Mince Pies and Murder

by Carly Reid

  Jessica rushed to relieve the awkwardness with conversation. Feeling it was a little early to ask about the murder, she cast about for a neutral subject and settled on the news she had just heard.

  “Have you heard about the new Business Association Chair? Malcolm McEwen was telling Reenie and me about him this morning. Someone called Neil Campbell?”

  Once again it took Craig a moment or two to hear her, but when he did he clearly made an effort to reply.

  “Oh aye…aye. Runs stables or something, so he does. I dinnae know him very well but he already got me to make a donation to the auction they’re having so he’s definitely on the ball.” Craig fell silent again.

  At this moment, Ealisaid brought Jessica’s food and coffee over and took a seat herself, immediately breaking through the awkwardness of the situation. “So Craig, what’s on the agenda today?” Ealisaid asked. “Have you got to open up the pub or will it stay shut for now?”

  “Well, I don’t actually know. I’m waiting here to have another chat with the polis.”

  Jessica noticed his particularly Scottish way of pronouncing this, with the emphasis on the first syllable. Po-liss. She knew Craig came originally from Glasgow, and was beginning to notice differences between Scottish accents from different cities and areas.

  Craig continued. “They asked to meet me here. I think they’ll find somewhere to hold some kind of formal interview. I’ll maybe be able to open up tonight, no’ sure yet – I hope so, the owner willnae be happy if I cannae open on a Saturday night in December. There will be people wanting to come in after the work nights oot, as well as the usual weekend crowd. One of the busiest nights of the year – and I’ve extra staff booked to come in too, like last night.”

  Jessica wondered if that would hold true once word got around. Dalkinchie was a small place, and there wasn’t really anywhere else to socialize in the evening once Lissa’s closed, apart from Gillespies. Would a murder put people off their weekend plans?

  “Weren’t you interviewed by the police last night?” Jessica asked.

  Craig seemed to suddenly remember about his drink, and took a couple of large gulps before replying. “No. It was just sorting everything out, getting the ambulance. They asked me a couple of questions, but not a formal interview, so they said. They had to get a list of everyone who was there before I forgot, and I helped to do that. And they also wanted to know roughly what time Bill Johnston arrived, of course, and who was at the bar when he did, that sort of stuff.”

  “Right.”

  “But I expect I’ll have to go over it all again today. You’d think it wouldnae be hard, what with him in that big red suit and all. I remember him arriving – I’m sure everyone does. The bar wis pretty busy at that point, and he didnae come and queue for a drink. No, I think he wis chatting to someone. No’ his brother, although he wis there too – he’d been there all evening, but he was at the other end of the bar. They don’t speak, you know.“

  “Hmm,” said Jessica, “I suppose it would have been pretty busy by that point?”

  “I certainly had a wee rush of orders around that time. A group all came in together, and I was back and forward pouring gins and whiskies. And when I next looked up, he wis away. Bill that is – Santa. No sign. And I didnae see him leave. It wisnae until I had to go into the back cupboard…” He sighed, and took another gulp from the mug, then shook his head slightly. “The funny thing is, I usually wouldnae have to, but somebody went and dropped a glass, and it shattered. You’d think that would happen all the time at a bar, but it’s actually pretty unusual. So I went to get a dustpan and brush to sweep it all up and that’s when I found him. All shoved into the cupboard, still in the red Santa suit.”

  Jessica shuddered. “That must have been an awful shock, Craig!”

  “Aye, right enough. I think I just went into autopilot after that, to be honest. Got my phone, dialed 999. Didnae even think about how he’d ended up there or who might have done it. I still cannae believe it. Santa, deid, in my cupboard.”

  Craig paused for a moment. He rubbed his hand over his reddened eyes, and then down his stubbled jawline. Then he continued. “I realized it wis Bill soon enough, of course. Poor guy. Doesnae really matter how unpleasant he wis – naebody deserves that!”

  “Did you think he was unpleasant, Craig?”

