Closer to Death in a Garden (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 10)

by Cecilia Peartree

  ‘Aye, he was,’ said Dave grimly. ‘There’s no doubt about it. No doubt at all.’

  Chapter 23 Normal

  Christopher was hoping for a normal day at work. He didn’t think for a moment any of the others would take on board Keith’s advice to stay out of the case, but he was certainly planning to get his head down and get on with – things. He glanced round his office in the Cultural Centre. For some reason he wasn’t in the mood to work on either the Fotheringham Archive, or the McCallum Letters – half of the latter had been taken away by the police and not yet returned in any case. He could go and interfere in the library or the Folk Museum, but he knew the librarians liked to keep Mondays free of his interference by arranging for something to be going on in there. Today it was a children’s book event. He shook his head. Of course they knew he wouldn’t even cross the threshold when that was going on. Not after the last one.

  Zak was away on holiday – maybe his mother was with him, but it was more likely that he and Harriet had gone off somewhere together. Christopher felt obscurely guilty for not bothering to ask him where he was going. He had been afraid of seeming nosy. He didn’t want to be breathing down the boy’s neck, after all. But maybe he could make up for his apparent lack of interest later by asking to see Zak’s holiday snaps. Only people didn’t really take holiday snaps any more, did they? It was all mobile phones, and selfies, and Twitter.

  Musing about the onward march of time and technology and whether there was any end in sight, Christopher wandered from his desk to the window and back. Maybe the phone would ring.

  He knew just how desperate he had become when Jock McLean peered round the half-open door.

  ‘Anybody in?’

  ‘No – I mean yes – come in and take a seat.’

  ‘Slow day, is it?’

  Christopher shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s Monday.’

  Now that Jock was here, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt as if his life were an empty pit of nothing. He frowned. That was a terrible thing for an educated man even to think.

  ‘What’s wrong? Indigestion?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ said Christopher. He was remembering how irritating he had found Jock the day before, and wondering whether he should have been so keen to welcome him into the office. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘News? Well, there’s another financial crisis in Greece,’ said Jock, sounding uncertain. ‘And more fighting in Syria. Or do you mean local news? The buses are diverted round by the top road this week. I think there’s some road-works going on.’

  There was a knock at the office door. It never rains but it pours, thought Christopher, filled with an unreasonable wish to shout, ‘Who is it now?’ in an irascible middle-aged voice.

  ‘There’s somebody to see you, Mr Wilson,’ said the head librarian, not even putting her head into the room but talking to him from the corridor outside as if afraid to come any closer. ‘It’s a Mr Kilpatrick.’

  ‘What does he want to see me about?’

  The door opened a bit more and a man of indeterminate age strode into the room. He had the air of thinking he owned the place and could treat Christopher as some sort of servant just because it was a public building. Christopher didn’t know if he actually had hackles, but he was sure he could sense his going up. Charlie Smith’s dog probably knew the feeling. Or maybe not, in his case.

  ‘I’ve got somebody with me just now,’ he said reproachfully to the librarian, who was still loitering in the corridor. He heard her footsteps retreat, leaving him to deal with the man.

  The man held out a hand. ‘Kelvin Kilpatrick,’ he said. He glanced at Jock McLean as if wondering if he was worth shaking hands with.

  ‘How may I help you?’ said Christopher. It wasn’t a phrase that came readily to his lips, but somehow he had the urge to behave like an assistant in the old-fashioned menswear shop that used to be in pride of place in the High Street before it was converted into a sandwich shop and then into a bookie’s. He wasn’t going to address the man as ‘sir’, though. He had to draw the line somewhere, especially with somebody who had a slight but recognisable Cockney accent. ‘Please sit down,’ he added.

  Jock McLean sidestepped the hand-shaking issue by wandering off to fetch another chair for Mr Kilpatrick, who sat down without thanking him.

