Cold Revenge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Characters

  Cold Revenge

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  COLD REVENGE has a companion song. “Cold, Haily, Rainy Night” is available on a single-song CD recording. This bluesy folk song is arranged and performed by The Thin Dimes, and is available through the author’s website:

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  He brought the photo closer

  so he could stare at the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, a brunette with hazel eyes that looked amusingly at the photographer. She came up to her husband’s chin. The husband was a graying brunet and while her son had inherited her eye color, he was blond. McLaren had no time to comment on this.

  Linnet said, “The others…” She leaned forward, her left arm bent and supporting her, and tapped each photo as she mentioned their names. “The group shot is Marta, her boss, and the vet for the shelter. This…” She skipped over the others in the photograph and pointed to the woman to the extreme left. “That’s Verity Dwyer.”

  “The wrongly suspected coworker.” The woman in the photo had auburn hair that shone in the sunlight; her blue eyes smiled at him.

  Linnet nodded. “Yes. Suspected of killing Marta, though that wasn’t proved. But she was convicted of stealing money from the shelter. She’s three months into her sentence. She was… Oh, it’s extremely involved.”

  “I’ve got more time than money. Tell me.”

  Characters

  Michael McLaren, former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary

  Jamie Kydd: friend and detective, Derbyshire Constabulary

  Dena Ellison: McLaren’s former girlfriend

  Gwen Hulme: McLaren’s sister

  ~*~

  Marta Hughes: murder victim

  Alan Hughes: Marta’s husband

  Chad Hughes: Marta’s and Alan’s teenaged son

  Neal Clark: Marta’s brother-in-law, boss and owner of Noah’s Ark

  Verity Dwyer: coworker with Marta at Noah’s Ark animal shelter

  ~*~

  Karin Pedersen: hiker

  Linnet Isherwood: Marta’s friend

  Sean FitzSimmons: Linnet’s friend

  Herb Millington: the Hughes’ neighbor

  Danny Mercer: Herb’s friend

  ~*~

  Lloyd Farmer: police sergeant, Derbyshire Constabulary - retired

  Ian Shard: police constable, Derbyshire Constabulary

  Charlie Harvester: former colleague of McLaren’s in the Staffordshire Constabulary

  Tyrone Wade Antony: convicted burglar

  Cold Revenge

  by

  Jo A. Hiestand

  The McLaren Mysteries

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cold Revenge

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Jo A. Hiestand

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Angela Anderson

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  previously published as Siren Song

  by L&L Dreamspell, 2010

  First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-890-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-891-4

  The McLaren Mysteries

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For David.

  There are not enough superlatives in the English language with which to laud you. I can never thank you enough for your untiring help in setting up McLaren and the core of this story. Or for your repeat reading while the postmistress got acquainted with the nick. Diolch!

  Acknowledgments

  Sincere thanks to my friend Paul Hornung, St. Louis-area police detective, who rewrote fight scenes and gave me good and bad news about the manuscript. A handshake also to Detective-Sergeant Robert Church and Detective-Superintendent David Doxey (ret.), Derbyshire Constabulary, for answering questions while preparing to attend the Cheltenham jumps. Heartfelt thanks are also due to Richard Brook, for his suggestion about the classic car, and to Dr. Ruth Anker for the medical information.

  My deep gratitude goes to all my friends and readers of my Taylor & Graham mystery series for giving me the support and confidence to continue writing. I hope the McLaren series retains your readership and that you’ll love him as much as I do.

  Jo Hiestand

  St. Louis, February 2015

  Chapter One

  “I’d like you to solve a murder.”

  McLaren straightened up from the pile of rocks, cocked his right eyebrow, and eyed the woman standing before him with the accumulated years’ experience of a police detective sizing up a reliable witness. He tightened his fingers around the stone, torn between getting back to work and satisfying his curiosity. His cop’s inquisitiveness won. He said rather reluctantly, “Whose murder?”

  “Marta Hughes.”

  “Who’s Marta Hughespersonally, professionally and otherwise, Miss…”

  “Oh, sorry.” She extended her hand and spoke in a remarkably steady voice for having legged it up the steep hill. “Bad habit of mine. I get tunnel vision at times.” She paused, as though debating how to proceed. “I’m Linnet Isherwood. Marta is—was a friend of mine. She’s married. Sorry. Was married.” She flushed slightly and McLaren thought how attractive the pink of her cheeks accented her green eyes.

  “Fascinating, I’m sure, but what about the murder?”

  Linnet took a breath, the pitch of her voice settling to a near monotone. “She’d gone missing several days before the police found her body outside Elton. She She’d been dumped alongside the road. Like a sack of rubbish.” Linnet fumbled for a facial tissue in her skirt pocket.

