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  “I understand.” Aaron finished his cigarette in one long puff, then dropped it. It rolled several inches along the front step before stopping beside his feet. With the toe of his shoe he smashed it against the concrete in a slow rocking movement, crushing the life from it. A garden gate clanged closed somewhere on the street, breaking the brief silence. “A question occurs to me, if you won’t mind answering it.”

  “If I can.”

  “Certainly. Then you understand any constraints on my answers.”

  “You may refuse your answers on any grounds, Mr. Unsworth. I’m not going to hand you over to a constable. What would you like to know?”

  “Are you here because a family member employed you?”

  Of all the questions Aaron could have asked, this was one of the few McLaren hadn’t anticipated. His eyebrows lifted slightly. Why does who hired him make a difference, McLaren wondered. Was he engaged to one of them? Linked by business? He considered the various answers he could give, from frivolous to evasive, but a glance at Aaron’s serious expression decided him. “Could we go inside? This is hardly a conversation for the whole world.”

  Aaron nodded, turned, and opened the front door, allowing McLaren to enter first.

  The room startled McLaren. Not because it was garish or messy but because it wasn’t the décor he would have associated with the muscular Aaron Unsworth. And it also seemed better fitted in a bedroom of the 1940s. Sheer, frilly curtains bracketed the front window, ruffles edged the throw pillows on the sofa and chairs, a pair of ceramic pug dogs claimed the center of the fireplace mantel and was surrounded by ornately framed photos. The entire room seemed ephemeral, done in shades of pink, powder blue, and white. McLaren stared at the door leading, most likely, to the bedroom hall, expecting Cary Grant or Joan Fontaine to emerge.

  “Please, don’t stand on ceremony.” The utterance burst McLaren’s dream. Motioning him to a seat, Aaron tossed his packet of cigarettes and his lighter onto the table. The sound of a guitar being tuned came from somewhere within the house. “My son, Fraser.” Aaron sat opposite McLaren and arranged himself against the sofa cushions. “Some big event he’s practicing for, I think. Or maybe just to impress his girl.” He pulled one of the throw cushions from behind his back and set it on a neighboring chair. “I don’t smoke in the house because he has asthma.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I hope he’s managing all right.”

  “As long as he takes his medication and stays away from polluted air…”

  “Might not be so easy to do, but I suppose there are places that pose no problem for him.”

  “Thankfully, yes. And more and more businesses are going smoke free, too. Not that it keeps him out of them. He just has to go easy and take a fresh air break if it gets too bad. But you didn’t come here to talk about Fraser’s health problem.”

  “You want an answer to your question.” McLaren had one quick mental argument with himself before he replied. “I haven’t heard from a family member. I was asked by one of your neighbors to look into it.”

  “Who shall remain anonymous, for whatever reason. Does this neighbor have an emotional tie to Kent Harrison?”

  “Nothing other than wanting to see justice done.”

  “So, the family’s not offered a reward, then.”

  “If they have, I’m not aware of it. Where do they live? Do you know?”

  “His parents live in Australia. They emigrated just after Kent was killed. I think the shock was too much for them, like they wanted to get away from reminders. You know. The village, the pub he frequented, the events at the castle, his song played on the radio… Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? Why have all that around you to rub salt into the wound? You can’t heal. They’re also rather elderly and not in the best of health. Mr. Harrison has a brother in Sydney, so they went to live near him. Family support, I suppose.”

  “So all these reminders…they lived here, then?”

  “Yes, but across town, on the northern side.”

  “Not on this street, then. Not as close as you lived to Kent. Not next door, as you are.”

  “No. Not next door, as we used to be. But close neighbors.”

  The emphasis on the word told McLaren more about their relationship than just the proximity of their houses.

  Aaron reached for the cigarettes, then shook his head and stopped. “That’s about it to his family, other than his ex. No kids. Oh, there’s Kent’s younger brother. He lives on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides. I always thought that rather odd. Such an isolated part of Scotland, those wild islands. But he’s a web designer so I suppose he can live most anywhere. You don’t have to actually be in contact with your clients for that, do you?”

  “Kent’s parents and brother aren’t concerned about the case? They’re not pressing the police for an arrest?”

  “Perhaps some memories are too painful to keep alive. Sometimes it’s best to let the wounds heal.”

  He agreed. But if there were ill feelings in the family, like hatred between two brothers…

  Aaron pulled in his lower lip, exhaling slowly. His eyes softened, as though he were staring at something over McLaren’s shoulder. The guitar tuning continued.

  “Nice painting,” McLaren said, hoping to nudge the conversation into high gear. Time crept onward. The sun poised on top of the western ridge of hills; soon it would topple over the rim, leaving the valley in shadow that would thicken into blackness. Several homes had already turned on table lamps near their front windows. The circles of golden light, just distinguishable now, would strengthen as the gloom increased, becoming small oases and lighthouses for those homeward bound. “Did you do that?”

  “What?” Aaron half turned in his chair to distinguish which picture was singled out.

  “That small one above the mantel. The sunset. Stanton Moor, isn’t it?” Of course it was. No other monolith looked like the moor’s famous Cork Stone. But he needed to prod Aaron into talking.

