The Wall: The McLaren Mysteries, #4

By Jo A Hiestand

When a young art student is murdered, the sister of the accused simply cannot believe her brother is responsible. Worse than that, he dies of a heart attack, provoked--she claims--by a vigilante group and the local shock jock. Ex-police detective Michael McLaren investigates the year-old cold case and soon becomes the victim of a series of driving assaults. Perhaps just as bad, he encounters Charlie Harvester, his nemesis from his days in the Force. A coincidence, or is Harvester somehow wrapped up in the murder? As McLaren discovers the meaning of the brooch, he slowly untangles the web surrounding Amy's death, and barely escapes his own planned murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo A Hiestand
• Release date: Jan 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393938125

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

Book preview

1

The bricks were cool to his touch. Especially in the shade where the moss clung in the moist crevices. Age and dim light reduced the bricks’ hues to dull browns and faded reds. He slid his fingers slowly across their surfaces, the rough finish nearly as bumpy as the concrete that had dried in small sand-colored globs between the rows of bricks. As though the wall had cried, McLaren thought. Or bled. And the globs had hardened while the wall suffered.

McLaren shook the strange analogy from his mind. It was easy to get fanciful at the Ice House. Situated away from the abbey, it squatted amidst the woodland area of the main park, a small, trapezoidal chamber of bricks. Two rows of bricks arched slightly above the iron bars forming the door, like an eyebrow over an eye, staring out from the dappled shade. The stillness seemed to fill the area and McLaren slapped the wall as a parting gesture.

His palm came down on a corner of a brick. The disruption of the smooth façade annoyed him. More than annoyed. Even though he repaired dry stone walls, had never worked with brick in his life, this one unaligned brick assaulted his sense of aesthetics. He felt a kinship with the anonymous brick mason of another century, felt a surge of disappointment from the amateur repairs and uncaring workmanship countless men had done through the decades. Even though he had no say-so in the old repair, was at the abbey strictly as a tourist and had just chanced upon the disruptive brick during his wanderings, he desperately wanted to cure another man’s sloppy work. It offended his sense of ethics.

McLaren’s fist smashed onto the brick with an emphatic thud. It refused to budge, refused to inch back flush with the face of the brick wall. Swearing, he gripped the protruding edges of the brick and wiggled it free from the crumbling concrete. He slid his fingers into the dark cavity. They closed around something round and hard. As he withdrew his hand, he stared at the object he held.

Why would anyone hide a brooch in a brick wall? McLaren blew the dust and dry concrete from the piece of jewelry and angled it so the sunlight lit the raised carving. Think it’s a murder weapon? He held the brooch so Dena could see it, nudging the hinged pin out straight with the tip of his car key. A slip of paper was impaled on the pin.

Want any more evidence that you needed this day off work? Dena asked. You’ve got murder on the brain, Michael. Besides, you’re not a cop anymore.

You’d hardly know it, with the amount of people who keep asking for my help. He eyed her briefly. She didn’t need his silent reminder that she’d plunged him into an old murder investigation that July day, three months ago. He gave her no time to reply. Even you, level headed person that you are, have to admit this is peculiar. He peered at the front of the brooch. It was dark brown, probably ceramic, about an inch and a half in diameter, with two owls sitting among tendrils of ivy. The owls, ivy and edge of the brooch were in relief and finely carved. Smacks of treasure hiding, sitting inside that wall.

The brooch looks new. There’s not a chip or stain on it.

Why put it behind a brick, then?

What’s the paper have on it, Michael?

He carefully unfolded the paper. It was a scrap torn from a newspaper, yellowed with age. The scrap displayed the heading apparently from an article, the publication name and date from October one year ago. I’d believe the brooch is a lover’s token except for the title of the writing. He angled it toward her so she could read it.

’Student Found Murdered at South Wingfield’ sounds terribly depressing, I agree. Why hide it here? Is that a usual thing for killers to do?

"I don’t know every killer. Perhaps one of them did. But I’d like to know when, too. From the looks of it, it’s been since the incident."

Dena looked around the small clearing. The Ice House was situated along a promenade in Rufford Country Park, some distance from the abbey and lake. The spot was quiet and secluded, just the right place for a secret rendezvous or concealed notes. Kind of a strange thing to hide. She handed it back to McLaren. I might be able to understand secreting a newspaper story, but why the jewelry? It’s a lovely piece. It should be worn.

And this owl brooch shouldn’t be part of the mystery, you’re saying.

I don’t know. You’re the detective.

McLaren snorted and thrust the brooch into this trousers pocket.

