Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) (16 page)

‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Keith. Of course there must be talk and speculation among people who had known the twins, but he didn’t want to give away anything new, even to the minister. ‘Anything you can remember might be important, though.’

The minister sat down heavily in the nearest chair and closed his eyes. Surely he couldn’t be praying. Keith waited. Mrs Cockburn crept in with a cup of tea for him, a small shortbread biscuit in the saucer. She hadn’t brought her husband anything.

Mr Cockburn suddenly opened his eyes. ‘There might be something... I don’t know if it’s relevant though.’

‘Well, you never know.’

‘Their work of art – it was going to be a video installation. It was unfinished, but I thought the concept was interesting, so I accepted it on the understanding that they would finish it in time for the opening. Or at least have something to show for it. It would be ongoing, of course.’

‘What was the concept?’

‘It was supposed to be kept under wraps, but I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to tell you now. They were going to create a situation in the Folk Museum and then film people’s reactions to it.’

‘What?’

‘It’s one of these modern ideas. They called it conceptual art.’

Keith had to take several deep breaths before he could comment on the total irresponsibility of the concept itself and of the minister for encouraging the two artists to go ahead with realising it. He took a sip of tea as well.

‘Did they ask Mr Wilson’s permission to use the Folk Museum for this?’

‘Well, I thought I had made it clear to him when I first spoke to him about the project... But with hindsight maybe I should have gone into a bit more detail...’

‘Would you have agreed to let them do this inside the church?’

‘Well – no. But that’s different.’

‘They’re both public areas,’ said Keith after another calming sip of tea. ‘You’re not supposed to film people without their permission these days. Presumably the artists weren’t going to ask permission of every single person they filmed for this so-called work of art.’

‘Well, no, but that would have spoiled the whole concept, you see. They had to capture people’s genuine reactions. Asking for permission would have alerted everyone that something was going on.’

Keith put down his cup, but only so that he could clutch his forehead as he groaned aloud.

‘Are you all right, Sergeant Burnet?’ said Mrs Cockburn, reappearing and hovering over him.

Keith wasn’t sure if he would ever be all right again. His brain might have been permanently affected by its exposure to the minister’s reality. Maybe this was how religions acquired their converts. It wasn’t something he had wondered about often, so maybe this in itself was a sign that his mind was addled. He groaned again as he felt himself being sucked further into the vortex of bewilderment.

Chapter 18 Amaryllis on the wing

The news about Maggie Munro had interrupted Sarah Ramsay’s questioning, but Amaryllis doubted that she could add anything much to whatever Christopher had said about the night they had found the blood-soaked quilt. This was of course quite an unusual turn of events. If Sarah had gone on to ask about the discovery of the tablet, for instance, there would have been more to say, but Amaryllis knew from her spying experience that you should never answer more questions than your interrogator asked you. Not that Sarah was an interrogator, although she would have made quite a good one, in Amaryllis’s opinion. She could have lulled her victims by appearing to befriend them before going in for the kill.

Amaryllis found herself nodding approvingly to herself at this image. It was the way she herself had done it on certain occasions.

She looked forward to seeing Keith Burnet again and finding out what he thought of Sarah. He seemed secure enough in his masculinity not to mind having a woman boss. But you could never quite be sure until the situation actually occurred.

Her mind was too busy to allow her to settle to anything, and towards the end of a rather disturbing day she found herself heading inexorably for the Queen of Scots. She didn’t have the energy to round up anyone to take with her, so she was sort of hoping some of her friends would be there already. And of course there was always Charlie Smith.

‘On your own tonight?’ he said.

She looked round the bar. It was very sparsely populated for a Friday night. Not even Jock McLean, Charlie’s best customer, was around tonight.

‘They’ve all gone to a Beetle drive in Limekilns,’ he told her, polishing a glass. The dog, snuggled down behind the bar, gave a small growl.

‘What’s a Beetle Drive when it’s at home?’

He sighed. ‘Apparently you have to be there to understand. It’s something to do with throwing the dice and drawing parts of a beetle.’

‘It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing any sane person would cross the road for, never mind going to Limekilns.’

He laughed. ‘Maisie Sue wanted to experience it for herself, so they decided to take her along... What are you having? It’s on the house.’

‘That’s the nicest thing that’s happened today.’

She ordered a gin and tonic, and slumped on to one of the bar stools.

‘Christopher not with you?’

‘Not unless he’s learned how to be completely invisible instead of almost transparent,’ she said gloomily.

Charlie gave her the glass, and leaned on the bar. ‘I don’t think he’s gone to the Beetle Drive. You could always go and dig him out.’

‘I don’t think my archaeological skills are up to it.’

‘This isn’t like you – what’s up? Still in the huff about being overpowered up in the High Street?’

