‘Nothing for you round here, hen,’ said one of them. The other, younger one giggled. They carried on with what they were doing. There was no sign of the Big Issue seller in the multi-coloured blanket. The lane came to an end just after the loading bay in a cluster of giant black wheelie-bins and a battered motorbike with only one wheel.
Wishing there was some sort of a law against young men who thought all women over forty were too decrepit to bother with, Amaryllis retraced her steps. There were few hiding places along the lane. One doorway with a door that looked as if it hadn’t been opened for several centuries, and that was about it. The only possibilities seemed to be that the Big Issue seller had dived into the furniture shop through the open roller-shutter door while the two men were busy in the van, or, and her instinct told her that this was the correct one, he had returned to his hideout in one of the large black wheelie-bins.
She couldn’t investigate just now, because she didn’t want to attract even more attention from the two delivery men, but she resolved to come back later – preferably in the dark when everyone had gone home apart from the people she was searching for, and when they might be asleep, or at least drowsy and off their guard.
Amaryllis wandered back down towards the Cultural Centre. She might as well amuse herself with events there while she waited for the right time to pursue her real aims. She might even be able to assist with the police investigation, while remaining firmly in the background, of course. It didn’t normally do for people in her profession to interfere with other professionals – except when they were desperate to know something, as she had been the night before.
Her pace quickened when she saw the queue of people outside in the car park. It was amazing – she had never seen so many kilts in one place before. The variety of tartans clashed horribly.
She hoped Grumpy Graham wasn’t stopping them from going in on some bizarre pretext of his own concoction.
‘I’ve got the shortbread,’ said Christopher cheerfully from her side. He waved a Greggs bag at her.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘What’s going on with all the kilts?’
His jaw dropped as he stared down the road. ‘They weren’t there when I left.’
He speeded up, and she had to quicken her pace again. ‘I’d better get back. They’ll be swamped.’
‘I hope Grumpy Graham won’t give you a row.’
‘It was his idea to send me out. Christopher’s the only one who won’t be missed for half an hour. Hmph!’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say Hmph before. You must have caught it from Jock.’
‘Wish me luck,’ he said as they approached the sea of tartan. Even the women were wearing big tartan scarves, pinned at the shoulder with thistle brooches.
‘Hope you’ve got enough shortbread,’ she called after him.
She waited in the queue. She heard a variety of accents, but there was only one topic of conversation. By the time Amaryllis got into the building she was much more familiar with the history of emigration from Scotland than she had been before, and the question uppermost in her mind was why people bothered coming back. The couple just in front of her had spent ten minutes arguing about why they were in this god-forsaken place at all, while the family in front of them had been divided on whether the breakfast served at their hotel had been continental or full Scottish and whether they wanted to complain about it with a view to getting a reduction in their bill. One man further ahead in the queue, whose girth seemed to be putting a severe strain on the fastenings on his kilt, got into an argument with Grumpy Graham as soon as he was in the building about whether he could take photographs or not.
All in all, it wasn’t a very good advert for ancestry research.
Chapter 8
Fire exit
After fighting his way through the crowd into the building, and having withstood a chorus of comments about queue-jumping as well as a pointed remark from Graham about leaving him single-handed to cope with all the extra visitors, their silly questions and the name badges, Christopher went into the meeting room to deliver his bag of shortbread. It was quieter in there than he had expected, but he had no doubt that word of the shortbread would soon spread and visitors would head into the room from the foyer like a flock of crazed seagulls.
Mrs Stevenson arranged the shortbread on two plates, and they stood back to admire the extent of the refreshments.
‘I hope it’s enough,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘I didn’t expect quite so many people. I’m sure they weren’t all in the Facebook group.’
‘You’ve got a Facebook group?’ Although experience had taught Christopher not to be prejudiced about people’s capabilities, particularly when it came to age, he was quite surprised to hear this. And quite envious. He hadn’t even dipped his toe in the water of online social networking, having had more than enough trouble with the real-life kind.
‘Social networking’s the invention of the devil,’ said Jock McLean from behind him.
‘Who let you in?’ said Christopher.
‘It’s a public building,’ said Jock McLean. ‘Or at least it was before they re-branded it – I don’t know what was wrong with calling it a library. I’m just as entitled to be in here as the next person – more, if anything,’ he added, glaring at a small child dressed almost from head to foot in Royal Stewart tartan, who had just run into him.
‘Brad! Come in here – Mom’s found a new cousin!’ called someone from the foyer. Christopher and Jock looked round. Brad’s Mom was a short plump woman with a baseball cap on and a white sweater round her shoulders. She looked as if she should be about to take to some sort of sports field. As they watched, she threw her arms round a terrified-looking man in a tweed cap.
‘He probably only came in to change his library books,’ said Christopher.
‘Oh, no, that’s Andrew Plummer. He’s one of our members. He’s very keen – he’s got back as far as the fifteenth century on his father’s side,’ said Mrs Stevenson, who had abandoned the refreshments for now and was staring at the tableau in the foyer. ‘That must be one of his relatives from Missouri.’
