Haunted Water: The McLaren Mysteries, #14

By Jo A Hiestand

Cameron Rutter drowned two months ago in a lake on a Cheshire moor. Some say a morgen—a spirit who drags men to a watery grave—was responsible. Others say it was the phantom Grey Lady. The police say Gareth Gynne was the guilty one. Whoever—or whatever—killed Cameron needs to be sorted out. And ex-police detective Michael McLaren is asked to do just that.

McLaren's not keen on delving into the mystery. The accused is the nephew of McLaren's nemesis, Charlie Harvester. And if there's one thing McLaren doesn't want to do is to associate with another Harvester, no matter what generation he is.

Suspects and motives seem nearly overwhelming. There's the opinion that a villager opposed Cameron's crusade to keep the moor in its pristine state, rather than develop it for the tourist trade. Equally as plausible is that someone Cameron had arrested came back to kill him in a vindictive attack.

Or was the morgen really responsible?

Can McLaren discover the killer, or will he too become a victim of the haunted water?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo A Hiestand
• Release date: Oct 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201405311

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

Village of Heywood Heath, Cheshire

Cast of Characters

Michael McLaren: Former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary

Jamie Kydd: McLaren’s friend, police detective, Derbyshire Constabulary

Paula Kydd: Jamie’s wife

Cameron Rutter: Civilian Investigation Officer, Derbyshire Constabulary

Lisa Logan: Cameron’s girlfriend, self-defense instructor

Katherine Logan: Lisa’s mother, dental assistant

David Treharne: manager of gift shop

Rhys Evans: pub owner

Paul Millington: writer

Sheila Wheatcroft: owner of The Roses B&B

Gareth Gynne: owner of hiking/camp supply shop

Eddie Straw: reformed criminal

I am called a mother, but I am a grave.

Alfred de Vigny, La Maison du Berger, writing about Nature

Chapter One

Michael McLaren picked up his ringing mobile phone and glanced at the caller ID display. It was Jamie Kydd, his best mate. He knew McLaren was on holiday. Therefore, the reason for the call—and its interruption—could only be important. McLaren sighed, guessing what was coming, and answered. If this is about needing my help on a murder investigation—whether cold, hot, lukewarm or freezing—I’m not interested. In case you forgot, I’m in Cumbria, Jamie, not Derbyshire. I don’t want to drive back. I don’t want to leave Melanie. And I don’t want to tramp about in whatever spot you’ll call charming just to ease me off the sofa. You’re a police detective. Handle it yourself.

Jamie’s voice, tinged with impatience, sailed over the phone. I can’t handle this myself. I’m not involved with the case. I hate to tell you to your face, as it were, but I need you, Mike. You’re a damned good detective.

Flattery aside, what’s the problem?

I realize you and Charlie Harvester weren’t the best of mates—

McLaren’s sarcasm was evident in his tone. Any other news? The antagonism between Charlie Harvester and McLaren had developed during their days together in police school, with the animosity growing throughout their careers. That tacit hatred erupted the night Harvester arrested McLaren’s seventy-year-old friend for defending himself, his wife, and his pub against a burglary. Infuriated by the unjust penalty, McLaren flung Harvester into a convenient rose bush and then quit his job days later. It was better than the inevitable reduction in pay and rank. A year after his resignation he was back in the job, though in an unofficial capacity: he now investigated cold cases on his own, as a private citizen, for people who needed help.

But all that was old history, ending three months ago with Harvester’s fall from a cliff and ensuing death. Jamie had something now for McLaren to worry about, something that obviously was linked to Harvester. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing for most anything. I realize I may regret this, since you’ve brought up Harvester’s name, but what’s the problem?

He’s not come back to haunt you, if that’s your concern.

I should bloody well hope not. I don’t believe in ghosts, though if anyone could haunt me, it would be he.

It’s his nephew and he’s flesh and blood.