  “What’s the matter with the police?” The right corner of his mouth tightened as he exhaled heavily, and for a moment his eye held the pain of separation from a loved one. He thought he had distanced himself from the hurt of leaving the job. Or at least numbed himself to the ache constantly. Would it always be with him, or would it lessen? Did he even care any more? A kestrel called as it circled overhead, drawing McLaren’s attention and shoving his anger aside for the moment.

  Linnet blotted her eyes, then stared at him, the tissue crushed in her fingers. “Pardon?”

&nb
sp; “The police. The coppers, the PCs, the local constabulary. The bill. They investigated the case, I assume.” The words held an underlying tone of fatigue—with the police, with people, with life.

  “Well, yes.”

  “So?” He said it with a hint of sarcasm, as though his suggestion was laughable, or he already knew the outcome of similar investigations. He exhaled heavily, slowly, waiting for her answer his arms crossed on his chest, and wondered how she had found him. Not ‘why,’ particularly. His home village was rife with the knowledge of his previous career. And the circumstances that had led to his return there.

  “They never found who killed her.”

  The information had no more effect on him than a fly settling on a stone wall. He sighed, unfolded his arms, and said as though he’d recited it a thousand times, “I’m sorry, Miss Isherwood. I’m not in the job anymore. And I’m too damned hot.” An understatement, he thought, as he tried to swallow; it was the hottest June he could remember. He removed a glove and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Talk to a solicitor.” He turned from her and laid down the stone, silently dismissing her.

  “But the killer’s got away with murder!”

  “Tell me about it. We live in a world of injustice.”

  “And the person they suspected now has a blot on her name that will stay with her the rest of her life.”

  “Relative of yours, I take it.”

  “No. A coworker of Marta’s, actually. I don’t really know her.”

  “So why“

  “Because she’s innocent. Because I heard that you fought against injustice.”

  Chapter Two

  “Abhorred injustice, actually,” she said as McLaren slowly turned to face her.

  He tilted his head, aware of her physical assessment of his height and the way her gaze moved from his muscular shoulders to the weighty stones at his feet. Connecting the dots, he thought, suddenly finding it humorous. Yet, he didn’t smile. The irritation at being disturbed in his work made him impatient…for her information and for her to be gone.

  Holding his gaze, she said, “Abhorred it as only personal experience could produce.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Linnet rushed on. “Which is why I took the trouble to find you. I thought if you heard about Verity’s situation, you’d want to take on the case.” She paused, and dabbed her eyes again with the tissue. She added unnecessarily, “The case has gone cold.”

  McLaren snorted again. “It’s usual for a case to go cold, Miss Isherwood, if the police either can’t identify the victim or are unable to learn where the victim or a suspect went. If there’s no trail to follow, no locality or time in which to place the suspect, the case grows cold, as you said. They come to a stone wall.” He stopped, aware of the simile, feeling momentarily uncomfortable at having spoken harshly. He waited for her to continue, shifting his stance, and a shaft of sunlight fell across his face. His skin had tanned to the golden hue of a fox or newborn fawn, accenting the brightness of his hazel eyes.

  Linnet thrust out her chin, looking resolute and hurt simultaneously. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence. Perhaps I’m intruding on your time after all.” She started to turn when McLaren said, “Verity…who?”

  She smiled tentatively and pulled up the sides of her skirt. It was damp from wading through a pasture of dew-drenched grass to get to him. She shook the garment so it would catch the breeze and dry more quickly. “Verity Dwyer. Marta’s coworker at the shelter. They were friends besides being coworkers. Verity gave Marta money for her trip to the casino, money that Verity stole from the shelter, unfortunately.” Linnet’s face flushed with embarrassment. “It was quite a large sum. Since Marta didn’t live to replace the money from the cash till, the police thought it motive for Marta’s death.”

  “Marta leaving Verity holding the empty bag, as it were.”

  “Yes…and when the money from Marta’s casino win wasn’t found…well, that’s when Verity was suspected of theft and Marta’s murder. She lives in Youlgreave, but”

  “When was this?”

  The question caught her off guard. She grasped a ring strung on a silver chain around her neck, her fingers sliding over the polished metal as though she was saying the rosary. Or feeling it as worry beads. Her eyelashes caught the sunlight, and she asked what he meant.

  “I mean when did it all happen? When was the murder, when was the body found, how was the body found, by whom? You mentioned she was found near Elton…” His voice had turned from the earlier hint of sarcasm to take on a hard edge. As hard as the stones of his wall. He coughed, embarrassed he’d let his emotions intrude.

