3 A Reformed Character (8 page)

'Why didn’t you tell me? We could have asked him about it…’

‘No, we couldn’t,’ said Christopher firmly.

He was rather surprised at his own assertiveness. It was almost as if the perceived decline in Amaryllis’s forcefulness had left a vacuum that somebody had to fill.

‘Right enough,’ said Jock. ‘He wouldn’t have listened. He’s not a rational man at the moment.’

‘We don’t even know if he was ever a rational man in the first place,’ said Christopher.

‘I wonder what he meant,’ said Amaryllis.

‘What do you mean, what he meant?’ said Jock.

‘Parasites. It’s an odd choice of words.’

‘He isn’t in the kind of state where you choose your words,’ said Jock. ‘It was maybe the first thing that came into his head that sounded like an insult.’

‘But why did it come into his head? Why that particular word?’

‘Maybe he’d found death-watch beetle in the house he was working on,’ said Christopher.

It was a throwaway line, and he hadn’t meant to start an argument about how old a house had to be before it could get death-watch beetle – or indeed a follow-up argument about whether death-watch beetle was really a beetle or not. But it lasted them all the way to the door of the Queen of Scots, where they found it was just about opening time.

So in a sense it had achieved its purpose.

Chapter 9  Break-out

Nearly time for the next Cosy Clicks meeting and Amaryllis was frustrated by the lack of progress with what she thought of as her investigation. All right, the police might think they had ownership of it - and they had pulled her in for questioning on Monday morning about Darren's time on the run, which they somehow seemed to have linked to her - but she was the one who was really on top of it. She just wished she had access to their forensic evidence. For all she knew it might point to someone else altogether, someone of whose existence she was still unaware. She would have liked the chance to talk to everyone involved so that she could build up a complete picture in her mind. But maybe speaking to Old Mrs Petrelli would help her to fill in some of the gaps.

She didn't expect anything dramatic to happen when she came out of the small block of flats in Merchantman Wynd that afternoon, pulling the door closed behind her and hoping it wouldn't rain on the way to the Cultural Centre, where she was planning to put in a couple of hours of voluntary work in the Folk Museum.

She certainly didn't expect to be surrounded by armed police officers and shouted at through a megaphone by a senior one of their number. Or to be hustled into a dark car and driven off towards the police station. But that was what happened.

A couple of hours later she was very bored with the whole thing.

She sat back in her chair and absorbed her surroundings. The room had no natural light but they had tried their best by using glass bricks in one of the walls. It didn't help much as the corridor outside was painted in a trendy dark red colour - probably called Heritage Aubergine or something.

'Nice room,' she observed. 'Nice new police station, in fact. How did you manage that, Mr Smith? Bribery? Blackmail?'

Mr Smith banged the flat of his hand on the table. 'If you must know, the top brass felt it was justified because of the rising crime rate in Pitkirtly.'

'Rising crime rate? In a sleepy little town like this?'

'A sleepy little town that's seen more murders than Detroit since you came to live here.'

'I hope you're not suggesting there's a connection between me and the increase in serious crime, Detective Chief Inspector.'

He stared into her eyes for an uncomfortable moment and didn't reply. Was that meant to intimidate her? She smiled to show it hadn't worked.

'So - what about Darren, then?' he said, resuming his previous line of questioning.

'I haven't seen Darren!' she insisted for at least the tenth time. 'I have no idea where he is. I haven't been anywhere near him – or anyone else you might be interested in.'

'Ah, yes,' said Chief Inspector Smith, an old adversary of hers. 'Anyone else. Who else were you thinking of?'

'I don't know! Anyone else in the world! I haven't been out all day.'

'So you weren't outside the sheriff court in Dunfermline at ten-thirty this morning waiting for Darren Laidlaw in a getaway car while your associate distracted the officers on duty?' he asked again, consulting his watch. Ha! She was the one who had been unlawfully detained and should be consulting her watch - not to mention a lawyer. This was all in a day's work to him.

'What do you mean, my associate? No, I wasn't.'

'So what were you doing at ten-thirty this morning, and can anyone corroborate your story?'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' she said.

'Go on, give it a go,' he said.

She sighed. 'It's a bit personal - and embarrassing.'

'I think you'll find I'm not easily embarrassed.'

'No - embarrassing for me, I mean. You'll laugh.'

'You're not wasting police time, are you?' he said, only half joking. Wasting police time tended to be one of Amaryllis's favourite occupations.

'Of course not!... Actually I was practising moss stitch.'

'Moss stitch? Oh, my God, tell me you haven't joined Maisie Sue McPherson's patchwork club?' he said.

'It's quilting, not patchwork, and moss stitch is something you knit anyway,' she said with satisfaction. 'Can I go now?'

He sighed. Somehow she got the feeling he had kept her here for an unnecessarily long time - either because he saw himself as a cat playing with a mouse, or because he fancied her. Either way, she wasn't going to play along.

'Well, we can't argue with moss stitch,' he said at last. 'But don't get mixed up in anything else, or we'll lock you up and throw away the key.'

She felt like flinging him to the floor and stamping on his head, except that she was afraid he would enjoy it. Instead she shouted 'perverts' over her shoulder as she walked away from the police station, attracting unwelcome attention from a man in a raincoat who was patrolling the street outside the newsagent with a placard that said 'Ban This Sick Filth.' He eyed her as if hoping she might join his lonely protest. Instead she went straight to Christopher's house.

As usual, Jemima Stevenson and Dave were there. Why didn't they just move in with Christopher?

'Darren's out again,' she said without preamble.

'Oh dear,' said Christopher.'

'They've never given him bail?' said Dave.

'No, he's on the run,' said Amaryllis.

