‘You’re going to end up with an electronic tag and a curfew one of these days,’ he predicted as he cleared up after the lunchtime rush.
‘I bet Jock McLean gets one first,’ she said, carrying a handful of glasses over to the bar for washing.
Almost as if she had conjured him up, Jock came into the bar, followed by Christopher.
‘What will I get first? Any chance of a pint?’ said Jock.
‘It’s a pub – of course there’s a chance,’ said Charlie. ‘The usual?’
He moved round behind the bar, welcomed by a small sound from the dog, and got busy with the Old Pictish Brew.
Christopher put some sheets of paper on the bar. ‘We’ve been making our own Identikits.’
Amaryllis frowned. ‘I thought they were called artists’ impressions now. And why would the police let you take them away with you?’
‘Aha,’ said Christopher, trying to be mysterious.
The effect was of course spoiled immediately by Jock, who said, ‘We’ve been round at the Petrellis’ – the wee girl did them. Sammy.’
‘Let’s have a look, then,’ said Amaryllis. She leafed through the sheets, wishing she had thought of this. Of course she had had to go and get into trouble wandering about people’s gardens instead. Hadn’t her mentor in the security services always told her to think before acting? Well, no, he hadn’t actually. Action had been at a premium in her particular job. Thinking came last, when you had to try and justify what you’d done. She vaguely supposed there were people doing the thinking in some back office somewhere, not that they always made a very good job of it.
‘What do you think?’ said Christopher.
‘Two different women,’ she said slowly. ‘But which is the real one?’
‘They’re both real women,’ said Jock, grabbing his pint and taking a long draught. ‘That’s better. It’s thirsty work, all this detecting... We should have drawn the fourth one too, though.’
Christopher looked as if he was almost at the end of his tether. Spending too long with Jock McLean could do that to you. He was so relentless.
‘So which is the one you saw, Christopher?’ Amaryllis enquired.
He pointed to the sheet of paper. Amaryllis studied it.
‘This would be a good time to try and catch Penelope,’ she said.
‘Why Penelope?’ said Jock.
‘She knows the woman. The real Jane Blyth-Sheridan, that is.’
Charlie Smith turned from where he was filling ice-cube trays to where they were all grouped round the end of the bar, and said, ‘I know this isn’t going to be a popular point of view, but this would be a good time to show the drawings to the police.’
‘Why should we?’ said Jock. ‘Let them do their own donkey-work.’
Normally Amaryllis would have sided with him, but if it was going to make the difference between being grounded and being allowed out...
‘We could go round by Penelope’s on the way to the police station,’ she said. Charlie coughed, and she added, ‘I mean, you could go round there. I need to stay and give Charlie a hand with something.’
‘They won’t be open today anyway,’ said Jock, taking another slurp of Old Pictish Brew. ‘You’ll have to wait for an alternate Thursday or whatever it is.’
‘Sarah Ramsay told me they would be working on this all weekend,’ said Amaryllis.
‘That doesn’t mean they want outsiders poking their noses in,’ said Jock.
At that point the discussion became redundant, because the door opened and Keith Burnet and his girl-friend, Ashley, came into the bar. A guilty silence fell.
‘Well, this is cosy,’ said Keith. ‘What are you up to?’
Ashley tugged at his sleeve. ‘You’re off duty, Keith! Just relax.’
Charlie Smith shook his head. ‘He can’t relax – he’s a coiled spring, just waiting to – um – spring on anybody who puts a foot wrong.’
‘Maybe I should go out and come in again,’ said Keith. ‘Pity that other pub closed down. We could’ve gone there instead.’
‘There’s always the bus along to Limekilns,’ said Jock. ‘It leaves in half an hour.’
Amaryllis glanced at Jock. The words could have been a joke, but his tone told her it wasn’t. She felt obscurely responsible for restoring good relations between the citizens of Pitkirtly and the police. Perhaps it was because she was conscious of having played a part in causing them to be somewhat strained, perhaps because despite everything she was still on the side of law and order and always would be.
