Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) (6 page)

‘You wait. This’ll open your eyes.’

They speeded up as they went down the hill, the little white dog now eager to get on with his walk, and towing Jock along with him. Even Amaryllis was slightly out of breath by the time they arrived at the harbour. Because she was annoyed with herself about this, she pushed past Jock McLean and the dog and marched on ahead of them along the harbour wall.

‘We don’t usually go along there,’ said Jock from somewhere behind her.

At that moment, Amaryllis stopped in her tracks. She had just kicked something. It was too big and flat to be a loose pebble or even a rock that was coming away from the wall. She glanced downwards. It was a smooth flat black thing. As she leaned down to pick it up, she knew what it was.

‘A tablet,’ she said, half to herself.

‘Tablet? What kind?’ said Jock. ‘Did you get it from that sweetie-shop where the woman was fined for poisoning somebody with the out-of-date gobstoppers?’

‘It isn’t the kind of thing you could just drop without missing it,’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully, holding it up for Jock to see.

‘What’s that?’ said Jock.

‘It’s a kind of computer,’ said Amaryllis. Theoretically she supposed she should have left it exactly where it was and told the police about it. After all, it could turn out to be linked to the case of the missing artists, for all she knew. Keith had mentioned a ‘local device’ during the phone call she had overheard. But it could also be that someone had lost it there in a quite innocent memory lapse.

She frowned. She had a feeling about this device. It was somehow significant.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ said Jock.

‘I’ll hand it in at the police station,’ she said. ‘Once I can work out when they’re open next. Someone might have reported it missing.’

It was an odd place to lose a tablet, too. People usually hung on to the things tightly when they were out and about. And it wasn’t as small as a phone, so you’d notice if you weren’t carrying it any more, and go back for it.

She opened the small backpack she had taken to carrying around with her for election stuff, and slid the tablet inside.

‘This way,’ said Jock.

They left the harbour and walked along in the direction of the Queen of Scots.

‘Charlie sometimes comes out about now,’ said Jock.

Two other dog-walkers came into view.

‘Now you’ll see what I mean,’ he said.

The two women were deep in conversation, and didn’t even look up when he greeted them with what Amaryllis suspected was fake enthusiasm.

‘Well, maybe they were talking about something important that couldn’t be interrupted,’ said Jock.

Charlie came out of the Queen of Scots with his dog and walked towards them, shoulders hunched against the chilly wind.

‘Shouldn’t it be getting a bit warmer now it’s spring?’ said Amaryllis, shivering.

Charlie’s dog saw them and gave a tentative wave of its tail before glancing away and pretending to be very interested in the bench at the side of the pavement.

They passed the kiosk where Giancarlo had sold coffee before he went to America. Nobody else had taken it on, and Amaryllis wondered if the Council would just demolish it one of these days without anybody really caring. Then she wondered if she might actually be a councillor by then and have a say in things like that. Although Amaryllis rarely felt humbled by anything or anyone, this was somehow a humbling thought.

‘It’s going to get vandalised and turn into an eyesore,’ Jock predicted, noticing her looking at it.

There was a sort of scuffling sound as he said it, and the wee white dog nearly jumped out of its skin.

‘Rats,’ said Amaryllis.

‘What?’

‘I mean, there must be rats in there. They’ll be feasting on the remains of Giancarlo’s amaretti biscuits.... Mmm, I miss those.’

‘Nothing to do with missing the boy himself, is it?’ said Jock suspiciously.

‘I’m old enough to be his mother,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’

‘Hello!’ said Charlie, as they all came face to face. ‘I didn’t know you’d joined the dog-walking set, Amaryllis.’

‘Is there a set? I didn’t think it was that organised.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Why should I have been up to anything?’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Charlie. His dog sank down at his feet, head on paws, preparing for a wait. ‘I’m not a policeman any more, Amaryllis. You can tell me what brings you down here at this time of day with Jock McLean. He’s your accomplice in everything, after all.’

‘Hey!’ said Jock. ‘I’m nobody’s accomplice. I’ve settled down and I’m never getting dragged into one of her schemes again.’

‘You’ll only grass on me to Keith Burnet,’ said Amaryllis to Charlie. She did feel a bit as if the tablet might be burning a hole in her backpack. ‘Can you remember what days and times the police station’s open?’

‘It’s etched on my memory,’ said Charlie. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’ve got something to hand in,’ said Amaryllis reluctantly. ‘I found it at the harbour.’

