Cold Revenge Read online

  “I know this will sound positively bonkers, but I’d like to ask if you would answer some police questions for me.”

  Whatever McLaren had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. “Police…”

  The voice went on. “Nothing confidential. God, no! Just some procedural things.”

  McLaren glanced at the photos on the car seat next to him. How’d he get into this? What was Sean FitzSimmons on about?

  “I’m a writer,” Sean explained. “I write thrillers.”

  McLaren’s breathing returned to normal. “Oh, yes. Miss Isherwood had mentioned that when we first met. I’m sorry I’d forgotten.”

  “No harm. I’ve got a plot I’m working on now for my current book, and I have this situation I’m not sure about. I was hoping that you, being a police detective, could”

  McLaren stopped Sean right there. “No, I’m not a police officer any more, Mr. FitzSimmons. Besides, I doubt if I’ll have time to confer with you. I’m taking on this job just to help out Miss Isherwood. After it’s finished I’ll return to my current line of work. Sorry I can’t help. Ask at any of the larger police stations. They’ve got officers who do that sort of thing. Best of luck.” He handed the phone back to Linnet and shrugged again, as though to say that was all he could do.

  “Don’t loose any sleep over it.” She pocketed the phone. “I love him to death but he’s basically lazy. He thought you could sort out his plot problem for him. It’ll be fine. And, uh, thank you again for taking all this on.” She flashed him a smile before continuing down the street.

  He wanted to say, “Thank me when you see how this turns out.” He turned the key in the ignition, hesitated as though weighing the odds of finding Dena on the road from Castleton, then eased away from the curb. He’d do a bit of research in the public library before talking to Marta’s near and dear.

  The reference librarian furnished McLaren with what press cuttings and reports she had from the murder investigation. The coroner’s hearing had been big news in the local newspaper, which gave McLaren a break. He sat at a table, making notes of the medical information, the police findings, and statements from those who knew Marta. The bullet that killed Marta was, as Linnet said, a .38 caliber, but no extensive ballistic tests had been conducted with the few guns that could be found around Elton. Besides, the bullet had been too badly smashed up inside Marta’s skull for a match.

  He considered phoning his friend Jamie, a serving police officer in Derbyshire, to get the more detailed police files and statements. But he didn’t want to explain that he was taking on an investigation. Jamie would think him daft. Anyway, Jamie’s career could be at risk if he should get caught giving out confidential police information.

  When McLaren finished with the last account he sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The reading per se hadn’t brought on his headache; his brain thudded from the amount of information he absorbed in so short a time. Like being back in university, cramming for a test.

  The librarian accepted the returned files with the same wary monotone when first handing them over. She glared at McLaren, muttering something about the average citizen playing at Inspector Morse. McLaren felt the familiar race of his heart, the tightening of his throat. Had she heard about McLaren and his departure from the Force? Or was it just that someone postponed her tea break? He had no way of knowing. And it really didn’t matter. He slammed the door as he left to talk to Alan and Chad Hughes.

  He’d just emerged from the Winnat’s Pass, on the eastern side of Castleton, when he noticed a hiker limping toward him along the side of the road. He slowed to glance at the womana habit from his cop days. She leaned heavily on the walking stick, took a step, then stopped to rub her ankle. But the thing that held McLaren’s attention was the hiker’s bloody knee. He stopped on the grassy verge and called to her.

  She looked up, perhaps not certain where the voice had come from, then noticed McLaren waving to her.

  He let two cars pass before he called again. “You’re hurt. Do you need any help? I can phone someone or give you a lift someplace.” He eyed her knee, assessing if it were a hospital job.

  She got to her feet. “I think I’ll live. Thanks for stopping. Everyone else…” An articulated lorry and motorcycle whizzed past, kicking up a plume of dust.

  “Yes, I see. Too busy.”

  “Or too afraid of a hitchhiker.”

