLaren. And wasting mine. I’m busy at the moment, anyway, so if you would—”

  “But if Kent’s murder eliminated the recipient of an honor or reward—”

  “Look.” Ron crossed his arms on his chest and took a deep breath. “I don’t know who sent you or set you up for this, but you’re round the twist. Everyone liked Kent Harrison—students and faculty alike. Go back and tell his mother to spend her money elsewhere, like donating to the Minstrels Round scholarship. She’ll get better results. Now, please leave. I have another class in fifteen minutes.”

  “You couldn’t have been jealous yourself, then.”

  Ron’s face turned crimson. He pointed at McLaren. “You’ve got a bloody nerve saying that.”

  “Well, if it’s not jealousy, what’s the motive for his death? I heard you were envious of the funding Kent’s music program reaped. Wish you had a bit of that for your own class, I heard.”

  “And I can imagine where you heard that, too. Hart Pennell. He’s t
he jealous one, if anyone around here was. Kent got the funds three years straight, leaving Hart and his project brushing off the dust of Kent’s hasty retreat. Grab-and-go was Kent’s unofficial motto. At least it should have been, for no one did it better. Hart wanted the prestige of the events that Kent had, getting the media interviews and the newspaper articles and the letters from colleagues around the Kingdom. Hart was desperate for that recognition, wanted it before he retired. Kent always seemed to pick up the jackpot while Hart stood around uttering empty-hearted kudos.”

  “Hart Pennell’s close to retirement, then.”

  “That’s none of your business, McLaren.”

  “I don’t need a date or his bank account information. I’m only trying to understand this.”

  “Naff off, McLaren. You’re becoming a bore.”

  “Just a simple yes or no is all I need.”

  Ron sighed and pulled in the corners of his mouth. “I suppose so. Yes. He’s another year or so before he retires, if I remember correctly. He wanted just one scholarship award before he left the school.”

  “You mentioned Hart’s project. What was it, do you know?”

  “Not specifically, no. But he dotes on the middle ages, which is why he’s immersed in the Minstrels Round scholarship and attends that Minstrels Court event at Tutbury Castle. I think he’s wanting to do something big on the history of that time, but I’m not certain. You’d get much better information if you talk to him. I don’t know why you don’t.”

  “Is there a stipulation about how the prize money should be spent?”

  Ron glared at McLaren. “You won’t stop, will you? What’s this really in aid of?”

  “There’s nothing secret about that part of the award, is there? I’d just like to know.”

  “The money should probably be applied toward the project, though I don’t know, never having won it or even submitted my application for it.” His face had returned to its normal hue and he spoke more slowly now that the focus seemed to be on Hart. “I do know he needed money for his wife, though. Perhaps he thought that by winning the prize money and making his project a reality it would bring him fame and the fortune he wanted. You’ll have to ask him. Or his wife.”

  “I’d rather ask you.”

  “And I’d rather you shut it. I already told you—”

  “I’d rather ask about something else,” McLaren interrupted, quickly losing what little patience he had left.

  “If it’ll get you out of here faster, go on. What?”

  “Does the name Dena Ellison mean anything to you? Have you heard it lately, or spoken to her?”

  “And who’s she when she’s home?”

  “I’m enquiring about her whereabouts.”

  “What happen—she get so drunk she fall in a ditch?” He glanced at the large clock above the door. “How should I know where she is? I never heard of her. Don’t want to, either. Now, as I told you before, I’d appreciate it if you leave.”

  “I’m asking a simple question,” McLaren said, his throat tightening. “I’d just like to know if you’ve heard of her or know her. Or if not, perhaps you heard Hart Pennell mention her.”

  “So go ask Pennell, then. God! If you weren’t as thick as two planks, you’d figure it out by yourself. Now, get out of my classroom before I call the coppers.”

  “Listen, you sod. I asked you a civil question about this lady.”

  “And I told you I don’t know her. And if she knows you, then I’m glad I don’t know her, considering the company she keeps.”

  McLaren grabbed a handful of Ron’s shirt with his left hand. As he pulled Ron toward him, he straightened his right hand and slapped Ron’s jaw. Astonished, Ron’s left hand went to his face. Releasing the shirt, McLaren muttered, “Have a nice day,” and threw a punch to Ron’s stomach. Ron fell backward, landing in his chair, as McLaren left the room.

  Out in the hallway, McLaren nodded to two students who were about to enter the classroom. Straightening his shirt, he said, “Enjoy your class,” and walked casually down the hall.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tired and nearly blinded by a headache, McLaren drove home. He squelched the urge to phone Jamie to find out what he had learned from talking to Ellen Fairfield, and if the police were making any progress with their investigation.

