6 The Queen of Scots Mystery (3 page)

Chapter 3 Locked out

Christopher had been trying to avoid his friends ever since the two men had visited him and told him about Amaryllis. In normal circumstances they would all have met at the Queen of Scots on Friday night, but he hadn’t gone there at the usual time, preferring to stay at home and stare at the walls. He did have the television on, set to the 24 hour news channel, but he couldn’t have claimed to be watching it. His gaze often strayed to the window and occasionally he would make a foray into the kitchen, where he would open a food cupboard and stare miserably at the contents, or to the front door, where he willed the doorbell to ring heralding Amaryllis’s arrival. After he had worked out that the doorbell could equally be a harbinger of doom, he stopped doing that. Amaryllis rarely used the front door anyway.

So when the bell did ring in the early evening on Saturday, he didn’t rush to the door immediately. Either it was bad news, or Jock McLean, which amounted to much the same really.

He wasn’t sure to be relieved or irritated when the door opened and Jock McLean’s head popped round it.

‘Anybody in?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You’ll never guess what’s happened!’ said Jock, advancing into the house with only this small amount of encouragement.

‘No, I don’t suppose I will.’

‘It’s the Queen of Scots.’

‘What?’

‘It’s shut,’ said Jock. ‘Police tape all across the front door and everything.’

‘Police tape?’

Christopher had started to develop a headache already. Jock sat down on the chair that had once been Christopher’s father’s. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket, looked at Christopher’s expression and put it back again.

‘And danger of death signs,’ he added hopefully.

‘All right,’ said Christopher wearily. ‘You might as well tell me.’

‘They’ve found Liam Johnstone. Dead. In the cellar. Karen Whiteside told me.’

‘She shouldn’t have told you anything of the kind, should she?’

‘She was standing outside
guarding the place when I was round there… They’ve arrested Neil Macrae.’

‘Who’s Neil Macrae?’ said Christopher.

‘The landlord,’ said Jock.

‘But I thought nobody knew his name,’ said Christopher.

‘Hmph. That’s what he wanted you to think,’ said Jock scornfully. ‘Anyway, what happened was that there was some sort of gas leak first thing this morning, and Liam got stuck in the cellar and breathed in the fumes.’

‘But gas isn’t poisonous these days, is it?
It just explodes.’

‘I don’t know about that. I’m only telling you what Karen told me.
Jemima and Dave and me were around when Neil first found the gas leak, but we had to go and get our breakfast. Jemima had got smokies in. When’s Amaryllis due back? We need her here to sort this out. We can’t have Neil Macrae locked up and the Queen of Scots out of bounds. Where will we go? What will we do?’

‘That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it?’ said Christopher. ‘What about Liam Johnstone?’

‘Good riddance,’ said Jock callously.

‘But what about Zak and what’s-her-name?’

‘Penelope,’ said Jock, giving him an odd look. ‘You know that. We’ve known her for years. And don’t you remember she and Liam separated? And Liam got arrested last year for firing his gun without due care and attention, or whatever it was. She didn’t have any more to do with him after that. Jan at the wool shop said she was getting a divorce. Come to think of it, she was just leaving the pub when we were there this morning. She caught the first bus. Neil told us some sort of story about her missing the last one the night before.’

‘I don’t keep all those things in my head the way you do,’ said Christopher crossly, rubbing a hand across his brow.

Jock stared at him again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked unexpectedly.

‘Tea isn’t the answer to everything, you know,’ said Christopher.

‘Have you got anything stronger in the house?’

‘No. Caroline
was over last week for a few days. I don’t like to put temptation in her way.’

‘Toast?’ said Jock.

It was tempting, but somehow toast made him think of Amaryllis. Everything made him think of Amaryllis. He would have to try and push his massive anxiety about her to one side and get on with his life.

‘All right,
let’s have a cup of tea,’ he said, mainly in order to get rid of Jock for a few moments. But it wasn’t anything like long enough.

‘Here you are,’ said Jock. ‘I’ve given you that mug with the skull. Is that all right? Only I couldn’t find any other clean ones except this.’

