An early night would have been fine if he had got to sleep quickly - or at all.
He had this odd compulsion to get out of bed and peer out of the bedroom window on to the street below, twitching aside the curtain just as he always suspected his neighbours of doing. Then there were the sounds. He hadn't realised how much noise went on in his street, which was in a quiet part of town. Odd bumps and bangs from outside as a spring breeze wafted in from the river and rattled people's plant-pots, fences and wheelie-bins; a kind of screeching sound that could have been an owl, or a fox, or cats fighting, or even somebody wheeling their bin out - except that it wasn't bin day tomorrow, as far as he could recall.
He was drifting off to sleep, or so it seemed, when there was a louder crash from outside and he came back to full wakefulness with a start. There was nothing for it, he told himself, but to go downstairs and investigate. Far worse to lie here imagining things than to face what had actually happened.
He put on his dressing-gown and crept down the stairs. What was that squeaking noise? Was somebody trying to get into the house? Were the people who had broken his window - who may or may not have been the same people who shot at him and the others in the woods - preparing to have another go? Would his lifeless body be found weeks later like the lonely old men he sometimes read about in the papers?
Just stop it! he told himself. Pull yourself together. There’s nobody there – it was Darren they were after, not you. And he’s safely locked up now.
The little window at the side of the front room was rattling a bit in the wind. The wedge of paper he usually jammed in it to stop the noise was lying on the floor; he picked it up and put it back in its place. He twitched the curtain aside and looked outside quickly. There was a fox running up the street – it had probably knocked something over as it looked for food in a bin. There was nothing to worry about in that. He didn’t mind urban foxes, or the rural kind for that matter. Live and let live.
He went upstairs and got back into bed. For goodness’ sake, why didn’t he just lie down and go to sleep? He usually managed it without any problem.
At one o’clock in the morning, he went downstairs again to make a cup of tea and some toast.
At two o’clock he had to admit to himself what was wrong. He felt vulnerable in his own home.
Jock McLean had never felt vulnerable before, and he didn’t like it. It reminded him he was getting old, and would doubtless become more and more dependent on other people, first for companionship, then for the necessities of life, and finally for life itself.
But he wasn’t quite ready to give in without a fight, and he thought he knew what would cure his present feeling of vulnerability, and that was taking some action to remove its cause. In this case, taking action that would get his attackers behind bars as soon as possible. And he knew just the person who could help, too.
Fortunately, she rarely slept, as far as he knew. He had heard tales of her night-time exploits from Christopher, who had probably not witnessed them at first hand since he seemed like the kind of person who would go to bed – with a hot-water-bottle, of course, maybe even one shaped like a teddy-bear – at ten pm and sleep like a log until wakened by the dawn chorus, whenever that might happen.
In spite of this knowledge Jock felt a qualm of conscience about ringing her doorbell at two-thirty am. After all, this could be the one night of the week when she had decided to have an early night. Alternatively, she might already be out on the prowl, following up some of the leads they had identified earlier.
‘State your name and business,’ said the voice on the entry phone system.
‘It’s me, Jock McLean,’ he said, feeling ridiculous.
‘I know it’s you, you idiot,’ said Amaryllis, materialising behind him and making him jump.
‘Would you feel guilty if I dropped dead of a heart attack?’ said Jock. ‘How did you do that anyway? Being in two places at once, I mean.’
‘Just a talent I have. Or maybe it’s got something to do with the recording I always leave switched on when I go out,’ she said solemnly.
‘Hmph,’ he said.
‘What are you up to? Couldn’t sleep?’
This was too close to the truth. Jock said, ‘I thought you might like company if you were going out following up some of those leads.’
‘I’ve already been for a wander,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But we could have another look round if you like. I haven’t been down to the Petrellis yet.’
‘Have you been watching them?’
‘I did one night’s surveillance, but nothing much happened so I haven’t done that again yet… Well, an unidentified man came out and got in a car and drove away. There wasn’t really anything to follow up. But I do pop round that way from time to time, just in case.’
