“The lessons didn’t help?”
“He never got the lessons. At least, not from Kent. I never saw Kent over here. Sorry, I have to be off.”
McLaren thanked him and walked back to his car. Despite the heat that was already building, McLaren kept the car windows closed and rang his house. He hated to wake Dena, but he needed to talk to her. Jamie’s wife, Paula, answered with a cheery good morning.
“Morning, Paula. It’s Mike.”
“I figured it would be. I didn’t even have to glance at the caller ID display. You want to talk to Dena, I assume. Jamie’s already at the station.”
“Only if she’s awake,” he said hurriedly. “I know she needs her sleep—”
“Believe it or not, she’s right here. We’re having a cuppa and a nice girl chat. One minute.”
A muted word reached McLaren’s ears and he heard the phone receiver being handled. Then Dena’s voice greeted him.
“Sorry to wake you,” McLaren said, feeling guilty.
“You didn’t. I’ve been up and showered for about half an hour, now. I’m about to have my second cup of tea, so this is progress. Did you want to tell me you love me?” The smile came over the phone.
“Constantly.” He tried not to think of Dena dressed in one of Paula’s nightgowns, her hair uncombed, her eyes bright with sunlight, looking defenseless and desirable at the same time. Watching Aaron and Fraser, he said, “I realize you didn’t spend every moment of every day staring at your neighbors—”
“But…”
“But what’s your opinion of Fraser Unsworth’s guitar playing?”
“If you mean can he turn pro, catapult to stardom on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ or land a paying gig in a pub…no. At least not within the next decade.”
“As bad as all that?”
“Awful. I don’t really know about his singing ability. That seems to be whatever the current fad dictates.”
McLaren nodded. Some of the rock bands he’d been subjected to were comprised of guys who sounded as if they were shouting instead of singing. Perhaps ‘rage’ was in. “How about if he took voice lessons?”
“I think you have to have a good base, don’t you? Like pleasing tone or ability to carry a melody?”
“And you know for certain Fraser didn’t possess this.”
“Well, I’ve heard him a few times when he practiced outside. Unless he was imitating something other than a singer.”
“I get the idea. How about his musicianship? Any hope that he could turn into an instrumentalist or a backup guitarist for some singer?”
“Not unless he’s improved since the last time I heard him.”
“Which was…?”
“Last month.”
“Ouch.”
“Precisely.”
“Could Kent have helped him, do you think? Better yet, did Kent help him?”
“With guitar lessons?”
“That, yes, and anything else—tips on getting into the music business, stage presence, maybe a name to contact.”
“You’re joking.”
“Am not. Do you know if that happened?”
“As you said, Michael, not that I spend every moment of every day staring at the residents on my street, but in all the years Fraser’s been thumping away on his guitar, I’ve never seen Kent over there. If Fraser’s taking lessons, it’s at Kent’s house or somewhere else.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“What—that Fraser wants to get into music?”
“No. That Kent wouldn’t help him. The chap’s known for that. He helps everyone he meets, if I’m to believe what I’ve heard.”
“He did.”
“So why didn’t he help Fraser?”
“You’re the detective, Michael. You find out.”
“Thanks.”
“But it is odd, now that you bring it up. Kent was the kind of person who’d give you the shirt off his back, if that’s what you needed. I don’t understand either why he ignored Fraser.”
Dave Morley practically repeated Dena’s statement verbatim. He had never seen Fraser Unsworth taking lessons at the music store, nor had he ever heard Kent mention giving lessons to Fraser. “Not that we talked about every thing in our private lives,” Dave explained over the phone, “but Kent spoke of other students of his. Outside school, that is. He had given guitar lessons to a number of people, and I never heard Fraser Unsworth’s name come up. You’d think if Fraser was anywhere near performance level, Kent would’ve given him a few minutes to sing during our gigs.”
“But Kent never did.”
“Not in all the years we sang together.”
