The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8) (2 page)

With these mitigating factors in mind, he pushed all his instinctive objections aside and clambered aboard the tram, which rocked alarmingly. One winter gale would topple it right over. Maybe the idea of being padded out wasn’t so bad after all.

‘Here’s your outfit, Amaryllis,’ said the Advisor, picking up a pile of green stuff and handing it over. ‘And this,’ she added, crossing to a huge mound of red and white, ‘is yours, Mr McLean. Where would you like to get changed?’

‘Are you sure that’s all for me?’ he said, recoiling as she lifted the fleecy pile and, staggering slightly under the weight, presented it to him.

‘I’ll go upstairs and transform myself into an elf,’ said Amaryllis, sounding amused. ‘You can have the whole of the downstairs.’

He just had time to wonder if that was the most unlikely sentence he had ever heard her say – the one about transforming herself into an elf, that was – before the Advisor said briskly,

‘Come along, now, Mr McLean. We need to see if there are any adjustments to be made. Better start with the trousers.’

‘Can I take it home to try on?’ said Jock.

‘No, of course not! Don’t worry, I’m sure you can get it all on over your usual clothes. There’ll be no need to take anything off. Not that I haven’t seen it all before,’ she added darkly. Jock saw that resistance was useless.

Ten minutes later, standing outside the Queen of Scots with Elizabeth French stuffing a pillow up under his red coat, and with Charlie, from whom the pillow had been borrowed, laughing his head off, he thought resistance might have been worth a try after all. The only consolation was that Amaryllis looked extremely silly in green leggings, a tunic with vaguely medieval sleeves, and a pointy hat resting precariously on top of the spikes of her hair. At least she couldn’t laugh at him without fear of retaliation in spades.

Just as the situation seemed unlikely to get any more bizarre, a man came along on a bicycle and, catching sight of the little group, made a sharp turn into the Queen of Scots car park, fell off, picked himself up and took a few steps towards Amaryllis.

‘Miss Whitmore!’ he said. ‘Good of you to turn up after all.’

Chapter 2 Elf in cuffs

Christopher had to force himself to get out of bed and go to work. He hadn’t felt so reluctant to face the day since his time as a supermarket assistant, before he had become director of the Cultural Centre. Amaryllis’s late night plea for him to take over as Santa Claus was only a part of it. Analysing all that was wrong while he made toast, he decided Jason Penrose was the fly in the ointment, with the good people of FOOP acting as only a minor irritation, like midges compared to a horse-fly.

Jason Penrose was a famous historian. They were honoured to have him in Pitkirtly. Christopher had welcomed him at first, not really expecting him to stick around for long. He had been conscious lately that the Cultural Centre was being used for purposes other than culture – such as the ill-fated healthy eating campaign – and he wanted to guide it back towards its true function. He had seen Jason Penrose’s visit as a chance to start doing that.

On second thoughts, it was probably the interaction between Jason Penrose and FOOP that was at the heart of the problem.

He sighed heavily as he crunched through the last mouthful of toast, and his steps dragged as he made his way down the road towards his place of work. He was so wrapped up in his own dark thoughts that he almost bumped into the very solid figure of the man from the newsagents’, who was stomping around on the pavement outside his shop, muttering to himself.

Christopher contemplated crossing the road to get away, but it was too late for that. Instead he nodded a cursory greeting and tried to walk on. For some reason the man blocked his way.

‘It’s Mr Wilson, isn’t it?’ said the newsagent gruffly. His tone didn’t encourage Christopher to linger, but for the sake of politeness, and to avoid anything getting physical, he paused and replied,

‘Yes, Christopher Wilson from the Cultural Centre. Is everything all right?’

‘Not really,’ said the man. ‘My Jackie’s away, and they’ll be coming round here after her any minute now.’

It was too early in the morning for Christopher to piece this together.

‘My Jackie,’ the man repeated. ‘Jackie Whitmore. She’s away.’

‘Away?’ said Christopher, becoming slightly alarmed by his own mental blankness. Either this man wasn’t right in the head or he was even less awake than he had thought.

‘Aye,’ said the newsagent with a sigh. ‘They locked her up before, but she’s out on community service now, to finish the sentence, like. But she’s gone.’

‘Oh!’ said Christopher. ‘Jackie Whitmore!’

He was almost more alarmed by this piece of news than he had been by his own lack of mental agility. He had imagined Jackie Whitmore would be locked up for quite a bit longer than this.