  “You wouldn’t be afraid of them, if it came to accepting a lift?” He took in her small, thin frame. Even though she had the well-developed calf muscles of a walker, her biceps didn’t impress him. Besides, the area was desolate, more renowned for its heather, lonely moors, and rock outcroppings than for help should anyone try to assault her.

  Perhaps sensing his concern, she pulled something from her pocket. She held it up so McLaren could see ita pocketknife. “I can hold my own.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Two motorcycles bulleted past, filling the air with exhaust fumes and noise. McLaren sat back in his seat and waited until the sound and stench dissipated before turning again to the hiker. “Since we don’t have to worry about you holding your own, how’s your trust level? Want a lift somewhere? Or does that take the glory out of your adventure?”

  “I’ve had enough of that for today, thanks. And I’d like a lift, if it wouldn’t take you out of your way.”

  “As long as it’s in Derbyshire, I think I can manage it.” He leaned across the front seat to unlock the passenger-side door. The woman discarded the impromptu walking stick. Ordinarily, he would have got out and opened the door for her. But he thought that might be considered a threatening movement, knife or no knife; her ankle would have prevented her escape. “I won’t be offended if you want to keep your knife at the ready…if it’ll ease your mind about accepting the ride.”

  “I already decided on that.” She settled into the seat, fastened the seat belt and closed the door before he asked where they were headed. “The Hanoverian, in Hathersage, if that’s not too much bother. I’ve got a room booked for tonight.”

  “No bother at all. Right on my way, in fact. You…” He paused as he checked his rearview mirror, then accelerated quickly as the car claimed the road. “You will be all right there? You don’t want me to find you a doctor in Hathersage?”

  She had bent forward to examine her knee. McLaren glanced at the red patch of skin as she gingerly touched it. “Looks nasty. Is it still bleeding?”

  “Not much. Just occasional ooze when I bend it. Ouch.” She straightened up. “Mum always says I never leave well enough alone.”

  “Here.” He yanked a cotton handkerchief from his shirt pocket and held it out. “Not exactly a sterile gauze pad, but it might help.”

  She murmured her thanks as she wrapped it around her knee. “The only good thing about this is that I didn’t rip a pair of jeans.” She tugged at the hem of her walking shorts. “Skin heals. A ruined pair of jeans would cost twenty or thirty quid.”

  “Then again, wearing a pair of jeans might have protected your knee and prevented your cut.”

  “I guess we’ll never know, will we?” She gave the handkerchief one last knot and leaned back.

  “I still think you need someone to look at that. You couldn’t have washed the wound properly.”

  “I poured some of my drinking water on it. It’ll be fine.”

  McLaren made a sound like a disgruntled cough. Her sock was damp. “Water won’t help your ankle.”

  “It’s not sprained. Just a little sore from my fall. I’ll be fine in the morning.” She settled her rucksack against her feet before transferring the open knife to her left hand. Holding out her right hand, she said, “I’m Karin Pedersen, by the way. Thanks for stopping.”

  McLaren glanced at the extended hand, grasped her fingers in what he hoped would pass for a handshake, then concentrated on the road. “Mike McLaren. My pleasure. You on a walking holiday, then?”

  Karin returned the knife to her right hand and settled back into the seat. �
�Yes. I started this past Sunday. I have until this Friday to tramp about.”

  “Do you walk a lot?”

  “You mean, hiking like this? Over the moors?”

  “Yes. Or just stroll after tea, down your street.”

  “I like to walk. It’s a great stress reliever. Plus I meet interesting people and get some smashing photos of the land.”

  “So you’re a photographer.”

  “Not really. Just amateur stuff. But it’s fun.”

  “You’re not scared walking about like this on your own. Your boyfriend doesn’t mind, doesn’t worry about you.” He’d estimated her age to be in the early twenties, but without a wedding or engagement ring on her finger, he could only guess at the boyfriend.

  “Not at all. You forget I have great peace of mind.” She waved the knife as he said, “I didn’t forget.”

  They lapsed into a brief silence, McLaren occupied with unwanted mental images of Marta Hughes’ body sprawled in roadside weeds. Of course he knew hardly anything of Karin Pedersen, but her life was just beginning and he didn’t want to read about her premature death.

