‘But they had their love to keep them warm,’ said Maisie Sue with a wistful sigh.
‘Lust!’ said Jock McLean, sounding rather like an old-fashioned preacher. ‘That’s all it was. Animal lust. They should have been ashamed of themselves.’
Jan from the wool-shop had looked up from her knitting now and was nodding along with his words. Perhaps it was the word ‘lust’ that had attracted her attention. But after a moment her gaze drifted back to the needles and wool. She held it up and squinted at it, as if wondering if she had made a mistake. Christopher wondered how anyone could tell. Knitting was one of life’s great mysteries, as far as he was concerned. He thought of Amaryllis and her attempts to master it. He tried to push the memory of the scarf out of his mind but it seemed to get larger as if haunting him, with its multitude of primary colours and the holes that could have formed some sort of a lacy pattern but which she had confessed were dropped stitches. He sighed heavily, and re-focussed on the conversation.
‘You’ve got to tell the police all this,’ said Charlie Smith. ‘You do realise why, don’t you? Mrs Johnstone?’
Penelope raised her eyes to meet his. She nodded slowly.
‘They might need to ask you some uncomfortable questions,’ he continued, ‘but you’ve got to do it anyway.’
Christopher noticed Zak opening his mouth to speak, and Penelope turning to him as if she sensed this, and putting a finger to her lips in a hushing gesture.
‘They’re the prime suspects, of course,’ said Jan from the wool shop, still counting stitches. ‘Neil’s ex-wife and her husband.’ She stared round at the shocked faces that surrounded her. ‘If anybody had a reason to murder Liam, it was one of these two.’
Such was the drama of the moment that almost everybody in the room jumped perceptibly when Christopher’s phone rang out in the hall.
So few people ever rang him that he considered leaving it to ring out and letting whoever it was leave one of these voicemail messages that he never listened to. But he was glad he hadn’t done that when he heard the voice at the other end.
‘Amaryllis?’
So much cheering broke out in the front room that he had to close the door. His words echoed in the dim empty hall. Or was that just in his mind, which also seemed dim and empty at this moment?
He listened to what she had to say with increasing anger. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why did they do it?’
‘It was a test,’ she said. ‘They wanted to know if I still had what it takes.’
‘And did you pass?’ he said, afraid to hear the answer but compelled to ask.
‘Of course I passed. That isn’t the point. I’ve told them I’ll never do anything for them again anyway.’
‘Good,’ he said. The single word didn’t actually express what he meant, but it seemed to act as a full stop in some way. Her next sentence was a question about what had been happening in Pitkirtly and why his house was full of people, and when he told her, she said, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ and ended the call abruptly.
‘Is she all right?’ said Jock McLean as soon as he opened the door to the front room again. Christopher nodded.
‘She’s on her way home.’
Chapter 9 Famous last words?
Neil wondered if he should ask for his lawyer now. He had hoped the police might let him go after running through the same questions several times, but evidently – and not surprisingly – they still seemed to think he had been somehow involved in Liam Johnstone’s death. Constable Burnet, a baby-face officer who might only have existed to prove the saying about policemen looking younger, had said to him the evening before, while escorting him back to his cell for the night, that even if the death didn’t look like murder it could still be a case of culpable homicide. But apparently the police still hadn’t made up their minds. Neil hated the idea of scene of crime teams scouring his cellar, and probably his pub and the flat above too, for clues. They would find the DNA and fingerprints of so many people it would take them weeks – perhaps months – to sort it all out. And in the mean-time he would be stuck in here pondering on the complete loss of his freedom and livelihood.
There was one bright spot: he still hadn’t mentioned Penelope’s visit to them, and they hadn’t asked him about it. He hoped she hadn’t given them a statement about it either. If the police came to think they were having an affair or something, it would give both of them some sort of a motive for doing away with Liam Johnstone, although in this day and age and with both parties divorced, there wouldn’t exactly be any huge scandal involved. Right enough, he wouldn’t want any of his friends to think he was carrying on with Penelope Johnstone, whom he had never found at all attractive, but he could survive a few knocks to his reputation if it came to that.
The only thing was that if Penelope’s visit came to light, there would be knock-on effects for other people too. Neil and Andrea hadn’t parted on particularly good terms, but that was all water under the bridge and he didn’t wish her any ill. Her current husband was another matter, of course.
Neil started wondering about the new husband, but he was rudely interrupted by the arrival of Constable Burnet to escort him back to the interview room for another session.
They asked him the same questions yet again. He hoped his answers were more or less the same again too. It would be easy to get bored and start making stuff up, and that could land somebody in big trouble.
While Inspector Armstrong was running through the way carbon dioxide was stored and used in the pub, somebody knocked at the door of the interview room. After what sounded like a quick conference in the corridor, Inspector Armstrong poked his head back in, said to Constable Burnet, ‘Karen’s going to take over this interview now. Stay with it. I’ll be back.’
Who does he think he is, thought Neil to himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger?
A female officer came into the room. He had seen her before, at the pub on Saturday. She frowned as she sat down. He had the feeling her face would naturally fall into pleasant, friendly lines but on this occasion her eyes were cold as she assessed him.
