Closer to Death in a Garden (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 10) (13 page)

Chapter 22 Fishy undertones

‘Look – there’s that garden centre manager,’ whispered Jemima on the way to the doctor’s that Monday morning. ‘What was his name again? Armstrong? Anderson? Andrews?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dave, glancing away from the road for a moment.

‘No! Don’t look!’ said Jemima. She sighed. ‘Are you sure you’re fit to drive now? Maybe we should have waited a bit longer.’

‘I’m as fit as he is,’ said Dave, glaring at the driver of a Fiat Panda that was approaching up the High Street.

‘You know that thing we asked wee Ashley about, only everybody else seems to have forgotten it now,’ said Jemima, ‘what with the other murder and everything.’

‘What thing was that?’ Dave negotiated the mini-roundabout and took the turning that led down to the doctor’s surgery.

‘The sound system. We had to ask her if they had one up at the garden centre.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, it seems to me that he was the only one who would have known how to work it,’ said Jemima.

‘He? Oh, Mr Armstrong or whatever.’

Dave parked across two spaces and made a rude gesture at the driver of a very small car who had just drawn up in the small car park. ‘I need all this space,’ he shouted, having opened his window. ‘Can’t you tell? I suppose he’s come to the right place to get his eyes tested, though,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Hadn’t you better move a bit and let him in?’

‘Oh, all right!’

‘Your blood pressure’ll be right back up and they’ll whisk you into that hospital again if you’re not careful,’ Jemima warned him.

Half an hour later, the doctor folded up his blood pressure equipment and said, ‘Well, Mr Douglas, your blood pressure’s better than it’s been for years. I can see you’re managing to rest quite well. No undue excitement or anything... But then, we don’t get much of that around Pitkirtly, do we?’

‘If you had seen what we had seen,’ muttered Jemima as they left the room. They were walking back to the car when she grabbed at Dave’s arm. ‘Look – there he is again.’

The doctor’s surgery was near the river, and the manager of the garden centre seemed to be taking himself for a walk along the path that eventually linked up with the Coastal Path and led right round past the Forth Bridge and eventually across the Tay Road Bridge, if it wasn’t closed because of high winds. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a major expedition, though. In Jemima’s experience most people who were serious walkers would wear muddy-looking cagoules and maybe silly shorts in the summer, regardless of whether it was a typical Scottish summer or not, which it usually was, and they would be carrying a backpack and the male variety might have a beard to disguise the general lack of character in his face. At any time from April to September they would probably have on sandals, of the special walking variety, and during the rest of the year they wore big clumpy boots.

Mr Anderson – she was almost sure of his name now – was wearing a smart-looking jacket and trousers with a crease, and a shirt and tie. He glanced over his shoulder nervously as he walked. Jemima was accustomed to being able to blend into the scenery due to advanced age and consequent lack of noteworthiness. She doubted if he would remember her and Dave, although he was marginally more likely to do so after the scene that had taken place in his garden centre. It must still be closed. He wouldn’t be wandering about down here if he were meant to be preparing to re-open it.

‘Get in the car,’ she said to Dave, having weighed up the risks and decided Mr Anderson was very much more likely to recognise Dave than her.

‘What? That’s what I was going to do. Are you all right?’

‘It’s Mr Anderson. From the garden centre. I’m going to follow him and see what he’s up to.’

Dave looked at her as if he thought she had taken leave of her senses. Maybe she had.

‘You can’t do that!’

‘I’m sure he’s up to no good. Maybe he’s going to meet somebody and hand over thousands of pounds in exchange for drugs or something.’

‘Don’t be silly – what would he do with drugs? He can’t very well sell them in the garden centre... Just imagine, at the till... Would you like some heroin with your hellebores? Or can I interest you in this cotoneaster bush with cocaine on the side? Or...’

‘No, of course not. You’re being silly now,’ said Jemima crossly. ‘I don’t think it’s anything like that. Maybe it’s something to do with the murders, though. After all, that first one happened in his garden centre.’