Amaryllis led the way up the main road from its junction with Merchantman Wynd, and down again as it became the High Street.
‘Is your house all right?’ she asked casually as they walked.
‘It’ll do me,’ said Jock. ‘I believe you fixed my window for me?’
He tried hard not to sound accusing.
‘Yes, I thought I might as well get that sorted out,’ said Amaryllis. ‘So you didn’t come back to it.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Jock; again he tried hard with his tone of voice, in case it didn’t sound grateful enough. For some reason he had suddenly become conscious that his usual manner was seen by some people as too brusque and unsympathetic. Not that he was about to turn into one of these would-be social workers who went around asking people how they felt, and pretending to empathise. In his opinion empathy was a vastly overrated skill.
They approached the Petrelli’s restaurant with caution, and Amaryllis instructed Jock about which wall he should hide behind if anything happened, and what their likely escape route would be in the unlikely event that they were pursued by anyone.
As they came round the corner, they became aware of some activity in front of the building. Two figures stood outside, talking to each other in low voices.
‘Wait here,’ said Amaryllis, pulling Jock into the road behind a parked car. He had to crouch slightly, putting yet more strain on his knee joints. They hadn’t really recovered yet from being squashed into Burke and Hare’s little chalet.
As they waited, they heard a vehicle draw up outside the restaurant. Amaryllis peeped out to try and see what was happening, while admonishing Jock not to do the same. He waited patiently. His knees creaked a bit.
‘It’s some sort of ambulance,’ she reported in a whisper.
A pause. She drew her head in again like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell.
They could hear some people talking in raised voices. Jock wondered if he only imagined they were speaking Italian. Amaryllis peered out again.
‘They’re all out there now. Giulia Petrelli, Victoria, Giancarlo, two men I’ve never seen before… I wonder where Mr Petrelli is…’
A long pause. Amaryllis kept watching. A cat ran past with something in its mouth. Jock wondered if Burke and Hare were ever allowed out hunting in the night. He could visualise all the tiny dead mice and robins lined up in a row on their owner’s doorstep in the morning.
‘There are paramedics and they’re bringing somebody out on a stretcher. I can’t see who it is. Wait a minute.’
She took something out of her pocket. When she turned round again to speak to Jock, he saw that it was some sort of fancy binoculars, perhaps with night vision. They would certainly come in handy for a night-bird like Amaryllis.
‘It’s Mr Petrelli. On the stretcher. I think we’ve seen enough for now, but don’t come out until they’ve gone.’
She peeked out again and drew her head back very quickly. 'Someone's coming this way,' she hissed. 'I think he's spotted us. Get ready to run for it.'
No! Not again, said Jock to himself. He didn't even know if his knees would get him up from a crouching position fast enough to walk for it, never mind run. Maybe he would just give himself up and ho
pe they would show mercy to a poor old man. He had a feeling they wouldn't.
'Just keep very still,' Amaryllis mouthed.
Footsteps approached, paused and receded. Jock hardly dared to breathe.
Then a car drove off down the road past the harbour, going at quite a speed, perhaps heading for the nearest junction with the main road at the other end of the town. He heard the sound of a distant conversation, some doors banging and then silence. After a few minutes Amaryllis, who was much more daring than he would have been, poked her head out again.
'They've gone,' she said.
'Are you sure?' he whispered. He now regarded the space behind the car as a safe haven where he would be willing to stay indefinitely, if only he didn't have to make himself a target by walking down the street.
'We could always wait until daylight and let everybody in town see what we've been up to,' she said. 'Come on - if you want to hang out with me you'll have to learn the rules. Go in, try not to be seen, get out as soon as you can.'
She tugged at his arm. He straightened slowly, and, he hoped, with dignity.