After ringing off, McLaren called Dena again. She sounded amused to talk to him so soon but listened thoughtfully to his question.
“You said Kent gave of himself to anyone—well, just about anyone—who asked.”
“Yes. It was well known.”
“And you said he’d give the shirt off his back.”
“I meant it figuratively, Michael. But he did give whatever he had, if he could spare it or not.”
McLaren’s breath caught in his throat. He asked rather sharply, “Like what? Do you know any specific thing?”
Dena hesitated, her mind trying to digest all that was happening. “This is important, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I remember once or twice seeing Kent give money to Fraser’s friend. Just a pound or two. He’d do that periodically, give a bit of money to someone. And one time he drove somewhere with some bloke. I don’t know if he took him to a shop or the bus depot or where. I’d heard them talking in Kent’s front garden.”
“Anything else?”
“Just something of no consequence.”
“What?”
“It’s really nothing, Michael. Not worth mentioning.”
“What?”
“Well, last spring. Last year, not this year—”
“Months before Kent was murdered.”
“Yes.” She took a breath, clearly mentally debating if she were about to say the stupidest thing of her life.
“What, Dena?”
“Just that last spring Fraser wanted to try out for a music group at school. He wanted desperately to get into the group, to make a good impression with the judging committee. Kent gave Fraser a new guitar capo and guitar strap, and a box of flat picks.”
“Do you know what kind?”
“Of picks?”
“Yes. And capo.”
“You’re serious.”
“Please.”
“I should think flat picks that he used. Fender heavies with holes punched in them.”
“You know this?” He couldn’t keep the astonishment from his voice.
“Yes. He constantly lost them. I’d find them on the pavement outside his house and he’d joke about keeping a supply in his car.”
And he’d throw them out to the crowd as souvenirs, McLaren recalled. “You wouldn’t know about the capo, by chance.”
“Fraser stopped Kent as he came home one day from school. Kent had just got out of his car and they talked on the pavement. Fraser opened his guitar case and handed Fraser a capo. One of his own. One of those made of the thick, heavy elastic and grommets near the ends to tighten it.”
* * * *
Jamie arrived in a police car devoid of flashing blue lights or screeching siren. In fact, he rolled up behind McLaren’s car so smoothly and silently that his tap on McLaren’s car window was the first McLaren knew of Jamie’s arrival. McLaren reiterated his case findings to Jamie, running over his reasoning in case he had overlooked anything. Jamie listened without interrupting, mentally sliding the puzzle pieces together as McLaren talked. At the end of the explanation Jamie nodded toward Fraser, who sat on his front porch strumming his guitar. “You do the talking. It’s your case.”
Without replying, McLaren took the lead and they walked up to Fraser.
The boy looked up as McLaren and Jamie came up the wa
lk, startled to see a police officer coming toward him. He appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, with brown eyes and short, brown hair combed back behind his ears. His arms were free of tattoos, prevalent in the current society, but the fingernails of his right hand were long. For finger picking, McLaren thought as he halted a few feet from the teen. Fraser stopped playing and set the guitar to his right side before he asked what they wanted.
“Some help on a case I’m investigating,” McLaren said as Jamie stood at ease a few feet to Fraser’s left. “This is Police Constable Kydd and I’m Michael McLaren.” He let their names and their significance sink in before he continued. “I understand you knew Kent Harrison, your former neighbor. Is that correct?”
Fraser slowly got to his feet, his sense alert to a police net closing around him. “Yes. I knew him. Nice man.” He glanced toward the street. His father had walked into the village center. “What’s this about?”
“You’ve got a girl friend.”
“Yeah.” His voice quivered. “Something happen to Constance?” He eyed Jamie, then glanced at the police car. “You’re police. Is that why you’re here, because she’s hurt?”
“Your father mentioned her when I was last here.”
“Oh, yes? I don’t remember.”
