Cold Revenge Read online

  He pulled in the corner of his mouth and looked past her shoulder, staring at the church tower at the end of the street. The sunlight glanced off the brass cross topping the steeple and tinted the gray stones gold. A magpie floated down from the half-closed bell louvers and settled on a bough of a stately oak.

  “If that’s too strong a word, an overture of friendship, then. You can’t keep your feelings and yourself walled up forever. You can’t live like that. You are a warm, caring person. At least, you used to be. And I believe you still are, deep inside. That warmth and caring drove you into police work in the first place, Michael. But you can’t become stony and unfeeling like those damned stone walls of yours.”

  “Were you in Castleton this morning?” He had shifted his gaze so that he now looked at her face, judging the truth in her eyes.

  “Pardon?” Her eyebrow arched. “What’s Castleton got to do with”

  “A lot. At least, it could. I need to know. Were you in Castleton?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “We were talking about you and your feelings and your life from here on out.”

  “And my feelings and my life, and our relationship, if it’s to continue or improve or get back to where it was…”

  “Depends on Castleton this morning. Honestly, Michael!” She picked up the wine and took a sip before replying. “I don’t know what you want. Will you believe my answer?” Her gaze shifted to his eyes. They were dark and unreadable except for the suggestion of desperation. She set down the glass, rather frustrated. “This really means a lot, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Well, I don’t know what you want.”

  “I want the truth, Dena. Just that.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever given you, Michael. From the first day we met. And when I fell in love with you, I told you so we wouldn’t be playing games. It’s not fair to play games with someone’s emotions.”

  “About this morning…”

  She took a deep breath and leaned forward so that she was closer to him. “No. I wasn’t in Castleton.” She watched as he slowly let out his breath. “I don’t know whether I’ve helped or hindered my cause with you, but I wasn’t in Castleton. Will you tell me why you wanted to know? You weren’t involved in a hit and run, were you?” She angled her head, trying to see his car.

  “It was a hit and run, Dena, but not that sort.” He stood up and looked down at her.

  “You’re going? Just like that, without telling me anything? Have I said something to anger you?”

  He stared at her, expressionless.

  “What happened in Castleton that matters so much? Won’t you tell me?” She held out her hand. “Please. Tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s troubling you.”

  “You want to help me?”

  “Of course!”

  “Even after all this time, after how you felt last night?”

  “That was anger talking last night. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t feel something toward you.”

  “But love turns into hate sometimes. Just pick up a newspaper or listen to a television news program. There are dozens of stories about spousal abuse and murder.”

  “And what happened in Castleton… Should that lead me to murder you? Or you murder me?” She added the statement quickly as he took a deep breath.

  “No. That’s extreme.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just a little mystery I have to solve, that’s all. Good night, Dena.”

  “This isn’t the end, is it?” There was urgency in her question as she called after his retreating figure. “You’re not running out on me again.”

  “I’ll be around.” He turned toward her, his hands in his trousers pockets.

  “So will I, Michael. At the same phone number and the same street address.”

  “Just so I don’t hit and run again in your life, right?” He wished her good night again and left.

  He got into his car. Why would she put the beer bottle in my car when I made it plain last night that I didn’t want her around? The last rays of sun hit the west-facing roof tiles, ignited a house’s brass weather vane in brilliant ochre and red, and shimmered through the tops of the trees. There was at least another hour of sunlight on the hills, but here in the valley the shadows were already forming and it would be dark soon. He turned his car onto the road to his house, just beyond the village proper, the questions and suspicions crowding his mind. Why would she get tangled up with someone who doesn’t want her? It made no sense.

  McLaren passed the last house in the string of wall-to-wall residences along the road’s northern side. A light burned in the front room, ready for the twilight. He entered the smaller lane that led to his house, a narrow strip of black among the greens and browns and grays of the landscape. As he emerged into the clearing, the limestone rock face on his left reflected the sun’s light with a near-blinding intensity. It was a relief when his car gained the gloom of the wood again.

  He was rounding the bend where the wood was its densest. A sliver of light glanced off the water that fell from the rocky crevice dozens of stories above. The pool where the water collected was deep and cold, inviting to animals and small boys. He glanced at it, the memories of summer swims sharp in his mind, then quickly jerked the wheel. A car raced from the leafy darkness, its nearness frightening. McLaren jammed on the brakes, steering the car as far to the left as possible. As the sickening sound of metal scraped against stone, a flash came toward him. A horn blared. A moment later a beer bottle slammed into his door and crashed onto the road. He jerked his head to his right. The other car disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  He took a deep breath, then slowly got out of his car. Dust hung in the air like the questions crowding his mind. He covered his mouth, trying not to breathe, but the dust seeped into this nose and mouth. Coughing, he pulled open the door and sat inside with the windows rolled up until the dust dissipated. When he finally looked at the front of his car, he shook his head. He’d braked within centimetres of a massive oak tree. But the car’s passenger side hadn’t escaped so luckily. It was nestled against the cliff face.

