7 A Tasteful Crime

by Cecilia Peartree

  Once they were all gathered, even Ken, who seemed reluctant to be in the same room as the rest of them – was it a form of claustrophobia, Christopher wondered, or just that he didn’t like any of them very much? – Keith wrote down all their names and addresses.

  ‘I expect the sergeant will have some questions for you individually,’ he said. ‘Before he gets here, I’d like to get some idea of where everybody was at the time of the –um – accident.’

  It seemed that there had been quite a lot of people in the kitchen at the time. Jock McLean and Darren admittedly, shame-facedly, to having been hiding under the table, for reasons that didn’t entirely make sense to anybody.

  ‘So can somebody tell me exactly what happened in there?’ Keith went on, once he had drawn a little diagram in his notebook. ‘Mrs Laidlaw?’

  ‘Yes, you may well ask her!’ said Maria nastily.

  Tricia’s face paled. ‘They started filming. Charlotte and Ken. Mr – I mean, Eric – came in at the back door and said something. It was something to do with going to a ball. I can’t remember exactly. Then he came and asked for some condensed milk. Well, I knew there was only just enough in the tin for my cake, so I offered him a piece of apple instead and he took it and put it in his mouth, and then fell down on the floor and choked. I’m so sorry,’ she added, addressing Deirdre. Then, as if it had only just dawned on her what she had done, she put her head in her hands. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Never apologise,’ said Jock McLean, putting his hand on her shoulder and squeezing. Christopher could hardly believe his eyes. Jock making any kind of physical contact with someone of the opposite gender was practically the equivalent of a proposal of marriage.

  ‘I guess I must’ve been looking at things from a different angle,’ said Maisie Sue, frowning. ‘It didn’t seem to me that he choked – it was more like he had some sort of a seizure.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see what the doctors say,’ said Keith, writing in his notebook.

  The door-bell rang, and two men barged in without waiting for the door to be opened. Glancing out of the window, Christopher saw a flashing blue light in the street. It must be the long-awaited ambulance.

  ‘We couldn’t get through town any quicker,’ said one of the paramedics. ‘There’s some sort of procession going on.’

  After that most of them seemed to be more or less redundant. Deirdre was eventually allowed to leave with the ambulance, although as Darren muttered to his mother, there was no need for that once Eric had been officially pronounced dead. The others waited in the front room for what seemed like forever, because Keith Burnet wouldn’t let them leave until he had clearance from above.

  What Christopher wished most of all was that he had decided to go round to the Queen of Scots for an all-day drinking session and hadn’t heeded the voice of his conscience telling him his place was at the Cultural Centre.

  After an hour or so, the promised police back-up arrived. It consisted of the local sergeant and another constable.

  ‘Sorry about the delay,’ said the sergeant. ‘There’s been a bit of a riot in town.’

  ‘A riot?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Two processions clashed, and all hell broke loose,’ said the newly arrived constable with relish.

  ‘There was only one procession, surely?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Only one of them had a permit,’ said the sergeant, sighing. ‘The other one was a protest march organised on the spur of the moment.’

  Christopher couldn’t bring himself to ask any more silly questions. Fortunately Keith Burnet filled the gap.

  ‘What kind of a protest march?’

  ‘The church,’ said the sergeant, sighing again even more heavily. ‘They said all that fruit and vegetable stuff detracted from their harvest festival event.... They had placards with Onward Christian Soldiers written on with permanent markers.’

  ‘They were heavier than they looked,’ said the new constable, rubbing the back of his head.

  ‘The protestors or the placards?’ said Jock McLean.

  Nobody replied.

  Chapter 13 The View from the Queen of Scots

  Eric’s manner and dialogue had ceased to amuse even Jan by the time he had bantered unsuccessfully with Zak and Penelope and moved on from there. When the second visit to the fruit and vegetable procession started, she put down her coffee mug and said with a trace of regret,

  ‘I think I’d better be going, then.’

