5 Frozen in Crime

by Cecilia Peartree

  ‘I think it’s time for coffee,’ she said. He watched her as she put the kettle on and searched through the cupboards for food. Her dark red hair was standing on end today, which was a good sign. Now that he thought about it, her hair had been decidedly limp for the past little while, although he had imagined it was because she had been wearing a woolly hat in the extremely cold conditions. Or maybe all her joie de vivre had been swept away by the freezing north-easterly wind that some said came straight from the Arctic Circle.

  ‘Do you think the town’s cut off now?’ she said, bringing the coffee. ‘Will we run out of fresh food and have to beg tins off people who’ve stored them since the end of the war?’

  ‘Jemima probably has some of those,’ said Christopher. ‘We’d better keep on the right side of her.’

  She glanced down at the piece of paper again. ‘Does anyone know yet whether these robbers actually fired at your office window? Did Charlie Smith say anything?’

  He shivered. Being shot at wasn’t a comfortable thought, even although he had been standing behind triple-glazing at the time.

  ‘If they did fire, I wonder why,’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure they saw you?’

  ‘One of them was staring straight at me,’ said Christopher. ‘Maybe he fired because he thought I’d recognised him, and wanted to make sure I didn’t tell anybody.’

  ‘Better watch your back if that’s what it was,’ said Amaryllis. He sort of wished she hadn’t said that. He shivered again.

  ‘But surely they’ll have gone somewhere else by now?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’

  The expression on her face didn’t give him much confidence. What if they came after him? They could find out easily enough who he was, and he couldn’t keep away from the Cultural Centre indefinitely. It would be child’s play to track him down there. But would they want to return to the scene of their crime?

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Amaryllis. ‘There’s no reason for them to come back - if they got all they wanted the first time.’

  ‘But how do we know if they did?’

  ‘We don’t. But we can try and find out what they did get. Charlie Smith will have a list. We’ll get it all out of him. Custard cream?’

  ‘You’ve been seeing too much of Jemima,’ said Christopher, accepting a biscuit. ‘It’ll be tablet next,’ he added darkly, ‘and then where will we be?’

  Chapter 15 Intruding on Christmas

  Charlie took Karen Whitefield with him. If he was going to intrude on people’s Christmasses, he wanted an accomplice alongside him.

  However, most of his interviewees seemed quite pleased to see him. He guessed they were getting bored being stuck indoors, unable to go anywhere and suffering from intermittent power and phone line cuts.

  Apart from the jeweller himself, nobody seemed to have noticed the robbers until they rounded the corner of the supermarket and started to scatter people before them. That had seemed odd to him at first but then he realised most people would have been concentrating on keeping themselves upright in the icy conditions, with little attention left over for any illegal activities that might be going on in their vicinity.

  ‘It was getting dark by then too,’ Karen pointed out. ‘We’ve been on at the council for years to improve the lighting in that corner - it’s a bit of a black spot. Has been ever since the supermarket was built. We’ve asked the supermarket people to fit lights on the end of the building too, but they said it would cost too much and the lights would be vandalized in no time.’

  ‘So the two men in balaclavas wouldn’t have been seen very clearly?’

  ‘Not really, no. And even the balaclavas wouldn’t have seemed all that weird, with the weather and everything.’

  They walked up the front path that led to another witness’s door. Standing on the step, Charlie said, ‘You’d almost think the villains planned it for their own convenience.’

  No reply. Where could Christopher Wilson have got to on a day like this? And was it worthwhile pursuing him at this point? Charlie knew there were only a few possibilities.

  ‘Let’s go on to the next one on the list,’ he said to Karen. ‘We’ll maybe catch up with Mr Wilson later.’

  ‘He’s probably the best witness we have, sir,’ said Karen.

  Annoying, but true. There was Jock McLean as well, of course, but they knew where he was: he would keep until some of the snow melted.

  After three hours of trudging around town, waiting on doorsteps and trying to drag information out of people who were bleary-eyed and in some cases still drunk after their Christmas excesses, they trailed back to the police station and tried to fit the new information - which, Charlie had to admit, could have been written on the back of a stamp - into the picture they were building up of the crime. Keith Burnett and Sergeant McDonald, the nearest to a Scene of Crime team that could be found in this weather, were waiting to go out and search the car park for clues, and particularly bullets. It was a bad day for law enforcement, Charlie mused, when only two of the officers could leave the station at a time. He hoped Inspector Forrester would be satisfied when he heard about this. So much for letting people take holidays over Christmas. With so much money changing hands in the local shops and so much excess alcohol being consumed, there was almost bound to be trouble.

  To add insult to injury the jeweller rang up at lunch-time to nag at them about catching the thieves. Apparently the client waiting for the golden peacock was very impatient.

  ‘He’s quite an important man and he isn’t used to being kept waiting.’

  ‘It’s not a question of how important he is - we need to be meticulous in our investigations,’ Charlie explained. ‘It all takes time - and we’re very short-staffed at the moment. Then there’s the snow…’

  He was aware it sounded as if he was running through every possible excuse short of ‘the dog ate my homework’, but it was all true. And he knew that having somebody nagging them would just make everyone more ponderous, more thorough and more risk-averse when it came to gathering and assessing evidence, but he didn’t mention that. He slammed the phone down.

