3 A Reformed Character

by Cecilia Peartree

  'You do know that harbouring a criminal is against the law?'

  'Always has been, as far as I know,' said Jock. 'So is locking people up without just cause.'

  Mr Smith gazed at Jock again. 'He came to you the last time.'

  'I don't know why,' said Jock. 'I'm not his keeper... Anyway, I turned him over to you that time.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Smith. Again he sounded as if he didn't believe Jock, although he knew perfectly well it was true. 'So you're saying you haven't seen him since then?'

  'You know what I'm saying,' said Jock. 'It seems perfectly clear to me.'

  'Can we search your house?'

  'Can you get a warrant?'

  'Hmm,' said Mr Smith. 'I'd better go and have a word with those friends of yours. Wait here.'

  Nothing happened for an hour or so. Jock didn't mind sitting there deep in thought for that length of time. At his age he had plenty of things stored in his brain to bring out, dust down and give an airing to in these spare moments. The other person in the room, who had turned out to be a young police officer with a notebook, was a bit more restless, shuffling his feet, walking across the room and back, singing under his breath. But Jock hadn't been a school teacher for nothing. He just tuned out any background noise made by the young man.

  Karen Whitefield came into the room. Her expression was more serious than before.

  'I have to tell you, Mr McLean, that Darren's escape is now part of a murder investigation.'

  'The boy who was stabbed?'

  'There's something else now. It happened yesterday. Your friends know about it, so Mr Smith says I can tell you... It was Old Mrs Petrelli. She was stabbed with a knitting needle at about four-thirty pm yesterday afternoon.'

  'Oh dear,' said Jock after a pause. His heart jumped once and then it settled into its usual rhythm as she spoke. 'Have you got any idea who - ?'

  'It's not rocket science.' Karen, who had been standing in front of Jock with folded arms, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table facing him. 'Darren Laidlaw gets out - Mrs Petrelli disappears - she's found dead. This is very serious, Mr McLean. There are lives at stake.'

  'Including Darren's,' said Jock. 'Have you got any actual evidence to connect Darren with this? Or with the other case? Or is it all circumstantial?'

  'I can't discuss that,' she said, closing her mouth tightly.

  'Can I go now?'

  'Mr Smith told me to let you go if you still insist you don't know anything. But don't leave town.'

  He looked at her expression and saw that she wasn't joking. The police, if they had the manpower, would keep him under some sort of surveillance. If he didn't watch his step, he would be brought in here again and interrogated with more formality, perhaps even charged with something or other. Jock resolved to be very careful. It wasn't a difficult resolution to make: he had lived his life being careful and not getting into trouble. Maybe the second of these rules had now been undermined by events, but he could still live by the first one.

  In the corridor outside, there was a disturbance going on. It seemed that the remaining members of the Petrelli family had come face to face with Amaryllis and Christopher near the door to the interview room where Jock had been questioned. Mr Smith and another police officer stood in between the factions as another officer ushered the Petrellis towards the reception area, hurling insults as they went. Amaryllis and Christopher refrained from talking back.

  Jock joined his friends. 'Noisy lot, aren't they?' he commented as a very agitated Giancarlo Petrelli, his face distorted with rage, shook his fist and shouted, 'Murderers!' Victoria Petrelli, her eyes so swollen with the aftermath of tears that she looked, unbelievably, almost ugly, stood to one side of the others, subdued and silent. An older man - perhaps the one they had seen in the restaurant - put his hand on Giancarlo's arm, apparently to restrain him from leaping forward. A middle-aged woman with classical features, a lot like Victoria's, talked incessantly in Italian. It wasn't clear who she was addressing or whether she was telling Giancarlo to calm down or inciting him to further disturbance.

  Karen Whitefield had shepherded Jock out of the interview room. Now she said quietly, 'We'd better get you out the back way. Come on.'

  They walked further along the corridor and out through a fire door, down some stairs and they were suddenly in the car park.

  'Remember, don't leave town!' she called after them, closing the door.

  'We may have to leave town just to avoid being lynched by the Petrellis,' said Christopher. 'What on earth's the matter with them?'