‘Life’s too short for huffs,’ said Amaryllis. She took a gulp of gin and tonic, and added, ‘I suppose it’s meeting an old school friend that’s done it. She’s high up in the police.’

‘Not Sarah Ramsay?’

‘You’ve heard of her?’

‘She’s quite well-known... So you were at school with her, were you? Come on, spill the beans. Did you have midnight feasts and crushes on the teachers?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Charlie, it wasn’t the nineteen-thirties, and we weren’t even at boarding-school. We played in the same hockey team, that was all.’

He gave her an assessing look. ‘Out on the wing, I’m guessing. With Sarah as centre-forward.’

‘She was goalie. But you’re right about me – I did play on the wing.’

‘Charging up the field on your own, running away with the game,’ he said.

‘I think we’ve stretched this metaphor as far as it can go.’

‘Have you seen Keith Burnet?’ he enquired.

‘Not for a while... Have you?’

‘I bumped into him when I was out with the dog,’ said Charlie. ‘Some time this afternoon. Funny, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘He was standing outside the old Petrelli place. The restaurant. He was staring at it as if he’d never seen it before.’

‘Maybe he hadn’t.’

‘Don’t be daft. Everybody who was in the police at the time remembers the Petrelli case and knows all the family hang-outs.’

‘I haven’t been in there for a while,’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully.

‘It isn’t looking great,’ said Charlie. ‘Could do with a coat of paint. The boy could have taken care of that if he hadn’t gone off.’

‘Giancarlo,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I expect he’ll be back...They were all friends, weren’t they?’

‘Who?’

‘Zak, Giancarlo. Stewie... I suppose they all knew Mrs Petrelli quite well too.’

‘I suppose they did,’ said Charlie. He straightened up and spoke to someone behind Amaryllis. ‘Hello, there. This’ll save her the bother of coming to get you. A pint, is it?’

‘Evening, all,’ said Christopher, and collapsed on to another of the bar-stools. ‘Yes, a pint of the usual, thanks, Charlie.’

‘You’re not at the Beetle Drive then?’ said Amaryllis.

‘Apparently not,’ said Christopher. ‘It isn’t that I wasn’t invited,’ he added, as if his lack of an invitation might make him seem like a social leper, ‘but I wanted to pop in and see how Maggie Munro was. There wasn’t time to do both.’

‘How’s she getting on?’ said Charlie, pulling the pint of Old Pictish Brew.

‘She’s looking a bit battered,’ said Christopher. ‘I think she knows more than she’s saying, too. But she’s worried about making a fuss.’

‘A fuss?’ said Amaryllis. ‘She was thrown out of a car, wasn’t she?’

Charlie Smith shook his head. ‘You can’t force somebody to make a fuss when they’d rather forget about the whole thing. It’s a different way of coping.’

‘But what if it’s all part of the same case?’ said Amaryllis. ‘She could be holding back some vital piece of evidence.’

‘Could well be,’ said Charlie. ‘But we don’t usually torture people to get information out of them. Especially if they’re the innocent victims.’

He slid the pint glass along to Christopher.

Amaryllis took a dainty sip of her drink this time. ‘Maybe the woman’s touch...’

‘No,’ said Charlie and Christopher, almost in unison. The dog growled too. All the males were ganging up on her.

‘The family won’t let you in anyway,’ Christopher told her. ‘They’re even more protective now.’

‘Protective... Hmm. I wonder...’

‘Just don’t do it,’ Charlie advised. ‘Whatever it is.’

Amaryllis lost the thread of what she had been thinking anyway when she heard the voice of an unfamiliar woman just behind her.

‘Hello, Mr Smith. You don’t happen to have seen Keith Burnet in here tonight, do you?’

The voice was young and tentative, as was the woman who approached the bar. Pale blonde hair, a pale face, a pale fleecy jacket.

‘Hello, Ashley,’ said Charlie with an encouraging smile. ‘I last saw him this afternoon. Up the hill a bit, when I was taking the dog out. We had a chat, but he didn’t say anything about his plans for the evening.’

‘He didn’t say anything to me either,’ said the young woman, her voice wobbling just a little at the end of the sentence.

Ashley was just the right name for her. Now that Amaryllis looked at her properly, her skin had an unhealthy, greyish tinge and under the beige fleece she was wearing a pale grey top. She should try black instead of all these non-colours. Amaryllis knew you couldn’t go wrong with black.

But this wasn’t the time to harangue the girl about her fashion choices. She seemed to be in serious danger of bursting into tears, and the three of them were the last people anyone would want to be with when they were in the throes of any kind of emotion.

‘He’s maybe got held up at work,’ said Charlie. ‘What’ll you have? It’s on the house.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Smith, but I don’t know if I should...’

