The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8)

by Cecilia Peartree

  ‘I can try,’ said Christopher.

  ‘No,’ said Jason, shaking his head to and fro. ‘You either get it or you don’t. Social media... Look, do you even have a Twitter account for this place?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Christopher. ‘Jemima might have, for all I know. She’s in the forefront of all this hi-tech stuff.’

  ‘Give me strength!’ said Jason, recovering enough to get to his feet and start pacing about. ‘It’s like going back in time – and not in a good way.’

  ‘What made you think of the police station back green anyway?’

  ‘Well, we couldn’t do any more on the Island, for obvious reasons, and I didn’t want to disappoint people here. They lead sad, monochrome lives. It was my job to bring them a bit of colour.’

  ‘Did you really think there was anything worth digging for on the Island in the first place?’ said Christopher.

  Jason nodded solemnly. ‘There was an aura. Tamara had felt it – and even I wasn’t immune from the siren call of ancient voices.’

  ‘Ancient voices?’

  ‘I heard them,’ said Jason. ‘The night before we went out there. I went over to have a look, make sure it was safe, that kind of thing, and I heard voices.’

  ‘Where?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Right behind those old army huts, or whatever they are. Just about where we found – oh.’

  ‘You’d better speak to the police.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that! I’d be stuck in town for weeks while they crank themselves into gear.’

  ‘But you must have been just about at the scene of the murder! Did you see anything?’

  ‘I heard the voices, that’s all. Ancient voices. Wailing and weeping... and yapping. It was dark by that time. Everything seemed unearthly. Weird. Spooky.’

  ‘Did you see any Druids?’ enquired Christopher.

  Jason stared at him blankly. ‘Druids – of course not.’

  ‘What did you do next?’ said Christopher, overcome by a horrible fascination.

  ‘I may have shouted at them to keep away from me,’ said Jason, beginning to sound ashamed for the first time. ‘Then I left.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘You must tell the police.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘It’s on your own head,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Fine. No way am I staying in this Slough of Despond for another day. You can all stuff it.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave right away,’ said Christopher, trying not to sound like an offended little old lady, even if that was how Jason saw him.

  ‘I’ll go and say goodbye to Tricia now,’ said Jason. He stood up. ‘I can probably reach York before dark – might stop off and see how they’re getting on with the excavations there. That might make a blog post... Thanks, Christopher. It’s not your fault.’

  Of course it isn’t my fault, thought Christopher irritably as he watched Jason sidle out of the office with considerably less aplomb than usual. He had a feeling that, along with the local police and Amaryllis, he was going to become the villain of the piece once Jason’s mind reconstructed the narrative of events. But that wasn’t his problem either.

  Bruce and Tamara made an entrance while he was still staring aimlessly into the middle distance. He could hear them talking as they did so. Probably something to do with Druids. It was all utter fantasy as far as he was concerned.

  ‘Christopher!’ said Tamara, looking almost as if she was going to swoop down on him and wrap him up in the long flowing sleeves of her long flowing dress. ‘I was hoping to speak to you... Bruce came along too. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Christopher, although he didn’t actually want either of them in his office. He had to remind himself again that he was there to serve the public.

  ‘I wanted to warn you not to go near anyone who looks like a Druid,’ she said solemnly. ‘It could be very dangerous. I saw someone like that going out to the Island and it gave me quite a funny turn.’

  ‘When you say he was dressed as a Druid,’ said Christopher, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

  He glanced at Bruce to see if he was rolling his eyes or anything, but Bruce seemed as serious as Tamara.

  ‘He was in a long, flowing white robe,’ said Tamara, closing her eyes as if to see what was in her head more clearly. ‘There may have been a hood – and a long, flowing beard.’

  ‘Was it raining?’ said Amaryllis, bursting into the room just in time to hear this.

  ‘Raining?’ said Tamara, opening her eyes and glaring at Amaryllis.

  ‘You know rain, it’s wet and there are umpteen different types of it around here,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘I just don’t see what that’s got to do with it,’ said Tamara crossly.

  ‘Just answer the question,’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘You can’t just come in here and use your secret agent tactics on me,’ said Tamara. ‘I know all about you. You threaten to kill people who get in your way. You break into people’s houses and terrorise them...’

  ‘I always have a good reason for entering people’s houses,’ said Amaryllis, ‘and it isn’t to terrorise them.’

  ‘I can back that up,’ said Christopher. ‘Very often it’s to make toast.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd,’ said Bruce, staring at Amaryllis as if she were an alien invader. ‘Why can’t she make toast in her own house?’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ said Tamara, her voice rising in agitation. ‘This has nothing to do with the Druid.’

  Christopher thought he heard Bruce say ‘Thank God for that’ but very faintly.

  ‘Well, was it?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Was it what?’ snapped Tamara.

  ‘Was it raining?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Tamara. ‘Yes. Isn’t it always raining here? I wish I’d emigrated to the South of France when I had the chance.’

  Christopher willed none of the others present to take the discussion off at that promising tangent.

  ‘Good,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Now I just need to find out if he’s been to Niagara Falls or not.’