McLaren ran his fingers through his blond hair, half closing his eyes as he sagged against the back of the sofa. Though he sensed what Jamie wanted and knew he would probably relinquish his time with his friend, Melanie, he couldn’t fathom why Charlie Harvester’s nephew needed McLaren’s help. McLaren sat up, gazing through the French doors to the back patio. June sunlight flooded the garden and seemed to magnify the fragrance of the flowers crowded along the house’s foundation. He’d planned on sitting out there with a beer later. But now…

As if sensing McLaren’s hesitation, Jamie plunged ahead. Harvester’s nephew is Gareth Gynne. His mom was Harvester’s sister.

I figured that. Go on.

He’s twenty-five years old and owns a camping and hiking equipment shop in the village of Heywood Heath. It’s in Cheshire.

Nice county. I had a holiday there twice. Did the usual tourist things, toured Little Moreton Hall and rambled a bit across the Cheshire Plain. Good hiking country.

I’m not talking about the Hall or walking. Quit evading the topic.

McLaren gave one more longing look at the daylilies bordering the flagstoned area and steeled himself for whatever was coming. Okay. I’m ready. What’s with nephew Gareth? He up on a murder charge?

How’d you guess?

Chapter Two

McLaren leaned forward, nearly choking. You’re joking. Who’d this chap murder?

He didn’t murder anyone, Mike. The tone and volume of Jamie’s voice rose, conveying both his agitation and the urgency of his request. But the local police have him under the lens, you could say, and that’s the problem. He cleared his throat, then added in a softer tone, You know what that means.

I was a cop long enough to know, yes. An arrest is probably not too far off for him.

Right. He’s scared.

I shouldn’t doubt it. Who’s the victim and what’s Gareth’s story? He ask for me, having heard his uncle lovingly banter my name about, or is this your idea? The hesitation on the other end of the phone spoke volumes. McLaren nodded and stretched out his long legs. I might have known. Gareth never said a thing about me. Doesn’t know I exist. This was your bright idea. He paused, trying to stem his rising irritation. Jamie, I’ve better things to do than get involved with Charlie Harvester, even if it is once-removed through his nephew. I’m on holiday. A much-needed holiday. I’m having a good time and Melanie and I have plans. I’m in no mood to hold this lad’s hand. Now, if you’ll excuse me—

"Mike, wait. Please. Just listen to me for a few minutes. He needs help. Your help. The police consider him their main suspect in the murder of another young man. Cameron Rutter, thirty-three. He was found floating in the lake. That’s on the moor that borders their village. In Cheshire. He paused, as if giving his friend time to reply. When silence greeted him, he added, perhaps by way of enticement, Cameron was a Civilian Investigation Officer."

Despite his reluctance to become involved in anything that would take him from Melanie’s company—or worse, involve him with a Harvester, however far removed by genes—he said, CI Officer? Where’d he work? Did you know him?

Cameron worked for Derbyshire Constabulary. He was stationed in Ashbourne for a while, but then came to Buxton. He was in the drug unit before transferring to the gang unit. Lately, I think he worked some other branch, but I’m not certain. I really wasn’t acquainted with him that well, but I heard enough to know he was a smart chap. I liked him.

I assume Cameron and Gareth knew each other somehow. I hope it wasn’t through Gareth being mixed up with drugs or associating with a gang.

Not at all. They lived in the same village. In Cheshire.

A neighborly quarrel, then, that got out of hand? I’m not making light of murder, Jamie. It’s as serious as you can get. But we both know that villagers can get on each other’s nerves. McLaren took a breath, envisioning an argument that got out of control.

Something like that, actually. You’ll find out more when you talk to Gareth.

Which brings me back to my long-ago question. If Gareth hasn’t asked for my help, why’d you ring me up?

I thought you could talk to him, see what he’s battling. And… Jamie took a deep breath.

And take on the case and find the guilty party, thus bringing sunshine and birdsong to the whole ruddy thing, McLaren supplied. "Look, Jamie, I repeat. I’m on holiday. In Cumbria. Visiting Melanie. I came here because I needed a break, but what happens? Not a week ago I get mixed up in two cold cases of murder and came close to being injured."

I know. I was with you.

Glad you remembered. I was beginning to think your memory was going.

Jamie plunged ahead without commenting. Gareth needs you. It’s getting serious. He broke off, as though considering a different strategy to win over his friend. He knows of you, sure. Besides most likely getting an earful from Harvester on the subject of Michael McLaren, he’s heard your name whispered in the hallowed halls of Silverlands station.