  ‘I wanted to ask about your local records,’ said the Londoner. Or was he Australian? Christopher had noticed before that they sometimes sounded a bit like Cockneys. He really wasn’t all that good at accents.

  ‘Yes? Are you tracing anybody in particular?’

  Mr Kilpatrick frowned. ‘I’m not tracing anybody at all. It’s quite a different matter.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you meant family history records. That’s what most people are interested in. We have some computers available for use by the public. Full internet access. There may be some volunteers about to give you a hand...’

  ‘No, I’m definitely not interested in that side of things at all. My great-granddad was a convict, and that’s all I want to know about him.’ Mr Kilpatrick gave a loud but somehow unconvincing laugh.

  ‘Um... OK then,’ said Christopher cautiously. ‘what sort of local records are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m interested in land and property records. And old maps. Yes, mostly old maps.’

  ‘We do have a certain number of maps in our collections,’ said Christopher, even more cautiously. He remembered what had happened in Pitkirtly during the really bad winter, which was the last time anybody had taken an interest in maps, and he didn’t want to repeat any of the associated experiences. ‘It depends what you’re looking for. You might be better to go over to Dunfermline and check in the main library there. But the land records will be in Edinburgh, I think.’

  He wasn’t sure what it was that made him reluctant to trust or assist this man, but there must be something – apart from the hackles, which could have been all in his imagination.

  ‘I thought I’d start here,’ said Mr Kilpatrick, staring at Christopher. The man’s pale blue eyes had very little expression. Maybe that was what was putting him on edge.

  ‘So, do you want to see any old maps of Pitkirtly, or is there something in particular you were looking for?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘Whatever you’ve got. If it takes in the area round about town as well, that’d be fine.’

  ‘All right,’ said Christopher. ‘I think we keep the older ones in our Folk Museum, but I can bring them into the research area for you to study. You can always look things up online while you’re doing that, if necessary.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll need to do that,’ said Mr Kilpatrick. He stood up again. ‘Where is this research room of yours?’

  Christopher showed him the research room and went to fetch the maps. It took him a while to work out Zak’s system for storing them. He supposed, guiltily, that he should have taken more notice of what his assistant was doing.

  Jock McLean was suddenly at his elbow. ‘Here,’ he whispered, ‘what do you reckon that man’s up to?’

  ‘He’s just an interested member of the public,’ said Christopher quietly, taking the string off the roll of maps he had just picked up. ‘You don’t have to stay around though – you could go and do something else if you like.’

  ‘I’d better hang on here,’ said Jock. ‘I don’t want to leave you on your own with him.’

  ‘I’m not on my own! There are quite a few staff in today. The librarians are running one of their events.’

  ‘Ssh, he’ll hear you!’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Christopher, lowering his voice. ‘I do this kind of thing all the time. There’s no reason to think...’

  ‘Are those maps nearly ready?’ said Mr Kilpatrick, appearing in the Folk Museum doorway.

  ‘Oh! Yes, I’ve got a few here that you might be interested in. Just go back through to the research room and I’ll bring them in to you. I’ll switch on one of the computers in a minute just i
n case you want to look anything up.’

  He thought Mr Kilpatrick muttered ‘I won’t’ as he went off down the corridor, but the words were indistinct.

  ‘Don’t let him look at the maps on his own,’ said Jock.

  ‘What on earth is your problem? I’ve got every intention of letting the man browse through the maps for as long as he wants without anybody peering over his shoulder.’

  ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Jock.

  Christopher took a few moments longer to make sure he had the right set of maps. Some random ones for Berkshire and Islington formed part of the collection, and he didn’t want to confuse the man.

  When he was ready, he set off back down the corridor to the research room, followed closely by Jock McLean.

  The door of the cleaner’s cupboard swung open just in front of him, and Amaryllis materialised suddenly. He ground to a halt, Jock collided with him and he dropped two of the maps in his surprised start.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘Has he gone?’ hissed Amaryllis.