  Jessica was genuinely curious, but her question came out more accusing than she had intended. Craig reacted nervously, as if he had spoken out of turn. “On, no’ me – I mean, he wis just a regular in the pub like anyone else. I didnae have any beef with him at all. I mean that some other folk said he wisnae a very nice man. I couldnae really say, one way or another. He ordered his drinks, I served him, and that wis that.”

  Jessica nodded, but couldn’t help noticing Ealisaid’s reaction. She hadn’t said anything since her initial question, and was now looking at Craig strangely as if he had said something very surprising. But before Jessica could comment or otherwise react to this, the door opened and Murdo arrived, followed closely behind by Detective Inspector James Gordon.

  The Detective Inspector was a tall man with neatly combed greying hair, piercing blue eyes and, often, a grim expression that possibly went with the job. He could not be more different to the genial Murdo who, even under these circumstances, smiled at his friends and greeted them warmly.

  “Jessica, morning. How are ye doing today? Craig, all right there, pal?”

  The Detective Inspector and Murdo made an odd pairing, but were learning to work together. Not quite bad cop/good cop, Jessica didn’t think, but something close to it. Murdo’s friendly chatter put people at ease and – largely inadvertently – encouraged them to talk. DI Gordon was quieter, and tended to employ a much more direct approach to discussions.

  Now, DI Gordon nodded silently towards Craig and Jessica, and then crossed the cafe to stand in line at the counter for coffee. Murdo, however, came over to their table. “What a palaver, huh? That’s no’ what anyone wis needin’, just before Christmas. Craig, we’ve sorted oot the Village Hall for interviews as usual, would you be able to come up wi’ us noo?”

  Craig didn’t look at all reassured although Murdo couldn’t have been friendlier. He replied with a choked “Aye…” followed by “I’ll just…” and then he got up and headed towards the rest room.

  Murdo sat down in Craig’s vacated seat and spoke as if to himself. “Oh, dearie dearie me. An awfy business, right enough.”

  Jessica tipped her head to one side. Murdo was known for being garrulous, and she had learned that if she listened and stayed silent, he would often keep talking. She knew she was being nosy, but told herself that she was just honing her journalistic instinct. After all, she might not be working on local news forever.

  Murdo didn’t disappoint. “Imagine Bill Johnston gettin’ murdered in his Santa suit – strangled wi’ his own beard and stuffed in the cleaner’s cupboard!”

  Now Jessica slightly regretted that journalistic impulse – that was a detail she could maybe have done without. It seemed Murdo regretted telling her as he glanced around the café and dropped his voice. “Maybe no’ mention that to anybody, Jessica, I think it was one o’ the details the Detective Inspector said no’ to spread around…”

  Murdo continued. “Bill Johnston has been Santa every year as long as I can remember. He wis a funny choice, like I said, no’ exactly someone who would spring to mind when you think ‘jolly’. Still, he wis actually very good at playing the part. His private life wis a different story.”

  “Did he have family?”

  “Nae kids. And he wis divorced, too. Or maybe separated – I’m no’ sure. Anyway, his wife – ex-wife, I should say– moved away from here a few years back. And then there’s his brother, and no doubt a few cousins here and there.”

  Jessica looked around towards the restrooms, but Craig had not yet emerged. “Well, it’s a terrible thing, and not what anyone wants at this time of year. Still, surely someone must have seen somethin
g? I am sure you and the DI will have the case solved in the next couple of days.”

  Murdo looked at her. “Aye, maybe so. I wouldnae want it to drag on and ruin everyone’s Christmas. We will be talking to his brother first. Ian. Aye, there was no love lost between Bill and Ian Johnston. They’re brothers, aye, but also business rivals. Both have their own wee electrician firms.”

  “Oh, right.” Jessica recalled that Murdo had mentioned this the night before, when she had seen Ian Johnston in the cafe shouting at the small child.

  “Aye, most recently they were competing for the new contract at the Hydro. They haven’t spoken for years, apart from to argue. I hope we’re wrong, but we know that Ian was definitely at the pub around the time that Santa was found.”

