‘Trumped-up story, if ever I heard one,’ said the Chief Inspector when Keith reported all this to her back at the station. ‘What was the husband’s take on it?’
‘He wasn’t saying much... It’s just another of those random things, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s starting to feel a lot like gang warfare to me. Or a protection racket.’
‘The last time we had that sort of thing around here it turned out to be a branch of the Mafia,’ said Keith.
‘I wonder if the boy and girl stumbled into it.’
‘It’s maybe not connected,’ said Keith.
He wasn’t even convincing himself with this line of thought. And the more he thought about Maggie’s husband’s apparent lack of indignation, the less convincing any of it seemed. Was the man being threatened by a gang or something? The idea slid away from him as he tried to think about the other problems.
‘Any word from the search teams?’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir – ma’am.’
‘I’ve read your reports,’ she told him. ‘I think we may need to bring the minister in.’
‘The minister?’
‘Yes. I know we’ve got the print-out of his records, which by the way we’ll need to go through in detail, to find out who else we should be interviewing. By the sound of it he wasn’t all that eager to hand over any information. We may have to confiscate his computer.’
‘I could go round there and have another word with him,’ Keith offered, somehow not keen to tangle with Mr Cockburn, whom he suspected would put up some resistance, moral if not physical, to being hauled into the station for questioning. ‘He wasn’t very pleased about the church hall break-in. Maybe I can start with that.’
‘You’d better go on home as soon as you’ve done that. You could do with an early night, I expect. Just make sure you stay focussed when you speak to him,’ she warned him. Evidently she had already discovered one of his weaknesses. He hoped she had unearthed a few strengths too, otherwise his whole career might be in jeopardy. But she was smiling, so it couldn’t be too bad, unless of course she liked to smile just before plunging the knife in...
Keith was even more muddled by the time he set out for the manse again. Now he wasn’t just muddled about the case, but about his new boss and about his future in the police force, and his girl-friend, who probably wasn’t even speaking to him. He wouldn’t have been speaking to himself if he had been her, he reflected gloomily, walking down the High Street and trying to avoid catching anybody’s eye in case they distracted him from his mission.
Unfortunately, avoiding Maisie Sue’s eye made him stare straight across to the far side of the street, where a scruffy-looking young man was moving furtively from one shop doorway to another, glancing round as if he wanted to make sure nobody had spotted him, and at the same time making himself exponentially more visible than if he were just striding along normally.
Keith frowned. He had seen the young man before. Wasn’t he the boy who sometimes went around with Amaryllis? Stewie? He thought they had been delivering election leaflets together. Because of the boy’s furtiveness he decided the responsible course of action was to try and find out more. He knew he would stay focussed better if he got this out of the way first.
He hadn’t actually tailed anybody for quite a while. What with the boy Stewie’s furtive glances, he knew there was a good chance he’d be spotted, but he carried on down his own side of the road and just looked across occasionally to make sure his quarry was still somewhere about. They progressed like this right down the High Street to the supermarket car park. It was too open there. Keith hesitated as Amaryllis’s assistant darted across the space, dodging between parked cars, and only followed once the boy had cleared the car park and headed down the road at the other side, a narrow wynd between two rows of houses. Keith knew it led down towards the Queen of Scots eventually, but there was a steep, narrow stretch before that, and probably not much cover either. As far as he knew not many people even used the wynd, except maybe after they had been ejected from the Queen of Scots at the end of the evening and were finding their way home up the hill.
He took his time, hoping Stewie would still be in view once he turned down into the wynd. He spotted the slight figure about halfway down the hill, but no sooner had he seen him than Stewie turned aside from the pavement and vanished.
Keith hurried down the road.
He stopped abruptly. He had forgotten about the Italian restaurant. It seemed that most other people had forgotten too, for the once immaculate paintwork and shining windows showed signs of neglect. He knew the Petrelli family had been through a bad patch over the past few years. Two of their number were currently in prison, the boy Giancarlo, who was surely about the same age as Stewie, had gone to America a couple of months before, and Keith thought Mrs Petrelli had been left to manage on her own. Evidently it was still functioning as a restaurant, more or less, but in reduced circumstances.
That must be where Stewie had gone. Of course, if he had been at school with Giancarlo then he would know Mrs Petrelli. But why all the furtiveness? It was a bit of a puzzle.
‘Hey! Were you on your way to see me?’ called somebody from further down the wynd. Charlie Smith came into view, puffing a bit as he climbed the hill, dog at his heels as usual.
‘Not really,’ said Keith. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m meant to be round at the manse by now. I got distracted.’ He frowned as he realised that was exactly what the Chief Inspector had warned him against.
‘And your footsteps just automatically took you towards the Queen of Scots?’ Charlie suggested helpfully.
‘No, it wasn’t that. Just something odd.’