‘So, Mr Macrae, were you alone in the flat above the Queen of Scots on Friday night?’
They hadn’t asked him anything like this before. His stomach felt weird. Had Penelope given a statement after all?
‘Um,’ he said. ‘Can I call my lawyer, please?’
If only he knew if she had said anything. He didn’t want to drop her in it but…
Later, once the lawyer had arrived, Neil confided in him.
‘You’ve got to tell them,’ was his immediate advice. ‘You can’t hide it. You say she was seen leaving on Saturday morning?’
‘Yes. But they’ve no reason to question the people who were around then. It’s got nothing to do with them.’
‘Any one of them could drop you in it,’ said the lawyer. ‘You should have come clean about this before, Mr Macrae. It’s going to look really bad. And why didn’t you call me earlier?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ muttered Neil. ‘It was the weekend. You might have been playing golf. Or sailing. Or whatever lawyers do in their spare time.’
The lawyer rolled his eyes. When the interview re-started, Neil answered the question and everything progressed from there. He told them about Penelope coming into the pub some time during the evening – he wasn’t sure when she had arrived – and hanging around by the bar waiting to speak to him, and about her missing the last bus. They didn’t say who had come forward with the information, but Neil guessed Penelope was in another interview room being questioned by Inspector Armstrong. He hoped she was all right.
‘We have a statement from – let me see – Jacobina Whitmore,’ said Sergeant Whiteside, glancing at her notebook, ‘that confirms your story about Mrs Johnstone’s arrival and the fact that you didn’t have time to speak to her until towards the end of the evening.’
‘Jacobina who?’ said Neil, and then he realised. ‘Oh – you mean Jackie, the barmaid?’
in your flat all night after that, did she?’
‘It wasn't what it sounds like, but yes, I let her sleep in the spare room. It took her a while to calm down after we’d had our talk, and she missed the bus.’
‘Miss Whitmore says you didn’t go into the cellar at any time during the evening – is that correct?’
‘I didn’t need to go to the cellar that night. Everything was fine.’
‘So, Mr Macrae,’ said Sergeant Whiteside, fixing him with a stare, ‘what did Mrs Johnstone have to talk to you about that was so urgent it couldn’t wait?’
‘It wasn’t really urgent, exactly. And I told her it had nothing to do with me anyway – or with her for that matter. It wasn’t our responsibility. They were both adults. Allegedly,’ he added. Nobody smiled.
‘Who were both adults? And why did Mrs Johnstone think it had something to do with you?’
‘It was my ex-wife. Andrea. Penelope said she was carrying on with Liam. She wanted me to warn Andrea how dangerous he was, and how easily other people could find out what they were up to.’
‘Dangerous? In what way?’
Neil shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure. She might have meant he was a bit of a lad. You know. A girl in every port. That kind of thing.’
‘Or what?’
‘Well,’ said Neil uneasily. ‘There had been shooting incidents in the past.’
‘Is this just hearsay or have you witnessed a shooting incident?’
‘Mostly hearsay.’
‘And did you agree to warn your ex-wife?’
Neil gave a hollow laugh. ‘It was nothing to do with me. Andrea was nothing to do with me any more. She’d remarried. I don’t know why Mrs Johnstone thought I would have any influence on her one way or the other.’
Sergeant Whiteside made a note. She frowned again. ‘When did you last see your ex-wife, Mr Macrae?’
‘Oh – it was months ago. Some time last year.’
‘Was that when you were arrested for causing a disturbance at the registry office where she was getting married again?’ said the sergeant serenely.
Neil blushed. ‘Yes, it might have been.’
The lawyer intervened. ‘Mr Macrae has paid his dues for that and it’s irrelevant to the present case.’
‘We’ll decide what’s relevant,’ said Sergeant Whiteside. She sat back, looking pleased with herself. Neil braced himself for what was coming next. She added, after a tantalising pause, ‘We could try and make a case for your client still being possessive about his ex-wife and angry with her for leaving him. But as you say, that would be irrelevant. We now know that Mr Johnstone was already dead by the time Mrs Johnstone spoke to Mr Macrae that evening.’
‘Already dead?’ said Neil.
Sergeant Whiteside nodded. ‘Carbon dioxide doesn’t take that long to kill someone. You were quite lucky the cellar door was a snug fit, otherwise the whole house might have been full of it by morning.’
At the end of the interview Neil’s lawyer gave the police an ultimatum about charging Neil or releasing him, and Sergeant Whiteside went off to see about getting an extension of the time limit for questioning him.
‘What do you think?’ said Neil to the lawyer. Constable Burnet was still in the room but he was doodling aimlessly, his eyes glazed, so they ignored him.
‘You were an idiot not to tell them about Penelope Johnstone in the first place,’ said the lawyer. ‘She’s an idiot too if she hasn’t come forward yet. But there are things in your favour. No motive, for a start. Doubtful opportunity, if the barmaid’s a reliable witness. And best of all, you stayed the night on the premises. I don’t think you would have taken that risk if you’d known about the CO2.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ said Neil, and shivered.