  As Murdo spoke, Craig reappeared from the restroom and stood awkwardly near the front door of the café. DI Gordon had collected the take out coffees and turned to signal that he was ready to leave. Murdo got slowly to his feet.

  “Weel, nice chatting to you, Jessica. I’ll maybe be seeing you later. Cheerio for now.”

  Jessica bid Murdo goodbye, but her thoughts were somewhere else. The memory of Ian Johnston’s altercation with the small girl and her father the night before had brought to mind the young woman she had seen reprimanded later, by another wiry, grey-haired man. Both brothers were electricians…Jessica realized that it had been Bill Johnston, the victim himself, that had been out in the courtyard fixing the electrics before the MacNaughton gave his speech, and had told his assistant off afterwards. He must have gone back inside to put on his Santa suit, as it was just a few minutes before the procession had set off.

  Just as Jessica thought this over, the same young woman entered Lissa’s. She recognized her instantly – the long plait over one shoulder, and she was again wearing work overalls, with a dark waterproof jacket over the top. Jessica’s eyes followed her across as she walked to counter and ordered a drink, handing over a tall metal cup to be filled with coffee.

  “Morning, Amy,” said Ealisaid briskly. “I hope everything’s OK with you, after last night. It’s a real shock to us all.”

  Ealisaid’s tone was sympathetic, but Jessica didn’t catch Amy’s response which was short and mumbled. Ealisaid nodded. The young woman paid up, using coins fished from her jacket pocket, and left the café.

  Jessica didn’t think twice. She followed.

  Mince Pies at the Museum

  Amy had turned right after leaving the café, and headed up the hill in the direction of The Ram’s Heid. She walked with a long stride and as she didn’t want to run, it took Jessica a minute to catch up with her.

  “Hey…hey, Amy, is it? I’m Jessica. Can I have a quick word?”

  Amy didn’t break her step, barely glancing at Jessica as she replied. Her voice was deep and raspy, as if she was fighting off a cold. “I know who you are. You work for the newspaper, and no, I don’t want to talk to the press. No comment.”

  Jessica was briefly nonplussed. Nobody had ever said this to her before, although it was technically an accurate description. She did work for the press. Normally describing herself as a journalist gave her a warm glow, but now she rushed to contradict this idea, and to reassure the young woman. “No, no, I am not reporting on anything, don’t worry! I wanted to ask you something, that’s all. It’s just that…”

  Jessica broke off. It was harder than she had anticipated to bring up the event that she had witnessed the night before. But she decided just to go for it. “I saw you setting up the lights last night before the procession, and I also saw Bill Johnston – am I right? – coming out to help. The two of you were looking at the cables near the stage. Was he your boss?”

  Amy didn’t say anything for a moment, still walking towards the top of the High Street. Then she nodded. “Yes. I’m an apprentice to his electrician firm. I’ve been doing it for nearly two years, and I should be finished in a couple of months.”

  Jessica pressed on. “I couldn’t help but notice that he said something harsh to you before he went back inside the pub. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he said, but it looked really mean. I don’t think he treated you very well, did he?”

  Amy paused, staring straight ahead without looking around at Jessica, and narrowed her eyes slightly. This time her answer came quickly. “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but you were mistaken. He was just telling me something, that’s all. It wasn’t mean or anything like that. He was in a hurry. He had to go and get dressed for the procession, and I had interrupted him to check on something, so maybe he was a bit short, but nothing like you describe. We had a job to do.”

  Amy’s response was composed, but for some reason, it seemed off to Jessica. Perhaps it had been something about the way she avoided catching Jessica’s eye…and she was almost too composed. Thinking back, Jessica wondered if she had been mistaken. But no – there had been no mistaking the shock and embarrassment on Amy’s flushed face, or the screwed-up expression of disdain on Bill Johnston’s. If only she had been a bit closer and had heard what he had actually said – an argument so soon before the man’s murder could easily be relevant to the case. Jessica was sure her instincts were correct. She couldn’t resist having another try.