Keith didn’t want to add another oddity to the long list of random local events he had already compiled. There wasn’t time to follow up on this one, and it probably didn’t mean anything. Stewie was the kind of person who looked furtive whatever he did, just as Charlie Smith’s dog had a constant air of embarrassment. He leaned down to tickle its ears.
‘He’s looking well,’ he said.
Of course that was the signal for Charlie to hold forth about different brands of dog food and how important it was to choose the right kind for the dog’s age, size, breed, colouring, personality. All right, he didn’t mention the colouring and personality, but as far as Keith was concerned that would have been just as relevant.
He glanced at his watch again when Charlie started in on what Jock McLean should be feeding the wee white dog and wasn’t. Or more to the point, what he shouldn’t be giving it.
‘... seen him sneaking cheese and piccalilli crisps to it under the table...’
‘Sorry, Charlie, I’ve got to get on. The new Chief Inspector...’
‘Sarah Ramsay? She’s all right, isn’t she?’
He might have known Charlie had already heard about the new arrival. For somebody who had left the Force and claimed not to want any more to do with it, he certainly kept his ear to the ground.
‘Yes, but I’ve got to get up to the manse now, otherwise she could bring the iron hand out of the velvet glove.’
‘Can’t have that. Off you go, then. Good luck with the minister.’
‘Thanks. See you around.’
Stewie hadn’t emerged from the restaurant. But there was no reason why the boy shouldn’t make a social call in his spare time, Keith told himself as he climbed the hill again, wishing he had brought his bike. On the other hand, he might have been more conspicuous tracking Stewie that way.
At the manse, Mr Cockburn was full of righteous indignation.
‘Breaking into the church hall! That’s almost sacrilege. I don’t know what anyone could possible hope to gain by it anyway. The art exhibition’s of great local interest but I don’t think the individual pieces would fetch much – not unless one of the artists became famous, that is, and we’d have to wait years for that to happen.’
Keith waited for him to run
out of steam, and then said what he had come to say.
‘The Chief Inspector asked me to let you know we might need to take away your computer for a while. Just to check it out. In case there’s anything more...’
‘This is outrageous!’ boomed the minister.
All right, he needed to be able to boom from the pulpit on Sundays to frighten sinners, but did he have to do it in his own front room?
‘I know you gave me the print-out, sir, but there could be further information...’
‘I can assure you there isn’t!’ snapped Mr Cockburn.
‘I’m afraid this is now a murder enquiry, so we can’t take anybody’s word for...’
‘Not even the word of a man of God?’
‘Um.’
Mrs Cockburn burst into the room, flinging the door back against the wall with the speed of her arrival.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I didn’t ask for tea!’ Mr Cockburn roared.
‘Coffee? Biscuits? Water?’
The minister reached for a copy of a book – was it the Bible? – on the little table next to him, lifted it to shoulder level almost as if he were planning to throw it at his wife, then caught Keith’s eye and put it back. To her credit, Mrs Cockburn didn’t flinch or even pause in her attempts to persuade them to take some refreshment.
She must be used to it.
Keith didn’t even want to think about that. He had more than enough on his plate without seeing signs of domestic violence in the manse, of all places. But in all conscience he couldn’t completely ignore it either. He smiled at the woman.
‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea, if you’re making one.’
She smiled faintly, nodded, and left the room again, leaving the door wide open.
‘I think you gave your wife a bit of a fright then, sir,’ he said.
Mr Cockburn heaved a sigh. ‘High blood pressure,’ he said.
‘What – oh, you mean she’s worried about you?’ Keith hoped his incredulity didn’t show.
‘There’s a family history of strokes. She never stops worrying. It’s stupid, of course. Women!... Are you married?’
‘Not yet.’ And he never would be, the way things were going with missed dates.
‘Don’t do it. They’re always on some project or other. If they’re not meddling in church affairs they’re off visiting somebody in prison all afternoon and you’re lucky to get a bite to eat before seven-thirty. Or they’re scattering their sewing about the place so that the pins stab you whenever you move.’ The minister paced around a bit.
‘Mrs Cockburn visits people in prison?’
The minister shook his head, apparently in denial, but the next words he spoke gave the opposite impression. Maybe he had wanted to expunge the information from his mind. ‘She doesn’t do it a lot. Only if there’s a local connection. She used to go and see that young man who was put away for fraud or something – what was his name? I saw him just the other day.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Keith politely.
‘What were we saying?’ said Mr Cockburn. Fortunately he had calmed down a bit. ‘You want to take away the computer?’
‘It would be best if you gave it to us voluntarily, sir. Otherwise we might have to get a warrant.... Apart from that, is there anything you can think of about the two artists – Sammy and Craig – that might explain why somebody might want to harm them?’
‘I’ve asked myself that... Do you think the girl’s dead too? Is that why you wanted to speak to me again?’
‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Keith. Of course there must be talk and speculation among people who had known the twins, but he didn’t want to give away anything new, even to the minister. ‘Anything you can remember might be important, though.’
