Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “So, what happened?”

  McLaren recounted the evening’s event and his anger over Nora Ennis’ treatment. “None of this would’ve happened, none of it—Nora’s years of smashed hopes, ridicule, shuffled around from cop to cop, the arsons at my place, Dena put in jeopardy… None of it if Harvester had followed up on Nora’s plea to reopen the case. He’s treated her shamefully and set all this in motion. And for what good? Not a bloody thing. It’s been a waste of time and emotions and jeopardized lives. The man ought to be kicked off the Force. What an excuse for a human being.” Having released his anger, McLaren sat on the bench, his forearms on his thighs, staring into the night.

  Jamie leaned forward so he was shoulder to shoulder with his friend. He didn’t reply immediately, but let the sounds of the night wash over them. A family and two dating couples passed them before Jamie said, “I totally agree.”

  A miniature poodle yapped at them as it trotted past. The dog’s owner pulled on the leather lead, admonished the dog and apologized to McLaren and Jamie as he hurried by.

  When McLaren’s silence continued, Jamie said, “You’ve done what Harvester has repeatedly failed or refused to do, Mike. You took Nora Ennis at her word, believed enough of her story to investigate when Harvester couldn’t even get up out of his chair. The coroner’s verdict was open, leaving some doubt about the whole bloody incident. You went ahead, reviewed the various reports, talked to people. Everything Harvester should have done if he was any kind of decent cop. Or human being. No, Mike. You’ve every reason for feeling as you do. And I think that makes you the better person.”

  The quietness of the night welled up between them again, with McLaren gazing into the distance. Somewhere behind them a mobile phone rang and was answered by a giggling teenager.

  Jamie waited until a motorcycle had traveled down the High Street before saying, “You want that drink you talked about earlier?”

  The question startled McLaren. He pulled his thoughts from Dena and Nora and turned toward Jamie. “Sorry?”

  “Man, you must be somewhere else. You hear anything I just said?”

  “Sure. Every word.”

  “I doubt it but I’ll let it pass. You want to go inside?” He nodded toward the pub.

  “If you don’t mind…”

  Jamie nodded. “’Course not. We’ll make it another night, then.” He stood up, ready to walk with McLaren back to their cars. McLaren remained seated.

  “Nora gave me Janet’s cottage. Gave, as in I own it now. I went there today. It was like walking into a cathedral. I was where she lived and wrote music and walked through the wood. How many fans—whether they’re into music or books or sports or whatever—get to wander around their idol’s house, let alone be granted the gift of keeping it?”

  Jamie looked at McLaren as though wondering where this was leading.

  “I was thrilled to be there, am thrilled to have it. But I wasn’t in awe of her. She was a great talent and could’ve been even greater, but I felt no hero worship of her while I was there.” Did Jamie understand? His support was important. His condemnation would be devastating.

  Jamie patted McLaren on the shoulder. “Yes. It’s kinda like finding out Father Christmas was really your dad all along. It’s a shock, maybe a disappointment because your fantasy has died, but you still love your dad and you still love Christmas.”

  McLaren got to his feet and walked with Jamie into the pub.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Harvester parked his silver Jaguar sports car in his garage, got out, and locked the car’s doors. The car had been a present from his dad, a Chief Constable when Harvester had gone through police training, and it had turned a lot of heads—in envy and in contempt. There’d been no way he could have afforded the car as a probationary officer; there was still no way he could afford to buy a car like this now. So he took extra care of it, being certain the doors were always locked, even in his garage, and regularly seeing to its maintenance. He patted the right rear wing as he walked past the car—almost as absent mindedly as he used to pat his wife—stepped outside, and locked the garage doors before entering his house.