I can just imagine what was said.

Gareth’s just a lad, Mike, not a bit like Harvester. He’s caring and honest. He didn’t see his uncle very much while he was growing up. Just holiday and birthday get-togethers with the family. You know.

Although Jamie wasn’t there to see, McLaren nodded. He’d endured his share of being with family members he hadn’t particularly liked.

His mum wasn’t that close to Harvester either.

She must have inherited a different set of genes. I like her already.

I heard from Gareth about his predicament, about the murder. He asked me for advice, and I suggested you. I said I would talk to you. Jamie paused, and in the brief silence McLaren heard the excited twitter of sparrows at the birdbath near the back door.

What’s the supposed motive for Cameron Rutter’s murder? Did Gareth tell you?

It’s a bit involved, but it may have to do with the vote to develop the mere and the heath into a tourist destination. The villagers’ votes seem fairly evenly split pro and con. And then there’s the question of Gareth and Cameron having some personal history about a loan repayment.

Sounds like trouble brewing.

I wouldn’t know. You can find out more when you talk with him.

McLaren briefly closed his eyes. He could feel his holiday slipping away and was aware of the all-too-familiar morass that already had a toe-hold on him. He would never let Jamie down, and he wasn’t about to now. I know you said Gareth’s the main suspect, but are there any other people who the police are looking at, no matter how seriously?

Are the police clutching at Gareth just because he’s got two reasons to kill and they’re ignoring anyone else, you mean? To hear Gareth tell it, there are a few other people who could’ve done the murder, but he’s the main focus at the moment. It doesn’t look good for him, Jamie added.

Where’s his village?

Heywood Heath, in Cheshire. Just east a bit from Congleton. Just a little more than a half hour drive from Somerley. Twenty minutes from Buxton, he added, perhaps hoping it sounded like a shorter trip.

Nearly three hours’ drive for me from here, Jamie.

It’s not even noon yet, Mike. You can be in Cheshire easily in time for tea.

"I’ll have to stop at home and pack some clean clothes. That probably will get me there at four."

Jamie’s voice perked up at his friend’s obvious surrender to the inevitable. I’ll let Gareth know. He’ll appreciate it. Thanks. Call me if you need anything.

McLaren refrained from saying he needed someone else to look into Gareth Gynne’s problem, but rang off with Jamie’s gratitude still pouring over the phone. He pocketed the mobile, then slid his fingers over the ceramic bead necklace he wore. Melanie had given it to him in April, and he touched it now as if it would make his parting from her easier. Or stop it all together. Taking a deep breath, he wandered outside.

Melanie Travers, the B&B’s owner, smiled as she looked up from watering the hostas along the edge of the patio. She stood in a patch of sunlight, her dark blonde hair shining until she moved into the shade to turn off the water. She coiled the hose onto its caddy, then walked over to him, eyeing him with that gaze that seemed to read his soul, an expression he was fast becoming familiar with.

What’s the matter? She angled her head, looking at him. Her eyelashes cast small shadows across her irises, giving her blue eyes more depth than usual.

He took a breath, debating how to tell her, then plunged ahead with his apology. I’m sorry, Melanie. I have to leave earlier than I’d planned.

Oh. I— I’m… She seemed to be searching for the correct word to convey her feelings and not sound greedy of his time. I’m disappointed to hear that. I hope it’s nothing of a personal nature. Your sister or Jamie isn’t unwell?

He may be by the time I finish this sojourn to Heywood Heath, McLaren nearly said, but instead replied, Not that I know of. Jamie did just ring me up, though. There’s this chap he knows who’s become embroiled in a murder investigation. Jamie thinks I can help the lad, prove he’s innocent. He gave her a brief summary of their conversation.

If the police have focused on him as their prime suspect, it sounds serious. Could it be dangerous for him?

If he’s taken in charge, I suppose it could do. Prison and court trial and all. But it’s not come to that yet.

But the wind’s blowing in that direction. Oh dear. She blotted her hands on the sides of her jeans. Since Jamie’s asked for you to investigate, surely that means the police are breathing down this poor man’s neck. And if that’s so, he does need your help.

