3 A Reformed Character

by Cecilia Peartree

  Christopher almost always had time for them. That was one of the things she liked about him.

  'Where are they searching? Does she have any usual haunts?'

  Jan frowned. 'I don't think she ever goes out on her own at all. She's always with Giulia or one of the others. I think young Victoria sometimes drives her to hospital appointments, that sort of thing... The police are organising it all. I expect they have a routine for those situations.'

  It was amazing how much confidence people had in the police. It was as if they were all-seeing, all-knowing super-beings instead of the ordinary over-worked state functionaries they were. Amaryllis didn't mean that in an insulting way. She had once been an over-worked state functionary herself.

  'I'll catch up with them,' said Amaryllis.

  Maybe she hadn't changed as much as she imagined. The news had re-awakened her hunting instinct. She must still be in a state of metamorphosis, having not quite shed her secret agent skin because the new one wasn't ready underneath.

  She moved fast, but managed to make a brief phone call to Christopher on the way. With luck he would correctly interpret it to mean she wanted him there - although this was a bit of a long shot since she had little faith in men's ability to interpret things correctly unless they were spelled out in neon letters ten feet high right in front of their noses. Even then it was problematic.

  She headed straight for the old railway yard. There was no reason why Old Mrs Petrelli should have gone there, indeed it was some distance from the restaurant and across the railway line, and she had never seemed steady enough on her feet to be able to walk far on her own; then again, she could have had help from someone. It was just that an instinct told Amaryllis that bad things happened in that yard. It was a place that somehow attracted evil, although she told herself not to be so silly as she hurried along past the harbour towards the point where the railway line curved round to run along the river front.

  There were still very few people around, so the main search must be going on somewhere else. Either that or the search party was still getting its instructions from the police. Amaryllis thought the police were all right in their place, but she felt she had an advantage in not being tied up in red tape, able to move flexibly - apart from her recent injuries, which she had almost forgotten about in the thrill of the chase.

  No, not a thrill. That was completely the wrong word for a mission to rescue an old lady. 'Warm glow of having done the right thing' was a better description even if it was a clumsier phrase.

  She crossed the railway tracks. Entering the railway yard brought the familiar feeling of unexplained dread. Of course the incident with Giancarlo could have made her feel like this - and yet. And yet there was something else.

  She knew what the something else was as soon as she saw the feet in their sensible black shoes sticking out from behind the concrete wall of one of the old coal bunkers. It was foreboding. She paused for a moment, afraid to investigate further, but knowing she must. It was that Schrödinger's cat moment between wondering whether the cat was alive and establishing beyond doubt that it wasn't.

  She walked forward.

  Old Mrs Petrelli looked quite peaceful, considering that she was lying on a pile of rocks and stones in the ruins of the coal bunker, and considering also that there was a knitting needle sticking out of her chest. She was quite definitely dead, but Amaryllis never took anything for granted, and checked to make sure before standing back and looking at the surroundings again with a different perspective.

  With the Schrödinger’s cat conundrum now out of the way, she had time to worry about whether Mrs Petrelli’s attacker might be still hanging around waiting to leap out at her the way Giancarlo had. Hmm. Giancarlo. He obviously had the aggression and the temper to do this kind of thing – and yet. And yet a knitting needle was a curious choice of weapon. Almost feminine. Or the weapon of someone who seriously resented women and who had been offended by the rise of assertive knitting clubs like Cosy Clicks.

  She ran these ideas past Christopher when he arrived, ahead of the police, whom she had called immediately after finding the body.

  He frowned. ‘I don’t know if it proves anything. A psychologist might have some idea though. I expect the police have one tucked away somewhere, doing profiling.’

  He glanced at her sideways. ‘It’s in their hands from now on.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘As long as they don’t try to pin this on Darren again.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they, now that he’s on the run?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Oh, why are you being so sensible all of a sudden?’ cried Amaryllis.

  He smiled. ‘Somebody has to be… It wasn’t very sensible of you to come down here on your own either, was it? Especially if you suspected the worst had happened. The murderer could have been still here.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did think of that, but it was too late by then.’

  Police sirens approached. The police must have had their own way across or round the railway line, and Amaryllis and Christopher were soon surrounded by cars, ambulances and paramedics, one of whom incurred Amaryllis’s rage by offering her a space blanket ‘for the shock.’

  ‘She doesn’t get shock,’ she heard Christopher explain as she stormed off across the yard.

  Only moments later she called back to them, ‘I’ve found something over here.’

  She had almost stood on a ball of red wool with sparkly bits in it. Another knitting needle lay not far away.

  ‘It’s Old Mrs Petrelli’s wool,’ she told the policemen. ‘She was knitting a top for Victoria – a red top with sparkly bits.’

  Something must have got in her eye. She blinked. Something wet trickled down her face. She wondered when it had started to rain. It was only when Christopher took her by the arm – not the injured one – and said, ‘It’s all right to cry, you know,’ that she realised what was happening to her.

  ‘I’m not the Snow Queen, you know,’ she said crossly. ‘I am capable of crying.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ said one of the policemen.