‘Go on,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It isn’t every day Charlie’s in such a generous mood. Take advantage of it.’

‘You can sit up here if you like,’ said Christopher, sliding off the bar stool and glancing round to see if there were any others available.

Ashley climbed obediently on to the stool and asked Charlie for a vodka and lime.

‘I expect he’s been very busy with all that’s been happening,’ she said in a near-whisper.

‘That’s no excuse,’ said Amaryllis, although she didn’t entirely agree with herself. She knew how hard Keith Burnet worked, and what sort of pressure he had been under. If this girl couldn’t cope with that, then she shouldn’t be a policeman’s girl-friend. On the other hand, the girl seemed nice enough in a pale sort of way, and might even mature into a real person one of these days. ‘I expect you have busy spells in your job too, though.’

‘Not as busy as Keith,’ said Ashley, with a sigh. ‘I work in the garden centre. It only gets busy at weekends, and that’s only if it isn’t raining.’

After living in Pitkirtly for several years, Amaryllis knew that the number of dry weekends in the average summer could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

‘What do you do there, Ashley?’ said Christopher, who had now decided to lean on the bar instead of fetching another stool.

‘Oh, I just look after the plants,’ said the girl vaguely. ‘I sometimes give people gardening advice as well. But most of them seem to know more than me.’

‘They’re only pretending,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Were you definitely supposed to meet Keith tonight?’

‘Yes. He had to cancel a couple of times, but this time he said he’d definitely get away from work. He said there was a new boss there and she’d told him to be sure to take the evening off. But he’s an hour and a half late, and I thought he might have popped in here to talk to Mr Smith. He does that sometimes.’

‘You’re right, he does,’ Charlie confirmed. ‘It’s not like him to be unreliable, though. Have you tried his mobile?’

‘Yes, and I’ve even sent him a tweet,’ said Ashley. She blushed slightly. The colour was an improvement. ‘We do that sometimes. It’s a sort of private joke.’

Heaven help us, thought Amaryllis. Is that supposed to be romantic?

‘He hasn’t answered at all,’ Ashley went on. ‘I’m a bit worried about him. What if something’s happened?’

Amaryllis glanced at Christopher and found he was staring back at her. Maggie Munro, she thought. What if Keith’s been taken away like that? What if it’s worse and he’s ended up in the river like the two others?

‘I’ll ring the station,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s probably just got held up there.’

He went over to the phone on the wall behind the bar and pressed some buttons.

‘I expect he’s got a hotline to the police,’ said Amaryllis in a stage whisper.

‘We’d better not listen,’ said Christopher. He deliberately turned away from the bar and said in a louder voice than was necessary, ‘Do you think the weather will warm up a bit now the clocks have gone forward?’

‘It’s been colder than usual this spring,’ said Ashley. ‘The forsythia’s a bit slow to come out. And the daffodils were a week or so later than they sometimes are.’

‘What’s forsythia?’ said Amaryllis, feeling she should contribute something to the conversation, although she would prefer to have heard what Charlie was saying on the phone.

Christopher and Ashley gave her very similar pitying looks.

‘It’s a shrub,’ said Christopher. ‘I’ve got some in my back garden. Just by the wheelie bin.’

‘I’ve always wondered why you keep your wheelie bin out at the back,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Isn’t it more awkward putting it out for the bin collections?’

He shook his head. ‘Best to keep it out of sight. You never know, some spy might come along and start going through it.’

‘Oh, ha ha. As if I would waste my time...’

‘It has nice yellow flowers in the spring,’ said Ashley. ‘It’s always encouraging to see them.’

‘He isn’t there,’ said Charlie, returning to his post. ‘Mrs Ramsay told him to go home after he’d done his last interview of the day.’

‘Who with?’ said Amaryllis.

‘Sergeant Macdonald didn’t tell me this officially, and I’m not telling you, but it was Mr Cockburn.’

‘The minister?’ Amaryllis tried to jump up from the tall stool, forgetting her feet hadn’t been touching the floor. She landed with a crash, and it was only because Christopher caught her arm that she didn’t end up in a messy and painful heap. She shook off his grip easily enough. ‘I knew there was something wrong there.’

‘Something wrong?’ said Ashley, jumping down off her stool a lot more lithely than Amaryllis had.

‘The minister – he isn’t all he seems,’ said Amaryllis.

Christopher laughed, annoyingly. ‘How on earth did you work that one out? Is it because of the art exhibition?’

She glared at him. ‘It isn’t funny. Keith’s in danger.’

‘Are you sure you’re not over-reacting?’ said Charlie. ‘It won’t do any good for you to...’

The last few words of his sentence were lost as she headed briskly out of the pub, going through the door with a dramatic swoosh and then carrying on up the street without pause.