The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8) (5 page)

Chapter 7 Elf and Safety

Jock McLean was walking down towards the Cultural Centre at a leisurely pace when he heard sirens in the middle distance.

Of course there could have been any number of reasons for the sound, but his mind flew to Amaryllis. What had she been up to this time? Why hadn’t she just gone home after he had last seen her, sat down with friends, eaten pink wafer biscuits and had a cup of tea just as he had? That was the sensible thing to do. Unfortunately Amaryllis wasn’t usually all that sensible, especially if something interesting was happening. Jock wasn’t a betting man, but he’d have been willing to bet she had gone after the FOOP people and caused something terrible to happen.

As he reached the middle of the car park between the supermarket and the Cultural Centre, he saw Christopher burst out through the front door and start running towards the far side, where a lane led in the direction of the river front.

‘Hey!’ shouted Jock. ‘Wait for me... What’s going on?’ he said as he caught up, panting, with Christopher.

‘Amaryllis,’ said Christopher, confirming Jock’s worst fears. He paused for breath. ‘Got to get there before it’s too late.’

‘Where?’ called Jock as Christopher set off at a run again. Jock couldn’t remember ever seeing Christopher running before. It could have been an amusing sight under other circumstances.

‘Pitkirtly Island,’ called Christopher over his shoulder. ‘... jumped into a hole...’

‘Wait a minute! Did you say she’d jumped in a hole?’

But Christopher was already out of earshot, showing an impressive turn of speed for somebody who spent most of his life behind a desk. Jock hoped he wouldn’t have a heart attack. That could happen to people who suddenly put themselves under unaccustomed physical strain, particularly at Christopher’s age.

Oh, well, the ambulance was probably there already, he told himself, walking briskly after Christopher. He knew his own limitations.

He caught up with Christopher again just before he crossed the railway line at the little gate beside the old station. Pitkirtly Island was at the other side of the tracks. Some activity was visible around the old corrugated iron huts that everybody thought were air raid shelters left over from the war, but which Jock had always suspected of being secret nuclear bunkers for West Fife Council officials. A police car had managed to drive down the track leading along one side of the so-called island, and as he watched, he saw two uniformed officers jump out and run towards the huts.

Christopher was bent double, breathing hard. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Had to rest.’

Jock wasn’t sure who he was apologising to. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, in the nearest approximation to a soothing tone he could dredge up. ‘Take your time. It won’t do any good for you to have a heart attack.’

Oddly enough, the words didn’t seem to comfort Christopher. He breathed harder for a while, then his phone rang and he slowly straightened up as he answered it. ‘Yes, we’re on our way... Oh, no! Just do what you can.’

‘So what’s happening?’ said Jock.

‘No time – we’ve got to get over there.’

Jock put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘No need to get in a state. The police are there now.’

‘Zak phoned me again. I couldn’t make him out very well. The line went all crackly. She got stuck in the hole. It caved in round her.’

Jock extracted the really unbelievable piece of information from the disjointed sentences that were so uncharacteristic of Christopher. ‘He phoned you on your mobile? Again? And you answered it? Twice in one day?’

Christopher’s face, already red, got even redder. ‘I meant to set it to silent when I got into work but I forgot how to do that... Come on, let’s go.’

They opened the gate and hurried across to the place where Pitkirtly Island began to jut out into the river. A dog was yapping somewhere ahead of them. Suddenly they heard an answering bark from behind them.

‘Wait for me!’ called Charlie Smith. His dog, on the lead beside him, seemed almost embarrassed to have been heard barking, but Jock thought it was a good sign. It meant the dog was getting over its fear of taking up too much space in the world, and might even aspire one day to doing even more doggy things, such as running to the door when people came in, or taking up a whole settee while all the people in the room were standing, or being sick on the carpet.

‘He doesn’t bark very often,’ said Charlie. ‘It was just because he thought the other dog was barking at him.’

For heaven’s sake, Jock thought, now Charlie’s at this self-deprecation lark. He must have caught it from the dog.

‘What’s going on?’ said Charlie.

‘Amaryllis has fallen in a hole,’ said Jock.

Christopher speeded up a bit again and went ahead.

‘How did he know?’ said Charlie.

‘Zak called him on his mobile,’ said Jock. ‘Twice.’

‘You mean he had it charged up and switched on?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘They were lucky to get hold of him at all.’

‘He’s only going to get in the way,’ Jock predicted.

Christopher vanished round one of the huts. They followed. There was quite a crowd. Jock recognised the boy Zak, and he thought one of the men, dressed in a trendy leather coat, looked vaguely familiar. One of the policemen was Constable Burnet. He nodded to Charlie as they came into view, and then returned to his task of trying to move people back.

‘We’ll need to see what we’re doing here,’ he told them.

There was a lot more yapping from a small white dog that was huddled in the entrance to a hut with an old man, presumably its owner, and one loud bark from Charlie’s dog.

‘You take him a minute,’ said Charlie. He thrust the lead into Jock’s hand. Jock concentrated for a moment on dragging Charlie’s dog out of reach of the little white dog, which was bounding forward as far as its lead would reach, yapping and snapping. In the end he dragged the dog into one of the other huts and stood peering out at the scene.