  ‘Why not stay on and have a lunch-time pint while we see the bit from Tricia Laidlaw’s house?’ suggested Charlie, glancing at his watch. ‘I just wish I served proper food in here. I could get you something from upstairs only it wouldn’t be legal to serve it in the bar.’

  ‘Go on, live dangerously,’ said Amaryllis. ‘There’s only us here.’

  ‘That’s a funny thing too. It’s usually a full house at this time on a Sunday. People coming out of church desperate for a drink, and so on.’

  ‘Coming out of church?’ said Amaryllis, wide-eyed. ‘You mean some people actually go into churches?’

  Charlie held up his hands in a gesture of non-intervention. ‘It’s against my religion to discuss religion with the customers.’

  ‘Everybody must be out watching the procession,’ suggested Jan. ‘Oh well, maybe I could do a bit of knitting while we wait. It’d be a shame to miss Tricia’s turn.’

  Amaryllis was getting very fidgety. She preferred to be in the middle of the action, but she knew she should stay out of Deirdre’s way until the apple and megaphone incident had been forgotten, or at least loomed less large, and she was reluctant to leave Charlie and Jan alone together, much though she detested the role of chaperone. She wished Christopher or even Jock McLean were at the pub so that they could plot together as well as laughing scornfully at what they saw on the big television screen. She could laugh scornfully on her own, but she didn’t want Jan to think it was because she found Eric’s banter at all amusing or because she was suffering from nostalgia about some half-forgotten pantomime scene from her childhood.

  While Charlie was upstairs fetching them something to eat, Amaryllis went behind the bar and pulled herself a pint of Old Pictish Brew, just for something to do. She had been a barmaid once in the dim and distant past, on a mission in Berlin. That had been in the days before she specialised in countries whose names nobody could pronounce.

  Just as Charlie came back into the bar with three hot pies and a few packets of crisps, the television coverage switched back from the procession to the studio and from there, fairly speedily, to Tricia’s kitchen.

  They saw Eric come cheerfully in at Tricia’s back door, exchanging banter with Tricia, who looked profoundly ill at ease.

  ‘She’s got an awful lot of makeup on,’ said Jan critically, peering up at the screen. ‘Oh!’

  The camera followed Eric as he put the piece of apple Tricia gave him into his mouth and then they saw the whites of his eyes as his face contorted. His arms shot out to his sides and his fingers clutched vainly at the edge of the table. He crashed to the floor, all his limbs flailing, and then he was still. The camera must have wobbled at that point, then the screen was filled with Tricia’s face, fixed in a silent scream, and they heard Ken’s voice saying something about going back to the studio.

  The picture showed the studio only for a few seconds. Deirdre had already got up from her seat and started across the room, with Oscar putting out a hand, perhaps to try and stop her. Then there was more footage of the fruit and vegetable procession, except that it had come to a straggly halt somewhere near the top of the High Street, and another procession was coming towards it. Amaryllis just had time to read a placard saying ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ in big red letters before the screen went completely blank.

  ‘They’ve closed off the signal,’ said Charlie. ‘Not before time – my God, I never thought I’d see a murder live on air.’

  ‘A murder?’ said Jan. ‘Is that what it was?�
��

  ‘What about the possibilities of accident, suicide, natural causes and publicity stunt?’ said Amaryllis. ‘How do you know it’s murder?’

  ‘It’s very sad either way,’ said Jan firmly. ‘But maybe he isn’t dead after all.’

  Charlie’s eyes met Amaryllis’s and they both gave little shakes of the head.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Charlie calmly. ‘Is anybody going to eat these pies, or will I refreeze them and then microwave them again another day?’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t do that,’ said Jan quickly. ‘You don’t want to get food poison – oh, I’m so sorry! Bad choice of words. I’m sorry.’

  They overcame their collective squeamishness and ate the pies, with handfuls of crisps on the side and Old Pictish Brew to wash it down. Amaryllis had the feeling of preparing herself for an expedition. So she didn’t even surprise herself when she got to her feet afterwards and said, ‘I’d better go and see what’s happening.’