  ‘Oh, not you as well,’ said Christopher, refusing to whisper any more. ‘Let me just take these into the research room and then we can all have a chat about it. Wait here,’ he said to Jock, who was rubbing his nose after the collision.

  ‘He can’t see me!’ whispered Amaryllis, ducking behind the cupboard door.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ growled Christopher, picking up the maps. ‘Just stay exactly where you are until I close the door of the research room behind me. Then go on into the office and wait there – but don’t touch anything. Or do anything,’ he added as an afterthought. He wasn’t sure what Amaryllis could manage to do without touching anything, but she could probably think of something.

  She stuck her tongue out at him, but stayed where she was.

  Who was this man anyway?

  Christopher moved into the research room, hoping Mr Kilpatrick hadn’t heard the collision and subsequent whispering. But the man was at the window, which was at the side of the building and faced out to a concrete wall which bordered an electricity sub-station. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting view in the world.

  ‘I’ve brought some likely-looking maps,’ said Christopher, closing the door behind him to enable Amaryllis and Jock to make their getaway. ‘You can spread them out on the table here… There’s one of the whole town in the middle of the 19th century. Then I’ve got one of the northern outskirts in about 1900. And a map showing the route of the railway along the coast, with the stations – I’ve had people asking for that before. Oh, and here’s one that’s hand-drawn and we’ve never been able to work out the exact location.’

  Mr Kilpatrick grabbed ungraciously for the roll of maps. Christopher was torn between asking him to be more careful with them, and wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible to find out what Amaryllis was doing here, and whether she and Jock had begun to cause chaos in his office.

  ‘Yes, well, just carry on then,’ he said as Mr Kilpatrick unrolled one of the maps on the table, setting the others aside and using a box of index cards somebody had left lying around to weigh down one edge and stop it rolling itself up again. He leaned down over it. Christopher had to suppress the notion that he should tell the man not to breathe on the maps.

  ‘I’ll be in my office if you need anything,’ he said.

  Mr Kilpatrick ignored him.

  He went back along to his office, remembering Jock McLean’s words about not leaving Mr Kilpatrick alone with the maps. Still, what could possibly go wrong?

  Amaryllis was swinging on his chair behind the desk and Jock was lying on the floor, possibly trying to retrieve something from under the book-shelves.

  ‘Watch out,’ said Christopher. ‘There was broken glass on the floor about there just the other day, and I don’t know if the new cleaner’s picked it all up.’

  ‘I thought there was something glittering under there,’ said Jock, unabashed. He heaved himself up from the floor. ‘The hidden treasure of Pitkirtly, or something.’

  ‘That’s just a story,’ scoffed Amaryllis from the swivel chair. She gave it a whirl, taking her feet off the floor, apparently to make it more interesting.

  ‘I would have kept an eye on him if I were you,’ said Jock. ‘He’ll go off with those maps of yours.’

  ‘Of course he won’t,’ said Christopher. He looked as sternly as he could manage at Amaryllis. ‘And what were you hiding in the cupboard for?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to see me... He’s already reported me to the police once, and made up some tale about me lugging a body over his fence. I’m not taking any chances. He might invent something about me killing one of you and disposing of the body.’

  ‘You and whose army?’ said Jock.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d need an army.’

  ‘Why would he do a thing like that?’ said Christopher. ‘Make up things about you, I mean. All he had to do was wait and there’d be something real to report.’

  Amaryllis threw his to-do list at him. It fluttered back on to the desk, propelled by its own half-heartedness.

  ‘He lives over the back from the alpaca farm and the garden centre,’ she said. ‘He could theoretically have seen me taking a shortcut through his garden, but I didn’t think anyone had spotted me. I certainly didn’t bring a body with me – apart from my own, that is.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Christopher. ‘I don’t suppose the police thought it was very funny either.’

