Crime in the Community Page 10

  Chapter 10 Root of all evil?

  'Damn!' said Christopher. 'I forgot to ask him if he knew Maisie Sue - '

  'There must be thousands here!' said Big Dave.

  Mrs Stevenson said nothing: perhaps she was silently mulling over how many new woolly hats or Dubonnets and lemonade she could buy with all that money.

  'But why?' said Christopher helplessly.

  Marina sniffed at the ruined package.

  'Yuck,' she said, 'it smells of old fish and chips.'

  'You could get a lot of Playstation games with that,' said Faisal greedily.

  ‘Who gave you it? What do they expect in return?' said Amaryllis, eyes sharp and watchful.

  'He didn't say. Sounded a bit American to me, but I’m no use at accents. But he was pretty determined I should have it. He shoved it through the letter-box when I wouldn't take it.'

  'Maybe there was somebody taking photographs,' suggested Mrs Stevenson. 'Maybe it's some kind of a sting.'

  'I hope there was somebody taking photographs,' said Christopher. 'They'll have seen this man behaving like a complete idiot. Pushing fish and chips through my letter-box - it isn't the act of a rational man, is it?'

  'But what if you get caught with the money?' persisted Mrs Stevenson. 'How are you going to explain it?'

  'It isn't up to me to explain it!' said Christopher. 'Anyway, I'm not going to get caught with it. I'm taking it straight round to the police station.'

  As if someone had been waiting for their cue, a thunderous knocking suddenly resounded round the house.

  'Police! Open up!'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' said Christopher.

  'Quick, hide the money!' said Amaryllis. 'In the oven. Then if they search the house and find it, you can claim you were just re-heating a fish supper.'

  'That's criminal in itself,' said Big Dave. 'Shouldn't be allowed. Fish and chips should be eaten - '

  'Out of the way!' said Christopher, pushing past him to get to the oven as the thunderous knocking continued. He shoved the package on to the middle shelf. 'Should I turn the heat on?'

  'Only if you want the fire brigade here as well as the police,' said Amaryllis. 'I've got to go now. I can’t be seen here.'

  She disappeared abruptly. Christopher opened the door. Finding the police on his doorstep twice in two days was a bit much, he reflected as they rushed in to search the house. At least they wouldn't find a woman covered in blood in the kitchen this time - unless Mrs Stevenson had gone haywire with one of the knives in an attempt to divert their attention.

  They searched everywhere except in the oven. It was almost as if they were deliberately avoiding it. Christopher asked one of them what they expected to find, but predictably there was no answer. Eventually they told him not to leave town for the next few days - chance would be a fine thing! - and left again empty-handed. Christopher decided that for reasons only known to himself, the American had tipped them off, this time having planted evidence - of what? - in the house. Perhaps he was connected with Simon Fairfax, whose determination to get Christopher into trouble was almost comical, but Christopher found it sinister as well - and he sincerely hoped it would backfire sooner or later. He wished Amaryllis had stayed on.

  'So - what are you going to do with the money?' said Mrs Stevenson, eyes gleaming.

  'I don't think we'd better talk about the money,' said Christopher. 'What if they've bugged the place?'

  'We could talk about it in the shower,' said Marina.

  'In the shower?' said Christopher.

  'With the water running - they can't hear through the noise,' Faisal explained.

  'You've been watching too many thrillers on TV,' said Mrs Stevenson, trying to twinkle at them and succeeding in looking like the scary old witch from 'Hansel and Gretel'. They reacted by stepping back from her slightly. Christopher covered up for them by saying,

  'Anyway, I still think I should hand the money in to the police.'

  'Why can't we spend it?' said Faisal wistfully.

  'I think you know why we can’t,' said Christopher gently.

  'Because it doesn't belong to us,' Marina told her brother, not at all gently. 'Stupid!'

  'OK, this is what I'm going to do next,' said Christopher. It wouldn't do any harm to have Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson as witnesses to his good intentions. 'I'm going to post it to the police without any covering note saying who it's from. Then it'll be their problem, not mine.'

  'What about fingerprints?' said Marina, who seemed to be shaping up for a career in crime or detection herself.

  'And DNA,' added Faisal, not to be outdone. They had definitely been watching too many thrillers somewhere along the line.

  'Oh, for goodness' sake,' said Christopher, starting to feel very tired.

  'You could put gloves on and wrap it up differently,' suggested Mrs Stevenson.