  ‘They won’t tell you anything,’ Charlie warned her as a small group of customers came into the bar. ‘You won’t get near the crime scene.’

  ‘If it is a scene,’ said Jan. ‘I mean, if it’s a crime.’

  ‘I’ll find out somehow,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Do you want me to report back later?’

  ‘Can I stop you?’ he said, and laughed.

  Amaryllis made her way from the Queen of Scots towards the Cultural Centre. What sounded like a riot seemed to be going on further up the High Street. She guessed it was the two processions still slugging it out and decided to keep well clear of it all. Battles that were fought in plain sight were of little interest to her.

  As she approached the Cultural Centre, she noticed the apple was still sitting in the car park, along with a big van that obviously belonged to the television company. The front door of the Cultural Centre stood wide open, so she had a look inside. There was no-one in the building at all. She tutted to herself as she tried to work out a way of securing the doors. She didn’t want to have to hang around here waiting for Christopher to come back, although she had no doubt he would be back sooner or later. She knew he would want to get the place locked up before anyone went off with the old rocks and the examples of local weaving she had seen in the Folk Museum. In reality villains were more likely to make off with the computers and other equipment than anything else. If Charlie Smith had been around, he could probably have confirmed that. Although she was pleased he had found a niche to occupy, and it was always nice to see him behind the bar in the Queen of Scots, in some ways she was finding she missed him as a local policeman. She couldn’t imagine, for example, that she would be able to wheedle very much information out of Inspector Armstrong, though perhaps Constable Burnet would be a bit more helpful.

  She was standing in the doorway looking out across the car park when she saw Zak and Penelope Johnstone making their way over from the direction of the supermarket.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Zak once he was a few yards away. ‘We were watching on TV and suddenly it all stopped. What happened to Eric?’

  ‘It looked as if he might be dead,’ said Amaryllis cautiously. She didn’t want to upset either of the Johnstones, not that they had been exactly inconsolable over what had happened to Liam. ‘Everyone’s gone from here. I suppose they rushed up round to Tricia’s.’

  ‘Poor old Tricia,’ said Penelope, who was a bit out of breath. ‘Can we go inside and sit down for a moment?’

  ‘How did you get in?’ Zak asked Amaryllis. ‘Have you seen Mr Wilson?’

  ‘No. The door was open.’

  Zak drew in a breath. ‘That’s not very good. He’ll be furious when he gets back.’

  With a lot of noise, Dave’s pick-up truck hurtled into the car park and screeched to a halt. Dave tumbled out and then calmed down in order to open the door for Jemima.

  ‘Is Christopher there?’ said Jemima. ‘We saw it on the television. What happened to Eric?’

  ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be minding your cakes or something?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s going to matter now, dear,’ said Jemima.

  ‘Poisoned apple,’ said Dave. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘It might not have been the apple,’ said Jemima. ‘Tricia wouldn’t do anything like that. Not on purpose.’

  ‘Maybe – pesticides,’ puffed Penelope, who did indeed look as if she needed to sit down. They trooped inside and headed for Christopher’s office. ‘My goodness, it’s like the Marie Celeste here,’ she added as she took one of the presenters’ seats behind the desk.

  Amaryllis, who had been hoping no-one would think of saying that, winced.

  Jemima took the other presenter’s seat. Zak started to fiddle with the sound equipment.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch any of that if I were you, Zak,’ said Penelope. ‘It might give you an electric shock.’

  ‘There’s a terrible stramash in the High Street,’ said Jemima. ‘It’s the fruit and vegetable people and they seem to be fighting. We had to take a bit of a detour.’

  ‘Aye, down that one-way street the wrong way,’ said Dave, winking at Amaryllis.

  ‘Just as well the police are too busy to notice,’ said Jemima severely. ‘You could still get into trouble over that apple thing.’

  ‘So could I,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I ran over Deirdre’s megaphone.’

  ‘Did somebody say Deirdre used to be married to Christopher?’ enquired Penelope.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Amaryllis. ‘That was ages ago, though. I think she’s been through two more husbands since then.’

