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

by Cecilia Peartree

  ‘I think it’s time we had a chat,’ he said.

  He was holding a map in his other hand – probably one of the ones he had stolen from the Cultural Centre.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ she snapped.

  ‘Just looking around,’ he said calmly, holding on tightly. ‘What are you doing here? I’d have thought the police would have warned you off. They don’t like people getting under their feet.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Listen well, and I might think about letting you go. I’ve been after the Blyth-Sheridans for two years. They have – had – something I want. Something they stole from me. I want it back. I’m a patient man but I won’t put up with people who get in my way. I tend to get cross after a while and then I’m afraid I crush them under my feet.’

  He stamped his feet as if to demonstrate. What the hell was he talking about? It was some comfort to Amaryllis to discover that her instincts about him hadn’t been wrong.

  ‘So did you kill them?’ she said. It was a silly question, and she didn’t think he would give her a sensible answer.

  He laughed in a way which was almost as unpleasant as his smile.

  ‘Do you really expect me to answer that?’

  ‘No.’

  He put his face close to hers, an experience which was more unpleasant than either his smile or his laugh. ‘Somebody else got there first.’

  She strained to get away from him. Even a couple of inches would help.

  ‘Do you know who it was?’ she enquired, trying to sound casual.

  He laughed again, but somehow more uncertainly. ‘I’ve got some ideas about that.’

  ‘I hope you’ve shared them with the police.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a fine sentiment coming from you, Ms Peebles.’

  She was taken aback that he knew her name. What else did he know? He told her almost at once.

  ‘And by the way, you must be losing your touch. I’ve had you in my evil grasp for seven minutes and you haven’t even tried to get away. I think you’re past your prime. I guess that’s why you retired from the security services.’

  ‘You’re right, I haven’t tried to get away. I wanted to know what you had to say. Why did you take the maps? Christopher would have helped you make copies if you’d asked nicely.’

  ‘Oh, would he?’ said Mr Kilpatrick.

  ‘Yes, he would. He’s helpful like that. What do you need the maps for?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he countered.

  ‘I’m looking for information. To help the police.’

  ‘Now tell me, do they really want your help?’ he enquired. His eyes were narrowed and she knew he thought he was controlling her with that look. Oh well, he would soon find out what the real situation was.

  She didn’t exactly feel a twinge of remorse when she brought her foot up and kicked him. It was more like the satisfaction of stretching a muscle that had been cramped for too long. As her foot made contact, she twisted her arm out of his grip, which had slackened as expected. She elbowed him hard in the chest and ran for it.

  Someone was waiting at the garden centre entrance. She saw the blue light reflected in a window first, and when she turned her head to look for the police car she ran straight into Keith Burnet.

  ‘He’s in there,’ she gasped. ‘You can catch him now.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Who are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s Mr Kilpatrick. I don’t think he’s the killer, but he’s definitely up to something.’ Amaryllis was angry with herself for sounding like a breathless schoolgirl.

  ‘If we arrested everybody who was up to something in this town, we’d have to build an extension to the cells,’ said Keith. ‘Just calm down and tell me as much as you can.’

  ‘But he’s going to get away while we’re talking.’

  ‘He just lives over the back, doesn’t he?’ said Keith. ‘We can round him up any time we like. I’m more concerned about what you’re doing here when I’ve warned all of you not to try and poke about yourselves. Mrs Ramsay’s going to go ballistic.’

  ‘Ballistic? Do people still say that?’

  ‘She does it as well as saying it,’ he said confidently.

  ‘He stole some maps,’ she told him. ‘From the Cultural Centre.’

  Keith laughed. ‘We’re looking for a serial killer, and you want us to recover maps?’

  ‘It’s all part of the same thing,’ she said stubbornly. ‘And anyway, it might be that they were both killed at the same time. Is that still a serial killing? Or perhaps one of them killed the other and then someone else came along and committed the second murder.’