Jock himself was drinking his tea out of a novelty mug with rabbit’s ears that Christopher’s niece or nephew had received with an Easter egg years ago. Even the fact that he looked utterly ridiculous didn’t cheer up Christopher. He sipped gloomily from the skull.

‘When did you say Amaryllis was due back?’ said Jock. ‘We need her to get Neil Macrae out of jail. There isn’t another pub for miles around that sells Old Pictish Brew.’

‘It’ll be a while,’ said Christopher, putting the skull mug down with a bump on the coffee table. He had hoped it would shatter, sending tea flying in all directions. Then Jock might have stopped burbling on and rushed off instead to get a cloth to clean up the mess. But it sat on the table mocking him.

‘Shouldn’t you use a coaster with that?’ said Jock.

‘Coaster! Ha!’ said Christopher. ‘Life’s too short to worry about coasters.’

‘That isn’
t what you said the time I put the kebab down and got grease all over the place… Anyway, even if Amaryllis isn’t due back yet, why don’t we go round to the police station and get Charlie Smith to tell us what’s going on?’

‘Um,’ said Christopher. ‘Charlie Smith won’t be there.’

‘How do you know that?’

Christopher shrugged. ‘I just do.’

Jock gave him another of his looks. ‘I didn’t realise you were party to the police shift rota,’ he said. ‘When will he be there?’

‘He won’t be,’ said Christopher.

‘Why not? Is he away on holiday too? Has he run off with Amaryllis? Is that why you’ve got a face like a wet weekend?’

Not for the first time, Christopher felt as if he was dea
ling with a nosey four-year-old. But at least the idea of Amaryllis running off with Charlie Smith amused him for a few seconds, until he remembered where she really was.

‘He’s been suspended from the police. He won’t be at work for a while. Maybe never.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I bumped into him yesterday. He’s staying with me for a bit. So that he’s on hand. For the enquiry.’

It was easier to convey this information, he found, if he came out with it in bite-sized chunks. Maybe in due course he would be able to tell Jock about Amaryllis, if he broke it down like this. But not for a while.

‘So where is he now?’ said Jock.

‘Walking the dog. He’ll be back soon. I’m sure he’ll corroborate my story.’

‘I believe you. What’s he in trouble for?’

‘Wait a minute and you can ask him yourself.’ Christopher heard the front door opening again and then the steady, solid tread of a long-serving policeman, accompanied by the scratching of smaller feet on the laminate he had recently laid in the hall.

Charlie Smith and the dog halted on the threshold of the front room, both watching Jock with
almost identical expressions of suspicion mingled with displeasure. It made Christopher think of the saying about people looking like their pets. He wondered if the dog had studied Charlie’s face until it was confident about mimicking his moods, or if Charlie had been spending long periods staring into the dog’s eyes. The second option was a bit too creepy to consider.

‘Did you have a good walk?’ said Christopher.

‘All right,’ said Charlie. ‘I thought of going into the Queen of Scots for a drink, only there was a police presence so I decided I’d better not go near it.’

Jock, who had stood up, possibly to make a swift getaway, sat down again and repeated everything he had already told Christopher. It was impossible to stop him, but when he eventually calmed down, Charlie Smith said uneasily, ‘I’m not sure you should be discussing this.’

‘But that’s what normal people do,’ said Jock. ‘They talk about things in the privacy of their own homes…’

‘Or other people’s,’ said Christopher pointedly.

‘…and reach conclusions that don’t have to be backed up by evidence,’ Jock concluded. ‘You should try it, Charlie. It’s more fun than police work.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Charlie, and sat down. The dog sat on his feet. They sighed in unison. ‘This is going to be really difficult,’ said Charlie after a pause. ‘Something like this happening on my own patch, and I can’t have anything to do with it. I have to sit on the sidelines and watch.’

‘Hmm, tell me about it,’ said Christopher.

They stared gloomily at each other.

‘Well, you’re a barrel of laughs, I must say,’ said Jock McLean, glancing from one to the other. ‘I might as well go down to the cemetery and sit on a gravestone. Or round to Dave and Jemima’s. At least they always have some food in the house.’

‘What about your own house?’ said Christopher. ‘Isn’t there any food there?’