  ‘Including Eric,’ said Jemima. She shook her head. ‘Poor girl.’

  ‘She’s not exactly a girl,’ said Penelope.

  ‘This is bound to be a shock, though,’ said Jemima. ‘Especially if she was watching it all from in here and couldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘It didn’t seem as if anybody could,’ said Dave.

  ‘Do you think it was murder?’ said Zak suddenly, abandoning the sound equipment and wandering across to look out of the office window at the car park.

  ‘Maybe just one of those heart things,’ suggested Jemima. ‘I read somewhere there are people whose hearts are like time-bombs, just ticking along until they explode one day.’

  It was odd, reflected Amaryllis, that Jemima had the power to silence a whole room of people with a single sentence. It was probably because she didn’t mince her words but said things that were often too horrible to contemplate.

  ‘Who do you think the chief suspect will be?’ said Zak. ‘If it’s murder, that is.’

  ‘Isn’t it usually the wife or husband?’ said Penelope without batting an eyelid.

  ‘I suppose that’s because they’re the only ones who know each other well enough to really feel murderous loathing,’ said Zak

  ‘Zak!’ exclaimed Penelope. ‘Where on earth do you get these phrases from? Murderous loathing, indeed!’

  ‘Has anyone seen Jock or Darren?’ said Amaryllis.

  Dave laughed. ‘Murderous loathing, eh? Is that what made you think of Jock?’

  Amaryllis didn’t dignify this with a reply.

  ‘Oh well, if there’s nothing going on here, we might as well go on home,’ said Jemima.

  ‘I don’t really want to go off to Aberdour and miss out on any news,’ said Penelope. ‘We were meant to be staying the night with Tricia, but I suppose her house is a crime scene. Or at least, the site of a police investigation. She’ll need somewhere to stay herself.’

  ‘Unless the police take her away and put her in the cells,’ said Zak with an evil grin.

  ‘You could always go back to Christopher’s,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Or come to mine,’ she added, keeping her fingers crossed that they wouldn’t. She didn’t mind Zak but Penelope could be a little annoying. Well, absolutely infuriating. She and Amaryllis were poles apart in almost every way.

  ‘I think we’ll go to Christopher’s for now,’ said Penelope. ‘Bu
t thank you for the offer, Amaryllis.’

  ‘I think Charlie Smith has a spare room too,’ said Amaryllis helpfully.

  Penelope and Jemima rose from their chairs in unison, both staggering slightly as they did so. Amaryllis thought it looked as if Penelope had put on yet more weight, but perhaps it was just that she was wearing a white apron with frills, presumably required for the baking competition. They were all preparing to leave when the telephone rang.

  They had trouble finding it at first but then Zak vaguely remembered seeing it on the windowsill behind a filing cabinet that had been re-located in the corner of the room. He retrieved it and picked up the receiver.

  ‘It’s Zak. Zak Johnstone... No, I don’t know. What do you think happened? No, there’s nobody here. You’ll have to ask the police.’

  He put the phone back on the window-sill and said, ‘Media.’

  ‘What sort of media?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Newspapers? Another TV company? Local radio?’

  ‘National press,’ said Zak with a grimace. ‘Tabloids.’

  ‘They’re quick off the mark,’ said Dave.

  ‘They’ll have had a tip-off,’ said Amaryllis. ‘We have to get out of here. We’re sitting ducks... Zak, do you have the keys? It was wide open when we got here.’

  ‘I know where the spares are,’ he said and ran off along the corridor.

  They were just locking up when someone called, ‘Don’t do that just yet. I need to go in and sort things out.’

  It was Christopher. If he had been five minutes later they would all have been safely out of the way.

  Chapter 14 Finding space

  Somehow the sight of his friends waiting on the doorstep of the Cultural Centre didn’t cheer up Christopher the way it should have done. He was just too tired to interact with people. He didn’t even feel the normal urge to go round to the Queen of Scots and sit there for hours with a pint of Old Pictish Brew in front of him and the rise and fall of often-repeated conversations around him.