Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  McLaren could hear Jamie asking Dena the question but only an indistinct few words in answer.

  Seconds later Jamie said, “She wants to wait here for you.” He glanced at Dena, at the obvious strain in her face and the bruise that seemed to deepen its hue with every passing minute, and said, “Frankly, Mike, I don’t think you deserve her, but that’s for you two to settle. We’ll wait. We’ll be here, whenever you get here. But for God’s sake—slow down!” He knew McLaren wouldn’t, that the words wouldn’t even register in McLaren’s brain, but he felt better saying them. At least he had tried to calm his friend’s rage.

  “So who’s Stephen Howard?” McLaren said, his mind on Dena. “Do you know anything yet?”

  Giving in to the inevitable, Jamie sighed and said, “Never been in trouble with the law, if that’s what you mean, and I believe you do. Not so much as a speeding ticket. I checked while I was waiting for the PC and police surgeon to arrive. He owns a van removal company. Howard Fleet. Heard of them?”

  “No.”

  “They’re based in Derby. Quite the company. Not only local business, but the continent, Australia, Canada and the odd one or two moves to America each year.”

  With a fleet of large vans, McLaren thought, Howard could have shifted Dena anywhere, and he and the cops would never have found her. Out of the country, even. But why? If they were holding her for ransom, her father would have been notified before this. He felt the cold pricks of fear stabbing his heart. Ignoring it, he said, “Anything unusual about them?”

  “Nothing’s been reported. And I don’t think they’re involved with smuggling illegal immigrants into the Kingdom. Or with any dope runs. Howard seems all above board and a regular businessman. His wife is Sarah Howard. She’s employed at Honor Insurance Agents, in the Derby office.”

  “Nice and convenient. They can ride to work together.”

  Jamie let the sarcasm pass without commenting. “The firm’s headquartered in Manchester but has branches all over the Midlands and Lake District.”

  “What’s the connection between the removers and the insurance agency?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s going on between the two businesses that involves Dena?”

  Jamie shook his head. “You’re trying too hard, Mike. Don’t look for villainy under every rock. There’s no problem with either company or with the Howards. Steve worked his way up through the business and formed his own company.”

  “Who’s he to Blossom Armitage, then?” He passed another lorry and turned southward onto the A515.

  “Blossom says she was house sitting for a friend.”

  “The friend being Steve Howard, I assume.” He muttered something as he came up to a slower moving driver.

  “We’ll find out quick enough, Mike. Despite Blossom not talking.”

  “Not yet.”

  Jamie ignored his friend’s veiled threat. Good thing Blossom was enjoying the hospitality of the Derbyshire Constabulary, or else McLaren would probably include her in the Howard beating.

  “Did Dena say how she was kidnapped? We know where, but how it was done? Did she see who did it? Was it this Howard chap? I can’t see Blossom Armitage doing it, not if Dena put up a struggle. And I think she would…” His voice trailed off as he swung around the slower car and revved his car once more to nearly 70.

  “She hasn’t said a thing about it. Now’s not the time to ask her, either. She needs—”

  “Yeah. You told me. A shower, a cuppa, and some major sleep.”

  “Those aren’t just words. She’s all in. She’s been through a hell of an ordeal.”

  “I know she has!” He barked his frustration as he zoomed around a tractor. “And so have I! I’ve been worried sick about her. I nearly lost my mind!” He stopped as he was about to betray his suicide attempt. Swallowing, he settled down, concentrating on the clear stretch of road before him, and said instead, “She’s all I could think about, Jamie. Really, truly think about. What she was going through, where she might be. I-I didn’t want to consider living without her.” This last sentence had been more subdued than the previous anger-filled speech. But Jamie could still distinguish the love for Dena behind the words. And the anger directed at all those involved with her abduction.

  “Is this Howard house involved in anything?” McLaren asked after he glanced at his speedometer.

  “What? Like it’s a drug house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meaning, in your subtle way, that Howard is involved in other illegal activities.”

