‘You’re live on 24 hour news,’ Amaryllis murmured into his ear. She gave him a quick hug which he chose to interpret as a warning, and let him go.
‘Well, this really is an extraordinary sequence of events,’ said the voice he had heard before. ‘The West Fife police have rounded off their evening by rescuing a would-be suicide from the top of the cliffs at Kinghorn. I’m just about to see if I can have a few words with him.’
Christopher stood up at last, swaying a little in the wind. Rain spattered his face, and voices seemed to come and go as words were whisked away and lost for ever in the air.
There was a circle of men in police uniforms around him, and Jock McLean stood in the middle distance, apparently speaking on a mobile phone. He gave Christopher a thumbs-up sign. A young girl who looked about sixteen advanced through the ring of policemen with a big furry microphone in her hand. A young man of about eighteen followed with a large camera. The lights were in Christopher’s eyes.
‘What am I going to do?’ he muttered to Amaryllis, who seemed intent on staying by his side throughout. He hoped this was to protect him, but he knew it could equally be so that she could sell his story to the media.
‘Say as little as possible,’ she advised.
This proved to be quite easy. They only wanted a few words from him, after all, and he knew they would probably distort even those. It must have been a slow day on the 24 hour news channels.
‘How did they get here so quickly?’ he asked Amaryllis an hour or so later, when the reporter and photographer and police had left at last, and they were back in the caravan eating toast. Christopher wasn't sure that the police were entirely convinced the three of them hadn't harboured a fugitive and perverted the course of justice - that was the phrase he had been trying to think of earlier - but apparently they were satisfied for the moment.
Amaryllis smiled. ‘The news team didn’t come here for you. They’re ambulance-chasers.’
‘Ambulance? Has somebody been hurt?’
‘No, in this case they were following the police around, covering the murder case. They arrived about two minutes after the police cars.’
‘Jemima and Dave saw you on the telly,’ said Jock, nodding with satisfaction. ‘I got her to put on News 24 and she was just in time. Said you looked like a ferret in the lights… Or maybe it was a rabbit.’
‘How did the police get here so quickly anyway?’ said Christopher, ignoring Jock and hoping that if he pushed the idea of being on television out of his head, not only would he forget the whole incident but so would everyone he knew. He didn’t want to be walking down Pitkirtly High Street one day and have everyone pointing at him and laughing about what an idiot he had been.
‘They put out an APB,’ said Amaryllis, ‘and the local policeman noticed Darren and Victoria getting off the train at Kinghorn. They don’t get many strangers here at this time of year. He called it in, and they checked with the caravan park and found somebody walking their dog had seen them knocking at our door and told the manager because they thought Darren was up to no good… Dog-walkers! Why do they do it?’
‘What?’ said Jock. ‘Have dogs, or be vigilant about what’s going on around them, as public-spirited people are meant to do?’
Amaryllis gave him a sour look. ‘They’re always getting in the way and seeing things they’re not meant to see… and the dogs aren’t much better.’
‘Did you tell Darren and Victoria to go over the cliffs?’ said Christopher. He had been mulling over this ever since he had been rescued.
She shrugged. ‘It was only an idle suggestion. It was up to them whether they actually did it or not.’
‘They should have given themselves up,’ said Christopher. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ve got any sympathy with that point of view.’
‘It’s a point of view,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I can see why you think that.’
‘Did you find out any more from them about what happened?’ said Christopher. He could have got cross with Amaryllis for organising his rescue in such a melodramatic way. But she had apologised, after all. There was really nothing more to be said about it. They were all still alive. A small nagging voice that wouldn't be silenced kept reminding him of Victoria, out there in the storm, and asking him if he thought Darren would really look after her, but he got used to it after a while and then found he couldn't hear it any more. 'At the murder scene. Or in the railway yard.'
'Yes! Lots!' she said. 'There were four of them then - and now there are three.'