The lawyer patted him on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get you out of this, don’t you worry.’
For some reason the man’s over-confidence engendered in Neil a sense of despair. Would he ever be able to get on with the life he had thought was ahead of him?
Chapter 10 Eyes on the horizon
‘I suppose I ought to be getting home,’ said Charlie Smith on Monday evening. He and the dog stood in the kitchen doorway looking gloomy. Christopher, who had spent half the day in meetings at the West Fife Council offices and the other half trying to fill in a funding application, was in no mood to indulge either of them. He turned over some bacon under the grill and broke two eggs into the frying-pan. He and Charlie had lived on bacon and eggs over the weekend, so there was no reason to stop now.
‘You can go home if you like,’ he said, ‘but are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Up to what? Living in my own house and looking after myself? I’ve been doing it for the last umpteen years.’
‘That isn’t what I mean,’ said Christopher, throwing in a few tomato slices for luck. ‘Will you get depressed on your own?’
‘Yes, probably,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m bound to, really, thinking about what might happen over this suspension. And whether I’m going to need to smuggle the dog across the border to keep him safe.’
‘Across the border?’
‘Well, into Clackmannanshire or something.’
‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? Here you are.’
Christopher slid a helping of bacon, egg and tomato on to a plate for Charlie. ‘Sit down for now and eat this, then you can sleep on it.’
‘With Amaryllis coming back, you won’t want me around here,’ said Charlie.
‘Amaryllis?’ said Christopher, and gave a short laugh, which was even shorter than he had intended because the tomato slice was too hot and burnt his tongue. ‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know. She’s got her own place.’
‘I’ll need to go and get more clothes,’ said Charlie.
‘Fine,’ said Christopher. ‘You’re welcome to come back… You’ll be on hand if you stay here for a bit. For the investigation or whatever.’
‘I might do that, then,’ said Charlie. ‘If you’re sure.’
Christopher wanted to shout at him to stop arguing and to take the hand of friendship when it was offered instead of considering biting it off. But he just shrugged, his mouth full of bacon.
‘When’s she coming back?’ said Charlie, surreptitiously giving the dog some food from his plate.
Christopher sighed. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t cook bacon and eggs for three in the first place.’ He put his plate on the floor for the dog to lick. Just as well Jemima wasn’t here to witness this lapse in how things should be done. ‘I think she might be here by tomorrow.’
The kitchen door slammed open and a familiar voice spoke from the front hall. ‘She’s here now, so you can stop talking about her as if she isn’t.’
Amaryllis stalked into the room, dark red hair very spiky, which didn’t bode well. She flung her travel bag on the floor, and made the dog jump. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I hope there’s some bacon and egg left. And what’s all this about Liam Johnstone?’
‘Bacon and eggs in the fridge,’ said Christopher, trying to seem underwhelmed by her arrival. ‘I told you on the phone about Liam Johnstone.’
‘You didn’t say anything about Charlie on the phone,’ said Amaryllis accusingly.
Charlie Smith waved at her half-heartedly. Christopher could see he was re-considering his plan to stay for a while.
‘Sit down and let me get the bacon and eggs,’ he told Amaryllis. ‘You’ve been travelling all day and…’
Amaryllis didn’t sit down. ‘I haven’t been travelling all day,’ she said crossly. ‘I’ve travelled from a disused cargo shed at Edinburgh Airport.’
‘Edinburgh Airport?’ said Christopher.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t start doing that thing where you repeat everything I say. It
’s not amusing today. I interrupted my holiday to go and rescue an internationally renowned psychologist from a group of Middle Eastern terrorists, and I’ve spent a week living in a fake mud hut in the fake desert in a cargo shed thinking I’d been kidnapped and spirited away. If it hadn’t been for the grey squirrel and the floorboards – well, never mind. I’m never going to do anything for the government again. The whole lot of them can be taken away and shot for all I care. In fact I’m going to try and work towards that.’
‘Nice to see you too,’ said Christopher. He got out the packet of bacon and the box of eggs. ‘One egg or two?’
‘Two, please. And some fried bread. And have you got any mushrooms?’
‘Don’t push your luck.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Amaryllis, as the dog licked her foot. ‘I forgot about you.’ She leaned down to pat it. ‘By the way,’ she said to Charlie, ‘You didn’t hear me making threats against the government. If something happens to them you’ll never know it was me.’
Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me any more.’
‘Why not?’ She straightened up and stared at him with narrowed eyes.
‘I’m suspended,’ he said, and told her the story, while Christopher cooked the meal and Amaryllis wolfed it down.
‘We had to live on falafels,’ she said. ‘It was a cruel and unusual punishment.’
At the end of Charlie’s story she sighed in a long-suffering manner.
‘Just as well I came back when I did. Things have obviously got completely out of hand. I knew it was all going to hell in a handcart when I found out about Maisie Sue’s craft fair. And now this. What would you do if I went away for a fortnight? A month?’
‘Don’t do it, that’s all,’ said Christopher, handing her a packet of iced buns with jam in the middle. ‘How did you know about the craft fair anyway?’
6 The Queen of Scots Mystery Page 6
