7 A Tasteful Crime (18 page)

‘When you say they’d made it up,’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

‘They’d planted a whole lot of stuff in the files about it – on the computer, I mean – and set up a whole fake website for the place too. It had its own distillery and a castle and everything. Sounded ideal.’

‘What was it called?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can’t remember…Glasswearie, I think. Something like that. It wasn’t all that far from Blair Atholl. There was a great-looking hotel there too. With a spa…’ Oscar’s little eyes became almost dreamy. ‘That picture of a woman with no top on….’

‘Is the website still around?’ said Amaryllis.

He almost jumped as he came out of his daydream.

‘Yes! No! I don’t know. Why do you want to know?’

She shrugged. ‘No reason.’

Of course by that she meant that she knew someone who could look into the provenance of websites and find out who had created them, and when. In fact she was confident that even if
the website no longer existed GCHQ would have the whole thing in their own files somewhere, if only she could gain access to them.

Keith Burnet put his head round the office door.

‘Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be, Amaryllis? Oh, sorry, sir. You’re welcome to stay on here for a bit, gathering your thoughts.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Oscar sadly. ‘I’ll go on up to the hotel. This place only holds bad memories for me.’

‘Deirdre’s outside,’ Amaryllis told him. She added hopefully, ‘Maybe you should take her away too.’

After he had gone, Amaryllis said urgently to Keith, ‘The black bin-bag! I’ve lost it.’

He gestured at the heap of bags by the window. ‘Isn’t it over there?’

‘I don’t know… Can we have a look for it? I promise to get out of your hair after that.’

‘Well, that’s certainly an offer I can’t refuse,’ said Keith with a smile. ‘I’ll just ask Mr Wilson to keep a look-out at the front.’

They searched the whole Cultural Centre, even the fire exit corridor and the pile of costumes left in the library,
where the central section had been divided off from the rest by a re-arrangements of shelves which no doubt the library staff would complain about later. You could still see a large patch of dried blood on the carpet. But they didn’t find the banana suit. Keith had to admit it was suspicious.

‘Who’s been in the building this morning?’ said Amaryllis.

‘Mr Wilson,’ said Keith, counting them out on his fingers. ‘Mrs Deirdre McLaughlin. Mr Ferguson.  Mr Zak Johnstone. One of the library staff.’ For some unaccountable reason he blushed over the last one. ‘I think that’s all.’

‘Who’s Mr
Ferguson?’ said Amaryllis.

‘Mr Oscar
Ferguson,’ said Keith. ‘He’s the one who seems to be in charge of the television people. And of course he’s just been widowed.’

‘Oscar
Ferguson?’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that’s his real name.’

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ said Keith. ‘Do you have any reason to think he isn’t the person he seems?’

‘You’re putting words in my mouth,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I just wondered if it was a stage name, that’s all... Where’s Zak?’ she added.

‘I’m here,’ said Zak, stepping into the foyer, where they were standing, from the direction of the library.

‘Where were you just now?’ said Amaryllis suspiciously. ‘I didn’t see you in the library.’

‘I came in the fire exit,’ said Zak.

‘What were you doing there?’ said Keith Burnet. ‘We don’t want people wandering around the library. Forensics haven’t finished there by a long chalk.’

‘Oh, I saw somebody had left a bin bag lying about in
the corner here, and I knew it was bin collection day so I went to put it out,’ said Zak.

Amaryllis and Keith looked at each other.

‘But you must have just missed the bin-men,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Well, I thought I would have done,’ said Zak. ‘But when I went out, one of them had got caught in that sticky tape and he had to stop and get it out of the way so they could empty the bins. So I gave them the bag
. They’re not supposed to take bags that aren’t in the actual bin but they were in a good mood.’

‘You idiot!’ yelled Amaryllis and ran out of the building.

She was going to feel like an even bigger idiot as she chased along behind the bin lorry, but it would be worth it. She wasn’t going to let the evidence slip through her fingers, no matter how often an unkind Fate got in her way.

Chapter 23 A Quiet Drink

As Amaryllis dashed past them, closely followed by Keith Burnet, who was followed at a greater distance by Zak Johnstone, Christopher caught Jock’s eye.

‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘Let’s
lock up here and pop round to the Queen of Scots.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind if I do!’ said Deirdre, who had refused to go off with Oscar in the car, saying she would walk up to the hotel later.
‘Unless somebody would kindly run me up to the hotel, of course.’

Was she batting her eyelids? He wasn’t sure.

‘What in?’ said Jock, chuckling. ‘A trolley from the supermarket? Or maybe you’d like a lift in that apple contraption.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Deirdre.
‘Doesn’t anybody have a car around here?’

‘Well, there’s Dave,’ said Christopher.
‘If you like roller-coasters.’

She shuddered. ‘Well, maybe we can sort something out later... Is the Queen of Scots still in the same place as it was?’

‘Yes, but they’re very fussy about who they let in,’ said Jock.

‘Are you going to
just stand there and let your friends insult me?’ said Deirdre to Christopher.

‘No, we’d better move along if we’re going to get to the pub before closing-time,’ said Christopher.
He was in two minds about this. He didn’t want to have to introduce Deirdre to any more of his friends in case she offended them, but on the other hand, then they would see how awful it must have been being married to her, and they would understand.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected them to understand, but
the line of least resistance seemed to be to take her with them anyway.

Jemima and Dave were in the Queen of Scots, sitting at the usual table. Charlie Smith appeared to have forgiven Dave for the
big apple incident.

He couldn’t remember whether Deirdre had met either of them before. The time when he had been married to her seemed like a completely different life in which even the laws of nature might not have been similar. He might as well have been on another planet then. Planet Youth, he thought with a little smile. Where even the air you breathe is young and full of promise. Now, of course, it was rotten with the stench of unfulfilled dreams.