‘Come on now, children, play nicely,’ said Charlie Smith, stepping into the breach before she could speak. ‘What’s everybody having? On the house. We’re all friends here.’
The awkward silence became a chaos of people’s voices saying ‘Thanks, Charlie’, ‘Old Pictish’ and ‘the usual’.
Keith glanced at the drawings, did a double-take and picked one of them up.
‘What the hell’s this?’
‘Just an experiment of ours,’ said Christopher. ‘Young Sammy helped us with it.’
‘You’ve involved young Sammy in your meddling?’ growled Keith. ‘After all she’s been through?’
Charlie’s dog growled loudly from behind the bar.
‘Ssh, now,’ Charlie told him. He said to Keith, ‘They were just about to bring them along to the station. We were talking about it when you came in.’
‘We’d better talk about it now,’ said Keith. He faced the assembled throng. ‘Look, if you thought we weren’t investigating this ourselves then I can tell you we are. It’s a serious and quite delicate situation, and we need to be left to get on with it. I can’t tell you the whole story at the moment but there’s more to it than meets the eye, and even telling you that much could get me drummed out of the force.’
‘So it isn’t just another common or garden murder, then,’ murmured Amaryllis.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And don’t forget, we could easily pull you in again as a suspect in the first death.’
‘Why not take the drawings anyway?’ said Charlie. ‘They might come in useful. You never know.’
Keith browsed through the papers on the bar. He held one up. ‘Yes, this is definitely the victim.’
Amaryllis rolled her eyes. The fact that the woman was depicted lying in the undergrowth staring up sightlessly might have been a clue.
‘So this one marked Jemima is the same one and is the woman Mr and Mrs Douglas saw on their way to the garden centre?’ said Keith.
‘Yes, and the one with my name on is the woman who claimed to be Jane Blyth-Sheridan when I met her and we caught the alpaca later on,’ said Christopher.
‘Hmm,’ said Keith thoughtfully. Ashley patted him on the hand. He smiled at her and took an absent-minded sip of Old Pictish Brew. He glanced round again, but in a less hostile manner this time. ‘Sorry I lost my temper just now. These are actually quite helpful.’ He held the drawing with Jemima’s name on it out to Ashley. ‘What do you think, Ash? Is this the woman you saw at the garden centre sometimes?’
Ashley gazed at the picture and nodded. ‘I think so. She didn’t come in very often though. But then, the garden centre’s only been there about six months. We were getting ready to open just after New Year.’
‘It must have been a bit annoying for them, having a garden centre opening right next to them if they just had open fields before,’ said Amaryllis.
‘They were still building that house then,’ said Ashley. ‘They didn’t move in until after the garden centre was open. So it wasn’t that they were used to having open fields or anything.’
‘How about the people in the gardens at the back?’ said Amaryllis. ‘What did they think of it?’
‘I don’t think they’d been there long either,’ said Ashley uncertainly.
Keith was frowning again. He didn’t seem to like the turn the conversation had taken.
‘We really can’t talk about this any more.’
‘And by th
e way,’ said Amaryllis, ‘I happen to know that Penelope Johnstone knows the Blyth-Sheridans, so she can probably help you. If you can be bothered going round and asking her about it.’
‘Sorry, folks,’ said Keith with an air of finality. ‘I know you’re interested and you want to help, but I mean it this time. Keep out of it. Don’t go near the place again. Find something else to do with yourselves.’
What does he expect us to find to do? Amaryllis thought indignantly. Start a tiddlywinks league?
Chapter 22 Fishy undertones
‘Look – there’s that garden centre manager,’ whispered Jemima on the way to the doctor’s that Monday morning. ‘What was his name again? Armstrong? Anderson? Andrews?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Dave, glancing away from the road for a moment.
‘No! Don’t look!’ said Jemima. She sighed. ‘Are you sure you’re fit to drive now? Maybe we should have waited a bit longer.’