“You were in the back room, tuning your guitar. Your father said you were practicing for something and implied it was something for her.” He gave Fraser a moment to absorb what he was saying, then added, “You got a capo and some guitar picks from Kent Harrison.”
“Yeah. Like I said, he was a nice guy. He’d give you any—”
“But he wouldn’t give you lessons. Or advice.” McLaren stepped toward Fraser. “May I see that capo?”
“Are you kidding? You want to see my guitar capo? You’re nuts!”
“Is this it?” McLaren reached down and picked up the capo. He held it out so Jamie could see it. It was a small, palm-sized tool that clamped around the neck of a guitar to raise the pitch of the strings. A steel bar, about three inches long, was padded in a cylinder of hard rubber. To secure the bar to the guitar neck the guitarist stretched two heavy lengths of elastic around the back of the neck and fastened them to the tip of the metal bar, slipping the tip into one of the holes. Like a belt buckle poked into the belt’s hole. “It’s seen some hard use, Fraser. The elastic is frayed.” He tapped on the ends of the two lengths of elastic. The tape that deterred the fraying of the elastic was missing from one elastic piece; the other piece of tape was at an angle, nearly ready to fall off. Several small holes were spaced near two pieces’ ends and grommeted, like holes in a belt. A grommet was missing from the end of the badly frayed length of elastic. “The first grommet is gone,” he pointed out. “When did you lose that?”
Fraser stepped off the porch, disbelief in his eyes. “What the bloody hell does it matter? It’s an old capo; it’s worn out. How the hell do I know when the grommet popped out? You’re insane, mate.”
“I think you lost it at the boulder the night Kent Harrison died. I think you killed him, drove his body as near as you could get to the wood, carried him to the boulder and dumped him.”
“You’re daft. Anyway, even if I did that, why would I have a capo with me? Doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you had it and your flat picks with you because you were trying to get Kent to give you a lesson. It does if you had them in your pocket, ready to serenade your girl friend whenever the occasion arose, or in case you get a chance to try a friend’s guitar. I carry mine with me.” He plunged his hand into his trousers pocket and withdrew an elastic capo and a few flat picks. “Not that unusual, Fraser. Especially if you live for music and a chance to prove yourself.”
Fraser darted to his right, between McLaren and a boxwood shrub, and disappeared around the side of the house. McLaren yelled to Jamie, who dashed in the opposite direction, hoping to pin Fraser between the two of them. McLaren skirted the house, plunging through the perennial beds and between bushes, then burst into the back garden. Fraser wasn’t there.
McLaren yelled to Jamie, asking if he had seen Fraser. Jamie rushed into the garden. “No. He couldn’t have got past me. He must be back here.”
They approached the tool shed from opposite sides, motioning to each other that Jamie would go ahead to check the back of the shed and McLaren would try the door.
McLaren positioned himself at a right angle to the front corner of the building so he could see both Jamie and the shed’s door. Jamie moved as silently as a falcon plunging after its prey, a mere shadow floating over the land. He eased his head around the corner, his body angled out of sight. McLaren waited, watching Jamie’s taut body, ready to rush forward to tackle Fraser. Jamie stood upright suddenly and eyed McLaren, shaking his head before he crept to the opposite front corner of the shed.
Seeing that Jamie was placed strategically, McLaren edged to the building’s front. Standing with his back to the façade and to the side of the door, he extended his right arm. The pounding echoed off the back of the Unsworths’ house, startling the sparrows from the trees. No one opened the shed door. McLaren pounded again, calling to Fraser to come out. Still the door remained shut.
Jamie sneaked around the back and circled to the spot McLaren had vacated. From this angle several yards away he had an unobstructed view of the door. McLaren grabbed the latch and eased the door open.
The shed’s interior held only gardening tools, a few terra cotta flowerpots, and bags of fertilizer. Jamie could see the back and side walls easily. The door took up most of the front wall dimension, and the length that was left couldn’t conceal anyone. Fraser was not there.
