‘But – it’s the middle of the night, ma’am,’ said one of the constables. She saw the other one sizing her up and perhaps wondering whether to challenge her or not.
‘All the more reason to be getting on with things,’ she said briskly. ‘No members of the public around to get in the way... Is this just a backup incident room?’
She glanced round. The room was only partially furnished and showed little sign of the bustle and chaos she had seen in other incident rooms. The scene of the crime must be somewhere else; the reason for having another incident room here would be to interview Ms Farquharson’s work colleagues and other contacts.
‘Can I ask what your – department’s interest is in this?’ asked the constable who hadn’t spoken the first time. He looked a bit wider awake than his colleague, and Amaryllis thought he might be a graduate entrant who was still working his way up.
She waved a hand. ‘We’ve been monitoring some activity in the Forth recently. We need to check out this fatality to find out if it’s connected.’
‘Activity? What kind of activity?’
‘If we knew that, Constable, we wouldn’t just be monitoring it – we’d be doing something more proactive.’ Amaryllis had hoped to get away without using the icy tone, or at least not quite so soon, but she didn’t want to be thrown out on her ear before discovering something useful either. ‘All I can say is, we may be able to pass the word on to the anti-terrorist squad before long.’
‘Terrorists, eh?’ said the first one with interest.
‘The body was found in the Forth,’ said the second one, throwing discretion to the winds. ‘Washed up at Kincardine, near the bridge. That’s where the main incident room is. Ma’am.’
Amaryllis told them a few lies about people smuggling and its links to terrorism and left, having found out exactly what she wanted to know. The details would be all round Pitkirtly by the following morning in any case, but Amaryllis liked to keep a few steps ahead of everybody else. As well as keeping her hand in at undercover work, of course. It was amazing how easy it had been to get in there – wearing a dark suit, dark shoes, designer glasses and a good wig had been enough to deceive them. And carrying security services ID of course. That had been a help.
She was waiting outside Christopher’s front door the following morning.
‘Are you going to be able to open the Cultural Centre today?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, showing no surprise at finding her on the doorstep. ‘Depends on the police I suppose... I wonder what happened to Ms Farquharson. Maybe a heart attack? She seemed fit enough but you never know.’
‘It might have been foul play,’ suggested Amaryllis.
‘Oh, dear – a mugging gone wrong?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Do you know something?’ Christopher asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘Me? Why should I know anything?’ She opened her eyes very wide and he could have sworn he detected a tiny fluttering of the eyelashes.
‘It was the way you said mmm.’
‘I’ll have to be more careful in future, won’t I?’
‘Wait a minute – are we still speaking to each other?’ he said.
She laughed at his confusion. ‘I certainly hope so! – I think we’re just heading for some interesting times together.’
‘Not in the Roman sense, I hope,’ he said primly.
She laughed all the way down the hill.
Chapter 6
The big day
Jemima Stevenson and Big Dave approached the Cultural Centre together.
‘We’re nearly there, David,’ said Jemima. She was afraid someone would see them together first thing one morning and would work out they had spent the night together, although Big Dave had tried to reassure her that even in scrapbooking circles that would hardly constitute a scandal these days.
‘Anyway, what’s the harm in it at our age?’ he would usually conclude. Jemima had tried and tried to think of some possible harm that would come of it, and apart from the disapprobation of the local Church elders, whose opinion didn’t, in her opinion, count, she had never managed to work out anything.
‘All right then, Jemima,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I’ll wait round the corner and see you there in – what, ten minutes?’
‘I’m looking forward to today,’ said Jemima, speeding up her steps in excitement. ‘There could be people there from all over the world.’
‘It's a shame you weren't down there yesterday getting things ready,’ said Dave. 'Any idea what happened?'
She shook her head. ’No, nobody's said. I didn't want to go back after we were all cleared out of the building, in case I got in the way... I thought I was going to get those Auchtermuchty OPRs finished yesterday, too. I'll need to break into my 1851 census time... Then there was the phone message.'
'What phone message?'
'I found it when I got home. When you were at the paper shop. It was from Ms Farquharson telling me not to go back... A funny message too. Not like her. She’s always so perjink. The message sounded as if she was threatening me with something.’
‘How did it go?’ said Dave.
‘She said something like, don’t go near the Cultural Centre, Jemima, it’s too dangerous. Or did she say, it’ll be the worse for you? I really can’t remember exactly.’
‘Have you saved the message?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I could go back and listen again.’
‘Maybe I’d better have a listen when we get home,’ said Dave uneasily.
She put a gloved hand on his arm.
‘It’s so nice.’
‘What’s so nice?’
‘Having somebody to look after me the way you do, David.’
‘You take care, now, Jemima. I don’t like the sound of that message. Call me on your mobile if anything happens.’
‘I’d need to switch my mobile on,’ she said.
‘Yes, you do need to do that to make a call... I’ll be just round the corner, mind.’
He started to go, then came back and held out his hand.
‘Here, I’ll put your mobile on for you. Just in case you have to call me in a hurry.’
It’s so nice, she thought, affectionately watching him lope off across the car park, round the corner of the Portakabin and up Blessed John Ogilvy Street.
