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  “No.”

  “Did they have their sights on doing this as a career?”

  Clark inclined his head and looked thoughtful. Footsteps crossed the wooden floor beyond his office door and faded into nothing before he replied. “I doubt it. More like a serious hobby.”

  “Just fun, then. Something to bring in a bit of extra money.”

  “I should think so, yes. After all, you’ve got to begin early in the business, don’t you, if you want to turn professional?”

  “And Kent was in his middle forties, if I recall. What about Dave? How old—”

  MacKay shrugged, as if he’d never thought of it. “I don’t know. Forty, I’d say. Maybe younger. If so, just slightly.” He pulled a photo from a file on his desk and handed it to McLaren. “One of their publicity shots.”

  The men were dressed in their Renaissance outfits and gazed at the camera. “You’re probably right. Fortyish. Beyond the age of having a shot as a career, if he’s just starting now.”

  “Might be. Then again, people always have that dream in their hearts, don’t they?”

  “Did Dave ever appear as a solo act?”

  “I only saw them here, at the Minstrels Court. I have no idea.”

  McLaren made a note to question Dave Morley, then asked if the two had been mates or just singing partners.

  “Again, I don’t know. But it would have to be more than acquaintances if you’re in business together.”

  “Because Dave and Kent weren’t a permanent duo, you mean?”

  “That, certainly, but also because I never saw them eat together or leave together. But I suppose they could have done. I didn’t stand and watch them constantly. You can ask some of the vendors and musicians who have been here for a while. Musicians are a close community, especially ones who sing early music. They know all the backstage goings-on. The vendors, being here the entire day, see a lot. Their booths are in an area adjacent to the stage.”

  “I’ll ask around, thanks.”

  Clark lay down his pen and sat back in his chair. The sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating the moisture on his forehead and his blond hair. “I do hope you are successful in your investigation, Mr. McLaren. As I said, I liked Kent Harrison. So many others did, too. I’d like to see the person responsible for his death punished.”

  “I’ll try my best.” He got to his feet, folding the brochure and sticking it into his trousers pocket. “Well, as I said, if you happen to think of someone who might have been jealous of Kent Harrison, or had a quarrel with him, please let me know. I know a year is a long time to remember something, but if you do, I’d like to know about it.”

  Clark stood up, banging his knee into the side of the desk. He grimaced and rubbed the muscle. “You’d think I’d learn. I’m constantly doing that.”

  “One more question…” McLaren watched Clark’s expression slip from affable to wariness.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you installed CCTV cameras throughout the castle? Or in the car park?”

  Clark blinked, and replied rather slowly, “Why, no. We have it budgeted for next year, though. Is that a concern?”

  “No. It might have been helpful.”

  “Yes.” He grimaced, as though embarrassed by their inability to help.

  McLaren held out his right hand. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. MacKay.”

  “Certainly, though I didn’t do much, did I? Just seemed to rabbit on about the Court.”

  “Maybe something will occur to you later.”

  “I doubt it. There isn’t anything to tell you about anger or jealousy or quarrels. Kent Harrison was such a likable chap, never made an enemy, always helpful in whatever way he could be.”

  “His helpfulness extended beyond giving Dave Morley a set on stage, then.”

  “Certainly! Kent coached pupils at his school. His friends came to him for personal problems. I know because he made a joke of that. But he also had a remarkable memory for people. He’d bring folks together to help each other.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, I don’t know all of them, but I do know he introduced Ron Pennell to Aaron Unsworth. Ron’s an herbalist. He has a booth every year at the Minstrels Court. He’s also in business for himself. He’s a garden designer and consultant.”

  “Kent introduced Ron and Aaron because Ron wanted to learn to cook?”

  “Could have done, but I doubt it. Aaron Unsworth is a chef, a highly skilled one. But he wanted to write a cookbook containing recipes that used all natural ingredients. Being a next-door neighbor to Aaron, Kent knew of Aaron’s project, and introduced Aaron to Ron. I don’t know the status of Aaron’s cookbook, if it’s published or even finished, but I don’t think Ron would be your killer. What would he have to gain?”