‘Sorry, Mr Whitmore,’ he said. ‘I haven’t woken up yet.’

He fervently wished he actually hadn’t woken up. This scene would have worked far better in a dream than it did in real life.

‘I thought maybe your friend could do something,’ Mr Whitmore continued.

‘My friend?’

‘She’s a kind of private detective, isn’t she? Goes round sticking her nose into things, anyway.’

‘Oh, you mean Amaryllis! She has – um – dabbled in private detective work from time to time.’ Christopher didn’t like the way that last sentence had come out. It made Amaryllis sound like some sort of aristocratic dilettante detective from the Golden Age of detective fiction. He tried to think of a better way of putting it. ‘She only takes on certain cases, though.’

‘What do you think of this one, then? Does she do missing persons?’

‘You’d have to ask her that yourself,’ said Christopher, starting to feel cornered. He moved very slightly towards the edge of the pavement. Mr Whitmore must have seen this tiny shift in his position, for he also moved round a little, blocking the way.

‘I saw your friend this morning,’ he said accusingly. ‘But she went right past without stopping.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Christopher, fervently wishing he had done the same. ‘I wonder where she was off to.’

Mr Whitmore shook his head. ‘Off detecting somewhere, maybe.’

‘I don’t think... Morning, Zak!’ called Christopher, spotting one of the Cultural Centre staff walking down the other side of the road. ‘Must go now and open up,’ he added to Mr Whitmore, more or less leaping out into the road to get away. His manoeuvre succeeded, but at the cost of having to jump out of the path of a cyclist, who rang the bell and shouted at him.

‘Tell your friend there’s a tenner in it for her!’ Mr Whitmore yelled after him.

‘What’s all that about?’ said Zak.

‘I don’t know,’ said Christopher. ‘Are you ready for another day of local history, then?’

He tried to sound enthusiastic but he was afraid his trepidation about the day ahead was obvious from his tone.

‘That Jason Penrose!’ said Zak, with feeling. ‘What a poser!’

‘He seems to be on television a lot,’ said Christopher.

Zak gave a growl. ‘That says it all.’

They got to the foot of the hill and started to walk across the car park. A massive motor-bike stood in front of the Cultural Centre, gleaming and sparkling in the light from the nearest lamp-post. Christopher sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get him to move it again.’

‘He should know by now,’ said Zak reprovingly.

Jason Penrose emerged from behind the bike suddenly, rising up as if propelled by some magical power or on wires like Peter Pan. The street-lights made his leather jacket gleam as black as the bike.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Mr Penrose,’ said Christopher primly. He heard a faint echo of ‘Morning’ from Zak, who had now fallen a couple of steps behind. ‘What are you going to be doing today?’ he added as they approached the front door of the Centre. He fished in his briefcase for the keys. He only wanted to know what Jason Penrose would be doing insofar as it affected him. He hoped they were due for a field trip and not another day researching in the library. One of the FOOP people had recently almost caused Mollie to walk out by insisting she remembered seeing a book on the ancient monuments of West Fife somewhere in the library. Eventually, after the librarian had retrieved almost a whole shelf’s worth of books on the history of Fife, the woman recalled that she had actually seen it in a second-hand bookshop in Edinburgh. She hadn’t been at all apologetic about the waste of the librarian’s time and energy on this wild-goose chase.

Christopher had been tempted on several occasions to ask Jason Penrose outright what he was up to and why he had chosen to respond to the invitation by FOOP to visit Pitkirtly. But everybody seemed to assume he already knew and that the project had his seal of approval. Not that he had an actual seal of any kind.

He gave a sort of snort which he hastily transformed into a cough.

They made their way into the entrance foyer and Jason followed Christopher into his office. So much for his partly-formed plan to spend half an hour catching up with his emails before anybody else came in.

As Christopher was taking his coat off and hanging it up, Jason casually picked up a file from his desk and started to leaf through it.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Christopher, ‘but I can’t let you see that. It’s confidential.’

‘But it’s only the Christmas lunch menu,’ said Jason, puzzled.

He just didn’t understand.

‘Even so,’ said Christopher, snatching it out of the other man’s hands. ‘It mustn’t leave the building.’

‘It wasn’t going to leave the building,’ said Jason, laughing.

Christopher made a point of unlocking the top drawer in his desk, where he had taken to keeping a half-bottle of whisky for those occasions when he had to deal with Mr Hargreaves. He supposed that now the man had gone he might not need it any more. But better safe than sorry, he told himself, throwing the folder of Christmas lunch arrangements in on top of the bottle and slamming the drawer shut.