‘Cousins?’ said Jock.
‘Sixth or seventh cousins,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘We just call each other cousins, for the sake of argument.’
‘Hmph,’ said Jock. ‘We could all be each other’s cousins at that rate.’
‘I’m hoping to meet some of mine too,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘There’s one from Vancouver and one from Dunedin, in New Zealand. I think there’s a missing link somewhere with the Vancouver one. We can’t prove our four times great grandmothers were sisters in 1750.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Jock. ’So how do you get started on this family history thing then?’
‘You could start with the International Genealogical Index,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘It’s free. Here, I’ll show you on one of the computers.’
She steered Jock across the meeting room to where the monitors were blinking invitingly. Christopher wondered what on earth Jock would unearth in his family history. Either mass murderers or saints, probably. He shuddered. He had no wish to go into it himself.
‘Hey Chris - can you give me a hand out here?’ shouted Graham from the foyer.
It wasn’t like Grumpy Graham to ask for help. He must be desperate. Christopher hurried out to the foyer. Graham was just visible, a dark, dour island in an excited tartan sea. A tall man was arguing with him, gesticulating wildly and holding up his camera as if he thought Graham had never seen one before.
‘We need a bit of crowd control here,’ said Graham with his usual tact. ‘See if you can find those barriers Ms Farquharson bought when she was expecting the rush for the last of those Henry Porter books.’
‘Where are they?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you to find them, would I?’ barked Graham. ‘No, you can’t take any photos in here. It’s against the rules.... They could be in the fire exit cupboard.’
The fire exit cupboard was the se
cret shame of the Cultural Centre. It was supposed to be the corridor that led from the library to the public fire exit, but in fact it had been appropriated by the librarians for storage, and ever since he had found out about it Christopher had hoped that in the event of a fire there would be a meeting of the local Weight-Lifting Society in the library to move all the stuff out of the way. This did seem a bit unlikely, so instead he often prowled the premises for most of his shift, making sure there weren’t any fire hazards around.
Of course the barriers were right at the back, behind numerous boxes of books Clarissa hadn’t had time to unpack.
‘... must be a saint to put up with it,’ huffed Christopher as he shifted some of the boxes out of the way. He started a stack in a corner of the reference section, in front of the self-help books. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm not to read these for a bit. ‘.. no use reading while the place burns down around you... wouldn’t help you very much...’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Amaryllis, who had materialised in the library and was perched on Clarissa’s special steps flicking through some sort of comic book. ‘I didn’t know they had this kind of thing here. I’d better join so I can borrow some.’
He suspected she was teasing him.
‘What are you up to?’ she continued.
‘Finding the crash barriers.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘Grumpy Graham sent me.’
He returned to the fire exit cupboard and just managed to wrest the crash barriers from under the bar on the fire door.
‘You look cross,’ said Amaryllis.
‘I am cross. I’m cross every time I look at this fire exit and imagine people trapped in the library while the building burns down around them.’
‘Don’t the fire service ever do a safety inspection?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not in charge here, you know, Amaryllis, I’m just a minion.’
‘That’s a thought,’ she said, putting down the comic book and peering into the cupboard, or corridor, which it was starting to resemble.
‘What's a thought?’
He carried the barriers across the library and was halfway out the door to the foyer by the time she replied. ‘Not in charge. Just a minion. It’s all wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Tell me about it!’ he said with uncharacteristic rudeness.
What was it with all this tension between him and Amaryllis? They didn’t seem to be able to be in the same room for five minutes without snapping at each other. Then he reminded himself of the fish supper, and the walk down to the Centre today, and smiled. He was over-reacting, that was all. A little conflict between friends was a healthy thing.
Then he was out in the foyer dealing with apparently endless questions. More people wanted to take photographs, usually of themselves in front of the exhibits in the Folk Museum; someone insisted they had arranged to run a stall on behalf of the Pitkirtly and Environs Family History Society – for a few moments Christopher, now in a muddled state, wondered why he had never heard of the village of Environs; others expected him to know his own family tree in minute detail; still others expected him to know theirs, or asked if he knew anyone with the surname McAllister or Whitburn or Peebles....
‘Wait a minute!’ he called after the last of these. ‘I do know someone called Peebles.’
It was too late: the enquirer had melted back into the crowd again.
He hoped someone was coping with requests to use the internet, with the setting up of the Family History Society stall and all the rest. He couldn’t get away from his post at the reception desk. For a while Graham was there too, dutifully doling out name badges and resisting the temptation to reply to any questions or be at all helpful - although Christopher noticed one or two very persistent women broke down his defences and managed to wring two sentences out of him - but after a while Christopher realised he had moved away. Maybe it was time for his break. Graham was very conscientious about taking his breaks. They could have done with Ms Farquharson there to get things under control. Christopher sighed. Then he realised that the person now in front of him, coughing to get his attention, wasn’t wearing tartan at all. In fact he was wearing a police uniform.
‘Excuse me, sir – Mr Wilson? Christopher Wilson?’
