Cold Revenge Read online

  He examined the faces and the typed information.

  “Alan and Chad…you can figure out. They’re the man and teenager. That’s Marta with them.”

  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 shelter’s vet. This”—she skipped over the others in the photograph and pointed to the woman to the extreme left—“is 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.”

  Chapter Five

  McLaren settled back into the chair. The wrought iron had lost its coldness and now just held the unyielding support he needed. He moved the notebook to his lap.

  Linnet pushed the empty glass to her right, as though considering how best to tell the story. “As I explained yesterday, Verity and Marta worked at the same place.”

  “An animal shelter. On Blackbeech Road. Noah’s Ark, I recall.”

  Linnet blinked in surprise, then said with a somewhat tremulous voice, “Uh, yes. Quite right. I’m impressed with your research.”

  “It’s included in the price.” He allowed himself a quick flash of a smile, took a sip of coffee.

  “Well, Verity and Marta became friends. At some point, Marta asked Verity for the loan of £200.”

  It was McLaren’s turn to blink. “What did she need it for, did she say?”

  “Same thing she always needed money for. Same thing she did on our girls’ night out.”

  “Gambling. She couldn’t take money out of her bank account or ask her husband?”

  “It’s rather involved. Just accept the fact that they’re very well off, but not dripping rich.”

  “If that’s true, her husband must get a nice pay packet. Marta couldn’t make much, working in a charity shelter.”

  “She didn’t. But Alan is in senior management…at National Westminster Bank.”

  “So they live on his money, for the most part.”

  “Yes. And because he works at National Westminster…”

  “Their accounts are with that bank. She couldn’t withdraw cash on her own and spare involving Verity in this?”

  “Marta could do, certainly. And she often did. But Alan didn’t know about her gambling. Well, that’s not exactly true. He knew she went to the casino—that we both went—but he thought it was just for fun, a few times a year. She didn’t tell him every time she went or how much she lost. Gradually she became addicted to it. She tried to keep it from Alan, so of course she couldn’t withdraw the money. He would have seen the reference to it on their monthly statement.”

  “And Christmas or a birthday, presumably, was too far away to furnish her with that story.”

  “I’d loaned her all the money I could, so she turned to Verity.”

  “Was she in the hole to you or anyone else? If she asked people for money”

  “She always paid it back, Mr. McLaren. That was the weird thing about it. Marta loved to gamble, but somehow she usually won. Even on the nights she lost heavily, she’d win huge on her return trip.”

  “So she always had money to repay her debts.” He tapped his pen against the notepad as he considered his next question.

  Linnet threw the last of her Danish to the sparrows hopping over the flagstones, watching them flock to the offering.

  Over the noisy chirping, McLaren said, “You said yesterday that Verity stole some money. I assume this comes into play in the broad picture of what happened to Marta.”

  “It was last year. Third of May. Verity took some money from the cash drawer at the shelter. Yes, I know,” she added as McLaren swore, “it was stupid, dishonest, and unethical.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you do stupid, dangerous, and dishonest things for a friend.”

  “And Verity got caught in a trap of her own making, I assume.”

  “Marta swore Verity to secrecy and said she’d pay it back the next day. Marta went to the casino that night and promptly lost everything. She didn’t know how to tell Verity.”

  McLaren knew the feeling, phrases of his conversation with Dena welling in his mind. Breaking bad news, especially news that reflects badly on the teller, is always hard. Even as a cop, he’d never found an easy way to tell anyone that their world was about to be knocked out of orbit. He rubbed his forehead as one of the sparrows grabbed a large crumb and flew away to eat in peace. Dena had taken their engagement breakup rather peacefully. At least there had been no screaming. Just tears as she quietly asked questions.

  McLaren gave his forehead one last vigorous rub and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “Had this ever happened before? Not Marta losing; her taking the shelter’s money or getting a personal loan from Verity, and then having to explain why she couldn’t repay the money promptly?”

  “No. Those who loaned her money considered her a safe risk.”

  “But you said Marta didn’t frequent the casino that regularly.”

  “She did when she owed someone money. She’d go back the following day or two in order to win it back. It preyed on her mind if she couldn’t reimburse the person. She felt strongly about her debts.”

  “So she returned to the casino the next day or so.”

  Linnet grimaced, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, two days later she became ill. She was out of work for a week.”

  McLaren paused, as though mulling over the consequences. “Did she get back to the casino then?”

  “No. More back luck. The company treasurer dropped in for an audit on the 10th while Marta will still at home, and”

  “Don’t tell me… The treasurer discovers the shortage. Ouch.” Was that why Verity was suspected of Marta’s murder? “Something obviously happened in conjunction with this gambling episode and the theft. What?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes. When Verity couldn’t explain the discrepancy she was arrested.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she ran the gift shop. It’s in a room off the main reception area. She was the only person with access to the cash.”

  He opened his mouth to say something but Linnet continued.

  “The register is locked overnight, you see.”

