Shadow in the Smoke Read online

  He nodded toward the two women who passed their table, their nylon jackets wet, their shoes leaving damp imprints on the carpet.

  Nora Ennis relaxed her arm and sank back into her chair. The ding of the cash register rang into the air while she set her handbag on her lap. “But you do it, you have done it.”

  “I have. But I fell into the first one. The woman came to me.”

  “Rather like I’m doing now.”

  He nodded, feeling uncomfortable with the parallel cases.

  “And you took that first case. Verity Dwyer told me you did.”

  “The lady from Noah’s Ark animal shelter,” he said, his mind flashing back to June. “You know her, I assume.”

  “We’re friends, yes. She spoke highly of you, Mr. McLaren.”

  “Nice to hear. Yes, I did take that case. Though maybe I shouldn’t have done.”

  “Why? Didn’t you like being back at your old job, however unofficial it was?”

  Images of Linnet Isherwood, the woman who had persuaded him to forsake his rock hammer, chisel and lonely patch of Derbyshire field, welled up in his mind. She had not only troubled to locate him but also had climbed a rather steep hill on a Sahara-like June day to ask for his help. McLaren nodded at the remembrance and wondered if he weren’t trading Linnet Isherwood for Nora Ennis. Eyeing Nora, he said rather irritably, “We’re not here to talk about my fling with playing Philip Marlowe, however brief or pleasant it was.”

  “You’re right, we’re not. And you’ve assured me many times you’re not an actual private eye. More of a concerned citizen.” Nora Ennis smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her gaze on her fingertips. Her voice sounded tired overall, but a softness had crept into her words. Hope?

  “There are a lot of real private investigators in Manchester, Mrs. Ennis. In Sheffield, too, if that’s closer to you. Why not rent one of them? Any one of them would be eager to take on your case. I don’t know why you asked me, anyway, despite Verity Dwyer’s glowing reference.” This last was said with a hint of sarcasm coating his words. “I’m not a licensed private cop.”

  “But you’ve got the spark that the others lack.” She opened her handbag. A crack of thunder accentuated her statement. “And even if you’re merely a concerned citizen, you must admit you have the skill and experience that most of us lack. You’ve got your detective training to help you.”

  He noticed the hesitation before she spoke the last word, and guessed she’d really wanted to say ‘me’. “What makes you so certain of that?”

  “When you’ve lived as long as I have, Mr. McLaren—seventy-three years, in case it makes a difference to you—and experienced as much of humanity as I have…” She shrugged and watched his eyes. They were hazel in color and expressive, capable of conveying his thoughts and emotions. Which, at the moment, were annoyance and curiosity, in spite of his better judgment. And which also complemented his blue shirt. She broke her gaze and reached inside her bag. “What would it take to make my daughter’s case your full time job right now?”

  He ran his fingers through his short blond hair—a maverick display from his equally maverick Scandinavian grandmother—sank back into his chair, and snorted. This had the unpleasant ring of this past June. Here it was September, and through two cases and three months he had not altered his job choice or opinion about cold cases. He’d never get rich taking them on. And at age thirty-seven he’d lost the enthusiasm, or ignorance, of youth and knew he had to work hard for a living. Glancing at his watch, McLaren said, “I’m afraid it’d take more time and money.”

  “More time and money…than what? Than you’ve previously been paid?”

  “Considering I got not a sausage from the last case I worked, that wouldn’t be hard to top.”

  “Client couldn’t pay you?”

  “The client was my girlfriend and I took the case on as a favor.”

  “But too many favors don’t keep the roof over your head.”

  “Like I say, Mrs. Ennis, it’s no way to get rich.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. McLaren.” She paused, drawing a checkbook from her bag.

  “About taking on your case.”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “I’ve got two jobs of work looming, Mrs. Ennis. I haven’t time—”

  “Two cases to investigate?” Her eyes suddenly sparked into life, bringing a suggestion of color to her ashen cheeks.