‘I’m as fit as he is,’ said Dave, glaring at the driver of a Fiat Panda that was approaching up the High Street.
‘You know that thing we asked wee Ashley about, only everybody else seems to have forgotten it now,’ said Jemima, ‘what with the other murder and everything.’
‘What thing was that?’ Dave negotiated the mini-roundabout and took the turning that led down to the doctor’s surgery.
‘The sound system. We had to ask her if they had one up at the garden centre.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, it seems to me that he was the only one who would have known how to work it,’ said Jemima.
‘He? Oh, Mr Armstrong or whatever.’
Dave parked across two spaces and made a rude gesture at the driver of a very small car who had just drawn up in the small car park. ‘I need all this space,’ he shouted, having opened his window. ‘Can’t you tell? I suppose he’s come to the right place to get his eyes tested, though,’ he said in an undertone.
‘Hadn’t you better move a bit and let him in?’
‘Oh, all right!’
‘Your blood pressure’ll be right back up and they’ll whisk you into that hospital again if you’re not careful,’ Jemima warned him.
Half an hour later, the doctor folded up his blood pressure equipment and said, ‘Well, Mr Douglas, your blood pressure’s better than it’s been for years. I can see you’re managing to rest quite well. No undue excitement or anything... But then, we don’t get much of that around Pitkirtly, do we?’
‘If you had seen what we had seen,’ muttered Jemima as they left the room. They were walking back to the car when she grabbed at Dave’s arm. ‘Look – there he is again.’
The doctor’s surgery was near the river, and the manager of the garden centre seemed to be taking himself for a walk along the path that eventually linked up with the Coastal Path and led right round past the Forth Bridge and eventually across the Tay Road Bridge, if it wasn’t closed because of high winds. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a major expedition, though. In Jemima’s experience most people who were serious walkers would wear muddy-looking cagoules and maybe silly shorts in the summer, regardless of whether it was a typical Scottish summer or not, which it usually was, and they would be carrying a backpack and the male variety might have a beard to disguise the general lack of character in his face. At any time from April to September they would probably have on sandals, of the special walking variety, and during the rest of the year they wore big clumpy boots.
Mr Anderson – she was almost sure of his name now – was wearing a smart-looking jacket and trousers with a crease, and a shirt and tie. He glanced over his shoulder nervously as he walked. Jemima was accustomed to being able to blend into the scenery due to advanced age and consequent lack of noteworthiness. She doubted if he would remember her and Dave, although he was marginally more likely to do so after the scene that had taken place in his garden centre. It must still be closed. He wouldn’t be wandering about down here if he were meant to be preparing to re-open it.
‘Get in the car,’ she said to Dave, having weighed up the risks and decided Mr Anderson was very much more likely to recognise Dave than her.
‘What? That’s what I was going to do. Are you all right?’
‘It’s Mr Anderson. From the garden centre. I’m going to follow him and see what he’s up to.’
Dave looked at her as if he thought she had taken leave of her senses. Maybe she had.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I’m sure he’s up to no good. Maybe he’s going to meet somebody and hand over thousands of pounds in exchange for drugs or something.’
‘Don’t be silly – what would he do with drugs? He can’t very well sell them in the garden centre... Just imagine, at the till... Would you like some heroin with your hellebores? Or can I interest you in this cotoneaster bush with cocaine on the side? Or...’
‘No, of course not. You’re being silly now,’ said Jemima crossly. ‘I don’t think it’s anything like that. Maybe it’s something to do with the murders, though. After all, that first one happened in his garden centre.’
‘Oh yes, and that’s a great reason for you to go chasing him around town,’ said Dave. ‘Have a bit of sense, woman!’
She looked back across the road. Mr Anderson had disappeared. She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Now look what you’ve done! He’s gone.’
‘He can’t have got far,’ said Dave. He strode to the edge of the little car park and stared out. Jemima looked at his reassuring large form and went over to him and patted his arm.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. You’re right, it was silly...’
‘Wait a minute, though,’ said Dave. ‘There’s a woman...’
