Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I’d gone to the window to see if it was Kent,” Fay explained. “It was Lorene. I saw her plainly in the light from the streetlamp. But I couldn’t see the other person’s face. I assumed it was Booth, her boyfriend, because they’re inseparable, but I can’t swear to it. It was a man, though, the other person. I could tell from the height and I heard him talk.”

  “Did you recognize the voice?”

  Fay shook her head.

  “Could it have been Dave Morley?”

  “The police asked the same question. I never really considered it could’ve been Dave, but the more I think of it now…” She screwed up her mouth and frowned. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to say definitely. I don’t want to accuse an innocent person. And time has a way of coloring things. You know—you believe you saw or heard something when you actually didn’t. Because you’ve been thinking about a certain possibility.”

  Yes, McLaren silently agreed. I’ve nearly been down that road myself.

  “I have to go now.” Fay stood abruptly. “My half-day. I’ve got to get home to the baby sitter.”

  Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she walked past him and through the Staff Only door.

  McLaren lingered by the counter for a moment, wondering whom he should see next when a young woman entered the receptionist area from a side door. She walked up to the front desk, opened a filing cabinet drawer and deposited her purse in it. He decided to take a chance and hailed her. “Hi. My name’s Michael McLaren. I’d like to talk to Fay Larkin, if she has a minute.” His gaze darted around the office area, as though he were expecting to see her.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” the receptionist said. “You’ve just missed her. I passed her on the back stairway.”

  “Just my luck.” He put a tinge of exasperation into his voice and hoped it sounded authentic. “Guess this just isn’t my day. I knew I should have rung, but the traffic out of London…” He grimaced, mentally praying the woman would make the correction assumption.

  She did. “How frustrating for you. Is there anything I can do?”

  He thanked her and said, “I don’t know…” Best not to appear too eager, he thought. Besides getting me more sympathy, it makes me appear legitimate. He cleared his throat, as though reluctant to disclose his business. When the woman tilted her head and looked anxious, he said rather slowly, “It’s about an investigation I’m conducting.” He paused again, building more trust between then.

  “I’d like to help you, if I can,” the redhead explained, her eyebrows lowered in concern.

  “Well, perhaps you can help me, then.” His smile flashed all the charm he could muster up. “As long as I’m here…save me a bit of time and petrol.”

  “Certainly, if I can.”

  “First off, did Miss Larkin take an extended holiday last year? Late spring or early summer, perhaps? I know it’s an odd question,” he said hurriedly as the receptionist stared at him, “but it might help with my investigation.”

  “As a matter of fact, she was gone. That’s when I began my employment here. I was hired to fill in for her, then I was offered regular hours after Fay returned.”

  “Do you know where Miss Larkin went?”

  “Like a specific town or resort?”

  “That would be fine, but even the general area.”

  “No. Sorry. I didn’t even know Fay until she returned. I was new and it wasn’t my place to ask my employer where the other receptionist was going.”

  “No, of course not,” McLaren agreed before thanking her and leaving.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The interview room at Ashbourne police station could have been in most any of the Division’s stations: a small room of brown-painted walls, three chairs and a wooden table. A tape recorder deck of three cassette tapes took up part of the table; the microphone was fixed to the wall. Jamie began the interview, stating his name and rank, the attending constable’s name and rank, the date and time, and the reason for the session. Blossom Armitage sat in a chair facing Jamie and looked scared to death.

  “I can’t believe you were in this alone,” Jamie said.

  “Why not?” Blossom tried to sound defiant but her voice broke. She studied the far wall and seemed not to hear Jamie’s reply.

  “Because I don’t believe you have the strength to move an unconscious person from her car into yours. Nor shift her from your car into a basement room in a building. Someone helped you, or did it himself and you’re just the meal provider.” He paused, giving her time to consider her answer. “You’re adding to your own problem if you keep silent. Now, who partnered with you?”

  “No one.”

