3 A Reformed Character (18 page)

‘It was just after that he started talking about secrets, and wanting to give himself up,’ said Rosie thoughtfully.

‘It sounds as if he might have known something,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I don’t suppose he was involved in the actual protection racket though. It doesn’t sound like his style.’

‘He wouldn’t do anything to harm the cats,’ said Rosie. ‘He was very good with the cats.’

‘Maybe his friends – wait a minute!’ said Amaryllis. ‘Zak Johnstone and the other one!’

She paused.

‘What?’ said Christopher.

‘I saw them getting into a car in town in the middle of the night. Zak and the other one…When was the attack on the cattery? Sorry, cats’ holiday home.’

‘The night before last,’ said Jock.

‘Is that the same Zak Johnstone?’ said Christopher. ‘The one we didn’t chase that time…’

‘I’m sure there’s only one Zak Johnstone,’ said Amaryllis. ‘If it was really him, there’s only one thing we need to work out… Which of his friends has a car?’

‘Or access to a car,’ said Christopher. ‘Could be one of them borrowed their parents’ car.’

‘Ha!’ said Jock with satisfaction. ‘In that case I hope they have fun explaining the damage.’

They talked round this for a while longer, but without coming to any conclusion except that Amaryllis would go out looking for the car, and Rosie would go round to Mrs Stevenson’s for tea and to spend the night.

‘I feel much better,’ she said to Amaryllis on the way out. ‘It’s good to be able to talk to somebody about the protection racket thing. I was feeling as if there was no way out of it.’

‘Who’s minding the cats today?’ said Amaryllis.

‘I’ve asked a friend who has her own boarding kennels to come over and help for a day or two,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s a black belt in karate and a crack shot.’

'The world would be a better place,' said Jemima Stevenson solemnly, 'if more cattery owners were licensed to kill.'

Chapter 21  The Evil Moment

Jock McLean had been putting off the evil moment when he had to go home to his own house and clear up the mess made by whoever had broken his front window. Eventually, in the absence of offers from any of his friends to put him up for the night, he had to face up to it. He considered checking into Pitkirtly's only hotel, the rather grand Holiday Inn situated in the former Pitkirtly Castle, but that would be a ridiculous waste of money when he had a perfectly good house to sleep in.

He said goodbye to Dave, Mrs Stevenson and Rosie, who were on their way to a convivial evening around Mrs Stevenson's coal fire, and set off towards his own house, hunched up against the cold and walking as slowly as was humanly possible in the drizzle which had just come on.

To his great surprise, the moment turned out to be not nearly as evil as he had expected.

He stared at the window from outside in the street. There wasn't even a mark on it. Surely he hadn't imagined the whole thing!

One of his neighbours, the skinny woman from number 58, appeared at her door and called to him.

'Oh, Mr McLean, I'm glad to see you back. I lent the spare key to that woman with the spiky red hair.'

Amaryllis, of course!

'I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but she said she was a friend of yours, and I remembered seeing the two of you together once in the Queen of Scots. Not that I go in there very often myself, but we had Women's Guild Christmas drinks in there and... anyway, she's had your window all fixed for you, and I had a wee peek in and she's cleaned up in the front room as well. A kind thought, when you were away. You weren't in hospital, were you?'

'No, I was helping out with a friend's business,' said Jock. He wondered what she would have said if he'd told her he was on the run with a murder suspect. Perhaps she would have nodded and smiled and not really understood what he was talking about.

She nodded, smiled and went back inside her house.

It was all right opening the door and going into the hall and picking up the junk mail off the door-mat. It wasn't so bad going into the kitchen and seeing the chocolate digestive crumbs on the floor where Amaryllis had left them. For some reason he didn't feel like going into the front room yet. He put the kettle on and made himself some cocoa. That brought back memories of sitting in Rosie's house drinking cocoa all that time ago - well, the night before last - when they were all in shock after the raid of the cat rustlers, who had now metamorphosed into gangsters. It was all starting to seem unreal. He decided to have an early night.