He was sorry as soon as he had said it, but he seemed to have reached the stage where he couldn’t even be bothered to censor his own words on the way between his brain and his tongue. He didn’t really want Jock McLean to go home yet. In some ways, although he hated to admit it, Jock was all that stood between him and a rapid and drastic mental meltdown.

Luckily for him, Jock didn’t take the hint. ‘I could go for
fish and chips, if you like.’

‘All right,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s some money in a drawer in the hall. Use that.’

Charlie Smith frowned. ‘You do realise it isn’t safe to keep money in the house, don’t you? We could – they could – send round a crime prevention officer to give you some tips.’

He got to the end of the sentence with an effort, and went very red in the face. ‘Sorry – I forgot.’

The others ignored both his advice and his apology.

Chapter 4 Banged up

Neil had tried very hard to answer all the questions without mentioning Penelope. He wasn’t sure if the
two police officers who were asking them had spoken to Jock McLean, or Dave or Jemima. He wondered, in fact, if they were from out of town: he had never seen them in the pub. Maybe they didn’t know the right people to question if they were strangers. Even men from Limekilns or Rosyth probably didn’t have a handle on Pitkirtly the way the local men did. With this in mind, although Charlie Smith was a good customer and usually caused no trouble in the Queen of Scot – apart from that last time - he hoped Charlie wouldn’t be reinstated in time to take part in the case.

It was easy not to mention her at first.
They seemed to be most interested in how Liam had got into the cellar in the first place.

‘So – you knew Liam Johnstone before this, did you?’

‘Well, I knew him by sight – he’d been into the pub. Most people come in if they’re around the town at all.’

‘How do you think he got into the cellar? Was it kept unlocked? Or did you deliberately open it to let him in?’

‘It wasn’t kept unlocked,’ said Neil slowly. ‘I suppose it’s possible I left it unlocked by mistake. I’ve had a lot on my mind.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, you know, business stuff.’

‘And personal stuff? Like your divorce, for instance?’

‘That was a while ago.’

‘A year ago? Not that long. Was Liam Johnstone involved in that?’

‘No, of course not! I’d had very little to do with him, as I just said.’

Neil was getting tired already. He knew the police officers could keep it up more or less forever, what with shifts changing and all the practice they’d had, but he wasn’t used to the relentless quickfire questions. He was bound to make a mistake sooner or later.

‘Can I have a drink of water?’

‘In a minute. We’ll finish this round of questions first, if you don’t mind, sir.’

They were younger than him. They could concentrate better and last longer without getting exhausted and muddled. He had thought he’d seen a flash of sympathy or something similar in the eyes of the even younger of the two, but it was the other one who was asking most of the questions. Neil thought he might be an inspector, but he was wearing cycling shorts and a T-shirt, which didn’t seem appropriate, and Neil had forgotten how the man had introduced himself.

‘So there was no way Mr Johnstone could have got into the cellar unless you’d forgotten to lock the door? Was it locked when you
first got to it this morning?’

‘Yes.’ Neil remembered putting the key in the lock and turning it. And of course if it had been unlocked Liam might have been able to escape before he suffocated. If that was what had happened. Nobody had told Neil anything much yet at all.

‘Was there any other way in?’

‘No – yes! Of course! That must have been it. But why?’ Neil spoke the thoughts aloud as they came to him. His eyes refocused on the two men across the table. They were giving him a funny look. ‘Sorry – the beer delivery. That was Friday morning. That must have been when he got in – I had the
trapdoors open. For the delivery men. But we didn’t see anybody go in there. And why would he do that anyway?’

He was aware he was rambling too much and that a lawyer would have told him to shut up.
But he hadn’t wanted a lawyer at the start in case they thought he had something to hide. He had, of course. Didn’t everyone? Should he ask for a lawyer now? Or would they think that even more suspicious?

‘So you’re saying Liam Johnstone could have got into the cellar while the delivery was going on?’ said the older, tougher-looking policeman.
‘But he wasn’t on your radar.’

‘That’s the only thing I can think of,’ said Neil
, ignoring the part about the radar. ‘The door’s almost always locked. Even when it isn’t, nobody can go in without one of us seeing them.’