  'They're very upset,' said Amaryllis.

  'Hmph!' said Christopher. 'That's no excuse for behaving like football hooligans.'

  'Well, I'd better be getting up to the paper shop I suppose,' said Jock. 'They'll be wondering where I am.'

  They went through the car park gates and found themselves in a small back alley that they knew led to the High Street.

  'It isn't opening time yet, is it?' said Amaryllis. 'I could do with a drink.'

  'What did they have you in there for?' said Jock.

  'We found the body,' said Christopher. He couldn't suppress a small shudder. 'They just wanted to ask us more questions about that - how we came to be there and so on. Nothing heavy.'

  'How about you?' said Amaryllis to Jock. 'What had you done to arouse the mighty ire of Chief Inspector Smith?'

  'Um,' said Jock. 'It was mostly about Darren.'

  'Darren? Did they think you were harbouring him again? After turning him over to the police the last time?' said Christopher. 'You'd have to be mad! Once was enough.'

  'Yes, it was,' said Jock. 'Well, better get going. I've got the paper to read, and then maybe -'

  He noticed Amaryllis staring at him, and changed his mind in the middle of the sentence. 'I might be going over to Milngavie to my son's tomorrow. Not sure yet though - he's a bit busy.'

  'What are the buses like on a Sunday?' said Amaryllis in a conversational tone he found quite sinister.

  'Not that great,' he admitted. 'But it's a while since I've seen Wee Jock, what with the holiday and everything.'

  He insisted on thinking of, and often referring to, his grandson as Wee Jock, although the boy's name was actually Jack. He did make an effort not to do it in front of his son and daughter-in-law though.

  'See you soon, then,' said Christopher. 'Don't forget about the Cultural Centre Quiz Night. Only a week to go.'

  'Don't worry,' growled Jock. 'It's etched on my memory.'

  He still regretted promising to join a quiz team with Amaryllis, Mrs Stevenson and Dave. He foresaw lots of pointless arguments about things he knew the answers to perfectly well. Team games were just more trouble than they were worth.

  He trudged on up to the newsagents. He had a sort of feeling that Amaryllis would be watching his progress with that thoughtful look on her face - the look that suggested she knew all his secrets and was pondering appropriate action. He didn't even glance back at her.

  After all, he didn't have any secrets, did he?

  Chapter 12 Bang to Rights

  Christopher had tentatively planned a quiet Sunday. Tentatively, because now that all this had kicked off he wasn't sure if Amaryllis might drag him off on some wild-goose chase that ended up either with him tied to the railway tracks or getting trapped on the mudflats as the tide came in, or in some other life-threatening situation too grim for him to imagine.

  Then there was the ongoing possibility that Mrs Stevenson and Dave would come round to show him how to catch and cook a haggis, which could be just as life-threatening one way or another. He wasn't sure which option would be worse.

  He had managed to get through the morning without anything going wrong, but he knew it couldn't last, even with Jock McLean promising to go to Milngavie for the day. But he was surprised when he answered the door halfway through the afternoon and found Victoria Petrelli on the doorstep, looking bedraggled and alluringly waif-like. Her eyes filled with tears as he stared at her, and sh
e whispered, 'Can I come in?' in a small child's voice.

  'Of course,' said Christopher and ushered her through to the kitchen, which people usually found was the warmest and most welcoming room in the house. Now that Mrs Stevenson and Dave were in the habit of taking up residence there for hours on end, he sometimes wondered if he had made it too warm and welcoming. Maybe he should install a ferocious terrier called Basher or Bruiser in a basket in the corner. He put the kettle on. Victoria sat on a chair at the table, sniffing.

  'Make yourself at home,' he said belatedly. 'Tea or coffee? Would you like something to eat? Toast?'

  The bread-bin was empty. After apologising for this, he realised he could only offer samples left over from Mrs Stevenson's tablet making session. She took a little square but made such an awful face when she bit into it that he didn't have the heart to offer any more. He took a couple of squares himself, in defence of Mrs Stevenson, and nibbled at it as he made the tea. When it was ready he sat down at the corner of the table nearest her and said, 'We were sorry to hear about your grandmother. Amaryllis had been looking forward to speaking to her again.'

