He phoned the police. They didn't seem very interested in the temporary disappearance of one elderly lady until he told them her name, when the constable at the end of the phone became more alert, tried to persuade Christopher to stay where he was so that he could make a statement, failed in that, tried to persuade Christopher to come into the police station to make a statement, failed again, and eventually promised to see that the resources of the force were mobilised as soon as possible.
Christopher made a couple more phone calls and proceeded to his rendezvous with Jock McLean. When he got there, the Tibetan teenagers and Jock were all talking excitedly at once, each without apparently listening to any of the others.
Jock said something Christopher didn’t understand.
‘Sorry, I was still thinking in Tibetan,’ he added. ‘No sign of her yet then?’
He made it sound as if Mrs Stevenson was just another absent-minded old person who had wandered off while shopping and who would probably be found browsing through the jumpers in the nearest charity shop. But Christopher knew that wasn’t the case. A ruthless killer was stalking the streets of Pitkirtly, and he knew Jock was as afraid as he was that Jemima had become his latest victim.
‘I haven’t looked anywhere else yet,’ said Christopher. ‘I rang the Queen of Scots in case she’d gone round there. I rang Amaryllis again to see what their ETA is. They're having to go round by Stirling. The bridges must be closed in the gale.'
‘Dorje was just telling me something really interesting, but we need your help with it. They're telling me – ‘ he made a sweeping arm gesture to indicate that the information came from the three Tibetans and not from voices in his head, ‘- they saw something around the time of Lorelei McAndrew’s death. Only of course they didn’t know what it meant.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘It’s round here.’
Christopher could hardly bear this further delay in the search for Mrs Stevenson. He desperately wanted to do something active, but he went along with Jock for the moment. The Tibetans led the way round to the back of the Cultural Centre where the fire exit was. He noticed a lone policeman watching them from the window of the police incident room.
‘It was here,’ said Jock, pausing by a window. ‘They say they saw a man climbing out of the window here and going in through the fire exit.’
‘But you can’t go in through the fire exit,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s locked from the outside. Otherwise people would be able to break into the library that way.’
‘Maybe whoever it was had managed to unlock it beforehand,’ Jock suggested.
‘But what would be – ?‘ Christopher stopped in mid-sentence.
‘What would be the point? Maybe they knew they were going to lure somebody into the fire exit corridor and kill them.’
‘But that window – it’s – ‘
Christopher couldn’t finish that sentence either. He clutched his forehead, groaned, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
‘When you’ve quite finished being a prima donna,’ said Jock, ‘maybe you can share your insight with the rest of us.’
‘Has anybody ever told you you’d make a really good 1950s primary school teacher?’ said Christopher. He still couldn’t quite believe the idea he had just had. It all made sense – but it was hard to take in all the same.
‘Never mind that! What have you just realised?’
‘Grumpy Graham! Ferguson – Farquharson – the name change – it all makes sense!’
‘Christopher Wilson, if you don’t start talking sense this minute, you’ll have to stand in the corner,’ said Jock.
‘Graham Ferguson – Grumpy Graham - he must changed over to the different version of the family name for some reason – so he was Gloria Farquharson’s brother, and Jemima’s cousin once removed. That window leads to the Cultural Centre staff room. He killed Lorelei McAndrew while he was meant to be on his break. Now he’s gone after Jemima! Oh, God.’
He groaned and closed his eyes again.
‘For God's sake just stop fussing and start thinking,’ Jock ordered him. ‘Is there any chance he could have taken Jemima into the Cultural Centre?’
‘I suppose he might have,’ said Christopher, trying to think although his thoughts were dancing wildly round his mind like the performers on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ doing their Latin American number. He even imagined faint tango music in the background.
‘OK – we’ll get into the building. You lot had better not,’ Jock turned to the Tibetans and added something in their own language. They scampered off round the corner. ‘I’ve told them to go and search the area around the fish shop – but without putting themselves in danger. Going in here could be tricky. We might be silhouetted against the light when we go in. Graham could have armed himself.’
‘It’s starting to sound more inviting every second,’ said Christopher.
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing just outside the fire exit again, having made a fruitless search of the building, poking about in every corner until they both had to admit defeat. The only plus point was that the police hadn’t caught them breaking and entering.
‘What now?’ said Christopher.
‘We’d better round up the troops,’ said Jock. ‘We don’t want any of them going missing on us'
They set off up the High Street, this time not bothering with shop windows and Christmas. The whole festive season would be cancelled anyway if anything had happened to Mrs Stevenson. Christopher wished again he had never agreed to go and get the lemon sole.
Chapter 30
Saving Mrs Stevenson
'Christopher!' shrieked someone. He glanced in the direction of the sound, saw Maisie Sue, dressed for the weather in an oversize yellow plastic poncho, jumping up and down and waving to him from across the street. He considered averting his eyes and pretending not to have noticed her when he realised the three Tibetans were standing nearby, and they were waving too. Something was definitely up.
'Come on, this way,' he said to Jock McLean and plunged across the road.
'No!' Jock protested. 'Stop! - you can't! It's that woman!'.
