Overdue: The McLaren Mysteries, #17

By Jo A Hiestand

A spate of three murders in as many months has Derbyshire's local police and populace in near panic. And there will most likely be a fourth killing in two weeks unless something happens to stop the cycle.

Former police detective Michael McLaren is that "something" that his best mate, Jamie Kydd, is counting on to end the alarming deaths. He enlists McLaren's help to look into the events, hoping his friend can solve what, so far, has confounded the Constabulary.

Each of the three crime scenes is the same, yet different: the same types of things but not the same specific things left with each body.

As McLaren becomes enmeshed in the hunt for the killer, his friend Melanie arrives for a planned visit. Can his days become more complicated than simultaneously playing host and unmasking a killer? They can when he's aware that each tick of the clock brings them closer to the next planned murder. And perhaps an unplanned one...thrown in for fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215488997

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

Chapter One

D o you remember the string of murders that began three months ago, Mike? Jamie Kydd leaned forward, his mug of beer ignored, and stared across the table at his friend. His eyes—usually crystal clear and filled with humor—were now clouded with worry and concern, common reactions at the moment for both the local police and citizenry. After all, the end of the month was fast approaching.

Across the table, Jamie’s friend, Michael McLaren, rubbed the back of his head, mussing his dark hair, and frowned. The chatter in the pub swelled in volume, forcing him to speak slightly louder than he wished. He nodded, his look matching Jamie’s unease. Right. One death every month, beginning this past July, if I remember correctly. You’re asking me about this because you or your colleagues at the Constabulary think he’ll strike again?

If he’s running true to form, we’re afraid so. It’s a hell of an anniversary to look forward to, another killing toward the end of this month, but unless something happens, we can’t see why the murder will be overdue. Jamie grabbed his beer, his knuckles white and bloodless as he gripped the handle, mimicking the color of his tee shirt. He downed a swallow before continuing. We need help. We’re not ashamed to admit we don’t know how to proceed or how to nab this berk. Even the Chief Constable agrees something must be done before...

Before he strikes again, McLaren finished, picking up his fork and spearing the last of his salmon steak. I’d like to spear him.

Stand in line, Mike. You get the leftovers after the victims’ families and friends and the officers in the Force are through with him.

Makes me wish I were a serving cop again. But only for a moment, he added quickly as Jamie opened his mouth. Can’t you get mutual aid from another Constabulary? Greater Manchester or Nottinghamshire are close to Derbyshire. The CC hasn’t requested help from them?

Jamie shook his head, looking decidedly frustrated at the entire situation. Of slight physique and light brown hair, he looked thinner and paler at the moment. The illusion wasn’t from the lighting in the pub; it stemmed from Jamie’s apprehension. And the Constabulary’s. Trying to catch a serial killer had overtaxed everyone’s energy, nerves, and patience. And any vestiges of the humor so common in the office had disappeared months ago. The situation was too serious for jokes. I’m not privy to any decisions from the Chief Constable or even my boss, but I wouldn’t think we’d get any help from another Force. I mean, how long do we keep the lads from Manchester? What if there are six more murders, God forbid? That’s six months of mutual aid, and no Constabulary can afford to loan officers for that length of time. If it was a one-time thing, could do, but it’s not like we’re asking for a team of scuba divers to find a submerged vehicle. Sorry. That sounded flippant. I didn’t mean it to be.

I didn’t take it as that. I see your point, of course. The police are obviously batting on a sticky wicket. I feel for all of you. McLaren swallowed the fish and a mouthful of beer, then leaned against the back of the wooden booth. They were in The Split Oak, an ancient pub of massive oak beams, white plaster walls, and a dark slate roof. Enveloped in history, it resided in McLaren’s home village of Somerley, Derbyshire, snuggled deep in England’s peak district, a region of moorland, mountains, and lakes. The pub had become the two friends’ standard gathering place, convenient to both of them. McLaren lived just outside the village; Jamie lived five minutes down the road. It was unusual for them to meet on a Sunday evening, though. The day itself attested to the urgency of Jamie’s request for their get-together. McLaren’s hand went to the glass mug and his fingertips traced along the edge of the handle. I assume you’ve brought up this subject because you’d like me to be part of that help you just mentioned.