‘Oh yes, and that’s a great reason for you to go chasing him around town,’ said Dave. ‘Have a bit of sense, woman!’

She looked back across the road. Mr Anderson had disappeared. She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Now look what you’ve done! He’s gone.’

‘He can’t have got far,’ said Dave. He strode to the edge of the little car park and stared out. Jemima looked at his reassuring large form and went over to him and patted his arm.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. You’re right, it was silly...’

‘Wait a minute, though,’ said Dave. ‘There’s a woman...’

A woman, smartly dressed too as far as they could tell at this distance, was approaching along the coast road from the other direction. While they watched, she dropped down out of sight.

‘She’s going down to the beach,’ said Jemima. ‘Maybe he’s there too. Maybe they’re going to make their getaway in a boat!’

‘Hmph. Or go fishing.’

‘They wouldn’t be going fishing all dressed up like that,’ said Jemima.

‘It’ll be something romantic, then,’ said Dave. ‘That’s the only reason I can think of for him to be walking about like that.’

‘It might be a romantic rendezvous,’ Jemima conceded. ‘Did you see the height of those heels she was wearing? She could break an ankle walking on the beach in them.’

‘Maybe she’ll take them off and walk along the sand swinging them in her hand, as if she and Mr Anderson were movie stars or something.’

Jemima laughed. ‘They wouldn’t stay in Pitkirtly long if they were movie stars. I don’t know that there’s any sand on that stretch of beach anyway.’

‘Come on, let’s have a look,’ said Dave. He took Jemima’s hand and urged her across the road. They joined the path Mr Anderson had been walking along, and carried on, trying to look as if they were out for a casual stroll, though Jemima realised they didn’t look any more like the usual walkers than Mr Anderson had done. She had nagged Dave into a shirt for going to the doctor’s and put on her good shoes.

‘I hope he doesn’t see us,’ she said, shivering a little in the sharp breeze from the river.

‘We’ve got just as much right to be walking along here as he has,’ said Dave, striding out boldly.

Jemima glanced down on to the little shingle beach. The tide was in, and there was sunlight sparkling on the ripples in the water. Mr Anderson and his friend were walking along the edge near the river, apparently deep in conversation. There was nobody else about, apart from a couple of boys who were digging a hole further along. Were they looking for shellfish or something? They seemed a bit old to be making sandcastles, and in any case, as she had pointed out to Dave, there wasn’t any sand.

She frowned. ‘It’s a pity we can’t hear what they’re saying.’

‘We’d need one of those sound systems of his,’ said Dave. ‘Or maybe Amaryllis might have got us a wire if we’d asked her in time.’

The woman turned away from the man and stared directly at them. Jemima gasped.

‘It’s all right,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life. She doesn’t know us.’

‘But she’s the woman in the drawing!’ said Jemima. ‘The woman Christopher met in the woods.’

‘Ssh, she’ll hear you.’

The woman nudged Mr Anderson and he turned slowly towards them. It was only when he began to walk up the beach that Jemima knew he must have recognised them after all.

‘Let’s get back to the car,’ she hissed.

‘No, why should we?’ said Dave in a low voice. ‘If we run away from him, he’ll know we’re suspicious. And he hasn’t done anything out of the way. It’s not against the law to go for a walk and meet a woman – otherwise the prisons would be full to overflowing.’ He raised his voice as the man came closer, and said in his usual booming tones, ‘Morning – Mr Anderson, isn’t it? Nice day for a walk in the fresh air.’

‘It certainly is fresh,’ added Jemima. ‘What with the breeze and everything.’

‘Good morning,’ said Mr Anderson, clambering up the slope from the beach. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names. But aren’t you the ones who were taken ill – just the other day? I hope you’re feeling better.’

The woman had followed him up the beach, but Jemima noticed she kept her face averted. It was almost as if she knew they had seen her picture.

‘We’re fine now,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t anything serious. We’ve just got to take it easy for a wee while.’