'Well, that was interesting,' she said brightly as they walked back up the High Street. For a few moments Jock concentrated on making sure his knees were operating correctly and carrying him along more or less in a straight line. Even in the dark he didn't want to look too much like Charlie Chaplin. He had to be able to hold his head up after all this fuss was over.
'Very interesting,' she continued. 'Roberto Petrelli was fine the last time we saw him - remember, he and the family were at the police station shouting at us. And Giulia never mentioned at Cosy Clicks he had a chronic illness or anything.'
'At Cosy Clicks? Surely she'd never talk about that kind of thing at a knitting group!'
'That's exactly the sort of thing she'd have talked about at Cosy Clicks,' said Amaryllis. She sighed. 'Unfortunately.'
'But - how can you stand it?' said Jock. 'Knowing what you know - having seen the terrible things you've seen. How can you stand all the utter trivia?’
'I don't want to be thinking about my past all the time, Jock,' she said reprovingly. 'In fact, believe it or not, I've already forgotten most of it.'
'So what do you think is wrong with Mr Petrelli?'
'There are a few possibilities. But the fact that nobody's said anything about him being ill, and the private ambulance he was taken away in, point in the same direction.'
'What? Sudden illness? Something embarrassing?' he said.
'Gunshot wounds,' she replied. 'There's nothing quite as embarrassing as a gunshot wound - in my experience.'
‘But how – why didn’t they call the police if he was shot?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Amaryllis calmly. ‘There are several reasons I can think of – they knew who shot him and didn’t want to get them into trouble. Or he was doing something dodgy himself and it was an accident. Or – ‘
‘Is this part of the protection racket we were talking about earlier?’ said Jock, who felt increasingly as if he were out of his depth.
‘It’s looking more like part of the same thing,’ said Amaryllis. ‘And I think I know when the shooting incident happened.’
Jock thought about it for a minute or two. ‘In the woods! When they were after us! There was a yell and a shot and then they disappeared. Didn’t you say something about blood? Or did I imagine it?’
‘Yes, I did find a trace of blood. Well, actually it was more than just a trace. It was a bucketful. I just said that because I didn’t want anyone freaking out.’
‘So one or more of them – whoever them is,’ said Jock ungrammatically, ’were shooting at us in the woods and then Mr Petrelli somehow got shot by mistake.’
‘Yes. Either he was on his own and shot himself in the foot or whatever, or he was with somebody else who either got cross with him and took a shot at him, or accidentally shot him, maybe mistaking him for one of us.’
‘That’s a lot of eithers and ors,’ said Jock.
She frowned. ‘Too many. We still don’t know very much. But I’m guessing there was at least one other person with him, to help him home after it happened… But if they were shooting to kill why didn’t they just finish him off?’
‘Maybe there were two others there, and only one of them wanted him dead,’ suggested Jock.
‘Two others. Hmm. Zak Johnstone and Stewie? Zak Johnstone and Giancarlo?’
‘Giancarlo and Stewie?’ said Jock, entering into the spirit of things. He shook his head. ‘They’re just kids.’
‘Kids or not,’ said Amaryllis grimly. ‘I’ll be looking for all three of them tomorrow, and I won’t rest till I find them. They’ve got some questions to answer. They can run, but they can’t hide.’
Chapter 22 No hiding place
Amaryllis wasn’t sure if she wanted to take Jock out with her again. By her standards he had been a bit over-cautious last night, and his joints had obviously given him trouble. On the other hand, she didn’t seem to be able to get rid of him. After they had finished the night’s work, he showed no sign of going home, and it seemed only charitable to offer him a bed for what was left of the hours of darkness. In the morning he made himself some breakfast and settled down in the living-room to read ‘The Constant Gardener’ which she didn’t think he would like anyway. She would have to persuade him to go home eventually, but she didn’t have time to think about that at the moment.
‘Will we go round for Christopher?’ he said eagerly as they set off from the flat.
‘Go round for him? What are we, school kids? Do you want to ask if he can come out to play?’
‘Just a thought,’ he mumbled.