  McLaren shook his head, annoyed by the subject. Slapping his fist on top of the chair arm he said, “Dry stone wall repairs. Near Bakewell.” He was vague on purpose, not wanting her to come to his work site and pester him about the case.

  “And these bits of repair will pay you more than taking on Janet’s case.”

  He pulled in the corners of his mouth, annoyed at the woman and his attempt to rid himself of her. She had no right to question his choice of livelihood. Why should he alter anything to please her? He tugged at the knot of his plaid tie. It hadn’t bothered him until now.

  She must have sensed his building resentment or seen the glare in his eyes, for she said, “I am sorry, Mr. McLaren. That was uncalled for. But you can appreciate how I feel. I’ve been trying for five years to get my daughter’s murder case opened again.”

  “Let me guess.” He said it more sharply than he had intended, irritated with her, himself and the subject. “Our lads in blue won’t listen to you.”

  “Nothing to make a song about, at least, no.”

  “Deaf ears.” He leaned forward and picked up the bill for their tea. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ennis, but even if I did take on your case, I don’t think you could afford my fee.”

  “You haven’t told me what it is.”

  He named his price, watching her intently.

  “I’d double that if you could find Janet’s killer.” His right eyebrow rose in skepticism but she rushed on as he opened his mouth. “I’m serious. I’ve got the money. I can give you a check for the amount and you can cash it today, so you’ll know it’s good.”

  Recovering his composure, McLaren leaned back again. “It means that much to you, then.”

  “Yes. And it will to you, too.”

  “The money’s nice, I admit, but—”

  “Oh, I’m not referring to the money, Mr. McLaren, though I suppose that will be welcome.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I meant coming up against your nemesis again and proving him wrong after all these years.”

  “My nemesis…”

  “Yes. The man you tangled with, the man who’s responsible for you leaving your police job last year. Charlie Harvester.”

  Chapter Three

  “It couldn’t have been very pleasant for you,” Nora Ennis said as McLaren took a deep breath. He felt his heart was going to implode in his chest.

  An eruption of thunder and lightning roared overhead, accentuating last June’s roar of words and shouts now whirling in his head. Rain pelted the window beside their table, ran down the glass and collected in a stream on the outside sill before dripping onto the pavement. The water lay in wide puddles or ran across the concrete to deepen the streams beside the curb. A bus lumbered up the road, spraying the water high into the air. McLaren watched a rain drop slide down the windowpane and collect others to it before it, too, dropped and broke onto the sill.

  “Harvester.” McLaren managed to squeak out the distasteful name before his throat closed up. He turned back from the window and took a long sip of coffee before he could continue. “Harvester couldn’t have worked on your daughter’s original case. What’s he got to do with this?”

  She nodded, stating she was aware that five years ago Harvester, as well as McLaren, would have been in their early thirties. “I know Inspector Harvester wasn’t the senior investigating officer on the case. Or should I more properly call him Detective-Inspector Harvester? It sounds more respectful.”

  “Of which neither you nor I concur with, am I right?” He gave her a knowing look, having hear
d the slight edge to her voice when she had said the copper’s name.

  “You haven’t lost your detective skills, at any rate. Am I that transparent?”

  “When it comes to Harvester, yes.”

  “You seem a capable man in many ways, Mr. McLaren. I know brawn doesn’t necessarily equate to brains, but you’re muscular, tall and well built. Surely you can handle…anything that comes your way without too much difficulty.”

  “I’ve had my tussles and have usually won, yes.”

  “And you can’t be much of a dunce if you’re a detective? I think I’ve found the man for the job.”

  McLaren colored slightly at the compliment and tried to gloss over it. “Right, then. You’ve done your research, got my interest and attention. And you’ve learned about my working relationship with my former colleague.” He downed the last of his coffee and set the mug on the table with a thud. “What’s your angle?”