‘Well, make sure you do that,’ said Mr Anderson with a frown. ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I would stick to pottering about town for a while, if I were you. Plenty of people about who could help if you got into difficulties.’

‘Yes, I’m sure they would,’ said Jemima.

‘We’ve got lots of friends in town,’ said Dave.

‘Good,’ said Mr Anderson. ‘I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to either of you.’

They were back in the car and driving up the road again when Jemima said in a muffled voice, ‘Was he threatening us just now, or was it all in my mind?’

‘Aye, he was,’ said Dave grimly. ‘There’s no doubt about it. No doubt at all.’

Chapter 23 Normal

Christopher was hoping for a normal day at work. He didn’t think for a moment any of the others would take on board Keith’s advice to stay out of the case, but he was certainly planning to get his head down and get on with – things. He glanced round his office in the Cultural Centre. For some reason he wasn’t in the mood to work on either the Fotheringham Archive, or the McCallum Letters – half of the latter had been taken away by the police and not yet returned in any case. He could go and interfere in the library or the Folk Museum, but he knew the librarians liked to keep Mondays free of his interference by arranging for something to be going on in there. Today it was a children’s book event. He shook his head. Of course they knew he wouldn’t even cross the threshold when that was going on. Not after the last one.

Zak was away on holiday – maybe his mother was with him, but it was more likely that he and Harriet had gone off somewhere together. Christopher felt obscurely guilty for not bothering to ask him where he was going. He had been afraid of seeming nosy. He didn’t want to be breathing down the boy’s neck, after all. But maybe he could make up for his apparent lack of interest later by asking to see Zak’s holiday snaps. Only people didn’t really take holiday snaps any more, did they? It was all mobile phones, and selfies, and Twitter.

Musing about the onward march of time and technology and whether there was any end in sight, Christopher wandered from his desk to the window and back. Maybe the phone would ring.

He knew just how desperate he had become when Jock McLean peered round the half-open door.

‘Anybody in?’

‘No – I mean yes – come in and take a seat.’

‘Slow day, is it?’

Christopher shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s Monday.’

Now that Jock was here, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt as if his life were an empty pit of nothing. He frowned. That was a terrible thing for an educated man even to think.

‘What’s wrong? Indigestion?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Christopher. He was remembering how irritating he had found Jock the day before, and wondering whether he should have been so keen to welcome him into the office. ‘Is there any news?’

‘News? Well, there’s another financial crisis in Greece,’ said Jock, sounding uncertain. ‘And more fighting in Syria. Or do you mean local news? The buses are diverted round by the top road this week. I think there’s some road-works going on.’

There was a knock at the office door. It never rains but it pours, thought Christopher, filled with an unreasonable wish to shout, ‘Who is it now?’ in an irascible middle-aged voice.

‘There’s somebody to see you, Mr Wilson,’ said the head librarian, not even putting her head into the room but talking to him from the corridor outside as if afraid to come any closer. ‘It’s a Mr Kilpatrick.’

‘What does he want to see me about?’

The door opened a bit more and a man of indeterminate age strode into the room. He had the air of thinking he owned the place and could treat Christopher as some sort of servant just because it was a public building. Christopher didn’t know if he actually had hackles, but he was sure he could sense his going up. Charlie Smith’s dog probably knew the feeling. Or maybe not, in his case.

‘I’ve got somebody with me just now,’ he said reproachfully to the librarian, who was still loitering in the corridor. He heard her footsteps retreat, leaving him to deal with the man.

The man held out a hand. ‘Kelvin Kilpatrick,’ he said. He glanced at Jock McLean as if wondering if he was worth shaking hands with.

‘How may I help you?’ said Christopher. It wasn’t a phrase that came readily to his lips, but somehow he had the urge to behave like an assistant in the old-fashioned menswear shop that used to be in pride of place in the High Street before it was converted into a sandwich shop and then into a bookie’s. He wasn’t going to address the man as ‘sir’, though. He had to draw the line somewhere, especially with somebody who had a slight but recognisable Cockney accent. ‘Please sit down,’ he added.