  Victoria managed a nod. She sipped at her tea and watched him with big dark eyes. He wondered what to say.

  'Have the police said anything about - what might have happened?'

  She shook her head. He asked himself why she had come here. It was an odd thing to do - unless the atmosphere at home was just getting too much to bear and she couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

  There was silence for a few moments. Then she suddenly started to speak.

  'Do you have any idea where Darren might be? I need to find him. It's very important.'

  'Darren? A lot of people are looking for him. The police as well as you.'

  'Darren couldn't have done this - thing. He knew Nonnina. They didn't understand each other's language but they did speak to each other - in a way.'

  'Have you told the police that?'

  'They didn't ask me,' said Victoria. 'They just kept asking and asking where he was. As if he would come anywhere near me! He knew they would be watching.'

  It was odd, but her speech pattern had suddenly become different - as if she had been re-absorbed into the circle of her Italian family, and a lifetime of living in Pitkirtly had been thrown away in favour of a return to her ancestral language. He wondered if the whole family might return to Italy after this catastrophe - although they were well-established here and their restaurant seemed to be a thriving concern. But in a way people still regarded them as foreigners and always would. On the other hand, people who were born and bred in Pitkirtly regarded natives of Limekilns and Culross, just along the coast, as foreigners too.

  'I thought of you. You were always nice to me and Darren. I thought he might have come to you.'

  'No,' said Christopher.

  The door-bell rang again.

  Amaryllis was on the doorstep, her red hair ruffled up by the wind. She looked rather more wild and unkempt than usual, and Christopher had a sudden vision of her future, when she would be a batty old lady with fifteen cats and a local reputation as a witch. He laughed. She scowled.

  'What's so funny?'

  'Nothing,' he said, knowing it was more than his life was worth to tell her what he had been thinking. 'Victoria's here. In the kitchen.'

  'Really?' she said.

  What, did she think it was an idle fantasy on his part?

  She barged on ahead of him to the kitchen, bringing a wave of chilly but invigorating air with her. Victoria didn't look all that pleased to see her.

  'I'll go now,' she said, getting out of the kitchen chair and putting her half-empty cup on the table, together with the remnants of her square of tablet.

  'No, don't go just yet,' said Christopher. He was genuinely concerned about her. It seemed to him that she must be quite desperate for help to have resorted to ringing his doorbell, and he felt guilty that he hadn't given her any crumb of comfort.

  'I can see you don't know anything about Darren,' said Victoria, looking from Amaryllis to Christopher and back.

  Amaryllis said, 'He could be halfway to Belfast by now. Or anywhere.'

  'Belfast?' Victoria sounded alarmed.

  'A random example. It could just as easily have been Carlisle. Anywhere with no extradition treaty.'

  Victoria gave her a look. 'Inside the UK? I don't think that's relevant.'

  Amaryllis brushed past the girl and went over to switch the kettle on again. Christopher showed Victoria out and returned to the kitchen, irritated.

  'What is it with you and Victoria?'

  'I think we've had this conversation before,' said Amaryllis. 'Actually, I wanted her to leave.'

  'Why? If it's just because you don't like her -'

  'It isn't anything to do with that,' said Amaryllis. 'You're right though, I don't like her.' She paused for thought. 'It's more that I don't trust her. I think she's hiding something.'

  'Isn't everybody?'

  'Yes, of course they are... Especially Jock McLean.'

  'Jock McLean? I wish! He doesn't hide anything - his views on kids today, his contempt for popular culture, his hatred of authority...'

  Amaryllis smiled. 'Jock McLean is hiding something right now. And I intend to let him know he can't keep it secret from us.'

  She made herself a cup of instant coffee, opened a cupboard and took out Christopher's biscuit tin. 'What the hell's this?' she said, peering at the greaseproof-paper-wrapped pieces of tablet. She took out a piece and tapped at it. 'It's got the weight and feel of cast-iron - and the texture of a sugar-cube.'

