Chapter 16 Friends and Strangers
Amaryllis was taking a long time to get back from the supermarket. Christopher had checked the tea-room twice, the library once and he had stuck his head into the Folk Museum to ask if Zak had seen Maggie. When he returned to the office he found Jock McLean reading his emails while the wee white dog played with a digestive biscuit all over the rug.
‘Maggie won’t like that,’ said Christopher without thinking.
‘Oh, you’ve found her, have you?’ said Jock absently. ‘What happens if you press this button here?’
‘What are you doing? Those are confidential.’
‘They’re pointless and boring, if that’s what you mean,’ said Jock.
Christopher removed the mouse from Jock’s hand before he used it to click the whole mailbox into oblivion. He had read somewhere that service providers kept copies of emails for ever, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that this was true, particularly as it was an official West Fife Council email box, and only a few months before they had lost everybody’s emails altogether in what they said was a glitch in the anti-virus software but which he thought was probably just their usual gross incompetence.
Maybe he would have to revise his opinion of them if Amaryllis got into power at the forthcoming bye-election. The idea of Amaryllis getting into power made him shudder instinctively. He hadn’t seen any sign of her canvassing lately, though, so maybe she had given up on the idea. On the other hand, maybe giving her opponents the chance to expose their weaknesses while she kept a low profile was a new tactic on her part. Certainly the more Christopher saw of El Presidente, the more sinister the man appeared.
‘There’s no sign of Maggie in the building,’ he reported, hanging on to the mouse. ‘But maybe Amaryllis will have had some luck at the supermarket.’
Jock stood up, shaking his head. ‘What if she’s gone the way of that artist girl?’
‘Then we’ll find them both together somewhere,’ said Christopher, wondering where he had learned to be so naively optimistic. He switched off the computer and went over to try and pick up the digestive crumbs from the rug. The dog seemed to think it was a new game.
‘I’d better get on, then,’ said Jock, possibly sensing his welcome was about to run out, though if that was the case, it would be the first time ever. ‘He needs his exercise.’
‘Nothing to do with opening time at the Queen of Scots, then?’
Jock and the dog were long gone and Christopher had deleted most of his emails anyway, before Amaryllis arrived back from her planned sprint to the supermarket. She looked – he got up from his chair and put his arms round her. She looked shaken. He couldn’t remember another occasion when he had seen her quite like this.
He didn’t ask her what had happened. She would tell him in her own time.
It wasn’t until she was standing in her usual spot at the window, staring out at the car park, that she said anything.
‘They nearly took me. In broad daylight. They had a van waiting. Outside the café in the High Street. There were brie and blueberry scones today.’
‘Who was that?’
She shook her head. Her hair, which had been lying down in a sort of admission of defeat, flew out in spikes again. He took it as a good sign.
‘I don’t know. Oh. I do know. It was Murray Williamson – the man who masqueraded as a cop last night and helped young Dave and the other one to get away. Young Dave was with him, and at least now they’ve got him locked up again.’
‘I hope they throw away the key,’ said Christopher. He paced up and down behind her. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but he knew that would be a silly question. She was here with him and alive, and without any visible sign that her world had turned on its head, but he guessed that she was deeply wounded by the near-abduction.
She turned towards him. ‘There are so many of them, Christopher. They’re everywhere. Murray Williamson. Dave. The man driving the van today. The other man who was found in the other van with the boy. What sort of network is this? I had no idea it existed!’
‘Maybe they’re from some other town,’ said Christopher. ‘Maybe it just happens that they have things to do in Pitkirtly.’
She turned back towards the window. ‘I just wish I could see the whole picture.’
‘Remember when the Petrellis were involved in the protection racket? Maybe it’s something like that.’
‘I can’t help feeling it’s to do with El Presidente and the Council election. I don’t know if I did the right thing when I put my name forward.’
Not just deeply wounded but almost mortally wounded. Christopher searched around in the far corners of his mind for something that might help.