Jock McLean sidestepped the hand-shaking issue by wandering off to fetch another chair for Mr Kilpatrick, who sat down without thanking him.

‘I wanted to ask about your local records,’ said the Londoner. Or was he Australian? Christopher had noticed before that they sometimes sounded a bit like Cockneys. He really wasn’t all that good at accents.

‘Yes? Are you tracing anybody in particular?’

Mr Kilpatrick frowned. ‘I’m not tracing anybody at all. It’s quite a different matter.’

‘Sorry, I thought you meant family history records. That’s what most people are interested in. We have some computers available for use by the public. Full internet access. There may be some volunteers about to give you a hand...’

‘No, I’m definitely not interested in that side of things at all. My great-granddad was a convict, and that’s all I want to know about him.’ Mr Kilpatrick gave a loud but somehow unconvincing laugh.

‘Um... OK then,’ said Christopher cautiously. ‘what sort of local records are you looking for?’

‘I’m interested in land and property records. And old maps. Yes, mostly old maps.’

‘We do have a certain number of maps in our collections,’ said Christopher, even more cautiously. He remembered what had happened in Pitkirtly during the really bad winter, which was the last time anybody had taken an interest in maps, and he didn’t want to repeat any of the associated experiences. ‘It depends what you’re looking for. You might be better to go over to Dunfermline and check in the main library there. But the land records will be in Edinburgh, I think.’

He wasn’t sure what it was that made him reluctant to trust or assist this man, but there must be something – apart from the hackles, which could have been all in his imagination.

‘I thought I’d start here,’ said Mr Kilpatrick, staring at Christopher. The man’s pale blue eyes had very little expression. Maybe that was what was putting him on edge.

‘So, do you want to see any old maps of Pitkirtly, or is there something in particular you were looking for?’

The other man shrugged. ‘Whatever you’ve got. If it takes in the area round about town as well, that’d be fine.’

‘All right,’ said Christopher. ‘I think we keep the older ones in our Folk Museum, but I can bring them into the research area for you to study. You can always look things up online while you’re doing that, if necessary.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll need to do that,’ said Mr Kilpatrick. He stood up again. ‘Where is this research room of yours?’

Christopher showed him the research room and went to fetch the maps. It took him a while to work out Zak’s system for storing them. He supposed, guiltily, that he should have taken more notice of what his assistant was doing.

Jock McLean was suddenly at his elbow. ‘Here,’ he whispered, ‘what do you reckon that man’s up to?’

‘He’s just an interested member of the public,’ said Christopher quietly, taking the string off the roll of maps he had just picked up. ‘You don’t have to stay around though – you could go and do something else if you like.’

‘I’d better hang on here,’ said Jock. ‘I don’t want to leave you on your own with him.’

‘I’m not on my own! There are quite a few staff in today. The librarians are running one of their events.’

‘Ssh, he’ll hear you!’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Christopher, lowering his voice. ‘I do this kind of thing all the time. There’s no reason to think...’

‘Are those maps nearly ready?’ said Mr Kilpatrick, appearing in the Folk Museum doorway.

‘Oh! Yes, I’ve got a few here that you might be interested in. Just go back through to the research room and I’ll bring them in to you. I’ll switch on one of the computers in a minute just in case you want to look anything up.’

He thought Mr Kilpatrick muttered ‘I won’t’ as he went off down the corridor, but the words were indistinct.

‘Don’t let him look at the maps on his own,’ said Jock.

‘What on earth is your problem? I’ve got every intention of letting the man browse through the maps for as long as he wants without anybody peering over his shoulder.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Jock.

Christopher took a few moments longer to make sure he had the right set of maps. Some random ones for Berkshire and Islington formed part of the collection, and he didn’t want to confuse the man.

When he was ready, he set off back down the corridor to the research room, followed closely by Jock McLean.