  He slowed the car at the village limit. Traffic funneled between the buildings standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the B625, nearly forming a solid line that obliterated the tarmac. He exhaled loudly, disliking the stop-and-go of Hathersage’s market day, and cranked up the window against the noise of car engines, radio, and talk. This was not his idea of peaceful living.

  They inched past a handful of shops before McLaren turned into the Hanoverian’s car park. Gravel crunched under the car’s tires and sent up small puffs of dust that quickly vanished into the air. The gray stones of the tall inn were blackened with the soot of decades of coal fires and the exhaust of countless passing cars. But the sign, depicting a somber king, showed the effect of its recent cleaning, for the sunlight glanced off the painted surface. “This all right, then?” He scrutinized the side entrance, as though inspecting it for safety and cleanliness. “You want my phone number in case you aren’t well enough to walk tomorrow morning?”

  “You seem to be a rare type.” She swung open the car door.

  “I’d ask what type, but I’m afraid of the answer.”

  “White knight. Gallant. Helpful. Awfully kind of you but I repeat, I’ll be fine once I rest up a bit. Besides, I have my mobile. I’m just as capable of calling my boyfriend as you. Or picking up the bedside phone to summon the hotel proprietor. Thanks for the lift.”

  She got out of the car, then grabbed her rucksack with her free hand. Her weak ankle buckled and, in trying to regain her balance, the rucksack tipped, spilling much of its contents onto the ground.

  “Let me help.” McLaren said before Karin held up her hand.

  “No big deal. Mea culpa. I didn’t latch the flap when I pulled out the bandana to wipe off my knee. It’ll only take me a second.” She bent over and moments later had the contents back inside the pack. “There. Sorry about holding you up.” Her hand rested on the edge of the upholstered seat as she leaned inside. She extended her hand. “Thank you again, Mr. McLaren. I don’t know when I would’ve hobbled in here if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Glad I could help. I hope the rest of your ramble is uneventful.”

  “You and me both.” She dragged her rucksack out of the way and slammed the door. As McLaren shifted into first gear, she crossed her fingers and waved them at him. She was still waving when his car regained the main road, rounded the bend, and lost her from sight.

  McLaren could never recall later exactly what time it happened, but he did recall it was outside the Longshaw Estate. Blue, flashing lights of a police motorcycle loomed in his rearview mirror and a yellow-jacketed police officer waved him over. McLaren sighed, confused and curious at once. He hadn’t been speeding. He was always conscious of the posted limit signs. Besides, that had been one of his crusades when he was a constable.

  He turned off the engine, placed his hands on the steering wheel, and watched the officer approach. McLaren turned slightly toward the officer, his raised eyebrow mirroring his bewilderment.

  “Yes, Officer?” McLaren said, aware of the remembered identical question echoing in his mind. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Name please, sir.” Without replying to the question, the constable flipped open his leather-bound booklet.

  “McLaren. Michael. If I did something”

  “Is this your vehicle, sir?”

  McLaren glanced around the car’s interior, as though expecting it to have changed. He moved his hand to the top of the center console to help shift his body so he could glance into the open hatchback section.

  A warninga clearing of a throat and the words, “Hands on the steering wheel, sir, where I can see them”stopped McLaren’s inspection. He murmured, “Certainly. Sorry,” and settled back into the seat.

  The constable stepped slightly away from the car door yet kept his eyes on McLaren. He spoke briefly into his shoulder microphone and seemed to be talking to someone for an eternity. McLaren heard snatches of the conversation, but didn’t need the entire dialogue to know that his car was being run through the PNC listings, that it was insured, that it had a current m.o.t. certificate. He also knew it would be verified as not stolen, but that didn’t help his anxiety or confusion as to why this was even happening. The officer finally jotted something down in his notebook and returned to his original position at the car door. He stared down at McLaren. “You admit this Peugeot 207 is registered in your name, correct?”