  “And Verity has the only key.”

  “Yes. Well, Neal, her boss, and the treasurer have keys. But Neal wasn’t even under suspicion of the theft.”

  “He have an alibi for the time in question?”

  “I believe so. Anyway, he wasn’t ever seriously considered as a suspect.”

  McLaren snorted and shook his head.

  “Verity works ten to four, Tuesday to Saturday. The rest of the time the shop section is closed. Verity took the money from that cash drawer, thinking it wouldn’t be missed so readily. Sales for the dogs and cats and other animals up for adoption are transacted at the main register in the reception area. That’s always busy. Marta knew the money was counted each morning, at the beginning of shift, so the employees know how much change they have for the day’s business.”

  McLaren nodded, his eyes fixed on Linnet’s face. “Good news, bad news.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, the discrepancy was discovered and Verity was blamed.”

  “Hell of a finger-pointer, that.” He picked up his coffee. The cup was cold to the touch. He started to angle in his chair, searchi
ng for the waiter. Last time McLaren had seen him, the man was chalking items on the menu near the street. As McLaren grabbed the chair arms, Linnet said, “Maybe it’s nothing, but I think someone’s fooling about near your car.” She nodded toward McLaren’s Peugeot. He stood up.

  “I could be wrong, but I thought…”

  Her voice trailed off as McLaren said, “I’ll be right back,” and darted across the road.

  Of course no one was loitering at the off side of the car. The far side, along the pavement, harbored no one other than the usual tourists consulting guide books or taking photographs, and villagers hurrying to shops for the day’s marketing. McLaren paused at the passenger door and squatted to peer at the door lock and window. No telltale pry marks marred the pristine paint job. He tried the latch. The door remained closed.

  But if anyone had been tampering with the car, was he farther down the block, waiting until McLaren returned to the café? Unnerving thought.

  McLaren jogged to the corner, eyeing everyone, glancing into alleys and store windows. No one seemed to be watching him. When he got to the end of the block, he jogged back, again passing the same people and stores, again looking for suspicious activity. At the end of the row of shops, he paused, unsure if he should try the opposite side of the street. What good would that do? If someone had been trying to break into his car, he wouldn’t be leaning against a lamppost, advertising. McLaren turned and walked back to the hotel.

  “Anything?” Linnet asked as he reclaimed his seat.

  “Not even a sparrow,” he said as one lone bird landed on the back of a vacant chair.

  “Sorry. Guess I was wrong.”

  “That’s all right. I didn’t get in my morning jog before I came.”

  “Then it wasn’t in vain.” She smiled, her voice taking on a lighter tone.

  Jotting something in his notebook, he said, “Always best to be sure. Someone could have been trying for a quick grab, though there’s nothing in my car that’s visible. Or valuable.”

  “I would have felt terrible if something had been stolen and I never said.”

  “I applaud your call to good citizenship, then.” He settled back into the chair. The morning sun had warmed the wrought iron and the heat felt good on his stiff muscles. “So, Verity was blamed for the missing money from the cash drawer.”

  “Yes. It was awful. A farce, in my opinion. The trial was held several months later and she began serving her sentence last year in June.”

  “So they didn’t pin the murder on her, then. Just the theft.”

  “Yes. They knew it wasn’t embezzlement because the money had gone missing in one lump. The prosecution tried to link this to Marta’s murder, but they couldn’t make a case of it.”

  “It would’ve been hell to go through the process of overturning a false conviction of murder. She was lucky in that aspect.”

  “And her defense council couldn’t come up with anything the jury believed, I take it.”

  McLaren rubbed his eyes. He could almost hear the prosecution ranting that Verity had hired a hit man to rob Marta after she won big at the casino. He tossed the pen and notebook onto the table. The whole story stank, as far as he was concerned. And as for circumstantial evidence… He’d seen many cases ‘solved’ with just this type of reasoning and evidence no more concrete than theories, bad personal histories, and gossip.

  “Marta never returned the loaned money, then, or testified on Verity’s behalf at the trial. You know.” He stared at Linnet, his look cold and uncomforting. “Never explained she was behind the shortage from the cash till.”

  “No. She didn’t want to embarrass Marta.” Her voice softened as she searched McLaren’s face for his reaction. “Please don’t judge her too harshly, Mr. McLaren. She was actually a good person. She was a loyal friend and would do anything for anyone.”

  “A prison sentence is a stiff thank you for helping a friend.”

  “You’ll still take the case?” She leaned forward slightly as she opened her handbag. “I know it’s probably a bit more than you expected, but none of us believe Verity’s involved any way in Marta’s death. She’s not that sort of person. She just had the misfortune that the treasurer showed up when he did. If Marta had lived” She broke off and avoided McLaren’s eyes. Running her tongue over her lips, she looked at him. “Marta would have paid back the money. She wasn’t a thief. You’ll help her, won’t you? You’ll take the case?”