‘If it’s something to do with El Presidente, then it’s probably just as well you are standing against him.’ He waited for a moment to see if it had helped or not. ‘Somebody has to,’ he added. ‘It might just as well be to do with the Face of Pitkirtly thing, anyway. Or not connected to either of them. It could all just be coincidence.’
He waited for her to say she didn’t believe in coincidence, but she didn’t. Instead she nodded and said, ‘There’s a police car in the car park... There’s a woman in uniform getting out... She’s looking this way... Holy mackerel! I don’t believe this.’
Amaryllis darted across the office and was out in the corridor before he had told his legs to move. He managed to make his way through the foyer and out through the front door just in time to see her fling herself at the woman police officer, who grabbed her with two very sturdy-looking arms and held on tightly.
‘It’s all right,’ he began to say. ‘She didn’t mean...’
But his tentative words of apology on her behalf were drowned out by what sounded almost like girlish squeals of glee from the two women. He had never heard Amaryllis squeal girlishly before.
‘Sarah! What are you doing here?’
‘Amaryllis! Of all the places...’
Christopher understood that Amaryllis wasn’t in danger of being arrested after all, so his apology was redundant. He stood back and exchanged baffled glances with the policeman who had been driving and who was now waiting to see what happened next.
Eventually Amaryllis freed herself from the death grip the other woman seemed to have on her, and turned to speak to Christopher.
‘Sorry – we were at school together. In the same hockey team. I don’t usually hug people. Neither does she.’
‘I certainly don’t,’ said the other woman, who was bigger and sturdier than Amaryllis, and had more sensible hair. The fact that she was wearing a crumpled beige skirt suit might have had something to do with the sturdiness. She held out a hand to Christopher. ‘Sarah Ramsay.’
He introduced himself, trying not to picture her and Amaryllis dashing around some cold damp field wielding their hockey-sticks.
‘I’ve been assigned to Pitkirtly for the moment. Just until we can do something about the shortfall in staffing,’ she said.
Presumably this was a tactful way of referring to Inspector Armstrong’s sick leave, or whatever it was.
‘Of course,’ she went on before he had a chance to say anything, ‘Sergeant Burnet is best placed to continue with the current caseload, but at least I can make sure he has enough resources.’
‘Amaryllis and I were just talking about it – the caseload, I mean. If you need to use the Cultural Centre for anything, let me know.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but we’re setting up an incident room at the station... Could I have a quick word with you, Mr Wilson – inside, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course, but I’m not sure if I can be of much help.’
‘Do you need me for this?’ said Amaryllis.
‘I’d prefer to speak to you separately, if possible,’ said Sarah Ramsay. ‘Have you got time to wait, or will I catch up with you later?’
‘I’ll wait for you in the staff tea-room,’ said Amaryllis meekly. She followed them into the Cultural Centre and took herself
off along the corridor when they went into the office.
‘Well, that was a surprise,’ said Sarah Ramsay – he hadn’t worked out her police rank or whether she was married. ‘I haven’t seen old Amaryllis since we bumped into each other at our terrorism refresher session a few years back. She seems just the same as ever.’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘Would you like to sit here?’
He took up position behind his desk. He felt more secure there. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea? Water? A biscuit?’
‘No, thanks. Let’s just get on... As you may have been one of the last people to see the two young artists, I wanted to check on what exactly happened. Keith’s writing up his own notes on the sequence of events and so on, but I’d like to form some sense of how things are before I read them.’
‘The girl’s still missing, isn’t she?’ said Christopher.
‘Yes – we have people out looking for her now. I can’t understand why it wasn’t taken more seriously before.’
‘Keith did all he could,’ said Christopher.
‘I know. It was the people who take the decisions who weren’t really listening... Anyway, setting that aside for the moment, can you tell me exactly what happened when you met the two young artists, and what your impressions of them were.’
