3 A Reformed Character (4 page)

'Yes! Lots!' she said. 'There were four of them then - and now there are three.'

Chapter 4 Four men, three men, two men and their dog, Spot

Christopher shivered. Jock crunched a piece of toast. They gazed at Amaryllis very much, she thought, like children starved of stories.

'I know who was there,' she said. 'In the yard, that is. I still don't know about the murder scene - Darren was a bit vague about that. He didn't seem to be able to remember even going to the house, although he was quite clear about waking up there this morning.'

'He'd be too drunk to remember anything,' said Jock with grim satisfaction. 'That's what they do - drink themselves senseless to dull the pain of everyday life and the prospect of death.' When the others stared at him he added, 'I've not got personal experience of that kind of thing, mind you - it's just what I've heard.'

'So - what happened in the yard?' said Christopher.

Amaryllis's eyes gleamed. 'We've got several lines of enquiry to follow up. There were four of them in the yard that night - five if you count Victoria.'

'Why wouldn't you count Victoria?' said Christopher indignantly.

She gave him a sidelong, mischievous glance and carried on. 'The four I'm counting are

Darren, Alan Donaldson himself, a friend of theirs from Aberdour who used to live in Pitkirtly called Zak, and another boy they used to know at school called Stewie. Victoria came along towards the end of the session - in time to help Alan Donaldson get Darren back to the house. She said she was afraid they would leave him lying in the yard all night.'

'She's far and away too good for him,' said Jock.

'The beauty of it,' said Amaryllis, 'is that I happen to know Zak's mother. Penelope Johnstone - with an e and a t.'

'Cosy Clicks?' said Christopher.

'Exactly... There's nothing like joining a Cosy Clicks group for really getting to know what's going on in a place.'

So that was what was behind her sudden interest in affairs of the needles. Christopher hoped that meant she had given up her old hobby of prowling around at night observing things around Pitkirtly. He had often worried about her doing that, although he tried not to let her sense his concern in case it made her even more reckless - as if she still had anything to prove.

'The trouble is,' she continued, 'we might need to go home a day early - Friday's Cosy Clicks day, and I don't want to miss it this week. They'll be talking about the murder, and I want to hear what they've all got to say.'

'Go home a day early?' said Christopher. 'I think I can cope with that.'

Suddenly he felt almost light-hearted. One less night of lying awake in that confined space listening to Jock McLean making strange mumbling sounds in his sleep; one less day of playing Scrabble in the caravan while the rain battered on the roof, or of looking in shop windows in Burntisland and wondering if anyone was going to buy the cake with the cerise icing. Spending an impulsive out of season week in Mrs Stevenson's new caravan had seemed like a wild, impetuous, fun thing to do at a moment's notice - now it just seemed insane. Of course, thought Christopher darkly, Jock McLean hadn't been meant to come with them. He had invited himself along by simply turning up at the bus stop as they were leaving. Without him it could all have been quite different... leisurely walks with Amaryllis, long dark cosy evenings, intimate dinners for two... He dismissed these fantasies from his mind. There was no way spending a week in Kinghorn in a caravan in March would ever have turned into a romantic Caribbean idyll, and he was fooling himself if he had ever imagined it might.

'No disrespect to Jemima Stevenson,' said Jock McLean the following morning on the way to the station, 'but I wish she'd chosen somewhere better for a holiday home.'

'Jemima's very pleased with it,' said Amaryllis reprovingly. 'She said she'd always dreamed of having a holiday caravan of her own.'

'But why didn't she get one further away?' said Jock. 'Dunoon - Pitlochry - Malta.'

'I don't know that they have caravans in Malta,' said Christopher. 'What's so great about Malta, anyway?'

'Dunno.' Jock shrugged his shoulders. 'What have you got against it?'

'It's an island,' said Christopher darkly. 'Once you're there, you've got to stay there. Trapped. At the mercy of the people you're with.'

'You might just as well say that about here,' pointed out Jock. 'And it rains as well.'

'At least when we get home I won't have to put up with you two bickering all the time,' said Amaryllis. 'It's like taking two primary school kids away on holiday.'

Jock McLean sulked for most of the journey home, which at least meant they didn't have to listen to any more of his ramblings about Malta.

Pitkirtly was much the same place as it had been when they left it five days before. Or at least, when they got off the bus Christopher thought it was the same place. But on the way up the High Street something suddenly seemed different. He glanced at the others sideways to see if they had noticed anything.

There was a large talking ham outside the butcher’s shop. As they got closer it turned into the butcher’s assistant wearing a ham-shaped outfit that seemed to be made of pink spongy stuff. His arms and legs were sticking out incongruously.