  McLaren nodded and watched Linnet’s pen make out a check for a down payment. When she signed it and handed it to him, she said, “Her husband, Alan, would certainly be glad to talk to you. He doesn’t say so, but I know he’s dying inside.”

  “I better see him immediately, then.”

  Linnet seemed to search McLaren’s eyes for a sign of understanding or sympathy. He merely stared at her, as though he hadn’t yet decided on something. She said, “The police couldn’t find the killer. Maybe it was because too much time had elapsed before they found her body. But I don’t believe everyone could have proved their alibis, could they? You’ll be able to find her killer?”

  He stood up, folded the check, slipped it into his pocket, and thanked her. “Slugs aren’t always under the first rock you turn over.”

  Chapter Six

  Linnet Isherwood had satisfied his curiosity as to why she knew so much about the financial problems of the confession. As she put it, when your best friend’s been murdered, each fact is branded upon your heart, never mind that she had been in court each day of the trial.

  McLaren sat in his car, coaxed the check from his pocket, and stuffed it more securely into his wallet. He’d have to wait until Monday to deposit it, but it comforted him knowing a transfusion for his bank account was less than two days away.

  His mobile phone rang. The caller I.D. display said it wasn’t Dena calling. She wasn’t going to catch him again. Though it was nearly as bad, he conceded, answering the ring. It was his sister. He took a deep breath, silently cursed, then forced an artificial cheerfulness into his voice. Perhaps his sister wouldn’t notice the strain. “Hi, Gwen. Up awfully early, aren’t you?”

  “You forget about the early bird, Mike.” Her voice was strong and laced with the Derbyshire accent of their upbringing.

  “And which are youthe bird or the worm?”

  “Better not ask. I’m still deciding. You at work?” She didn’t have to specify his job; she’d emotionally held his hand through his decision to leave the police and had encouraged him to take up the stone wall repairing, believing he needed time away from people in order to heal.

  “Yes, but not what you think.” He told her about his decision to look into the cold case.

  The silence on the other end of the phone told him she either was surprised or disapproved of his decision.

  He said, “You’re always encouraging me to get back with people.”

  “I was thinking more about you and Dena, not a murder victim, however metaphorically you take that.”

  “Is that why you rang me up?” He had a suspicion she knew the significance of the day’s date. “Why aren’t you painting something? You run out of canvas or is your easel broken?”

  “I’m serious, Mike. You’ve been alone too long. You need to make an effort to get back with her, with your friends. With Jerry and me. We miss being with you.”

  “Let me heal in my own way, in my own time, Gwen,” he snapped, the calculated cheeriness forgotten, the bitterness creeping back into his voice. “You don’t know what I went through or how I feel. You have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you. I just want to see you happy again and spending some time with us.”

  “It’ll happen, Gwen. Just don’t push me.”

  “No one is pushing, Mike. We’re just concerned for your health. You’ve shut us out of your life. We can’t get near you. You won’t share anything with us. Not your thoughts, your work, your feelings…”

  So that was it, his emotions again. “I
’ll call when I’m ready, Gwen, and not before. I know you mean well, I appreciate your concern, but don’t hound me about this. I still need to sort this through.” He flipped the phone closed and tossed it onto the passenger seat. She would never understand his hurt and anger. She hadn’t the years and the history that made it so crushing.

  Suddenly hungry, he searched through the car’s glove compartment. Sometimes a chocolate bar or package of trail mix or packet of biscuits lurked between the maps and petrol receipts and tire pressure gauge. He slammed the compartment door. Nothing.

  Glancing at the outdoor dining area, he considered going back and ordering something. Linnet had remained at the table and was now making a call on her mobile phone. He watched her animated hands as she talked, silently emphasizing her conversation. He was still there when she paused several feet from his car, pursing her lips against the phone’s mouthpiece. Cooing to her boyfriend, he thought, as he heard the name Sean. Dena and he had been like that, but now…

  A flash of bright red caught his eye and he half-turned in his car seat to look. The rear half of a car’s back wing shone in the sun for a second, then disappeared behind the edge of a shop. He half leaned out the window, trying to see around the building. But the row of shops presented a seamless façade, at least as far as he could see from this viewpoint. He was about to start his car and zip up the side street, when Linnet waved her free hand and mouthed something to him. Exhaling heavily, he removed his hand from the ignition key, promising himself that he’d somehow find out if that had been Dena’s red MG, as he suspected. And if she were following him.

  Smiling, Linnet stopped opposite his window. She held out the phone to McLaren. “My boyfriend. Sean. He’d like to ask you something, if you have a minute.”

  McLaren shrugged and grabbed the mobile. “This is McLaren.” He glanced at Linnet for a hint of why Sean wanted to speak to him.

  “Hello, Mr. McLaren. This is Sean FitzSimmons, a friend of Linnet’s. Has she mentioned me to you?”

  What was McLaren supposed to know, the man’s life story? McLaren replied that Miss Isherwood had spoken of him.