Chapter Four
That had been this morning. He was home now. The storm had spent itself, leaving a fresh washed scent in the air. Seated in his back room, with the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, he tried to think rationally. Of course he didn’t want to get mixed up in a repeat of the Linnet Isherwood case. But Nora Ennis did seem sincere. And totally cognizant despite the early dementia development. Was there really something he could investigate?
He took another sip of coffee before re-reading the notes she had given him. Janet Ennis’ entire life had been reduced to one sheet of paper. Succinct, plain and short. Devoid of the colorful detail that makes life worth living. Settling back into the sofa, he grabbed the photographs. Nora had included a casual shot along with the professional portrait. The candid photo showed a confident, happy young woman of thirty-five, dressed in tired blue jeans, a maroon t-shirt and sandals. She sat on top of a low stone wall, a flower in her hand and held out, as if offering it to the photographer. McLaren laid that aside and picked up the second photo. The youthful face showed no signs of aging, so presumably the two had been taken about the same time. Janet still smiled, confident in her career, perhaps, and the underlying confidence shone from her eyes. But in the more formal, studio pose she seemed full of fire and ready to tackle anything.
McLaren sighed, the familiar feeling of infuriation creeping over him. He had stayed behind at the restaurant after Nora Ennis left, deliberating over whether or not it was wise after all to agree to take the case. He drank the coffee pot dry and, much to the waitress’ annoyance, ordered another sandwich and hot tea. But he had remained at the table, dawdling over his meal and staring at Janet’s soulful eyes. Not that a woman’s eyes or beauty ever had any professional effect on him. He learned long ago not to get trapped by physical looks. But the story did intrigue him, especially when coupled with Harvester’s refusal to look into the case again. Maybe Nora and Janet deserved a second chance.
Nora had known how to interest him, how to crack the core of his emotions. When he protested again that he had pending dry stone walls that needed fixing and that he was too old to be running around the county tracking down a murderer, she scoffed, replying that he couldn’t be forty years old yet and that he was in better shape than most twenty year olds.
McLaren had admitted to her that he was thirty-seven and had enjoyed working on the last two cases he’d taken on. But he hadn’t admitted that the surge of adrenaline he got from investigating made him feel more alive than anything else in his life at the moment. And, he confessed now, in the privacy of his home, he yearned for that feeling again.
“Then Janet’s case should prove just as satisfactory to you as the others have,” Nora had countered. “And as long as you’re confessing, Mr. McLaren, I will open my soul to you. I know my dementia is worsening—my doctor has given me an idea of what to expect. That, coupled with the Parkinson’s I have, doesn’t paint a rosy future for me. Even if I escape the deterioration of memory and thought process that the later stages of Parkinson’s bring, I believe Alzheimer’s will claim me. I’m just selfish enough to want to see my daughter’s killer caught while I am aware of the event. I can face whatever health future is in store for me if I know her killer has been brought to justice.”
Which wasn’t dementia talking at all, McLaren admitted to himself. So he told her he would investigate the case, hugging her as she stood up to leave and giving her a pep talk.
But now, seated in his back room, with the evening creeping over the landscape, he wondered if he shouldn’t have looked into the case a bit before telling Nora he’d take it on. Were his hope-filled words more for her benefit or for his? Besides wanting to tangle with Harvester again, was he really motivated by the injustice Nora had received at Harvester’s hands?
Yes, he told himself minutes later. He was incensed about the whole damned thing: about the coppers’ indifference, about Harvester’s martyred attitude, about a tragic end to a young life. About the five years of suffering Nora endured and no one caring enough to help her. So he jumped in, without fully knowing the details, ready to blow the cobwebs from the case and drag it in front of Harvester’s nose. Ready to crack old alibis and stubborn heads, ready to bring justice to the two women.
He looked up from the paper before him, drawn suddenly to the photo on the wall opposite him. Dena, his girlfriend, smiled at him. Encouraging, believing in him, giving her blessing and telling him that he needed to do this. He smiled back, downed a quick swallow of coffee, then scanned the sheet of paper again.
The case boiled down to reports and rulings. Police and fire service investigation and reports, forensic chemists’ decision, the coroner’s inquest and the resulting verdict. No witnesses, no clear motive. So the ruling came down as death by accident, and the cops were standing by that. Case closed. The end.
But not so fast, McLaren thought as he read Nora’s account. It didn’t differ from the police report except with regards to the manner of death. The police favored accident; Nora and Janet’s friends favored murder. The case may have never made it to a real jury but this self-proclaimed jury was hung.
The case story and details were becoming familiar as he re-read the story in the quiet of his house, imagining the scenario and placing Janet in it. It looked to be straight forward enough. She had been found dead in her artist’s studio in the rear of her back garden. Myles Tyson had come over at eight for dinner that September Saturday, not certain if he’d be welcomed, since they’d had a tiff early that afternoon. He’d arrived with a bouquet, an apology and an explanation. He didn’t get to offer any of them to her, though the police were interested in the latter.