  “Nothing more than needing your help, Mr. McLaren. I told you about Janet—”

  “You mentioned Harvester,” he reminded her, rather gruffly. “He’s obviously involved in the case, or you wouldn’t have brought up his name. Not even as a lie to rope me into reviewing your daughter’s murder. Since Harvester was with the Staffordshire Constabulary at the time your daughter died, and your case happened here in Derbyshire, in Darleycote, I believe you said. And the fire was investigated by the Derbyshire Constabulary…” He paused, letting the significance sink in. “Well, he can’t have a tie to your case. At least none that waves as me.”

  “No, but he has something to do with it now, because he is with the Derbyshire CID at the moment.” She paused, and McLaren looked at her. Laughter from a nearby table floated over to them, filling the silence in their conversation. McLaren nearly decided to tell Nora Ennis that he wasn’t interested in the case, no matter if he would be able to escort Charlie Harvester to jail for something as trivial as littering, when Nora said, “He reviewed the case when I talked to him.”

  “And?”

  “And he tossed it aside. He thinks I’m a nutter and should be in Bedlam.”

  “Besides the obvious that Harvester is…” He paused, embarrassed that he had nearly called Harvester a four-letter word in front of the woman. Swallowing quickly, he said, “that he’s a nit and doesn’t know his―” Heat flooded his cheeks, aware that his feelings were running wild and he was losing control of his better judgment. He exhaled heavily and flashed an apologetic grin before finishing. “And he doesn’t know when to come in out of the rain… Why would he think you are anything other than a grieving mother?”

  Nora glanced down at her trembling hands, squeezing them together. “I’ve been diagnosed with early stages of dementia.” She said it so simply, so unemotionally, that McLaren nearly didn’t catch the significance of her statement.

  He mumbled his sympathy and asked if she had any family to help her.

  “No. I had only the one child, Janet. I had her rather late in life, when I was thirty-eight, so perhaps she meant more to me that if I birthed her when I was in my twenties. That may be true of a lot of couples’ feelings. I don’t know. But my husband and I were thrilled that we had her at our ages.”

  “And your husband?” He glanced at her ring finger. It was bare.

  “He divorced me soon after Janet’s death.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  A flash of lightning lit up the sky across the street. Nora laid her checkbook on the table and opened it. “I’ve had nearly five years to get over it.”

  “But no one does completely.”

  “No, they don’t. At least, I didn’t. Do you want half your fee now? I don’t know how this works, but I suppose a retainer of some amount is usual.”

  “I haven’t said I’d take the case, Mrs. Ennis.”

  “Oh!” Her round eyes mirrored her surprise.

  For an instant she looked incredibly young. A teenager, or a child, perhaps. Startled and slightly hurt, as though not receiving an expected gift.

  Her hand went to the collar of her cardigan. “Sorry. I just assumed you’d take it on.”

  “You were telling me about Harvester and his dismissal of your case.”

  “That makes a difference to you?”

  “I don’t know until I hear it. Would you mind telling me?”

  “Not at all.” She laid the pen on the table, closed the checkbook and wrapped her hands around her teacup. The restaurant was not crowded, being a late Monday morning, and she spoke slowly, making certain she included all the pertinent details. “Every few months I go into the Buxton or Matlock police station to see if they’ve learned anything more about Janet’s death. Buxton, because I live in Buxton, and Matlock because Darleycote—the village Janet lived in—is right outside Matlock. Just north of it.”

  “I know the spot, thanks.”

  “I don’t nag them, please understand that, Mr. McLaren, but I feel I need to keep the pressure on them or else Janet’s death could slip into a permanent cold case.”

  “Seems natural enough to me. So why does Harvester consider your inquiry a waste of time…for that’s what it sounds like from your description.”

  “Mr. Harvester knows I have the beginnings of dementia. So he thinks, as I said, that I’ve lost my reasoning faculties and my memory.”

  “Just because a person has dementia—”

  “But there’s more, Mr. McLaren. Harvester deduced it, probably from my many visits to the station and from talking to him. He has dismissed me as having an obsession with the case and has hinted rather strongly that I’ve fabricated the whole thing.”

