Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  A silvery Mercedes-Benz shot out of the lane and onto the main thoroughfare. Eva sat behind the steering wheel, a determined, attentive look on her face. She passed McLaren, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her left hand holding a mobile phone to her ear.

  McLaren straightened from his slouch, tugged at the bill of his baseball cap to set it lower over his forehead, and eased his car onto the road. He was two cars behind Eva, but it shone bright in the sunlight.

  Traffic was moderate on the A632. Nearly sparse at times. McLaren found himself wishing for more vehicles as one of the cars ahead of him turned off, leaving one car between his and Eva’s. As they passed Kelstedge he wondered if they were making for Darleycote, the village where Janet had lived. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought of the people he’d spoken to and any reasons why Eva needed to consult with one of them. But as they passed Matlock, still traveling south, he abandoned the idea of Eva talking to Janet’s neighbor Ian O’Connor. She seemed to be heading for a rendezvous.

  They had turned onto the B5035, a smaller road connecting Wirksworth and Ashbourne. Miles of open fields flanking both sides of the tarmac did little to ease McLaren’s concern that Eva would spot him, but as she turned into the Carsington Water Nature Preserve he loudly exhaled. No one would turn in here to elude anyone, he reasoned. She was meeting someone here.

  He parked his car one lane west of Eva’s and fell in behind a group of chattering school children and teachers walking to the main building. Eva continued along the path to the left, heading toward the lake, and McLaren briefly felt exposed as his talkative camouflage deserted him. He stopped at a large sign recording the birds seen that day and waited for several seconds, pretending to read the list. When a family group passed him, he followed them.

  The path ran alongside the lake, weaving through clumps of trees and open fields. At times McLaren didn’t know why Eva didn’t see him, but she marched resolutely ahead, her focus on her destination.

  As he rounded the northwest tip of the lake the family stopped to consult a bird book. McLaren sent up a prayer, hoping Eva wouldn’t turn at that moment. He took several steps, then bent over, pretending to tie his shoe. As he straightened up, Eva glanced his way.

  She recognized him. That was obvious from her startled look. But she also thought quickly. She ran across the small footbridge and dashed toward a thicket of trees where the path branched farther up ahead.

  McLaren dashed after her, his shoes pounding dully on the packed sandy soil, his lungs pulling in air scented with dry leaves and moist earth. The path dipped and rose, sometimes rutted, sometimes smooth. He raced along, conscious of the thud of his feet hitting the hard earth, the nettles grabbing and snagging on his trousers, the cry of the birds startled from their feeding.

  Ahead, the path divided, one branch lower and merging into a copse, the other branch on elevated ground thick with tall grass and shrubs. Eva dashed up the slope and disappeared around a bend. McLaren, several hundred feet behind, tore over the level ground, trying to ignore the rocks that poked through the earth like whales breaching in an ocean.

  His shoe slid off the polished surface of a rock and he lurched sideways. The ankle muscle tightened and for a moment a sharp pain shot through his lower leg. He fell onto the rocky soil, his knee hitting a smooth stone and the palms of his hands pushing furrows into the loam. Wincing against the pain and cursing his clumsiness, he remained on his hands and knees for several seconds, sucking in the air in deep gulps. He got to his feet, uncertain if his ankle hurt from the trip or if he was merely out of breath. But he charged ahead, and as he regained flatter ground, the pain subsided. He rushed around a stand of trees. Eva had vanished.

  It seemed impossible, yet it appeared to be true. The path stretched before him, a tan, straight line aiming toward the south and the sun, with not a human being on the sandy strip.

  McLaren jogged down the path, scanning the land on his right and left sides. To his right, the land sloped slightly downward to the lake. Ducks and other water birds dotted its light blue surface and tall brown reeds poked through the unruffled water that threw back the color of the sky. Clumps of cattails snuggled up to the shoreline, the fuzzy heads nodding in the breeze. He squelched the impulse to wade through the shallow water to see if Eva were hiding among the thickets. No woman dressed as expensively as Eva dressed would muddy up her clothes like that.

