Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Lovely. It’s just outside Kirkfield. Closer to Thorpe than to Kirkfield, actually. Here.” She wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Do you know the area?”

  “My fiancée lives in Kirkfield.”

  “Good. That’s settled. It was meant to be.” She opened the front door and stood there while he slowly crossed the room. “You needn’t worry about anyone else being there. Janet owned it. No one else has a key. You use it whenever you wish, Mr. McLaren. I-I’m thrilled someone she would have liked will be looking after it.”

  He paused on the front porch, his mind still trying to make sense of it. He thanked Nora again and said he’d keep the cottage in mint condition.

  “I believe you will. Oh, and you will let me know what you find out about those monthly payments, won’t you?”

  The door closed and the deadbolt clicked into place as he stepped off the front porch and walked to his car.

  For the next few hours he talked to other owners of catering companies. Many were reluctant to speak so personally to him, but Janet Ennis’ name proved to be an ‘open sesame,’ and they revealed their secrets. In every instance they uttered the same person’s name.

  But blackmail did not necessarily link to murder. If anything, it was usually the blackmailer who was murdered. And if he were correct in his conclusion, Janet wasn’t the blackmailer.

  He rang up Janet’s bookkeeper, made an appointment for the afternoon, then stopped for lunch. The Coach House chippy on Buxton’s High Street had seen its weekday lunch peak and McLaren easily found a table. Nicely warm, the restaurant held the aromas of fish and chips and vinegar. McLaren ordered plaice, chips and a slice of homemade pie. He took out his case notes but instead of reviewing them he sent a text message to Dena, asking if they could meet for dinner.

  A woman and man sitting across from him were talking, their voices barely audible, their heads nearly touching as they bent over some sheets of paper. A working lunch, McLaren thought, about to dismiss the couple. But the woman’s coppery hair drew his attention. She sat in a shaft of sunlight that seemed to ignite the redder strands. That plus her blue eyes shone with a joy of life. The man seated next to her seemed to share that same passion, for although it was evident they were supposed to be talking over the information on the pages before them, his eyes never left the woman’s face. Despite his gray hair, he looked to be the same age as her—mid thirties, perhaps. And despite the woman’s ten or fifteen pounds of extra weight, the man evidently was deeply attracted to her.

  McLaren caught the name ‘Simcock’ and assumed they were police officers. Not many other people in Buxton would know who the Constabulary’s detective-superintendent was. He abandoned his speculation as the waitress set his lunch before him.

  Twenty minutes later he was in his car and driving south to Ashbourne. An old market town, Ashbourne was famous for its gingerbread, annual no-holds-barred Shrovetide football game, and pub sign that spanned the width of the town’s main road. On most any other day, McLaren might have stopped for a stroll around the town, but he wanted to get on with the case—he felt he was close to ending it.

  Nick Sayle’s office was in one of the many back courts that nestled in the town’s twisting lanes. Cobblestones rounded from centuries of foot traffic gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and small puddles of water in lower depressions reminded him of last night’s rain. His footsteps rang dully on the smooth surface and he glanced at adjacent shops as he passed. Confectionery shop, pet shop, stationers, bookshop. Each building spoke of its ancestry through its black-and-white Tudor façade. McLaren glanced at the grinning stone head over the accountant’s doorway and entered the office.

  A receptionist looked up from her computer screen, smiled and inquired if she could be of assistance. When McLaren stated his name and appointment time, she motioned him to a chair and summoned Nick Sayle.

  McLaren had just picked up a magazine from the side table when Nick came into the reception area. Heavy set, mustached and in his mid forties, the bookkeeper firmly grasped McLaren’s hand, asked if he could get McLaren coffee, tea or water, then led him down a long corridor and into his office. He waited until McLaren seated himself before closing the door and sitting opposite him.

  “You said on the phone that you needed my help.” Nick peered at McLaren, his eyes dark behind the lenses of his glasses. “How?”

