Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “About to go to Janet’s house to look around. Don’t worry,” he said as Jamie protested. “I have the blessing of the new owners. Email all that. I can get them on my laptop. I want a larger image than the phone will afford.”

  “You’re getting old, mate.”

  “No. I want to see the details. Thanks.”

  McLaren next rang up Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office Pathologist. Though not strictly orthodox procedure, he hoped she would tell him about the postmortem examination. As the phone rang, he said a prayer that she had been the pathologist on the case.

  Her greeting on hearing his voice was close to making his day. He smiled and asked if she could do him a favor.

  “They’re adding up, you know,” she said, the good humor behind her words.

  “You’re obviously keeping score.”

  “I have to. I know you won’t. What do you want?”

  “It’s not exactly kosher…”

  “If I guess wrong you don’t owe me a steak dinner. A PM report.”

  “I won’t ask what restaurant you’d like to go to.”

  “Do you know the date or the victim’s name?”

  He told her, then said, “You performed that post mortem examination, I hope.”

  “Meaning you won’t feel so guilty about me losing my job if I get caught giving you this information.”

  “That’s as good a reply as any.”

  As he waited for her to look up the report he imagined her office. He’d been in it many times on various cases and had always wondered how she managed to work in such a sterile environment. White and shiny chrome weren’t his first choice of a color scheme conducive to thinking. But he’d take that and like it if he had a choice between that and sharing a comfy office with Harvester. He had just about figured out how to brick Harvester into the office corner when Cheryl returned with the report. Her voice fragmented Harvester and the fantasy office.

  “You’ve got more luck than anyone I’ve ever seen, Michael McLaren. Yes, I recall the incident now. A thirty-five year old female found in the debris of an artist’s studio. What do you want to know…mechanism of death? I suppose you know the police and firefighters labeled it an accident, for lack of conclusive evidence otherwise.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re evidently working for someone who wants the case looked at again.”

  “Another good guess.”

  “I can’t afford to guess. It’s too risky. All right, let’s see.” She mumbled beneath her breath, pausing to read parts of the report aloud. “She suffered a depression to the right side of her head, just above the ear. The wound was consistent with a rounded object about the size of a tennis ball. The firefighters found her lying on her left side, wound-side-up, which is normal if someone suffered a forceful blow like that, forceful enough to knock them down. People usually fall so that the wound is not touching the floor.”

  “No suspicions there, in other words.”

  “No. The leucocytes—white blood cells—of a burned, living person travel to the site of the injury. They produce an inflammation—hyperemia—and blistering that is quite usual. Under lab tests, we look for a positive protein reaction. However, if a deceased person is burned, the burns normally are hard and yellow. There is little, if any, blistering, and liquid that might be present will not give the protein effect.”

  “So, you found—”

  “She died from smoke inhalation, as is standard with someone unconscious in a fire.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yes. She had a concentration of CO in her blood, which also underscores she died in the fire.”

  “Carbon monoxide.”

  “The opposite being that a body devoid of CO should raise red flags in the postmortem exam.”

  “Suggesting some sort of treachery or violence occurred before death and she died before the fire.”

  “As good a finger-pointer as any, Mike.”

  “And this head depression…”

  “I’d say the blow could produce a concussion and unconsciousness.”

  “The blow… You mean someone struck her?”

  “That’s possible, certainly. But it’s also just as possible that it was an accident, that the head injury occurred if she fell of her own accord, falling backward and slightly to the side. There was an iron sculpture in the studio, and some of her furniture had solid, rounded edges. If she fell against any of those objects, that may also have caused the head injury.”

  “So you didn’t think it particularly suspicious to find that head wound.”

  “Not at all. Not with the items in her studio. I thought it unlikely it was murder or foul play.”

  “Did you match that sculpture or the furniture to the head depression? You’d know then if she fell or was struck.” He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t see someone slamming Janet’s head against the edge of the desk. If anything, the murderer would pick up the sculpture or something else small and strike her.

  “I tried.”

  “Sounds as though you couldn’t come up with a particular item.”

  “The wound slightly matched the microphone in her studio. I found one section that fit the ball end, but the iron sculpture also had a similarly sized ball, which also matched. There was a smaller straight section of one millimeter which didn’t correspond with anything that might have been in the studio.”

  “At least nothing that anyone remembered as normally being there.”

  “True.” Cheryl yawned, apologized, and explained that she’d had a late night. “Anyway, whether the fire consumed that object, or your murderer took it with him, I don’t know. But that, in part, is why the coroner made his decision. I couldn’t be conclusive it was foul play or accident, Mike.”

  “You said the skull was indented. Anything else?”

  “There was a curved indentation of the soft brain tissue. Bearing in mind the overall circumstances, Mike, you shouldn’t be surprised that the coroner recorded an open verdict.”

  “Bloody helpful.”

  “The official police statement ran something like ‘We’ve gone as far as we can, and without further evidence, we cannot take the investigation further.’”

  “That’s safe.”