  “Yes, that’s the moor. It was done last year.”

  “It’s very good. Who’s the artist?”

  Aaron lowered his head, rubbing the side of his face. His reply was barely audible. “My wife.”

  “Really? She’s very good. Does she exhibit anywhere, have anything for sale?”

  “I wouldn’t know. She left us last year. One year and one day ago.”

  Silence settled over the room, absolute but for the sound of the guitar chords being clumsily practiced. McLaren glanced at the painting again, then at Aaron. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Why should you? It wasn’t on the evening telly.” He picked up the pillow and hugged it to his chest. “I thought I’d be over it by now, but…” He exhaled loudly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Fraser’s done a better job than I have at putting this behind him. Not that he’ll ever forget his mum. Sorry. This isn’t the time to air the family secret. You’re here about Kent Harrison.”

  “I’d like to know if you heard anything, perhaps saw something unusual that night. Your house is the last in the row, nearest the wood where his body was found.”

  “Do you suspect me of the crime, Mr. McLaren? Or of having a hand in this? I think I’m entitled to know your line of supposition if I’m going to divulge anything and possibly open myself to further questioning from the police. And I assume,” he said, relinquishing the pillow, “that you’ll be in touch with them should you learn anything explosive.”

  “I don’t owe the police anything.” The words came out harsher than McLaren had wanted, but he couldn’t stop his feelings, couldn’t stop revealing the hurt that subject engendered. He took a breath, then proceeded rather more even-toned. “I look into cold cases on my own, because someone asks me to,” he explained, suddenly astonished that he had come to this point, to admitting this might become a new career for him. He had quickly come to think of himself as a repairer of dry stone walls, hardly recalling his years as a police detective in the Staffordshire Constabulary. It ha
d been deliberate, this shoving aside of his former occupation. It coincided with the removal of most of his police knick-knacks and mementoes to the darkest recesses of his attic, and with the near-hermit life he had constructed for himself. Including shutting out Dena, his former fiancée. McLaren stared at the painting, and felt the kinship of hurt with this man. But Aaron hadn’t shut himself from the world as McLaren had tried to do. He had his son and his job to keep him anchored. And evidently loved his wife enough to keep the room as she’d decorated it.

  He cleared his throat, drawing Aaron’s attention back to him, and said more calmly, “I’m just doing a preliminary investigation. Sometimes people recall little things somewhat later that seemed too trivial to mention at the time of the original inquiry.” Or life situations change, he thought. Friendships break, family members drift away, threats or other situations fade so that a person feels free or compelled to speak.

  “I doubt I can remember anything now that I didn’t tell the police then.”

  “Kent Harrison’s body was discovered in the wood, I guess you know.”

  “Yes.” Aaron’s gaze shifted to the front window. The road ended just beyond his house, the last in the line of houses before giving the village up to grassland and forest. “That’s what the police said when they questioned me.”

  “And you heard nothing that night? I ask because that seems unusual.”

  “We were next door neighbors. Yes. Therefore, I was in a position to hear something.”

  “Yes.” He said it without implying Aaron had been withholding information from the original inquiry. Merely a simple statement that set the facts in concrete. Staring at Aaron’s impassive expression, McLaren added, “No car coming and going? No one walking? No conversation, no matter how quiet it may have been? You saw no one you didn’t know? Some stranger who may have suggested that something odd or suspicious was about to happen?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, either. It was a Sunday night. I do remember that. Fraser and I were still coming to grips with my wife being gone. We didn’t hear anything.”

  “You were home, it sounds like.”

  Aaron pressed his lips together, glaring at McLaren. Silence fell between them for a moment before Aaron’s indignation shot into the air. “You’re implying I need an alibi.”

  “Do you need one? Have you a motive for killing Kent?”

  “I’ve no motive, but the police have thrown innocent men into prison before now. But no, I didn’t wish him dead. I don’t wish anyone dead. I haven’t that sort of anger or hatred in me. I got along fine with Kent. A lot better than I do with some of my family members, if you need to know. And though that’s not a prerequisite for the side job, I’m the president of his fan club.”

  “President…”

  “I don’t make a practice of talking about it because it seems silly to many people. More in line with a younger person. But I admired Kent’s music from the first I heard it. Then, when the club formed and grew, he needed someone to take charge of it, so he asked me. I suppose it came about because we did know each other, being neighbors, or that he trusted me. But there you are. First and only president.” His index finger and thumb pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “I had no idea Kent Harrison was that popular.”

  “Oh yes,” Aaron replied in a rush of enthusiasm. “We’ve been in existence about a year and a half. Around the time ‘The Swans’ Song’ came out. A little before it, actually.”

  “Were you at his last Sunday performance?” McLaren eyed the man, wondering if he were always so energetic or if it was the result of talking about Kent.

  “Certainly. Not only because I felt it my duty as club president to support Kent but also because I admired him as a fine musician and singer. A style all his own. Creative and yet true to earlier music and its roots. He did nothing cheaply or demeaning, nothing that poked fun at our forebears or his fans. He was a true gentleman, a fine individual.”