  ‘Diversionary tactics,’ said Jock, nodding as if he were some sort of a sage. ‘He’ll have been up to something himself. I knew it!’

  In the pause before one of them thought of a riposte, Christopher heard footsteps passing the office door. They didn’t sound all that furtive, but then Mr Kilpatrick seemed like the kind of person to walk in a particularly confident manner. It could have been one of the library staff going out to lunch, but...

  ‘I’d better have a look in the research room,’ he said. ‘Get the maps put away if he’s finished with them.’

  Jock and Amaryllis followed him silently back along the corridor. The research room door stood open, and there was no sign of Mr Kilpatrick. Unfortunately there was no sign of any of the maps either.

  Christopher glared at Jock. ‘Just don’t say a word!’

  ‘Maybe I’d better get myself a wee flag that says I Told You So, in that case,’ said Jock with an evil smile.

  Chapter 24 On a mission again

  Jock McLean wanted to go after Mr Kilpatrick – if that was his real name – straight away. Amaryllis found herself oddly hesitant.

  ‘Maybe Christopher should just report them to the police as stolen,’ she suggested. ‘After all, it’s just a simple case of theft – isn’t it? And we know who the man is and where he lives. Even they should be able to catch up with him and get the maps back.’

  Jock gave her a look. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing! I just don’t think we should waste our energies on a simple little thing like this when there have been two deaths.’

  ‘But we’re not supposed to have anything to do with the two deaths,’ said Jock. ‘Maybe the police won’t have time to try and recover a bunch of mouldy old maps...’

  ‘Hey!’ Christopher protested. ‘There’s nothing mouldy in our collections. Unless you count that stuffed weasel that’s been at the back of the fire exit corridor cupboard ever since we opened.’

  ‘I don’t think we really wanted to know that,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Jock.

  ‘Come on where?’ she asked.

  ‘Let’s get after him! We can always go up to his house and wait around for him if there’s no sign of him anywhere in town.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s left town by now,’ she said. ‘It would be the sensible thing to do. He must know we’re on to him.’

  Jock stared at her for longer this time and then said, ‘I bet it wasn’t like this when you were chasi
ng terrorists in the Himalayas.’

  ‘It wasn’t in the Himalayas.’

  ‘Well, Tibet, then. Isn’t that in the Himalayas?’

  ‘I was only ever in the foot-hills on that mission.’

  Christopher interrupted, which was fortunate, because Amaryllis could see that this argument would run and run.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get on with some work now. Can you go and argue somewhere else?’

  Amaryllis was quite surprised at her own reluctance to take direct action. Surely she couldn’t be scared of that silly man. She opened her mouth to protest again and heard herself saying instead, ‘Well, what are we waiting for? He’s getting further and further away while we stand here bickering.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Jock McLean. ‘And talking of spirit, are you both coming down to the Queen of Scots tonight? Charlie’s promised not to host a country music evening.’

  ‘Mm, I don’t know,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s a Monday.’

  ‘He’s never hosted a country music evening, as far as I know,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Why should that change now?’

  Jock laughed in an annoying way. Amaryllis pretended the joke was too subtle for her. She pushed past him and headed for the front door of the Cultural Centre.

  ‘If we don’t come back,’ she called to Christopher as she left the building, ‘send Keith up to the garden centre. Tell him to start digging near the back fence.’

  ‘That isn’t very funny,’ said Jock. They walked across the car park, Amaryllis scanning their surroundings for a glimpse of Mr Kilpatrick. A big sleek navy blue car moved out of a parking space near the supermarket, and glided away up the High Street.

  ‘I bet that was him,’ said Amaryllis. ‘All we need now is a taxi so that we can tell the driver to follow it.’

  ‘Hmph! Not a chance. You don’t see many taxis around here. They won’t do short runs anyway, not usually. It doesn’t pay them. They’ll only take people into Dunfermline. Or across to the airport. You’d never get one of the drivers to follow another car.’