He went from smiling to groaning within a few seconds.

‘Are you feeling all right, Christopher?’ said Jemima, eyeing him anxiously.

‘Aye, you look a bit green,’ said Dave. ‘Here, have a seat and I’ll get you a pint.’

‘It’s all right, thanks, Dave,’ said Christopher. ‘Deirdre’s getting me something.’

‘Deirdre?’ Jemima frowned. ‘Is that the same Deirdre....?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher.
‘My ex-wife.’ He wasn’t used to talking about her in these terms, just as he had never completely got over the embarrassment of being divorced, so he stumbled over the word. Was it all down to his father’s disapproval, which surely to goodness he should have outgrown by now, or did he still have some sort of unprocessed feelings on the subject? And did he really need pop psychology to help him put all this behind him or shouldn’t he just push it to the back of his mind in the time-honoured way?

‘Are you still drinking that Pictish stuff?’ said Deirdre, interrupting his inner monologue as ruthlessly as ever. ‘I don’t know how anybody can touch it. Sure you don’t want a whisky as long as I’m buying?’

‘Old Pictish Brew’s fine,’ said Christopher. ‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t know what you’re thanking her for,’ said Dave in a stage whisper as Deirdre returned to the bar to harass Charlie. ‘She’s a real pain in the –‘

‘Dave!’ said Jemima. ‘She can hear you.’

Dave winked at Christopher.
‘Nothing like a pint of Old Pictish Brew. That’ll give you some of your colour back.’

‘So,’ said Jock McLean, coming over with his pint and settling down in his usual place, ‘have you been up to the police station yet to be grilled, Jemima?’

‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ said Jemima. ‘A very nice policeman did pop round to the house this morning and we had a chat, but it wasn’t exactly a grilling.’

‘More of a light toasting,’ said Dave, chortling. ‘Jemima asked as many questions as he did.’

‘Did you get much out of him?’ said Jock.

Deirdre appeared with Christopher’s pint and her own drink, set them down and pulled over a chair from the next table. Christopher noticed that the dog, whose tail she had trodden on, gave a very quiet yelp and then moved over slightly to get out of the way.

‘You’d better watch out,’ he murmured to Deirdre. ‘That’s Charlie Smith’s dog and he doesn’t like anybody kicking it.’

‘I didn’t kick it!’ said Deirdre indignantly. ‘Anyway, isn’t it against health and safety
regulations for him to have his dog in the pub? What if we were eating in here?’

‘We won’t be,’ said Christopher.

‘Even so,’ said Deirdre, moving her feet well away from the dog and tucking them under her chair.

‘Everything all right over there?’ called Charlie.

‘I told you – he must have heard the dog,’ said Christopher.

Deirdre frowned and sipped at
her drink.

‘Well, did you get anywhere with the police, then?’ said Jock to Jemima.

Sometimes Jock looked and acted very much like a terrier, Christopher thought. Or maybe he had only noticed the resemblance because of the dog conversation.

‘It was that nice constable. Not Keith Burnet.
The other one. He looks about thirteen – or maybe even younger, when he smiles.’ Jemima sighed. ‘If I were fifty years younger – don’t say anything, Dave! There was a wee girl with him too. She didn’t say very much though.’

‘But what did they ask you?’ said Jock.

She shrugged. ‘Oh, the usual sort of thing. Did Mr McLaughlin eat anything at my house? Did he bring any food with him? Did he seem well enough when he left? I said to them, I don’t let people leave my house if they look ill. I keep them there and call the doctor. Nobody’s going to die of poisoning in my kitchen.’

‘It’s all right, Jemima,’ said Dave, patting her hand. ‘Nobody has yet.’

Jemima looked over at Deirdre. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs McLaughlin. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Christopher glanced round. There were tears streaming down Deirdre’s face. She put her drink down on the table and brought both hands up as if to try and stem the flow.

‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘I didn’t know I was going to do that. I hardly ever cry.’

‘What you need,’ said Jock, ‘is another drink.’

‘I don’t think...,’ said Christopher. His voice tailed off into silence as he realised he didn’t have any right to stop Deirdre drinking herself into a stupor if she felt like it. Even when they were married his influence over her had been tenuous, and now it was non-existent.

Jock went off to the bar again to get her another glass of something.

‘So were you
just before Tricia in the programme?’ said Christopher to Jemima idly.

‘We were first,’ said Jemima. ‘I wish now I hadn’t messed up his hair. It seems so undignified, after what happened.’

‘Eric was very fussy about his hair,’ nodded Deirdre, and soon tears were streaming down her face again. ‘Oh dear, now I’ve started I don’t seem to be able to stop.’

Maybe
she’s going to melt, thought Christopher, vaguely remembering a character he thought might have been called the Snow Queen from a long-ago almost-forgotten pantomime. His sister Caroline would remember, he thought suddenly. He almost wished Caroline were here now, except of course that it would have been asking for trouble to bring her into the Queen of Scots. Especially when Deirdre was here too. He couldn’t remember the two women having been friends, to put it mildly. The scrap Deirdre and Amaryllis had engaged in would be nothing compared to the full-scale warfare of which Caroline was capable.

‘Would it help to try and work out why this happened?’ he said in a desperate attempt to distract her from her own tears.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Well, did Eric have any enemies, for instance? Or could somebody else be mistaken for him?’

‘Ha!’ was her first reaction to this. ‘There was nobody else quite like him.... He tried to walk like Charlie Chaplin, but he was more like Mickey Mouse.’

Christopher sensed that Dave’s quivering face was caused not by him being about to burst into tears too, but by an attempt to stop laughing out loud. He pressed on, regardless.