  He slowly walked to the far side of his car, his head lowered, searching the ground. Near the rear of his car, several yards back, he found what he wanted. He picked up a rock and judged its weight, much as he did when working on stone walls. The rock eclipsed his hand. Curling his fingers around the rock, he walked several dozen yards farther up the road in the direction from which the other driver had come. Tire tracks showed plainly on the damp patch of earth near the bend. They were the only marks on its otherwise clean surface. The driver hadn’t even tried to stop or swerve.

  McLaren strode back to the center of the road opposite his car. He didn’t attempt to cap his anger. He ran several feet, his right hand slightly behind him, his left shoulder leading, as a thrower revving up for the launch of a javelin. He threw the rock after the long-departed car. The rock arched into the air, clipped a few leaves from low-hanging branches, then dropped onto the tarmac several hundred yards down the road.

  He drove slowly home, anger at odds with the confusion that tried to make sense of the incident. The accident, he could understand. The road was narrow and curved at that point. It was fairly dark and hard to see. But why throw a beer bottle? Was it related to the bottle incident earlier today?

  He parked his car in the wide space off-center of his driveway, put some leftover fish and chips in the microwave to heat, and rang up his mate, police detective Jamie Kydd.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The damn thing about this,” McLaren said when Jamie answered his phone, “is that I didn’t get the registration number on the damned car.” Having given his friend the details of the incident he was now releasing his anger and frustration between his gulps of beer.

  “I would’ve thought your car’s condition would’ve been the worst part.” Jamie ran his fingers through his short-cro
pped light brown hair and settled back into the upholstered chair..

  “It is scratched.” McLaren reluctantly admitted the car’s condition as he set the bottle down with a thud. “A minor dent to the left front wing, but nothing serious.”

  “And it’s drivable.”

  “If it weren’t, I’d still be running after the berk.”

  “And you’d smash his face in when you catch up with him, I know.”

  McLaren’s grunt acknowledged his agreement.

  “Did you get a look at the car or see any occupants?”

  He hesitated, aware he would sound like the majority of victims and witnesses he’d interviewed during his police career. At Jamie’s urging, he finally said, “It was a Mercedes coupe. A dark color. Green, I think. Yeah, a hunter green. I don’t think it was navy blue or black. Registration number begins YV. That’s all I could get. I think there was someone in the backseat. I think he threw the bottle.”

  “The backseat? Implying there were three or more people in the car?”

  “Because he was in the back and not in the front passenger seat?”

  “You don’t think he was deliberately sitting in the back just so he could toss the bottle at you?”

  “Well…”

  “That implies it was premeditated, Mike!, what’ve you been doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To warrant this? Have you made an enemy of someone?”

  “I’ve been out of the job for a year now, Jamie.”

  “You think those thugs you sent away will forget you just because you’re no longer a cop?”

  “A year’s awfully long to hold a grudge and do something about it. Besides, if you don’t remember, I was stationed in Staffordshire. I now reside in Derbyshire. That’s a hell of a big distance between the station and my house.”

  “And you moved back to Derbyshire on purpose, I know.”

  “Yeah. For just this sort of thing. So none of those toe rags could find me.”

  “Well, unless some farmer is upset at the way you mended his stone wall, someone’s mad and looking for revenge. What’s with this beer bottle episode, anyway? You still think it’s related to that walker this morning?”

  McLaren grabbed the beer, looked at it, screwed up his mouth, and set it down again. He needed a clear head to sort out everything. “I don’t know. That’s why I phoned.”

  “The impartial outsider looking at this unemotionally.”

  “I thought perhaps something would stand out.”

  “Like, you forgot that the hiker was drinking a Duvel when you stopped to assist her.”

  “Nothing that expensive.” McLaren recalled the price of the Belgian ale. “But something like that, yes. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Well, unless you haven’t told me something, I can’t see how this is connected with your cold case. Probably just coincidence.”

  “Don’t give me that, Jamie. You know my opinion of coincidence.”

  “But things do happen. And the beer bottle’s not part of your cold case.”

  “Which is another reason I needed to talk.” He speared a chip, now barely more than lukewarm, with his fork. He didn’t care particularly what he ate, as long as he could fill his stomach. Breakfast was a long time ago.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I had hoped you’d be part brain, but I’ll let that pass.”

  “Fine. Shoot.”

  “Good word choice.”

  “What, shoot? You weren’t shot at too, were you?”

  McLaren shook his head. There was no mistaking the anxiety in his friend’s voice. “No. I’m referring to the cold case. Marta Hughes murdered and dumped along the roadside.”

  “Sure. So what do you want? Yes, I know Elton’s in B Division and I’m in B Division, but I didn’t work on that case, Mike. There were other things that kept me busy last June.”

  “I know. I just thought you could get your hands on some information for me.”

  The silence at the other end of the phone grew uncomfortable and McLaren was about to apologize when Jamie said, “What kind of information? If it’s something about running a car through the police national computer…”

  “No. Nothing so risky.” He pushed the bottle away from him and forked another chip. PNC checks were strictly controlled, monitored internally by the Force. PNC use for anything other than official use resulted in officers being sacked. It was a chance and ramification he would never ask Jamie to take. He laid the fork back on the plate. “You’ve got access to the police reports.”