‘Cram in some ham!’ he said as they passed. There was a banner across the shop window saying ‘Have a Sandwich for National Ham Week.’ The talking ham tried to hand them a leaflet, which Amaryllis avoided by the simple expedient of pushing the others off the pavement.

‘Look out!’ complained Jock. ‘There could’ve been a car coming.’

‘There wasn’t,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Anyway, do you really want to be given a leaflet by a talking ham?’

The ham stared mournfully after them. Christopher, glancing back, wondered whether to run back and take a leaflet.

‘Don’t do it,’ said Jock, reading his mind. ‘It’ll only encourage them.’

Whatever next? thought Christopher. Talking knitting needles outside the wool shop, prodding and poking at passers-by until they gave up and went in; fragrant people dressed up as perfume bottles outside the chemist’s, polluting the air for miles around with wildly conflicting scents. Talking books outside the library might be an idea, though… Hmm.

He had only been home ten minutes when the door-bell rang.

‘We wondered if you were all right,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘After your ordeal.’

Obviously she wanted to get the low-down on their stay in the caravan. Big Dave, just behind her solid as a rock, gave an apologetic smile. Christopher couldn’t do anything but graciously invite them in.

'It was great, thanks,' he said as they invaded his kitchen. Dave opened the cupboard and took out the biscuit tin.

'A bit wet, wasn't it?' he said.

'Not that bad,' lied Christopher.

'You get a lovely view on a clear day,' said Mrs Stevenson.

Christopher couldn't remember having experienced any clear days while they were in the caravan.

'So what did you do with yourselves?' Mrs Stevenson continued after a pause.

'Don't be silly, Jemima,' said Dave, filling the kettle. 'What do you think Christopher and Amaryllis found to do with themselves stuck in a caravan when it rained all the time for a week? What if it had been you and me? What would we have done?'

Christopher struggled to prevent a blush spreading right up his neck and over his face. He sprang to his feet. 'Here, let me do that,' he said, wresting the kettle out of Dave's hands. 'Would you like some toast?'

Mrs Stevenson went very quiet for a few moments. Surely she wasn't imagining the same thing that had popped into Christopher's head?

'Played Scrabble?'' she said at last. Dave and Christopher both roared with laughter, possibly for quite different reasons.

'What was it like being on the telly?' said Dave later, as they sat round the table eating biscuits.

Christopher shrugged his shoulders.

'There was nothing to it really,' he said. 'Going down the cliff was the scary part.'

'Why did you do that?' said Mrs Stevenson. 'Was it Amaryllis?'

'What do you think?' said Christopher. 'She made me go after Darren and Victoria.'

Dave shook his head. 'Oh, man,' he said. 'One of these days you'll have to stand up to that woman. You don't always have to do what they tell you, you know.'

'Oh, no?' said Christopher, looking from Dave to Mrs Stevenson and back sceptically.

'You looked awful pale and washed-out on the news,' said Mrs Stevenson.

'It was the lights,' he said.

'I thought so,' she said, nodding as if she were an expert in the technicalities of television reporting. 'You looked like - '

'A frightened rabbit,' said Christopher. 'I know.'

'I thought I said hedgehog,' said Mrs Stevenson, puzzled.

'So does Amaryllis not think Darren did it, then?' said Dave. 'Or was she just making trouble as usual?'

'Hard to tell,' said Christopher. He crunched into yet another custard cream. 'Victoria was sure he didn't though. That's why we helped them.'

'Aha! Victoria!' said Dave, drawing the name out so that each syllable received separate emphasis.

There was some sort of heavy significance in his tone, but Christopher couldn't work out what he meant by it.

Chapter 5 Wrong place, wrong time

It was too quiet. She didn’t like it.

All her traps in the flat were still in place, not having been sprung by intruders, but there was something unreal about everything. Perhaps it was the usual coming-home feeling that part of you was still elsewhere, so that nothing was normal. Perhaps it was something to do with knowing there was trouble in her adopted town. It wasn’t just the talking ham, although the incident had been a bit disconcerting.

After a little while she realised she was missing Christopher, but that concept irritated her so she pushed it to the back of her mind. She paced up and down her large sitting-room with its minimalist décor. Damn it, she was even missing the cream coloured caravan seating where they had sat and played Scrabble almost interminably.

After another little while she realised she didn’t have any coffee, and would have to go out to the corner shop for some. Then she had the idea of visiting the house that was the scene of the murder, and the railway yard where the protagonists had met. She could get the coffee and do both these things while she was out, without even making more than a slight detour.