  ‘We’ll have to get it bagged up,’ said the other.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere, either,’ said the first. ‘Mr Smith’ll be wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘He just can’t keep away from me, can he?’ sighed Amaryllis. Was it only that afternoon she had spent two hours talking to Mr Smith? It seemed longer ago somehow.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ said the second policeman. ‘You’d better wait in the car… Both of you.’

  She and Christopher were ushered to the back seat of an unmarked police car and sat there together.

  ‘This brings back memories,’ said Amaryllis happily.

  ‘I don’t think I need to know about any of those,’ said Christopher.

  They watched in silence as the police worked around Old Mrs Petrelli. Amaryllis didn’t really want to think about all the indignities they would now put her through. In theory Amaryllis didn’t think it mattered any more now that Mrs Petrelli was dead, but in practice she felt for the woman and her family – contrary to popular belief, Amaryllis had feelings occasionally as well as being able to cry. She wondered if the other Petrellis would come and do a formal identification here or whether they would have to wait until the body had been taken away and laid out neatly in hygienic white surroundings. Probably the police would want to protect their crime scene so they wouldn’t allow anyone else in here.

  After a while Mr Smith arrived in another unmarked car. They saw him look at Old Mrs Petrelli, speak to the officers and then glance over towards the car they sat in. Amaryllis wondered if she was imagining his stance becoming more unyielding and his face setting in hard lines as he heard they were there. She hoped he would let them go home before too long. They were only getting in the way here, and her elbow was starting to hurt a lot, a sure sign she was tired.

  ‘You’re just getting in the way here,’ said Mr Smith when he spoke to them at last, having done a comple
te circuit of the railway yard and having held a lengthy conversation with the officer who was presumably the next most senior one present – it was almost as if he was deliberately keeping Amaryllis and Christopher waiting. Now he sat in the front seat of the car, sideways on so that he could see both of them. ‘So I’ll just ask you a couple of questions for now and – providing you can be trusted to stay around town and not do a runner – you can come down to the station tomorrow to make formal statements.’ He turned to Amaryllis. ‘Were you the first on the scene?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What made you come here?’

  ‘I was looking for Old Mrs Petrelli.’

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘Just a feeling,’ she said after a pause. It was embarrassing to admit to a senior police officer that she had let something as insubstantial as ‘a feeling’ dictate a course of action, but after all policemen, or at least fictional ones, were famous for obeying hunches, and she considered this to be at least as valid as a hunch. He raised his eyebrows. She amplified her statement slightly. ‘I thought it was the kind of place where something bad might have happened.’

  ‘Hmm… And you, Mr Wilson? You were the next one here? What made you come along?’

  ‘Amaryllis phoned me. When she was on her way. She needed backup.’

  ‘And she thought you could provide it?’ Mr Smith looked sceptical. Christopher met his gaze with the blandness that was his specialty.

  ‘I was someone she could trust.’

  ‘Ah, yes, trust… So neither of you had any inside knowledge of what had happened. No communication from Darren Laidlaw, for instance.’

  So that was it! Amaryllis had almost forgotten about Darren. Her instinct – again that insubstantial thing – had told her this was nothing to do with him, so she had ruled him out of the equation.

  ‘I don’t think this has anything to do with him,’ she muttered, sounding even in her own ears like a sulky schoolgirl.

  'You don't think?' he snapped. 'Will I tell you what I think?'

  They were silent.

  'I think you're lucky I don't arrest both of you right now for wasting police time, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and any other charge I can dream up. If I didn't think you would be an evil influence on other inmates I would very much like to see you spend some time in prison. I want you both to be at the police station at eight o'clock tomorrow morning with a believable story and a cast-iron alibi. And then I want you to go away after solemnly promising not to interfere in my case - or any other case - ever again. Ever. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Well, that's us told,' said Amaryllis happily as they made their way across the railway tracks again.

  'Were you trying not to laugh while he was talking then?'

  'How did you know?'

  'Me too... Let's get some chips on the way up the road.'

  'Can we get Irn Bru as well?' said Amaryllis. She was relieved that the relationship between herself and Christopher seemed to be back on its old footing. There was nothing like a threat from an external enemy to bring people together. 'You can come round to my flat if you like.'

  'That would be good - my house smells of tablet,' said Christopher. 'And if I see Big Dave cuddling Jemima again I'll probably throw up.'

  'You know what?' said Amaryllis. 'I think we're a good influence on each other.'

  Chapter 11 Recriminations from all angles

  Jock McLean had planned to have a leisurely day, ambling to the newsagents - or dashing, if the weather was wet and windy as it had been every other spring day for almost as long as he could remember - then reading the paper while providing his own running commentary about the news, especially as it related to education. He would quite possibly eat lots of toast. At some point he might take himself to the Queen of Scots to see if his friends were about. If not, then he would have a couple of solitary pints and wander home to watch something trivial on television.

  First thing in the morning he was just contemplating this packed programme while looking out of the window to try and determine the outside temperature without actually going outside, when the door-bell rang. What happened next drove a coach and horses through all his plans.

  'Mr McLean?' said one police officer, looking stern.