My wife always tells me I’m not very subtle about a lot of things. I guess she’s right.

Your enthusiasm gets in the way. Despite the seriousness of the topic, he grinned. They were both thirty-eight years old, had become best mates in childhood, and still were. They had gone through police school together, had saved each other’s lives numerous times, had the same desire to help people. But that’s basically where their sameness ended. While Jamie was still a serving detective sergeant, McLaren had quit his job, having attained detective inspector rank. At the time he left the Force, it had been a knee-jerk reaction over an injustice done to a friend of his, and his rage had colored his outlook on his career and the entire police force. But enough time had now lapsed to ease the pain and antagonism, and as he had silently acknowledged last month, his anger had dissipated. Perhaps leaving the Constabulary had been good for him, a change that had been overdue to keep him sane. That event, however, was in the past. At the moment, he nodded on hearing Jamie’s assessment, trailing his fingers down the handle of the beer mug, and his voice took on a resigned tone. It did little good to argue. He knew he would give in, so why not put Jamie out of his misery. Alright. What do you want of me?

You said it. Your help.

McLaren pushed up the long sleeves of his shirt, looking like he was ready for action, never mind that the action would contradict what he was about to say. Even if I have been out of the police force for a bit over two years, I doubt your Chief Constable will welcome an outsider poking about.

Come off it, Mike. You’re hardly a stranger. You’ve solved more cases, both as a working detective and now investigating cold cases on your own, than many of us poor serving officers in the Derbyshire Constabulary. The CC hasn’t come right out and said it, but I doubt he would turn down your help. Anyway, you’ll be on your own, working independently, not with the official lads. You’ve done the same thing several times in the past. And have no fear of stepping on toes. When you’ve solved the case, I’ll make the arrest.

I’ll gladly give you the credit. Never hurts to add another wrapped-up case to your list, small as it is.

Such a wag. I’m serious, Mike. Jamie’s voice rose slightly, denoting his optimism. How about helping us?

I think your expectations are a bit grand. Plus, I think if your Chief Constable caught wind of a former detective delving into this, it wouldn’t do either of us any good. And if I muck up anything during my investigation and, consequently, we’re dropped into the resulting shambles... Well, you have your career to think of, while I’ll just keep on with my dry stone wall repair jobs. He took a drink of beer and eased the mug onto the mat, wishing he could ease out of Jamie’s request. I don’t see what one more person will accomplish when you have dozens of officers already working the case.

Jamie sighed, exasperation evident in his voice. Mike.

The emotion was all too obvious, nearly soul consuming, McLaren thought, regarding his friend’s face. Whether the frustration stemmed from McLaren’s own reluctance to jump into a solo investigation or from the current unsolved police case, he didn’t know. But it was evident that either or both matters were weighing on Jamie’s mind. He broke the quiet. Yeah? What?

You’ve said many times that a fresh eye might see things not obvious to those who have been looking too long.

McLaren rubbed his temple, wincing. The noise level in the pub had lessened, and he felt everyone in the room would hear him if he spoke. He lowered his voice slightly. Yeah, I do say that often, don’t I?

You’re that fresh eye, Mike. The lads at the station would never publicly admit to this, but we’re about strung out. We’re stymied. He gave a bit of a sniff, as if the word ‘stymied’ didn’t quite express what he and the lads at the station were feeling. His voice lowered to match McLaren’s, and he leaned forward at an angle that could have conveyed conspiracy or pleading. I won’t beg, because I don’t want to ruin our friendship. It’s undignified for me and it’s certainly insulting to you. But I will ask you, for the sake of the county, to please consider giving us a hand. These killings have got to stop.