  “We can check the mask, gloves and clothing we found for DNA. If there is another trace on it…” Jamie sat back in his chair. One of the tapes in the recorder squeaked momentarily as it passed over the recording head, sounding like a shriek…or a rat. He exchanged glances with the constable at the other end of the table, knowing they shared the same thought: Blossom Armitage would not keep silent much longer. For all her good intensions, her fear was too great. She had never experienced this and, for the average person, the mysteries of Police Power were frightening enough. Never mind being involved in a kidnapping case.

  Jamie doodled in his notebook, as though he had nothing but time before him. He cleared his throat and stated for the benefit of the recording that Mrs. Pennell, also known as Blossom Armitage, was still thinking.

  Blossom grabbed the edge of the table at the mention of her married name and slowly looked at Jamie. Her eyes glistened with new forming tears and she leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a secret with Jamie. Her words were barely above a whisper and she cleared her throat and started again, this time speaker slower and with greater volume. “We weren’t going to kill her. You can tell that because we were feeding her.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ Mrs. Pennell?”

  “My husband, Hart, and I.” She lowered her head and brought her hands to her lap. Staring at her clenched fingers, she said more quietly, “We just wanted her out of the way for a few days. While that ex-police detective ran around talking to people. I—we hadn’t planned to kidnap Dena. It was a spur of the moment idea.”

  “If you were concerned with Mr. McLaren’s questioning of people, why kidnap Dena?”

  “She had spoken to me at the Minstrels Court. She said she was asking questions about Kent Harrison…for a friend of hers who was interested in reviewing the case. I—we thought that she was really an undercover officer investigating people from the original case. I got frightened and told Hart that evening when I got home. We didn’t know what to do. When that ex detective talked to Hart we really thought we were suspects. That’s when Hart got the idea of kidnapping Dena. We thought that if she were out of the picture, the questions might stop. We thought she was the chief investigator.” She had spoken in a nearly non-stop gush of breath. When she finished, she sat back, her gaze still on Jamie, and waited.

  “How did you abduct her? From her car?”

  Blossom nodded, her face flushing with color. “Hart followed her that day. We were near to panic by then. He figured the only way to stop her asking questions and dredging up Kent’s murder was to abduct her. So when she stopped in that lay-by, he figured it was the best place and time to grab her. She was talking on her mobile and had just finished, so she wasn’t aware of Hart walking up to her. That’s when he hit her on the back of the head and carried her to his car.”

  Hart had picked a good spot for the abduction, Jamie agreed. Secluded from the A515 by a stand of trees, neither Hart nor Dena would attract any unusual attention. Jamie sat up and asked where they had kept Dena.

  “Two places, actually. The first night in a basement room of his school.”

  “The Grange Hall College?” Jamie’s eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Why such a public place? Weren’t you concerned that you’d be found out?”

  “It was the only place we could think of. Hart waited until classes had finished for the day a
nd everyone had gone. He had a key. He used to go there on weekends and some evenings because he was working on a large project. He carried Dena into the basement room and left some food for her. He—we figured she’d be well hidden because no one goes into that room. It—the person who had it as an office retired and most of the furniture was moved out. No one had made a decision yet about replacing the teacher.” She paused, her eyes large and bright with anxiety. “Hart assumed Dena would be safe there. I didn’t want to keep her in such a public spot, though. Anyone could’ve found her there.”

  “So you moved her.”

  “Yes. Well, Hart and I did. Late at night. We put two sleeping tablets in her evening meal. I crushed them to a powder so she’d eat it unknowingly.”

  “You both moved her that night, then.”

  “Much later. When it was dark and we knew the tablets had taken effect.”

  “Where did you put her?”

  “Where you found her,” Blossom said, her voice barely audible. “My friends’ house in Ashbourne.”

  Jamie read the address for the tape recording. “Why there and not your own house?”