  “Not so odd. Why would he kidnap Dena? You don’t just lead an exemplary life and then one day decide to kidnap someone for the fun of it. Or because you’d like to know what it feels like to kidnap a person. There’s always a reason for a behavior.”

  “Sure. But it’s early days yet, Mike. I know only the basic stuff.”

  “Like the home owner and residents. Sure. Sorry. I’m just trying to make sense of it.”

  “We’ll get it sorted out.” Jamie paused. Dena was seated in his car, her head resting on the back of the passenger seat headrest, her eyes open and flitting from Jamie’s face to the street.

  “Yeah. Right. Sorry.” He glanced at the road marker. “Just coming up to Heathcote.”

  “Not much longer.”

  “How’s Dena holding up? Is she too tired?”

  “She’s fine. She’s in my car, very peaceful.”

  The silence welled up between them again as McLaren envisioned Dena. If there is one mark on her, he thought, slamming his fist that held the mobile phone onto the steering wheel, just one bruise or cut or bump, I’ll kill the bastard. I’ll drag him behind my car until he’s half dead, then finish him off by beating him with my own hands. And when he looks at me in the last seconds of his life, I’ll smash in his face with a rock. Heat flooded his face and his throat went dry. He glanced at the phone in his hand. The knuckles showed white against the red flesh of his fingers. He relaxed his grip and took a deep breath. No, he couldn’t do that. Not that he didn’t want to, but if he were caught and sentenced that would leave Dena alone again. She’d be no better off then than if he had gone ahead with his suicide. And even if he set the scene to look like an accident—and he could, because his police training had taught him well—he’d still be prime suspect. He’d just confessed, in a roundabout way, to Jamie. And he had just connected himself to the whole mess via his friendly police chat a while ago. He eased off the accelerator pedal, suddenly aware he was flying down the road. Revenge was indeed best served cold. And while it would be his greatest thrill to feel Howard’s neck between his fingers, lawful revenge still would satisfy him. And not take him from Dena.

  Dena. He beat the wheel with his fist again. Damn her. Scaring him like that. If she hadn’t poked around where she’d had no business. If she hadn’t pretended to be Watson to his Holmes. He muttered under his breath, alternately cursing her meddling and thanking God for her rescue. What should he feel? What had he a right to feel? Relief that she was safe. Anger that she had instigated her abduction and might have been killed. Frustration at himself that he hadn’t found her. Damn her. Jamie’s voice cut into his reverie.

  “You still there, Mike?”

  “Yeah.” McLaren answered slowly, as though waking from a dream. He glanced at the landscape. Even without the sign announcing Ashbourne’s imminent appearance before him, he knew the village was very near. “Just coming to the sign indicating Mapleton. Why?”

  “I don’t think Blossom Armitage is the killer.”

  “Kent Harrison’s killer?” He waited for a lorry to pass him in the opposite direction before asking, “Why? If she kidnapped Dena, doesn’t that imply her involvement with Kent’s murder?”

  “Not necessarily. Dena’s kidnapping could be a completely unrelated incident.”

  “Holy hell! How many cases do you want?”

  “Less than you think, Mike.”

  “Then why do you think Blossom isn’t involved in
the Kent Harrison murder?”

  “Nothing concrete. I wasn’t on that case. Just a hunch. You know about hunches.”

  McLaren nodded. Coppers were famous for the tickles at the backs of their necks when something didn’t feel right. Intuition, years of experience, the ability to read human reactions and behavior. Whatever it was, it was correct more times than not and was not to be dismissed easily. He entered Ashbourne and slowed his car. A half minute later he found the street and turned onto it. “Just about there. Where— Oh. Got you.” He put down his mobile and braked opposite the house. As he turned off the engine, Dena saw McLaren and jumped out of the car. He ran up to her and she fell into his arms.

  Jamie gave them a minute alone, letting McLaren assure himself that Dena was suffering only from aching muscles and the last vestiges of fright. He flipped his mobile closed, shoved it into his pocket, and walked up to them. McLaren was asking Dena again if she wanted medical attention at the hospital.

