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  “Kent does, or you do?” He paused for McLaren’s answer, then added, “I realize what you must be feeling over the injustice for the victim.”

  McLaren went on as if Jamie hadn’t spoken. “Don’t you agree this case’s got the whiff of the fishmonger about it?”

  “I know what it sounds like, Mike. Carbohydrate andromedotoxin in his system, and strangulation thrown in for good measure. But two people?” Skepticism seeped into his tone.

  “What else could it point to? Two people, two methods of murder. You have to admit that’s odd.”

  “I’ll give you odd, but nothing else. The case has been investigated, Mike.”

  “I’ll give you investigated,” McLaren said, mimicking Jamie’s tone, “but it’s not closed, is it?”

  “You know it’s not or you wouldn’t have rung me up. And on my lunch hour, yet.”

  “You must’ve finished. I don’t hear the clatter and chatter of those happy diners.”

  “I’ve moved out to the corridor. I couldn’t very well talk where dozens of coppers can overhear my conversation.”

  The hallway stretched a dozen yards in each direction, its cream-painted walls and brown-and-white lino floor throwing back Jamie’s soft voice. No footsteps marked a potential eavesdropper; no noise bounced back to him other than his own words. He frowned, thinking once again how impersonal the place seemed, how it could do with an interior designer to bring some warmth, maybe make the work environment a bit more cheery.

  McLaren uttered a soft oath. “They probably wouldn’t pay attention even if they did hear you above the din. They’re too busy gobbling down egg and cress sandwiches or sausage rolls, if I remember my happy lunch hours properly. What’s the special today?”

  “Why’d you ring me up before you’ve eaten? You’re always in a foul mood when you’re peckish.”

  “Am not. Anyway, you’ve changed the subject. I just want someone who’s in charge of the case to consider the possibility that two people might be involved with Kent Harrison’s murder. There is someone in charge of the case, isn’t there?”

  “Not officially. It’s classified Cold. And don’t ask me to make inquiries. Any new information poking through this morass would automatically scream for attention. Someone would be on it like a dog on a bone.”

  “Or a cop on a robber,” McLaren added, the comparison not too far off the mark.

  “Sorry, Mike, but if I make any waves, no matter how minute…”

  A groan bored into Jamie’s ear. He could imagine his friend about to throw the phone across the room. “If you’re counting to ten, stop. I’ve nothing to do with this—policy or investigation. Save yourself an ulcer and attend to one of your walls.”

  “Well, if I turn up anything, can I at least tell you about it?”

  “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

  “I’m not talking about true confessions or humorous episodes of my love life. I’m serious, Jamie.”

  “I know you are. That’s what concerns me. But fine. Nose around, ask questions.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hold on. A possible ear.” He paused, pressing the mouthpiece of his mobile phone against his stomach as two constables walked up to him. Nodding to them, he waited until they entered the canteen and the door closed before continuing. “Sorry. All clear.”

  “Who was it? Your Super?”

  “Little pitchers. But I still didn’t want them to hear.”

  “Ta.”

  “But really, Mike, I’m not convinced this is such a smashing idea. If you ask the wrong person and he gets mad… Well… Last month’s run-in was bad enough. You might have been seriously injured or might have died from the assault.”

  “You believe it’s going to happen again if I take on this cold case.”

  “There’s always a danger of that.”

  “Because I’m not in the job any more?”

  “That’s not got a thing to do with it. But you do seem deaf to advice, even to your own counsel that might normally warn you to avoid investigations. Even if you don’t admit it, it’s true. Look how you rushed to the defense of your friend a year ago, when Harvester was investigating the pub burglary.”

  “What’s wrong with righting another wrong? If I can help one overlooked victim, bring some relief to the family…”

  Jamie let the silence build as he glanced at the in-house poster on the opposite wall—a close-up photo of wrists handcuffed together. The caption read Accessories Are ‘in’ This Season. Farther down the wall another poster showed a police car—the two tones lit, its back seat door open—proclaiming Preferred Seating. Jamie left the contemplation of the posters and spoke into his mobile. “You can do anything you want, Mike, but just so your tunnel vision doesn’t land you in hospital. I’d hate to use my time off to visit you there.”

