‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever let me hear the end of it either,’ he said gloomily.
Chapter 8 Archaeology
It was the first Christopher had heard of an archaeologist being on the staff of the local Council. Apparently he advised on rescue digs when new sites were being developed, and had to investigate anything that was found that looked as if it might be of archaeological interest. On hearing this, Jock suggested the crisps in the Queen of Scots might fall into that category, and Charlie Smith threatened to throw them both out.
To avoid the shame of it, they retreated to the table where Jemima, Dave and Amaryllis were playing dominoes. Amaryllis had cleaned herself up a bit since being trapped in the hole, and she and Jock had more or less recovered from having to dash to the launch of the Christmas festivities which had taken place only an hour later than scheduled that afternoon. Jock had reported to Christopher that sitting in the tram had been even less enjoyable than expected, and the only thing that had cheered them both up was the sight of the press photographer being mown down by the husky team and their sledge.
‘Have you got a domino up your sleeve?’ Amaryllis was just asking Dave.
‘That’s pure muscle, lass,’ said Dave, laughing. ‘You can have a feel if you like.’
‘David!’ Jemima scolded.
‘So they still think that bone might be prehistoric?’ said Jock as they sat down.
‘Never!’ scoffed Amaryllis. ‘Thirty years old at the most. Probably less. They should be checking the missing persons files, not calling in an archaeologist.’
‘That isn’t what Jason Penrose says,’ Christopher told her.
‘Well, he’s an idiot in that case,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s very disappointing. He’s got such nice legs.’
‘You shouldn’t be ogling men’s legs at your age,’ said Dave, playing a double six with a flourish.
‘Where’s he staying?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Up at the hotel?’
‘No,’ said Christopher. ‘I think he’s lodging with Tricia Laidlaw.’
He said it in a whisper, hoping Jock wouldn’t hear. Everybody knew Jock had a soft spot for Tricia Laidlaw, although obviously he would have denied any such thing if anybody had interrogated him about it. He might not be pleased to know Jason Penrose was living under her roof. Her son Darren lived up at Rosie’s cattery most of the time and wouldn’t have made a satisfactory chaperone in any case.
Jock’s expression went from mild amusement to sheer rage and back to a mask of insouciance all in the same moment.
‘Poor wee Jackie Whitmore,’ said Jemima, probably in an attempt to change the subject. ‘She had her moments of not being very nice, but she didn’t deserve to be just thrown in a hole and left.’
‘She might not have been thrown in,’ said Jock.
‘Not very nice!’ said Dave scornfully. ‘She only tried to kill Neil Macrae.’
‘But he wasn’t very nice either,’ said Jemima, in another of the understatements of the century.
‘They were asking for trouble, letting her out in the first place,’ said Dave, shaking his head.
‘I think I’ll pop round there and have a word with Jason,’ said Amaryllis. ‘He might have some information he doesn’t even know he has.’
‘Round where?’ said Christopher.
‘Round to Tricia’s. Do you want to come? We could play good cop, bad cop.’
He shuddered. He didn’t even want to think about Amaryllis playing bad cop. That was, if she didn’t expect him to do so.
Now she was laughing at him. ‘You wouldn’t know where to start playing bad cop, would you?’
‘I could if I wanted to,’ he said uneasily, hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff.
She was still laughing to herself quietly when they left the pub fifteen minutes later and walked up the hill in the direction of Tricia Laidlaw’s. Jock, his mouth closed tightly in a thin line, had refused an invitation to come with them, saying he would rather eat crisps and play dominoes.
‘What’s the point of this exactly?’ said Christopher as they passed the last of the shops and turned along Tricia’s street.
‘I want to know what he was doing on the Island,’ said Amaryllis.
‘I told you what he was doing. It was a field trip in search of Old Pitkirtly.’
‘But why there?’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t they have been better to look at the harbour, or the old station? Everyone knows there’s hardly anything out on Pitkirtly Island.’