  Far from echoing the building’s ancient exterior, the office had leapt into the modern age with Scandinavian style furniture and a dark green thick pile rug. Framed photos of landscapes broke up the monotony of the apple-green painted walls. The only obvious nod to the man’s job was the row of lateral filing cabinets opposite the window and a computer on the desk. Other than that, it could have served very nicely as someone’s den.

  McLaren settled back in his chair and briefly related the main facts about Janet’s case and the odd monthly withdrawals from her bank account. “I know I have no authority to delve into this, and you have no obligation to tell me, but I believe that these monthly withdrawals may very well be connected to Janet Ennis’ death and it was not an accident. It might help with my investigation.”

  Nick’s index finger went to the bridge of his glasses and pushed the frames back farther up on his nose. “This is highly irregular, I assume you know.”

  “Certainly. But Mrs. Ennis, Janet’s mother, doesn’t know anything concerning her daughter’s finances. The only reason I’m asking is because I believe it will point to Janet’s killer.” He handed one of Jamie’s business cards to Nick. “Jamie Lynch is a police detective with the Derbyshire Constabulary. You can complain to him if you hear that I’ve overstepped any boundaries you set up, or if I’ve done anything unethical. I realize you don’t know me, but I swear that this information will go no further than between you and me.”

  Nick took the card and looked at it. He picked up the phone receiver and punched in the number of the police department’s sectional headquarters in Buxton. When he asked to speak to Jamie Lynch he was told Jamie would be in the following morning and was there a message Nick would like to leave?

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll catch him up later.” He hung up and nodded. “Okay. You seem to be legitimate. How can I help you?”

  “Did you know about these monthly withdrawals?”

  “Yes, though Janet hadn’t asked me specifically if she had the money to back the withdrawals. It wasn’t my place to question her every purchase, but I did advise her on some matters.”

  “Was this one of them?”

  “Yes. I knew what she was doing. I admit at first, when she told me about it, I was not for it. She wasn’t a pauper, but she wasn’t wealthy. She had a good, steady income from her catering business and from her music career, but that didn’t mean she could spend freely.”

  “These withdrawals…why did she need the same amount each month?” He looked at Nick, stealing himself for a revelation about blackmail.

  “She gave it to Sean Fallon.”

  McLaren’s eyebrow shot up and he leaned forward. “Sorry?”

  “Sean Fallon. A former employee in her catering business. She gave him money.”

  Having recovered some of his composure, McLaren said, “Those statements extend past the date when Sean was fired.”

  “Correct. His position was terminated in May, if I remember correctly.”

  “Janet died in September. Four months later. Had this to do with his inclusion in her will?”

  “You know about the will, then.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Ennis showed it to me. He’s mentioned in the will. Isn’t that rather odd that she’d keep an employee she’d terminated not only in her will but, evidently, continue handing him money? If what you say about the monthly withdrawals is true…”

  “It’s true.” He adjusted his glasses before continuing. “It’s all quite simple, really. Janet had a huge, loving heart. She knew how hard it was to get established in a career. Not just in the arts, but in anything
striking out on your own. Janet knew Sean had aspirations of becoming a chef and opening his own restaurant one day. Due to Sean’s criminal past she knew it would be hard for him to get a loan to set up his business. She wanted to help him with his dream. She included him in her will. Yes, I know she fired him,” Nick added as McLaren opened his mouth. “But I think that was anger speaking at the moment. She wanted to make amends.”

  “So she wrote him into her will. If she felt so bad about firing him, why didn’t she reinstate him later?”

  “She was thinking about it and had just decided in September to ask him back.”

  “But she died before she could do it,” McLaren finished.

  “Incredibly tragic. But, yes. Fortunately she left him in her will, hoping that would help him. But she had a more immediate solution; she also wanted to give him money now, before she died—hopefully at a ripe, old age—so he could actually get his restaurant off the ground. She withdrew the monthly sums from her bank account and we set it up in an account for Sean. I held off paying it to him until I learned that he was making noises in that effort. I knew he had a job as a chef, but my informant hadn’t heard of him talking about his ownership dream. Perhaps that is still in the works.”