  “There won’t be a repeat performance from last month. At least, if there is, the victim/aggressor roles will be reversed. Now, save your breath. I’m grateful that you care, but I’ll just ask a few questions to see if there’s anything that the original investigation missed. People sometimes talk after the spotlight’s shut off.”

  “I’m a copper, you don’t have to tell me.” Jamie glanced at his watch. “Time for my delightful repast is over, Mike. Gotta go.”

  “Glad we could have lunch together.”

  “Food would have been a nice addition, but I won’t wish for the impossible. One quick last question to satisfy my curiosity. Why now? Did the case fascinate you, does the one-year anniversary mean something, or is some relative of Kent Harrison’s twisting your arm? And if so,” Jamie added as he heard McLaren’s deep breath, “why haven’t they gone to the police? Why seek you out? I know you well enough to realize you’re not hung up on fame or publicity, so your name in the newspaper’s not your goal.” A hesitation on the other end of the phone line gave Jamie the answer. “Oh. Dena.”

  “I haven’t promised her anything.”

  “But you’re interested, or you wouldn’t even be doing preliminary work.”

  “Like I said, Jamie, I owe it to the victim. If two people did want him dead, that’s a lot of hatred. I need to see what caused it and to bring him some justice. That’s it, pure and simple.”

  “Admirable.” Jamie paused. He wouldn’t say he was worried once more about McLaren investigating a case on his own. “Who will you talk to first?” The canteen door opened, letting out a blast of talk. “Sorry. Who?”

  “Where the smart cop always begins. With the spouse.”

  “Not the girlfriend?”

  “At last! We’re talking motive.”

  Chapter Five

  “I know your motive is admirable.” Jerry stopped his car opposite Dena’s house. It blended in with the others on the lane, a two-storey stone cottage embraced by its neighbors—being one of several in the row of houses—and emphatic flowering window boxes. A previous owner’s difference of opinion had topped Dena’s house with a darker colored roof, giving it an air of rebellion and individuality in the dreary sea of otherwise light gray slate. The string of residences was the last vestige of the village’s southern end; beyond it sprawled the farmland, meadows, and wood. The northern end melted into the village proper, merging into the High Street, along which shops huddled cheek-by-jowl. The High Street, in turn, curled about to the A515 west of Parwich, losing its village flavor when it disappeared in the tangle of roads that converged in Buxton. But all that lay to the west and beyond the slight rise of the hills. Jerry’s attention was on Dena.

  She extracted her keys from the clutter in her handbag. “But will Michael believe it, admirable as the motive may be? You know how he gets, Jerry.”

  “Isn’t that like asking the Trojans to accept the gift of another horse? Okay, okay,” he added, as Dena frowned, “bad joke. But opening a cold case, and especially having an ex-police detective open it, is not my idea of a good time had by all. So you prod Mike into investigating it. Super. But he may not be successful if he starts poking ab
out. What if he fails? Have you thought about that?”

  Dena’s voice was nearly a whisper. “He may sink back into his depression, overcome by failing at something he used to excel in.”

  “At the critical time, too. Just as he’s making overtures to shake it. And if he slips back, he may never get out. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

  She left Jerry and Gwen in a whirlwind of emotions, anger being the major one—anger that he thought her senseless or stupid. Anger that he had no idea of the depth of her love for McLaren. Fearful that Jerry might be right about getting McLaren interested in the cold case. Worried that he wouldn’t be interested in the cold case and slip back into his apathy. Now, thirty minutes later, she merely felt wretched and impatient with McLaren, Jerry, and Life in general.

  She set down her teacup and walked into her back room. Apple green, red and white, the room held a mix of new and antique pieces. A white wicker rocker and green, red, and white plaid sofa framed the large fireplace. Photographs of landscapes and wild birds grabbed the wall space between the white-framed windows. Though highly polished, her grandmother’s desk carried the scars from a long, useful life. Her great grandmother’s cream pitcher, sporting a blue-and-cream checkerboard design, served as a pencil holder.