McLaren shrugged and walked with her to the patio door. Jamie doesn’t exaggerate, so the investigation could be turning toward Gareth. He held the door open for her and then followed her into the house. The back room seemed both cozy and uncomfortable, a strange contrast that mirrored his emotions. He enjoyed her company and his time with her, even strongly suspected he was falling in love with her. The places he associated with her, like their evenings in the back room, held the warmth of shared hopes and laughter. Yet, the space had suddenly taken on the coolness of forced separation and unfinished conversations. There was so much he wanted still to say to her.

Don’t feel guilty about going to the lad’s aid, Mike. You’re doing nothing less than what I’d expect you to do.

I don’t know about your assessment, but I’d rather not go. He grabbed her hand as he fought to keep his bad temper—or his growlings, as his sister referred to them—from spoiling his last minutes with her.

I’ll miss you, I won’t lie. Melanie stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. You and your growlings can always come back. I’m just a two-hour drive away. This isn’t goodbye.

He encircled her waist in a hug and lifted her slightly as he murmured against her cheek. It better not be.

Heywood Heath nestled among the clumps of deciduous trees on the otherwise treeless moor. It was just on to five o’clock as McLaren drove past Gareth Gynne’s outdoor gear shop at the eastern-most edge of the village. It, unlike the majority of buildings he could see, was not comprised of the typical red sandstone of the area. Rather, its exterior of rough-hewn timber planks stood out to form an unmistakable mute comment: find your camping items here. And the bed-and-breakfast where Gareth had reserved a room for him was farther down the High Street. Easy to find, Jamie had said. Just so the village has a good pub, McLaren had answered. He smiled now as the local’s whitewashed brick building slid past his car. He parked several hundred yards east of it and glanced at the B&B.

The Roses Guest House certainly lived up to its name, he thought as he removed his duffle bag and laptop from his car. Rose bushes smothered the Tudor building’s foundation, while climbing roses trailed up its sides. An image of Charlie Harvester sprawled in the rose bush two years ago briefly danced before his eyes, but he forced it away, locked his car, and strode up the front pavement.

A sixtyish-looking woman with dark hair and blue eyes opened the door before he could ring the bell. She smiled, her eyebrow raised in question as she bent slightly to pat the Alsatian dog at her side. Mr. McLaren?

Yes. Michael McLaren. He shifted his duffle bag to his other hand and the woman opened the door wider.

So happy to meet you, Mr. McLaren. Welcome to The Roses. Please, won’t you come in? I’m Sheila Wheatcroft. And this…, she scratched the dog’s head, ...this is Churchill. Churchill, shake hands.

McLaren took the dog’s raised paw. Hello, Churchill. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a dog with that name.

He was born on Sir Winston’s birthdate. Thirtieth November last year. A tinge of apprehension colored her voice. I hope you’re all right with dogs. He’s really a sweetie, despite the breed’s reputation as guard dogs.

Straightening up, McLaren said, I get along fine with dogs. Don’t give it a thought.

Brilliant. I’ve your room ready. Now, then. She indicated the registry book on the hall table. It looked new, the pages intensely white under the table lamp. If you’ll sign in, I’ll show you where you’ll be.

McLaren nodded, glancing around the area and into the front parlor. White plaster walls were his first impression, bright in the light of afternoon sun. Old maps and photos—possibly antiques—hung in small groups on the walls. An overstuffed sofa covered in the thick, brightly colored Welsh tapestry sat at right angles to a large fireplace. An area rug sprawled over half of the flagstone floor.

He moved over to the table and picked up the pen lying on top of the register and filled in the information before following her upstairs. This is an old house. He glanced at the heavy oak timbers set in plaster, marking the classic Tudor black-and-white style of architecture. It gave an air of stability as well as lightness, he thought. And age, he mentally added, feeling the floor slope slightly to the right. Is your house original to the village? I don’t know much about Heywood Heath, or Cheshire, for that matter.

Sheila opened the bedroom door and stood to one side as she ushered him inside. A puff of breeze sailed in through the open window, ruffling the curtains. I’m muddled on the village birth date, but the house was erected in 1604. There’s a plaque downstairs in the front parlor, if you’ve a mind to look later.

