Torch Song
By Jo A. Hiestand
Published by L&L Dreamspell
London, Texas
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Copyright 2012 by Jo A. Hiestand
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-422-9
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
* * * *
“With hints of the 1940’s movie Laura, Michael McLaren is drawn with haunting music into the intricate path of attraction for a dead woman. It is easy to get caught up in the wonderful descriptions written by author Jo Hiestand, and then suddenly realize she just gave us a clue. Jo leads us along, following twists and turns, making us guess who the murderer is. I was so sure I knew who did it, and in the end, I was so wrong! Torch Song is an excellent mystery and well worth reading.”
—Ann Collins, Librarian, Webster Groves Public Library
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There aren’t many published books that come to life through one person’s effort or knowledge. Journals or diaries are the only things I can think of that would fit that example. Happily, Torch Song is the beneficiary of many persons’ knowledge and help. And for that I gratefully thank them:
Detective-Superintendent David Doxey (ret.), Derbyshire Constabulary, who cast his eye upon the entire manuscript, correcting procedural problems and McLaren’s tendency to wander at times; Detective-Sergeant Rob Church, Derbyshire Constabulary, who answered questions while anxiously awaiting Australia time; Dr. Ruth Anker, who supplied medical information; and long time St. Louis-area Police Officer/Detective/Sergeant Paul Hornung, for suggesting sensible tweaks, questioning hazy matters, illuminating police problems and catching the historical inconsistency.
A hardy handshake to the two best researchers in the world—or at least in Britain—Paul and Liz Davenport, who walked around Haddon Hall on my behalf, snapping photos, asking questions and jotting down notes to email me. Thank you for the descriptions so McLaren would feel right at home.
Thanks also go to Arthur Oestereich, St. Louis area Fire Marshal, for his help with fire properties, arson investigation and guiding me through the maze of fertilizer, diesel fuel and paint thinner. A big thank you also to Alison Moss, Head of Corporate Administration for the Derbyshire Fire and Rescue Service, for supplying answers about legalities, firefighters’ housing, shifts and service response time.
Thanks are also given to Lisa Smith, of L&L Dreamspell, for permitting a third McLaren case into the world!
Errors, if any exist, are solely mine.
Jo A. Hiestand
St. Louis, March 2012
* * * *
Dedication
For Don and Chris Keller, the photographer and the photographed. Hope this continues to be fun.
* * * *
Cast of Characters
Michael McLaren: former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary
Jamie Kydd: friend and police constable, Derbyshire Constabulary
Dena Ellison: McLaren’s girlfriend
Gwen Hulme: McLaren’s sister
Janet Ennis: singer, artist, caterer
Nora Ennis: Janet’s mother
Stuart Ennis: Janet’s father and Nora’s ex-husband
Connie Long: Stuart’s daughter
Tom Murray: Janet’s former boyfriend
Miles Tyson: Janet’s fiancé
Dan Wilshaw: pianist in Janet’s music trio
Ruth Wilshaw: Dan’s wife
Alan Ross: bass player in Janet’s music trio
Bruce Parrott: former musical trio member
Helene Brogan: Janet’s catering business partner
Sean Fallon: Janet’s former help
Kathryn Fallon: Sean’s wife
Eva Lister: catering client
Ian O’Connor: Janet’s neighbor
Nick Sayle: Janet’s bookkeeper
Corey Chappell: firefighter from Matlock Fire Services
Cheryl Kerrigan: Home Office forensic pathologist
Charlie Harvester: former colleague of McLaren’s, now a detective in the Derbyshire Constabulary
* * * *
ONE
“I’ve explained to you several times—each time you’ve been to see me, in fact—why your daughter’s death is classified as an accident. I don’t see what more you can accomplish by these semi-annual, if not more frequent, appeals.” Charlie Harvester leaned back in his chair, mutely signaling the end of the woman’s visit. He glanced at her once more before gathering up the notepad and pen. Each time she appeared it was the same thing, and each time he was convinced she was a mental case. Totally bonkers.
A sigh slipped between his lips. In all his years as a police officer, and even more so now as a detective-inspector, he’d never been subjected to such a leech. Or perhaps the better word for the woman was lunatic. She had to be, harping on about murder and arson and mysterious assailants. Sounded more like a movie than real life. The woman needed Pinewood Studios or the BBC film unit. Or a suite at the closest insane asylum. He sighed again, this time more audibly and conscious that she heard it. Usually he hid his personal thoughts and feelings from the public, but he didn’t care this time. He doubted if she’d remember the sigh or this visit by the time she got home.
The woman watched Harvester close the notepad cover and hold it squarely shut, repeatedly tapping its bottom edge in a great show of impatience and dismissal. She had learned during her recent visits to his office that he liked to play up his power and intelligence. He looked at her now, his lowered eyelids conveying both boredom and distain in one glance. Her face seemed to age more visibly with every visit, the creases etching deeper into her pale skin, the gray streaks nearly engulfing her dark hair. She sat up straighter, thinking it would show her determination more effectively, yet still felt small and powerless. As he stood up she realized that, despite the difference in their height, he was not that tall. Suffers from short man syndrome, she thought as she looked up at him.