  “Impossible. If the police have a report and your daughter died—”

  “But it’s the way in which she died, and the verdict that labeled this case an accident, that has Harvester convinced I’m rattling on without good cause. That and the television film have made up his mind.”

  “What television film?”

  “Candidate for a Cold Case.” The words came out slowly, hardly more than a mumble, and she blushed.

  In the hesitation McLaren was aware of the music playing in the background. “Someone to Watch Over Me”—an old song. An omen? Did Janet need someone to watch over her? He watched Nora pull at the hem of her cardigan, smoothing out the bunched-up fabric. Was Nora the one who needed the protective glance?

  “The film was on the telly some time ago. I don’t even know if a DVD or anything is available. It was about a girl’s death…very similar to Janet’s case. Harvester knows the film and thinks I’ve confused the film with my daughter’s death.”

  “Because you have dementia.”

  Nora nodded. She looked embarrassed to hand McLaren the same facts that had led Harvester to his conclusion.

  “Doesn’t surprise me that he wouldn’t bother to investigate something so simple.” McLaren felt the familiar tensing of his neck muscles and was aware his breathing had quickened. Every time he came in contact with Charlie Harvester, however remotely.

  “He won’t believe me, Mr. McLaren. In my working life I was a professor of anthropology. A rather good one, if I may repeat the opinions of my colleagues. I am the recipient of several honors and have written studies that are used in advanced degree courses at universities. Two years ago I finally retired but have tried to keep my mind active by being guest lecturer at universities and schools, and by serving as a guide on field trips to half a dozen countries.”

  “But all this made no difference to him,” McLaren said, unable to speak Harvester’s name. “Despite your intelligence and your obviously brilliant career.”

  “I brought a letter from my doctor, who explained my condition and assured Mr. Harvester that I am lucid and know what happened to Janet, but he won’t listen or believe me. I don’t know if he’s too busy or what, but nothing seems to persuade him to look into the case.”

  “So you’ve come to me.”

  “The police and the firefighters were of the same opinion that day—that Janet
burned household rubbish in the incinerator and the burning got out of control and set the artist studio on fire. But she didn’t.”

  “You know this for a fact? Were you there?”

  “I wasn’t there, but I know my daughter. She would no more burn anything outside in unsafe, drought conditions than she would hold up a bank. It wasn’t in her nature. You see, as a child and into her teen years Janet was a Girl Guide. She was also a nature lover, even as an adult. She cared for the earth and its wildlife. She would know better than to run such a risk. A fire in those conditions…it’s inconceivable.”

  “And that’s why you believe her death wasn’t an accident. That someone else, perhaps, started that fire with her inside the studio.”

  Nora pulled a photograph from a battered manila envelope and handed it to McLaren. The glossy paper had lost some of its sheen in spots, probably from rubbing against the contents of the bag, and there were a few creases and damaged spots, but on the whole the photo had held up well. He found himself gazing at a thirty-something-year-old woman with dark brown eyes and shoulder-length brunette hair, a woman trapped at this moment in time, who’d forever retain her youthful appearance. The deep turquoise hue of her silky, full-skirted dress accented her eye color, and he felt drawn to her.

  “This is Janet’s publicity photo.” Nora watched McLaren’s face. “She dressed in 1940s clothing for many of her venues. It went well with the styles of songs she sang. Her fiancé, Myles Tyson, took the picture. Well, not officially her fiancé at that time…but later. He’s a professional photographer. That’s how they met, in fact. It’s a very good likeness. I always thought it caught her kindness. Sometimes that’s hard to see, isn’t it? People usually are concerned that the photo show how beautiful or handsome they are. Not that Janet wasn’t, but her kindness made her more beautiful. And I think it shines through here. But besides her talent, she was kind. Helped people all the time. Gave down-and-outers a hand up. She cared for people. But I guess that isn’t what you need to know.” She shook her head and laid her hand on top of McLaren’s as he tried to return the photo. “Keep it. I’ve had it long enough. It needs to go to the man who will find the arsonist, her killer.”