McLaren sighed heavily, knowing he was beat, and settled into the corner of the booth. He gazed at Jamie, noting his pale complexion, unwavering gaze, and fingers that gripped the beer mug in a near-strangle hold. Best to get this over with. He said a mental prayer that he wouldn’t make things worse by joining the hunt, and nodded. "Alright. I’ll give it a try. Unofficially, he added quickly, the tone of his voice strong so Jamie could not mistake the qualification. Don’t let on at the station I’m giving this a shot. You won’t be best thanked by your cohorts if it becomes a real dog’s breakfast. Now, bring me up to date on the killings."

Chapter Two

T he first murder was three months ago. Jamie scooted the beer mug backward on its mat, so it sat in front of him, but he leaned forward at a greater angle, lessening the distance between him and McLaren. He kept his voice subdued as he spoke but there was no mistaking its serious tone. If he keeps to schedule—not overdue, as we mentioned—the fourth murder will be in approximately two weeks, although the actual date fluctuates. But the other killings have been a month apart, give or take a day.

McLaren shook his head as various motives flashed through his mind. It’s no good praying he moved to a different part of the country, or is ensconced in prison and won’t continue these atrocious episodes.

"You don’t need to tell me. Everyone in the Constabulary has been wishing for a crystal ball or a good psychic so we can find him and drop him into the nick. Or under it," he added, with undisguised longing.

Best to be prepared with your patrols, then.

The main problem is that these murders have occurred throughout the length and breadth of Derbyshire. That’s just more than one thousand square miles. It’s impossible to police that vast area. Well, I’m not telling you anything new. Which is why we’re having a bloody impossible time figuring out where he’ll strike next.

I can appreciate the dilemma, of course. You and the Constabulary can’t stake out every inch of the county. McLaren paused, angling his head slightly and rubbing his index finger across his lips as a question occurred to him. Three months is a long stretch to continue a murder spree. Why do the deaths occur monthly? Have you figured that out?

For instance, he pops up at a village fete or a custom like a well dressing and gets his victims that way? Unfortunately, we haven’t deciphered why it’s a monthly happening. It’s nothing that coordinates with any event that we can fathom, and believe me, we’ve tried to partner these murders with anything we think of, from the obvious to the ludicrous. We’ve even attempted linking them to some film shown at the local cinemas. One killing linked to a specific film, I could understand, but it isn’t. There are no similarities in any of the deaths to any films shown in the area at those times.

No, that would be too easy.

Jamie gave his beer mug another nudge and frowned. But it’s not to do with a certain date, because if that were true, we’d have the twentieth of each month giving us another murder.

As I said, too easy.

They’re a month apart, yes, but not always on that exact date. It’s been the twentieth for two of the three murders, but one occurred on the twenty-first. And before you say that’s when we discovered the victims, that is true. But the postmortem reports state they weren’t dead for more than twelve or fourteen hours.

So, that bolsters the twentieth/twenty-first of the month timetable.

The bloke’s barmy, Jamie muttered more to himself than to McLaren.

Could it be a work schedule that occasionally keeps him unavailable on the twentieth?

Like, he works revolving shifts and so sometimes isn’t off at midnight, or whenever he kills? Jamie shrugged and drew a sugar packet from the bowl on the table. He carelessly flipped it against his knuckles before tossing it back in the general direction of the bowl. I’m not aware of any job that alternates shifts so frequently, but I suppose there could be.

McLaren said it was just a thought.

Which brings us back to the reason for our cozy chat. If our bloke isn’t overdue this time, we’ll have another death in a fortnight, God help us.

Bonkers, yes. McLaren glanced at the small stage at the end of the room. The platformed area, not much bigger than four large beds, had been created in a corner of the pub’s main floor area. His own folk quartet had played there often, had got their start—if he could use such a word to denote their amateur status—there. He wanted them still to play there. But first they needed to rebuild the group...if they decided to continue. This evening, at the moment, the stage was dark and devoid of the usual weekend musicians. Perhaps there was an illness in the group that cancelled their appearance. He didn’t know. He just thought it a pity there was no live music. It would lessen the gravity of his and Jamie’s chat. Picking up his beer but holding it shoulder high, he nodded. Alright, tell me. What do you know specifically about the events?