Christopher shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe he thinks he knows better. He’s been looking at a lot of old maps and stuff in the library. Zak’s been giving him a hand from time to time. And the FOOP people have been in there with him with whatever their agenda is.’
‘Where did the FOOP people come from? Why haven’t we heard of them before?’
‘They’ve been around for a while,’ said Christopher. ‘Bruce has, anyway. He’s been involved in almost everything. Apart from PLIF, of course. I think he was going through some sort of personal crisis at that time.’
‘Ha! Wasn’t everyone?’ commented Amaryllis.
Christopher ignored this. ‘Tamara’s quite a recent arrival. She doesn’t live in Pitkirtly, though. I have a feeling she shares a farmhouse somewhere in the wilds – it might be a kind of commune, from what I’ve heard. The two younger ones aren’t around all the time. I think they’re maybe away at university in term-time. There are some others too. I can’t remember their names. But they’re a bit half-hearted. It’s Bruce and Tamara who drive it along.’
‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it,’ said Amaryllis, ‘that someone like Jason Penrose was prepared to come all the way up here, to a place with very little history, just because two people asked him to?’
Christopher gave her a reproving glance. ‘Everywhere has history. You just have to know where to look for it.’
‘But don’t you think Jason Penrose would want something exciting to put on this famous blog of his? Even if he and the rest of them dig up some medieval pottery or Celtic pendants, it isn’t really going to amount to much.’
‘You never know,’ said Christopher. ‘Remember Old Pitkirtlyhill House and the tunnels?’
‘I’d rather not think about that, thanks.’
She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they approached Tricia’s house, not even pulling back when Tricia opened the door to them.
‘Nice to see you! Are you all right, Amaryllis? Jason was telling me about your accident today.’
As Amaryllis reassured her, they all went through to the front room. Jason was reclining on the settee in a way that Christopher knew would have angered Jock McLean if he had seen it. More unexpectedly, Zak Johnstone was on his hands and knees on the floor, a map spread out in front of him. Harriet, from the Cultural Centre, was at the other side of the map. They both scrambled to their feet, looking guilty, when they saw Christopher and Amaryllis.
‘We just came round to see if Darren was at home,’ said Zak. ‘We’d better get going now.’
‘No, you’re fine,’ said Tricia. ‘Would anybody like a drink?’
‘Just water for me,’ said Jason. ‘Evening, Christopher. Amaryllis, I don’t think we were properly introduced before you went down that hole.’
He stood up in one enviably fluid movement – Christopher wasn’t sure when he had started envying people for the fluidity of their movement – and held out his hand for her to shake.
‘We still haven’t been introduced,’ said Amaryllis. She was as wary as a cat, and as elegant, thought Christopher, standing back to observe.
‘Do you often do that kind of thing?’ Jason was enquiring. His eyes twinkled again – how did he do that?
‘It depends on what kind of thing you mean,’ said Amaryllis.
‘Jumping into the middle of situations without a second thought,’ said Jason, holding on to her hand.
‘That isn’t what I did,’ said Amaryllis, sounding surprised. She snatched her hand back.
/>
They all sat down, including Zak and Harriet. Christopher found himself on the settee next to Jason, although he was sure Jason had tried to manoeuvre things so that Amaryllis sat there. He had evidently been outmanoeuvred. Christopher wondered why Amaryllis hadn’t taken to the man, even when he had been at his most charming. Maybe being charming made her suspicious, which would explain why she was so fond of Jock McLean.
Tricia brought in a tray of miscellaneous refreshments ranging from plates of cheese scones and squares of home-made fudge – at least it looked home-made - to brandy, a jug of coffee and a small bowl of apricots.
‘So,’ said Amaryllis, addressing Jason Penrose directly, ‘what made you go to Pitkirtly Island this morning, Mr Penrose?’
Christopher choked on a piece of fudge. He had not expected her to be quite so direct. Tricia, in whose kitchen someone had died not long ago after apparently choking on a bite of apple, looked horrified and rushed round to pat him on the back.