  Despite having left the job a year ago, he was still intrigued with a good story, still a cop at heart. He crossed his arms again, as though challenging her to persuade him. “Let’s have the story first. You want to sit down?” He grabbed the bucket that had held his jacket, trowel, string, chisel and work gloves, and turned it upside down. “Or if you’d rather sit in my car…” His voice trailed off as he glanced downhill. His car was presentable, the rear hatchback section holding a few of his stone wall tools, the passenger seat free of work clothes or CDs or his guitar.

  “No. This is fine.” She said it quickly, and his right eyebrow shot up again as he wondered if she was hesitant about being in close quarters with him. Despite his irritation at the interruption, he admired her hair, which was the color of new corn silk.

  “I’m all right standing.” She gestured around her. “Actually, I love the outdoors. I sit inside too much. I’m a secretary in Chesterfield.”

  McLaren nodded as he asked again for the facts of the case. But he concentrated on Linnet’s face, on her emerald-green eyes that seemed bottomless and filled with pain.

  “Last June, Marta and I had a girls’ night out. Oh, nothing wild,” she added as McLaren frowned. “Just a few hours away from the dullness of our lives.”

  “Away from the husband and kids?” McLaren supplied. “I assume she was married?”

  “Yes, with a teenaged son.”

  “You?” He eyed her, trying to put her into a convenient slot. Her left ring finger was bare, but that didn’t put her into the unmarried category.

  “A boyfriend. Sean FitzSimmons. He’s a writer.”

  “He was okay with your girls’ night out thing?”

  “Of course. I’m not chained to him.”

  “And Marta wasn’t to her husband or son either, I assume. So you and Marta spent a few carefree hours doing…what?”

  Linnet took a breath, as though steeling herself for a tale told one too many times. “We went to a casino. We don’t make a habit of playing”

  “Which one?”

  “What? Oh. Brennan’s.”

  McLaren nodded at the name of the Nottingham room. “When was this?”

  “Last year. Eleventh of June. We’d been playing the slot machines for an hour or so. Won enough to make a small profit, but really no great luck. Nothing like we hoped. So we switched to roulette. We’d been playing for twenty minutes or so when Marta screamed. I had just ordered a drink, so my back had been turned. I thought maybe some berk had grabbed her handbag or spilled his drink on her. But when I saw her yelling and waving her fists…I remember the croupier pushing the stacks of chips toward her. I thought the table would tip over.” She paused, as though reliving the scene. “I’d never seen so much money. It was like a miniature skyline of skyscrapers, or the Pennine Mountain chain. The croupier kept corralling the stacks and scooting them toward her. People were clapping and slapping her on the back. A man in a dark suit near the entrance glanced in our direction at first. I thought he was going to come over and say we’d done something wrong, but he stayed at his post. I helped Marta gather the chips and we left the table.”

  “How much did she get? Do you know?”

  “Of course! We took it into the Ladies’ and counted it…over and over. Then carried it to the cashier to trade it for the notes. We returned to the Ladies’ and r
ecounted it! I’ll never forget the sum. It was huge. £253,500. A fortune. INeither of us had seen so much money at once. It was like a fairy tale.”

  Or a folk song, McLaren thought, the words and tune of “The Female Highwayman” running through his mind. “So, was Marta killed outside the casino?” He eyed Linnet, wondering how she had escaped injury if this were true.

  “No. We weren’t so elated that we forgot to be vigilant. I know that’s a common happening, some bloke following the winner and then robbing her. So we looked around as we went into the Ladies’ and the cashier’s window and again as we left the casino. No one was overtly following us. I would stake my life on that.”

  McLaren didn’t comment on the inappropriateness of the phrase. Or that Marta had been the one to forfeit her life. “So you made it outside without being mugged. What happened after that? How and when was Marta killed?” He hadn’t been taking noteshe had nothing to use for thatbut he was taking it all in with a cop’s mind for facts. He would remember everything.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I know how she was killed but not when. She was shot. In…” Again she paused, looking ill-at-ease. “She was shot in the head. Nearly point blank range, the pathologist said.” She watched McLaren’s reaction.

  “Where on the head? Back, front, left side…”

  Linnet screwed up her face and mumbled, “Back.”

  “What about the ballistic findings?” He added, “Caliber?” when she looked puzzled.

  “Oh. A thirty-eight.”

  “Was it traced to a specific revolver or pistol? Did the police seize all .38 caliber weapons around Elton and other relevant areas, and test fire them?” God, what a job of work that would have been. He envisioned the house-to-house requests, the confiscating and testing of weapons, the cartridge cases compared via ballistics…

  She shook her head, glancing at her feet. “I don’t know.”

  The answer surprised him. “Why not? You were at the inquest, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I stepped out of the room around that time. I-I felt like I was going to faint. All that talk about Marta’s body and the bullet wound.”