  With that cryptic comment she removed herself from the room as hurriedly as she had entered it, muttering something that sounded like ‘The Zoo… Alton Towers,’ as she did so.

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Bruce.

  ‘People often ask that when Amaryllis has just left,’ said Christopher with satisfaction. ‘It’ll become clear in due course.’

  After some pointless further discussion of Druids and their ways, Bruce persuaded Tamara to leave, on the obviously trumped-up excuse that they had planned to do more research that day on possible evidence of pagan rituals in Pitkirtlyhill Woods.

  Christopher was just retrieving the McCallum file yet again when Maisie Sue came into the office. It was just one of those days. He wondered if this was how the Director of the British Museum, for instance, spent his time. Or the head of the Smithsonian.

  ‘I see you had a visit with Tamara,’ said Maisie Sue.

  ‘Yes, and Bruce,’ he said in a bid for extra sympathy.

  ‘That poor woman,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘I don’t know how anybody could go through what she’s been through and keep her sanity.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Christopher, and was about to question Tamara’s sanity when he saw the expression on Maisie Sue’s face. Why was everybody so earnest today? It almost made him want to do something utterly frivolous and irresponsible...

  In that moment he understood something about Amaryllis, and why she sometimes seemed to go too far, and he vowed never to tut disapprovingly at her again. Not that he had ever been much of a tutter in the first place. He was very much more likely to heave a disappointed sigh and just try to accept that she was the way she was. Now he saw that in some ways he should be not only accepting it but celebrating it.

  ‘Has she spoken to you about Druids?’ he enquired.

  Maisie Sue nodded. ‘I guess I don’t know enoug
h about your early history to know if she actually saw a Druid or not. Or the manifestation of a Druid, that is.’

  ‘Manifestation?’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing it was some kind of a psychic phenomenon,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘It surely can’t have been real. And Tamara has the aura of a person who sees things.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ said Christopher. ‘Have you ever been to Niagara Falls, Maisie Sue?’

  ‘Sure – why do you ask? Are you planning a vacation?’

  ‘No – I mean, maybe. I just wondered what happened when you went there. What did you do?’

  ‘Well, it’s been a while,’ said Maisie Sue. She thought about it for a moment. ‘It was very wet everywhere.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Christopher, hoping he had used an encouraging enough tone.

  ‘We went down into the tunnels and out on the cute little boat,’ she said.

  He still couldn’t imagine what was relevant to Druids about the experience.

  ‘There was a butterfly park,’ she added.

  Still nothing.

  ‘And a whole bunch of tacky souvenir shops. You could get just about anything with Niagara Falls stamped on it. Pencils, erasers, fake ids, sweatshirts, socks, those poncho things, postcards, crockery sets...’

  Maybe it would come to him eventually. If Amaryllis had seen it, surely he could. Was it a fake id?

  ‘Guns?’ he asked, clutching at straws.

  ‘Well, now, I can’t recall ever seeing a gun with Niagara Falls stamped on it,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Did you want to speak to me about something?’ he said, remembering that she had been the one to initiate the conversation.

  ‘Oh! Yes. I won’t be around tomorrow morning, because I’ve promised to help Jan with a session at the wool shop. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We don’t pay you enough to insist on you working office hours,’ said Christopher.

  He had forgotten Maisie Sue was in an earnest frame of mind.

  ‘You don’t pay me at all!’ she exclaimed indignantly.

  She was still scolding him about the British sense of humour as she went out of the room.

  Christopher crept to the door and locked it after her. He didn’t do it very often but in this case he felt it was justified. If Amaryllis wanted to see him she would just have to come in at the window.

  Chapter 24 The picture on the box

  Amaryllis wasn’t sure at first how she could possibly establish whether the man had ever visited Niagara Falls. She wasn’t even absolutely certain it was Niagara Falls she meant. It could just as easily have been Edinburgh Zoo, Alton Towers or one of the other numerous theme parks and visitor attractions all over the world. He just seemed like the kind of person who was more likely to have gone to see a world-famous natural phenomenon than to ride on the latest and most terrifying roller-coaster or even to watch chimpanzees at play in a controlled environment.

  She hadn’t ruled out Tamara altogether, of course, but she was gradually assembling the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in her mind, and the picture they formed seemed unlikely to include a grieving mother in a long floral dress reminiscent of the nineteen-sixties. This wasn’t so much because she believed Tamara to be completely innocent, as because what she knew of the woman’s history in Pitkirtly didn’t seem to fit the facts.

  She decided to go and have a coffee at the little café near the supermarket. It wasn’t worthwhile going home now before lunch. In a way she was tempted to repeat her triumph of the day before by taking Christopher something nice from the supermarket, but she didn’t want him to get too used to that. After a few days he would end up thinking he was entitled to it, whereas she knew only too well that she would begin to look on taking him lunch as a daily chore rather than a fun and different thing to do. It was so easy for ‘nice and cosy’ to become ‘oh, no, not that again.’ It was probably why so many marriages failed.

  Amaryllis was laughing at herself for presuming to know anything about marriage as she entered the café. The first people she saw were Jock McLean and Tricia Laidlaw. Their heads were close together, but when Jock glanced across and saw her, he sprang back quickly, bumping another customer with his shoulder and almost causing a great tray disaster.