  “Then, the money from the will is to come later, to provide him with security to back his restaurant when it is going.”

  “Precisely. The money now, the money Janet was withdrawing monthly, went into the fund that Sean is to get the minute I hear that he’s actually working on his restaurant. Money to finance his dream, you might say.” Nick removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “That just about does it, yes. Thank you.” He started to stand up.

  “Janet gave money to someone else, Mr. McLaren. Do you know about that, or have you the information already?”

  McLaren sat down again and looked at the man in astonishment. “Dan Wilshaw, perhaps? Her other band member?”

  “Not at all. Her father.”

  “Her father!” Stuart Ennis’ hatred for Janet rushed back at McLaren with all the volume he’d previously heard. McLaren leaned forward slightly and asked, “You’re certain about this? Stuart Ennis?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite certain. It had been going on for nearly a year. A monthly cash payment of one hundred pounds.”

  “Do you recall the starting and ending dates of this?”

  Nick consulted the paper before him. “It ended six years ago and, as I said, ran for just a year. So it started seven—”

  “Have you any idea why Janet gave her father money? Was he disabled?” McLaren didn’t think so, for the man had seemed fit enough raking his leaves.

  “The man seemed healthy, at least the few times I saw him. No, Janet was a kind, caring person, as I mentioned. She wanted to ease her father’s financial burden and thought the extra hundred pounds a month would help.”

  “What financial burden did he have?”

  “It was no secret, at least from Janet and me. Her half sister, Constance, had medical bills. Janet was helping her father pay them.”

  “Why did Constance have medical bills? What was wrong with her?”

  “Oh! I thought you knew. She’d been in a car accident and ended up in a coma. She died in the hospital.”

  “Car accident?”

  “Yes. Incredibly tragic. Her boyfriend had been driving. He was unharmed. Sadly, that often happens, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you remember the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Indeed. Not that I knew him personally, but he was also a member of Janet’s group. Alan Ross. Do you know him?”

  McLaren got up, none too steadily, and thanked the man.

  “Any time, Mr. McLaren. Anything to help Janet.”

  “I think you can help her now by locating Sean and giving him that money.”

  “He’s ready to plan his restaurant, then?”

  “More than you can imagine.” He left with Nick’s thanks following him out the door.

  * * * *

  McLaren walked around Ashbourne, trying to think through the puzzle of names and motives. If Janet’s half sister, Connie, died six years ago at the age of nineteen, and Alan was now in his mid twenties… They’d have been the same age while they were seeing each other. And they were dating at the time of the car crash. If Alan had been driving, that might explain his anger, but six years was a long time to hold it. Still, he knew of fiancés who mourned the death of their intended for years, the anger at the world too great to let go.

  Had Connie introduced Alan to Janet, or was it the other way round? McLaren paused by the ancient pub sign that spanned the street. The group had been together little more than a year but ended tragically on Janet’s death five years ago. So the group had been born slightly after Alan and Connie began dating. Not that it made much difference in the case, but McLaren liked to have his facts straight. He sauntered back to his car and drove to Stuart Ennis’ house.

  * * * *

  “You back again?” Stuart growled on opening the door and seeing McLaren standing on the doorstep. “What’s the matter—you forget where you put your brain?”

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute, Mr. Ennis.” McLaren took a deep breath, determined not to antagonize the man or let his own feelings explode.

  “Fine. But I don’t want to talk to you. Clear off.” He started to shut the door but McLaren put his hand on the edge of the door and pulled it open. “Please. Just one minute. It’s about Connie and Alan.”

  Stuart’s mouth opened slightly and his jaw quivered. He grabbed on to the doorknob and stared into McLaren’s eyes. “Y-you know about them?”

  “Yes. In a rather roundabout manner, but I know about them.”