  “Yes…” His answer sounded wary.

  “I’d like to know about the place her body was found, the exact location.”

  “Are you daft?”

  McLaren seemed not to hear Jamie. He continued. “How far out from Elton, on the left or the right side of the road? Where was she found precisely? If you can’t get me a copy of the photos” He held the phone away from his ear as Jamie’s yelp boomed over the receiver. “Let me know exactly. And I’d like the pathology report. And the biologist’s, if you can wrangle that, too.” He paused as Jamie snorted, “You’ll give me a few minutes to rustle this up, I hope.”

  “Whenever you get it is fine.”

  “Thanks.” Jamie exhaled loudly, as if he already imagined the swift boot out the door if he were caught looking up the information.

  “Just don’t lose your job over it.”

  “I don’t intend to. Uh, Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, will you?”

  “I always am.”

  What Jamie didn’t say was that McLaren had not been careful the night of his altercation with Charlie Harvester. McLaren was more than aware of that.

  Jamie looked up from his notepad. “The lads did a thorough search of the area. I don’t know what you’ll find there now, but I’ll ring you back when I’ve got the info for you.”

  “I just hope our boys in blue overlooked something.”

  McLaren was running, his legs painful to move, his strides agonizingly slow as he struggled his way through the mass of beer bottles that had somehow filled The Hanoverian Hotel lobby. He had just reached for the hit-and-run driver when his bedside phone jerked him awake.

  He groped for the phone in the darkness, knocking over the bottle of aspirin and sending a book thudding to the floor. The ringing guided his search and after several seconds his fingers closed around the receiver. He leaned toward the bedside table, throwing off the bed sheet, and answered even before the mouthpiece was against his lips.

  There was no answer. The line was dead.

  Grumbling that some people should learn to dial more carefully, he hung up the phone and lay down. The sounds of the night seeped into his roombleats of sheep, the bark of a fox, the faint purr of a car motor, the yowl of a cat. He turned over on his side and went back to sleep.

  The moon hadn’t wandered much in its westward path when the jangling phone wakened him again. This time he sat up and grabbed the receiver on the third ring. His terse “Yeah?” was answered by silence.

  He barked his response again, and again there was no reply.

  Slamming the receiver back onto the phone, McLaren cursed the unknown caller and looked around the darkened room for something to throw. The book was on the floor, out of reach. He needed the two pillows, so they weren’t considered. Then he glanced at the alarm clock. Its luminous dial stated it was 2:45. Hell of a time for someone to be making calls, he thought as he fell back onto the mattress. His head hit the pillows, sending a soft ‘whoosh’ into the room.

  Was someone deliberately harassing him? He was ex-directory, so either someone had randomly dialed his number or the person knew him. He would have named Dena, but in light of today’s talk he was certain she wouldn’t do that. So who was calling? And why?

  He rolled onto his side again, punching the pillow so he could see out the window. The land lay quiet and dark, devoid of the earlier night noises. Everythi
ng beneath heaven was still and slumbering, it seemed, and McLaren shut his eyes, trying to do the same.

  Minutes later he gave it up as a bad job and leaned against the headboard. The caller had to be connected to something currently happening in his life; no one would wait a year for revenge. Unless he’d just been released from prison…

  McLaren stared into the blackness outside his window, more dense and real than the gloom inside his house. He had enemies in prisonwhat copper didn’t? But for someone to find out where he lived, what car he drove, that suggested tenacity and intelligence. Or a connection inside the police department.

  But what copper would turn on another copper like this? Who would betray him to a con?

  The answer screamed at him with all the certainty of a slamming cell door. Charlie Harvester.

  McLaren sat up, his body rigid, his heart pounding. He pulled a pillow to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, squeezed it, wishing for the first time in a year that it were Dena. The room seemed to pulse in rhythm to the blood pounding in his temples. He fumbled for the glass of water beside the clock, then drank it quickly. Wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, he tried to think. Even Harvester wouldn’t do that. They may have hated each other’s guts, but to set up something like this, something that smacked of revenge, after more than a year…

  He set the glass back on the nightstand and got up. Tossing the pillow onto the bed, he glanced at the clock. 3:03. Perhaps he could sleep late. If he ever got back to sleep. Funny thing was, he never had trouble sleeping when he worked on stone walls.

  Perhaps because there was nothing threatening about them or because he knew what to expect. Like the wall he had been working on when Linnet had interrupted. He had sighted down the wall’s length, making certain the addition was in keeping with the wall’s cant. Not an edge had ruptured the overall symmetry. Except for the absence of lichen wallpapering the stone face or moss wedging into minute recesses between stones, his work was indistinguishable from the original wall, blending into its ancient age. Was that part of the attraction he found with the work, cherishing the link to the original waller? Perhaps he, too, had been an outsider as McLaren was. Perhaps the original craftsman had found his comfort in sun, wind, and kestrels soaring overhead, had shunned other men’s company, wanting only to get on with his life and job. Which was what McLaren wanted right now. Not dredging up recollections of injustices until your emotional wounds lay raw once more.