Maisie Sue opened her blue eyes wide. The poncho had a picture of Niagara Falls on it. Interestingly, Christopher observed, her hair didn't seem to be at all ruffled by the wind but was sitting serenely in its waves.
‘Good to see you,’ she said. ‘I was just telling these little guys here – ‘
The Tibetans stared at her blankly as she patted one of them on the head; another of them took a hasty step back out of her reach. Maisie Sue smiled vaguely and then frowned. ‘I can’t recall what I was saying… Oh, yes, like I was telling these little guys, your friend Mrs Stevenson went into that dark alley? With that man from the library? The one that’s always complaining?’
‘Grumpy Graham?’ said Christopher.
'Graham!' said Amaryllis at his left shoulder. He turned to exchange meaningful glances with her, but in one swift movement she had gone – into the dark lane, the Tibetans hot on her heels. The word ‘boat’ floated on the air behind her.
Graham Ferguson, aka Farquharson, the last person on earth Mrs Stevenson should have gone off with. I must tell Dave about this, was Christopher’s next thought. Where was Dave, anyway? He had been with Amaryllis: he must have gone off up to the house, expecting to find Jemima there.
Christopher pulled out his mobile phone and switched it on, hoping it had some charge left and some credit stashed in its memory. He was only vaguely aware of Maisie Sue saying, ‘It wasn’t right, expecting a woman of her age – a valued senior – to manage those cobbles, now was it, Christopher?’
‘Not right at all,’ he said, failing to reach Dave and shoving the mobile back in his pocket. ‘Thanks, Maisie Sue.’
He plunged into the dark lane, moving as fast as he could but conscious of not wanting to cause more trouble for everyone by having some sort of stupid minor accident. He could imagine how much sympathy he would get
for a broken toe or pinkie if Mrs Stevenson was lying somewhere….
'Hey, wait for me!' called Jock, not far behind him.
'Wait there - get more help!' Christopher shouted over his shoulder.
Ahead of him, the footsteps of the Tibetans and presumably Amaryllis echoed faintly, although he suspected all of them could run silently if the occasion required it.
The sound of waves crashing against the harbour wall became much louder as he went round a corner, and suddenly there were no more buildings in the way. He glanced round quickly to orient himself: he had almost always approached the harbour from the other direction, along the main road. He had rarely used the network of lanes. Not that he had anything against lanes, but they didn’t lead anywhere he particularly wanted to go.
He peered in the direction of the harbour, just across the road from where he stood. A movement caught his eye. Someone was running along the wall towards the end, where stone met sea in, at the moment, a riotous clash of the elements. Rock, paper, scissors – why had nobody thought of adding water? Water covers rock, makes paper soggy and renders scissors redundant.
With part of his brain Christopher knew all these thoughts were crowding in on him as a trick to divert him from more dangerous ideas about what might have happened to Jemima and the extent to which it was all his fault. But there was nothing he could do about that. On the other hand, he couldn’t let Amaryllis and the Tibetan children dash headlong into danger without at least being there to support and back them up. He crossed the road at a gallop, speeding up as he got to the harbour wall; he pushed all his own caveats about the uneven surface and the size of the waves crashing round it firmly to the back of his mind.
He nearly fell over only once, when his mobile rang and gave him a fright. He managed to answer it while still running, which was a first.
‘Were you trying to get hold of me?’ rumbled Dave.
‘Yes… Jemima’s lost…’
‘Where?’
‘We think… harbour.’
Dave rang off. Christopher realised he hadn’t a clue whether Mrs Stevenson was really here or not. Or had he? The word ‘boat’ suddenly floated back into his mind. It was as if a lightning flash had illuminated it, or as if it was suddenly displayed in neon like a modern art installation.
He skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. Amaryllis materialised at his side, red spiky hair flattened by the wind.
‘You’d better stop now,’ she advised.
‘No – go on to the end.’
‘We’re at the end. Any further, you’ll be walking on water.’
‘Fishing – boat,’ he managed, still fighting for breath. Bad enough that it had taken this race to establish how unfit he was, but somehow he had to stop the wind from snatching it right out of his lungs. 'Graham - fishing.'
He saw a gleam of white teeth for a moment: he hoped she was smiling. She said something to the Tibetans and they all moved to stand in a row behind Christopher.
‘I’m going down to the boat,’ she said to Christopher. ‘Stay here.’
‘I’m coming too.’
‘The steps are covered in seaweed. I don’t want you falling on top of me.’
‘I’ll go first then.’
‘But – all right, all right then. Just go!’
He thought she muttered something like ‘stubborn bastard’ under her breath but maybe the wind had distorted the words.
At the top of the steps, they peered over the edge. Far below, a tiny boat was being thrown around by colossal waves. Christopher now regretted what he saw as macho posturing about going down the steps, but he didn’t want to show weakness now. Anyway, finding Mrs Stevenson was more important than anything.
They made their way down the seaweed- and shell-encrusted steps as fast as they could, clinging on to the rusty handrail until it ended abruptly. They were quickly soaked with spray. Right at the foot of the steps was a flat slab of stone, and that was where they found Graham. He lay untidily with his legs dangling into water, and the hungry waves reached for him and tried to suck him down.