First off, we’ve given this case a reference name.

That’s normal. You lot have to refer to it some way.

We do. You might think it daft, but the name pertains. We call it the Signed Murders.

Interesting. Why?

Because the killer, whoever he or she is, signs his handiwork.

McLaren’s eyebrow rose as he shook his head. Bizarre.

"Actually, that’s not bang-on. I should explain that better. He leaves his name. Well, it’s more like a name."

That wasn’t in the telly news accounts. What’s the name?

Jamie gave a half laugh that sounded more annoyance than humor. Good question if you’re looking for a definite moniker. He’s left a different name on each of the three victims.

That would ordinarily suggest there are three different killers. Can you ascertain if they are copycat crimes?

If someone is mimicking the original murder, the blokes are awfully good at it. Same M.O., same sheets of paper with the same style of writing for the signatures, same type of area where the victims have been discovered.

And the police are certain some other killings that happened, oh, even a half year or so back, aren’t linked to your Signed Murders? McLaren’s voice held a hint of incredulity.

As certain as we can be. These murders are distinctive. And, as you know from your own career, the police don’t disclose everything to the media.

Therefore, anything that is duplicated at the next murder—that wasn’t told to the public—just about has to be the same perpetrator. Go on.

The three killings have the same trademark and occur at the same types of scene, as I said, which are more or less rural. At least, not in a village or town proper. As far as the postmortem report has shown, all three victims evidently were killed at night and their bodies were found the following day.

Ten or twelve hours, as you said, is a fairly accurate assumption. You won’t be able to pinpoint it much more precisely.

An item—and I assure you the object makes no sense that we can deduce—as well as the slip of paper with a signed name, are always left on the bodies.

Not just a printed name? A signed name? Like a confession to the murder?

Jamie gave a sort of mirthless laugh as he tossed an unused beer mat at the cruets of vinegar and brown sauce. The items sat, along with a bowl of sugar, along the table edge that butted against the wall. Dream on, Macduff. No. Just a written name. A different name at each site, though we’re not sure if it’s a first or last name. It’s scrawled on a small slip of paper and weighted down by the item sitting on the person’s chest or kept in place with his or her hand. The physical items are very odd and appear to have no connection with the things at the other scenes or to the victims.

McLaren frowned. It sounded like something out of a film, and he said as much to Jamie.

What else is new? The whole thing is bonkers.

You said a physical item is found on each body. Can you tell me what they are, and the names left on the victims?

Jamie waited until McLaren had slipped a pen and small notebook from his jeans pocket before continuing. A water-stained letter was found on the third victim.

I agree. A very odd item. And the name on the paper?

This one was signed Cal. Jamie’s eyebrow rose as he tilted his head slightly, peering at his friend and waiting for a shout of revelation. There was none.

McLaren frowned, looking up from his notebook. C-A-L? Or something a bit more dramatic?

No. Just C-A-L. The lads at the station think it’s a syllable, but whether it’s a first or second or third syllable, and whether it’s part of a first or last name is not yet known. He added, somewhat hesitantly, I know it’s just a syllable, but do you know a Cal from your days on the Force?

Not that I recollect. But someone may suggest himself later. And why is he leaving his name if he’s not written a confession to the crime?

Well, now, you have asked The Question. There have been the three murders, as I said, with three groups of physical items and three papers signed with different names. At first, the gang element appealed to us, with a different member dispatching a victim and taking credit for it, but as I mentioned, the handwriting’s consistent on each piece of paper. Only the name varies.

McLaren tapped his index finger against his lips, frowning. In the few seconds he considered the information, the sound of clinking glasses, chair legs scraping across the flagstone floor, and nearby conversations floated over to them. Usual sounds, Nothing out of the ordinary amidst this extraordinary, on-going event. He brought his hand down and angled his notebook toward him. I suppose it’s too much to hope that the Constabulary has discovered a link between the victims, like same middle names or occupations or hobbies. Or they lived in the same village, perhaps. You know, he added as Jamie picked up his beer mug. They were all ramblers and the deaths occurred on Stanton Moor. Then you’d have a smaller surveillance area come the twentieth of this month.

