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

  ‘Oof!’ she exclaimed as she located him by running right into the idiot as he lurked just past the bend in the road.

  ‘You’re losing your touch,’ said Keith, laughing.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said in some annoyance. ‘I’d better practise a bit more often.’

  ‘It isn’t the same though, is it?’ said Keith with a sympathy she was almost sure was false. ‘You need the adrenalin surge you can only get from a live mission.’

  She glared at him.

  ‘I suppose you want to know what the minister told me,’ he continued. ‘But of course I can’t possibly give you any information on the case.’

  ‘What if I asked you some questions and you confirmed or denied what I said?’ she suggested.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit old-hat, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll only find out some other way,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said smugly.

  It was a kind of challenge, and one that she couldn’t resist. She turned on her heel and started back the way they had both come.

  ‘If you get arrested, you won’t win the election,’ he called after her.

  ‘Oh, you never know,’ she said, mostly to herself.

  It was a pity she couldn’t somehow combine electioneering with investigating...

  Or could she?

  She texted Stewie, her fingers flying over the keys on her phone so fast that she wasn’t sure if he would even be able to understand the message.

  Why hadn’t she seen it before? Electioneering was a perfect cover for investigating. It gave her a watertight excuse for approaching complete strangers and asking them all kinds of stupid, apparently pointless questions. Amaryllis almost wished she had thought of it years ago. Only of course until recently she hadn’t stayed in the same place long enough to become part of the community or to consider representing it in the political sphere.

  Half an hour later, once they had established that Mr Cockburn was safely absent, Amaryllis and Stewie stood on the manse doorstep clutching election leaflets.

  ‘Leave all the talking to me unless we go to Plan B,’ said Amaryllis. Stewie nodded, his mouth clamped firmly shut.

  Mrs Cockburn opened the door. She frowned when she saw them. Not very appropriate for a minister’s wife, thought Amaryllis censoriously, but she said,

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Cockburn. Are you interested in local issues?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I suppose I am... Are you selling something? Only Clive doesn’t like me buying things at the door. Or even agreeing to buy them later. Or arranging to get the trees pruned. Or anything really.’

  ‘No. I’m definitely not selling anything. My name’s Amaryllis Peebles and I’m standing for the vacant seat on the local council. My aim is to represent people who feel as if they’re being ignored by the big parties. If I’m elected I’ll try to keep the councillors’ minds on real local issues instead of fighting for cynical political advantage.’

  Amaryllis always paused at this point when speaking to anyone about her campaign, partly because she had run out of breath and partly because she needed to look at her leaflet to remind her of what she wanted to say next.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Mrs Cockburn. She held out her hand for a leaflet. ‘Just leave this with me and I’ll read it later.’

  Oh yes, thought Amaryllis, after you’ve used it to line the cat’s litter tray or to make papier-mâché for Easter decorations at the Sunday school. She moved to Plan B, giving Stewie a wink that she hoped would tell him what she was up to.

  ‘One key element of my policies is to integrate culture much more closely with the life of the community,’ she lied. ‘So, for instance, the Council might be able to run art classes at the Cultural Centre to foster young people’s artistic aspirations locally. Or music,’ she added hastily, not wanting to be too obvious. ‘Stewie here is a case in point.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Mrs Cockburn, glancing sceptically at Stewie, whose eyes were now slightly wild with panic.

  ‘I always wanted to be an artist,’ he said, enunciating each word carefully.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Amaryllis. ‘But there was no way of nurturing his talent.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right enough, there wasn’t,’ agreed Stewie.

  ‘So at first he took to crime,’ said Amaryllis, ‘and then he saw the error of his ways.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ said Mrs Cockburn.

  Amaryllis considered making up a story about Stewie finding God, but she thought she had better not diverge too drastically from the script.

  ‘He got the chance to do some painting after all. And then there was no stopping him. But he could have found his way to it much earlier if he had been given an outlet for his talent.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the minister’s wife. ‘Pity Clive didn’t know about him when he was looking for artists.’

  ‘Looking for artists?’ said Amaryllis, trying to hide her excitement. At last they were getting closer to her true purpose in being here.

  ‘For his pet project. The Face of Pitkirtly. He’s had to get people to come all the way from Rosyth, in some cases, to take part. There just weren’t enough artists in Pitkirtly.’

  ‘So what’s the idea of the project?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Is your husband looking for a particular similarity between all the faces?’