'How did that happen?' said Jemima, absent-mindedly pouring a cup of tea for Amaryllis, who hated tea.

'Well, it's a funny thing,' mused Amaryllis, taking the tea without a whimper. 'He managed to get away from the police outside the court and there was a car waiting for him. The police thought I was in it, for some reason. Maybe someone saw a woman and they assumed it was me. Using a getaway car's a really bad sign.'

'Why's that, dear?' said Jemima Stevenson. 'By the way, that was David's tea. I'll put the kettle on and get you some coffee.'

Amaryllis relinquished the tea and said, 'It suggests Darren has connections in the criminal underworld.'

'Underworld – in Pitkirtly?' said Christopher.

'Gangs,' said Amaryllis. ‘They don’t have to be based in Pitkirtly – they could be from Dunfermline or Edinburgh. Mr Smith didn't say whether they had a lead on that.'

'If Mr Smith's on the case, he'll sort it all out,' said Jemima firmly. 'And I must say I hope Darren goes to prison if he did have anything to do with it. Criminal underworld or not.'

'But you wouldn't want to see him get into trouble for somebody else's crime, would you Jemima?' said Dave. 'That wouldn't be fair at all.'

'I hope Victoria didn't have anything to do with this latest escape,' mused Christopher. 'It would be a pity to see a nice girl like her get into trouble.'

Yes, wouldn't it? thought Amaryllis with satisfaction. She said, 'Victoria’s the one who was asking about bail the other day.'

'But he's got other friends,' said Christopher. 'And I don't suppose Victoria can even drive.'

'Sorry I missed my time at the Folk Museum this afternoon, by the way – the police pulled me in for questioning. Mr Smith thought I might have helped with the getaway,' said Amaryllis, and waited for an indignant chorus of 'No! How could he? What a thought!' and so on.

After a short pause, Jemima Stevenson said, 'Well, you can't really blame him, can you? With your history.'

'I've put all that behind me now,' said Amaryllis. The kettle boiled so she went over to the worktop to make herself a cup of coffee. When she glanced back at the others, she intercepted a number of raised eyebrows and Dave mouthing something that looked like 'Yeah, right.'

She picked up the coffee mug and set it down again on the table with a clunk. ‘I’m going to change.’

The others didn’t look nearly as convinced as she had hoped. If anything it was a look of panic and not of inspiration that crossed Christopher’s face.

‘I don’t believe anybody ever changes,’ said Mrs Stevenson.

‘That’s a sweeping statement, Jemima,’ said Amaryllis.

‘It’s true,’ insisted Jemima Stevenson. ‘In my experience anyway.’

‘But that means there’s no point in even trying to better yourself or even look nicer!’ said Amaryllis.

‘You’ll just end up the same in the end,’ said Jemima stubbornly. ‘If you can’t live with yourself as you are, it’s a sad day.’

Dave and Christopher seemed reluctant to get involved in this discussion. Amaryllis decided to elaborate on the nature of the changes she was planning, in the hope that this would encourage them. ‘I’m going to forget everything I ever knew about interrogating people, and unarmed combat, and electronic surveillance. I’ll let myself go soft, and not get into situations where I have to use all that stuff.’

‘Hmph! Soft in the head maybe!’ was Dave’s contribution.

‘I’ll practise my knitting until I’m an expert, better than anyone else at Cosy Clicks,’ Amaryllis continued. ‘I’ll be so good I’ll be invited to international knitting conferences.’

‘Do people really go to international conferences about knitting?’ said Jemima Stevenson. ‘Sounds awful boring to me. All that slip one knit one purl two pass slipped stitch over. I can’t be bothered with it myself.’

‘Haven’t you ever wanted to go to an international scrapbook conference?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Or – ‘ this was a more likely angle – ‘a family history conference?’

‘Funny you should say that,’ said Mrs Stevenson, smiling complacently. ‘Only David and I have been invited to the South African Scottish Family History Research Trust conference next year. In Cape Town.’

‘Cape Town?’ said Amaryllis, and immediately wished she could stuff the words back into her mouth. Asking silly question was usually Christopher’s role.

‘Yes, Cape Town,’ nodded Mrs Stevenson.

‘What Jemima’s too modest to tell you,’ said Dave proudly, ‘is that she’s been asked to give a talk.’

‘A paper,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘About the dangers of finding out things your relatives don’t want to know.’

‘It was the mud-coloured man, Mr King,’ said Dave. ‘It was his idea. After what happened last year. He thought people might like to know about Jemima’s experience of doing research.’

‘Good,’ said Christopher suddenly, breaking his silence. ‘If anybody can talk with authority about the dangers of family history, it’s Jemima.’

Amaryllis noticed he was avoiding looking at her, or speaking directly to her. It was about then that she realised her resolution to change and live a less dangerous life had been taken because she felt at some deep, instinctive level that her way of life and her casual approach to personal safety and the rule of law was diametrically opposed to the way he had lived his life and that she would have to adapt if their relationship was to survive. She needed him to accept the change, but she now sensed that her statement of intent had unsettled him in some way.

Maybe he just needed time to get used to the idea.

‘It’ll be great,’ she said to Jemima and Dave. ‘Anyway, about Darren…’

‘I thought you were giving up on all that,’ said Jemima.

‘We can’t just abandon him now,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Anyway, if I just happen to bump into people at Cosy Clicks who might know something, it would be rude of me not to speak to them about it, wouldn’t it?’

She looked at her watch.  Nearly time to set off for the wool shop. She was looking forward to the session tonight. Hard to tell whether that was a sign of a change in her or not. Probably not, since the thought of embarking on the scarf again filled her with unreasonable dread, whereas the prospect of practising her Italian linguistic skills on Old Mrs Petrelli produced a feeling of excitement.