She told herself there was no reason to believe it was connected with the artists’ case – if there was indeed a case. It could just be a piece of lost property. It was just coincidence that she had overheard Keith talking about a ‘device’ and then gone straight out and found it.

But if there was one crucial thing being a spy had taught her, it was when to rely on instinct.

‘We could give Keith a ring,’ said Charlie. ‘He’d probably come over and pick it up.’

There was no reply from Keith’s mobile.

‘He’s maybe on his way somewhere,’ said Charlie.

‘Rosyth,’ said Amaryllis gloomily.

He stared at her. ‘How did you know that?’

‘She’s been tracking his movements,’ said Jock, laughing. They were all crowded into the entrance to the Queen of Scots so that they could listen to Charlie making the phone call, and so that Amaryllis could speak to Keith if they got hold of him. ‘Any chance of opening up for a pint?’ Jock added. ‘It’s nearly time.’

‘All right, you’ve talked me into it.’ Charlie looked at Amaryllis. ‘Do you want me to leave a message for Keith?’

‘I suppose so.’ Amaryllis was still sulking about Keith going to Rosyth ahead of her.

‘I’ll tell him you want to confess everything when he has a minute, then.’

‘It’ll take a lot longer than a minute,’ muttered Amaryllis.

Chapter 6 Between Christopher and his conscience

Halfway through the morning, when Christopher was sitting at the kitchen table again and going through the Fotheringham Archive, a long-standing project of his, he had a call from Sergeant Macdonald informing him that the crime scene people had finished in the Cultural Centre.

‘Best if you go back in yourself first before opening to the public,’ said the Sergeant. ‘There could still be a wee bit of tidying up to do.’

‘I might take Maggie Munro with me, if she’s available,’ said Christopher.

‘Aye, well,’ said the Sergeant. ‘That’s fine too.’

The Sergeant’s summary of the situation turned out to be an understatement, and Christopher was glad he had managed to get Maggie to help him get the Folk Museum back in order. It still wasn’t quite the way it had been, what with the removal of the display case and of Maisie Sue’s quilt, and some plaster dust where the camera had been installed and then removed, but once they had finished there were no other signs that anything untoward had happened there.

Christopher still hadn’t worked out a way of breaking the news to Maisie Sue. At least he wouldn’t actually have to show her the blood-soaked quilt. Presumably the police would do that if they thought it was necessary.

‘Maybe Mrs MacPherson won’t notice anything,’ said Maggie optimistically, gazing at the empty space on the wall where the quilt had once hung.

‘I don’t think that’s...’

‘Here’s an idea, Mr Wilson – why don’t we make a new quilt and hang it up there before she comes in here again?’

Christopher had just opened his mouth to try and explain why that was impossible when he heard footsteps out in the corridor. Damn! He had forgotten to lock the front door behind them. Anybody could come in. With his luck it was bound to be –

‘Hi there! Anyone home?’

‘Just a minute!’ called Christopher. He glanced from side to side as he imagined a hunted animal would, not that he could recall ever seeing one do it in real life. ‘It’s her,’ he hissed to Maggie. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘We’re just washing the floor, Mrs MacPherson,’ called Maggie with great presence of mind. ‘Don’t come in – it’s too slippy!’

‘I’ll come out,’ said Christopher. He opened the door just far enough to allow him to slide round it and out to the corridor, contorting himself rather painfully in the process. He stood up straight and faced Maisie Sue. ‘I need to speak to you.’

‘If it’s about the fat quarters we left under the...’

‘Fat quarters?’

‘They’re cute little bundles of cotton off-cuts that can be incorporated in patchwork,’ said Maisie Sue helpfully.

‘Oh – cotton off-cuts,’ said Christopher, not very much the wiser. ‘Nobody’s mentioned them as far as I know. Maybe somebody picked them up and put them away.’

‘If that’s so, it would have been real helpful and neighbourly of them,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘Zak helps me to get all cleared up on Thursdays. Maybe he saw them and picked them up for me. He knows where everything belongs.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ said Christopher.  He steeled himself all over again. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a problem.’

‘Ah! I knew it!’

‘You knew?’

‘When I saw that you’d closed up yesterday, I said to Jemima, there must be something wrong. Oh, Christopher,’ she breathed, touching his arm, ‘there hasn’t been another – you know – has there?’