Chapter 4 Four men, three men, two men and their dog, Spot
Christopher shivered. Jock crunched a piece of toast. They gazed at Amaryllis very much, she thought, like children starved of stories.
'I know who was there,' she said. 'In the yard, that is. I still don't know about the murder scene - Darren was a bit vague about that. He didn't seem to be able to remember even going to the house, although he was quite clear about waking up there this morning.'
'He'd be too drunk to remember anything,' said Jock with grim satisfaction. 'That's what they do - drink themselves senseless to dull the pain of everyday life and the prospect of death.' When the others stared at him he added, 'I've not got personal experience of that kind of thing, mind you - it's just what I've heard.'
'So - what happened in the yard?' said Christopher.
Amaryllis's eyes gleamed. 'We've got several lines of enquiry to follow up. There were four of them in the yard that night - five if you count Victoria.'
'Why wouldn't you count Victoria?' said Christopher indignantly.
She gave him a sidelong, mischievous glance and carried on. 'The four I'm counting are
Darren, Alan Donaldson himself, a friend of theirs from Aberdour who used to live in Pitkirtly called Zak, and another boy they used to know at school called Stewie. Victoria came along towards the end of the session - in time to help Alan Donaldson get Darren back to the house. She said she was afraid they would leave him lying in the yard all night.'
'She's far and away too good for him,' said Jock.
'The beauty of it,' said Amaryllis, 'is that I happen to know Zak's mother. Penelope Johnstone - with an e and a t.'
'Cosy Clicks?' said Christopher.
'Exactly... There's nothing like joining a Cosy Clicks group for really getting to know what's going on in a place.'
So that was what was behind her sudden interest in affairs of the needles. Christopher hoped that meant she had given up her old hobby of prowling around at night observing things around Pitkirtly. He had often worried about her doing that, although he tried not to let her sense his concern in case it made her even more reckless - as if she still had anything to prove.
'The trouble is,' she continued, 'we might need to go home a day early - Friday's Cosy Clicks day, and I don't want to miss it this week. They'll be talking about the murder, and I want to hear what they've all got to say.'
'Go home a day early?' said Christopher. 'I think I can cope with that.'
Suddenly he felt almost light-hearted. One less night of lying awake in that confined space listening to Jock McLean making strange mumbling sounds in his sleep; one less day of playing Scrabble in the caravan while the rain battered on the roof, or of looking in shop windows in Burntisland and wondering if anyone was going to buy the cake with the cerise icing. Spending an impulsive out of season week in Mrs Stevenson's new caravan had seemed like a wild, impetuous, fun thing to do at a moment's notice - now it just seemed insane. Of course, thought Christopher darkly, Jock McLean hadn't been meant to come with them. He had invited himself along by simply turning up at the bus stop as they were leaving. Without him it could all have been quite different... leisurely walks with Amaryllis, long dark cosy evenings, intimate dinners for two... He dismissed these fantasies from his mind. There was no way spending a week in Kinghorn in a caravan in March would ever have turned into a romantic Caribbean idyll, and he was fooling himself if he had ever imagined it might.
'No disrespect to J
emima Stevenson,' said Jock McLean the following morning on the way to the station, 'but I wish she'd chosen somewhere better for a holiday home.'
'Jemima's very pleased with it,' said Amaryllis reprovingly. 'She said she'd always dreamed of having a holiday caravan of her own.'
'But why didn't she get one further away?' said Jock. 'Dunoon - Pitlochry - Malta.'
'I don't know that they have caravans in Malta,' said Christopher. 'What's so great about Malta, anyway?'
'Dunno.' Jock shrugged his shoulders. 'What have you got against it?'
'It's an island,' said Christopher darkly. 'Once you're there, you've got to stay there. Trapped. At the mercy of the people you're with.'
'You might just as well say that about here,' pointed out Jock. 'And it rains as well.'
'At least when we get home I won't have to put up with you two bickering all the time,' said Amaryllis. 'It's like taking two primary school kids away on holiday.'
