“What the hell are you on about? Of course I saw her in a lot of different clothing. I never said I didn’t, even if you asked me before.” He frowned, as though he tried to recollect their previous conversation. “The way she dressed, what she had on that day of the fire, has nothing to do with anything. You want me to tell you what she was wearing when she turned me away from her front door? Well, I can’t. Lock me up, but I don’t remember. That was five ruddy years ago. I didn’t even remember what she wore every day.”
“I’m not trying to pin anything on you, Bruce. Or trick you. I merely want to know about any particular style or brand that she preferred.”
“Well, I can’t help you. I’m sorry, but that’s life. Ask her mum. Or Helene. Someone she spent more time with.”
McLaren nodded and chewed his bottom lip, considering Bruce’s suggestion. Of course Bruce hadn’t killed Janet; his hospital stay eliminated him as a suspect. But he could’ve heard about McLaren’s investigation from Dan or another involved person, and have his own reason for setting the fire on his drive in the hope of scaring McLaren off the case. Bruce might have another item of Janet’s, like the Firetrap button from her jeans. Maybe he kept the jeans button with him in his own jeans pocket, as a good luck token. Maybe he was never parted from it and had it with him all the time, as a link to Janet. There were a lot of people who carried around things like that. McLaren glanced at Bruce, who was curling and uncurling the edge of his apron. It wasn’t so far fetched. The man had admitted that he had loved Janet. And an unrequited love, especially where the person had died tragically, could be a very strong reason for carrying around an item that had belonged to Janet.
Bruce’s fingertips pulled at the ends of his apron ties, the heavy cotton twill fabric stiff from repeated starch applications. His gaze flitted around the room, from McLaren’s face to the cash register to the display of postal cards and booklets to the door. He cleared his throat.
“Yes?’ McLaren leaned back in his chair.
“Just wondered. You know…if we’re finished.”
“Oh, sorry. Just another question, if that’s all right.”
Bruce nodded. His smile had vanished during the lull in their conversation and now he stared at McLaren almost sullenly.
“Did Janet spend a lot of money on her clothes?”
The apron ties fell to Bruce’s lap as he gripped the edge of the table. “What is this about her damned clothes? Yeah, she did. Her stage clothes, sure. She had to project a certain image, and that included looking sleek and smart. She liked certain things to wear and didn’t let the price get in the way of how she looked. It was part of the business, part of what she had to do.”
“Was she as particular about her every day clothes? Nice looking, name brands…that sort of thing?”
“I guess. I don’t really know. She didn’t walk around in a frumpy t-shirt or worn out slippers, if that’s what you mean. But like I said, I don’t know women’s brands. She always looked good, dressed to the nines.”
“Evidently she had the bank account to support this, then.”
“Sure. Why not? She made good money from the music and the performances. From her catering company, too. She wasn’t hurting for anything that I know of. She wouldn’t have planned on giving us raises at the end of the year if she couldn’t afford it.”
“Sounds like a generous lady.”
“She was that. Gave her mum a nice coat and a new telly. She could buy damned near anything she wanted, within reason.”
“No yacht or private jet.”
“No. Maybe in a few years.” His voice trailed off and his face blanched, as if his unvoiced “had she lived” reverberated off the tearoom walls.
“Did she have enough money to buy drugs?”
“What, like cocaine?”
“Or pot. Maybe she wasn’t a user but she could have bought it anyway.”
“And given it away because she was so generous, you mean?” Bruce snorted, throwing back McLaren’s word. “Janet and drugs didn’t mix. She didn’t use and she didn’t buy. Simple as that. Black and white. No muted hue between. That was her opinion on the subject. She had her rules for the trio. We knew them and knew what it meant if we violated those rules. She lived by those rules, too. I suppose she had enough money to buy anything like that, but she didn’t.”
“So no one in the trio used. How about other associates or friends? If someone used pot, for instance, did her rules pertain to them?”