“I don’t come to harass the police,” she said, her voice taking on a tinge of the frustration that overwhelmed her at each visit. “I have the utmost respect for the Derbyshire Constabulary.”
In spite of his feelings toward the woman, a hint of a smile revealed itself at the corners of Harvester’s mouth. He inclined his head slightly toward her, as though he embodied the entire police force.
She continued, the gesture having no effect on her, having endured workplace egos and glass ceilings. Charlie Harvester was just another tenpin to bowl down. “I’m here because I’m a mother who wants answers about my daughter’s death. Surely you can understand that.” She refrained from saying anything about his lack of professionalism; best not to antagonize him more than she was.
“Mrs. Ennis.” Harvester exhaled deeply and looked at the wall clock opposite his desk. “I don’t know what else I can say. You’ve visited the police stations in Buxton, Matlock and Ashbourne; you’ve talked to inspectors, constables, and detectives so you know why we don’t label her death as murder. I would think you would be happy to accept that. A murder has…well, it’s much more upsetting than an accident.”
“Upsetting is hardly the word I would have used
, Mr. Harvester. Anyway, it’s a matter of justice, isn’t it? Someone killed my daughter and he should be made to pay for it. It’s not so complicated.”
“Look, Mrs. Ennis, I don’t think this rehashing of the case is doing you any good. Besides wasting everyone’s time, keeping it a matter of constant conversation prevents you from healing. Now, why don’t you toddle off home, make yourself a nice hot cuppa, and let the matter lie.” He bent forward slightly, smiling, and patted her hand. It shook uncontrollably.
She removed her hand slowly, wanting him to realize her displeasure. “I may be an old age pensioner, Mr. Harvester, but I’m not senile.”
Harvester shrugged and thrust the offending hand into his trousers pocket. “I didn’t say that, Mrs. Ennis. I’m merely concerned for your emotional welfare. This can’t be healthy, going over and over the case every few months, dredging up old memories. Five years is a long time to pursue an accident case. Why don’t you give it a rest?”
“Five years is a long time, yes, but when it’s murder—”
“This isn’t doing either of us any good. We rehash the same things every time you come in. Look.” He tapped the notepad as he brought it to his chest. He held it as though it would escape. “Your daughter had been burning trash in the incinerator in the back garden of her house. People had been warned for months about the dangerous conditions for fires, ever since the drought began. It was a windy day but your daughter, evidently, had decided not to heed—” He stopped abruptly, deciding to rephrase the perceived slur. “She forgot about the high fire risk warning and the burn ban. No one is faulting her, Mrs. Ennis. It was an accident.” He was aware of the word, the conclusion of the fire service report and the coroner’s verdict at the inquest. The thing is really the woman’s problem, Harvester thought. How does she get the verdict overturned or the case reopened? It usually was a hell of a fight to get it done. He sniffed and wondered fleetingly if he was catching a cold. Wouldn’t doubt it. The woman increased his stress level every time she showed up, and stress could trigger the onslaught of a cold. He glanced at her as he grabbed his handkerchief. What else could it be but an accident, the incinerator so close to the wooden outbuilding, the wind, the items within the structure that fueled the combustion? Plain as a pikestaff to anyone looking at this from a logical, unemotional viewpoint.
He smiled, trying to emulate the Constabulary publicity posters lining the lobby of the police station, the helpful, concerned bobby talking to the awestruck kid. Except Nora Ennis wasn’t awestruck. Rather, she was frustrated and skeptical, even if she was in her seventies. Still, her mental confusion was evident, classifying her as a kid in his book. He glanced again at her gray hair— no matter its contemporary, short style it still spoke Age to him. Trying a different approach, he softened his voice. “I’m sorry your daughter tripped and was knocked unconscious, Mrs. Ennis. Dying like that…well, I know how horrific you imagine it was for her. But the postmortem examination found she died of smoke inhalation. She was unconscious,” he repeated, hoping the finding would finally sink into the woman’s brain. “She couldn’t have known or felt anything. Now, I’m afraid I really must end our conversation. I have to meet with the Superintendent in a few minutes.”
He flashed the smile again. Nora thought it would be more effective if his eyes showed some warmth. “I honestly don’t mean to belabor this,” she said as Harvester moved toward the door, “but that indentation of the brain tissue. Even the pathologist said—”
Harvester pressed his lips together, as though mentally laboring over a response. Thrusting out his chin, he said rather slowly, “She tripped and fell, Mrs. Ennis. I’m sorry, but that’s how it happened. I don’t know why you’re so keen to prove this was a case of murder. There was nothing under her fingernails to suggest a fight so she wasn’t defending herself from your alleged attacker. There were no drag marks on the grass to indicate she had been taken to and shut up in her studio. She hit her head while trying to escape from the studio when the fire got out of control. If you don’t like it, I can’t help it, but that is what happened.”
“But the pathologist—”
“I really have to go, Mrs. Ennis.”