With a lighter heart, she set off, swinging a maroon leatherette shopping bag lent to her once by Mrs Stevenson, who had been horrified to find she didn’t possess one. She told herself firmly she was too young to worry about being mistaken for an old lady. And she didn't have a woolly hat.

Her footsteps took her towards the railway line. It meandered through some of the less salubrious streets right on the eastern edge of town, and then plunged into a tunnel before popping out unexpectedly on an embankment near the top of the High Street. She followed it from there down the slope towards the river.  Its route took it round what local people called ‘the back of Pitkirtly’ and past the new houses where the murder had taken place, which she intended to visit later.

On the western edge of town, not far from the harbour as the crow flew, was the old railway yard.

Amaryllis approached it with caution. It was a closed in space with only one exit - or at least, only one gateway. There were walls that she might be able to climb at a push, although she had noticed lately that it was getting more difficult to do that kind of thing. It was either old age, or a softening of the resolve and muscles in the semi-retirement she was supposed to be in. She didn't want to risk being trapped. Although she felt she could take out the entire criminal community of Pitkirtly with one hand tied behind her back, even at her advanced age, she didn't really want to risk finding she couldn't when it was too late to make a run for it.

She crossed the railway line
using a little gate set into the fence
and sauntered into the yard. There were wooden gates which had such huge gaps in them that no effort at all was required to sidle past them. She tried to look like an old lady with a shopping bag who had wandered in there by mistake, but in fact she preferred to think of herself as a coiled spring, ready for action any moment. She kept her back to the exit and glanced round her as she walked. There were some bays with low concrete walls on three sides that might once have held coal or other supplies, and a very dilapidated workman's hut. That was the most likely hideout for a gang of youths. They weren't imaginative enough to improvise an alternative, or energetic enough to build a tree-house up in the woods or anything.

She advanced towards the hut, noticing as she did a distinct smell of cigarette smoke. By the time she realised it wasn't coming from the hut, it was too late.

Something slammed into her back, throwing her off balance. She used the shopping bag as a counterweight, and was on her feet again, turning round to see her assailant, when the second blow arrived, this time catching her elbow painfully. This was ridiculous. She was highly trained in unarmed combat. She forgot about seeing the attacker, and concentrated on preparing for another attack. She counted to three and sprung away to her right, turning in mid-air as she did so, and landing squarely on her feet facing the young man with the baseball bat.

Despite the fact that his face was contorted with rage, he was so handsome it took her breath away, She grinned at him. He faltered for a moment. She took full advantage of this hesitation, leaping forward to knock him to the ground, seize the bat and stand over him menacingly.

He had black curly hair, olive skin and a slim build. He looked familiar in some odd way, and it only took her a moment to work out why.

'Giancarlo Petrelli?' she said, still swinging the baseball bat.

'Who's asking?'

'I am. And what sort of way is that to behave towards somebody old enough to be your mother? Somebody who knows your mother. And your sister.'

He lay still now, mouth curving in a smile.

'They said you were something else,' he said. 'Can I get up now?'

'Not yet. Who said?' she countered. 'How do you know who I am?'

'Darren told me all about you,' he said, and started to get up off the ground, keeping his big brown eyes fixed on her the whole time. 'You and your boy-friend - '

'He's not my boy-friend!' she snapped.

He spread his hands in a placatory gesture as he straightened. 'That's what Darren said. But it's cool if you don't have a boy-friend.'

The look he gave her, cheeky admiration mingled with respect, should have been an arrestable offence in itself. She knew she shouldn't bandy words with him but get straight to the point. But she also knew he knew some things she didn't.

'Want a cigarette?' he said, taking a packet out of his jeans pocket.

'I don't smoke, thanks. Want some gum?'

'I don't - chew, I mean.' He lit up a cigarette. 'What's this for?' she said, walking towards one of the concrete bays, which, she now saw, had been covered in a makeshift way with a few planks of wood which might keep out some of the worst excesses of the elements but which wouldn't be the ideal place to spend the night, especially in March. She could see why Victoria had been concerned about Darren being left there until morning.

She unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in her mouth.

He followed her towards the hideout. 'We keep stuff in there.' He smiled. 'Just for kids, what do you think?'

'It could be time to move on,' she said. 'Especially now.'

'With what happened to Alan. I guess so.'

'Do you think Darren's a killer?'

He thought about that. 'I didn't think he was. But how can you tell?'

Amaryllis smiled. 'You can't. Until it's too late... So - were you around that night?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Helping in the restaurant.'

'I wondered if you might know something.'