‘Ancient mines,’ said Jason. He glanced round the room as if expecting applause. ‘And please do call me Jason. Mr Penrose sounds like an antiquarian with a long white beard and half-moon glasses.’
Amaryllis gave him a critical glance. ‘Well, I suppose you’re a kind of antiquarian.’
‘Historian, please,’ he murmured.
‘I take it you know about the more recent mines and tunnels,’ said Christopher.
Jason nodded. ‘I’ve seen your digital maps. Interesting.’
‘There was a cave-in. They aren’t safe now,’ he said.
‘It’s all quite unstable,’ said Jason, ‘as indeed we saw today.’
There was a respectful silence until Amaryllis said cheerfully, ‘Unstable enough to bury me alive anyway.’
‘Have some brandy,’ said Tricia suddenly, almost in Christopher’s ear. ‘You look as if you’re going to fall over.’
Christopher doubted that very much. He could see that if he fell over he might land in Jason Penrose’s lap, and that idea was enough to keep him upright. Still, he accepted a restorative glass of brandy and sipped at it, reflecting meanwhile on how nice Tricia Laidlaw was, and what a comfortable partner she would make for somebody.
‘Are the police really planning to bring in an archaeologist?’ said Jason.
Christopher nodded. ‘They’ve already asked the Council archaeologist to stand by. But they’ve got their own people working on the bones anyway. As well as – the rest of it.’
‘Was it really Jackie Whitmore?’ said Tricia.
Amaryllis nodded. ‘I don’t know if her father will have to do a formal identification but it’s definitely her.’
‘Poor wee thing,’ said Tricia, reinforcing Christopher’s opinion of her. ‘She was so young.’
‘You said you thought she’d been in there for twelve hours,’ said Jason. ‘What did you base that on?’
‘Just experience,’ said Amaryllis. ‘When you’ve stumbled across as many corpses as I have....’
‘Quite,’ said Jason, as if to cut her off before she said anything worse. ‘I take your point.’
Christopher reflected that Amaryllis, on the other hand, wouldn’t make a comfortable partner for anybody. She was glaring at Jason again, as spiky and on edge as a cat that had just spotted a rival at the end of the garden.
‘Do you still want to use Pitkirtly Island for a field trip?’ said Christopher.
‘I don’t think we’ll be allowed to, not for a while at least,’ said Jason. ‘The police have closed it all off now. The local dog walkers won’t be pleased.’
‘Was the man with the little white dog there when you arrived?’ enquired Amaryllis.
‘Yes, of course he was. He was the one who found the hole – or at least his dog did.’
‘I suppose he probably walks round that way every morning,’ Amaryllis mused. ‘It must have been a shock for him... Did you catch his name?’
‘No, but the police are bound to have it.’
Jason was watching Amaryllis with a puzzled expression. She often affected people in that way.
‘Are the FOOP people meeting again tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I think so. I’m only up here for a few more days, so we’d better make the most of it. We may have to explore some different options.’
‘You could go to Culross instead,’ said Tricia. ‘They’ve got plenty of history there.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jason. ‘I like to find history in unexpected places. I’d be over the moon if we found something that suggested Roman occupation.’
‘That might be more likely at the far side of the Forth Bridge,’ said Zak. ‘Across the river from the Roman fort at Cramond.’
Christopher regarded his protégé with approval. Zak was good at considering all the evidence quietly and then reaching a reasoned conclusion. Unlike some people, who just pulled remote possibilities out of the air before looking for any evidence. He wouldn’t put it past Jason Penrose to manufacture his own evidence, he thought darkly. He looked forward to talking through that idea with Amaryllis as they walked home. Maybe then she could investigate and together they could discredit the man. Any man who went around in a long dark coat and skin-tight jeans at his age deserved everything he got.
Chapter 9 Police Harassment
It might have been going on for a while, but Amaryllis first noticed it when a police car drew up alongside her as she walked towards the tram on Friday afternoon to get ready for her first real shift as an elf.
‘Can I help you?’ she said politely, having resolved to be pleasanter to the police as part of her preparations to stand for the local Council.