  ‘Have we heard any more from the hospital?’ he growled at Karen, who happened to be sitting nearby eating her sandwiches.

  ‘I’ll get on to them this afternoon,’ she said, peering at a Sudoku puzzle as she munched. He sighed heavily, decided he might as well have his sandwiches too, and went through to his office to fetch his lunch-box.

  The door-bell rang as he sat down at the table. They had locked the front door because they weren’t really supposed to be open on Boxing Day, but it was impossible not to answer the bell. Karen flung down her puzzle magazine and started to get to her feet, but Charlie was first.

  ‘It’s OK. I haven’t started mine yet. Stay where you are.’

  Christopher and Amaryllis stood on the door-step. He hoped they weren’t about to launch into a couple of choruses of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to interview me,’ said Christopher.

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘My next-door neighbour. He called me on my mobile phone to say the police had been round again. I don’t think he meant it to sound as if I was constantly in trouble, but that was how it came out.’

  ‘Ah, that would be a Mr Browning,’ Charlie nodded. He turned his attention to Amaryllis. ‘How about you? Did you sense that we might want to interview you too? Or have you just come along for the hell of it?’

  ‘I’m here to monitor the interview,’ she said mysteriously.

  ‘What as? A lawyer? You have to take exams, you know.’

  ‘There’s no need to be like that. I’m just a concerned member of the public. And a private detective.’

  ‘There isn’t any licence to kill involved, you know. And I don’t have to let you stay in this interview, so try not to annoy all of us too much.’

  ‘Do you wa
nt to interview me or not?’ said Christopher. ‘Only we have to go down to the Cultural Centre after this and look for bullet-holes.’

  ‘I don’t want to know that,’ said Charlie. ‘You might as well come in here first.’

  He took them into the staff kitchen. It was warmer in there and he could offer them a cup of tea without having to carry it down the corridor to the interview room.

  Karen Whitefield sighed heavily and flung her puzzle magazine aside.

  ‘You do know they’ve proved that doing puzzles doesn’t stop your brain deteriorating, don’t you?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘So, Mr Wilson, what do you think you can tell us that we don’t already know about the robbery on Christmas Eve in Pitkirtly town centre?’ said Charlie, resting his elbows on the table.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Christopher. ‘Can’t you think up a better question than that?’

  Charlie wasn’t accustomed to witnesses who started out by critiquing his questions. He thought about it a bit, then fetched the notes he had made on the initial interview in the Queen of Scots.

  ‘Hmm, not much here. So have you remembered anything about the men in balaclavas apart from the big dark staring eyes?’

  ‘One of them was limping. Did I say that before? The other one was carrying something.’ Christopher closed his eyes, as if by doing that he would be able to picture the scene. ‘A sports bag. It was about the size for a squash racket or something.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually see a squash racket?’

  ‘There wasn’t time. And he didn’t open the bag anyway. I don’t know if there was a squash racket in there. It could have been anything. A badminton racket. A tennis racket.’

  ‘A bit cold for tennis, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think the type of racket’s important,’ said Christopher impatiently.

  Charlie Smith sat back in his chair. Why did he always arrive so quickly at the point in interviews where he wanted to throw Christopher Wilson across the room? There was nothing inherently annoying about the man, unlike his friends Amaryllis Peebles and Jock McLean, whom he suspected of doing it on purpose. In Christopher’s case, it was just that he had a way of rambling off at a tangent and leading his interrogator off in the same direction without apparently intending to do so.

  He decided he had better take control of this interview before it went further astray.

  He stared at the original statement, and made a note about the sports bag.

  ‘Was there a logo or anything that might help us identify the bag?’ he said, not very hopefully.

  ‘Yes!’ said Christopher. ‘It was one of these sports companies. Adidas, Nike, Sony.’

  ‘But which one?’ said Charlie, leaving aside the mention of Sony for the moment.

  ‘Or was it a football team?’ said Christopher. ‘If it hadn’t been getting dark I might have taken more notice. I don’t even know what colour it was.’

  Charlie saw Karen staring at him with the kind of expression that asked why he didn’t lock Christopher up and throw away the key.

  ‘Which hand was he carrying it in?’ said Charlie patiently, ignoring her.

  ‘Left, I think. But he did change to the right hand just before I dived down below window level. As if it was too heavy to carry in one hand for very long.’

  ‘Hmm, interesting,’ said Charlie. Maybe the robbers had brought a change of clothing with them - the jewellery itself couldn’t possibly weigh that much. There weren’t any massive sports trophies or family plate on the list of what had been stolen.

  But if they’d brought a change of clothing, then they might have postponed their getaway and just mingled with the Christmas Eve crowds in the High Street. Then again, if they’d postponed it for too long, they might not have got away at all. The idea that they might still be in town, trapped along with everyone else, was rather scary.

  ‘Karen, did any of the other witnesses mention a sports bag?’ Charlie asked, forgetting he shouldn’t be asking this while Christopher and Amaryllis were still around.