Wishing won’t make it so, Mike. We’ve got crime scenes all over the county, as I mentioned. But the killer obligingly left their wallets and ID info with the bodies. It was like he wanted the police to know the victims’ names and addresses, thumbing his nose in a taunt to find him.

I agree. ‘Here are your victims. I’ve named them for you. You can research their lives all you want, but I dare you to find me.’ It’s daft. Alright. Tell me the names and body locations. He took another drink of beer, then wrote down the information as Jamie spoke.

Our most recent victim, Clive Sheridan, was killed one month ago. In September. The signed name left on his body was Cal. Clive’s body was discovered at Hanging Bridge. Do you know it?

He nodded, writing down the name. Both the bridge and the village. It’s difficult to forget that name once you’ve heard it. Which one are you referring to in this instance?

The bridge. Jamie nodded toward the notebook. Two words.

McLaren turned the small letter B of ‘bridge’ into a capital letter and scribbled through the tail of the g in ‘hanging’ to separate the word bridge, giving it a two-word status. Ta. It’ll save time if I don’t go to the village and ask questions there. I’m sorry to hear Clive was found on the bridge. I don’t like the idea of him actually hanging from the structure. What a ghastly sight that must have been.

He wasn’t hanging.

Not hanging? Well, that’s something in the killer’s favor.

His body was discovered near the foot of the bridge. On the Derbyshire side of the River Dove. Again, someone came upon it in the early morning.

Driving to work, no doubt.

Clive’s right hand lay on top of a letter that had seen better days. By which I mean that the sheet of stationery had been exposed to dampness at some time but was now dry. The envelope, however, was in worse shape. It looked like it had been rained on. Not a deluge. Just a splash of drops that had left it wrinkled and warped. The ink had run on the handwritten address, and there was a good deal of smudged dirt on it.

Which left it undecipherable.

The flap had a slight tear in it, but not large as denotes someone starting to open it and then stopping. There was no stamp and, consequently, no postcode or postmark.

Did any information on the envelope help decipher who Clive Sheridan was?

No. Would have been nice to give us some extra help, wouldn’t it? We already knew his identity and address from the information in his wallet. As with the props found on the other two victims, we think the letter was just some stage dressing put there to trick us.

McLaren muttered Damn while adding to his notes.

Precisely. We asked in the village if anyone knew him, of course.

No need to tell me. No one did.

Never heard of him. One person, though, saw a small car leave the verge in the wee small hours, approximately where Clive was found hours later.

Anything come of that?

The witness doesn’t know anything beyond it was a small sporty-type car and might have been red or orange. He thinks he was a bit more than a hundred yards behind it when it pulled onto the road, so he couldn’t see clearly in the dark.

Car headlights reach...what? Three hundred fifty feet or so? They probably didn’t extend that far for the driver to get car details. Damn.

Jamie sighed and stretched, looking as though even the recital of the facts was wearing. Anyway, as you may have guessed, the Cal name found with Clive didn’t help us much with identifying the killer. Nor did the contents of the letter.

McLaren’s eyebrow rose. You could read it despite the water damage?

The majority of it. I don’t have to tell you the process the lads in the lab followed. You’ve been in the job long enough to know that.

It’s standard procedure. Unless things have changed from my time, infrared or laser lights are employed to highlight faint traces of writing on the paper. Or chemical substances are utilized to enhance the words. Even the pen used sometimes leaves impressions that can be seen.

The originals are back at the station, of course, but I have a copy of the envelope and the letter. Jamie took two sheets of paper from a manilla envelope that lay beside him and handed them to McLaren. He watched his friend’s face as McLaren glanced at the papers. Short and sweet, never mind the missing text that’s no doubt due to water or at least to dampness.

You said he was found at the bridge. Did the lab deduce the water damage was from the river, perhaps some water spraying onto it? It didn’t rain that night, I suppose.

We thought of that and took a sample of the river water to the lab.

McLaren sighed, shaking his head and waving the pages up