  He had a wee girl in police uniform with him too. She looked fragile, but Jock had learned from experience that the fragile ones were the toughest. It was as if they had steel wires running through them where the muscles should be. But surely this one wasn't old enough to be a policewoman?

  'We'd like you to accompany us to the police station, please. We have some questions to ask you regarding a serious matter.'

  'Karen Whitefield!' exclaimed Jock.

  The wee girl in uniform blushed.

  'That's Sergeant Whitefield of West Fife Constabulary, sir,' said the policeman, looking even sterner.

  'I thought you were going on to university to study sociology or one of these other new-fangled things,' said Jock to Karen, whom he had recognised as a former pupil of his. 'What made you throw it all away for this?'

  'Don't you worry, Mr McLean,' said Karen, beaming at him. 'I got my sociology degree first and then joined the police. It's longer than you think since I left school. And police work's a good career nowadays.'

  'Hmph,' said Jock sceptically. 'I'll have to get my coat on. It feels a bit chilly out here.'

  'As long as you don't try and make a getaway out the back,' said the policeman, whose sternness was now starting to sound like a bit of an act.

  'I suppose you've got snipers positioned round there,' said Jock, putting on his winter coat and taking his time over finding a scarf and gloves. It wasn't like him to worry about those details, but for some reason he felt like buying a bit of time to think.

  The two of them smiled politely and escorted him out to their car. He was alarmed to see they hadn't sent an unmarked car for him. He hoped they wouldn't put on the siren as they went along. His neighbours, if they were watching - which they almost certainly were, if they were as nosy as he had always imagined - would already be speculating about what he was in trouble for.

  'Can I phone my son?' he asked as they drove down the road.

  'We can't stop you,' said Karen Whitefield casually. He relaxed a little. However serious the matter was, they probably weren't going to arrest him for it just yet. He would save the phone call until he really needed it.

  They arrived at the police station, and the first people he saw when he went inside were Amaryllis and Christopher.

  'So they've caught up with you as well,' he said to them jovially. 'Not before time.'

  'If we're going down, we're taking you with us,' responded Amaryllis. He was glad to see her looking more like herself. She had been showing signs of settling into middle age the last time he saw her, and that idea depressed him enormously.

  Mr Smith came out of an office. He didn't seem very pleased to see them all.

  'I thought I said they were to be kept apart,' he grumbled to Karen Whitefield. 'We don't want them comparing notes.'

  'Sorry, sir, it won't happen again,' she said. She winked at Jock behind Mr Smith's back. She always had been a sparky wee girl, he reflected happily, remembering an argument they had had once about the Iraq war. He had agreed with her really, but he had played devil's advocate on that occasion.

  'I'll take Mr McLean first,' said Mr Smith. 'We'll keep those two jokers waiting for a while.'

  'Excuse me,' said Amaryllis, 'I don't think Mr Wilson and I are happy about being referred to as jokers and being kept waiting. I'm sure there's a law protecting jokers from discrimination anyway. Isn't it covered by the recent Equalities legislation? If not, it should be.'

  Mr Smith winced. 'Sergeant Whitefield, please show Ms Peebles and Mr Wilson into the waiting room. See if you can find them a cup of coffee or something. And a couple of copies of Private Eye.'

  Christopher and Amaryllis were led away, to cries from Amaryllis of 'Not Private Eye! Anything but that
!' Evidently she was in a skittish mood today. Jock had seen this before and it didn't usually bode well for anybody associated with her.

  Mr Smith rolled his eyes and took Jock through to an interview room. At least it was clean, Jock noticed, but he didn't think much of the view. You couldn't tell what the weather was doing outside. He kept his coat on in case it got lost somewhere in the police station. You couldn't be too careful in police stations. Someone came into the room behind him. He decided not to bother looking to see who it was. That would be a sign that he lacked confidence. He didn't want Mr Smith thinking he was unsure of himself in any way.

  'Now then,' said Mr Smith, leaning on the table. 'I want you to think very carefully before you answer my question.'

  'I always think carefully!' said Jock indignantly.

  'Yes,' said Mr Smith in a way that, Jock thought, really meant the opposite. 'Do you know where Darren Laidlaw is at this moment?'

  'Isn't he in gaol?'

  'Think about it a bit more and try again,' said Mr Smith. 'You do know he's on the run again?'

  'What? But didn't you lock him up the other day? I brought him in myself. '

  'You didn't know he was on the run?'

  Mr Smith gazed intently at Jock, almost as if he was attempting to see into Jock's brain and divine his thoughts.

  Jock shook his head. 'I haven't spoken to anybody who might have told me.'

  'Your friend Amaryllis Peebles was well aware of it when I spoke to her yesterday.'

  'I don't have a telepathic connection with Amaryllis, I'm happy to say,' said Jock. He shuddered at the idea. Having a telepathic connection with anyone would be nearly as bad as being on Facebook or Twitter and being bombarded with other people's trivia all day every day. He couldn't understand the way some people felt compelled to share every thought with other people. As far as he was concerned, it was safer not to share anything. Then you knew where you were. It made this situation, for instance, much easier for him. He was accustomed to choosing what to say a long time before he spoke.