  Karen shook her head at him and went out, presumably to fetch the rest of the notes.

  ‘Anything else?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Did they really fire a shot at the window?’ said Christopher.

  ‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Charlie with a wink. Karen came back and silently showed him her interview notes.

  ‘So nobody else was as observant as you, Mr Wilson,’ said Charlie. ‘I find that quite hard to believe.’

  ‘Police harassment!’ called Amaryllis from her station by the biscuit tin.

  ‘If you eat all the bourbons I’ll lock you up,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Well, we can’t stay around here all day exchanging insults with the likes of you,’ said Amaryllis, slamming the lid back on the tin.

  ‘Will you be in town for the next week or so?’ said Charlie.

  ‘There’s no way out at the moment anyway,’ said Christopher.

  ‘So none of the other witnesses were any better than Christopher?’ said Amaryllis, peering over Charlie’s shoulder as she passed his chair. He hurriedly pushed the list of what had been stolen under the folder.

  ‘A golden peacock?’ murmured Amaryllis thoughtfully. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Just get out of here before I throw you out! And don’t come back!’

  ‘I thought you were never going to say that, sir,’ said Karen Whitefield approvingly as Christopher and Amaryllis left. ‘Well done.’

  Chapter 16 Bullet Holes and Tunnels

  ‘Are we really going to look for bullet holes?’ asked Christopher as they left the police station.

  Amaryllis nodded solemnly. ‘We’ve got to do this thing properly. It’s obvious that the police need a hand.’

  ‘What do you mean, we’ve got to do it?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I was part of this private detective caper of yours.’

  ‘It’s not a caper. It’s a small business. If I looked into it, I might even be able to apply for start-up funding and a free course on designing a business card.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  He didn’t sound convinced. Amaryllis wasn’t sure that anyone really wanted her to set up a private detective agency in Pitkirtly. They might think they wanted that, but they wouldn’t necessarily be able to cope with the reality of it. She thought what Christopher and Charlie Smith both wanted was to regulate her activities somehow and stop her making rash, impulsive decisions that often landed one or both of them in trouble. That didn’t mean they would accept her right to take on clients and pry into what people were doing, even if she had the best-designed business card in the world.

  Mulling over ideas for what would constitute the best business card in the world took her until they arrived at the Cultural Centre. She decided it would be minimalist, ideally with a one-word slogan on it that defined the whole enterprise. Porcupine, for instance. Or Gargoyle. Or investigate, with a small letter ‘i’. If Christopher wondered why she hadn’t said anything on the way, he didn’t comment on it. But then, his ability not to make inane comments on anything and everything was one of her favourite things about him.

  ‘We’d better start just outside of your office window,’ she said as they stared at the building. ‘If there really was a bullet and it bounced off, we might be able to find it.’

  ‘I’ll have to pop inside now we’re here,’ said Christopher, producing a set of keys. ‘I should have been checking every day really. Last winter there was some blocked guttering that caused a bit of a leak, and the old map collection got slightly damaged… Why are you looking at me like that?’

  She realised she had been staring at him with her mouth wide open.

  ‘Old maps – of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Christopher. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d mentioned it to anyone,’ he said, looking uncomfortable as she continued to stare at him.

  ‘Let’s look inside first,’ she said. ‘Where do you keep these old maps anyway?’
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br />   ‘I didn’t know you were interested in maps,’ he said, giving in and unlocking the doors. He turned quickly to switch the alarm off as they entered the foyer.

  ‘They have their uses,’ she said cryptically. ‘I have some on my phone actually.’

  ‘What’s that – an app?’ he asked. She knew he was only trying to sound as if he knew what an app was. Christopher had never really trusted modern phone technology. He couldn’t get used to the idea that you had to switch your mobile phone on for it to work. Or that the word ‘mobile’ was an indication that you were meant to carry it around with you.

  ‘No, not exactly,’ she said.

  ‘They’re through in the library. In the corner of the reference section – next to Cat Care.’

  ‘Not in alphabetical order then,’ she said, following him along the corridor.

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘Maps – cat care?’

  ‘Try cartography,’ he said over his shoulder, switching the lights on.

  It was always a surprise to Amaryllis when she saw Christopher in his native habitat and realised he was competent and intelligent. She must try and remember that more often.

  He led the way to the map section.

  ‘Old ones this side, current ones just past the pillar,’ he said. ‘Which is it going to be?’

  ‘Probably old ones,’ said Amaryllis, thinking of the maps she had seen spread out on the kitchen table at Old Pitkirtlyhill House. She pulled her phone out of her bag and looked for the pictures she had taken.

  ‘You can’t photograph them,’ said Christopher. ‘Copyright.’

  ‘Too late,’ she said, showing him the images. She explained where she had taken them. She didn’t explain why: she wasn’t at all clear about that herself.

  ‘I’m looking for more like this,’ she said. ‘I want to know what it’s all about.’

  He peered at the screen again. ‘Hmm. Hard to tell on this scale. But we could start by assuming they’re local. We’ve got some replicas of old maps of Pitkirtly and surroundings. And we could always look up the Pont and Holl maps online. Here. Take these and open them up on the table while I go and check round the rest of the building.’