The back of Bruce’s hand ran across his mouth and he nodded. “Yeah. Funny, but I haven’t thought of that in five years. Guess I shut it away.” He tapped his knuckles against his lips, his gaze on McLaren’s face. “Our first set was over one night and I thought about nipping outside for a breath of air. Some of those clubs get kind of stuffy, you know. I’d just turned the corner from where our room was when I saw Janet and Myles by the back door. They were arguing so I stopped.”
“Myles Tyson, her fiancé. Could you make out what they were discussing?”
“Was hard not to. I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but the subject and Janet’s anger drew my attention.”
“She was mad, then.”
“Explosive, more like. She caught Myles backstage selling pot to a club janitor. She was furious but he said it was no big deal. He tried to laugh it off but Janet saw nothing funny about it. She told him she wouldn’t tolerate any drugs around her, and it made no difference if he was a dealer who didn’t use or if he was an addict, she wouldn’t have it.”
“When was this?”
Bruce screwed up his face, thinking. “Oh, a month or two before the accident.”
“Not later, then? Say, a week before she died?”
“No. It was at The Soul’s Dance, a jazz club in Manchester. I remember the date because that was our second appearance there. We’d played it six months prior and the management wanted us back. Janet was jubilant, said we were about to hit the big time if a club like The Soul’s Dance asked for a return engagement. She pointed out again the necessity for us to be professional, well mannered and prompt. Said a good impression was worth as much as a thousand quid spent elsewhere on marketing. Reminded us that one bad performance or bad attitude or rudeness shown by us could have vast repercussions.” Bruce sagged forward in his chair, looking tired and old. “The music world is small. Word travels fast among club owners and concert bookers. If an act is difficult to deal with, if members are impolite or trash the dressing room, for example, the act’s out of a job. Janet didn’t want that. Well, none of us wanted that. We’d all worked our bums off getting to where we were. Which is why she was over the top with Myles. All that yelling for a bit of weed.”
“Had you ever seen him smoke pot?”
“Never. That’s why this was such a shock, hearing him admit he sold the stuff. He never gave any indication around me that he did that. I never smelled it on him, either, so I assume he was clean.”
“What was his reaction to Janet’s tirade?”
“Cool as a cucumber. I could see he wasn’t perturbed by her concern. He tried to tell her it was no big deal, that he hadn’t sold that much. He said he’d never get caught with anything on him, that he knew how to keep his stuff from being found, so there wasn’t a question of him getting nabbed by the police for intent to sell. The amount was under the limit for prosecution.”
“What did you think that meant? Have you any idea where Myles would have hidden the drug prior to selling it, if that’s what he implied?”
“I suppose somewhere in his house. Maybe he had a wall safe behind a picture or kept it in a canister marked Flour in the kitchen. I’ve not been to his house so I don’t know where he could hide something like that. And it wouldn’t make sense to keep it at a friend’s place. Every time he wanted to sell some, he’d have to go to the friend’s house. Too inconvenient.”
“How long did the argument last?”
Bruce shook his head. “I didn’t time it, if that’s what you mean. I ca
me in on them when it was already going on. But I stood there listening for maybe a minute. When they stopped I still had most of my break left.”
“What happened, what was the outcome?”
“I never found out ’cause they walked off. Myles opened the street door and followed Janet outside.”
“Taking their altercation somewhere more private.”
“Don’t know about that, but the alley’s good enough for that sort of thing. I felt embarrassed at having listened, but I was curious about Myles. He always professed to be such an upright bloke, supportive of Janet and the group. I don’t know. People always amaze me.”
Which, McLaren thought as he rose to leave, was as good a way to say it was another instance of someone letting someone else down.
****
McLaren exchanged CDs in his car’s player and sang along to “Time Is Winding Up” as he drove to the pub. He wasn’t bragging when he acknowledged he had a good singing voice. Many people had told him that. So it always astonished him when he sat with his sister Gwen in church and heard the cacophony that she called singing. She sang hymns out of tune with a gusto that belied her search for the correct note. God would surely give her high marks for trying.
