4 Death at the Happiness Club (8 page)

Chapter 12 Latecomer

Christopher was very pleased with himself as he left North Queensferry station after putting Caroline on the train.

They had abandoned the idea of walking the Fife Coastal Path in favour of Christopher's alternative suggestion that they should take the ferry from Rosyth to Zeebrugge and spend a couple of days in Belgium, eating chocolate and visiting the odd war memorial. Fortunately one of the few useful items in Caroline's silly beach bag was her passport. He wasn't sure if she had imagined she might need it to get into Fife. He had nipped home quickly for his, managing to get in and out of Pitkirtly without being accosted by one of his friends. He had taken the backpack with the tent and sleeping bags, and they had spent two nights at a Belgian camp-site, where they hadn't offended anyone by arguing about large or small concepts, and the chips were almost as good as at home.

Fleeing the country without telling anyone was Amaryllis's specialty, and he looked forward to breaking the news to her about where he had been.

As he switched on his mobile phone to see if there were any urgent messages from the Cultural Centre, not that he had even thought about it for a moment while he was away, he heard a booming sound from somewhere out in the Forth.

He frowned. It sounded almost like an explosion. He remembered there were old quarries just off the Coastal Path near North Queensferry, but it seemed unlikely anyone would be blasting there after all these years.

He followed the other people who were now suddenly running down the hill from the station towards the harbour.

'… smoke… flames leaping up… big black cloud…' he heard as they went past him. He paused to read the new text that had popped up on his phone. It was from Amaryllis.

'Going to Inchcolm for day with Happiness Club ha ha a x' it read. Happiness Club? Was that meant to be a joke?

Wait a minute. Inchcolm. Wasn't that out in the Forth in the same direction as the explosion? He speeded up a little. Why had Amaryllis sent him the text in the first place? Did she think he would be impressed by a trip to Inchcolm? Was she trying to make him wish he was there with her? Each possibility seemed more unlikely than the previous one. But the possibility that there was a connection between Amaryllis and an explosion was much too likely for comfort.

He started to overtake some of the people who had rushed past him earlier. Before long he had pushed to the front of the crowd on the quayside, and was staring out to sea with everyone else as if they were all auditioning for bit parts in a re-make of 'The French Lieutenant's Woman.'

'It's Inchcolm. It's on fire,' said someone in an apocalyptic voice.

'Nonsense - it's a wee boat out there in the middle of the Forth,' said someone else.

After an agonising ten or fifteen minutes when nothing happened but during which everyone had their own idea about what had actually happened, ranging from a German U-boat from World War Two either exploding under water or unexpectedly surfacing and then exploding, to a speed-boat spontaneously combusting because a sea-gull had flown into the engine, a police-car arrived at the quayside in a great hurry, siren blaring. The police attempted to disperse the throng, but without much success. They did manage to clear the quay itself. A helicopter flew overhead.

The man next to Christopher entertained the crowd with his theory that Inchcolm Abbey was actually an alien space-ship which had blasted off into space in response to a summons by its owners, inhabitants of a galaxy far away. Christopher experienced a strange urge to turn and punch him on the nose, but he restrained himself. Getting arrested wouldn't help, no matter what had happened.

He had a brainwave, and rang Amaryllis's mobile number. There was no answer.

A television news crew arrived. He shrunk back into the crowd, dreading being captured on film. Jemima and Dave had still not let him forget the last time it had happened. He strongly suspected they had recorded the moment somewhere and were planning to bring it out at his funeral as part of an ill-judged tribute to his life.

Why was he thinking about funerals? It was too early for that. He didn't even know if Amaryllis was currently on the island, still on her way there or even at home, having completed the excursion before any of the excitement kicked off.

He caught sight of a blackboard that served as a noticeboard for the trip boat company. 'Private charter - Happiness Club' it said in big letters at the top. 'Thirteen hundred hours.' He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. The chances were that Amaryllis was still on the island.

He gritted his teeth and keyed in her phone number again.

'Amaryllis Peebles,' said her voice calmly.

'Amaryllis! Are you all right?'

'Christopher! Yes, I'm fine. Jemima and Dave are fine. Maisie Sue and Penelope and Zak are fine. Sean and Dee and Dilly are fine. Chief Inspector Smith's fine.'

'I don't know who half these people - wait a minute! What aren't you telling me?'

'Promise not to panic,' she said.

'I won't panic. When did I ever panic?'

'Do you really want me to remind you?'

'What is this Happiness Club, anyway?'

'Jock McLean is hurt a bit,' she said.

'Jock? What's the matter with him? When you say hurt, what do you mean? Is it a euphemism?'

'When did I ever use a euphemism?' she asked. 'He fell off the jetty. They're just about to winch him up to the helicopter now. I'm not a doctor but I'm guessing he's broken his leg. It serves him right though.'

'What about the big bang?'

'Some sort of financial thing, isn't it?' she said and rang off.

He felt like throwing his phone on the ground and jumping on it. She was just about the most infuriating person he had ever met. 

And what did she mean by saying Chief Inspector Smith was fine? What was he doing visiting Inchcolm with the Happiness Club - a dodgy name for an organisation if ever Christopher had heard one. What was Amaryllis doing joining it? Didn't she have enough happiness in her life?