An early night would have been fine if he had got to sleep quickly - or at all.

He had this odd compulsion to get out of bed and peer out of the bedroom window on to the street below, twitching aside the curtain just as he always suspected his neighbours of doing. Then there were the sounds. He hadn't realised how much noise went on in his street, which was in a quiet part of town. Odd bumps and bangs from outside as a spring breeze wafted in from the river and rattled people's plant-pots, fences and wheelie-bins; a kind of screeching sound that could have been an owl, or a fox, or cats fighting, or even somebody wheeling their bin out - except that it wasn't bin day tomorrow, as far as he could recall.

He was drifting off to sleep, or so it seemed, when there was a louder crash from outside and he came back to full wakefulness with a start. There was nothing for it, he told himself, but to go downstairs and investigate. Far worse to lie here imagining things than to face what had actually happened.

He put on his dressing-gown and crept down the stairs. What was that squeaking noise? Was somebody trying to get into the house? Were the people who had broken his window - who may or may not have been the same people who shot at him and the others in the woods - preparing to have another go? Would his lifeless body be found weeks later like the lonely old men he sometimes read about in the papers?

Just stop it! he told himself. Pull yourself together. There’s nobody there – it was Darren they were after, not you. And he’s safely locked up now.

The little window at the side of the front room was rattling a bit in the wind. The wedge of paper he usually jammed in it to stop the noise was lying on the floor; he picked it up and put it back in its place. He twitched the curtain aside and looked outside quickly. There was a fox running up the street – it had probably knocked something over as it looked for food in a bin. There was nothing to worry about in that. He didn’t mind urban foxes, or the rural kind for that matter. Live and let live.

He went upstairs and got back into bed. For goodness’ sake, why didn’t he just lie down and go to sleep? He usually managed it without any problem.

At one o’clock in the morning, he went downstairs again to make a cup of tea and some toast.

At two o’clock he had to admit to himself what was wrong. He felt vulnerable in his own home.

Jock McLean had never felt vulnerable before, and he didn’t like it. It reminded him he was getting old, and would doubtless become more and more dependent on other people, first for companionship, then for the necessities of life, and finally for life itself.

But he wasn’t quite ready to give in without a fight, and he thought he knew what would cure his present feeling of vulnerability, and that was taking some action to remove its cause. In this case, taking action that would get his attackers behind bars as soon as possible. And he knew just the person who could help, too.

Fortunately, she rarely slept, as far as he knew. He had heard tales of her night-time exploits from Christopher, who had probably not witnessed them at first hand since he seemed like the kind of person who would go to bed – with a hot-water-bottle, of course, maybe even one shaped like a teddy-bear – at ten pm and sleep like a log until wakened by the dawn chorus, whenever that might happen.

In spite of this knowledge Jock felt a qualm of conscience about ringing her doorbell at two-thirty am. After all, this could be the one night of the week when she had decided to have an early night. Alternatively, she might already be out on the prowl, following up some of the leads they had identified earlier.

‘State your name and business,’ said the voice on the entry phone system.

‘It’s me, Jock McLean,’ he said, feeling ridiculous.

‘I know it’s you, you idiot,’ said Amaryllis, materialising behind him and making him jump.

‘Would you feel guilty if I dropped dead of a heart attack?’ said Jock. ‘How did you do that anyway? Being in two places at once, I mean.’

‘Just a talent I have. Or maybe it’s got something to do with the recording I always leave switched on when I go out,’ she said solemnly.

‘Hmph,’ he said.

‘What are you up to? Couldn’t sleep?’

This was too close to the truth. Jock said, ‘I thought you might like company if you were going out following up some of those leads.’

‘I’ve already been for a wander,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But we could have another look round if you like. I haven’t been down to the Petrellis yet.’

‘Have you been watching them?’

‘I did one night’s surveillance, but nothing much happened so I haven’t done that again yet… Well, an unidentified man came out and got in a car and drove away. There wasn’t really anything to follow up. But I do pop round that way from time to time, just in case.’

