The Time and the Place: The Pitfourie Series Book 2

by Jane Renshaw

  ‘Go!’ said Eve, grabbing her. ‘We need to go now!’

  They flew down the stairs, bags banging against their legs, and along the passage to the main door and out onto the pavement. Anna was right there, actually jumping up and down.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Run!’ yelled Eve.

  36

  Mrs Mac was happy. Or maybe content would be closer to the mark. Claire could tell because her expression was neutral rather than disapproving. This may have been the festive factor, but was more likely to be related to the fact that she was spending Christmas with her sister and family on their farm near Banff. Hector was driving her up there after lunch.

  She had her reading glasses on and was contemplating the list she’d made of Claire’s tasks for the rest of the day. The two of them were in the housekeeper’s sitting room, which was tucked away down the passage from the kitchen, next to the scullery.

  There was a glowing coal fire in the grate.

  ‘Now,’ said Mrs Mac. ‘Ye’ll need the Aga and the electric. Could be thirty or more coming, and that’s an affa lot of cinnamon buns to be heated up aa thegither.’

  For the carol singers. Would this be the last time carol singers came to the House of Pitfourie? It would certainly be her last ever duty as cook/housekeeper. She would try to get through it without any disasters. And she’d go over to Moss of Kinty this afternoon and speak to Karen; try to persuade her to go home to her parents.

  It was the least she could do.

  ‘And if they’re gluten-free or they dinna like cinnamon, they can bring their ain buns.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It would be the last time she ever saw Hector, probably, at this carol-singing thing. How the hell was she going to get through it, knowing what was about to happen to him, because of what she’d done? Not just to Hector, but to everyone – to this woman whose whole life revolved around the House and its occupants? Maybe she would stay with her sister permanently?

  ‘The fire in the Terrace Room – that’ll need lit good and early to warm the room. It’s a caal’ caal’ roomie, that.’

  ‘The high ceilings, I suppose,’ she said dully. ‘And all the windows.’

  ‘But the acrostics are very good.’

  ‘The – oh, right, the acoustics. Hence it being the music room.’

  ‘And we’ll need chairs brought through from ither rooms. Dinna you be lifting them, mind. Chris and Mick can dee it. You’ll jist supervise.’ She pronounced ‘supervise’ with the emphasis on the last syllable.

  She would miss it, in London, the way people talked up here.

  No she wouldn’t.

  She was going to have to just forget all about it, forget all about everything, forget that this place and everyone in it existed. If she couldn’t do that... How was she going to function?

  She jumped at a knock on the door.

  ‘Come iiiiin!’ trilled Mrs Mac.

  Damian appeared carrying a long fat parcel, like a giant sausage, in Christmas paper. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Helen brought this for you.’

  ‘For me?’ Claire stood, and took the sausage from him.

  ‘She says it’s more a Welcome to Pitfourie present than a Christmas present, so you’re not to get her anything.’

  Oh God. This was all she needed. ‘That’s very nice of her. Is she upstairs?’

  ‘No, she just dropped it and went. She says she made it herself, so don’t get your hopes up. And there’s a card.’ He indicated the envelope attached to the parcel.

  Claire started ripping off the paper.

  ‘Hey,’ Damian objected, trying to pull it from her. ‘Not until tomorrow!’

  Oh God. Tomorrow...

  Tomorrow, his brother was going to be languishing in a cell and, with Mrs Mac away, Damian would be here on his own.

  Merry Christmas.

  ‘Although I suppose the Clacks are having a Swiss Christmas this year,’ he conceded. ‘And the Swiss apparently celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve.’

  The present was a draught excluder in the shape of a dachshund lying on his belly, tiny short legs sticking straight out before and aft, a worried expression on his face. He was made out of brown corduroy with button eyes and was wearing a tweed coat. As Karen would have said: super-cute. The card suggested that Claire use him at the back door at Pond Cottage. That door certainly let in a terrible draught, very unwelcome at seven in the morning when you were running to the bathroom in your nightie.