  “We were scared. It had seemed a good idea at the beginning, but the longer we had her, the more frightened we became. I asked Hart how we were going to let her go. I knew she couldn’t identify either of us because we moved her only when she was out cold and every time we brought her food we’d wear that costume. We never spoke to her, either. That way she couldn’t ID us by our voices.”

  Jamie exhaled loudly. For all of their impulsiveness, they seemed to have thought the plan through very well. “And you chose your friend’s house because…?”

  “They’re out of town. Sarah and Steve. I’m house sitting. Well, to a degree. I know what I told you this morning, but I really was keeping tabs on the house. Water the plants, feed the canary…” Blossom grimaced, expecting Jamie or the other constable to rush from the room to arrest Hart. Instead, they both sat there in silence. The tape squeaked again and Blossom added, “No one knows Hart or me in that neighborhood. I thought that in case a neighbor did connect us with Dena’s kidnapping we couldn’t be identified since the neighbor wouldn’t know our names.”

  “And you did all this simply because you didn’t want Dena to reinvestigate Kent Harrison’s murder. Why?” Jamie leaned forward so that he nearly touched Blossom. “Did you want to shut Dena up because you or your husband had killed Kent Harrison?”

  Blossom’s denials still rang in Jamie’s ears as he accompanied an officer to Grange Hall College to arrest Hart for kidnapping.

  * * * *

  Aaron, one of Kent Harrison’s neighbors, might have been slipping hydrangea buds to Kent, gradually poisoning him for weeks, but Kent had not died from plant poisoning. Aaron had been dealing with his wife who had left him. And there was the sticky question of motive. Aaron had no reason for killing Kent, none that McLaren had been able to discover. Blossom, however, did fit nicely into the murderer role. Dying of cancer, she wanted to help her husband win the school scholarship, not only for the prestige but also for the cash.

  But Blossom had been at the Minstrels Court that Sunday night. The event had ended at 11 o’clock. Blossom had stayed till closing time, making sales, talking to people, and closing up her booth. She finally left at half past eleven, seen by the security guard in the car park and by Clark MacKay as he locked up the castle. Blossom hadn’t enough time to drive from the castle to kill Kent in Somberley. Not even if the witnesses were wrong and had her leaving the castle an hour earlier.

  Could Hart be the killer? He would have the same motive as his wife, but as to opportunity… McLaren made a note to check with Ellen Fairfield about the lengthy meeting. So, McLaren thought, sitting in his car, I’m at a dead end. What do I do?

  He slumped back against the car’s headrest, his mind dizzy with the day’s scenes. One in particular nagged him, shimmered more than the rest. He had been at the school. A group of students sat on the grass, large sketch pads on their laps, busily drawing, while their teacher meandered about, gazing at the work, bending down to offer help. A student had looked up at the teacher, asking a question and holding up her sketch. McLaren sat up, his mind on fire. He’d been going about it all wrong, concentrating on jealousy and anger. First class berk! How many times have I heard that Kent helped people, as a teacher and as a caring person? If Kent had not helped someone, and that someone had not only expected and counted on help but had also been angry enough…

  McLaren rang up Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office forensic pathologist who worked periodically for the Derbyshire Constabulary. As he waited through the ‘hold’ music, he saw the elements of the case fitting together in his mind. And it all hinged on the victim. Kent Harrison and his time with Lorene, a troubled student who sought his counsel. Kent, who advised her on her pregnancy. For that’s why she left school before finishing the term. And that pregnancy resulted in a child’s birth and the adoption of that child by Fay Larkin. Kent Harrison, the great helper, the solution provider of everyone’s problems. Did McLaren see or just imagine the baby having the same shape nose as Lorene’s?

  The music cut off abruptly and Cheryl’s voice kicked him back to his present question. “What can I help you with, Mike? Another case?”

  He heard the hint of interest in her voice, imagine her leaning forward in her desk chair, the rush of requests momentarily forgotten. “No, still the same one,” he said, amused Cheryl would think he’d cleared up the Harrison murder so quickly. “I’d like the details of the postmortem, if you’ve got a moment.”