He stared at her, widening his eyes to look innocent - or maybe he was innocent. He just had that look of a fallen cherub, the look that meant he could get away with anything as far as women were concerned, and he knew that. She wondered if his mother was under his spell. From what she knew of Giulia Petrelli, that seemed unlikely. But the grandmother might be different.

Amaryllis knew her next port of call had to be the Cosy Clicks meeting. She wasn't going to get any further with Giancarlo for the moment. She started to walk away, trying to ignore the shooting pain in her elbow and the dull ache in her back, and willing herself not to display any weakness. Whether Giancarlo was innocent in this particular case or not, she had no doubt that he was a dangerous young man.

He caught up with her halfway across the railway yard. 'Can I carry your shopping?'

She laughed. 'No, thanks. I'm sure you've got better things to do.'

He turned away and she walked on, not really wanting to turn her back on him but already looking forward to her reconnaissance of the building site. She wondered if there would be police tape.

There was.

Amaryllis stood half-hidden by the wall of a neighbouring house, this one almost finished, and watched for a while. She couldn't see any police presence, but there might still be a forensic team at work inside. She wondered if she should push her luck again and at last, reluctantly, decided against it. She, Jock and Christopher had been lucky to get away with harbouring the two fugitives. She didn't relish the thought of being in a police cell when she could be out investigating. And Christopher would be so embarrassed if he had to visit her in prison. She smiled to herself. That alone was almost enough to push her into action, but then she realised that he might feel bound to go to the police station himself and confess everything as he saw it. Amaryllis herself didn't buy the 'perverting the course of justice' thing. After all, she considered they were actually facilitating the course of justice by preventing the police from making silly mistakes and letting the real culprit get away, perhaps to kill again.

Her conscience satisfied and her mind made up, she left the building site as unobtrusively as she had arrived, and went round by the supermarket instead on her way to the knitting group.

She was the first one to arrive at Cosy Clicks. It was held in the claustrophobic surroundings of the Pitkirtly Yarn Store, which had until the year before been a traditional wool-shop selling grey 4-ply for socks and cream Aran and grey marl chunky for men's rugged winter jumpers. Now its shelves were filled with expensive cashmere blends in colours with names that sounded like nail varnish or fruit, such as 'Pearl Pink' and 'Pomegranate'. Old Mrs Petrelli, grandmother of Giancarlo and Victoria, was possibly the only group member still to be knitting men's socks in shades of grey, although she alternated these with something red and sparkly that made her smile to herself as she knitted. Amaryllis herself, not an expert knitter by any means, had embarked on a striped scarf. Originally it had been meant for Christopher's birthday, but that date had come and gone, and it was still only a foot long and a hole had appeared inexplicably in between two of the stripes. Every so often Giulia Petrelli would unravel part of it for her, tutting away, and Amaryllis would meekly knit it up again until she got to the next hole. Amaryllis had really only joined the group to infiltrate what she thought of as the knitting Mafia of the town. She knew she didn't really understand them, and would never be one of them in any other way, so Cosy Clicks was her only way of finding common ground. It was just one of the ways in which she felt she would never really retire from her old life in the security services.

'Why Amaryllis!' Of course Maisie Sue McPherson would have to be next to arrive. 'You're an early bird today?'

'Yes,' said Amaryllis, knitting two together by mistake and cursing under her breath as she un-knitted the stitches.

'How are you doing?' said the wool-shop owner, Jan, coming in with a tray of tea cups which she placed on a stack of boxes. Amaryllis knew she had tried her best to make the store-room into a cosy meeting-place but there was no getting away from the fact that wool had to be stored in it. Boxes doubled as side tables all round the room, and she had squeezed in a few armchairs which were always grabbed by the first people there. She had a set of folding chairs too, and now she started to set them up.

'About the same as usual,' said Amaryllis with a rueful laugh. She held up the scarf. For some reason it looked lopsided, although she was sure she had been knitting in a straight line. Maisie Sue and Jan stared at it.

'Hmm,' said Jan. 'Better just keep going and hope it straightens out.'

'I'm not sure if Giulia will let me. She'll want to unravel it and make me get it right.'

'I don't think Giulia will come tonight,' said Jan. 'She popped into the shop this afternoon and said she was having some sort of trouble at home and she might not make it.'

Amaryllis tried to dampen down her disappointment. She dropped a stitch and tried to pick it up. The wool turned itself into a tangle. She started to grind her teeth.

'Here, let me help,' said Maisie Sue. She unfolded a chair from Jan's stack and set it near Amaryllis's big leather arnchair. She sat down and tried to grab Amaryllis's knitting, but Amaryllis contrived to hold it only just out of her reach.