She was turning to go in the front door of the Cultural Centre when she did a double take. Portakabin? That was new since her last visit to the Centre on Monday (or whatever day it was). Maybe they were building another extension. A special family history centre, in honour of the Homecoming Project. And Ms Farquharson had been saving it as a surprise for everyone in the team. This was even more exciting than Jemima had thought. She hurried up to the Cultural Centre entrance. It was locked. She hammered on the door. Ms Farquharson had said they could get in early to give them a whole day for their ‘ancestors reunited’ get-together. Maybe she hadn’t told the rest of the staff though. Jemima hoped it was one of Christopher’s days on duty. He would let her in; such a nice boy. Even though Amaryllis was out of her element here, an exotic flower that had suddenly bloomed in the streets of a northern village, Jemima could see that they were getting on very well together again. Friends reunited indeed. Under her gruff east coast manner and woolly Fair Isle hat Jemima was a born romantic.
‘Hey, Jemima!’ called Amaryllis suddenly, coming into view round the side of the Portakabin. She was dressed oddly today, Jemima thought, all fringes and patterns, most unlike her usual under-stated style. Maybe this was a souvenir from Outer Mongolia.
A policeman in uniform appeared at the door of the Portakabin, glaring out. Amaryllis gave him a friendly smile and wave. He glowered.
A policeman?
Jemima stared at him. He was definitely out of his element here. The Cultural Centre and the area around it – the Cultural Quarter, Christopher had once called it in a spirit of gross over-confidence when the cafe that wasn't Starbuck's opened – were the most law-abiding places in Pi
tkirtly, and she didn’t remember even seeing a patrol car anywhere nearby.
Amaryllis came on towards the Centre, followed by Christopher, who sidled past the policeman as if he had something to hide. He’ll have to have more confidence to get it on with Amaryllis, mused Jemima, watching them.
‘Jemima, have you heard the news?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Maybe you’d better sit down first.’
‘I can’t get in,’ said Jemima to Christopher. ‘We were meant to be getting in early today for the start of the Pitkirtly Homecoming. There are people coming from all over the world, you know.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?’ he said, and fished around in his pockets for the emergency key he had been given soon after starting work, with strict instructions about whether and when he would ever be allowed to use it. He decided this was an emergency within any definition of the term.
As he opened the front door from outside, Graham opened it from inside.
‘What’s all this? No public access before ten. I would have thought you would all know that.’
‘But it’s Homecoming Day,’ said Jemima. ‘Ms Farquharson said we could – ‘
‘Well, it doesn’t matter what Ms Farquharson said. She’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.’
Jemima felt her legs wobble under her, and before she knew what was happening Amaryllis took her arm and hurried her inside.
‘Get this woman a chair,’ she said to Graham. It wasn’t that she said it aggressively – Jemima couldn’t imagine Amaryllis being aggressive, well not as such – but that she said it as if there wasn’t a chance that Graham wouldn’t do what she wanted. Jemima thought dimly that it must be nice to have such power. That was when she started to see the spots in front of her eyes, and by the time she sank down on to the extremely hard chair from a stack by the conference room door, she thought she might be about to faint, or die, or both. It was just as well David wasn’t there to see her like this. He would have wanted to wrap her in cotton-wool and would undoubtedly never have let her out of his sight again.
‘Could you please get Mrs Stevenson a glass of water?’ said Amaryllis to Christopher, who had helped to organise the chair – for goodness’ sake, how many grown men did it take to organise a chair? – but who was now, Jemima noticed, just standing around like the pointless waste of space most men were. Not that she didn’t think very highly of Christopher, of course.
Graham started to lock up again.
‘But we need to keep the door open,’ said Jemima. ‘There’ll be people turning up from all over the world for Homecoming Day.... What was it you said about Ms Farquharson? Has she been delayed?’
Although she knew exactly what Graham had said, with one part of her mind she hoped her hearing had let her down and he had actually said something completely different.
Graham stopped locking up, and came round to stand in front of her. He spoke with exaggerated lip movements as if he thought she was deaf – the nerve! She had the hearing of a woman half her age; the doctor had said so during her last check-up.
‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Jemima wasn’t sure what else to say. She did feel some distress, but she was ashamed not to be more caring about it. After all she had only recently had words with the woman. And Ms Farquharson, although broadly supportive of the Homecoming Project as a way of publicising the Cultural Centre, hadn’t done much in practice, leaving all the work to Clarissa and Andrew as usual. ‘What happened?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Christopher, bringing back the glass of water. ‘The police haven’t told us anything. They only came here because they were looking for her next of kin.’
‘There you are, you see!’ Jemima felt sudden triumph. ‘I knew she should have shown more interest in our little family history group... She might have found out what diseases ran in her family too, and done something about it before it was too late... ’
She noticed Amaryllis staring down at the floor. Odd that she seemed to be hiding some strong emotion. As far as Jemima knew, Amaryllis hadn’t even been acquainted with Ms Farquharson.