  He ran several hundred yards farther south, glancing into the forest of pines and hardwoods lining the path on his left. Eva could be crouched behind a large boulder or tree trunk, but the search for her would be laughable in such an extensive area. Was she behind him or before him? How far into the forest had she run? Perhaps she had hid just around the bend and was even now doubling back the way they had come. It would be a useless search.

  He dusted off his sandy trousers and started back the way he’d come.

  A man and woman walked toward McLaren. He had a pair of binoculars around his neck and she held a bird book and a piece of paper. They chatted and looked toward the lake, alternately pointing to something and consulting their book. As they came within a few yards of McLaren, he walked up to them.

  “Excuse me.” McLaren smiled and stopped alongside the path. What was he going to say? Have you seen a smartly dressed woman running past you and looking over her shoulder… He glanced at the glasses and thought quickly. “Would you mind if I used your binoculars for a moment?”

  The man’s head jerked back and he frowned. “Where? I’m sorry but I don’t lend them to anyone.”

  “I don’t mean I’d run off with them. I just want to look into the wood for a minute. I won’t go anywhere with them. I’ll stay right here.”

  “Into the wood?” Clearly he hadn’t expected this. “Now? Here?” He glanced at the thick stand of trees crowning the ridge. They sat black and solid, a shield against the sunlight, a harbor of night and fears of the darkness.

  “Yes. Just for a second. I saw a…” He paused, near panic. What bird could he name? He pulled up a word from deep within his memory. “I think it was a goshawk.” When McLaren’s choice wasn’t challenged, he added, “I’m not sure. Could be a female sparrowhawk, but I’d like to find it, if I can.” He waited for what seemed hours for the man to remove the binoculars from around his neck and hand them to McLaren.

  “Goshawks are rather rare,” the man said as McLaren put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the woods. Where the hell was Eva?

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t want it to escape me if I could see it.”

  “The goshawk is bigger and heavier in the chest than the sparrowhawk. Could you tell anything as it flew?”

  “No, worse luck. I just caught a glimpse of it.”

  “Well, both species need woodlands to nest in and like open land for hunting. Though, if you saw one here, it most likely is a sparrowhawk. They like marshlands.” He watched McLaren do a second, slower sweep of the wood. “See anything?”

  “Just trees, squirrels and sparrows,” he added hurriedly, hoping the bird visited the wood. He handed the binoculars back to the birder. “Thanks. Hope I haven’t kept you too long.”

  “That’s all right. We’re just walking the route. Well,” he slipped the glasses strap back over his neck, “hope you find your bird.”

  “I hope I find her, too. Thanks.” He strode past, wondering if Eva was watching the comedy from her perch high in a tree.

  NINETEEN

  McLaren considered waiting close to Eva’s car so he could question her when she returned, but he felt it’d be a waste of time. He had no idea how long she’d be. Plus, he had more pressing items to get through.

  Who Eva had spoken to on the phone and why that conversation evidently demanded immediate reaction niggled McLaren the rest of the day. The short talk nearly sounded like code, with Eva conveying the meeting place without stating it. And the astonishment from her exclaimed “You’re joking; you’re not serious” implied something rather crucial betwe
en Eva and her caller.

  McLaren turned off the CD in his car, not wanting the distraction of music as he considered the identity of Eva’s caller. Someone she knew, obviously, and who was a good friend. You wouldn’t greet an acquaintance or business associate with “Hello, dear; what’s up?” So, who fit that description?

  Too many people, McLaren decided, as he eased his car out of the nature preserve’s car park. But as to why she’d run, that was clear. She was protecting the person she was meeting. Protecting his or her identity, reputation and future. He sighed heavily as the question he’d just asked himself reverberated in his mind: who fit that description?

  Someone Eva cared about very deeply. Her husband? A lover? Did she have a lover? Children? Was she shielding a son or daughter from him?