‘Where are you going?’ said a constable she didn’t know, leaning out of the window.
She gestured towards the tram. ‘In there. I have to get ready to be an elf.’
She expected the usual amusement and scorn when she said this. Instead the two men frowned.
‘Come on, do you really think we’ll fall for that one? Our heads don’t button up the back, you know.’
‘I don’t really care whether you believe me or not,’ she said, turning away from them.
‘Can you prove it?’ said the other one, also a stranger.
‘I don’t have my National Elf Card with me, I’m afraid,’ she said, still expecting raucous laughter to break out any minute.
‘Right, that’s enough!’ barked one of the officers, leaping out of the car and advancing towards her. He took out a notebook and pencil. ‘Name?’
‘I refuse to give my name until you give me a good reason for asking,’ snapped Amaryllis. She measured the distance to the tram by sight. She could probably get inside before they started after her, but she knew the doors were jammed open and couldn’t be locked behind her. She didn’t want to be cornered in there. Were they really policemen at all?
At that moment another car drew up. It was the Community Engagement Advisor, Elizabeth French. She got out quickly. ‘There isn’t any trouble, is there, Amaryllis?’
Amaryllis saw the police officer writing in his notebook. As Elizabeth strode towards them, an uncharacteristically officious expression on her face, he got out a small camera and took Amaryllis’s picture. Then, moving more slowly now, he opened the car door and got in. The car started up again, made a wide sweep round Charlie Smith’s car park and turned left towards the town centre.
‘What was all that about?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I don’t know,’ said Amaryllis slowly, still watching ‘I hope it isn’t a bad omen.’
‘Why should it be?’
‘I just wonder why Keith Burnet didn’t come down on his bike if they wanted to send someone to keep an eye on the Christmas stuff,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I hope he isn’t in trouble.’
‘Oh, it’s maybe just not his shift,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Come along, let’s get organised. Did you see Mr McLean on your way down the road?’
Amaryllis wasn’t an expert in Scottish accents, having lived elsewhere for most of her life, but she d
idn’t think the unknown policemen were from anywhere in Fife. Or Edinburgh, for that matter. Dundee? Glasgow? They had that kind of big city policing style, certainly. Even being pleasant to them wouldn’t work if that was the case – it might even get their backs up. It was extremely annoying. If she was going to investigate Jackie Whitmore’s death, which she fully intended to do, feeling as she did that she had a personal stake in the matter, she didn’t want to have to tiptoe round a lot of strange policemen who probably wouldn’t hesitate to lock her up if they thought she was out of line, destroying her future glittering career in politics in the process without a second thought.
It was at this point that she began to find her own indignation amusing. She was smiling when Jock McLean arrived in the tram.
‘What’s so funny?’ he growled. ‘I haven’t even got into my outfit yet.’
‘It’s not at all funny,’ said Amaryllis brightly, green leggings dangling from one hand and green tunic from the other. ‘Have you noticed any strange policemen in town?’
‘Stranger than the ones we usually get around here?’ said Jock, rummaging for his beard under layers of red fleecy fabric.
‘I mean, policemen you’ve never seen before.’
‘They’ll have bussed in extra for the seething masses that are due for the Christmas festivities,’ suggested Jock.
‘Now, now, Mr McLean,’ said Elizabeth, fishing the beard out of a plastic bag. ‘No need to be sarcastic. Just because we had a slightly disappointing turnout for the launch...’
‘Disappointing? Two men and a dog? Except the dog didn’t turn up,’ said Jock.
‘Jemima and Dave were there,’ Amaryllis reminded him.
‘Hmph.’
Amaryllis took that as a signal that she should go up to the top deck and get into her elf outfit. Elizabeth had created a sort of makeshift changing cubicle up there by taping curtains on to some of the windows, although you had to bend almost double to use it as the roof was quite a bit too low for comfort. She hadn’t been able to find her pointed hat. She wondered if she could get away without wearing it.
Elizabeth was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with the hat, which she placed on Amaryllis’s head with a flourish.
The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8) Page 6