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 smiled. 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 and notice him. 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 on the sandy, packed 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 her, 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, he felt a sharp pain shoot 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 hundreds 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 and looking over her shoulder…” He glanced at the glasses. “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. 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 “Good luck on finding your bird.”
“I hope I find her, too. Thanks.” He strode past them, wondering if Eva were watching the comedy from her perch high in a tree.
Chapter Nineteen
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” implied something rather crucial between 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 reserve’s car park. But as to why she’d run from him, that was clear. She was protecting the person she was meeting. Protecting his or her identity, reputation and future. He cursed 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? He doubted she was shielding the daughter. She’d married and had moved out; five years ago was too long to come to light now.
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.
****
Ian O’Connor had been the bass player with Janet’s group. He’d been her neighbor, and he also surprised McLaren when
he opened his door.
Janet would have been forty 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 Ian identified himself. He was twenty-five.
The two men looked at each other, each, perhaps, expecting someone different from what stood before him. Ian 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, Ian seemed only marginally taller than the upright bass 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.” Ian crossed his arms over his chest. He remained in the open doorway, legs apart, 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,” he said, his neck muscles tightening 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 Ian’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. “I’d like some information about the day Janet died.” He smiled but his eyes stared into Ian’s, underlining his determination not to leave. “Had you been to her house that day?”
Ian 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 Ian’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 Ian’s body. Bringing his fist level with his chin forced Ian onto his tiptoes. His tone didn’t 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 Ian’s crotch and a groan escaped Ian’s lips. He would have bent over if McLaren hadn’t held him upright by his shirt. He leaned forward so his lips were near Ian’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 Ian’s decision.
Ian stared at McLaren, his eyes never wavering. Although McLaren’s fist was wedged beneath his chin, Ian managed to make 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 Ian’s back, as though brushing lint from the shirt, then slammed his open palm against Ian’s cheek. “How’s that? Better?”
Ian blinked, his eyes tearing from the sting.
“You’re awfully quiet, Ian. Haven’t decided yet to help me?” His palm found Ian’s cheek again and the smack echoed against the wooden doorjamb.
Nodding as best he could, Ian 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 made sure his expression mirrored the threat in his words. “You know, I have only so much patience. And I’ve had a bad day. Know what I mean?”
Ian nodded slightly, too nervous to move.
“And trying to get justice, after all these years, for a beautiful lady who died in a fire…well…” He lowered his fist, allowing Ian 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?”
Ian 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. Ian 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 mic 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 in his skull could accommodate the round end of a mic quite well. Think about that.”
“Since you’re her neighbor, did you hear anything that night? A call for help, a car back firing…anything?”
“Nope. She lives kind of far back, at the end of the cul-de-sac. Well, you can look outside and see it.”
McLaren turned and stared across the lane.
“More like half buried in the woods, her house is. Not like mine. She’s kind of remote. No, I didn’t hear a thing that night. Or see a thing, either, until I took a walk. Then I saw the smoke and the flames.”
“What time was that?”
“Around half past six. I’d rung her up an hour earlier to ask if she’d like some extra eggs the next day. I keep a few chickens—not enough to cause problems, just for some fresh eggs. She said she’d be happy to get them, so I set aside a half dozen for her. That was it. A brief conversation. Then I went for a walk around half past six, as I said. I saw the flames shooting from her studio.”
“You knew it was her studio and not her house.”
“Yes. Absolutely. The back of her property slopes upward. Her house is on flat ground, but the hill starts in her back garden and goes up fairly steeply. That’s where her studio was, on the higher elevation. You can see the roof from the lane. They threw a kind of light on to her house’s roof. I dashed around the house, thinking she might be in the studio and might not be able to get out. The fire had a good start by then, a good section on fire, including the door, but I ran to the windows on the side that still was in pretty good shape. I thought I could break in and get her out if she was inside. I couldn’t see into the room, though. The flames were like a curtain at the windows, obstructing my view, so I grabbed a stout branch from the woodpile and broke out one of the windows. I yelled as loudly as I could, thinking she might hear me over the fire’s roar.” He paused, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. “There was no response. I called again but I got no answer. So I thought maybe she wasn’t in the studio. I ran back to her house, to the kitchen door since it was the nearest to the studio. I rang the doorbell and pounded on the door but again got no response. I prayed that she’d left on an errand or something and wasn’t home. By then I guess I’d been there five minutes or so. I didn’t want to waste any more time so I ran home and rang up the fire service in Matlock. They got there about fifteen minutes later.”
“You went outside again, I presume, and watched the proceedings.”
“Yes. I had mixed feelings about that. I didn’t want to look like one of those thrill-seekers, watching a fire so I could talk about it the next day. But I thought maybe the firefighters o
r police might have questions as to time I first saw the fire…that sort of thing.” Ian shook his head. “I was also hoping to see Janet coming out of a neighbor’s house, perhaps, when she saw the commotion. No such luck.”
“You said you didn’t see anyone around the time you saw the fire…”
Ian paused, as though replaying the scene in his mind. He stared at the window that looked onto the lane and Janet’s house. He lowered his gaze and mumbled, “No one. No stranger or anyone I knew.”
“Did you smell anything odd while the fire was burning?”
“What do you mean odd?”
“A strong odor that normally you don’t smell.”
“Like petrol?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I thought I smelled some sort of petroleum product, but I assumed it was her artist paints and paint thinner and such. You know, the studio was filled with those things.”
“So, you didn’t see, smell, or hear anything odd prior to discovering the fire.”
“No. I’m sorry. But the fire was as much a surprise to me as to anyone. I’m just glad I saw it before it spread.”
McLaren raised his palm and Ian shrank back a step, but McLaren barely touched Ian’s cheek. “So much nicer when we’re friendly, isn’t it? Thanks.” He walked to his car, his mind thinking about what Ian had just suggested.
He also wondered why Ian had been so obstructive and uncaring about Janet. Was he telling the truth about his part in the fire? If he were angry about his dismissal, would he have even tried to put out the fire? Either way—helpful amateur firefighter or unconcerned onlooker, the reaction was odd for a person who had been supported at one time through Janet’s employment. McLaren grabbed his handheld 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 Ian raw.
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