  Precisely what I’m going to find out, McLaren thought as he made his way to the vendors’ tents. Who wanted Kent Harrison dead?

  Chapter Twelve

  Who wants me dead? What else could it be if not my death? Ransom? Am I kidnapped? Dena turned her head and was instantly assaulted with a wave of nausea. She felt as though she were on some grotesque fair ridea chairoplane or up-and-down roundabout, or devil’s wheel. Something that tilted and spun more violently than a merry-go-round or a big wheel.

  Her hand went to her forehead as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. The pain in her head erupted behind her eyes and in her ears, showing brilliant fireworks and setting off sirens. She remained with her left arm stiff and propping her upright at an angle, trying to make sense of the throbbing that multiplied into hundreds of drums and gongs the second she moved. Days seemed to pass as she fought to keep down her stomach contents. As the screaming faded she slowly opened her eyes.

  A small room, she thought, her eyes still half shut against the light and the blazing images. A small room, but where? Dena carefully opened her eyes, testing the pain and the noise inside her head. When nothing more intense than a rocking sensation washed over her, she looked about.

  It did seem to be a small room, for a tiny window was set into the wall to the right. The door opposite the window was closed—probably locked—and painted the same color as the walls, a pale beige that hinted at a house or institution. A school? A warehouse? Another door, smaller than what she considered to be the main door, was set into a neighboring wall. Nothing but a metal chair and a paper bag occupied the room. And the faint aroma of fish and chips that mingled with musty stonework. She leaned forward, careful not to jiggle her head, and got on her hands and knees. With small movements, she crawled to the chair.

  The journey took forever, the throbbing in her head and the ache in her knees giving it the feel of miles. The floor, cold against her palms, turned into an unyielding snowfield. Even in the insipid sunlight, it threw brilliant reflections that hurt her eyes. The ceramic tile ran smooth and hard beneath her, light green and flecked with darker green and white. Again she thought of a school and warehouse. But the floor appeared to be new, unscuffed, and highly polished as befitted an area newly laid. Or barely walked on.

  At the chair, she sat, cross-legged on the floor, and grabbed the bag. A green and blue logo consumed most of the paper front, bringing a bit of normalcy to her nightmare. Ordinarily she shunned this takeaway restaurant chain, but she laid the bag on her lap and rolled back the folded top. The fish and chips aroma rushed out, beckoning her as emphatically as if she’d been Samson succumbing to Delilah. She hesitated only momentarily, negating her concern that the food was poisoned. They would have killed her outright. Dena reached into the bag for a piece of plaice. They wouldn’t be keeping her alive, feeding her.

  She ate more quickly than she had intended, barely chewing before she swallowed each mouthful. The fish was still warm, and she had a sense of it being light and crispy on her tongue. A capped Styrofoam cup emblazoned with the same company logo held water, and Dena drank greedily, finishing most of the contents before she set the cup back on the chair seat. She grabbed seve
ral chips—thick cut and slathered with vinegar—and pushed them into her mouth. Her teeth crunched into the crisp exterior as she gulped and reached for more. This time she chewed slower, aware of the skin on the potato slices, the roughness of the salt, the smell and sting of the vinegar as it washed against the raw skin inside her cheek. She finished the fish.

  There was no napkin proper in the paper bag—an oversight by her thoughtful abductor. Dena licked her fingers then wiped them against the folded paper circling the exterior of the cup. Feeling better, she moved the cup to the floor next to the crumpled paper sack, and eased onto the chair. The cold metal bit into her back and for the first time she realized she must be in an occupied building. No one would run the air conditioning for one person.

  This thought stilled some of the fear inside her. Wherever she was, she wasn’t alone. If she were in a public building, would anyone hear her if she called for help? But if she weren’t, if she was in her captor’s house, would her cries antagonize him? Would he come in and beat her into silence?