  Dena sat at her desk and turned on the computer. A minute later she was reading an online newspaper article of Kent Harrison’s death.

  Tuesday, 12 July. The pastoral calm shattered late Monday when the body of Kent Harrison, 45, was discovered in the wood bordering the village of Kirkfield, Derbyshire. Harrison, an apparent murder victim, had been missing since late Sunday evening when he left Tutbury Castle where he had been performing in the Minstrels Court festivity. Fellow musician and sometimes-singing partner Dave Morley said he had been trying to contact Harrison since 23.00 hours Sunday. “He had told me just before we parted Sunday night to ring him up a bit later,” Morley said. “We were going to talk about our performance for Monday. When I couldn’t get him on the phone, I got worried. I drove over Monday night, walked to the wood, and that’s when I found his body.” Although police refuse to comment at this point, it looks as though Harrison had been strangled. His guitar, wallet, money, and keys hadn’t been touched. Police are unsure of a motive, but urge anyone who may know anything about Harrison or his death to contact them. Morley, a shop clerk at Joyful Sound Music, said Harrison’s passing is a great loss to the music world. Harrison taught sixth form classes in music at Grange Hall Performing Arts College in Ashbourne.

  Dena leaned back in her chair, staring at the computer monitor. The article blurred. She was no detective, but Dave Morley’s statement didn’t make sense. Why hadn’t he and Kent Harrison talked right then, before they parted Sunday night? Why ring up later and confer over the phone? And if Dave had been so worried about Kent, why wait twenty-four hours before driving over to look for him? The wood outside the village seemed an odd place to search.

  She logged on to another website. The article read nearly the same as the previous newspaper account but gave a more personal slant by adding that Kent Harrison had been a well-known folk musician on the brink of national stardom. His recording of “The Swans’ Song” had sold out of its original press run and had reached the number three spot on one radio station. Yet, despite the fame and fans, Kent Harrison remained true to his teaching career and looked forward to his students…

  “Blah blah blah,” Dena muttered, glancing over the remainder of the article. A photo, probably courtesy of his website or from his manager, accompanied the article. It showed him on stage, smiling, his left hand gripping the neck of his guitar, his right arm raised to greet the crowd. She studied his face—radiant with joy, his brown eyes slightly obscured at the outer corners by folds of skin. His brown hair appeared too dark to be natural, but it could have been the angle at which the photographer took the picture. Still, Kent looked younger than his forty-five years, more like an over-grown university student than a teacher of students.

  She checked one more website, read essentially the same thing—with the inclusion that Kent Harrison was recently divorced—and logged off, thinking it amazing how the media abbreviated a person’s life.

  As she turned off the computer, she glanced at the clock. Mid-afternoon. Plenty of time. If she was going to pry McLaren from his stone wall work she had best get the proper lure. And what better one, she thought as she grabbed her handbag and keys from the kitchen table, than her prime suspect? The venetian blinds banged against the back door window as she left to talk to Dave Morley.

  Chapter Six

  McLaren slammed down the phone receiver, impatient to get started. His notepad held what information Jamie had time to relate:

  1-Kent Harrison had been found Monday at 22:30 hours by the boulder 117 yards into the wood bordering Kirkfield.

  2-Sporadic singing partner Dave Morley had the dubious distinction of locating the body, deliberately beginning his search outside Kent’s house and then fanning out into the field and forest. He knew that “if I didn’t find him at his house, I could probably find him by the boulder.”

  So the wood wasn’t such an illogical spot to search as the investigating officers had first supposed. They believed Dave had tried contacting Kent as often as he claimed, for a check of his phone records confirmed this. But as to whether Dave had dumped Kent’s body earlier, after killing him Sunday night, or merely located the body…well, that they couldn’t prove.