‘Yes, that’s me... No, the toilets are that way – in between the library and the museum,’ he shouted after a meandering Australian. He turned back to the policeman. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We need to have a word with you and your colleagues. Individually, I mean. Can you come across to the incident room?’
‘What, now?’ said Christopher.
‘The investigation can’t proceed until we get this out of the way. If it’s not too much trouble.’
Christopher was aware that the last sentence had been added on as an afterthought, a gesture towards public relations. He had no doubt that if he refused to go and answer questions on a so-called voluntary basis the next step would be to put him under arrest. On the other hand, he really didn’t feel he could leave his post.
‘I’m not sure I can – ‘
Stalled in mid-sentence, he caught sight of Big Dave, who was staring at the chaos and no doubt wondering where he could find Mrs Stevenson.
‘Dave!’ said Christopher with relief.
‘Morning, Christopher. How’s things? Have you seen Jemima?’
‘She’s through there with Jock,’ said Christopher. ‘No – wait a minute, don't go. Can you look after the door for a bit? I have to go over to the police incident room for a bit. I won’t be long.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ said Dave darkly. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Just stand here giving people a name badge when they come in, and answering any questions you know the answer to. It should be a dawdle from now on – most of them are inside already digging up their ancestors. They all know where the toilets are by now. Just don’t admit to being related to anybody or having any ancestors.’
‘I think I can manage that,’ said Dave. ‘Just don’t be too long.’
The policeman didn’t smile or say anything as he led the way across to the mobile incident room and ushered Christopher inside. There was a smaller room at one side which they seemed to be using as an interview room.
After keeping him waiting on his own for ten minutes, the uniformed policeman and Detective Chief Inspector Smith came in and sat down.
‘How are you, Mr Wilson?’ said the senior detective.
‘Fine,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re very busy today though.’
‘So I see. Special event, is it?’
‘It’s some sort of family history day. I didn’t realise there were people coming from all over the place.’
‘Interesting,’ said Mr Smith, making a note.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, wondering when the questioning would start.
‘So did Ms Farquharson arrange this?’
‘I think she must have at least overseen the arrangements,’ said Christopher. ‘But she didn’t tell Graham – that’s the senior attendant – and me. At least, nobody told me. But then there’s no particular reason they should. I knew about the Homecoming Project from a friend, but not officially.’
Stop babbling, he told himself. They’ll think you have something to hide.
‘Quite,’ said Mr Smith. He checked the contents of a folder. ‘Good, good... Did you know Ms Farquharson well?’
‘I wouldn’t say I did. I only saw her at work – I only work part time at the Cultural Centre so I didn’t even see a lot of her when I was there.’
‘We’re still looking for a next of kin,’ said Mr Smith. ‘We may need to employ a specialist researcher.’
‘Um,’ said Christopher, not sure what to say.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, and I can assure you it’s only for elimination purposes, but can you account for your whereabouts on Saturday night?’
‘Saturday night? Is there something wrong about
Ms Farquharson’s death?’
‘I can’t say… Can you cast your mind back to Saturday?’
‘I think I can just about remember,’ said Christopher. He paused for a moment as if racking his brains. ‘I was having fish and chips and Irn Bru with Amaryllis.’
‘Would that be – ‘ the chief inspector consulted another file, ‘- Amaryllis Peebles, recently returned from China?’
‘How did you know? I suppose it’s the airport records,’ marvelled Christopher. ‘Yes, that’s the one. She came back on Saturday so that’s why we had the fish and chips and Irn Bru. To celebrate.’
‘And did you – er- stay the night with Ms Peebles?’
‘Stay the night?’ Christopher felt a blush begin somewhere under his chin and start to spread inexorably all across his face like the tide coming in over the local mudflats. ‘We aren’t – I mean – no! I went home at about eleven.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it. I went home and went to bed. Very boring really.’
‘Where did you get the fish suppers?’
‘Where? Rizzio’s in Lower Causeway. They’re the best for miles around.’
‘Yes,’ said Chief Inspector Smith, writing rapidly. ‘And the Irn Bru?’
‘Yes, we got it at Rizzio’s too.’
Out of the corner of his eye Christopher could see the uniformed policeman writing too. Surely fish suppers and fizzy drinks were not really the subjects of criminal investigations.
It wasn’t exactly a ruthless interrogation. But it was brought to an end dramatically. There was a shout from outside, and suddenly they heard the Portakabin door open and heavy footsteps running along the corridor.
‘Help! Quickly!’ said Big Dave’s voice outside the little interview room. ‘There’s been an accident!’
Chapter 9
The search for Fenwick Colquhoun
Jemima found Jock a very inept pupil. He didn’t seem to have a clue about computers, and kept clicking in the wrong place because he didn’t understand the mouse; when the internet took a couple of minutes to respond he hit several keys at once and managed to lose the Windows task bar; when they finally reached the International Genealogical Index website he announced that his grandfather’s name had been John Smith... It would have been very easy to lose patience with him and flounce off.
2 Reunited in Death Page 5