Walking up to Jamie, McLaren nodded toward the house. “Unless he crashed through the hedges or scaled the wall, he’s inside.”
Jamie eyed the dense row of boxwood. No one could get through that mass of branches. And the brick wall, besides being slick with moss and mold, rose over his and McLaren’s heads, serving its purpose of keeping out people. Nodding, Jamie said, “Fraser’s too short to get over the wall. Besides, there are no scuffmarks on the bricks. Shall we see if he’s at home?”
The house showed no sign of life; no music or conversation flowed from the open windows, no figure showed itself. Only the back door, swinging slowly open in the breeze, hinted at recent activity.
McLaren reached the door first, but waited for Jamie. They entered slowly, peering cautiously into every gaping doorway before easing into the room. The back door opened onto a sun porch that, in turn, flowed into the kitchen. Jamie opened the pantry door, expecting Fraser to leap out, but met nothing more surprising than a half dozen aprons hanging on the back of the door.
They inched down the hallway, walking on the balls of their feet, trying to make no sound to alert Fraser of their location. The dining room and front lounge also harbored no one.
The faint sound of a window opening came from a back bedroom, and the men eased down the hall. Stopping at the room’s door, McLaren peaked inside. Fraser stood by the open window, pointing a knife to his girlfriend’s throat.
TWENTY-NINE
“You come any closer, I’ll kill her. I swear I will!” Fraser’s panic filled the room. He moved the knife so that the tip of the blade touched Constance’s throat. She let out a cry and closed her eyes.
“Fraser, please don’t hurt her.” McLaren inched through the doorway. “Nothing is worth hurting an innocent person.”
Fraser backed up, pulling Constance with him, until his calves touched the wall below the window. His left arm wrapped around her shoulders, hugging her to his chest; his left hand held the knife, keeping it firmly against her throat. He fumbled for the edge of the window with his right hand and half sat on the sill.
Silent as a wraith, Jamie eased from the hallway, out the back door, and sprinted around to the bedroom window. He inched up to the left side of the window, embracing the wall and the obscurity it gave.
Fraser’s right hand gripped the side of the window frame, balancin
g his body as he slid his hip onto the sill. The lower edge of the double hung window hit the teenager across his shoulders and he bent his torso slightly in readiness for his exit. In this position, Fraser’s back presented itself fully to Jamie and he moved to within an arm’s distance of the boy.
Seeing Jamie’s shoulder behind Fraser’s back, McLaren stepped farther into the room. He stood several feet from Constance, close enough to see the wet tear tracks on her cheeks and the red patch of skin where the knife point pressed against her skin. The girl’s eyes shone with tears and fright, and she stared at McLaren, silently pleading for help. “Stay right where you are.”
McLaren held out his arms, slowly rotating his wrists so Fraser could see his hands. “I’m not armed, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t have anything concealed, either.” He took a small step forward. “You can check me if you want.” His right hand grabbed the bottom of his shirt, ready to pull it up.
Fraser’s grip of Constance’s shoulders tightened. “I warned you,” he barked, his voice quavering. “Don’t come any closer. I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if I have to.”
“You’d hurt her just to get away from me?”
“That’s what I said.”
Constance turned her head from Fraser, her sobs nearly choking her.
Fraser pressed the knife blade flat against her throat, blanching the skin and magnifying his threat in the single action. He glared at McLaren as he yelled for Constance to shut up.
“I thought you loved her.”
“I do. More than my life, more than you can possibly understand.”
“If you love her, why would you want to hurt her?”
“Because…” Fraser screwed up his eyes, blinking away the tears that were already trailing down his cheeks. His voice quavered, but his grip on Constance and the knife remained firm.
“Because?”
“We made a pact.”
The answer startled McLaren, and for a second he couldn’t think. As the girl looked at Fraser, terror in her eyes, McLaren said, “Like Romeo and Juliet?”
Swan Song Page 25