  Mrs Cockburn laughed. ‘Oh dear, no. It’s the variety he’s looking for, if anything. Variety in the way the artists interpret the theme, as much as anything... Amazing how many of them have chosen to depict dogs in various situations... Then there are the ones who like to express themselves in video. Fascinating. That would never have been considered art when I was younger. Of course we didn’t have all these smart phones and so on. It’s so easy now. In some ways maybe too easy...’

  They all stood silently for a while, possibly thinking about the eclectic richness of contemporary art, or possibly not.

  Amaryllis broke the silence.

  ‘Video? Do you know of any of the artists in particular who might use that medium? I think Stewie might like to talk to them about it.’

  Mrs Cockburn gave Stewie a suspicious look this time. He was shuffling his feet and looking as if he might want to move them rapidly in the direction of the garden gate.

  ‘Mmhm. Video. I think that’s something Sammy and Craig were going to be having a go at.’

  Amaryllis cheered silently. At last! It had been a struggle to get this far, but she felt almost as if she could see the finishing line, and perhaps even burst triumphantly through the tape. Or whatever the appropriate metaphor might be in art circles.

  ‘Do you know how I can get in touch with Sammy and Craig? Or one of them?’

  ‘Oh, they’re brother and sister. Inseparable. Always together. If you find one you’ll find both of them.’

  ‘I see. So do you know where they live, or anywhere else we might be able to catch up with them?’ said Amaryllis, calling up all her reserves of politeness.

  Mrs Cockburn frowned. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you that... My husband wasn’t sure if he should even give that kind of information to the nice young policeman.’

  Oh, go on, tell me anyway, thought Amaryllis, willing the woman to give in.

  ‘Well,’ said the minister’s wife, ‘I suppose it won’t do any harm to say that they live somewhere in Rosyth. At home with their parents. I can’t say any more than that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Amaryllis through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thanks a lot.’

  She turned to leave.

  ‘Your leaflet?’ said Mrs Cockburn. She held out her hand again. Amaryllis more or less slapped the piece of paper into it.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Stewie in a small voice, creeping along beside her as she stomped along the street outside the manse.

  She glanced at him and laughed. ‘It isn’t your fault that it was a complete waste of time. You did exactly what I asked you to do. I suppose I’ll have to find ano
ther way now...’

  ‘Do you want to deliver any more leaflets just now, or can I go to my other job?’ said Stewie.

  ‘It’s fine. Just get on and do whatever you do,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  It wasn’t until she noticed he was heading for the church that she ran after him.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work for Mr Cockburn in the afternoons,’ he said. ‘Putting up the pictures in the church hall.’

  ‘For the Face of Pitkirtly thing?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Amaryllis threw the remaining leaflets on the ground and stamped on them. Stewie watched in some alarm.

  ‘You idiot!’ she muttered.

  Stewie flinched.

  ‘Not you,’ she added hastily. It was hard work trying to build up someone’s self-esteem. She guessed Charlie Smith often felt like that about his dog. ‘I was talking to myself,’ she said. ‘Wondering why I didn’t know that already.’

  Stewie picked up the crumpled leaflets. ‘I’ll put them in the bin at the church,’ he said.

  ‘Can you see if he mentions Sammy and Craig?’ she asked. ‘Tell me if he gives anything away about where they’ve gone or what they’re doing.’

  She had no confidence either that the minister would say anything about the two artists, or that Stewie would remember to tell her, but at least having a spy in his camp made her feel a bit better. If you could count Stewie as any kind of a spy.

  Amaryllis was scuffing her toes and muttering to herself when Jock McLean and the wee white dog caught up with her on the High Street.

  ‘Come on, Hamish... Why aren’t you out canvassing then?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of that for today,’ said Amaryllis, bending to pat the dog. ‘I’m not going to bother with this investigation, either. It’s a waste of my time.’

  ‘That’s not like you. Are you sure you’re not catching something? Jemima was telling me there’s shingles about at the old crinklies’ lunch club.’

  ‘It isn’t really called that, is it?’ Amaryllis smiled despite herself.

  ‘Shingles? It always has been, as far as I know.’ Jock looked at his watch. ‘Bit early for a pint. Do you want to go down to the sea front and mingle with the other dog walkers?’

  ‘That sounds like a waste of time too.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t,’ he assured her. ‘That’s where you find out all you need to know about this town. There’s nothing like dog walkers for sharing the gossip.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know that already?’ said Amaryllis crossly.

  ‘You’ve never been a dog walker, have you?’

  ‘Not knowingly.’

  ‘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 re
ason 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.’