  ‘Affa fine,’ said Mrs Mac.

  ‘I want one,’ said Damian, taking it from her to examine the finer points. ‘In fact, I want this one.’

  Claire grabbed it back, trying to enter into the spirit of the thing. ‘He’s mine all mine.’

  And a great excuse to go and talk to Jim Clack, en route to Kinty. If she could obtain some sort of evidence to take to DCI Stewart suggesting that Hector had had nothing to do with his father’s death, that would go some way to redressing the balance.

  And it wasn’t as if he’d be jailed for life for a burglary. He’d get the upper end of the sentencing limit, though, given the high-end nature of the crime, the premeditation involved, and the fact that he was a member of what the courts would consider an organised crime group. Ten or twelve years? Out in five or six?

  She realised she was hugging the dog to her chest.

  ‘You’ve bonded already!’ Damian grinned.

  If Hector really had murdered his father, and Jim Clack had evidence to that effect, she could stop feeling this way, she could stop all the agonising, she could silence the voice inside her head that had been wailing ever since she’d ended that call to DCI Stewart:

  What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

  ◆◆◆

  The car was parked two streets away. Anna was such a rubbish runner. Even though she had no bags, she was soon miles behind, and Eve shoved one of her bags at Karen and ran back to her, grabbing her hand and yanking her along. Back down the street, Karen could see Benny, his little legs pumping, his face red and purple and angry.

  She yelled at Eve and Anna: ‘He’s coming!’

  They ran round the corner and then Susie was yelling, ‘Down here!’ and they were running into a little cobbled lane that dipped down and went round the backs of the tenements, and soon they were screened from the street by high walls.

  Anna slid to a halt. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘We’ve got to keep going!’ Eve tugged at her. ‘Come on, Anna.’

  ‘This is brilliant!’

  ‘You won’t be saying that when he catches us!’ said Susie.

  ‘We’ve given him the slip.’ Anna was panting.

  Karen took hold of her other hand, and between them she and Eve pulled her on down the lane, and then Anna seemed to get her second wind and they were all running, feet slapping and slipping on the icy cobbles, and a little bubble of laughter was pushing up inside Karen – the whole thing was just so ridiculous, the four of them being chased by some random criminal she’d got herself involved with.

  In the next street they ran on, dodging shoppers and dogs and kids and lamp-posts, and then they were at the car and chucking the bags into the boot, and then they were inside, Anna and Eve in the front, Karen and Susie in the back, and Eve was accelerating away.

  ‘Woooo-hooo!’ yelled Anna.

  ‘And now you have to go to the police,’ said Susie.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Karen. ‘Like I’m going to go and make a confession. I’d have a criminal record? I’d never get another job?’

  ‘I don’t mean about the thefts. I mean about the phone.’

  ‘How do you know about the phone?’

  ‘Damian –’

  ‘Oh, brilliant. Not only has he dobbed me in to the police, he’s been mouthing off to everyone about how he thinks I’m withholding evidence?’

  ‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘What evidence?’ said Anna.

  ‘God!’ Karen yelled.

  ‘
You’re withholding evidence about Chimp’s murder because you think Ade did it,’ said Susie. ‘And you’ve been stealing from one of your best friends.’ Susie, lovely Susie who never had a bad word to say about anyone, was frowning at her as if seeing her properly for the first time. But it wasn’t an angry frown. It was the kind of look Mollie gave her when Karen told her something that shattered her stupid innocent ideas about the world, like when she’d told her Santa didn’t exist.

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty much a hopeless case.’ Karen looked out of the window at the street.

  ‘You can’t expect us to just say That’s okay, we know you’ve got PTSD. You have to start taking some responsibility. You have to go to the police, and then you have to go to Damian and grovel.’

  ‘At least you got Wilkins back,’ said Anna. ‘He’s going to be pleased about that.’

  ‘Uh,’ said Eve. ‘Don’t you think he might not be exactly ecstatic about Karen stealing him in the first place? Don’t you think it’s going to be a kick in the teeth when he finds out she took something of such sentimental value? Given to him by his dad?’