  3-Kent’s car sat in his driveway, testifying that he had arrived home. Or someone had driven him home. A meticulous search of Dave’s car confirmed Kent had been a passenger at some time. Suspicion may have been in the officers’ minds, but finding Kent’s hair, shed skin cells, and fingerprints didn’t automatically damn Dave. As he pointed out, and as the officers believed, Dave and Kent often rode in each other’s cars; it saved the cost of petrol when they sang at the same venues.

  4-The lab techs extracted a small amount of DNA from Kent’s car that couldn’t be matched to any known person involved in the case. The few strands of head hair had been tagged and stored for that hopeful day when they’d come up with a match. But it, too, might have been transferred in a completely innocent manner. How many strands of hair, skin cells and fabric particles does the average person carry away from someone else, only to shed the foreign hair elsewhere? Still, the hair needed saving.

  Jamie promised in a stealthy whisper that he’d email McLaren one or two photos of the area where the body had been found. For, as he had murmured, barely audible, “Red Riding Hood’s wolf lurks.”

  McLaren hung up, comprehending the danger Jamie faced if he were discovered scanning and emailing the photos, yet appreciative beyond words that he had his friend’s help. Some coppers did have big ears, as Jamie had alluded to, and loved nothing better than to gossip or report rule breakers.

  He picked up the phone’s receiver again but held it, staring at it. He found himself thinking of Charlie Harvester, another detective at the Staffordshire Constabulary. A nasty piece of work. A copper whose hatred of McLaren snaked back to their police training days.

  He leaned back, shut his eyes and, as he massaged his forehead, envisioned a snatch of the letter he’d composed when he quit.

  The anxious beeps of the phone seemed to slip into the bleat of Harvester’s incessant accusations. Shaking away the images and surreal echoes, McLaren cleared the phone and punched in the number of Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office forensic pathologist who worked on the Kent Harrison case.

  She answered his call on the second ring and McLaren found himself again swamped in a rush of memories and mental images from his police days. He could also remember her—small and delicate, her dark eyes staring with a frankness and inquisitiveness that ate into his soul. Her long, dark hair was always swept into a bun to be out of the way as she worked, or maybe in a ponytail, revealing a pair of dangly earrings she loved to wear. She’d be wearing a white lab coat over gray or blue trousers, two of her fa
vorite colors. Her smile most always consumed her face. He swallowed before responding to the “Hello?” asked on the other end of the line, momentarily wondering if he were doing the right thing. “Hi, Cheryl. It’s Mike McLaren.”

  A slight intake of breath preceded her stammered “Mc…McLaren? Mike? God, of all people! How are you?”

  “Hi, Cheryl,” he repeated, suddenly embarrassed and reticent about renewing the colleague association after so much time had elapsed. His fingers toyed with the handful of ceramic and wooden beads strung on a leather thong around his neck. He seemed to resort to this talisman-like action when he was anxious. The larger, center bead was grooved like the ridges of corduroy, and he rolled it beneath his index finger and thumb. “I’m fine. How about you? Still in the job?”

  She laughed, a river of silver coursing through McLaren’s veins. “Does the sun rise in the east? Do badgers like peanuts? Of course I’m still a pathologist. Why? You need something?”

  McLaren heard the pause, sensed the unasked question in her voice. He answered it. “No, I’m not back on the Force. I’m building and repairing stone walls in Derbyshire.”

  “Derbyshire! Really? Why there?” Again, he felt that she didn’t state the obvious, that he had put miles between himself and the scene of his anger.

  “My childhood home in Somerley. The village I was reared in. I thought it was better than…well, safer to leave Staffordshire.”

  “Safer for you, or safer for Harvester? Never mind, don’t answer that! It’s none of my business, Mike. But knowing you, it’s safer for Harvester. God, what a sorry excuse for a human being he is. Anyway,” she said, the warmth coming back to her voice, “you didn’t call to chat about old times. As I said, do you need something?”

  “I’m not sure now that I should have rung you up.”

  “Am I that forbidding? I haven’t changed any.”

  “No, not forbidding. Just that…well, the favor.”