  “No, Michael,” she said, faintly amused at his concern. “A bruise or two, a little knot on my head…”

  McLaren had her bend her head down while he felt the swelling. His face darkened as he ran his fingers over her facial bruise. “Who did this to you? Do you know? Was it Blossom? Or Steve Howard?” He stopped abruptly, afraid to voice his unasked question. He examined her eyes, hoping she would answer his silence and alleviate his anxiety. “He didn’t…” He paused, taking a breath, fearing her answer. He tried again, his voice calmer and quieter. “He didn’t attack you…in any other manner?”

  Laying a hand on his chest, Dena assured him she was all right. “No one came near me, Michael. Someone—maybe Blossom, since Jamie followed her here.” Her gaze turned to the front of the house and she seemed to see it for the first time. Quickly returning her attention to McLaren, she said, “Someone fed me, left food for me, I mean, but no one ever did anything else. Nothing else.” Her eyes searched his, wanting to discern that he understood her meaning.

  He nodded, smiled weakly, and hugged her again.

  “I hate to intrude,” Jamie cleared his throat noisily, “but I really think it best if Dena get some rest now. You can see her later, Mike.”

  “Tea time?” he asked hesitantly, his gaze shifting from Dena to Jamie, as though asking permission.

  “Nothing more perfect than tea time,” Jamie agreed. “Now.” He clamped his hand on Dena’s upper arm and led her to his car. Calling over his shoulder, he said, “And don’t keep ringing me. She needs serious sleep more than anything else.”

  McLaren nodded and leaned against his car, watching Jamie’s car until it turned onto the main road. Sighing heavily, he thought it best to release his tension by talking to Clark MacKay.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Free to focus once more on Kent Harrison’s case, McLaren made a quick stop at Tutbury Castle, thinking Clark’s broader view of castle entertainers, event-goers, vendors and enthusiastic fans might provide the name of a person Kent had snubbed. Or, if not a name, some hint of anger that might have been bubbling beneath a calm exterior. Clark’s assurance that Dave Morley had shown no resentment over the solo CD had not convinced McLaren, and he said so. Frankly astonished that McLaren had asked, Clark said, “Kent made it a point to help everyone.” He handed McLaren a flyer. “Everyone wished Kent success and he, in turn, wished that same success for everyone else, no matter their walk in life. It’s contagious, you know. You do a good deed for someone and that person in turn helps another person.”

  “What goes around comes around,” McLaren had said, smiling.

  “Something like that. Even Dave wished him the best.”

  “A strange thing for Dave to say, considering they were a duo. Were they splitting up?”

  “Not that I know of. Kent was about to release a solo CD. He had a single song on it. I heard the demo. Frankly, I think it would’ve plunged him onto the charts again and made his name.”

  “It was that good?”

  “Yes. At least, I thought so. And I’ve heard every musician at every castle event. He dug up some obscure song, from the Renaissance or Middle Ages or somewhere, gave it a bit of a modern rhythm and some unusual chords—”

  “How did Dave feel about that? The solo recording, I mean.”

  “Don’t know, do I? But even if he was disappointed, there might have been another CD in the offing—one featuring them as a duo.”

  McLaren thought he better find out straight from the horse’s mouth.

  Dave Morley’s shift at the Joyful Sound Music Shop didn’t start for another half hour. That’s what a clerk announced rather hurriedly to McLaren as the store’s phone rang. McLaren mouthed ‘thank you’ as he glanced at the large clock above the door. Stay here, he wondered, or come back later? A fine Martin D-35 caught his eye and he stood in front of it, wondering if he could take it from the rack on the wall and try it out, when a masculine voice said, “Kent played a Martin, you know.”

  McLaren turned to find Adrian Galloway standing at the end of the aisle.

  “Such a beautiful instrument. Do you play, Mr. McLaren?”

  “Mr. Galloway,” McLaren said, briefly abandoning the idea of playing the instrument. “I could ask you the same thing, finding you in this store.”