A woman, smartly dressed too as far as they could tell at this distance, was approaching along the coast road from the other direction. While they watched, she dropped down out of sight.
‘She’s going down to the beach,’ said Jemima. ‘Maybe he’s there too. Maybe they’re going to make their getaway in a boat!’
‘Hmph. Or go fishing.’
‘They wouldn’t be going fishing all dressed up like that,’ said Jemima.
‘It’ll be something romantic, then,’ said Dave. ‘That’s the only reason I can think of for him to be walking about like that.’
‘It might be a romantic rendezvous,’ Jemima conceded. ‘Did you see the height of those heels she was wearing? She could break an ankle walking on the beach in them.’
‘Maybe she’ll take them off and walk along the sand swinging them in her hand, as if she and Mr Anderson were movie stars or something.’
Jemima laughed. ‘They wouldn’t stay in Pitkirtly long if they were movie stars. I don’t know that there’s any sand on that stretch of beach anyway.’
‘Come on, let’s have a look,’ said Dave. He took Jemima’s hand and urged her across the road. They joined the path Mr Anderson had been walking along, and carried on, trying to look as if they were out for a casual stroll, though Jemima realised they didn’t look any more like the usual walkers than Mr Anderson had done. She had nagged Dave into a shirt for going to the doctor’s and put on her good shoes.
‘I hope he doesn’t see us,’ she said, shivering a little in the sharp breeze from the river.
‘We’ve got just as much right to be walking along here as he has,’ said Dave, striding out boldly.
Jemima glanced down on to the little shingle beach. The tide was in, and there was sunlight sparkling on the ripples in the water. Mr Anderson and his friend were walking along the edge near the river, apparently deep in conversation. There was nobody else about, apart from a couple of boys who were digging a hole further along. Were they looking for shellfish or something? They seemed a bit old to be making sandcastles, and in any case, as she had pointed out to Dave, there wasn’t any sand.
She frowned. ‘It’s a pity we can’t hear what they’re saying.’
‘We’d need one of those sound systems of his,’ said Dave. ‘Or maybe Amarylli
s might have got us a wire if we’d asked her in time.’
The woman turned away from the man and stared directly at them. Jemima gasped.
‘It’s all right,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life. She doesn’t know us.’
‘But she’s the woman in the drawing!’ said Jemima. ‘The woman Christopher met in the woods.’
‘Ssh, she’ll hear you.’
The woman nudged Mr Anderson and he turned slowly towards them. It was only when he began to walk up the beach that Jemima knew he must have recognised them after all.
‘Let’s get back to the car,’ she hissed.
‘No, why should we?’ said Dave in a low voice. ‘If we run away from him, he’ll know we’re suspicious. And he hasn’t done anything out of the way. It’s not against the law to go for a walk and meet a woman – otherwise the prisons would be full to overflowing.’ He raised his voice as the man came closer, and said in his usual booming tones, ‘Morning – Mr Anderson, isn’t it? Nice day for a walk in the fresh air.’
‘It certainly is fresh,’ added Jemima. ‘What with the breeze and everything.’
‘Good morning,’ said Mr Anderson, clambering up the slope from the beach. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names. But aren’t you the ones who were taken ill – just the other day? I hope you’re feeling better.’
The woman had followed him up the beach, but Jemima noticed she kept her face averted. It was almost as if she knew they had seen her picture.
‘We’re fine now,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t anything serious. We’ve just got to take it easy for a wee while.’
‘Well, make sure you do that,’ said Mr Anderson with a frown. ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I would stick to pottering about town for a while, if I were you. Plenty of people about who could help if you got into difficulties.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they would,’ said Jemima.
‘We’ve got lots of friends in town,’ said Dave.
‘Good,’ said Mr Anderson. ‘I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to either of you.’
They were back in the car and driving up the road again when Jemima said in a muffled voice, ‘Was he threatening us just now, or was it all in my mind?’
Closer to Death in a Garden (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 10) Page 12