  “Are you sure?” Jessica asked, resuming walking as Amy did so too. “You did look quite upset, you know. I had heard from someone else that he was…you know – not always very nice. Apart from when he was playing Santa, of course. I promise, this won’t go any further. I really wanted to check and see if you were OK last night, actually, but you’d gone before I got a chance.”

  Amy’s face had a glow of pink again, and she chewed at her bottom lip. She still stared straight ahead as she continued with her long, loping stride. “Yes. I went home. And I told you, it was nothing. You made a mistake. I don’t know why you are asking all these questions, anyway, if you are not planning to report on the case. You are not the police! Please leave me alone. If you really must ask someone questions, why don’t you find Bill’s wife. I bet she’s got something to say about it all. And they’ve had proper arguments – not a stupid disagreement at work.”

  Despite herself, Jessica’s ears pricked up. Arguments with his wife too? Hadn’t Murdo said she no longer lived in Dalkinchie? Things were getting interesting. Eyes wide, she responded, “His wife? I thought they were divorced, and that she didn’t live here any more. What did they argue about?”

  Amy stopped for a moment, cleared her throat, and turned properly to face Jessica for the first time, a slight look of superiority in her pink face. “Separated, not divorced – although I think she would like to be. And that’s one thing you have right – she moved away from Dalkinchie about four years ago.”

  Jessica was about to ask how she was meant to question her then, when Amy continued:

  “But she’s back. Back for Christmas. I saw her in Gillespies last night, with a crowd of her old friends – all snobby show-offs just like she is. So if you really want to speak to someone who didn’t like Bill Johnston, you should speak to her. I’m going now. I have to try and work out what to do now. Bill may be dead but there’s still lots of work to do, and customers I’ll need to speak to. See you around.”

  Amy’s last rejoinder was clipped, and she took off, striding faster to get ahead of Jessica who now slowly stopped walking.

  What was she doing? Reenie had asked her not to get involved. She could try to fool herself that she just wanted to check that the young woman was OK, but really the mystery had caught her interest again.

  She knew that it must have, because there was nothing more she wanted to do right now than to find Bill Johnston’s wife and ask her some questions too. However, that was a non-starter. She knew nothing about her, apart from what she had just learned – that the woman had eaten in Gillespies the night before.

  Plus, she had work to do. Jessica turned on her heel and headed back down the hill in the opposite direction. She had put it off for long enough. It was time to go to work and try
and force her chilly hands to type up the events of Yule Night, omitting the murder, of course.

  * * *

  Luckily, Jessica was waylaid once again. The newspaper offices shared a floor with the Dalkinchie Museum, and it was open on a Saturday. It was staffed by volunteers, one of whom, Margaret Mustard, was manning the door as Jessica ascended the stairs.

  “Good morning, Jessica! Can I interest you in a wee hot drink and a mince pie? I’ve made them fresh!”

  Jessica knew that this invitation was partly a ruse to get her into the museum, where Margaret would first engage her in gossip and secondly count her as a visitor for the weekly statistics, but she was happy to comply. Margaret was wonderful at baking, and the building was somehow warmer on this side. Perhaps it was because there were fewer windows. Plus, she wasn’t averse to some gossip herself.

  “That would be so nice, Margaret, thanks!”

  Jessica moved through the doorway into the museum, which was a hodge podge of memorabilia crammed into two inter-connected rooms. There were mannequins dressed in old clothing, a wooden dresser crammed full of delicately patterned china cups, saucers and plates with fat-bellied teapots arranged along the top, bookshelves holding worn hardback volumes and every inch of wall space was covered in framed old photographs. From her position near the door Jessica could see that they mostly depicted street scenes from years gone by of Dalkinchie and the neighboring town Drummond, with horses and carts and women in long Victorian dresses. An old fire engine took up much of the available floor space, along with a treacherous looking pieces of old farm equipment. Jessica considered the newspaper offices to be cluttered, but they had nothing on the museum.

  Margaret had bustled into their shared kitchen space to produce two mugs of tea. “It’s a Christmas blend,” she announced as she returned “so I’ve only added just a wee tiny dash of milk. I think you’ll like it.”