‘Another what? Oh – another murder. No, nothing like that. But it’s quite serious all the same. I’m afraid there’s been an incident.’

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated when a deeper voice called down the corridor, ‘Hello there! Anybody at home?’

‘Yoohoo! We’re here!’ called Maisie Sue cheerily.

‘Just outside the Folk Museum,’ Christopher added, less cheerily.

Two men walked down the corridor. It took Christopher a while to recognise the taller, older and more imposing of the two, who was the president of the Bowling Club and Amaryllis’s rival candidate for West Fife Council. The other, shorter, less impressive figure was only too familiar. The puzzle was what had made Young Dave come here at all. He must have known Christopher wouldn’t exactly welcome him with open arms after the trouble he had caused for PLIF, among other things, a few years before. Though of course that was all toast under the bridge now.

Still, they were both members of the public and theoretically free to wander into this public building whenever it was open.

‘I’m afraid we’re not open today,’ he told them, ‘strictly speaking.’

‘Oh?’ said El Presidente. What was the man’s real name again? ‘The front door’s open.’

‘A mistake,’ said Christopher.

El Presidente frowned.

‘A careless mistake,’ he said portentously.

‘An irresponsible, careless mistake,’ said Young Dave.

Christopher opened his mouth and closed it again.

‘Excuse me?’ said Maisie Sue, pushing out her chest like a hen whose favourite rooster was being threatened. Or did it work the other way round? She took a step towards the two men. ‘I think you’ll find Mr Wilson is in charge here? He is one of the most responsible people I personally have ever met. In my life. On either side of the Atlantic.’

‘Is that so?’ murmured El Presidente.

Christopher thought the man might have been trying to sound sinister, but this idea made him want to laugh, so it obviously hadn’t worked.

Young Dave cleared his throat. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Prestonfield is a candidate for the Pitkirtly seat on West Fife Council. We’re here to register a complaint.’

Mr Prestonfield, whose name, as far as Christopher was concerned, had an unfortunate resonance with the word ‘Presidente’, took a step forward, almost bringing him chest to chest with Maisie Sue, but demonstrating that he was very much the organ-grinder while Young Dave was the monkey. Was that an appropriate metaphor? Thinking it over, Christopher decided it was. Young Dave had always behaved a little like an ape – not the silverback but one of the teenage ones that scrambled around the forest floor and fought for the chance to be the next alpha male although you knew they would never reach these heights in the tribe. Amazing how much natural history he had picked up from watching a documentary on television twenty years before.

‘As this is a public building, we want equal billing for all candidates,’ El Presidente announced, projecting his voice so that it bounced off the corridor walls. It was a slight anti-climax compared to what he might have asked for: protection money had been Christopher’s best guess and would have gone a long way to explaining the presence of Young Dave.

‘What do you mean by equal billing?’ Christopher enquired.

‘The posters in your front windows,’ said El Presidente. ‘They’re only for one candidate. The others should have the chance to put their posters there too.’

Christopher groaned inwardly. In a weak moment he had agreed, as usual without really thinking it through, to allow Amaryllis to put up a couple of election posters. It seemed like a reasonable request. At least, it was more reasonable than having to put up with her sulking and grumbling about him not permitting it. But at this rate he wouldn’t be able to see out of the window for election posters. He wasn’t sure, either, if it was the image he wanted the Cultural Centre to project. People might start to think his office was the headquarters of a political party, and throwing eggs and other missiles at the window.

‘I suppose if it’s a small one,’ he said at last.

‘David,’ said El Presidente brusquely. He might as well have just snapped his fingers.

Dave produced a poster from a portfolio he was carrying. Christopher had thought the purpose of it was just to make Dave look more important – heaven knew he needed something to enhance his presence – but it seemed to contain all sorts of election materials. Christopher just caught a glimpse of a banner headline saying ‘ONCE A KILLER, ALWAYS A KILLER – WOULD YOU TRUST HER WITH YOUR CHILDREN?’ but Dave snapped the flap of the portfolio over it almost at once.

The poster was at least A3 size and featured a smiling El Presidente sitting at a curved desk and looking – well, presidential. ‘PROTECTING PITKIRTLY FOR THREE GENERATIONS’ said the caption, with a sentence in smaller print saying something about the ‘First Family.’

‘It’s a bit on the big side,’ said Christopher. ‘But I might be able to find a corner for it.’