Why are you doing that? It’s not yours.

I know. But I doubt if your killer is coming back for it.

Why say that?

The date on the newspaper, for one thing. One year old. For another, the paper’s brittle from age. It’s been in there for that length of time, I’ll bet. So if your murderer was going to get it, he’d have collected it within a year, wouldn’t he have done?

You’re hinting that he’s not returning.

Something happened, McLaren said, shoving the brick back into place. It slid in straight, its front perfectly aligned with the rest of the bricks. It bothers me that it’s sat here neglected.

It intrigues you, you mean, Dena corrected, grabbing his arm and pulling it slightly so that he bent sideways. After giving him a quick kiss, she released him. You love a mystery. Admit it.

I’d love to know what the death of a student in Derbyshire has to do with some shady goings-on here in Nottinghamshire, especially a year later.

How in the world are you going to find out anything about this? You don’t know who left it here, what it means, or even when.

I know a lot of things. It’s a distinctive piece of jewelry and the studio name’s stamped on the back. I can assume it was left here one year ago because the newspaper date gives me that. I can also assume the subject of the article has a particular, important meaning for the people who hid the brooch. Why else would it be fastened to the pin?

So, why not leave it here? Maybe someone will be back for it.

I doubt it. Also, he added as he guided Dena back down the path, I can’t believe it’d be hidden unless it’s linked to some crime and is evidence. Or blackmail.

2

W hy else pick such an obscure spot? McLaren said, tucking Dena’s arm beneath his. He was taller than she, her head just reaching his shoulder. His blond hair contrasted with her brunette locks. He was muscular, while she concentrated on remaining trim. Yet, they were as much a set as fire and smoke.

Because the killer or whomever needed to send a hint to the recipient.

Why?

Dena shrugged and kicked at a stone on the path. It bounced across the packed gravel and disappeared into the wood. Cast off leaves in fiery colors covered the ground and littered the tops of broken branches. A shaft of sunlight cut through an opening in the brilliant canopy and lit a mound of yellow leaves. The color was nearly blinding in its intensity. Secret from just about anyone. Parents, an unwanted spouse, some other family member who threatens one of them with disinheritance, an old boy or girlfriend. I don’t know.

Kind of an old fashioned idea, isn’t it? Why not just talk to whomever on your mobile phone, or text a message if you want to meet? He shook his head. This is too complicated.

Well, you’re the one who’s intrigued. Go ahead and play detective.

They’d walked back to the car park, their shadows stretching eastward as the early-afternoon sun skimmed the western section of woodland. The side of the abbey already held the sunlight, tinting the tan stones to a pale yellow that matched the leaves.

You want to stop for a drink or something? He glanced to his right, toward the Rose Cottage pub sitting on the main road outside the park grounds.

Not this time, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to get home.

Hot date?

I should say yes and make you jealous, but I can’t lie very well.

McLaren turned the key in the car’s ignition and spoke over the sound of the engine. Good. I’d hate to have to murder the bloke. He glanced at Dena and winked.

Just as well, then, for everyone’s sakes.

McLaren leaned over and kissed Dena. Just as well that I’ve misplaced my knife, then.

After he’d dropped Dena at her home in Kirkfield, McLaren drove slowly to his house in Somerley. Although twenty miles apart as the crow flies, the two villages both sat within the confines of Derbyshire’s Peak District. Kirkfield hugged the River Dove while McLaren’s village snuggled up to the higher rock faces and moors to the north. McLaren thought the District gorgeous in any weather, at any time, but now, in late afternoon, the sun sat on the tops of the trees bordering the western hills, and black shadows hovered cautiously at the bases of trees, hills and buildings. Long grass and thistles bowed in the wind and he could smell the scent of dry leaves, dust and warm car upholstery. He shoved a CD into the car’s player and hummed along with Ancient Future’s ‘El Gatillo y el Armadillo.’

He nearly missed his driveway, his concentration on the song and the smells of autumn. A sharp jerk of the steering wheel turned the car and fanned out a splay of gravel. Several stones hit the low stone wall bordering his front garden and fell into the clumps of daylilies and hostas crowding the wall’s foundation. He parked and smoothed over the trail from the tires with his shoe, then walked into the house.

No phone messages waited; the post hadn’t come yet. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the back of a dining room chair, brewed a pot of coffee and took a cupful and the brooch into his office. The jewelry, as he’d noted previously, was dark brown and probably ceramic. A smaller owl peeked out from behind the larger bird. The strands of ivy curled around the bottom of the circle. All the figures were in relief and in the light of his desk lamp McLaren could now see the miniscule detail in the owls’ bodies and in the ivy leaves. He shook his head, amazed anyone could produce such fine work.