  “Mike, forget I was the Home Office Forensic Pathologist performing that PM examination. No senior investigating officer, I don’t care what rank he is, would go against the opinion of the H.O. Forensic Pathologist. If the SIO doesn’t like and trust that there are grounds for believing the report may be wrong, then you might consider a second opinion. You might then go for a second post mortem examination with a different H.O. forensic pathologist. But in all my years working in this job, I’ve never even heard of that happening.”

  “So you’re saying I should take this as read.”

  “Not because I did the examination, Mike.”

  “Because the coroner’s verdict has pretty much stalled the investigation.”

  The silence lay between them as McLaren thought of the fire and its consequences.

  Finally, Cheryl said, “She couldn’t have suffered, Mike. She wasn’t cognizant. That should bring you some peace, if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking about. Thanks.”

  McLaren took the back roads as he drove to Janet’s house in the village of Darleycote. A few puddles remained from yesterday’s rain; the water sprawled within deep ruts along the verge or in small depressions in the road. Several tree branches had fallen from the wind and lay like strange deer antlers among the lifeless leaves and other debris of the wood. The tree branches and trunks held the darker colors of brown and black where the bark was still damp. McLaren breathed deeply of the scents, thinking it one of the best fragrances he knew.

  His tires splashed through puddles and threw water onto the windscreen. He ran the windscreen wipers until he emerged onto a dry section of road and smiled when the sun poked through a line of gray clouds. The house, if he remembered the directions c
orrectly, was only minutes away.

  Nora Ennis had assured him that the present homeowners gave their blessing to any investigation, official or unofficial, and wouldn’t mind him poking about in the back garden or the wood that nestled up to their property line. They even gave permission to peer through the windows into the kitchen. Anything to help solve the murder, they had said, and McLaren wished there were more people like them.

  He punched the Play button on his car’s CD player, and as he turned onto the road outside his driveway he was singing along with his folk group, adding harmony to his lead in “The Meeting of the Waters.”

  Darleycote was nearly straight south of his home outside Somerley in Derbyshire’s High Peak District. It would have been faster to zip down the A6 to Matlock and then drive the short distance north to the village. But the warm autumn sun and the feeling of hope mixed in his heart, and McLaren had no desire to dispense with either too quickly. So he took the B6049 south, connected up with the A623 and meandered down several more B roads to Darleycote.

  As he turned onto the B5057 and approached the village the CD track changed to “Nut Brown Maiden,” and McLaren was into the first verse before he realized he was thinking of Janet:

  Her eye so brightly beaming,

  Her look so frank and free

  In waking or in dreaming

  Is evermore with me.

  Evermore with me, he thought as he parked the car outside her former house and gazed at the structure. Her photo had that effect on him last night. Her singing did, too. Would she to be with him always, a companion while he grew old, married to him spiritually and emotionally even when he was married to Dena? Could he keep the feeling a secret, or would Dena find out? Perhaps he should stop now, abandon the case and save his sanity, for that’s what he feared might happen…

  He turned off the car’s engine and sat for a moment letting the song play itself out. Janet’s voice crept into the vocals, overpowering his voice at times, providing a soft background at others. He stared at the house sitting at 191 Paddington Lane. A tan stone building, it mirrored the architectural style and 18th century age of its neighbors farther up the lane. Her house sat in the back, as Jamie had said, on an elevated plot, hugged by trees and nearly dissolving into the wood. A blaze of reds, yellows, and oranges from autumn chrysanthemums and ornamental grasses ran across the length of the house’s foundation, waking up the drab stone and injecting a spark of normality into the strange visit. Even as the CD clicked off at the end, Janet’s voice still echoed the words…in waking or in dreaming is evermore with me. He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in the velvety richness of her voice, the hint that he was losing his mind. Of course he had never met her, never knew her. She had died five years ago, when she was thirty-five and he was in his early thirties. But she seemed as real to him as if she stood by her door, inviting him inside.

  A quick search on the Internet via his iPad gave him additional information about the case. A photo of the house and back garden sprang into vivid life on the computer screen. As though not trusting the newspaper article, McLaren glanced at the house’s façade. The two matched. He read the rest of the article, jotting down notes in his small notebook, then shoved the notebook into his trousers pocket.

  He opened his email and found that he had received the police photos and sketches of the house and crime scene. He studied them closely, noting areas that he had questioned when he had first read Nora’s account. The various reports he had requested had also arrived. All except the fire report, which Jamie suggested might be on Harvester’s desk, since he’d just spoken with Nora Ennis. McLaren spent nearly a half hour reading the emailed reports and jotting down notes in his notepad, then logged off and set down the tablet.

  The CD clicked to another song. Before the music could start, McLaren turned the key in the ignition, shutting off the power to the player, and got out of the car. He walked up the hill and around to the back garden, his mind now focused on the crime.

  Although Nora had said the current owners would welcome him, he knocked on the back door. No one appeared. He scribbled a note announcing his investigation on a notebook page and placed it on the back step, using a stone as a paperweight. Then he followed the path into the forest.