The door of the cleaner’s cupboard swung open just in front of him, and Amaryllis materialised suddenly. He ground to a halt, Jock collided with him and he dropped two of the maps in his surprised start.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that!’

‘Has he gone?’ hissed Amaryllis.

‘Oh, not you as well,’ said Christopher, refusing to whisper any more. ‘Let me just take these into the research room and then we can all have a chat about it. Wait here,’ he said to Jock, who was rubbing his nose after the collision.

‘He can’t see me!’ whispered Amaryllis, ducking behind the cupboard door.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ growled Christopher, picking up the maps. ‘Just stay exactly where you are until I close the door of the research room behind me. Then go on into the office and wait there – but don’t touch anything. Or do anything,’ he added as an afterthought. He wasn’t sure what Amaryllis could manage to do without touching anything, but she could probably think of something.

She stuck her tongue out at him, but stayed where she was.

Who was this man anyway?

Christopher moved into the research room, hoping Mr Kilpatrick hadn’t heard the collision and subsequent whispering. But the man was at the window, which was at the side of the building and faced out to a concrete wall which bordered an electricity sub-station. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting view in the world.

‘I’ve brought some likely-looking maps,’ said Christopher, closing the door behind him to enable Amaryllis and Jock to make their getaway. ‘You can spread them out on the table here… There’s one of the whole town in the middle of the 19
th
century. Then I’ve got one of the northern outskirts in about 1900. And a map showing the route of the railway along the coast, with the stations – I’ve had people asking for that before. Oh, and here’s one that’s hand-drawn and we’ve never been able to work out the exact location.’

Mr Kilpatrick grabbed ungraciously for the roll of maps. Christopher was torn between asking him to be more careful with them, and wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible to find out what Amaryllis was doing here, and whether she and Jock had begun to cause chaos in his office.

‘Yes, well, just carry on then,’ he said as Mr Kilpatrick unrolled one of the maps on the table, setting the others aside and using a box of index cards somebody had left lying around to weigh down one edge and stop it rolling itself up again. He leaned down over it. Christopher had to suppress the notion that he should tell the man not to breathe on the maps.

‘I’ll be in my office if you need anything,’ he said.

Mr Kilpatrick ignored him.

He went back along to his office, remembering Jock McLean’s words about not leaving Mr Kilpatrick alone with the maps. Still, what could possibly go wrong?

Amaryllis was swinging on his chair behind the desk and Jock was lying on the floor, possibly trying to retrieve something from under the book-shelves.

‘Watch out,’ said Christopher. ‘There was broken glass on the floor about there just the other day, and I don’t know if the new cleaner’s picked it all up.’

‘I thought there was something glittering under there,’ said Jock, unabashed. He heaved himself up from the floor. ‘The hidden treasure of Pitkirtly, or something.’

‘That’s just a story,’ scoffed Amaryllis from the swivel chair. She gave it a whirl, taking her feet off the floor, apparently to make it more interesting.

‘I would have kept an eye on him if I were you,’ said Jock. ‘He’ll go off with those maps of yours.’

‘Of course he won’t,’ said Christopher. He looked as sternly as he could manage at Amaryllis. ‘And what were you hiding in the cupboard for?’

‘I didn’t want him to see me... He’s already reported me to the police once, and made up some tale about me lugging a body over his fence. I’m not taking any chances. He might invent something about me killing one of you and disposing of the body.’

‘You and whose army?’ said Jock.

‘Oh, I don’t think I’d need an army.’

‘Why would he do a thing like that?’ said Christopher. ‘Make up things about you, I mean. All he had to do was wait and there’d be something real to report.’

Amaryllis threw his to-do list at him. It fluttered back on to the desk, propelled by its own half-heartedness.

‘He lives over the back from the alpaca farm and the garden centre,’ she said. ‘He could theoretically have seen me taking a shortcut through his garden, but I didn’t think anyone had spotted me. I certainly didn’t bring a body with me – apart from my own, that is.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Christopher. ‘I don’t suppose the police thought it was very funny either.’