‘Leave him,’ said Amaryllis harshly as Christopher paused.
‘Jemima?’ said Christopher. At first glance, the boat was empty. Had Graham thrown her in the water already? He shuddered violently.
‘Jemima!’ Amaryllis yelled. The name bounced off the harbour wall, was taken by the wind and tossed up in the air. Christopher imagined it flying out to the middle of the Forth and landing lightly on top of the waves, transmitting its message into the depths…
‘Jemima!’
A more powerful echo took them both by surprise. A large ungainly figure made its way down the steps, taking some of them two at a time. It was a miracle he made it all the way down without falling.
He glanced with distaste at Graham as he passed. As he approached Amaryllis and Christopher, his face was a rugged battleground between despair and hope.
Christopher looked away, unable to bear it. That was why he was staring down into the boat when something moved in it. He held the stern still and climbed in for a closer look. He crouched down. There was a sickening smell of engine oil and fish guts. He hoped he wasn’t about to uncover Graham’s catch of the day.
The boat wasn’t rocking so much now. He looked up and saw Amaryllis and Dave, one at each end, holding it still. Taking a deep breath, he felt all around the place where his feet were planted. Something wet and slimy to touch – but he gritted his teeth, found a loose end and tugged at it.
Someone switched on a torch. Amaryllis, of course. He was surprised she hadn’t produced it earlier, along with a flask of brandy and one of those knives with attachments for getting stones out of horses’ hooves.
A foot, half in and half out of a woman’s shoe.
A leg, attached to the foot. Rope round the ankle – not a good look. The foot kicked out at Christopher, and he narrowly avoided being hit by it. His heart soared.
‘Let’s get her out of there,’ said Dave, in a low angry growl. Somehow they kept the boat steady enough, amongst them, to manhandle Mrs Stevenson out of it, still wrapped up but wriggling intermittently, and then Dave hoisted her on his shoulder and carried her up the steps. They left Graham where he was: alive or dead, he wasn’t their concern.
At the top, they encountered Jock McLean, trying vainly to light his pipe against the wind. In the odd half-light he looked more like a gnarled old gnome than ever.
'This is some gale it's blowing,' he said. 'How am I supposed to light my pipe? I've called the police - ambulance - do we need the fire brigade?'
They ignored him. Dave put the bundle down gently and he and Christopher unwrapped Mrs Stevenson with fumbling, impatient hands. She was quite cross.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded.
‘Here,’ said Dave, kneeling beside her.
‘Not you – Graham Ferguson! I want to give him a piece of my mind right now.’
Christopher helped her to sit up, and fought with the knots in the rope until Amaryllis got out her knife and sawed through them. He couldn’t see if the knife had one of the horses’ hoof things.
‘You’re a bit late for that,’ observed Dave.
Right on cue, Graham’s head appeared at the top of the steps.
‘Damn!’ said Amaryllis, putting the knife reluctantly away. ‘I was hoping he might be dead.’
‘Death’s too good for him,’ said Mrs Stevenson darkly.
Amaryllis shouted to the Tibetans, who were still waiting patiently in a row, and with their help she overpowered Graham, allowing them to sit on him while they waited for the emergency services.
Jemima and Dave sat on the bench together.
'I should have known,' said Jemima. 'Right back at the beginning - before anything happened - he called her Gloria. I knew there was something funny about it then.'
‘You’ll be needing a new winter coat, Jemima,’ said Dave, looking her up and down.
‘You can buy me one for Christmas, David,’ she said,
and put her hand in his.
In many ways Christopher envied Jemima her relationship with Big Dave. It must be nice to have someone as big, strong and dependable as Dave looking after you. On the other hand, he realised this was a thought he must keep to himself and never divulge to another living soul. He would have to make do with the more haphazard protection offered by Amaryllis: protection which came on her own terms and which was often accompanied by an unacceptable degree of risk.
Chapter 31
Together at last
It was a better end to the day than Christopher had expected.
But it wasn’t quite the end.
He walked Amaryllis and the Tibetans home to her flat, more as a way of putting off the loneliness of going back to his own house than because he was concerned for their safety. A taxi had drawn up at the end of her road, and two people looked as if they were arguing with the driver. Christopher hoped there wouldn’t be some sort of a scene.
He was in the middle of turning to say this to Amaryllis when the teenagers all started to run towards the taxi, and Amaryllis herself followed at a speed that was only slightly slower, almost as if she wanted them to get there first but couldn’t help herself from hurrying. Christopher never ran on principle, but even he felt an impulse to speed up his steps. Then he saw that the two people by the taxi had turned and were watching the three young people hurtle towards them. He hoped they weren’t easily scared. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the three shapes merge with the two in one big huddle, and knew instantly who the newcomers were.
Amaryllis waited a while for him to catch up, and they proceeded more sedately towards the group.
‘I’ll sort out the taxi,’ said Christopher. 'I've got some change here. You go on up.'
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