  He gave her an enigmatic look. ‘Don’t worry, we’re considering all the possibilities.’

  ‘Do you have someone in mind?’

  ‘Not exactly. But there are a few candidates. Then there’s always the gang feud or the mysterious stranger in town.’

  ‘We’ve had the gang feud already this year,’ she said. ‘Been there, done that. Are you going to go after Mr Kilpatrick or not?’

  ‘Probably not... We already know Mr Kilpatrick. We don’t believe he’s a threat to the general public.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Whatever you think it means,’ said Keith. He put his hand under her elbow. ‘We’ll take you home now.’

  ‘Does it have to be home? Can’t it be to the Queen of Scots instead? I have to consult my colleagues.’

  ‘That’s what you call them, is it?’ He led her to the police car and opened the door for her. ‘Queen of Scots, then, Constable. And don’t spare the horses.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the Constable.

  Keith turned round in the front seat and addressed her. ‘I’m not even going to bother telling you not to go near the garden centre again, because I know you won’t take any notice. Just find something else to do with your time. Really. Do us all a favour. Remember there’s still at least one killer out there. I don’t want to have to dredge your remains out of the harbour, or to comfort a dog-walker whose dog has eaten your cold dead nose.’

  Amaryllis had the uneasy feeling that Keith Burnet knew much more than he was giving away about Mr Kilpatrick and the rest. The police might even have got ahead of her on this one, which was extremely frustrating.

  She seethed silently all the way down to the Queen of Scots.

  Chapter 29 In Conference

  Jemima’s phone had made a funny noise when they were still in the research room.

  ‘It’s a text,’ said Jock helpfully.

  She gave him a look. It would be a sad day when Jock McLean knew all the ins and outs of modern technology better than she did. She was cross with herself as her fingers fumbled over the buttons and it took her a moment to bring the message to the screen.

  ‘It’s from Amaryllis!’ she said with a small sigh of relief. She hadn’t really imagined anything terrible happening to Amaryllis, but you never knew these days. She was often quite careless of her own safety even crossing the road. ‘She wants to meet us at the Queen of Scots.’

  ‘I wonder what that’s about,’ said Christopher. He cast a glance over the table with the timeline and the odd scraps of paper left over from when they had cut out the useful bits, and scissors lying open at the side. Jemima hurried to close the scissors. There was another way you could easily come to grief over a simple task. Not that scissors were likely to be fatal – unless used by somebody deliberately to hurt you... She pushed that image aside and started to straighten up the papers.

  ‘She’ll have solved the case,’ said Dave with a chuckle. ‘And that Sarah Ramsay woman will have given up in disgust and gone back to where she came from.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, somehow,’ said Christopher. ‘Anyway, she’s not as bad as Inspector Armstrong.’

  ‘The poor man,’ said Jemima. ‘And his wife too – she’s the one I feel sorry for.’

  She had heard
from the man in the fish shop that Mrs Armstrong had had to go back to work as a stewardess – if that was what they were called - on the railways because her husband had been forced to leave the police. Now she spent her days zooming up and down the East Coast route, wheeling a trolley along packed aisles and getting shouted at by people because she’d run out of cheese and onion crisps.

  ‘Let’s get going, then,’ said Jock. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Um – it’s four o’clock on a working day,’ said Christopher tentatively, ‘and I’m bound to get into trouble with somebody if I leave the research room in this state.’

  ‘We’d better take the timeline with us anyway, to show Amaryllis,’ said Jemima. She started to fold it up, shoving all the odd pieces of paper inside as she did so.

  Something caught her eye and she started reading.

  ‘No time for that,’ said Dave. ‘Come on, just wrap that up with the rest.’

  ‘No – wait a minute.’ She read on. ‘Why didn’t we notice this one? It’s all about Madeleine Blyth-Sheridan...’

  ‘What, was she seen at the Hunt Ball or something?’ said Dave impatiently.