  “Do you have a shop or building for the club headquarters?”

  “The office is situated in my house. In the back room. There is no clubhouse or other official site. We have discussions online, offer Kent Harrison products such as beer glasses and guitar straps through our website, have an annual get-together at a music festival. Things that can be done via computer, mainly, except for the yearly gathering. We continue our existence now, mainly, to assure continuation of Kent Harrison’s memory and his recordings, of which there are an appallingly few number. And now, sadly, we’ll hold a memorial for him. I have no idea if it will become an annual thing.”

  “How late did you stay at the Minstrels Court?”

  “Until he finished his set.”

  McLaren smiled. “Yes, I expected that. What I meant was, how late did you stay at the Minstrels Court after Kent had concluded his set? A few minutes, until closing…”

  “Not long. No insult intended to the event organizers. It’s a grand idea, certainly, but by the time Kent had finished and I had talked to a few club members, it was going on to ten o’clock and I had an early start to my day Monday, so I packed up my tent and crept into the night, as it were.”

  “Did you see Kent in the car park? Perhaps you saw someone with him, or heard a conversation he had?”

  “I only wish I had. I’d be able to help the police solve this dreadful murder. No, I walked straight to my car. I had two other club members with me, and I had to drop them at their homes on my way home.”

  “When did you got in?”

  “Not much before midnight, I shouldn’t think, though I didn’t exactly consult my watch. One member lives in Buxton, which was an easy enough drive. The other lives in Leek.” He looked out of the window, as though envisioning the drive he had taken. “I have never yet figured out which is the swiftest route to or from Tutbury. Take the A520 into Leek and then shoot north to Buxton, or take the A515 to Ashbourne, then the A523 into Leek and proceed to Buxton on the A53.” He sighed and then refocused on McLaren. “Well, it probably doesn’t make much difference. I’m more than happy to pick up anyone I can. An audience crowded with club members must have been very supportive for Kent.”

  “May I have the names and contact details for these two members who rode with you?” McLaren held his notebook and pen toward Aaron, who slowly accepted it. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, not at all.” He hastily scribbled down the information and handed the pad and pen back to McLaren.

  “Can anyone substantiate when you yourself arrived home?”

  “No. Fraser was in bed, asleep. I had a cup of tea and then turned in. It’d been a long day and I was bushed.”

  “I suppose you have a lot of people walking down your lane. You know.” McLaren motioned toward the front window. The flowering shrubs and pavement had faded into dark green shapes in the early dusk. “Walkers, picnickers, maybe people wanting to do some nature photography. They must come often. I’ve seen the car track that goes westward from your lane. They must drive up the hill a bit before they park.”

  Aaron got to his feet and moved slowly about the room. He stopped at the window, placed his left hand on the frame, and peered into the dusky light. “The Council’s talking about fixing a chain there, so they can’t drive on that piece of land. It’s private property.”

  “But they haven’t yet.”

  “No.”

  “So last year people could still drive close to that section of the wood.”

  “I suppose so. Yes. But I didn’t see anything like that. No one driving, nor any cars that I don’t know. I don’t stand at my window and keep track of cars that drive out there.”

  “Of course not.” McLaren hoped to appease the man. “You’ve got a son to take care of, a job that must demand a lot of your time, and probably other pressing things.”

  “Yes, the job does. But I couldn’t work at anything else. You know how it is.”

  McLaren nodded. In spite of his resentmen
t over his treatment at his former job, the Detective still lived in him; he loved the chase and the feeling of justice that washed over him when the criminal was convicted and sentenced. “Did Kent have any of his friends over to his house, do you know? Anyone from his school?”

  “You ask me because, living next door to him, I might have seen his friends and can identify them.” He reached again for the packet of cigarettes, swore, and set a book on top of them.

  “Logical, isn’t it? I know my neighbors’ friends and family. Know their vehicles, too.”

  “I don’t know about any friends or colleagues over at his house that evening. Simply because I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “But nothing odd registered with you.”

  “No, but he could have had someone over from Tutbury Castle, I suppose. He was rather chummy with some of them. I probably could recall names of his friends if you think it’s important, but right now…” He shrugged as though his shoulders ached. “Kent did like to have people over from time to time. That was part of who he was.”

  “How often was this?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t keep track of my neighbors’ private lives.”

  “Anyone come over regularly?”

  “Like every Saturday for poker, or for lunch after church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Intimating that someone keeping such a regular schedule would not cause undue alarm on the street. Or even register in my mind as being here at The Time in Question.”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Sorry, but no one comes to mind. It seemed to be a haphazard influx of friends and co-workers. Nothing obvious.”

  “Those people you said he sometimes had over…did they come because Kent performed during the Minstrels Court event? He made particular friends from there?”

  “That, sure, but people also dropped in because he was a popular entertainer. He had a lot of fans. Sometimes he’d invite them over, sometimes they’d just show up on his door step.” He paused, his gaze diverted to the small painting. “You know. People chat you up, show an interest in your art or music or woodcarving, and next thing you know you’re talking to them over a cuppa about your creativity process and the subjects that inspire you.”