She paused to reflect, then said, reluctantly, ‘He’d be cross with us if we didn’t take him, wouldn’t he?’
‘I’m not sure if cross is the right word,’ said Jock. ‘Maybe he’d be a wee bit hurt.’
‘Hmph! I don’t acknowledge hurt feelings as a reason for doing anything,’ she said.
‘Not everybody lives according to your rules,’ he countered. ‘Anyway, you might need somebody to run for help. He’d be better at doing that than me.’
‘I’d better rule out Big Dave and Jemima, in that case,’ she said. She had no intention of involving them in any way whatsoever. This could be quite dangerous – very dangerous, by most people’s standards – and she couldn’t have their lives on her conscience, no matter how accommodating her conscience could be on occasion.
Christopher was eating toast as he opened his front door. Part of her had wanted to break in and appear inside his house to give him a fright, but another part of her brain, where her spy training lived, told her sternly to save these tricks for emergencies.
‘Want any toast?’ he said. ‘Morning, Jock. All right?’
‘We’re off to catch some villains,’ said Jock. ‘Do you want to come along?’
‘This is sounding a bit like a Wizard of Oz kind of thing,’ said Christopher suspiciously. ‘Is there a yellow brick road? Can we link arms and sing as we go along?’
‘No, and there isn’t a rainbow either,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Although I suppose you and Jock would be naturals for the Scarecrow and the Lion.’ She lowered her voice in case Mr Browning from next-door had secreted a microphone in the party wall to assist with his long-term project of monitoring what went on in Christopher’s house. ‘We’re going to find Zak Johnstone and Stewie, and maybe Giancarlo Petrelli, and make them sorry they were ever born.’
‘Am I the Scarecrow or the Lion?’ said Christopher uneasily. ‘Where were you thinking of looking for them?’
‘Work it out for yourself,’ said Amaryllis.
‘The railway yard?’ he asked.
‘Well, we know that’s a hang-out of theirs. We can start there, and if we don’t get anywhere we’ll review the situation and re-group. Penelope might have some idea where Zak is, although I don’t hold out much hope since she apparently had no idea he was part of a gang of enforcers who went around breaking into catt
eries.’
‘Children, eh?’ commented Jock. ‘Always a disappointment one way or another.'
Christopher obediently got his coat and came out on to the garden path, still munching the last crust of toast.
There was a part of Amaryllis - the part that had gone soft during her life in Pitkirtly - that thought it would be much nicer to spend Saturday morning in Christopher's kitchen persuading him to make toast and more toast until lunchtime, while the police rounded up villains on behalf of the whole community, but for the moment at least the other part was dominant - the part that was chronically competitive and wanted to wrap things up before involving the police.
They trudged down towards the old railway yard.
After they had crossed the tracks, Amaryllis decided it was time to unveil her plan, such as it was.
'You two can wait here in case they make a run for it. If there's any trouble subduing them or if it looks as if they might be armed, get out of here and phone the police right away. Have you got your mobiles with you?'
She knew from experience that Christopher's mobile often sat on the kitchen table for days on end, which sort of defeated its whole purpose in the scheme of things, and that Jock's was almost never switched on. Neither of them had really embraced new technology.
'I've got mine,' said Jock, producing it from his pocket, while Christopher's look of guilty surprise told its own story.
'Is it switched on?' she said patiently, feeling like a mother asking her son if he had done his homework.
Jock switched on the mobile. It even made a small chirruping sound to show its battery hadn't gone dead during the probable weeks of neglect.
'Right, wait here. I'm going round to the other side. It's no use just walking into the yard - there's only one real way out and we could be caught like rats in a trap if they're hiding in there somewhere.'
'But you - can't we come with you?' said Christopher.
'I'll be in far more danger if I take you than if I go on my own,' said Amaryllis bluntly. It was no time to consider anyone's feelings.
'You're probably right,' was all he said.
3 A Reformed Character Page 16