  Dena needed to know where she was. Probably not the location, as a specific town or building, but general area. Then she could deal with her captivity.

  Turning her head toward the light, she stared at the window. It was set high on the wall, as if making room for a tall bedroom chest of drawers or bookcase. Or shelving to hold supplies, she added. A storeroom? A hospital? But wouldn’t a public place need an Exit sign above the door? There was none, she realized, but that did little to set her in a specific place. She turned back to the window.

  The light eased through the rectangle in pale yellow streams, broken by shifting shadows across the glass pane. If she knew where she was, which way the room was oriented, she could figure out if it was morning or early evening. It can’t be Monday. Didn’t this happen on Monday?

  She tried to think, to remember what she’d been doing, where she’d been before she woke up here. Had she been here a few hours or a few days? Did anyone even miss her? Would anyone find her car?

  She stretched out her legs and pulled up the bottoms of her trousers. Rotating her legs slowly she checked her skin. A small deep blue bruise tattooed the outer side of her right calf. Probably hit it on the car door when he dragged her out. She checked her arms and gingerly fingered her neck and face. She felt no cuts or dried blood. The bruise seemed to be the only physical souvenir of the abduction. Other than stiff muscles, she corrected herself as she bent her knees again.

  She placed her left hand on the chair seat and pushed to her feet. She stood for several seconds, wary of fainting, but the room remained still. Too still, for she heard nothing. With her knees, she nudged the chair to the window, again traveling slowly, for she didn’t want to bend over and risk blacking out. The window seemed even higher now that she stood at it, but she centered the chair below it and placed her foot on the seat. As Dena eased herself up, she grabbed the windowsill and peered outside.

  An eye level view of black asphalt striped in white paint greeted her. Several cars were parked within the confines of these strips but the majority of the tarmac was empty. A small building appeared at the farthest end of the car park, for that’s what it seemed to be. Trees edged the left-hand side of the area, but what lay to the right Dena couldn’t see. A vigorous clump of daylilies leaned against that edge of her window, obliterating further view.

  She must be in a basement. But where, and in what type of building? Her fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill; she stood on tiptoe, trying to see farther to each side. Tarmac covered nearly all the expanse before her, coming up to the window just inches below its bottom edge. Daylilies swayed in the breeze, alternately throwing the room into shadow and light.

  Now that she could give a description, vague though it would be, she realized she could ring up Michael. Or 999. Even if she couldn’t get an address, couldn’t the police trace her mobile phone call, figure out the area from where it came? Surely that would lead them to her and she’d be rescued.

  She looked around the room. Her handbag wasn’t there. She patted her pockets. No mobile. She’d laid it on the car seat when she’d finished talking to Michael. No help would come. Sagging against the windowsill, she gave in to the fear and cried.

  Minutes crawled by. Maybe it was hours. Dena wasn’t sure. Time became measured in the creep of the sunlight across the floor, the beat of her heart, the breaths she took. No sound reached her ears but her own sobbing. She was aware only of her desperation, fear, and the cold room. And the presumed images of her demise.

  She was not going there, she told herself as the first wave of panic waned. She would not die. Michael would find her. Of that she had no doubt. She choked back the last of the tears, took a deep breath, and, standing on tiptoes, looked outside again.

  Several cars had arrived and were parked far enough away that she could see them entirely. The area still wasn’t filled, and as she wondered if it eventually would be, a car rolled into her view and stopped. It parked quite near Dena, for all she could see were the left rear tire and wing. A slight sway of the car body—perhaps caused as the driver got out—a dull thud and muffled footsteps, and suddenly a pair of Oxfords and brown trousered legs walked into view.

  The nearness of the person so startled Dena that she stared with unbelieving eyes. It wasn’t until the person had passed the window that she pounded on the glass.