  “Me, play?” His laugh barked briefly and emphatically into the air. “Heavens, no. I’m just an admirer of those who do. Play well, I should stipulate. But you must play, and play rather well yourself, or you wouldn’t be admiring such a fine instrument. That’s not a beginner’s guitar.”

  McLaren raised his eyebrow, unsure of Adrian’s meaning.

  “Oh my, I don’t mean to imply that beginner’s aren’t deserving of fine instruments, no goodness no! I meant to say that a parent wouldn’t want to gamble spending so much for a professional quality guitar at the offset of the child’s musical adventure. I mean, what if it is a passing fancy? What if the child is bent on becoming a ballerina or engine driver the following week?”

  “Yes. Burning desires often are just flashes in the pan, aren’t they? So, you perhaps sing, then? Or play something else? Piano, perhaps?”

  Adrian waved away McLaren’s suggestions. “Oh my gracious, no! But I’ll satisfy your curiosity, because I realize your need for information if you are to solve poor Kent’s dreadful death. No, I’m here to talk to Dave Morley. You know of him, I suppose?” He cocked his head and squinted at McLaren. Surely any investigator who was worthy of the title would know poor Kent’s singing partner.

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with Dave previously.”

  “And now you’re back to grill him again. Sorry! Bad joke,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “No offense meant. My tongue always acts before my brain does.”

  “That’s quite all right. So we’re both here to talk to Dave.”

  “You may of course go first. I know your time is precious. I will browse among the tin whistles, kazoos and comb-and-papers. Or content myself with looking at the guitar strings and things. Always so fascinating how something as simple as a piece of wire, when stretched so taut, can produce such delectable sounds, don’t you think?”

  “A piece of magical science.”

  “Why, yes! But, then, Dave would probably explain it if I asked. But no time today. I’m just solidifying the memorial for Kent. Making certain Dave knows what he is to do…that sort of thing.”

  “You’re doing this at the Minstrels Court?”

  “What better place? Not because that was his last performance, but because that’s where we all associate him as being, even now. Surely his spirit must be there, immersed in the Court festivities, wandering back stage and infusing the performers with a greater zest and skill. It’s just to be a short thing, really. Just ten minutes during the last set on the last evening. But it’s so important. Kent embodied the Minstrels Court and early music just as surely as he imparted those of us who loved his music. We won’t let him die—his memory and music, mean so much to us. He means too much to this style of music. That�
�s what Dave will say during the memorial. Well, words to that effect. Then he’ll play two songs that he and Kent were working on for their next recording, and we’ll end the memorial by playing the recording of Kent singing ‘The Swans’ Courtship.’ But, as I said, I merely want to grab a minute of Dave’s time to settle my own mind that this is what he understands will happen. We don’t want any mistakes during the commemoration. That would break the ambience of the thing, wouldn’t it?”

  “Should be a nice tribute, yes. I wish you luck of it, and of the other memorials to follow.”

  Adrian thanked McLaren most seriously and wandered off, leaving McLaren alone with the guitars. He had just about decided to take down the D35 when he heard a woman asking if she could help him. He paused, dropped his arms, and turned toward the speaker. A girl smiled at him. Her short-cut red hair set off her blue eyes in an unsettling way, and he found himself staring at her. When she had repeated her question, McLaren said he was waiting for Dave Morley.

  “Certainly. Though, if you have questions about that guitar I could get another clerk. String instruments aren’t my forte. If you’d like piano music—”

  She looked the type who would hover, trying to be useful to impress her boss. He needed to be alone when he talked to Dave. Best to get rid of her now. Permanently, so she wouldn’t come back just as Dave showed up. “Thank you, but I need to talk to Dave. It concerns his late singing partner.”

  “Kent Harrison?”

  “Why, yes. You know him?”

  “Yes. He was my favorite teacher at school. Can I help? My name’s Lorene, by the way. Lorene Guard.” She extended her hand, almost shyly, but appeared eager and hopeful, clinging to the remembrance of Kent’s personality and wanting to help. “I-I still can’t get over his death. Not fully. It was such a shock.”