  He had just turned into his drive and parked when he spotted a car close behind him. A police car. Make that two police cars; a second car followed close behind the first. The police cars parked, and what seemed like an invasion of animated police uniforms exited the vehicles. Car doors banged, shoes crunched on gravel, and a half-dozen men walked up to the boot of his car. As they stood there, McLaren swore, glanced at the tools being laid on the ground, and slowly extracted his key from the car’s ignition. As he sat there, considering how best to handle the situation, a uniformed officer and plain-clothes detective came up to his car.

  “Michael McLaren?” The uniformed officer bent slightly to see McLaren’s face through the open side window.

  No use denying it. I’m dead in the water. He nodded, wondering if they had come to tell him Dena had been found, or if he was going to be arrested for assault on Ron Brennan.

  “We’d like to talk to you about Dena Ellison,” the officer continued. “We understand you know her.”

  Good. Brennan hadn’t the neck to file a complaint. All mouth and no trousers. McLaren glanced from the CID detective—for who else would he be, a chap in plain clothes—to the uniformed officer, and nodded. “Yes, I’m McLaren. Do you have news of her? Have you located her?”

  “Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir? There are one or two things we’d like to talk about. Perhaps inside your house would be more pleasant.” He stepped back slightly, allowing McLaren to get out of his car. As he lead them up the path and into his house the occupants of the second police car began getting into their white crime scene work suits.

  * * * *

  Trying to recall it later, McLaren wasn’t sure if he had been invited to help the police or subtly manipulated. The hour sped by in a blur of questions, anger and impatience. McLaren slowly, begrudgingly, related the abduction facts as he knew them, the uniform officer took notes, and the CID officer asked unnerving, relentless questions. McLaren handed over Dena’s photo, an accurate physical description and ‘last seen’ information, resenting every disclosure of his and Dena’s personal lives and every second of the police presence, yet knowing he contributed to finding her. The detective told him a tap would be placed on his phone in order to monitor calls. “In case you get a ransom request or other information from Miss Ellison’s abductor.” Local radio appeals would be broadcast and an incident room set up to handle the police inquiry. Other than that, what else did McLaren know that would aid the police? Perhaps they should make this more formal and continue the interview at the station.

  McLaren locked the house door and followed the uniform officer back down the front path. The detective spoke to one of the white-suited men jamming a metal rod through the soil around the rose bush, then joined McLaren in the police car’s back seat. Why did the closing of the car door sound like the clank of a closing cell door?

  * * * *

  Jamie could barely contain his anger driving back from talking to Fay Larkin. What the bloody hell does Mike think he’s doing? Speaking to Fay in the emotional state he’s in… Lucky he didn’t get the rocket from her and wind up explaining it all to the police. Though, he’ll have some explaining to do when I get hold of him.

  Jamie stopped in a lay-by and punched McLaren’s number into his mobile. The phone rang several times before McLaren’s recorded message asked him to leave his name, number, time he called… Jamie swore and rang off.

  * * * *

  Dave Morley showed as much enthusiasm as Ellen Fairfield had when confronted by Jamie and the implication of being a suspect or accessory in Dena’s disappearance. He showed his joy in a different way and in a varying degree: Dave had become belligerent and sud
denly knowledgeable about law and police powers. Jamie was spared Hart Pennell’s protestations and emotion for the time being, Hart being in class and unable to be disturbed until classes had recessed for the day.

  Which left Blossom Armitage in Jamie’s immediate future.

  Jamie’s talk with Blossom did not go well, from either person’s viewpoint. She had closed the front door of her house and started down the front path when Jamie came up to her. Her shoulders and neck stiffened as Jamie produced his warrant card. At his first question she eyed him through partially lowered eyelids.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Blossom shoved her shoulder bag behind her.

  “But you don’t deny Dena Ellison spoke to you.”

  “Of course I don’t deny it! A man and a woman were with her. She called the woman Gwen, I believe. The man’s name was something like Gary or Larry or Jerry. I can’t quite remember. But the point is they’ll corroborate that if you think I’m lying.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “What did we talk about? Are you serious?” She stopped beside her car and pointed her right index finger at Jamie. “Since when is it illegal to have a conversation with a potential customer?”

  “That’s what you talked about?”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours, even if you are a copper.” She sniffed, as though smelling something suspicious. “Why are you asking? This is the first time I’ve ever had anyone ask me anything like this. I don’t know anything about this woman other than she talked to me at the Minstrels Court. I don’t know where she went after speaking with me, I don’t know why she’s gone missing, and I haven’t seen her since. You’ll have to be satisfied with that because I have to leave now.” She got into her car and slammed the door closed, keeping the window rolled up until she had turned onto a major road.