‘And was there a time
during the beer delivery when that could have happened without anybody seeing him?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘It was only yesterday!’

‘I wasn’t really paying attention.’

‘No brownie points for not paying attention,’ said the same policeman slowly. ‘Doesn’t tick any of my boxes. How many men came with the delivery?’

‘Two, as usual.’

‘And did they both get out of the lorry?’

‘Yes, of course they did. How do you think they could get the beer into the cellar otherwise?’

The policeman glanced up frowning under his well-groomed eyebrows. Had Neil missed something? Was it now acceptable for men to pluck their eyebrows or otherwise train them into a neat shape? Did everybody secretly think he was a caveman because he didn’t? He tried to picture some of the people who frequented the Queen of Scots, asking himself which of them was most likely to pluck their eyebrows.

‘… or not?’ said the policeman.

Neil realised he had missed at least half the question. ‘Um – what was that again?’

‘Come on, Mr Macrae, you can’t get out of answering with this village idiot act. Were the beer delivery men the usual ones or not? Was there anything
that smelt wrong about the whole setup?’

Village idiot! Ha! He was a learned professor compared to most of the people he saw at the other side of the bar on a daily basis.

He decided he had better answer the question though. ‘Yes, one of them had done the delivery a few times before. I’m not sure about the other one. He could have been new to the round. He was a bit slower than they sometimes are.’

‘Names?’

‘No – I mean, I don’t know. They’re from Aberdour Breweries, if that’s any use.’

‘
Could be,’ said the policeman, making a note. He nodded to the younger officer. ‘Do you want that drink of water now, Mr Macrae?’

It was as if the water were a prize for getting an answer correct.

Even the way the junior officer presented it to him was reminiscent of a school prize-giving. Although of course, they didn’t have these any more, did they? Everybody had to be equal nowadays. Maybe that was the trouble with young people, Neil mused. He remembered the village idiot jibe, and stopped musing. He had to stay alert – otherwise they would catch him out. If they found out about Penelope, they would definitely lock him up and throw away the key.

‘And was there anybody else around while this beer delivery was going on?’ The officer
he thought was an inspector didn’t sound as if he even believed in the beer delivery. He had almost put these fake quotes round it with his fingers, the way Neil had seen some pretentious yuppies do when they were forced to mingle with the common people on occasion. Were they still called yuppies? Pay attention, he told himself sternly.

‘I don’t think so…’ He pictured the scene.
‘Someone walked past. Oh, no, it was only Christopher Wilson,’ he added dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t bother about him if I were you.’

‘We’ll decide who to bother about, if you don’t mind, Mr Macrae.’

He made another note. The younger police officer had an uneasy look on his face. ‘Mr Wilson’s already known to us, sir. He’s helped us with our enquiries several times. Mr Smith knows him really well.’

‘Known to you
, Constable Burnet? That’s even better.’

‘I didn’t mean… He really has helped us with our enquiries
. I mean literally helped us… He and his friend Ms Peebles. Sorry, sir.’

As the officer with the eyebrows glanced down at his notes again, the younger one made a face at Neil. It was almost as if he were apologising
to him too.

‘Anybody else around?’

‘I don’t think so… Most people would have been at work. Unless they had the day off. Mr Wilson must have done. But.’ Because he was concentrating so hard on not mentioning Penelope – and after all, they hadn’t actually asked about Friday night yet – Neil almost forgot he had seen her son, Zak, walking past as the delivery was in progress. But he couldn’t very well cast suspicion on the boy either. Penelope would never forgive him. He stopped speaking abruptly.

‘But what? Was there anybody else or wasn’t there?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Neil again.

Both policemen gave him suspicious glances.

‘One minute, sir,’ said the more senior one. ‘I’m suspending the interview.’

He spoke into the voice recorder with some standard police words. He nodded to the constable again and they both left the room, swinging the door closed behind them. It swung open again in time for Neil to hear the senior one say, ‘This Mr Wilson. Is he likely to put up a fight?’

‘A fight, sir?’ said the constable in an incredulous tone.

‘Will we need guns? Riot shields?’

One of them closed the door more firmly and he could hear no more.