The Split Oak doubled as McLaren’s office away from home and his favorite drinking spot. He had no set day to meet Jamie there, usually whenever they had a case to talk over or Jamie’s wife was out of town or McLaren needed his friend. Which, considering the array of choices, made their meetings there fairly constant.
The pub’s interior of polished oak paneled walls, old porcelain pitchers, jugs and plates, and age-yellowed maps never failed to cheer him, no matter how grueling his day had been. The welcoming embrace he felt on entering the main room was nearly as soothing as Dena’s. It took him back to his childhood, where great aunts and uncles and grandparents welcomed him to their Victorian-style homes. Clutter was not his thing, but he couldn’t deny that within the paneled interior and old plates ringing the walls he sensed a coziness and embrace. Maybe the personal objects of past lives stretched to him, linking him with those others. He never had those warm and fuzzy feelings when he walked into a modern décor building.
Jamie signaled to McLaren as he entered the pub, and after getting his pint at the bar, McLaren joined Jamie at the table.
“You look fine,” Jamie said as McLaren took a sip of beer.
“Why shouldn’t I?” McLaren set the glass mug on the beer mat.
“Just checking your health before I hit you with the bombshell, that’s all.”
Jamie’s jokes were nothing new to McLaren, but this approach made him wary. His hand wrapped around the mug and he cautiously said, “Why? What do you know, or am I suppose to buy you a round before you let me in on the secret?”
“I’ll have another bitter. Make it John Smith’s, ta.”
McLaren glared at Jamie but got up to get the drink. When he returned to the table, he said, “This better be worth more than the two quid I just paid out.”
“You’ll think it a bargain and praise my sleuthing ability, on top of that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let ya know. Spill it.”
“I assume you refer to my golden titbit and not the beer.” He grinned, the light catching the hints of red in his otherwise light brown hair. The hair color suited him. A soft hue to go with Jamie’s light laughter. A darker shade would have visually shortened him. Which would come as a greater surprise to those unfortunate enough to discover the hardened, toned muscles in the man’s slight physique.
“It will be the beer—and in your lap, too—if you don’t cut the clowning and tell me.”
Jamie nodded, said something about impatience and people having no time for humor. “You may find it interesting to know that a quantity of marijuana was found in Janet Ennis’ house.” He eyed McLaren, waiting for the reaction.
It wasn’t slow in coming.
“What?” McLaren looked around the immediate vicinity. No one seemed to have heard him or paid him any attention. He lowered his voice and said, “Are you daft? Pot—in Janet’s house? Where’d you hear this?”
“I’m sure. And I didn’t hear it any place. I read it in the police report.”
“Who was the SIO?”
“Like, you’ll believe it if it’s some bloke you like?”
“Trust is a more accurate word, but yes.”
They didn’t have to voice Harvester’s name. The inference was there. Jamie mentioned the senior investigating officer’s name, then added, “He doesn’t lie, Mike. You know him. Straight as an arrow. Never been a suspicion of anything underhanded or not quite illegal under his command.”
“Yeah, I know. I just can’t imagine Janet Ennis with pot in her house. Where’d he find it? How much was there? If you tell me she was cultivating it in the basement, I’ll move to Fiji and become a hermit.”
The hermit comment very nearly hit the mark. McLaren had been dangerously close to embodying that trait months following his resignation from the police.
“The team discovered a large quantity of marijuana,” Jamie said, watching McLaren. “Fifteen ounces. Evidently she, or whoever it belonged to, didn’t want it found, for it had been placed beneath the sofa.”
“A bit of a nod to secrecy, I agree, but it is a Class B drug.”
“Five years plus a fine,” Jamie said. “If they don’t get a caution instead.”
“Bit of an odd place for her to keep her pot if she’s a regular user. Why not the coffee table or kitchen cupboard?”
“There you’ve got me. I’m not a user.”