Jason was still smiling in that unnerving way he had. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me to join you for lunch?’ he asked.

‘It’s staff only,’ said Christopher shortly.

‘Mr Wilson?’ said Zak, coming into the office at that moment and glaring at Jason. ‘There’s a man to see you, and he’s got Amaryllis with him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Christopher was taken aback by the boy’s odd phrasing.

‘He’s got her in handcuffs.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Let me see.’

It wasn’t like Zak to exaggerate or make things up, but this was ridiculous. Apart from anything else, there was no way Amaryllis would let herself be put in handcuffs if she seriously objected to it.

‘She’s all dressed up as well,’ added Zak helpfully as Christopher strode over to the office door.

For a fleeting second Christopher considered the possibility that Amaryllis had been indulging in some sort of kinky game, but this was Pitkirtly, after all, and it was early December. The only things people were likely to dress up in were winter woollens, thermal vests and fur-lined boots.

It was obvious immediately that she was making a point. It wasn’t quite so clear what the point was. She stood there meekly alongside the man Zak had mentioned. She seemed to be wearing some kind of Robin Hood outfit. Surely to goodness she hadn’t been robbing from the rich to give to the poor? He frowned. It was one of those days – again.

The unknown man nodded at him. ‘Brian MacKenzie. I’m temporarily supervising Miss Whitmore here, in the absence of her usual probation officer.’

‘Miss Whitmore?’ said Christopher. He detected the beginnings of a smile on Amaryllis’s face. This must be one of her so-called jokes. Well, maybe it was time she learned not to make fun of people.

‘She’s made up some story about being a friend of yours. I just thought we’d better check it out before I take her away.’

‘Take her away?’

‘We’ll have to get her back into custody. She’s completely ignored the terms of her community service. We’re meant to collect her from home every day and take her to the Christmas market site.’

‘Oh, are you?’ said Christopher. It was very tempting to let the man take Amaryllis into custody. He could try, anyway.

Christopher caught her eye. To his satisfaction, a tiny fragment of doubt had crept into her expression. He couldn’t help smiling. She narrowed her eyes threateningly

‘So she isn’t a friend of yours, is she?’ said Brian MacKenzie.

‘Miss Whitmore isn’t,’ Christopher agreed.

The probation officer gave Amaryllis’s arm a tug. ‘There – that was a waste of everybody’s time, wasn’t it?’

There was something about the man that Christopher took exception to. Either it was the tone of Brian’s voice, or the way he tugged just a little harder than necessary. He relented.

‘Actually, this isn’t Jackie Whitmore,’ he said coolly. ‘I don’t know what made you think she was. This is Amaryllis Peebles, and she’s been a good friend of mine for some time... And I think I can safely say that if you don’t take the handcuffs off now, she’ll give you a demonstration of unarmed combat as it’s never been done before.’

‘No need for that,’ muttered Brian MacKenzie. ‘Is there anybody else here who can confirm this?’

‘How much confirmation do you need?’ said Christopher. ‘Almost anybody who comes in that door would be able to tell you.’

Right on cue, the door swung open.

‘Am I too late for the FOOP meeting?’ said an anxious, blessedly familiar voice. ‘Only I was figuring to share my ideas for a Celtic motif quilt design today, and I don’t want to miss my chance.’

‘Maisie Sue!’ Christopher had never come closer to flinging his arms round her. And probably never would come anything like as close again.

‘Well, good morning, Christopher!’ She gazed round the foyer. ‘I surely didn’t expect this many people to be around...’

‘It’s nothing to do with FOOP,’ said Christopher firmly. ‘We just need you to identify Amaryllis.’

‘Identify her?’ Maisie Sue glanced at the small group of people. ‘Well, I guess she looks about the same as usual. Except for being dressed up as Robin Hood, that is.’

‘So can you confirm that this woman is Amaryllis Peebles and not Jackie Whitmore?’ said Christopher.

‘Jackie who?’ said Maisie Sue.

‘Well?’ said Christopher to the probation officer. ‘Are you satisfied?’

‘She hasn’t said it yet,’ he muttered, but he was already unfastening the handcuffs. Once she was free, Amaryllis rubbed her wrists ostentatiously.

‘I’m not Robin Hood, by the way,’ she announced. ‘I’m a Christmas elf.’