‘I expect they’ll be along again later and we’ll find out a bit more,’ said Christopher. He crouched down in front of Jemima. ‘Mrs Stevenson – who are these people you’re expecting here today? Can we cancel? It doesn’t seem right to go ahead somehow...’
‘But they’re from all over the place,’ said Jemima, more dismayed at the thought of cancelling than she had been about Ms Farquharson’s death. ‘We’ve got no way of getting in touch with them.’
‘All over the place? You mean all over Fife?’ said Christopher.
‘No, all over the world,’ insisted Jemima. She just couldn’t get any of them to see the importance of the whole project. Maybe she should have told them about it earlier so that they could get used to the idea of jet-setting relatives. ‘There’s Keith Palmer from New Zealand, and Pauline McKenzie from Vancouver, and –‘
‘So these people are really coming to Pitkirtly?’ Christopher interrupted.
‘That’s what I've just been saying,’ said Jemima, frowning at his rudeness.
‘Here, you, get out! I’ve told you not to do that!’ yelled Grumpy Graham suddenly, and in a flash of colour the Big Issue salesman was gone. Amaryllis looked up.
‘Was that the same one as yesterday?’ she said.
Graham grunted. ‘Probably. They all look the same to me.’
Amaryllis turned on her heel and left the building. She didn’t even bother giving Graham one of her looks, Jemima noticed – it was as if she had already written him off.
‘So there are people coming from New Zealand and Canada – to do what?’ said Christopher, returning to the topic in hand.
‘It’s a family history event,’ said Jemima. She supposed she would have to explain it to him all over again – obviously he hadn’t been listening that night in the Queen of Scots. Wait a minute – hadn’t he and Jock McLean nipped out for a smoke? He must have missed the whole thing! She sighed. ‘Andrew and Clarissa know all about it. Clarissa’s getting out all the local history books she can find, and providing computers in the meeting room, and Andrew’s doing a small display on the Pitkirtly story and moving one of the Folk Museum computers into the room as well, so that people can look up the internet as they mingle.'
‘Is that it?’ said Christopher, still sounding incredulous. ‘So people are coming all that way to use the internet and read local history books?’
‘It’s the networking,’ said Jemima. She was right on the brink of losing her patience with him. ‘The chance of being reunited with long lost relatives.’
Fortunately Clarissa came in then. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘The police came round to the house to ask me about Ms Farquharson, and that held me up.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier for them to catch us all in here?’ said Christopher. ‘They’ve got that Portakabin just outside too.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Clarissa. Jemima couldn’t bear to see her little child-like face so worried. Now there was somebody who needed a good man to look after her. For a while Jemima had wondered if Andrew might fill that role, but after discussing it with David the evening before she wasn't sure if he was worth the effort. When she had told David about the other woman in the furniture shop, he confused the issue by saying he had seen Andrew with an older man choosing and checking out films in Blockbuster’s, and that they had been on very friendly terms. Of course that was what was draining the supply of good men these days. You didn’t get so many of the confirmed bachelors in the old days. Or maybe Andrew was one of the new modern kind who liked to eat his cake and have it.
Clarissa came over to Jemima. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I know what an important day it is for you. I've brought the name badges - that was a really good idea of yours. We can get Graham to hand them out as people come in. I’ll start getting the books together right now, and we should be fine fo
r time. We put ten o'clock on the posters and everything, didn't we? Where’s Andrew?’
‘He isn’t in yet either,’ said Christopher. ‘Maybe he thought the place would be closed again after yesterday.’
‘You must have got an awful shock, Mrs Stevenson’ said Clarissa. ‘Come and give me a hand with sorting out the books. We don’t need to lift anything – we’ll put them on the wee trolley and wheel it through.’
Jemima suddenly remembered something. She grabbed Clarissa’s arm.
‘I’ve just thought. Ms Farquharson was going to make shortbread! What will we do? We won’t have anything to offer them! That’s not much of a welcome, is it?’
‘Just come through here with me – we can maybe send out for shortbread,’ said Clarissa calmly, leading the way through to the library.
‘Maybe Greggs...,’ said Jemima doubtfully, following. ‘I saw some of those little St Andrews Day cakes in their window – you know, with the white crosses and bright blue background.’
St Andrews Day cakes! She felt happier already.
Chapter 7
Navigating the sea of tartan
Amaryllis was hot on the trail. The Big Issue seller had put on a good turn of speed, but he would have to stop if somebody wanted a copy of the magazine. He headed up the hill, ran past some of the shops and then turned down a lane that led, as far as she knew, to the loading bay for the incongruously glitzy furniture shop that had mysteriously opened in Pitkirtly High Street. She had already made a mental note to have the shop checked out in case it was a front for something – perhaps the fictitious terrorists whose activities she and her colleagues were supposed to be monitoring in the Firth of Forth.
Wondering whether to call for backup now – although realistically the nearest backup was either in London or even further away – Amaryllis cautiously entered the lane, not liking the way the stone walls loomed taller and taller as the lane narrowed down towards the other end. But then it opened out a bit into the loading bay, where there was some activity going on. She glanced round suspiciously, but the activity turned out to consist of two men loading furniture into a small van bearing the logo of the furniture shop. They stared back at her suspiciously.
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