The minister sat down heavily in the nearest chair and closed his eyes. Surely he couldn’t be praying. Keith waited. Mrs Cockburn crept in with a cup of tea for him, a small shortbread biscuit in the saucer. She hadn’t brought her husband anything.
Mr Cockburn suddenly opened his eyes. ‘There might be something... I don’t know if it’s relevant though.’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘Their work of art – it was going to be a video installation. It was unfinished, but I thought the concept was interesting, so I accepted it on the understanding that they would finish it in time for the opening. Or at least have something to show for it. It would be ongoing, of course.’
‘What was the concept?’
‘It was supposed to be kept under wraps, but I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to tell you now. They were going to create a situation in the Folk Museum and then film people’s reactions to it.’
‘What?’
‘It’s one of these modern ideas. They called it conceptual art.’
Keith had to take several deep breaths before he could comment on the total irresponsibility of the concept itself and of the minister for encouraging the two artists to go ahead with realising it. He took a sip of tea as well.
‘Did they ask Mr Wilson’s permission to use the Folk Museum for this?’
‘Well, I thought I had made it clear to him when I first spoke to him about the project... But with hindsight maybe I should have gone into a bit more detail...’
‘Would you have agreed to let them do this inside the church?’
‘Well – no. But that’s different.’
‘They’re both public areas,’ said Keith after another calming sip of tea. ‘You’re not supposed to film people without their permission these days. Presumably the artists weren’t going to ask permission of every single person they filmed for this so-called work of art.’
‘Well, no, but that would have spoiled the whole concept, you see. They had to capture people’s genuine reactions. Asking for permission would have alerted everyone that something was going on.’
Keith put down his cup, but only so that he could clutch his forehead as he groaned aloud.
‘Are you all right, Sergeant Burnet?’ said Mrs Cockburn, reappearing and hovering over him.
Keith wasn’t sure if he would ever be all right again. His brain might have been permanently affected by its exposure to the minister’s reality. Maybe this was how religions acquired their converts. It wasn’t something he had wondered about often, so maybe this in itself was a sign that his mind was addled. He groaned again as he felt himself being sucked further into the vortex of bewilderment.
Chapter 18 Amaryllis on the wing
The news about Maggie Munro had interrupted Sarah Ramsay’s questioning, but Amaryllis doubted that she could add anything much to whatever Christopher had said about the night they had found the blood-soaked quilt. This was of course quite an unusual turn of events. If Sarah had gone on to ask about the discovery of the tablet, for instance, there would have been more to say, but Amaryllis knew from her spying experience that you should never answer more questions than your interrogator asked you. Not that Sarah was an interrogator, although she would have made quite a good one, in Amaryllis’s opinion. She could have lulled her victims by appearing to befriend them before going in for the kill.
Amaryllis found herself nodding approvingly to herself at this image. It was the way she herself had done it on certain occasions.
She looked forward to seeing Keith Burnet again and finding out what he thought of Sarah. He seemed secure enough in his masculinity not to mind having a woman boss. But you could never quite be sure until the situation actually occurred.
Her mind was too busy to allow her to settle to anything, and towards the end of a rather disturbing day she found herself heading inexorably for the Queen of Scots. She didn’t have the energy to round up anyone to take with her, so she was sort of hoping some of her friends would be there already. And of course there was always Charlie Smith.
‘On your own tonight?’ he said.
She looked round the bar. It was very sparsely populated for a Friday night. Not even Jock McL
ean, Charlie’s best customer, was around tonight.
‘They’ve all gone to a Beetle drive in Limekilns,’ he told her, polishing a glass. The dog, snuggled down behind the bar, gave a small growl.
‘What’s a Beetle Drive when it’s at home?’
He sighed. ‘Apparently you have to be there to understand. It’s something to do with throwing the dice and drawing parts of a beetle.’
‘It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing any sane person would cross the road for, never mind going to Limekilns.’
He laughed. ‘Maisie Sue wanted to experience it for herself, so they decided to take her along... What are you having? It’s on the house.’
‘That’s the nicest thing that’s happened today.’
She ordered a gin and tonic, and slumped on to one of the bar stools.
‘Christopher not with you?’
‘Not unless he’s learned how to be completely invisible instead of almost transparent,’ she said gloomily.
Charlie gave her the glass, and leaned on the bar. ‘I don’t think he’s gone to the Beetle Drive. You could always go and dig him out.’
‘I don’t think my archaeological skills are up to it.’
‘This isn’t like you – what’s up? Still in the huff about being overpowered up in the High Street?’
‘Life’s too short for huffs,’ said Amaryllis. She took a gulp of gin and tonic, and added, ‘I suppose it’s meeting an old school friend that’s done it. She’s high up in the police.’
‘Not Sarah Ramsay?’
‘You’ve heard of her?’
‘She’s quite well-known... So you were at school with her, were you? Come on, spill the beans. Did you have midnight feasts and crushes on the teachers?’
Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) Page 16