Amaryllis led the way up the main road from its junction with Merchantman Wynd, and down again as it became the High Street.

‘Is your house all right?’ she asked casually as they walked.

‘It’ll do me,’ said Jock. ‘I believe you fixed my window for me?’

He tried hard not to sound accusing.

‘Yes, I thought I might as well get that sorted out,’ said Amaryllis. ‘So you didn’t come back to it.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Jock; again he tried hard with his tone of voice, in case it didn’t sound grateful enough. For some reason he had suddenly become conscious that his usual manner was seen by some people as too brusque and unsympathetic. Not that he was about to turn into one of these would-be social workers who went around asking people how they felt, and pretending to empathise. In his opinion empathy was a vastly overrated skill.

They approached the Petrelli’s restaurant with caution, and Amaryllis instructed Jock about which wall he should hide behind if anything happened, and what their likely escape route would be in the unlikely event that they were pursued by anyone.

As they came round the corner, they became aware of some activity in front of the building. Two figures stood outside, talking to each other in low voices.

‘Wait here,’ said Amaryllis, pulling Jock into the road behind a parked car. He had to crouch slightly, putting yet more strain on his knee joints. They hadn’t really recovered yet from being squashed into Burke and Hare’s little chalet.

As they waited, they heard a vehicle draw up outside the restaurant. Amaryllis peeped out to try and see what was happening, while admonishing Jock not to do the same. He waited patiently. His knees creaked a bit.

‘It’s some sort of ambulance,’ she reported in a whisper.

A pause. She drew her head in again like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell.

They could hear some people talking in raised voices. Jock wondered if he only imagined they were speaking Italian. Amaryllis peered out again.

‘They’re all out there now. Giulia Petrelli, Victoria, Giancarlo, two men I’ve never seen before… I wonder where Mr Petrelli is…’

A long pause. Amaryllis kept watching. A cat ran past with something in its mouth. Jock wondered if Burke and Hare were ever allowed out hunting in the night. He could visualise all the tiny dead mice and robins lined up in a row on their owner’s doorstep in the morning.

‘There are paramedics and they’re bringing somebody out on a stretcher. I can’t see who it is. Wait a minute.’

She took something out of her pocket. When she turned round again to speak to Jock, he saw that it was some sort of fancy binoculars, perhaps with night vision. They would certainly come in handy for a night-bird like Amaryllis.

‘It’s Mr Petrelli. On the stretcher. I think we’ve seen enough for now, but don’t come out until they’ve gone.’

She peeked out again and drew her head back very quickly. 'Someone's coming this way,' she hissed. 'I think he's spotted us. Get ready to run for it.'

No! Not again, said Jock to himself. He didn't even know if his knees would get him up from a crouching position fast enough to walk for it, never mind run. Maybe he would just give himself up and hope they would show mercy to a poor old man. He had a feeling they wouldn't.

'Just keep very still,' Amaryllis mouthed.

Footsteps approached, paused and receded. Jock hardly dared to breathe.

Then a car drove off down the road past the harbour, going at quite a speed, perhaps heading for the nearest junction with the main road at the other end of the town. He heard the sound of a distant conversation, some doors banging and then silence. After a few minutes Amaryllis, who was much more daring than he would have been, poked her head out again.

'They've gone,' she said.

'Are you sure?' he whispered. He now regarded the space behind the car as a safe haven where he would be willing to stay indefinitely, if only he didn't have to make himself a target by walking down the street.

'We could always wait until daylight and let everybody in town see what we've been up to,' she said. 'Come on - if you want to hang out with me you'll have to learn the rules. Go in, try not to be seen, get out as soon as you can.'

She tugged at his arm. He straightened slowly, and, he hoped, with dignity.

'Well, that was interesting,' she said brightly as they walked back up the High Street. For a few moments Jock concentrated on making sure his knees were operating correctly and carrying him along more or less in a straight line. Even in the dark he didn't want to look too much like Charlie Chaplin. He had to be able to hold his head up after all this fuss was over.