The police questioned him, at first suspicious that he’d had something to do with the fire and Janet’s death. But unless he was a superb actor, his grief seemed real enough, and he was not charged with anything.
McLaren leaned back, his head resting on the top edge of the sofa, and let the sheet of paper flutter onto the coffee table. His fingertips found the wooden and ceramic beads of his necklace and rolled them, much in the fashion of worry beads. He liked the feel of them and often toyed with them when he thought. Outdoor sounds of cawing rooks and barking dogs filtered through the half open window but McLaren didn’t hear them. Rubbing his fingertips over his forehead he tried to remember what Nora told him. Not that it had been complicated or that he’d been pelted with information. But after Nora enlivened the conversation with Harvester’s name, McLaren found it difficult to focus on anything else.
He sat up, downed the last of the coffee, Harvester’s face shimmering before him in the growing dusk. This was a hell of a way to begin an investigation, he told himself. Prejudiced and focused on avenging himself on Harvester. Anyway, he didn’t even know if I would investigate it. He had those two walls to fix near Bakewell, and he needed to paint the garage door this autumn. Besides, he’d like to spend the day with Dena, perhaps go ’round to Haddon Hall or Calke Abbey, have a picnic before the weather turned, see about a gig with his group at that fair… McLaren exhaled heavily and stood up, his gaze on the opposite wall where Dena seemed to mock him from her photograph. She’d know he was avoiding something if he rang her up and proposed a day out among the delights of Derbyshire. Not that he was devoid of a romantic gesture or candlelit dinner, but it happened so infrequently that the suggestion would have the whiff of a fishmonger because they’d spent the day together last Saturday.
McLaren’s gaze drifted to the photo neighboring Dena’s. He and a mate from early in both of their careers eyed him, laughing like a drain at his idea. He picked up the coffee mug and walked into the kitchen, scowling. Bloody marvelous. He couldn’t even fool himself.
He fixed a salmon and cucumber sandwich, heated up a bowl of potato and leek soup and took his meal into the back room. He turned on the CD player, put on a recording of Chopin nocturnes, and sat down to eat. But several minutes later he put down his untasted sandwich, switched the CD for the
one Nora Ennis gave him, brought along in the small, battered manila envelope because she’d been sure…or hopeful…of his help. He punched the Play button, not expecting much. After all, Janet Ennis wasn’t a Name. She had dabbled in singing torch songs as she had everything else in her life, evidently. Singing was another creative outlet, along with her cooking and painting and gardening. But as the lyrics of the first song washed over McLaren, he found himself standing by the large back window, gazing out into the deepening dusk, listening to the smooth, warm voice. Janet was singing “The Very Thought of You” and the sound washed over him like liquid silk. They seemed to be alone in the room, her standing beside him and singing only for him. He turned, half expecting to see her sultry eyes and impish smile, disappointed when he didn’t see her perched on the arm of the sofa or sitting beside the fireplace.
He shook his head, surprised he had such a strong reaction to a song and a woman he had never met, and wandered back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. When he returned to the back room Janet was crooning “These Foolish Things.”
You’ve got it right there. McLaren tilted back his head in a long swallow. I’m too old to act so foolish… But the singer and the lyrics drew him again into her world and McLaren succumbed to the magic, sagging against the sofa cushions and imagining her leaning against a baby grand piano.
The voice lulled him to sleep, sweeping over him like warm waves of a tropical ocean. So it was with a start that he woke some time later, confused. She was singing a song he had never heard before. Of course he wasn’t a student of the bluesy unrequited love songs, but he was a student of music. He’d have thought sometime in his nearly four decades of life he’d have heard of the title. He listened, the lyrics searing into his mind. When the song had finished, he got up, walked over to the stereo cabinet and started the song again. This time he heard it all the way through.
Where does the sun go
When it leaves the sky?
How do all the winds blow
Or a robin fly?
How can my poor heart beat
Now that you are gone,
Marking off Time’s slow creep
To a lost-love song?
~*~
You promised me one single thing:
That you’d never leave my side.
~*~
Spring turns into summer
And still you are not here.
Time becomes the drummer,
Months fade into years.
This world spins through its seasons,
The stars traverse the sky.
You never told the reason,
Just left without good-bye.
~*~
You promised me one single thing:
That you’d never leave my side.
~*~
Just the other night I
Cried aloud your name.
I got no one to love and
I have got no one to blame.
Drowning in my memories
Is a painful way to die.
Throw a lifeline out to me
And never leave my side.
~*~
You promised me one single thing:
That you’d never leave my side.
~*~
He punched the Repeat button on the CD player, programming it to replay a dozen times, then reclaimed the sofa. He lost track of the repeat number as he fell asleep.