The back of the brooch gave him the name of the studio, if not the artist. ‘Ceramico Designs, Made in England.’

Why hide it, for that’s what its presence behind the brick suggested to him, unless it’s linked to some crime? A piece of identification because the piece is distinctive, making its wearer memorable?

McLaren took another sip of coffee, put down the brooch and reached for his desk phone. He whistled tunelessly as he waited for Dena to answer.

Hope I’m not compromising your hot date, he said after Dena’s hello.

I’d love to see you squirm, Michael, but you aren’t. It’s just me and my computer.

Sounds incredibly intellectual.

Not particularly.

Writing a letter begging for donations?

No, thank God. Nothing as draining on the brain as that. I’m writing a talk that I have to give tomorrow.

At the sanctuary?

Yes. A bunch of school kids are coming for the tour.

You’ve had groups before. Is this one special?

In a way. Year 12 students.

Seventeen year olds.

Yes. They’re studying endangered species so they’re coming to see our tigers. I feel they’re old enough to understand the problem and young enough to do something about it. If not in their last year of school next year, perhaps on their own when they graduate.

I can see why you want your talk to be spot on.

I’ve just the one chance to engage them, Michael. The tigers need their help. It’s so important.

They’re not alone. I also need help.

I figured you called for some reason other than to while away your hours. What’s the problem?

That brooch.

It’s too early in the day for you to be losing sleep over it. Why don’t you report it to the nearest police station in Nottinghamshire? Surely its owner would inquire there to see if it’s among the found property.

I may a bit later.

Dena’s voice went on. So why do you need to talk to me?

I need your opinion. You know about fashion.

What someone would wear that brooch with, you mean?

He shook his head. The brooch itself. Have you seen any jewelry like it? Even remotely like it?

You mean brooches or pendants or anything with owls on it?

No. The brooch itself. It’s from Ceramico Designs. I can find out about them but I want to know if you believe it’s unique.

Almost has to be, Michael. No studio’s going to come out with something that looks like something else. I don’t know about legal ramifications, but a jewelry designer would want his or her items to be different from the things that are out there. Besides the sales aspect, he’d want to create his own identity. After all, Monet didn’t want his paintings to look like Caravaggio’s, I bet.

You’ve echoed my suspicions. I just needed them substantiated.

So you’re thinking that, because it’s unique, it could be traced to the wearer. Kind of a hard thing to find, isn’t it?

Like the proverbial hay-covered needle, sure. But I think it kind of has to be.

Well, I wish you joy in your pursuit, Michael. Just don’t get stuck hunting for it.

He muttered that he’d wear his leather gloves and rang off, thanking her and promising to let her know if he discovered anything interesting.

The quiet closed around him as he sat at his desk. Of course he could be way off course with this, but the paper scrap impaled on the brooch’s pin suggested otherwise. The fragment simply held the story title and the newspaper’s published date. 12 October last year. Well, nearly one year ago; it lacked three days. Had the pin and scrap been recently placed in the wall after all, the date being the important part and the heading just a reminder of an anniversary? If so, the recipient could be the killer after all, and this just a subtle form of blackmail, a reminder of his power.

McLaren glanced at his watch. Half past three. It was too late to drive back to Rufford Abbey. Ollerton, Nottinghamshire was about thirty miles from his house. Although the park would still be open by the time he got there, he’d not have enough time to talk to employees before closing time at five o’clock.

He consulted his work calendar. He still had to finish repairing the Harris’ stone wall, and he had two more projects after that. The Harris farm was near enough to him that he could probably complete the work tomorrow if he got an early start, but the other two jobs were in southern Derbyshire, miles from his home in Somerley.

Sighing, he pushed the calendar farther toward the back of the desk. The work had to be done if he was to get any income; he knew that. But his heart wasn’t in it at the moment. And, if he were honest, he wouldn’t be in the mood with the brooch’s secret whispering to him. It beckoned him to explore its puzzle, and McLaren knew himself well enough to realize he had to at least start solving that before he tackled the stone walls. Curiosity seemed to be his bane.

It’d been an asset, though, during his time as a police detective. But an asset in the job was turning into a millstone in private life. In the last four months since he’d delved into investigating old cases for people, he’d been paid for two of the three he’d taken on. Didn’t take a mathematics professor to tell him he wasn’t making much money on his inquiries.