  “Asphyxiation.”

  “Through strangulation.”

  “Yes. I thought I told—”

  “Just making certain.” Now that he was close to finishing the case he didn’t want to make a stupid mistake.

  “Right. And he had enough cyanogenetic glycoside in his body to be fatal in another few hours.”

  “But it didn’t come to that,” McLaren supplied, recalling his notes.

  “No. Though why anyone would ingest hydrangea buds is beyond me. But then, I don’t see the fascination with boxing matches or bungee jumping, either.”

  “Could you ascertain the cause of the asphyxiation?”

  “You mean, like a pillow over his mouth?”

  “Or the personal touch—hands around his throat.”

  “Ask me a difficult question.” She smiled and took a quick sip of coffee. “Sure. Classic textbook ligature mark on his neck, indicating he was strangled with a wire.”

  “A wire!” McLaren’s voice shot up an octave.

  “Surprise, surprise. The wire was not recovered, but it had left traditional marks around the neck, a fairly deep cut into the skin that could only have been made by a wire.”

  “As opposed to, say, a very thin but strong cord.”

  “Precisely. Anything else?”

  “No. No, that’s all. Thanks, Cheryl.”

  “Awfully short call this time. Does this bode well for you?”

  “You’ll no doubt hear one way or the other. Thanks.” He closed the phone, cutting off her good-bye. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, he sank back into the upholstery. The landscape rocked wildly. More than that, Kent’s face peered at him from the medical building’s entrance. If Kent had died by strangulation with a wire, could it have been a wire guitar string? Fay had mentioned that someone had cut Kent’s guitar strings. Or, to be precise, four of them. Twelve, ten, eight, and seven. McLaren picked up his notebook and wrote down the string numbers. Nothing suggested itself. He stared at the building, at the door that Fay had exited. Kent stared back at him, silently pleaded with him. McLaren closed his eyes, trying to make sense of such a weird occurrence. Why not cut all the strings, if the person had set out to vandalize Kent’s instrument? The lower two strings, he could understand, snipping them in a hurry. But only one of the two E’s had been cut. The vandal had skipped the eleventh string to cut the lower string in the next pair, one of the A’s
. Yet, strings eight and seven were both cut. Why cut both D’s and not both A’s and E’s? McLaren stared again at the paper, writing and rewriting the string names in a variety of doodles while he thought. He nearly stopped breathing when one of the scribbles seemed to jump from the page. D-E-A-D. The guitar strings hadn’t been cut as an act of vandalism; they’d been cut as a warning. They screamed of hatred and of premeditation.

  McLaren turned his car key in the car’s ignition and roared out of the car park. Only one person he could think of who knew about guitar strings: Dave Morley.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hart Pennell had thought at first to string the police along, making a joke of Dena’s abduction, but as he sat in the interview room at the police station he came up with a better plan: tell the truth.

  He had been spared the humiliation of being handcuffed in front of his students, the police allowing him to walk—escorted—to the police car. And during the ride to the station he still could not envision anything more than a slight delay in his day and the explanation of the abduction. He would be financially slapped on the wrist and released with a warning. But the handcuffs slapped on his wrists had sobered him. The entry through the sally port, the walk past the bank of lockers holding prisoners’ personal effects, the CCTV monitors displaying every second in the cells and exercise yard, and the booking process killed the humor as surely as if the listener had known the joke’s punch line. Hart’s embarrassment manifested quickly the longer he talked and the explanation, even to his ears, sounded ludicrous if not serious.

  The arresting officer barked, “Well?”

  Hart realized he hadn’t heard the question. He had been thinking of his wife, wondering if she were being interviewed or if she already sat in a cell. Either mental image disturbed him, and he glanced at each officer’s face as if trying to discern the men’s impressions. But he needn’t have bothered. The entire arrest process explained his situation: serious.