  The second misgiving that something was wrong kicked him alongside the head. Was his number plate light burnt out? “If you would tell me what is wrong, officer”

  “Have you been in continuous possession of this car today, sir?”

  “Continuous?”

  “From the time you started your journey to this moment?”

  McLaren’s throat tightened. He fought to keep his breathing even as he replied, “Yes. I’ve been in the car continuously since I started, haven’t left this seat. What“

  “Where did you begin your trip, sir?”

  “Castleton. Mid-morning. I don’t know the exact time. Close to eleven o’clock, I should think. If you would tell me”

  “And what is your destination?”

  “Chesterfield.” He hoped that was enough. If he had to give Alan Hughes’ home address and explain why he was going there, this would turn into a can of worms.

  “Thank you, sir. You have a driving license, I assume.” The officer looked at McLaren as though someone in his late thirties should know the law.

  “Certainly. I can produce it if it’s required. Would you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “Yes, sir. Our station received a phone call about a red, 3-door Peugeot 207, with number plate numbers that match yours.”

  “Match mine! My car?”

  “The driver’s description also matches you, sir. White male, late thirties, dark blond hair in a crew cut, hazel eyes.” The officer paused, perhaps assuming McLaren would deny something. When McLaren merely stared at him, the officer said, “Now, sir, if you would kindly exit the car for a moment.” His hand was on the door latch and opening the door before McLaren could blink.

  As McLaren stepped onto the packed, bare soil of the verge, he stumbled slightly as the toe of his shoe became tangled in a tuft of grass. Steadying himself against the side of the car, he stuttered, “Wh-what’s this all about? I-I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. The driver of this car, your car, was just reported as driving erratically, as though he’d been drinking. Have you had anything to drink today, sir?”

  McLaren blinked, not believing this was happening. “Nothing alcoholic, which is what you mean, I assume. Just tea and coffee.”

  “Would you consent to taking a breath analyzer test, sir?”

  “Breath analyzer test!” My God, I’m about to be given the entire treatment: warning, statement of prescribed limits, declaration
of moving traffic offence… McLaren moved sideways and tripped over a rock protruding from the soil.

  “Yes, sir.” He eyed McLaren as if sizing up how much the man had already consumed. “Hands on the car bonnet, if you please, sir. For your safety as well as mine.”

  McLaren shook his head in disbelief and placed his hands on the front of the car. “But there’s no need for a breath analyzer test. I’ve not had a thing to drink, other than this morning’s tea and coffee. This is all…”

  “Ridiculous?” the constable supplied, walking around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the car door and looked inside.

  “Yes. I’ve been” He stopped abruptly, aware that he had been about to say he’d been a cop. Besides holding no weight, he didn’t want his name or history made public.

  “You’ve been…what, sir?”

  McLaren tried to think of an answer. What could he say? He’d been framed? Converted through religion? Dry for a decade? A model member of R.A.C.? Ashamed of his relapse? He stared stupidly at the officer, trying to make sense of the situation.

  The officer bent forward and searched the interior. When he straightened up again, he was holding a beer bottle in his gloved hand. A quarter inch or so of liquid sloshed around inside as the officer gently shook it. “How do you explain this, sir?”

  Chapter Seven

  Of course there had never been a question in McLaren’s mind that he would fail the breath test. The two swallows of beer he’d finished off before breakfast would not be enough to register on the breath analyzer. He was completely under the prescribed limit of 35 microgrammes. Still, the realization that someone somewhere knew him, knew his car and registration plate number, and had reported him to the police was sobering. Frightening.

  The constable left him with a “Thank you, sir, and drive safely,” his motorcycle roaring into the distance. McLaren sat in his car, staring at the man until traffic and the bend in the road obscured him from sight, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The breath analyzer test had registered nothing; there was nothing wrong with his car registration, license, or insurance. A waste of time for the officer; an inkling of some blunder for McLaren. He turned his car and headed back to Hathersage. That hiker, Karin Pedersen, had been in the passenger seat. Perhaps the bottle was hers.