But the scrap of newspaper he’d found with the brooch nagged him into starting his own inquiry. 12 October didn’t set off any fireworks in McLaren’s memory. Maybe he was elevating the proverbial molehill. But in case he wasn’t… He brought up the newspaper’s website, clicked on the archive section, and typed the date and South Winfield in the search bar. He instantly was staring at dozens of suggestions. A few lines down on the first page he clicked on an entry that sounded more likely than a 5.8 earthquake at Cairo, or the first time five people were in space, or Columbus Day in America.

The finding literally and physically hit close to home when he read accounts about the Amy Jarvis murder. 12 October, one year ago in Upper Wingfield, Derbyshire. He leaned toward the screen, his coffee forgotten, and read.

A student at Derby University, Amy Jarvis had been doing a watercolor of South Wingfield Manor as part of her painting course. A couple found Amy’s body in the little parking area along the B5035 and Garner Lane, bordering the southern side of the ruined manor house. Secluded and quiet, far from prying eyes. She’d died from blunt force trauma to the head. One of the larger stones littering the parking area proved to be the weapon. The police had few suspects but focused on a local lad, John Pooley. Popular opinion immediately and firmly cast John as the killer.

McLaren grabbed his coffee mug and sat back. He sipped it, unaware of its cool temperature. Granted, the Derbyshire Manor wasn’t close to Rufford Abbey in Nottinghamshire, but the newspaper scrap linked the two events in his mind. Unless it was some private anniversary the brooch wearer shared with someone, like the victim’s family or friends. Still, it already niggled his brain and he had to find out.

He emailed Jamie. A detective in the Derbyshire Constabulary and McLaren’s closest friend, Jamie Kydd had helped McLaren in those lone investigations he’d worked on after leaving the job. Jamie never balked at sending McLaren crime scene photos or information. As Jamie said, the investigating team had had their chance; if they came up against a stone wall and couldn’t get around it, why not give McLaren a chance? After all, stone wall repairs were his specialty.

McLaren considered the police information he wanted, then typed the message. The keys clicked beneath his fingers.

---

From:M McLaren

Subject:inquiry info

Date:9 October 3:54:52 PM

To:Jamie Kydd

Jamie. I need crime scene photos of the Amy Jarvis murder from 12 October last year. I also would like any info about suspects, if there were any, and people involved with Jarvis. And the PM report. Email them. No rush, but I’d like them by the end of today, since you’re probably just staring at the clock. ;-) Ta.

---

At the end of his message he typed in ‘Mike’ and hit the SEND button. The ding assured him the email had gone off.

He looked again at the desk clock. Nearly four. A glance outside confirmed the approaching dusk. Not enough time to drive to South Wingfield and look around the lay-by. It’d have to wait until tomorrow.

But waiting was not his strong suit. His gaze settled once more on the clock. The hands seemed to be charging around the face; the soft tick of the sweep second hand murmured that the longer he waited, the colder the case became, that Time comprised Life. Amy had run out of time; her life had ended.

The clock hands slowed to their normal speed. He left the brooch on his desk, got up, and walked into the kitchen. He warmed up the leftover pork chops with kiwi sauce, spooned some cooked carrots and scalloped potatoes onto the plate, grabbed a beer, and sat down in the living room. He’d eaten most of his meal when his gaze locked on Dena’s framed photograph.

She was standing beside him, clutching his arm, smiling. He’d just made detective rank; it was his celebration party at the local. Jamie and some other of McLaren’s friends were clustered around him, beers or joke gifts in their hands. There was no hint of the trouble that would smother McLaren years later, the incident that prompted him to quit his job.

McLaren set his plate on the side table, held the beer bottle on his lap, and closed his eyes. The faces and voices followed him into his mind. Or perhaps simply prodded the sleeping memories awake. It was June, a year ago. He’d been working late when he heard about the pub burglary. Practically broke speed limits on his drive there, wanting to see that the pub owner, his seventy year-old friend, was all right.

He was physically, but the officer in charge of the case, Charlie Harvester, had arrested McLaren’s friend for assaulting the burglar. Which was ludicrous to everyone’s thinking but Harvester’s. The arrest was nothing more than a personal payback to McLaren, a tacit retaliation for their years of hostility and McLaren besting Harvester in every instance.

So, McLaren had quit his job and taken up repairing dry stone walls in Derbyshire, bought his parents’ house, and had again settled in quite comfortably in Somerley, the village of his childhood. Bar a few mishaps associated with two of his lone investigations, he found the house and new job suited him well, seemed prescribed for the lonely, bitter man he’d nearly become that first year after leaving the Force. Solitude was fine for mind-searching and spiritual strengthening, but emotionally it nearly killed him.