A policeman started to address the crowd through a loud-hailer.

'We need to clear the area. Would anyone who doesn't have to be here please leave now. Anyone who's worried about friends or relatives can call our special help-line…Come on, folks, you'll be able to see it all on t.v. later.'

Christopher, not quite so worried about friends now that he had spoken to Amaryllis, retreated up the hill with most of the others in the crowd. He wasn't going to leave North Queensferry, however, until he had actually seen them all with his own eyes. He knew Amaryllis wasn't above telling outright lies to gain some temporary advantage.

Unsure of what would happen when they finally came ashore, he called her again. This time it went straight to voicemail. He left a message telling her where he would wait. Ten minutes later, he received a text from her telling him not to wait but to go home to Pitkirtly.

'We could be here all night,' was how she ended the text. 'CU 2moro.'

Reluctantly Christopher agreed it made sense. After all, he didn't know what was actually happening on the island. The police might have decided to question everyone onsite. There might not be another boat immediately available. A boat could theoretically convey the party straight home to Pitkirtly, landing at the old harbour.

He got the next bus along the coast and was at home in time for tea. The house and even the town seemed oddly empty. It was one thing to get irritated with his friends for interrupting him when he wanted some peace and quiet; another thing to know there was no chance of Jock calling round to persuade him to go down to the Queen of Scots for a quick pint or five, or Jemima recalling some ancient Scottish delicacy she hadn't yet taught him to make. Or of Amaryllis breaking into the house with some unpredictable demand.

He hoped Jock was all right. He was a good, if extremely annoying, friend. Christopher knew he might be even more annoying once he had been in hospital for a while and not permitted to smoke his pipe.

He rang Caroline on her mobile and told her the news.

'We saw the smoke and flames from the train,' she said. 'Some old woman thought it was the Germans.'

'The Germans?'

'She was on a train that was crossing the Forth Bridge in the war when the Germans bombed it.'

'Oh.'

'Thank you, Christopher. I feel much better after our holiday.'

'Maybe we should do it again some time,' he said. 'Not the coastal path bit but the rest.'

'It was the coastal path that made me feel better,' she said mysteriously.

Christopher had never been convinced that arguments cleared the air - in his previous experience they often left a fog of resentment hanging in it - but in this case he found himself agreeing with her. Of course she would never be cured - but at least he had realised he could live with that, and maybe if she didn't feel weighed down by his disapproval she would live with it too.

Worn out by thinking about this, he fell asleep in his chair in the front room and didn't wake up until Amaryllis broke into the house late in the evening and started clattering about in the kitchen.

'You're not making haggis crumble, are you?' he said, standing in the kitchen doorway watching. She cooked like a whirling dervish and was just as dangerous and unpredictable.

'Egg on toast,' she said. 'Do you want some?'

'A bit of toast would be nice.'

'They kept us there for hours on end,' she said. 'Jock McLean was lucky to get out so quickly - especially as it was all his fault. Well, mostly his fault.'

'What? Did he blow something up with a spark from his pipe?'

'Don't even joke about that,' said Amaryllis darkly. 'It's a lethal weapon… No, it wasn't all his fault. The boat filled up with gas. The police think it might have been a faulty water heater, but they've taken away the boat for forensic tests.'

'Foul play?'

She put some bread in the toaster and shrugged. 'Could be. It looks like an accident though. Charlie Smith thinks so.'

'Charlie Smith?'

'Chief Inspector Smith to you.'

'So you're on first name terms now, are you? Thanks to the Happiness Club?'

Amaryllis gave him a look.

'No need to be like that.'

'Oh, no?' he said, sitting down at the table and folding his arms.

'No.' She turned back to the cooker and stared at the eggs that were poaching away. 'How long do eggs take?''

'Depends,' he said. 'Have you heard any more about Jock? From the hospital?'

'He's got a bit of concussion and a broken leg. They'll probably dump him on his own doorstep in a day or two and expect somebody to look after him.'

'We'd better watch out for that, then.'

The toast popped up. She got out the butter and marmalade and an extra plate for Christopher, then turned to deal with the eggs.

'We didn't stop on the way home for anything to eat,' she explained a few moments later, attacking the plateful of food with a knife and fork. 'I thought you'd probably have some eggs.'

‘Did I tell you somebody shot at us? Near Aberdour.’

‘What?’ She stared at him across the table.

‘At least, it sounded like a shot. And Caroline hurt her leg – I wondered if had been hit by a bit of rock that splintered off. When the bullet hit something.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No – yes, there was somebody up above us shouting and waving. But we just wanted to get the hell out of there… We saw a police car going up there later on.’

‘You should have phoned them yourselves,’ she said censoriously.

‘We were on holiday,’ he replied. 'So - tell me about the Happiness Club. What is it anyway?'

'It's meant to be a singles club - like an old-fashioned marriage bureau. But with lots of different social events,' she explained.

'A singles club - so Jemima and Dave have split up then?'

'Not exactly.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

She gave him another look. 'If being with your sister makes you this grumpy, you'd better wait another couple of years before you try it again.'