  ‘Amaryllis!’ said Tricia. ‘Come and sit down. Are you having some lunch? We had the jacket potato with cheese, and it was very nice. But we can have a coffee now and keep you company.’

  ‘If you want,’ growled Jock.

  ‘There might be something you can help me with,’ said Amaryllis. She was curious about what they had been up to, but she genuinely wanted to find out if either of them knew anything that would help her to fit the puzzle together. The picture on the box would be useful, she thought as she approached the counter.

  Tricia and Jock didn’t put their heads together again while she was away from the table, but there was definitely something going on there.

  She sat down with them. After all, Tricia had invited her, even though Jock was glaring. She scooped up some of the cheese that had gone soft on top of the potato and ate it while she was considering what to ask them.

  Suddenly the topic came up without any effort on her part.

  ‘I hope that wee dog’s going to be all right,’ said Tricia, taking a ladylike sip of her coffee.

  ‘It seems quite well-cared-for,’ said Jock.

  ‘Is that the wee white dog?’ enquired Amaryllis. ‘I was wondering about him too. But he always seems to be with the man, never on his own.’

  ‘The dog was on his own this morning,’ said Tricia. ‘But Jock caught him and we brought him down to the shops with us. Mr Greig came along and re-claimed him, just outside the bakers’. He was a bit rude though. Not very grateful.’

  ‘Mr Greig?’ said Amaryllis. Her hand shook slightly and she dropped a blob of potato on Jock’s foot, which was by the table leg.

  ‘That’s the dog’s owner,’ said Jock. ‘Tricia knows him.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Amaryllis. ‘Mr Greig! Did you know his wife had disappeared? Did she ever come back?’

  ‘She left him and went off somewhere,’ said Tricia. ‘I can’t remember where – maybe somewhere up north.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘How do you know about it?’ said Tricia. ‘I didn’t think you’d lived here that long. It must have been about fifteen years ago, maybe more.’

  ‘I read about it somewhere,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Can you remember seeing it in the papers at the time, Tricia?’

  Tricia thought about this for a moment. ‘I don’t think they would put all that in, about her leaving him and going up north,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘But perhaps they thought she had gone missing at first,’ said Amaryllis. ‘They might have printed an appeal for her to get in touch. Something like that.’

  Tricia frowned and shook her head. ‘No. I can’t remember. It’s too long ago. Don’t they have old copies of the local paper down at the library?’

  ‘That’s the question,’ said Amaryllis. ‘One of the questions, anyway.’

  ‘What is it you suspect the man of?’ said Jock.

  ‘Could be nothing,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Could be something.’ She put down her fork, took a couple of gulps of coffee and stood up. ‘Better get on.’

  ‘See you down at the tram,’ said Jock, looking at his watch. ‘There’s only half an hour to go.’

  Amaryllis was starting to walk away when she thought of another question to ask Tricia. She turned back for a moment. ‘Do you happen to know if Mr Greig might have been to Niagara Falls on holiday?’

  Tricia looked startled. ‘Um – I didn’t know him all that well. Sorry.’

  There was only one person who would know the answer.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Who? Mr Greig?’ said Tricia.

  ‘Yes. Was he on his way to walk the dog somewhere when you last saw him?’

  ‘He went off down the High Street,’ said
Jock. ‘I know he walks the dog at the Island sometimes, but he could have been just going home, or along the beach.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Amaryllis and gave them a happy grin. She had a feeling she could work this out today.

  As she turned on her heel again to walk away, Jock said, ‘Half an hour. Don’t forget.’

  Damn! She had been all ready to pursue the man now, while it was still daylight. Oh, well, in half an hour she might at least be able to find out where he had gone. It would make more sense, she realised, to spend the time popping into the Cultural Centre and checking whether he was on the published electoral roll so that she had an address for him instead of just looking in all the places he was known to frequent. She scowled. This was why she had never wanted to join the police force. She liked to take shortcuts round all the boring sensible bits.

  Of course, she could always take the chance that Christopher had his phone charged up and switched on and would consent to go and look up the address for her.

  She laughed out loud and noticed the butcher staring at her incredulously through his tinsel-trimmed window. A hand-written sign in the corner said ‘Reindeer steaks available – order now for Christmas.’

  On the way to the Cultural Centre to do the sensible thing, she spotted a man with a little white dog in the distance. As far as she could tell, he was on his way back from Pitkirtly Island. That wasn’t as good, since it might be harder to corner and interrogate him in a public setting such as the car park, than in the relative privacy of one of the ramshackle huts out there. On the other hand, she thought, remembering with a shiver past encounters with assorted suspects in quiet places such as the old railway yard, it might be better to be sensible on this occasion and carry out any confrontation in front of witnesses.

  Sensible! There was that word again. Why did it keep popping into her mind? Was it her brain’s way of reminding her about the Council bye-election and her recently-discovered political ambitions? Or a sign of galloping old age?

  Sensible or not, she found herself walking briskly across the car park and away from the Cultural Centre. The man and his dog were in front of her, just passing the Queen of Scots. Perhaps if she ran…