  ‘No, it’s worse than that.’

  ‘You can’t get much worse than buying into the whole fox-hunting culture thing,’ muttered Jock. ‘Bunch of wallies. More money than sense.’

  ‘If you just let me speak,’ said Jemima. She more or less agreed with Jock, but she wanted to share this piece of information with them. They quietened immediately so that she could be heard. Maybe Dave had glared at them or something. ‘She was sent to prison.’

  ‘What?’ said Dave and Jock, almost in unison.

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ commented Christopher.

  ‘Yes, in the nineteen-nineties. She can’t have been all that old then, poor wee girl... But oh dear.’ Jemima had reached the end of the report. ‘She killed somebody.’

  She glanced round at the others. They were all hanging on her words now. She savoured the moment, pausing dramatically.

  ‘They said it was a sort of accident. Culpable homicide. But even her family couldn’t hush it up altogether, or stop her being sent to prison for it.’

  ‘How long for?’ said Christopher. Either the others were too shocked to speak – which would have been a first – or they had taken note of Jemima’s subtle reprimand earlier.

  ‘It doesn’t say... The sentencing must have happened later. There’s something about psychiatric reports.’

  ‘Madeleine,’ said Christopher thoughtfully. ‘Is there a picture?’

  ‘No. I suppose they must have got at the press to stop them putting one in. There might be one in another paper, though. It was a big trial, at the High Court. We could have another look online.’

  ‘Couldn’t we do that later – or tomorrow?’ said Dave plaintively.

  ‘We should really go and see what Amaryllis wants,’ added Jock.

  Sometimes it was like having two over-sized children.

  ‘You can come back tomorrow if you want,’ said Christopher, with one sympathetic glance at Jemima. ‘It’ll all still be here.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jemima. ‘I suppose we’d better go – Amaryllis might be waiting for us already.’

  Christopher stayed behind anyway. Sometimes that man was too conscientious for his own good.

  Amaryllis was stalking up and down outside the Queen of Scots. A police car sat nearby with a poker-faced officer in the driving seat.

  ‘Charlie’s talking to Keith. They won’t let me in,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ said Dave.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I expect Keith’s offering him immunity from prosecution in return for abducting me and keeping me prisoner until the case is finished.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’ enquired Jock. ‘Did you catch up with Mr Anderson?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. There was no sign of him. I bumped into Mr Kilpatrick, though.’

  ‘And?’ said Jock. ‘Did you tie his shoelaces together? Figuratively speaking.’

  She shrugged again. ‘No. And Keith wouldn’t either. He got away.’ She sighed, and scuffed the toes of her black trainers on the edge of the pub doorstep.

  The door opened. Keith came out.

  ‘I could sue him for false imprisonment,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘No need for that,’ said Keith, smiling. ‘He’s not going to keep you locked up. Neither am I. If you get into any more trouble it’ll be your own fault, not ours.’

  She stared after him as he got into the police car and they drove off with a cheery wave.

  ‘When did he grow up and work out how to stop me doing what I want?’ she said.

  ‘I expect it was when he was promoted,’ said Charlie Smith from the doorway. ‘Are you lot coming in here or not? I got some scones in for you.’

  The dog, standing next to him, gave a brief welcoming bark and led the way inside.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to organise scones,’ said Jemima as they followed. ‘We didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Amaryllis suggested it,’ said Charlie. ‘She texted me to say you were on your way, and I had the scones delivered.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Dave appreciatively. ‘Have you got any jam?’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘You want jam as well?... Strawberry or apricot?’

  ‘I haven’t had apricot jam for a good while,’ said Dave. ‘Jemima doesn’t like it.’

  They went over to their favourite table. There was nobody else in the bar. It must have been Charlie Smith’s quiet time, just before the tea-time and evening rushes. He didn’t seem to mind serving them, though. Jemima had a cup of tea with her scone, Dave and Jock had pints of Old Pictish Brew and Amaryllis had some sort of cocktail. She tried to get Charlie to put a little umbrella and chunks of fruit in it, but he refused point-blank.