In keeping with Little Moreton Hall. It’s close to you, if I’m not mistaken.

Yes. Near fifteen miles or so away. You’ll have to drive over and tour it.

I will. Tudor architecture is a passion of mine. I believe that residence was finished around the same time as your place.

Oh, yes. A better example of Tudor manor house you’d be hard-pressed to find. Now, then. She yanked the bottoms of the curtains back into the room. The breeze always pulls them outside. I need to weight them down. She walked over to the far door adjacent to the bed. "En suite facility in here. Wash flannel, towels and such. She tapped on the door, then stepped toward a small table beside a taller dresser. Electric kettle, tea and coffee, sugar and cream. Packets of crisps and biscuits. Help yourself. My compliments. She looked around. Ah, yes. Check out time is posted here in case you forget. She gestured at a small cream-colored card on top of the dresser. Extra pillows and blankets in the wardrobe."

Thank you, but I probably won’t need them.

If you’ve a mind to ramble the countryside or drive into Congleton or elsewhere and would like information, brochures are in the rack in the hallway. I’ve a large assortment of books on local attractions and history in the parlor. Help yourself to read them while you’re here. I just ask that you return them when you’ve finished so others can use them. Anything else?

McLaren set his duffle on the floor by the bed, then placed his laptop on top of the dresser. When is breakfast?

Sheila laughed, rubbing the sides of her neck. Goodness! The most important information and I’m forgetting to tell you. It’s from eight to half past nine. If you need it earlier, just let me know the night before so I’ll have it ready for you. She eyed his small duffle. You’ve not much gear for rambling the Walk. Or are you purchasing boots and things from Gareth’s shop? Since he booked the room for you, I assumed you two would be out on the moor.

I’m afraid I won’t be doing much if any walking this trip. I’ll put her out of her misery or she never will get any sleep, he thought, noticing the slight wrinkle appearing across her forehead. She’ll find out anyway quickly enough, if I know village tongues. And then she’ll be miffed I didn’t tell her. Actually, I’m here to look into Cameron Rutter’s death.

Cameron? Her eyes widened and she crossed her arms on top of her chest, as though warding off trouble. You must be with the police, then. The shock evidently had died, for her voice grew stronger. Never mind that it was nearly nine weeks ago, the case is still open. We see officers about the village every so often. So, they must still be investigating. Her eyebrow lowered slightly as she took in his physique and clothing. You’re not in uniform.

No, ma’am. I’m not with the police. I heard about the case and thought I’d help out. I’ve investigated several cold cases and have had luck in finding the guilty parties. He paused, not wanting to reveal more. Is the pub good for a meal?

She nodded and gestured in the general direction of the building. The food’s good and fairly priced. You’ll do fine there. Well, now. That do it? Smashing. I’ll leave you to get settled, shall I? She smiled and closed the door on leaving.

He didn’t unpack fully: just set his toiletries in the bathroom and stacked his shirts and extra pair of jeans on top of the dresser, next to his laptop. After filling the electric kettle with water and plopping a teabag and sugar cubes into the mug nestled among the tea-making things, he sat in the upholstered chair by the window and rang up Jamie.

Mike. Jamie uttered the name slowly, his enthusiasm sounding tempered with caution. You in Heywood Heath? You find the B&B and get settled? What do you think of Gareth?

Yes, yes and I don’t know. I’ve just got here. He pressed the speaker button on his mobile, set it on the table, and poured the boiling water into the mug. I hope to talk to Gareth this afternoon yet.

He’ll be looking for you, I know. If you get out and about before eight, he’ll be in his shop. You know where that is?

I passed it on entering the village. He placed the teabag on a saucer and stirred in half of a packet of non-dairy creamer before adding, From what I’ve seen via the High Street, the place doesn’t look that big, which might spell trouble for him.

What’s that mean?

McLaren took a sip of tea, then settled back into the chair. "Just that the population can’t be very large. I doubt there are many folks here who would have motive for killing Cameron. And I know that doesn’t mean someone from another town couldn’t be the killer. I’m merely stating that if the police are right about