Had it only been sixteen months ago, McLaren wondered, opening his eyes and looking again at the photo. His frustration and anger over his friend’s injustice had cooled in that time, but McLaren still harbored his hatred of Harvester. Still saw him occasionally, as he had this past September. And the healing wounds split open each time they met, the ache for his friend augured into his soul. Harvester was the antithesis of a good police officer; he wormed and fawned his way through the ranks, leaning on his father’s high police rank and name. And to deliberately be involved in last June’s murder… McLaren got up and lay the photo frame face down on the bookshelf.

McLaren rushed through showering and dressing Thursday morning, and walked to his computer sipping his hot tea. Jamie’s email waited in the Inbox, first among a handful of other messages from friends and relatives. He read the sender names and the subjects:

Jamie Kyddtop secret or forfeit your life

Gwen Hulmecome over for tea

PGcodebreakerweekend trip

K. Allenstone wall repair job

J. Lindauersix pack special

McLaren exhaled heavily when he glanced at his sister’s dining invitation, then checked out the repair job request and his friend’s night out suggestion. The others could wait. He double clicked on Jamie’s email and the message opened. The next few minutes he spent reading the information and printing out the attached crime scene photos. He was in his car ten minutes later.

The distance from his house to South Wingfield in Derbyshire was more than twenty miles. With the morning rush of drivers and the smaller roads, the drive took McLaren about a half hour. He turned off the A615 east of Wessington and followed the B road south to the Manor. The ruin lounged along the crest of the hill, its towers and upper portions of walls splashed with sunlight, and bright against the royal blue sky. He slowed his car and glanced at the GPS display on the dashboard. The navigation voice told him to turn left. He let up on the accelerator pedal: the edge of the road looked to be a solid smear of trees, thistles and tall grass. Still, he turned at the voice’s urging. A parking place, little more than a widened lay-by carved out between the copse fringing the road and an overgrown field. He parked near the entrance, no more than a tire track, and sat in his car, letting the quiet wash over him.

Sunlight had not slipped through the trees bracketing the lay-by, so the air still held the chill of night. The spot smelled of damp earth and pungent plants and rain-soaked wood. Purple-flowered bush vetch bullied for space with thickets of wild blackberries. A clump of hard rush waved in the faint breeze, its greyish green stems jeweled with dew. Frost-rimmed leaves cast off from the birches and ashes speckled the ground or dangled from nearly-stripped branches. Another rain would find the trees bare.

He reached across the empty car seat and grabbed the folded papers. A breeze shifted the crowns of the trees so that a finger of sunlight fell across the top page when he smoothed them open across the steering wheel. He seemed not to notice as he went over the notes of the case again. Amy Jarvis had been found on the ground in the middle of this spot. She’d suffered a blow to the right side of her head, a strike with a heavy instrument that left a round depression in her skull. The police consensus was she’d known her attacker or been surprised, for she had no defense injuries or scraped off skin under her fingernails. No sketch or finished painting was among her artist supplies left near her body or in her vehicle, so either she’d been killed upon her arrival, or her killer had taken the art with him. Which implied he was a fan of hers. Which also implied he knew Amy. Or at least stalked her.

Gravel dust and soil found on her clothing matched that of the parking area. Nothing on the body suggested anything other than the straight blow to the head caused the death; nothing else medically was wrong with her.

The forensic pathologist found a small rip in her cotton shirt, corresponding to a usual area where women would pin a brooch or nametag. Neither was found in the vicinity.

McLaren got out of his car and slowly turned around, staring at the area. The packed soil for parking was clean of foreign objects. Plants ran riot through the spindly copse and tangled with cast off branches from the trees. A large metal barrel lined with a black bin bag perched on the edge of the bare earth, the word ‘Rubbish’ written boldly in indelible, black letters. The police would have picked through the contents, removed the bag to see if anything of consequence had been stashed under it. They would have poked through the underbrush and exhausted hours on a fingertip search. McLaren could see it in his mind’s eye, lines of constables bent over, shoulder to shoulder, plucking the vegetation to the bare ground, bagging everything they found. Scraps of paper, food wrappers, beer cans, ticket stubs, bottle caps, lost buttons, broken combs, cigarette dog ends. He’d seen most all of it in his early police years. Sometimes a piece of litter did prove to be a clue; most times, however, it was just that: rubbish.

He came back to the car, aware