  He shoved the CD into the car’s player. He needed the distraction of the music to drown out the unceasing questions thundering in his ears. Eva Lister had given him more than a good run around the lake; she had probably handed him a sleepless night as well.

  * * * *

  Alan Ross had been the bass player with Janet’s group. He also surprised McLaren when he opened his door.

  Janet would have been thirty-eight if she were still living; Dan Wilshaw, her pianist, was forty. McLaren had assumed the third member of the trio would be of similar age. That’s why he feigned a cough to regain his dignity when Alan identified himself. He was twenty-five.

  The two men looked at each other, each, perhaps, expecting someone different from what stood before him. Alan Ross had the coloring of the Scots native to the Highlands—red hair, blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Of medium height and a wiry build, Alan seemed only marginally taller than the bass guitar he played. But McLaren thought the man had a strength that belied his thin frame. That strength showed itself in his eyes and his confrontational tone.

  “I told everything to the cops.” Alan crossed his arms over his chest. He remained in the open doorway, his legs apart, his breathing heavy, for all the world looking like a good bouncer. He also wore jeans. McLaren eyed them, looking for a missing button.

  “I appreciate that,” McLaren said, feeling his neck muscles tighten at the tacit confrontation. “But that was five years ago. I’m doing an independent investigation of Janet’s death and I’m hoping you can give me information on it.”

  “Her studio went up in flames and she was trapped inside. She died. What’s more to learn?”

  “You don’t seem very sorry about her death.”

  “Sure I’m sorry, but that doesn’t alter the fact of what happened.” His eyes swept over McLaren, one corner of his mouth twisting in disdain. “I already sent a card to her mum and went to the funeral.”

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  “Yeah. Now, hop it before I call the real coppers.”

  McLaren thrust his foot over the threshold, blocking Alan’s attempt to close the door.

  “Good way to get your foot broken, mate.”

  “Good way to continue our nice, friendly chat. Now.” McLaren put his hand on the edge of the door and continued. “I’d like some information about the day Janet died.” He smiled but his eyes stared into Alan’s, underlining his determination not to leave. “Had you been over to her house that day?”

  Alan shrugged. “That was five years ago. You remember what you were doing on a particular day five years ago?”

  “If it were linked to a big event I would. You don’t call Janet’s death a big event?”

  He shrugged again. “Sure. Yeah. I lost my job.”

  McLaren grabbed a handful of Alan’s T-shirt and pulled the man forward until only inches separated them. Towering above the man, McLaren said slowly, “Tender-hearted, aren’t you? A woman dies in a fire and all you can say is that you lost your job.” He twisted the shirt until it tightened around Alan’s body. Bringing his fist level with his chin forced Alan onto his tiptoes. His tone did not conceal his contempt, rushing out in a sneer contradicting his words. “You want to reconsider your demeanor?”

  “Bugger off.”

  McLaren’s right knee jammed into Alan’s crouch and a groan escaped Alan’s lips. He would have bent over if McLaren hadn’t held him upright by his shirt. He leaned forward slightly, so his lips were near Alan’s ear. “Now, shall we converse like gentlemen? Or shall I take a few minutes of boxing practice here instead of at the gym?” He smiled, waiting for Alan’s decision.

  Still trying to save his dignity, Alan stared at McLaren, his eyes never wavering. Although McLaren’s fist was wedged beneath Alan’s chin, Alan managed to speak, making his words understandable. “I could have you up for assault, McLaren.”

  “Me?” McLaren’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why? I’m just helping with your wardrobe. Getting a few wrinkles out of your clothes.” He swept his free hand over Alan’s back, as though brushing lint from the shirt, then slammed his open palm against Alan’s cheek. “How’s that? Better?”

  Alan blinked, his eyes tearing.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Alan. Haven’t decided yet to help me?” His palm found Alan’s cheek again and the smack echoed against the wooden doorjamb.

  Nodding as best he could, Alan mumbled that he just thought of something he’d like to tell McLaren.