  The wood held the dampness of yesterday’s storm, not just in the bark of the trees but also in the sogginess of the moss. It held his shoe imprints as he walked along the path. It wasn’t used much, he thought. Seedlings of pine and oak had sprouted and now stood a foot tall beside their mighty parents. Ferns glistened bright green or pale yellow in the light and cast off occasional droplets of water in the slight breeze. McLaren rubbed against an exuberant fern and looked down on feeling the wetness seep through his trouser leg. He shook off any excess and stepped over a rotting log. The trail was littered with broken boughs, and lichen and mushrooms had taken hold of the dead limbs and shade-wrapped rocks.

  He stopped several yards inside the wood, turned, and looked back at the house. Of course he knew he wouldn’t find anything after five years. And the death had occurred inside the studio. But he needed to stand within the fringe of trees, bracken, and ferns, looking back at the house, imagining what had happened there. Besides, the murderer may have used this path as an escape route.

  That Janet had met a violent death, he didn’t doubt. But would she not have smelled the studio burning? Even if she had chosen to burn rubbish that day, the smell of paper and cardboard and gardening waste would be different from a painted wooden structure. She had to have known the building was on fire. Had she stumbled, as the police report suggested? McLaren needed to find out.

  Minutes later—he didn’t know how long—he walked over to where he supposed the studio had been. Farther back in the garden, farther up the hill, its roof probably had been barely discernable to O’Connor. Despite the present owners’ effort, there was a depression in the soil. About four times the size of a large tool shed, he thought. The area had not been built up, but held an ornamental statue, flowers and a teak bench. More of a monument to Janet, he thought, than a relaxing spot in the garden.

  He stood in the depression and looked at the house and the site of the fire.

  For the briefest of seconds when McLaren read Nora’s report he’d hoped someone else had died in the fire and that Janet was in hospital, suffering from amnesia. But dental records confirmed it was her body in the fire, and his hope that she would heal and return to torch singing had died.

  He walked back to his car and turned off the CD player, driving to Matlock in silence.

  Chapter Seven

  Nora stood in the strong afternoon sunlight slanting through her kitchen window. The day had been tiring even with the euphoria of engaging Michael McLaren’s investigative services. Most any activity was fatiguing these days. The hope McLaren gave her when he accepted the check now lapsed into exhaustion, draining her physically, mentally and emotionally.

  The screech of the kettle broke her reverie. She poured the boiling water into the teapot and noted the time. She was a stickler for proper steeping of tea. There were few things in life she could control or make to perfection, but the brewing of tea was one, and she reveled in that ability.

  Janet had been another perfect creation. Not that Nora or her husband had had one hundred percent control in forming Janet’s character and morals—Janet hadn’t been a puppet or a doll that they had fabricated from man-made materials—but she had emulated her parents’ values and taken their life lessons to heart. The result had been a beautiful woman who had attracted many friends and who had influenced others with her convictions.

  The steeping time being up, Nora drew the teabag from the pot and set it on a saucer. She poured the tea into a mug and added sugar and milk to the hot liquid. She settled the tea things onto a metal tray, added a plate of chocolate biscuits, and carried them into the front room.

  The room, designed to catch the morning sunlight, held the chill of dusky afternoon and her burgeoning concern tha
t McLaren might give her the same account that the police had: accidental death. She rubbed her arms and knotted the silk scarf around her neck, but the cold still clung. Is it cold, she wondered, getting up and walking to the fireplace, or is it my inner self warning me about a possible disappointment? But Verity Dwyer had recommended him without hesitation. The man had such a fine track record while in the police force and now, on his own. He can’t let me down… She gazed at her daughter’s photograph on the mantel and said a quick prayer. Surely, with God’s help, McLaren would succeed.

  She grabbed the mug of hot tea and cupped her hands around it, but it did not relieve the chill deep within her. Perhaps it’s the décor, she thought, giving the room’s interior a good look. It could hardly be said to be cheery. The dark hues of the walls and furniture didn’t help with psychological warmth, the pieces old and handed down from Victorian-age ancestors. She made a mental note to change the wallpaper to a lighter design next spring—it might help lessen her depression—turned on the electric fire, and settled back into the sofa.

  The heat from the tea and the fire melted some of her body-numbing weariness but something picked at her mind, making her feel unusually anxious. She got up, went to the stereo system, and put on Janet’s CD recording. Seconds later, her daughter’s voice filled the room and Nora’s soul. She returned to the sofa and lost herself in “The Very Thought of You.”

  Had it been just a terrible accident, Nora thought, staring at Janet’s photograph. Am I pestering the police for no reason? Have I grown into an old woman who has nothing better to do with her remaining years than to fabricate fanciful scenarios and bend the ears of anyone I can corner?

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Stormy Weather” eased into the room and Nora realized she was thinking about Charlie Harvester. The man irritated her, angered her at times. Like a permanent dark cloud hovering on the horizon, endangering the picnic. His flippant treatment of her distress probably was the most infuriating, though. And disrespectful. That arrogant smirk that he tried unsuccessfully to hide nearly goaded her at times into smacking him across his mouth. And that frightened her. She’d never been a violent person. Even immediately after Janet’s death, when her grief threatened to consume her sanity and cloister her from the world. She had struggled through each day, feeling as though she’d never escape the blackness engulfing her, as though her heart would implode from pain.