  ‘It’s either got to be alcohol or a fruit salad,’ he said firmly. You can’t have both.’

  He brought his own mug of coffee over to the table once he had finished serving them.

  ‘Keith tells me you’ve all been interfering in his case again,’ he said.

  ‘Only a wee bit,’ said Jemima.

  ‘I think he’s more worried you’re going to come to some harm than anything,’ said Charlie. ‘Apparently they haven’t a clue who the killer is yet.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Jock.

  ‘We’ve got two suspects in mind,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Have we?’ said Dave.

  ‘Three,’ said Jemima.

  ‘Who’s the third one?’ Amaryllis enquired. ‘I was thinking of Anderson and Kilpatrick.’

  ‘They sound like a firm of lawyers,’ said Charlie. ‘I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them, either way.’

  ‘It’s Madeleine Blyth-Sheridan,’ said Jemima. ‘She’s got a record.’

  ‘Who is she anyway?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘It’s Mr Blyth-Sheridan’s sister. She went to prison for culpable homicide. Years ago.’ Jemima unfolded the timeline sheet and searched for the right bit of paper. ‘Here – look.’

  ‘How do we know she isn’t still inside?’ said Amaryllis, reading the printed words with interest.

  ‘Well, when Christopher talked to the woman who wasn’t Jane Blyth-Sheridan, she said something about Madeleine. I can’t remember exactly what it was.’ Jemima wrinkled her forehead. ‘He’s coming down here later so he can tell you about it then.’

  ‘Maybe she was Madeleine,’ suggested Dave.

  They all looked at him in surprise. He didn’t often produce that kind of bright idea. Jemima hoped it turned out to be correct. It might give him a bit more confidence to speak out in future.

  They brought Amaryllis and Charlie up-to-date with the timeline and the odd bits of print-out while they waited for Christopher to join them. It was a surprise when somebody different appeared first.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ashley, sounding a bit shy. ‘Keith said I should speak to you.’


  ‘Did he?’ said Amaryllis. ‘The last I heard, we weren’t even allowed to breathe the same air as you.’

  ‘He’s changed his mind, I think,’ said the girl, pulling up a chair and sitting down. She reached down to pat the dog, who had slunk under their table as he often did. Charlie got up to fetch her a drink.

  ‘I wonder why,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘I suppose he thinks we’ll give away something incriminating,’ said Jock, ‘and then she can run back to him with it, and we’ll all find ourselves in the slammer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Mr McLean,’ said Ashley. ‘He knows that... I don’t think they call it the slammer around here, anyway.’

  ‘I expect he wants us to put our heads together and see if we can work it out,’ said Jemima. ‘Maybe all the information we have between us will fit together like – like two pieces of an apple after you’ve sliced it in half.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Charlie, returning with Ashley’s drink. ‘What if someone’s had a bite out of it in the mean-time?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Dave, who had been staring into his glass of beer as if wondering how much longer he could make it last. Jemima had said she was only letting him have a pint a day until he made a full recovery. She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to go back to the doctor’s surgery after what had happened the last time. But then, Mr Anderson wouldn’t always be loitering at the other side of the road in future, or at least she sincerely hoped not.

  That made her think of something.

  ‘Mr Anderson knows the woman who isn’t Jane Blyth-Sheridan,’ she said. ‘We saw them together.’

  ‘My Mr Anderson? I mean Mr Anderson, the garden centre manager?’ said Ashley.

  ‘Yes. He was speaking to the woman on the beach, but he wasn’t very pleased when he found we were watching,’ said Jemima, and explained the encounter that had made Amaryllis so angry.

  ‘Does that make it more or less likely that she’s Madeleine as well?’ said Charlie. They all looked at him and he spread his hands in front of him in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I haven’t a clue one way or another. I was just saying...’