  It was agreed that they would all put on gloves and help, so that they were all equally implicated. Christopher wished Amaryllis could be implicated in this operation too - he found himself unnerved every time she came into and left his house apparently at will. He had scanned the outside walls for any handholds, and as far as he could tell there were none. The roof was steeply pitched and high above the ground; he couldn't see how she could reach it, although there was a skylight in the attic through which someone of her slim build might have been able to slither.

  Big Dave offered to pass the finished parcel on to Young Dave to post in Dunfermline, without telling him what the contents were. Christopher, usually a bit of a loner, realised he was no longer panicking quite as much as if he had been working through this completely on his own. The weekend had been a revelation in that respect as well as in several others.

  As he handed the parcel - now held together with duck tape and looking rather different from the ramshackle package it had been when the American first pushed it through the letterbox - to Big Dave, Christopher had the uneasy feeling that he hadn't seen the last of it, but he dismissed this as the vague imaginings of an overwrought mind. Surely this weird weekend must be over now.

  Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson hesitated on their way out.

  'Would you have liked us to stay the night?' said Big Dave suddenly.

  Christopher was too taken aback to reply.

  'We don't like to leave you on your own,' said Mrs Stevenson, adding coyly, 'We wouldn't take up much space - we could always share the settee.'

  Christopher hoped his jaw hadn't dropped; he certainly felt he had been given far too much information. Big Dave nodded serenely.

  'Thought you might like the company.'

  'It's very kind of you - '

  'There you are, David, I knew he wanted us to stay!' said Mrs Stevenson excitedly.

  'You were right, Jemima,' said Big Dave, blushing slightly - although why he should blush when revealing that he knew Mrs Stevenson's first name, Christopher wasn't sure, when so much else had been revealed.

  Suddenly he had to get out of the house.

  He realised that now that Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson, whom he knew he would always think of her by that name and never as Jemima, were determined to stay, he could abandon Marina and Faisal to their care, and go for a proper walk, making up for the one that had been interrupted the day before by Simon Fairfax. It was an enticing thought, seeing the river by moonlight, being on his own again, with the opportunity to forget all the various things that had disturbed his composure over the weekend. It wasn't even that late in the day.

  He gave Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson strict instructions to call him on his mobile if anything happened at all. He even took the trouble to switch on his mobile, something he rarely did, although it was a pity he then left it on the hall table. He didn't realise that was what he had done until he was walking down the road that led to the river. He didn't cast a sideways glance at Merchantman Wynd this time, afraid of conjuring up a dark monster from the shadows. It was a lovely evening, and everything went just as he had imagined: the reflections of lights
on the river, the joy of not having any background noise, the forgetting....

  That part didn't go according to plan at all

  He was almost at the harbour when it happened, in a quiet street where tasteful cottage style houses had been built in the 1920s, each one with a sizeable front garden. They must have bulldozed whole terraces of traditional fishermen's dwellings to do this.

  Christopher had paused to admire the hydrangeas in pots outside someone's front door when something buzzed past him. He blinked in surprise. Unusual for a bee to fly about at this time of night. Maybe it was a very small bat. For no reason he suddenly noticed, right in the middle of this thought, that his shoes felt loose. Had he lost weight without noticing it, or were the laces coming undone? He paused under a lamp-post and bent to check, leaning down further to re-fasten the looser lace.

  Something pinged against the wrought-iron stem of the lamp-post, one of the few remaining examples of Victorian street furniture in the town. He straightened and glanced round to see if anyone was throwing stones. He didn't share Jock McLean's hostility towards teenagers, but there were always some -

  Suddenly a blow landed right between his shoulders, pushing him down. He fell forward on to the strip of grass between the kerb and the pavement. He landed on hands and knees; the shock of impact travelled up to his elbows and shoulders. Then came a second blow in the middle of his back, and an angry voice with an American accent not far away: 'Get down! Get down and stay down, for Christ's sake!'

  He flattened himself on the grass verge, not even daring to turn his head to find out what was happening. He wanted to close his eyes, but forced himself not to.

  Another ping from the lamp-post. Running footsteps on the road surface. A dull thud quite close to him, a cut-off yelp from across the street.

  'Got him!' grunted the American. Christopher felt a hand on his shoulder.

  'Hey you - get back there in the garden! - don't stand up - don't come out until I give the word.'

  Christopher was in no mood to argue. Half-crouching, he scurried into the nearest garden, which fortunately had a rather impressive beech hedge in full leaf for him to hide behind. The leaves would probably be an attractive green-gold colour in daylight at this time of year.