  “What do you want? Money to keep quiet? Nora doesn’t know about Connie. I don’t want her to know. It was an indiscretion, it happened just that once. I-I don’t have much money. Connie’s medical bills wiped me out.” He stopped, his gaze on McLaren, perhaps judging what the man would do.

  “Mr. Ennis, I’m not here to blackmail you. Whatever you did is between your conscience and God. And Nora, if you eventually tell her. I’d just like to ask if you know why Alan disliked Janet so much. I find it hard to believe it was over his pay. People may grumble that they’re not getting what they think is fair for their work, but it’s five years later and Alan is still angry.”

  “I think that should come from Alan. If he’s still irate—”

  “He won’t talk to me, Mr. Ennis. I don’t want to know life histories or anything remotely private. I just want to get to the bottom of Janet’s case, and I believe Alan’s feelings may have some bearing on this. Won’t you tell me?” He stood there, quiet and patient, watching Stuart’s face.

  The man sighed, nodded, and said, “Alan was driving the night of the car crash. He walked away with minor cuts and scrapes and Connie ended up in hospital. She was in a coma for months, nearly a year, and died without gaining consciousness. She and Alan had talked about marriage, ‘sometime’ when Alan made more money and they could afford a flat.”

  “So Alan’s happiness crumbled when Connie died and he blames Janet, for some reason, for this.”

  “Yes. I’d never seen two people so much in love or so obviously in love. He would light up when he saw Connie. You could feel the electricity flow between them, they loved each other so deeply. He met Connie and just about right away she introduced him to Janet. He was looking for a job in the music field and Janet was looking for a bassist. So…” He shrugged and smiled weakly at McLaren.

  “And you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Me…what?” The older man’s watery eyes turned slightly defiant.

  “Divorcing parents are not that uncommon when something tragic happens to a child. I can understand why you and Nora parted ways when Janet died. But why do you so obviously dislike Janet? When I asked you earlier about her, you spoke of her as though she was the vilest thing on earth.”

&nb
sp; “Not what you’d expect from a father, eh?”

  “No. You needn’t answer me, of course, but I’m curious.”

  “Am I still a suspect in her death?”

  McLaren flashed a smile and shrugged. “I can’t answer that until I know why you feel so strongly about Janet.”

  “Depends on my motive, then, as to where you place me. Well, you can lump Alan and me in the same group, then. Connie was my love child. I would’ve done anything for her. I adored her mother. Nora and I ran out of love in our first year of marriage. Consequently, I never had much feeling for Janet. She reminded me of Nora and the mistake I’d made with the marriage. Oh, I know, I could have divorced Nora that first year, but I needed a wife and family to make my career look good. Luckily, I wasn’t home that much, so I didn’t have to endure the home life. I guess I just never really got over Connie’s death, and then the following year Janet died. It-it’s just too much for me. But no, I didn’t kill Janet. I didn’t care that much about her one way or the other. And don’t you have to either love deeply or hate greatly to commit murder?”

  McLaren walked back to his car as Stuart slowly closed the door.

  * * * *

  Janet’s cottage was little more than five miles north of Ashbourne, between the main artery of the A515 and the River Dove. McLaren took the smaller B road north of Thorpe and soon located the stone getaway. Nestled in the undulating land of Dove Dale, the cottage seemed part of its surroundings. Gray stone, slate and dark timber came together in a one-storey building. Pines and oaks stretched their boughs over the cottage roof and spent mums huddled around the foundation. It must look wonderful in the morning sun, McLaren thought as he walked to the front door. The plants were nothing more than withered deadheads and brittle stems. Dull, brown leaves carpeted the pathway. They crunched sharply in the quiet and McLaren wondered if he were startling anyone.

  Despite the cottage’s general air of vacancy, the key slid easily into the door lock. He turned the tumblers and a satisfying click released the catch. The door hinges squealed as he pushed open the wooden door, and he stood in the threshold while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.