Jock McLean sulked for most of the journey home, which at least meant they didn't have to listen to any more of his ramblings about Malta.
Pitkirtly was much the same place as it had been when they left it five days before. Or at least, when they got off the bus Christopher thought it was the same place. But on the way up the High Street something suddenly seemed different. He glanced at the others sideways to see if they had noticed anything.
There was a large talking ham outside the butcher’s shop. As they got closer it turned into the butcher’s assistant wearing a ham-shaped outfit that seemed to be made of pink spongy stuff. His arms and legs were sticking out incongruously.
‘Cram in some ham!’ he said as they passed. There was a banner across the shop window saying ‘Have a Sandwich for National Ham Week.’ The talking ham tried to hand them a leaflet, which Amaryllis avoided by the simple expedient of pushing the others off the pavement.
‘Look out!’ complained Jock. ‘There could’ve been a car coming.’
‘There wasn’t,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Anyway, do you really want to be given a leaflet by a talking ham?’
The ham stared mournfully after them. Christopher, glancing back, wondered whether to run back and take a leaflet.
‘Don’t do it,’ said Jock, reading his mind. ‘It’ll only encourage them.’
Whatever next? thought Christopher. Talking knitting needles outside the wool shop, prodding and poking at passers-by until they gave up and went in; fragrant people dressed up as perfume bottles outside the chemist’s, polluting the air for miles around with wildly conflicting scents. Talking books outside the library might be an idea, though… Hmm.
He had only been home ten minutes when the door-bell rang.
‘We wondered if you were all right,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘After your ordeal.’
Obviously she wanted to get the low-down on their stay in the caravan. Big Dave, just behind her solid as a rock, gave an apologetic smile. Christopher couldn’t do anything but graciously invite them in.
'It was great, thanks,' he said as they invaded his kitchen. Dave opened the cupboard and took out the biscuit tin.
'A bit wet, wasn't it?' he said.
'Not that bad,' lied Christopher.
'You get a lovely view on a clear day,' said Mrs Stevenson.
Christopher couldn't remember having experienced any clear days while they were in the caravan.
'So what did you do with yourselves?' Mrs Stevenson continued after a pause.
'Don't be silly, Jemima,' said Dave, filling the kettle. 'What do you think Christopher and Amaryllis found to do with themselves stuck in a caravan when it rained all the time for a week? What if it had been you and me? What would we have done?'
Christopher struggled to prevent a blush spreading right up his neck and over his face. He sprang to his feet. 'Here, let me do that,' he said, wresting the kettle out of Dave's hands. 'Would you like some toast?'
Mrs Stevenson went very quiet for a few moments. Surely she wasn't imagining the same thing that had popped into Christopher's head?
'Played Scrabble?'' she said at last. Dave and Christopher both roared with laughter, possibly for quite different reasons.
'What was it like being on the telly?' said Dave later, as they sat round the table eating biscuits.
Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
'There was nothing to it really,' he said. 'Going down the cliff was the scary part.'
'Why did you do that?' said Mrs Stevenson. 'Was it Amaryllis?'
'What do you think?' said Christopher. 'She made me go after Darren and Victoria.'
Dave shook his head. 'Oh, man,' he said. 'One of these days you'll have to stand up to that woman. You don't always have to do what they tell you, you know.'
'Oh, no?' said Christopher, looking from Dave to Mrs Stevenson and back sceptically.
'You looked awful pale and washed-out on the news,' said Mrs Stevenson.
'It was the lights,' he said.
'I thought so,' she said, nodding as if she were an expert in the technicalities of television reporting. 'You looked like - '
'A frightened rabbit,' said Christopher. 'I know.'
'I thought I said hedgehog,' said Mrs Stevenson, puzzled.
'So does Amaryllis not think Darren did it, then?' said Dave. 'Or was she just making trouble as usual?'