  He hadn't worked out what was going on yet, but he still didn't feel safe. What if there were gunmen in the house behind him, just waiting for the chance to emerge and shoot him in the back? What if the American who had spoken to him wasn't really on his side at all?

  He peered through the gaps in the beech leaves. Something was happening across the road. A tall figure leaned down to look at a dark shape on the ground – reached down and grabbed hold and then dragged it along. A body? Horror and curiosity vied with each other as he pushed the leaves aside to get a better view.

  ‘Just you stay right where you are. I’m calling the police,’ said a man’s voice somewhere behind him. He was somewhat reassured by the robust local accent.

  ‘Wait a minute. Is he all right?’ said another voice, a woman, also with a strong West Fife accent. Somebody came up behind him and touched the side of his head tentatively. There was an indrawing of breath. ‘That’s blood on him,’ she added. ‘Better call an ambulance too.’ She withdrew, her steps padding like those of an animal.

  Christopher turned his head. He didn't think it was blood. He must have got his face wet lying on the grass verge. He put a hand up to touch his face, and then looked at the darkish stain in alarm. It was blood. What exactly was going on here? Had he been shot?

  He turned round. Two middle-aged people were watching him from the doorway of the house. The woman was wearing fluffy slippers and a dressing-gown.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. When he turned his head back to look at the scene in the street, he could see nothing of the man dragging the body; everything had gone quiet. It was as if he had imagined it all - apart from the blood.

  The man shook his head. ‘Vandals throwing stones,’ he said. He turned away. ‘Come away in, Madge. I’m calling the police now, for all the good it’ll do.’

  ‘What about the blood?’ said Madge to Christopher. ‘Are you sure you’re not hurt, dear?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Christopher, trying to smile reassuringly. She shook her head too, and followed the man into the house.

  Christopher didn’t want to leave the sanctuary of the garden, where life seemed more or less normal, and go out to the street again, but he had no choice. He had to get out of the way before the police turned up: they would undoubtedly take him in for questioning if they came across him again today. He headed on down towards the harbour, ignoring trembling legs and morbid thoughts.

  Just after he passed the Elgin Arms, a car drew up. He paused. Simon Fairfax wound down the passenger window. Visions of abandoned mineshafts flooded back into Christopher's mind; being shot at and then kidnapped within half an hour would be the perfect end to an insane day.

  ‘What are you doing here?' he said to Simon.

  'I was going to offer you a lift home - thought you might be glad of it,' said Simon ingenuously.

  'Ha!' said Christopher. 'Well, I’m not. Glad, I mean.'

  'Why not?'

  ‘I’m not getting in any strange cars today.’

  ‘It’s perfectly safe.'

  ‘Do you know anything about - all this?' said Christopher.

  ‘Don't know what you're talking about,' said Simon.

  They exchanged stares. Christopher didn't know what to make of Simon's bland demeanour.

  What about the money?' he said at last.

  ‘What money?’ said Simon. His surprise seemed genuine enough.

  ‘So you don’t know anything about the shooting or about the money?'

  ‘I’m afraid not. Of course, I would have given a hand if I’d been passing… No, you need to look further afield. Much further. There are people involved in this who you probably haven’t even thought of. Now, do you want a lift home or not?’

  Christopher was getting bored with being people talking in riddles. He shrugged, turned and walked away. He wasn't planning to engage in any more pointless conversations until he heard something a bit more convincing. For all he knew, Amaryllis could be working with Simon Fairfax to drive him insane without any other mysterious strangers being involved at all. He wasn't going to believe anyone or worry about anything from now on, until someone came up with a good reason why he should.

  His determination lasted until he drew level with the small block of apartments in Merchantman Wynd, glanced up and saw Amaryllis looking down at him from her balcony.

  'Come on up,' she called softly.

  'You're not going to offer me a laced cocktail and then spirit me away to Morocco as a white slave, are you?' It was a long complex thought by Christopher’s standards, but it just came sliding out of his mouth as if he had rehearsed it until he was word-perfect.

  'No, of course not.'

  'In that case I can't possibly come up,' he said, and walked on.

  He arrived home without further incident, although walking in on Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson in each other's arms on the settee was enough to convince him that the weirdness of the weekend definitely wouldn't be over until the fat lady sang. He didn't know whether Jemima Stevenson could sing or not, and sincerely hoped he would never find out.