‘Not a corner,’ said Dave. ‘The centre of the window. He’s the front-runner, after all.’

Christopher wanted to argue about self-fulfilling prophesies, but he suspected they were both immune to logic and reason, so instead he let them show him where and how they wanted the poster put up.

He was even more fed up about it when he realised that all the other candidates would now want their posters in the window, and he really wouldn’t be able to see out.

‘Who was that?’ said Maisie Sue, after the two men had left and she and Christopher were staring at the backs of the posters.

‘You know El Presidente – he was at the election thing the other night.’

‘No – the other one. For a minute there I thought I recognised him...’

‘Oh, yes, you might have done. It was Young Dave. He used to be in PLIF at one time.’

‘...channelling Al Capone,’ muttered Maisie Sue as she turned away to leave the office. He wondered if he had heard her words accurately.

‘Did you say Al Capone?’

She gazed at him, her eyes round and very blue – did she do something to make the colour more noticeable? Was there anything you could do about that? He made a mental note to ask Amaryllis. She knew all about disguises.

‘Al Capone – you know, the gangster. He used to run protection rackets. That’s when...’

‘It’s all right,’ said Christopher. ‘I know what you mean. It did feel a bit like that, didn’t it? Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to put the poster up. Maybe they’ll come back and ask for something much worse the next time.’

Maisie Sue made a derisive sound. ‘It couldn’t be a whole lot worse than that poster.’

He remembered he had meant to speak to her about the quilt. This didn’t seem like the right time after all.

‘I’ve got to go now,’ said Maisie Sue suddenly, saving him from having to steel himself again. ‘Jan and I are having a tatting bee and we need to get ready for it.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, unable even to imagine what she and Jan were planning to do. Another thing to ask Amaryllis. His mental notebook would be full up before long at this rate.

Maisie Sue left, and he went along to the front door to make sure it was locked behind her.

He was turning the key when there was an impatient rapping from outside. He thought he recognised the impatience, if not the actual knock. Resistance was useless. He might as well let her in now rather than have her swing in through a window or set the alarm off by breaking in through the fire exit.

‘Good,’ said Amaryllis, exhaling the sweet scent of Old Pictish Brew into his face. ‘I’ll just go and get rid of that poster before we do anything else.’

He caught her by the arm as she headed for his office. ‘No, don’t do that. El Presidente and his heavies will be back to put it up again.’

‘Heavies?’

‘Well – young Dave.’

‘Ha! The day I can’t take out young Dave with both arms tied behind my back is the day I hang up my boots for good.’

Christopher glanced at her feet. Sure enough, black boots were just visible below the black leather trousers.

‘Better leave it there, though,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be accused of bias.’

‘Why on earth not?’

Christopher was saved from replying at that moment in a most unexpected way.

Something jangled in the pocket of his jacket.

‘It’s your phone,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I know,’ he said, glaring at her.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ she pressed him.

‘I don’t know who would be ringing me at this time of day. It’s probably somebody trying to get me agree to having extra loft insulation.’

‘You should still answer it,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Even if only to tell them to get lost.’

‘Not answering the phone at all works after a while,’ said Jock McLean, coming down the corridor with the wee white dog. ‘I’ve done that with my home phone. After a year or two the calls stop altogether. I expect they think I’m dead.’

‘I suppose that’s one way to handle it,’ said Christopher uncertainly. ‘And by the way, you can’t bring the dog in here.’

The jangling noise stopped.

‘Oh well,’ said Christopher. ‘If they want me they’ll track me down somehow.’

He wondered if he could find the button that turned the sound off. At one time it had been permanently set to ‘silent’ mode but he suspected Amaryllis of having got at it and undone this setting when he wasn’t paying attention. He could always let the battery run down, but he didn’t think he could stand the scorn and nagging that would ensue. He didn’t think she entirely understood his antipathy towards mobile phones. It was the tyranny of being constantly available to other people that he couldn’t accept. It didn’t matter whether it was the people who kept trying to get him to sign up for loft insulation who phoned him, or a member of his family or a close friend. The principle was the same in any of these cases. Of course he knew from experience that it made things a bit easier if you had a mobile phone on hand to ring for help in the kind of real emergency that tended to happen in Pitkirtly, such as saving somebody from being pushed into a bonfire, or from a hole that had unexpected opened up, but there didn’t seem to be an option just to make outgoing calls without receiving incoming ones.