“Fifteen ounces.” McLaren mulled over the implication. “That’s enough to traffic. You don’t know if she did, I assume.”
“This is the first occurrence of any drugs in her possession—first we know about, at least. Doesn’t look good for her, does it?”
McLaren murmured that cannabis and Janet Ennis didn’t add up. Not that musicians were all saints. Back stage culture was well known… “But I can’t conceive Janet’s personality with smoking pot. Or selling it.”
Jamie said, “You ready for another non sequitur?”
“Sure. Might as well get it all over with at once.”
“The plastic bag that the pot was in…” He paused, readying himself for McLaren’s reaction. “The bag was devoid of fingerprints.”
Chapter Twenty-One
No yelp came from McLaren this time. He muttered a barely audible “Bloody hell” and stared at the tabletop.
“If you or I had been on the case,” Jamie said when the silence grew too thick between them, “we would’ve been so skeptical that we wouldn’t have been able to sleep.”
“Cynicism does that, yes.” McLaren grunted. “Who wipes fingerprints from anything he touches in his house?” He mumbled, “Bloody hell” again and took a long drink of his beer.
“Have you talked to anyone who has a motive?”
“For killing Janet or for planting the pot?”
“Both. Either. It might be the same person.”
McLaren recounted the people he’d spoken to and his impression of their motives. “As to alibis…” He shrugged, as though it had no bearing on his investigation. “Everyone has one. No one has one. They were all together or everyone was alone. I don’t know right now who’s lying. I need to think.” He downed the last of his drink. The glass mug thudded onto the beer mat. “It’s like trying to see a shadow in the smoke, Jamie. I think I’ve got a sharp image of something, then things shift and the smoke obscures my idea. I’m losing what thoughts I had.”
“You’re not losing a thing, Mike. You’re sharper than most coppers I know. But I think you’re the shadow in the smoke. Even if the suspects don’t encounter you, your presence is there. You’re hunting through the smoke thrown up on this case and you’re making sense of it all. Slowly, perhaps, but if you think about it all, it’ll come clear.”
“Like my own fire-starter.”
“That reminds me. You think any
more about who could’ve set that fire at your house?”
“A frightened suspect.”
“And that is…”
McLaren’s right eyebrow shot upward and he snorted. “You want a name already? You’re joking.”
“You must have an idea. You’ve worked on this long enough to get impressions of personalities and fears and secrets.”
“I repeat my earlier statement—everyone. No one.”
“Can’t be. Think, Mike. Who did you tick off or anger? No one commits arson without motive. Even those lunatics who set fires because they like to see them burn have a reason.” He looked at McLaren as thought a flicker of suspicion would consume his face. “When was the fire again?”
“Yesterday.”
“Wednesday. Okay. Who’d you talk to Tuesday?”
McLaren leaned forward, his forearms on the tabletop. “Nora. But I can’t see her setting a fire. Why would she ask me to take on the case and then turn around and sabotage it?”
“You’re forgetting this past June.”
“No, I’m not. I’ll never forget June. I just don’t think Nora would do that. She’s not in the same class as Linnet Usherwood.”
“Fine. Wear your blinkers. Who else?”
McLaren ticked off the names on his fingertips. “Helene Brogan, Janet’s partner in the catering company.”
“How’d she seem? Angry Janet had died and left her managing the business by herself?”
“Not at all. Very helpful and concerned.”
“May be a front, may not be. Who else?”
“Dan Wilshaw. He was Janet’s pianist.”
“How’d he come across?”
“Quite believable. Sorry for Janet’s death. Seemed like a true friend.”
“I can’t see him killing her and doing himself out of a job.”
“Unless there’s some personal problem that got out of hand.”
“Is there?”
“I’ve not discovered anything yet. Ian O’Connor, Janet’s bassist, is a real piece of work, though. About as low on the scale of Humanity as anyone can get.”
“No empathy for her death, I take it.”
Shadow in the Smoke Page 19