“Why won’t anyone look into this? Five years is a long time. There have been a lot of technical advancements, haven’t there? DNA testing and such? Can’t you look at the case again, sift through the fire debris?”
“Really, Mrs. Ennis—”
“Haven’t you ever loved someone so much, Mr. Harvester? If you have, you wouldn’t rest if this had happened to your family member.”
She knew it was a mistake as soon as she saw Harvester’s lips press together and his fingers grip the edge of the notepad. In a barely audible voice, he said, “If you feel so keenly about this, you can always go elsewhere, but frankly, I don’t see what that will gain you. The case is closed.” The slamming door underscored his anger.
TWO
“Do you know what it’s like to lose a child to murder?” The woman sitting across from McLaren looked as though she knew. Her wrinkled face seemed to hold more than age; it appeared to hold defeat, grief and pain. And frustration. Her left hand shook slightly as she raised the teacup to her lips, a gesture McLaren thought bought her time, or distanced her from the upsetting subject.
He shook his head, feeling inadequate. How could he talk to a parent about such a loss? He hadn’t any kids. He hadn’t even lost anyone in such a violent manner. Maybe she would do better going elsewhere, employing a real private investigator, someone with whom she might share a bond.
He suggested it, slowly and with an edge of hesitation to his voice. A rumble of thunder overhead seemed to echo his unspoken grumbling and made many of the tearoom’s patrons glance outside. “Not that I don’t want to help you,” McLaren said, watching her eyes for a glint of understanding. They were gray and lifeless, barely discernible against the tan curtains behind her. He let the waitress wheel the teacart past their table before adding, “I feel for you, for your loss. But five years—” He broke off, keenly aware she was disappointed in his quick decision. Or was it cowardice? The thought shocked him, jolted him back to a scene last year when he had been a police detective. When he had wavered for a moment, the irreversible decision to quit his job suddenly screamed louder in his ear than his anger to stand up for injustice. Ideals were marvelous beacons and goals, but the fundamentals of earning a living threatened to outshine his principles.
“Five years,” she repeated, her voice flat and tired, as though this explanation was beyond her patience. “Too long, you’re saying, however indirectly. Well, my daughter’s been dead five years 28th of September and that’s too long. And she was too young.” The teacup rattled slightly as she replaced it on the saucer and her head twitched again in a hint of disagreement.
Parkinson’s disease, McLaren thought, watching her left hand shake. On top of everything else she has to contend with.
“I sought you out on purpose.” Nora Ennis picked up her handbag. She placed her palm on top of the table, ready to get up. “I was told you helped people, that you fought injustice.”
“I do fight injustice, Mrs. Ennis.”
“But only when you don’t have to work too hard.”
McLaren reddened. Was the statement true? He didn’t think so, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken on the two previous cold cases of unsolved murders. But if he gave that impression now, to this woman who obviously needed him… Trying to patch up the misconception, he said, “Righting wrongs—however important that is, and however satisfying for me to accomplish—doesn’t keep the roof over my head. I’m not a licensed private investigator. Digging into cold cases isn’t my full time job. Please, sit back down. It’s still raining.”
He nodded toward the two women who passed their table, their nylon jackets wet, their shoes leaving damp imprints on the carpet.
Nora Ennis relaxed her arm and sank back into her chair. The ding of the cash register rang into the air while she set her handbag
on her lap. “But you do it, you have done it.”
“I have. But I fell into the first one. The woman came to me.”
“Rather like I’m doing now.”
He nodded, feeling uncomfortable with the parallel cases.
“And you took that first case,” she reminded him, remarkably knowledgeable. “Verity Dwyer told me you did.”
“The lady from Noah’s Ark animal shelter,” he said, his mind flashing back to June. “You know her, I assume.”
“We’re friends, yes. She spoke highly of you, Mr. McLaren.”
“Nice to hear. Yes, I did take that case. Though maybe I shouldn’t have done.”
“Why? Didn’t you like being back at your old job, however unofficial it was?”
Images of Linnet Isherwood, the woman who had persuaded him to forsake his rock hammer, chisel and lonely patch of Derbyshire field, welled up in his mind’s eye. She had not only troubled to locate him but also had climbed a rather steep hill on a Sahara-like June day to ask for his help. McLaren nodded at the remembrance and wondered if he weren’t trading Linnet Isherwood for Nora Ennis. Eyeing Nora, he said rather irritably, “We’re not here to talk about my fling with playing Philip Marlowe—however brief or pleasant it was.”
“You’re right, we’re not. And you’ve assured me many times you’re not an actual private eye. More of a concerned citizen.” Nora Ennis smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her gaze on her fingertips. Her voice sounded tired overall, but a softness had crept into her words. Hope?
“There are a lot of real private investigators in Manchester, Mrs. Ennis. In Sheffield, too, if that’s closer to you. Why not rent one of them? Any one of them would be eager to take on your case. I don’t know why you asked me, anyway, despite Verity Dwyer’s glowing reference.” This last was said with a hint of sarcasm coating his words. “I’m not a licensed private cop.”
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