  “I’m sure it will be interesting and helpful. Won’t it?” McLaren stared at Alan, his eyes mirroring the threat in his words. “You know, I have only so much patience. And I’ve had a bad day. Know what I mean?”

  Alan nodded slightly.

  “And trying to get justice, after all these years, for a beautiful lady who died in a fire. Well…” He lowered his fist, bringing Alan back to his normal stance, but he held on to the shirt. Just in case. “Now,” McLaren said, his voice lazy and warm, “what did you want to tell me?”

  Alan swallowed several times and cleared his throat. He avoided McLaren’s gaze and talked instead to the tree near the street until McLaren reminded him that wasn’t polite. Alan murmured his apology before adding that he thought there was more to Janet’s head wound than the police acknowledged.

  “And why is that?” McLaren said, relaxing his grip.

  “Just that the firefighters found the remains of a microphone in the fire debris.”

  “I know about that.”

  “But you probably don’t know that we never rehearsed in her studio. It was too small.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that someone had to have carried that mic into her studio. Maybe on the day she died. It sounded to me like the curved indentation could accommodate the round end of a mic quite well. Think about that.”

  McLaren raised his palm and Alan shrank back a step, but McLaren patted Alan’s cheek lightly. “So much nicer when we’re friendly, isn’t it? Thanks.” He walked to his car, his mind thinking about what Alan had just suggested.

  He also wondered why Alan had been so obstructive and uncaring about Janet. Odd for a person who had been financially supported at one time through Janet’s employment. McLaren grabbed his hand-held tape recorder and made a note to himself about checking out the history of the two people. There might be some old wound that still rubbed Alan raw.

  * * * *

  Nora woke suddenly, and found herself in a strange room. She blinked several times as she looked around her. When did she get that new television that sat in the corner? It was a telly, wasn’t it? But it looked odd, nothing more than a thin, flat screen. The turntable was the same, as was Janet’s photo on the table. But a book on the couch didn’t look familiar. She picked it up and read the title and author’s name. Had Janet dropped it by while Nora slept? You’d think there’d be a note if Janet had.

  She got up slowly, stiff from the position in which she’d fallen asleep. Late morning sunlight fell across the sofa and the nearest section of the area rug. The oak tree outside the window blazed in autumnal red and orange hues. Her hand went to her forehead, pressing against it, as though the presence of her
fingertips affirmed the reality of the scene. Hadn’t it been April just moments ago? Hadn’t Janet been urging me to come outside to see the spring crocus and tulips? Hadn’t she been singing, teasing me in that funny way of hers? Nora glanced around the room. Had Janet been playing a trick? Did she and some friend—Dan, perhaps, or Tom—carry me into the front room? Shouldn’t Janet be here?

  Nora walked into the kitchen and surveyed the room. Everything looked familiar. Nothing had altered or morphed into an odd, futuristic object. The curtains were the same yellow print, the walls were still painted light blue, and the table and chairs were the same white wooden set she remembered. Even down to the gouge on the table edge when Janet had accidentally tipped over her father’s heavy metal camera tripod. Nora placed her fingertip into the indentation, wanting a connection with the past. But nothing changed in the room. Janet didn’t appear, Nora’s husband wasn’t standing at the door, the chipped teapot wasn’t pristine. Sighing, Nora filled the electric kettle with water, flipped on the switch, and dropped a teabag into the mug, a souvenir she’d bought from Marks and Spencer to commemorate Charles’ and Diana’s wedding.

  When was Janet’s and Tom’s anniversary? Was it coming up, or had she missed it, overlooked it in the rush of their first CD release party? Nora walked over to the phone. She’d ring up Janet to ask, never mind the embarrassment of forgetting the date.

  But as she reached for the receiver a voice whispered in her head. Janet hadn’t married Tom; she hadn’t married anyone. She had a new boyfriend—her photographer, Miles. That’s how they had met. Janet had died five years ago. And the police were still working on the case, searching for her killer.