  ‘It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish!’ burbled Anna. ‘Karen’s sorry now. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got PTSD,’ Eve mimicked.

  ‘Well I fucking have! And it’s not like Damian’s blameless in all this. He betrayed me to the police. He implicated me in a murder.’

  ‘What a load of crap,’ said Eve mildly.

  Susie was still staring at her. ‘Why would you do that to him?’ She was frowning, like she was trying to make sense of a world without Santa Claus in it. ‘Why would you take Wilkins?’

  ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’

  Talk about hard stares – Susie’s eyes were like they were frozen in their sockets. ‘You know how much Wilkins means to Damian. You know it’s not like his dad ever bothered with him much, however he might try to spin it – surely you can empathise with that, at least? It’s not like he’s got loads and loads of happy memories of the fun times they spent together, so the fact he used to play with Wilkins with his dad is like super important? But everything has to be about you, doesn’t it? Poor Karen, poor traumatised Karen – one upsetting incident in your perfect little life that lasts about five minutes and –’

  ‘Oh right, like my life’s so perfect!’

  ‘Yes, compared with Damian’s it fucking is! But you’re the poor little victim, and we all have to understand and let you off, even when what you’ve done is the most despicable thing ever!’

  Susie never swore.

  Susie never judged.

  ‘Let me out,’ said Karen wildly. ‘Let me out right here. I’m getting the bus.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Eve.

  ‘Stop the fucking car!’

  No way could she sit next to New Judgemental Susie for an hour, on the receiving end of the lecture she was obviously working herself up to deliver.

  ‘You’re not going back to Stinky, are you?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? And it’s Kinty.’

  ‘Benny probably saw you, for one thing,’ sighed Eve. ‘They might know by now that you stole the stuff back. I’ll take you home, and maybe your mum and Bill can go and get your things from Stinky later.’

  ‘Stop the fucking car, Eve!’

  ◆◆◆

  Parks of Clova was a farm at the end of a track that dipped down to a little bridge and then up again, round the side of a stone farm building and into a snowy yard. The house itself was like something from a storybook, its original Victorian windows glowing a welcome, its solid back door complete with Christmas wreath.

  Oskar opened the door to Claire’s knock, and when he saw who it was, he beamed. ‘Come in, come in!’

  Helen was in the kitchen, sitting at the table unlacing her boots. It was lovely and warm, and there was an incredible smell of something meaty and savoury. Claire set the card and the blue hyacinth in its antique flowerpot down on the table. She’d bought them in Damask and Delft, the interiors shop in Kirkton. ‘I brought you this in a sad attempt to match your amazing present.’

  ‘Oh wow, that’s so pretty! Thank you! But you didn’t need to...’ Helen was examining the old blue and white pot, which was actually rather nice.

  ‘I can’t believe you made the dog yourself. He’s so cute! And I can’t think of anything I need more. That back hall at Pond Cottage is like an ice box.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Helen grinned up at her. ‘I hope he fits.’

  ‘He’s perfect! Has he got a name?’

  ‘I called him Barker. So original. Talking of which... Osk, can you put Fly and Ben in the dining room?’ She grimaced at Claire. ‘Uncle Jim’s mad dogs. They’re probably not actually dangerous – although you know how every owner of an out-of-control dog always says “He’s just being friendly” as the slavering beast leaps for your throat?’ Helen laughed, shutting the door through to a passage behind Oskar.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Claire, as if she’d just remembered. ‘Today is your Swiss Christmas! You must be just about to have your Christmas lunch!’

  ‘No no, Christmas doesn’t start till tonight. We’re just having an ordinary lunch. Can you stay? There’s plenty.’

  And so Claire stayed for lunch. It was just as delicious as it smelt, a melt-in-the-mouth beef stew. And she let herself, just for half an hour, forget that these people weren’t really her friends, forget what she’d done, forget that she’d betrayed the man Helen still, she suspected, half loved, judging by the number of times his name cropped up in the conversation.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Claire, mopping the last of the juices off her plate with a piece of homemade bread. ‘You should have my job.’