  The aromas of his cooked breakfast assaulted his nose the moment he walked through the back door into the kitchen. Lunch had been hardly more than a snack: a bag of crisps, a cup of weak tea, and a piece of cake leftover from an officer’s retirement party. Plus, he had worked late, missing his tea. The beer and packet of pork rinds in the pub would’ve helped allay the hunger he now felt, but he’d hardly touched them, so intent was the conversation he’d had with a friend. Consequently, he was now ready for something more substantial. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and put a piece of cod in a skillet on the stove. Moments later the fragrance of frying fish filled the air and Harvester changed into jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, and slippers before looking over the day’s mail.

  In addition to the usual circulars and junk mail, two letters caught his interest. One was from a friend—a colleague, more accurately—in Edinburgh, and the other letter was from his son. Harvester wandered into the kitchen, sliced up some cabbage and an apple, mixed them with a little sugar, pepper and butter, put them on the stove to cook, and sat down to read his letters.

  His son, Emory, had written from school, turning the English class writing assignment into a letter for Harvester. Emory lived with his mother, Harvester’s ex, in Bolton. They had moved there after Dagmar’s divorce from Harvester, nine years ago. She seemed to be getting on fine—a good paying job in the city’s museum, a boyfriend, and a house. Emory, Harvester read, turning over the sheet of paper, wanted Harvester to come up for Christmas. Or at least St. Nicholas Day.

  Nice thought, but Dagmar probably would have something to say about that. He read on. ‘I want to be a police officer, like you, Dad. When you come for Christmas, you can tell me what I need to do to be one.’

  Harvester smiled at the naïveté of his eleven-year-old. If it were only that easy, a few lessons. He glanced down the hallway, half expecting to see into his bedroom. If he still had his helmet, he’d bring that along, give that to Emory. Or would it be better to discourage the boy? He’d die if anything happened to Emory while in the job. Society was becoming more violent. You saw it all the time on the television. Criminals didn’t care if they hurt officers or not. Respect, in general, was just an archaic word in the dictionary. It barely meant anything to some police officers, either.

  He gathered the letter into his palm, crushing the paper. He didn’t need to look any further for an example of that than last June. The burglary at that pub in Staffordshire. The disrespect shown in front of his men. McLaren.

  Harvester uncurled his fist, letting the crumbled paper drop to the floor. He uttered an emphatic “Damn.” McLaren, in Harvester’s opinion, was the poster child for disrespect. For arrogance and lawlessness and smugness, too. The room shimmered and grew darker until everything dissolved under an image of McLaren’s face. McLaren’s face…shouting at Harvester, red with anger after the rose bush incident.

  Harvester picked up his son’s letter. He placed the pages on the kitchen table and smoothed the paper flat. That’s the sort of thing to which Emory might be subjected. Smart mouth criminals, even disobedience from his own colleagues. What a way to earn a living. There must be something else Emory could do.

  Harvester snapped his fingers. A smile crept across his face. There was something else he, Harvester, could do. Something to get back at McLaren for the defiance and egotism he’d shown that long-ago night. Something so remarkable that it would ensnare and humiliate McLaren. A payback for last June. And for tonight’s confrontation outside the pub.

  But it would have to be cleverly laid, this trap. So convincing that McLaren would not hesitate to become involved. And harsh enough that he would know what had happened to him and who had perpetrated it. And why.

  And, perhaps, roping in that bloody mate of his, the git who h
ad stood by McLaren last June and again tonight. He was begging for a rap on the knuckles or a slap, too. Or something worse.

  Harvester grinned, already enjoying the virulent revenge and imagining McLaren’s disgrace. But his smile soon faded. He leaned back in the chair, his mind a confusion of images and words. What in the hell could he do to entrap McLaren? What would seem so real, so dire that McLaren would jump into the situation without thinking? And where? Somewhere where it wouldn’t be evident that Harvested had anything to do with it. Revenge was sweet, but it had to be planned well in order to succeed. He’d get no second chance to publicly ridicule McLaren.

  He abandoned the scheme for the moment, stirred the vegetables and flipped the fish, and returned to the table.