‘Um,’ said Christopher. It seemed as if quite a lot had happened since that evening, and he was afraid of getting anything wrong. What if his account didn’t match Amaryllis’s, or what they had told Keith Burnet? Would they have to keep going through it until they got it right? Would they both be arrested? Sarah Ramsay didn’t look like the kind of woman who would let friendship get in the way of doing the right thing.
‘Take your time, Mr Wilson. It might be that one little detail holds the key to everything.’
That was even worse. If he had forgotten the only important thing he knew, then they would fail to crack the case and it would all be his fault.
He managed to pull himself together sufficiently to give an account of what had happened when Maggie Munro – who was still missing too, he suddenly recalled – had brought the two of them in until they had shooed him away. The whole thing hadn’t lasted very long. That was why he was having trouble remembering.
‘And then later on, when you and Amaryllis went back to the Folk Museum after...’ She glanced at a notebook that had appeared in her hand. ‘After a political meeting? Is that right?’
‘Yes. Amaryllis is standing for the local Council.’
‘What?’ Sarah Ramsay burst out laughing. ‘Sorry – I know this is all terribly serious, but really! Poacher turned gamekeeper, or what?’
‘You’re not the first person to say so,’ Christopher told her. He ran through the discovery of the blood-soaked quilt and of the camera.
‘So,’ she summed up when he had finished, ‘the girl was called Sammy and she was pretty feisty. Not the kind to give in under pressure.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Christopher.
‘And this Face of Pitkirtly thing? Had you heard of it before?’
‘The minister may have mentioned it. But I had forgotten.’
‘So it wasn’t exactly something that was much talked about around the town, then.’
‘No – but I sometimes miss things that are being talked about. I sort of get bogged down in other stuff.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s not your job to keep up with that.’
‘Well, it is in a way. Only I don’t find it easy.’
‘You should try Facebook or Twitter,’ she said, smiling. ‘Some towns have local groups that are hotbeds of gossip, innuendo and feuds.’
He tried and failed to suppress a shudder.
‘Some museums use social media extensively,’ she added. ‘We do too in the police, where appropriate.’
He resisted the urge to run screaming from the building. Instead he said, ‘I don’t know if this is anything to do with what’s been happening, but we seem to have lost track of one of the staff here.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes – the cleaner just left her mop lying about in the corridor earlier and we haven’t seen her since.’ Even as he spoke, he realised he hadn’t made it seem like a missing person case. It sounded more as if Maggie had downed tools and gone out on strike.
The Chief Inspector frowned. ‘Let us know if she doesn’t come back. It could all be connected, for all we know.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose it’s anything really...’
‘Have you spoken to her family? Maybe she felt ill and went home.’
Now he felt as if he had been ridiculous even to mention it. ‘Sorry – I’ll do that now.’
Sarah Ramsay got to her feet. ‘I’d like to speak to Amaryllis now. Will it be all right to use the tea-room, or could we possibly borrow your office for ten minutes or so?’
Sarah Ramsay was a different kind of senior police officer from Inspector Armstrong, or indeed from Charlie Smith. She spoke with authority but without aggression. The iron hand in the velvet glove.
Christopher gave up his office to her and retreated to the Folk Museum.
‘Have you found Maggie Munro yet?’ said Zak. He must have been desperate for something to do, because he was polishing the top of one of the display cases.
‘No, but when I get back into my office I’ll ring her at home in case she wasn’t feeling well and had to leave,’ Christopher mused. ‘Only I think she would have mentioned it to somebody.’
‘Maybe there was nobody about,’ said Zak, polishing hard at what looked like a very small spot.
‘Do you know something you’re not telling me?’
‘No... What about?’
‘I don’t know. Maggie Munro – the Face of Pitkirtly – the artists.’ Christopher found himself becoming unreasonably irritated. But Zak definitely had a guilty air about him. Or maybe that was something to do with his girl-friend, Harriet, who worked in the library. Christopher certainly didn’t want to know anything about their love-lives.
‘The artists?’