  Helen waved a hand round the kitchen, which was in a comfortable state of disarray. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Aye.’ Jim Clack sucked his teeth. ‘Right enough, Hel’nie’s obsessed wi’ cleanliness. She’s aye steerin’ aboot wi’ the hoover and disinfecting aathing.’

  ‘Uncle Jim,’ laughed Helen. ‘I’m certainly not obsessed with cleanliness! Fortunately for my sanity, living with you.’

  Here was her opening. ‘Not up to Damian’s level, then?’

  ‘Hardly!’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if Damian has a bit of a problem, though.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Aye, it’s nae richt. He was aye on at me, when I lived at the Mains – aye deeving me about nae being “hygienic”.’ He shook his head.

  Helen grinned. ‘Uncle Jim, everyone deeved you about not being hygienic when you lived at the Mains.’

  Claire needed to get this back on track. ‘Did he ever have any counselling? After the accident and everything?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think Hector holds with that sort of thing. He’d see it as unproductive navel-gazing.’

  Oskar shrugged. ‘There is a certain amount of evidence supporting that view. Trials showing that people who have counselling after trauma are less likely to score highly on wellbeing scales than those who don’t.’

  ‘But what about cause and effect?’ Helen objected. ‘The people who don’t have the counselling may be inherently more resilient.’

  Oskar conceded this with a Yes, maybe expression. Claire could imagine the two of them, obviously very clever people, having esoteric conversations like this all the time.

  ‘Apparently he was conscious throughout,’ said Claire. ‘During the accident, I mean.’

  No response from Jim.

  Helen grimaced. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Still nothing from Jim. Well, the DCI had warned her that getting information out of him wouldn’t be easy.

  ‘It’s awful that the driver of the other vehicle didn’t even stop...’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jim, finally.

  She was going to have to come out and say it. ‘I understand that you were first on the scene? That must have been horrendous.’

  Another ‘Aye,’ sucked in through his teeth.
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  ‘Damian didn’t – I don’t suppose he saw anything? Saw the other vehicle?’

  ‘Presumably not,’ said Helen, ‘or he’d have said something.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t remember – has blanked it out.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Helen agreed. She was looking at Claire a little oddly, as well she might.

  She took a gulp of water and turned to Jim for a final attempt. ‘He didn’t say anything to you, at the time?’

  ‘Na.’

  ◆◆◆

  As she rang the doorbell for the third time, standing shivering on the doorstep at the back door of the run-down farmhouse at Moss of Kinty, Claire hoped that her talk with Karen would be more successful than her woeful attempt to get information out of Jim Clack. But it looked as if maybe no one was in. She tried the doorknob. The door came open and she stepped inside.

  In the kitchen, there was a strong smell of patchouli or marijuana. One or the other. And onions.

  ‘Sorry to barge in,’ she said. ‘I don’t think your doorbell’s working.’

  ‘It’s not, love,’ said an Earth Mother type as she lifted the lid on a pot sitting on what looked, unbelievably, like an old-fashioned range cooker that you had to put coal in. Presumably this was Gwennie.

  ‘I’m Claire. I work with Karen at the House of Pitfourie...’

  A thin, anaemic-looking woman slumped on a window seat was staring at her.

  ‘Doffy,’ said the man sitting at the table, nodding to her. Was that his name, or was it some sort of New Age greeting? Half of his head was shaved and the other half was a mat of unsavoury-looking, mangy dreadlocks about six inches long. There was something in his eyes she didn’t like.

  No sign of Ade.

  ‘I wonder if I could have a quick word with Karen?’

  ‘Sorry love – she’s not here. Gone shopping with her friends in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oh no. She had to see Karen! She couldn’t leave, tomorrow, without seeing her, without making her see sense and go home. This wasn’t a good place. All her so-called ESP was screaming that these people were bad news.

  ‘Can we take a message?’