  The letter from Derek Parry, Harvester’s police colleague in Edinburgh, tried to fill in Harvester on five years of life. The topics were confined to one or two sentences apiece, but the feelings rambled on much longer. Harvester sighed with the tone of a man who’s heard the same excuse from his teenager once too often. He skimmed the pages of handwriting, and wondered why he was reading this. The meal in the skillet was under control and he had little else to do but wait for everything to cook. He poured a glass of wine and resumed reading the letter.

  Bus trips to Culzean Castle, fishing with his new rod, the money spent on keeping his car running, problems with starlings and voles, teeth problems, thinning hair and gaining weight, his wife’s sister moving in with them…

  The back of the last page killed the groan that was welling up in Harvester’s throat. His colleague wanted Harvester to visit him.

  Derek had just joined a shooting club and would Harvester be interested in coming up for a long weekend to do some clay pigeon shooting? They could also do a bit of archery or fishing, depending on when Harvester could make it. If not now, winter was good. The Christmas/New Year week was nearly overflowing in Edinburgh with concerts, ghost walk tours, festive lights displays and such. Or there was always skiing in the highlands and climbing. And Hogmany wasn’t to be missed. Edinburgh seemed to be the center for the rowdy New Year’s Eve street party of drinking, noise and singing. Did any of this sound interesting?

  The pages sank to Harvester’s lap as he gazed at the calendar on the wall. Was it a sign that he should do this? Bolton, where his son lived, would be more or less on the way to Edinburgh. If he left early enough…

  And if he thought hard enough…

  Harvester dished up the fish and cabbage, got a pen from the pencil holder, and sat at the table. His food turned cold as he leaned over his son’s letter and listed his ideas for his revenge against McLaren.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The fire wasn’t big Friday night. No sirens or blue lights interrupted the quiet; no police tape cordoned the crime scene. Consequently, it hadn’t made the news on the telly. But a mention in the local newspaper, nearly buried on page fourteen, jumped out at Sean.

  His tea grew cold and his cereal turned soggy as he bent over the page, focused on the article.

  A fire at a residence on Derwent Road might’ve turned into a tragedy Friday night if not for the family’s dog.

  “He started barking and wouldn’t stop,” homeowner Robert Brogan said. “He woke us up, so I figured something was wrong. I followed him into the front room. That’s when I saw the fire on the driveway and ran outside to put it out.”

  A pile of rubbish, evidently brought by the arsonist and dumped onto the drive, burned long enough and intense enough to spread to a wooden planter, two deck chairs, and a wooden garden gnome.

  The Brogans poked through the debris Saturday morning. They found nothing at all useful to tell them who the arsonist was or why the fire was set. “I was all for calling the police, Helene,” Brogan said, “but my husband said we’d be wasting their time. He laughed it off as a teenage prank.”

  “We’ve the dog,” Mr. Brogan said, “and the burglar alarm for the house. We’re fine. I’m thankful we caught the blaze before it caused more damage. We’ll keep the gnome since it’s only scorched, but we’ll have to replace the chairs and flower box.”

  “My mother gave me this gnome as a birthday gift,” Mrs. Brogan said. “I’m glad it wasn’t destroyed. It means a lot to me.”

  Picking up on his wife’s sentiment, Mr. Brogan said, “We obviously can buy another gnome. It’s the link to the gift-giver that’s important. That connection can’t be replaced. It’s frustrating, this wanton destruction, but I’m not overly concerned. It’s probably a one-time thing.” He excused himself from this reporter to ring up his insurance agent.

  Mrs. Brogan is not as confident about the incident as her husband…

  The phone rang, momentarily startling Sean. He shook off the scene and set the paper aside. Helene’s anger underscored the last sentence he’d read.

  “Think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?” she snapped in response to Sean’s “Hello?”

  “Helene?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who this is any more than you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

  “That fire you set last night.”

  “I set? Look, Helene, I’m getting bloody well tired of you accusing me of everything and anything inconvenient, or that you think will boost your bank account. Now, lay off.”