  It had no effect. The legs didn’t turn to come back. The fear that she had thought conquered broke from within her and she pounded the windowpane again, screaming to the unknown person.

  This time the legs reappeared. Or, more correctly, another pair of legs, for these trousers were navy blue.

  She slammed her palms against the pane and yelled as loudly as she could. No face peered through the glass, no voice replied. The legs remained in front of her, so close that the trouser fabric touched the glass. She pounded the glass again, screaming with all the air in her lungs. Was he deaf? Did he have an iPod plugged into his ear so that he couldn’t hear her? Again her fist slammed the glass and again she got no reaction.

  Her hands slid down the glass, aching and red from the abuse she’d forced on them. She relaxed, settling down onto her feet. Her toe and calf muscles hurt. As she bent to massage her leg, the trousered leg outside the window lunged forward. The other leg remained where it was but bent slightly, as though the person was reaching or lifting something. Seconds later she heard scraping, as of a heavy ceramic object being pulled across a rough surface. Her view was cut off by a large terra cotta flowerpot holding an exuberant boxwood evergreen. Another pot, jammed full of hostas and more daylilies snuggled up to the boxwood. Her vision of the outside world had been effectively cut off.

  She crumpled onto the chair, hugging herself in the realization that the landscaper was most likely her abductor. Why else would he obliterate her communication with the outside? She leaned forward, heart racing, trying to think, desperate to know where she was, needing to escape. It was while she was thinking that she blacked out.

  She came to slowly, pulling herself from her dream back into the reality of the beige room. She was quickly aware of being cold, and when she moved she discovered she was lying on the floor near the chair. Her hand went to her head, feeling for injuries from her fall. There were no bumps but her head throbbed. Not like a concussion. More like a bad headache. She got onto her knees, leaned against the seat of the chair, and stood. Time to explore her surroundings.

  The room behaved itself on the whole; only the floor angled off at odd degrees as she staggered to the main door. But she made the journey in short steps, shuffling rather than striding, and grabbed the doorknob. The gray metal was as cool as the tile floor had been and startled her. She turned the knob and pulled. The door remained closed. She turned the knob the other direction. Still closed.

  The other door wasn’t locked. She found the light switch inside the black opening after a few seconds of fumbling and switched on the overhead light. The area was closet-sized,
painted in the same pale beige as the main room, but held a small wall mirror, toilet and sink. No window or air duct offered an escape route.

  Dena glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. The image momentarily startled her, and she jumped, stifling the yelp nearly as soon as she uttered it. She was shocked at what she saw. The disarranged hair didn’t bother her as much as the red marks on the right side of her face. From banging against the open car door when he hit her, or from sleeping on the floor? Her fingers gingerly traced the redness. The skin had swollen slightly and was tender. Perhaps it would turn into a bruise. Wouldn’t she look lovely when Michael saw her?

  The thought of McLaren rescuing her cheered her briefly. She stared into the area in front of her, and a balloon-accented conference room suddenly transposed itself in the space. It was the opening night of the fundraiser for the tiger sanctuary; she worked as a volunteer at the silent auction. McLaren’s sister had contributed a painting and he was there to bid on it. The sounds and images washed over her, pulling her back to the moment they’d met.

  “You’ve been returning to the bid sheet every few minutes, sir. Are you interested in the painting?”

  “Yes. It’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

  “One of the best ones I’ve seen of Bolton Abbey. Have you put in a bid?”

  “I’m trying not to, but I think I’ll have no choice.” He had laughed at that moment, as though he shared a secret with someone. “The artist is my sister.”

  “Gwen Hulme?”

  “Yes. This is a first for her.”

  “Surely not painting. She’s awfully good for a beginner, Mr. Hulme.”

  “It’s McLaren.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My name’s Michael McLaren. Hulme is my sister’s married name.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. How stupid of me.”

  “That’s all right, Miss…”

  “Ellison. Dena Ellison.”