'Hard to tell,' said Christopher. He crunched into yet another custard cream. 'Victoria was sure he didn't though. That's why we helped them.'
'Aha! Victoria!' said Dave, drawing the name out so that each syllable received separate emphasis.
There was some sort of heavy significance in his tone, but Christopher couldn't work out what he meant by it.
Chapter 5 Wrong place, wrong time
It was too quiet. She didn’t like it.
All her traps in the flat were still in place, not having been sprung by intruders, but there was something unreal about everything. Perhaps it was the usual coming-home feeling that part of you was still elsewhere, so that nothing was normal. Perhaps it was something to do with knowing there was trouble in her adopted town. It wasn’t just the talking ham, although the incident had been a bit disconcerting.
After a little while she realised she was missing Christopher, but that concept irritated her so she pushed it to the back of her mind. She paced up and down her large sitting-room with its minimalist décor. Damn it, she was even missing the cream coloured caravan seating where they had sat and played Scrabble almost interminably.
After another little while she realised she didn’t have any coffee, and would have to go out to the corner shop for some. Then she had the idea of visiting the house that was the scene of the murder, and the railway yard where the protagonists had met. She could get the coffee and do both these things while she was out, without even making more than a slight detour.
With a lighter heart, she set off, swinging a maroon leatherette shopping bag lent to her once by Mrs Stevenson, who had been horrified to find she didn’t possess one. She told herself firmly she was too young to worry about being mistaken for an old lady. And she didn't have a woolly hat.
Her footsteps took her towards the railway line. It meandered through some of the less salubrious streets right on the eastern edge of town, and then plunged into a tunnel before popping out unexpectedly on an embankment near the top of the High Street. She followed it from there down the slope towards the river. Its route took it round what local people called ‘the back of Pitkirtly’ and past the new houses where the murder had taken place, which she intended to visit later.
On the western edge of town, not far from the harbour as the crow flew, was the old railway yard.
Amaryllis approached it with caution. It was a closed in space with only one exit - or at least, only one gateway. There were walls that she might be able to climb at a push, although she had noticed lately that it was getting more difficult to do that kind of thing. It was either old age, or a softening of the resolve and muscles in the semi-retirement she was supposed t
o be in. She didn't want to risk being trapped. Although she felt she could take out the entire criminal community of Pitkirtly with one hand tied behind her back, even at her advanced age, she didn't really want to risk finding she couldn't when it was too late to make a run for it.
She crossed the railway line using a little gate set into the fence and sauntered into the yard. There were wooden gates which had such huge gaps in them that no effort at all was required to sidle past them. She tried to look like an old lady with a shopping bag who had wandered in there by mistake, but in fact she preferred to think of herself as a coiled spring, ready for action any moment. She kept her back to the exit and glanced round her as she walked. There were some bays with low concrete walls on three sides that might once have held coal or other supplies, and a very dilapidated workman's hut. That was the most likely hideout for a gang of youths. They weren't imaginative enough to improvise an alternative, or energetic enough to build a tree-house up in the woods or anything.
She advanced towards the hut, noticing as she did a distinct smell of cigarette smoke. By the time she realised it wasn't coming from the hut, it was too late.
Something slammed into her back, throwing her off balance. She used the shopping bag as a counterweight, and was on her feet again, turning round to see her assailant, when the second blow arrived, this time catching her elbow painfully. This was ridiculous. She was highly trained in unarmed combat. She forgot about seeing the attacker, and concentrated on preparing for another attack. She counted to three and sprung away to her right, turning in mid-air as she did so, and landing squarely on her feet facing the young man with the baseball bat.
Despite the fact that his face was contorted with rage, he was so handsome it took her breath away, She grinned at him. He faltered for a moment. She took full advantage of this hesitation, leaping forward to knock him to the ground, seize the bat and stand over him menacingly.
He had black curly hair, olive skin and a slim build. He looked familiar in some odd way, and it only took her a moment to work out why.
3 A Reformed Character Page 3