‘The ones who were last seen here in this room.’
‘Sammy and Craig, you mean?’
‘You know their names?’
‘Stewie...’ Zak’s voice tailed off and he leaned down over the top of the display case and polished with unconvincing vigour.
‘Stewie knows their names?’ said Christopher. He had a vague feeling this was important, but he couldn’t imagine why it should be. He had never quite been able to understand why Amaryllis had adopted Stewie, one of the most unprepossessing young men he had ever encountered. Zak, with his work ethic and his air of confidence, seemed much more worthy of encouragement, although with a pushy parent like Penelope Johnstone he probably didn’t need it.
Zak had taken advantage of his temporary lack of attentiveness to move through to the other room. Christopher followed. Zak was pretending to re-arrange the medieval mining exhibit, which Christopher hated because of its references to the tunnels out under the Forth where Amaryllis had almost come to grief. Although he had to admit that if he avoided all the places where that kind of thing had happened, he would probably never go outside his own front door.
‘How did Stewie know them?’
Zak shrugged his shoulders, causing him to drop a couple of photographs that showed the long-lost entrance to the mines. He bent to pick them up. Christopher folded his arms and waited, trying to look implacable.
Eventually it worked. After he had pinned the photos back up, Zak replied. ‘He was helping the minister with the Face of Pitkirtly thing. He must have met them there. I guess.’
Christopher didn’t think of himself as particularly intuitive, but he had the sense that Zak wasn’t telling the whole story.
‘There’s a senior police officer in the building,’ he said. ‘Sarah Ramsay. Do you think she’d be interested in this?’
‘No,’ said Zak with a glare. ‘It’s just hearsay, isn’t it? Not proper evidence.’
&nbs
p; Of course Liam Johnstone’s son would know the difference, wouldn’t he?
‘I’d better find out if Stewie’s prepared to speak to her, hadn’t I?’
Zak shrugged again. ‘You should ask Amaryllis about that.’
‘All right then, I’ll do that.’
Christopher didn’t want to give the impression of flouncing out in a huff, but that was what it felt like. He only just refrained from slamming the door behind him.
‘Oh, Mr Wilson!’ said Harriet from the library as he emerged into the corridor. ‘It’s Maggie Munro.’ She paused for breath, and he detected tears in her eyes. ‘I was just coming to tell you – she’s been found. Outside the Queen of Scots. She’s in a bad way.’
Chapter 17 A Taste of Herring
Keith hadn’t quite finished his paperwork before going to see Maggie Munro, but Chief Inspector Ramsay had sent him to interview her about what had happened while it was still fresh in her memory. Looking at her propped up in bed on several pillows, her face grazed and her arms bandaged, he didn’t think it would be anything other than fresh for some time. Apparently she was a resilient woman, though. She had refused to go to hospital, not that an ambulance would have got there in less than about four hours, judging by previous experience, having instead received a home visit from the local GP practice, which was in itself a minor medical miracle.
‘It’s nothing really,’ was almost the first thing she said to him, followed more or less immediately by, ‘No, I didn’t see who it was’ and ‘There’s not much point in following it up.’
Her husband frowned as he brought her a cold drink and helped her with it, but he wasn’t saying much either.
She had been taken from round the back of the Cultural Centre by a man wearing a mask – she couldn’t even tell Keith what kind of mask it was, although she had ruled out both Mickey Mouse and Sonic the Hedgehog, which suggested it might have been some other cartoon character. Then she had been hustled into a car, definitely not a van. She wasn’t sure of the colour but it was something dark. Black, dark grey or maybe dark green.
Her abductors – there were two of them by this time, the man who had grabbed her and a driver, whom needless to say she couldn’t describe either – had driven her to a quiet spot just outside town where they had manhandled her to an unspecified extent, made threats, possibly relating to her family, but she couldn’t quite remember, and then driven down to the Queen of Scots where they had pushed her out of the car while it was still going, and left.
Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) Page 15