****
Tuesday morning woke McLaren with a murder of crows squawking outside the back room window. He blinked, momentarily floating in his dream. Then, as the birds’ squabbling grew louder, he realized where he was, and that it was the next day. Standing, he stretched and watched the crows separate into two groups and fly off. Two ways of looking at every problem, he thought, grinning. He blew a kiss to Dena’s photo and reminded himself that he was a lucky man to have the love of a woman who might have ended up with some bloke from her own social status. He gathered Janet’s photos and case notes and put them back into the manila envelope. Then he took his shower, dressed in trousers and a short-sleeved polo shirt, and poured a cup of coffee before settling himself at his desk. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, then lifted the phone receiver and punched in the number for Jamie Kydd. His friend answered almost immediately.
“Mike! It’s a little early for a beer but I’ll make an exception for you.” Jamie’s voice sounded welcoming and eager to talk, his laugh reminding McLaren of previous evenings together at the pub.
“It’s even early for me.”
“Good.”
Neither of them needed to elaborate on the jest. McLaren’d had too many months of depression in which he’d downed a beer or whiskey or gin at any hour, anything to help pass the time and dull his anger. Thankfully, he’d been strong enough to shake any drinking dependency that he’d developed. Quitting the job had swiftly turned into a double-edged sword.
“So,” Jamie said, curiosity creeping into his voice. “What’s this in aid of? You don’t usually chat in the morning.”
“Business, I’m afraid, though I’m not averse to that drink later this evening.”
“It’s a date. Now, what business, Mike? Police business, obviously, or you wouldn’t be phoning the best copper in the Derbyshire Constabulary.” Jamie laughed, and McLaren imagined his friend leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the front edge of the desk. Jamie’s voice broke through. “You have another case?”
McLaren grimaced, feeling foolish as he explained about Nora’s quest to find Janet’s murderer. “Am I grasping at straws, Jamie? Am I grabbing at something that’s unsolvable just because I want to be back in detective work?”
“You’re asking, not too subtly, if the investigating police screwed up the case. And if you have a chance to solve it even though they didn’t.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Harvester wasn’t involved in the original investigation, Mike.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So I have to assume that your desire to jump into this mess isn’t a personal vendetta—other than showing him and others what a berk he is.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to find Janet Ennis’ killer…if there is one.”
McLaren nodded, his gaze fixed on the corner of his desk that held the small, framed photo of Dena.
“I don’t know why you’re asking me, Mike. You’ve made up your mind to go ahead with this thing, haven’t you?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“So what did you really ring me about?”
“To see if you can locate some details on the case. I don’t know anything other than what the victim’s mother and the newspaper article related.”
“Shouldn’t be hard. I’ll need some time to locate the file. It’ll be in storage, unless it’s sitting on Harvester’s desk.”
“Knowing him, and knowing what Nora Ennis had to say about their latest talk, I doubt if Harvester drags the case notes out every time she pops by. He probably ignores that with the same ease he ignores her.”
“Could be. Call me back in an hour, can you?” Without waiting for a reply, Jamie rang off.
McLaren filled the time by catching up on household chores. He washed the few dishes from his meals, made the bed and ran a small load of clothes in the washing machine. He tried to look up an article on the Internet, but was too impatient to sit, so he washed his car. He found himself listening to Nora’s recital as he soaped up his Peugeot. She’d refrained from saying anything about Harvester’s lack of professionalism, but she did comment on workplace egos and glass ceilings in general, and implied Charlie Harvester was just another ten pin to bowl down. She’d related her conflicting feelings, that she had the impression he suffered from short man syndrome, which might contribute to his inflated ego, that he liked to play up his power and intelligence, but that did little to calm her, for she felt overwhelmed at each visit to the station. McLaren agreed with Nora’s assessment and felt frustrated that he could do nothing about it.
He forced her out of his mind and whistled as he finished the car. By the time he’d coiled the garden hose, put away the sponge and soap, and towel-dried the car, the hour was over.
He went back into the house, dried his hands on a kitchen dishtowel, and phoned Jamie.
“Mike.” Jamie glanced at his watch. “Even if you’re not the world’s best detective you’re certainly punctual.”
“To the minute. Do you have it?”
“It being the police report and not animal magnetism, I assume you mean. Okay, I’ll let that pass. Give me a minute to get the file. I put it down when I got back here. The damned phone was ringing.”
McLaren could hear a thud as Jamie laid the phone on the desk, then the tap of hard soled shoes diminish in volume. A faint rattle of metal against ceramic, followed by a thump and a muttered oath, then the hard soled shoes tapped louder and louder. There was a sharp rap and a dull sliding sound before the phone receiver rattled and Jamie spoke again in McLaren’s ear.
“Damn. That file slid across the table…wait a minute while I…” He grunted as he reached for the manila folder. “Got it. Hold on…it just fell…got it,” he said, sounding both breathless and aggravated. “Computers are our friends, I know, but the powers that be want it all backed up in reliable paper and filed away. For who knows what.”
“For just this purpose. At least if someone comes in, your computer screen saver will cover up your nefarious deed.”
Jamie said something uncomplimentary about people never appreciating other people, and read the case details to McLaren.
Shadow in the Smoke Page 3