  'It's Mrs Stevenson's tablet,' said Christopher. 'She and Dave were round the other day giving me a lesson in how to make it. It's an acquired taste.'

  'It should be sponsored by dentists,' said Amaryllis, trying and failing to break a piece off. 'Or maybe it could be made into some sort of improvised weapon.'

  'I'm sure you could make anything into an improvised weapon.'

  They were still bickering as they set off for Jock McLean's house, Amaryllis having persuaded Christopher to accompany her on her mission. The likelihood of her having changed was becoming fainter and fainter by the minute. When they were nearly there, she said, 'OK, you ring the front doorbell and I'll go round the back.'

  'What is this? - A raid?' said Christopher. 'Has he got a drugs stash in there or something?'

  'Better than that,' she said, and scaled the nearest fence. He assumed she had been here before or had at least reconnoitred the area, and knew the way round to Jock's back garden. 'Just give me a couple of minutes before you ring the bell,' she added in muffled tones from behind the fence.

  He walked the last hundred yards to Jock's front door very, very slowly, counting his steps and avoiding the lines in the pavement like a four-year-old. He remembered Jock saying he might go to Milngavie. Presumably Amaryllis thought this was just a front for some nefarious activity she imagined he was engaged in.

  He rang the bell and wondered what he would say to Jock. He thought he heard voices in the house. Maybe Jock's son had come to visit him instead. Or maybe Jock was entertaining some woman, and this was what Amaryllis suspected. It would be horrendously embarrassing if that were the case. Not for the first time, Christopher started to wish he hadn't gone along with one of Amaryllis's madcap plans.

  The door opened. 'Yes?' said Jock. 'Oh - it's you. I thought it would be the police again. It's a funny thing - even once you've told them everything you know, they just keeping on asking. And then you have to tell them all over again while they write it down.'

  Hmm. Delaying tactics. Christopher played along. 'They were the same with us. Just asking the same question over and over again. I suppose they think they'll wear you down until you confess to everything.'

  'Bit like a nagging woman, eh?' said Jock. There was still no sign that he was going to invite Christopher in.

  'I wouldn't know about that.'

  'Lucky for you,' said Jock.

  'I sup
pose so.'

  They stood in silence for a while. Jock had just opened his mouth, presumably to speak again, when there was a crash from somewhere in the house, followed by a yell and the sound of running feet. Then Darren came hurtling down the stairs much too fast and fell over his feet on the second last step and landed in a heap in the hall.

  'Get in here, quick,' said Jock, grabbing Christopher by the arm, pulling him over the threshold and slamming the door behind him all in one movement. Amaryllis appeared at the top of the stairs with a smug expression on her face. Darren started to struggle to his feet.

  'It's a fair cop,' said Jock gloomily.

  Chapter 13 Outlaws

  'I knew you were hiding something,' said Amaryllis as they sat in Jock's front room and ate chocolate digestives. 'And it didn't take a rocket scientist to work out what.'

  'I suppose that means the police'll be up here soon,' said Jock.

  'Victoria was round looking for Darren too,' said Christopher. Darren's expression, which rivalled Jock's in its gloominess, brightened fractionally.

  'We didn't tell her anything,' said Amaryllis. 'The fewer people who know about this, the better.'

  'Need to know,' said Jock, nodding as if he understood.

  'More than enough people know,' said Christopher, 'and some of us would rather not know anything. What are we going to say to the police? They're bound to ask us about Darren again.'

  'We'll go on the run,' said Amaryllis casually.

  'What do you mean, go on the run?' Christopher wasn't impressed by this as a solution to anything. 'That's a really silly idea. What about my job? Some of us have responsibilities, you know.'

  'We all have a responsibility to prevent a miscarriage of justice,' said Amaryllis. 'You didn't kill Old Mrs Petrelli, did you, Darren? Or Alan Donaldson.'

  'I never killed nobody in my life,' said Darren, nursing the ankle he had landed on at the foot of the stairs. 'I liked Old Mrs Petrelli. She gave me free ice-cream when Mr Petrelli wasn't looking.'

  'We need some tea to go with those biscuits,' said Amaryllis. 'Let's go through to the kitchen.'