  “Just don’t think you can get away with it, Sean. The dog’s going to be outside at night from now on. I’m giving you a warning, which is more than you deserve. Now, you’ve one more day to come up with the money, or I go to the police.” She drew in her breath, and it sounded to Sean as if it were an effort to regain her composure. “I think you’ve just locked yourself in jail and thrown away the key, darling. Arson on top of murder. Not exactly leading the life of a reformed criminal, are you?”

  Sean summoned his courage from the depths of his soul. “I don’t think a blackmailer, no matter how amateur or experienced she is, would phone the police to grass on the person she’s blackmailing. So I suggest you think that over.”

  “But—”

  He rang off. His day and future looked a lot brighter.

  ****

  McLaren woke Saturday morning with a reluctance bordering on desperation. Besides being stiff, his head reverberated with the clanging of a hammer inside his skull. He sat on the edge of his bed, his feet on the cold wooden floor, and thought again about the evening. Charlie Harvester was enough to bring on any headache, but the phantom skulking around Dena’s car and the subsequent race over the countryside had definitely impacted him physically. What a way to start the day.

  He showered longer than usual hoping the pelting of hot water on his lower back would ease the stiffness from his muscles. When he had dressed in navy blue trousers and a blue-and-red print shirt, he wandered into the kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee.

  As the coffee brewed, he sorted through the items from Janet’s house. He had spread them on his dining room table last night but now, after he’d had some time to let the information and possible significance of the find perk in his brain, he wanted to look at everything again.

  Beneath the sheaf of newspaper clippings lay the small envelope. He hadn’t opened it yesterday, his attention on the tape recording. But now he slit open the top and extracted photos and pieces of folded paper.

  The handwriting appeared to be Janet’s, for she had titled the first page “Connie and me. Loving sisters.” Janet filled the pages with brief paragraphs of outings she and Connie had shared, birthdays and thoughts of their futures. The dates between entries were rather far apart, but considering that Janet might not have been able to always meet up with Connie—due to catering or concert dates, and getting away from Nora—that didn’t surprise McLaren. And considering the twelve years’ age difference between the two girls…

  He leafed through the photographs. Janet and Connie shared the same intense, brown eyes and slender build. But Janet’s hair was brunet
te, and Connie was a redhead. Certainly a dead giveaway to her parentage, he thought as he remembered Stuart’s reddish eyebrows.

  A more recent photo showed Janet, Connie and Ian, the script on the back declaring ‘Me, Con and fiancé—another first for Ian.’ McLaren flipped the photo to the front, staring, not trusting his eyes. Hadn’t Stuart Ennis said Nora didn’t know of Connie? If so, how had Janet come to know her? He turned the photo over hoping for some scribbled information, but the back was bare. He looked at the picture again. A happy group, all smiles. Probably taken near the time of the car crash, for the three were leaning against a red Ford Ka. A section of a low stone wall ran across the left side of the scene. Ian held a key toward the photographer. His new car?

  Behind the car, her face and shoulders just visible, smiled Nora. McLaren nearly dropped the photo in astonishment. He peered closer at the face, took the photograph into the kitchen and looked at it under the light above the sink. Yes. It was Nora. Her hand rested on Connie’s shoulder. He couldn’t mistake Nora even with her dark hair and youthful complexion. Perhaps she had grayed after Janet’s death. Losing a daughter and an almost-daughter within a year or two of each other might do that.

  He leaned against the edge of the table, his mind racing. Why would Stuart lie about Nora not knowing about Connie? If Nora knew about Connie, why hadn’t she mentioned Connie to him? Because Connie had no connection with Janet’s death, obviously, but wouldn’t she have been mentioned just as a piece of information? And if Stuart wasn’t lying, was Nora keeping her knowledge from Stuart? Why wouldn’t she tell Stuart that she knew about his daughter?

  He poured a cup of coffee and returned to the dining room. He sat, still staring at the photo, and set the mug on the table. Janet must have known about Connie fairly early on in Connie’s life, for there were several photos of Janet and baby Connie. Which parent had told Janet about Connie? Did it matter to McLaren’s investigation?