By that time Charlie had gone over to join the two policemen and was ordering people back in a much more authoritative voice than Keith Burnet’s, while Keith and the other one crouched down and peered into the top of the hole, a dark hollow in the ground.

Once the group was safely corralled between two huts, Charlie evidently threatened them with dire consequences if they didn’t stay put.

It was only then that Jock saw that Christopher had managed to separate himself from the others, and had gone round to the far side of the hole.

‘Keep back, Mr Wilson, you could cause another landslide!’ shouted Keith Burnet.

‘There’s something sticking up at this side,’ said Christopher, his voice carrying in the quiet air. ‘It looks like a bone.’

‘Don’t tell the dogs,’ said Charlie Smith. He had turned now to face the hole and was staring down at it with a frown.

Then something moved, and both Christopher and Charlie both edged round a bit so that they were closer together, and they were on their knees reaching down, and pulling, and with a huge heave they pulled a very bedraggled Amaryllis up and out of the hole.

Jock saw the three of them collapse in a heap on the ground, hugging each other, but he saw it through a haze as if his eyes were blurring. First sign of cataracts, he said to himself, wiping his eyes with his hand. That’s what it is. No wonder, at my age.

The other idiots surged forward, putting everybody’s safety at risk again. Mob mentality.

Jock suddenly realised Charlie’s dog had also surged forward, pulling him along behind, until they both reached the group on the ground and the dog licked them all indiscriminately. Any sentimentality attached to the rescue of Amaryllis disappeared in a chorus of ‘Get off’ and ‘Euw!’ and ‘Stop that!’ They staggered to their feet.

‘We’ve called an ambulance for you,’ said Keith Burnet disapprovingly to Amaryllis.

‘There was no need for that,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But I suppose you’ll need one to take Jackie Whitmore away.’

‘Jackie Whitmore?’ said Christopher. ‘Is she down there?’ He peered over the edge uncertainly. ‘There’s no sign of anybody else. Are you sure?’

‘She’s under all that lot,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But it’s too late to help her. She’s probably been there at least twelve hours.’

‘Who found her?’ said Charlie. Jock handed him the dog’s lead as a silent reminder that he wasn’t a policeman any longer.

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Keith Burnet. ‘I’d better call it into the station. They’ll need to send backup. We’ll have to get her out.’

‘I suppose I was the one who found her first,’ said the old man with the white dog, stepping forward slightly. ‘The dog was making an awful fuss and I came round from the other side of the huts to see what the problem was. It was as well he didn’t go into the hole. I’d never have got him out again.’

‘I wouldn’t say anything just now until we take a proper statement, sir,’ said Keith. ‘The Inspector likes things to be done by the book.’ He turned towards Amaryllis. ‘You should never have been in there in the first place. It’s a serious offence, disturbing a crime scene.’

‘I wanted to make sure she was dead,’ said Amaryllis. ‘No-one else would do it... I’ve got a couple of pictures.’ She held out a slightly battered camera to Keith.

‘Hmph!’ said the man in the long leather coat. ‘I could see she was dead from up here.’

‘OK,’ said Keith Burnet, shaking his head. ‘Let’s all go inside one of the huts and I’ll take names and addresses before people start getting agitated and saying things they don’t mean.’

‘What’s this?’ said Charlie, picking up the thing Amaryllis had been holding when they dragged her out of the hole. It was long and white, almost like a small birch tree branch, and yet...

‘Oh, it’s a bone,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I’m not an expert,’ said Charlie modestly, ‘but it looks as if it could be a human femur.’

‘I knew it!’ said the man in the leather coat, surging forward until stopped in his tracks by Keith Burnet, who blocked his way. ‘It’s a prehistoric graveyard. I knew we were on the track of something like this.’

The woman in the long droopy dress stepped forward. ‘Let me see. Are there any Celtic symbols around the site?’

‘Get back, both of you,’ said Keith. ‘I want everybody in the hut over there, now. We’re all contaminating a possible crime scene just by being here. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that,’ he added, indicating the long white thing Charlie was still holding. ‘We might need archaeologists, by the look of it.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I don’t think this goes back to prehistory.’

‘Let the experts decide,’ said the man in the leather coat.

Jock had taken a bit of a dislike to him. He seemed to think he knew everything.

‘Who’s that idiot?’ he asked Charlie as they all pushed through the doorway of the hut.

‘Mind the dog!’ called Charlie, whisking his dog out from under somebody’s feet just in time. ‘It’s Jason Penrose,’ he said to Jock. ‘Big shot in history or something. He’s been on tv apparently. All the women fancy him.’

‘Hmm,’ said Jock, unimpressed. He glanced round at the others. Christopher and Amaryllis were still outside. Christopher seemed to be remonstrating with her about something, but whatever it was, she showed no sign of remorse. He was probably telling her off for jumping into the hole. It had been a silly thing to do, but they all knew Amaryllis had more lives than a cat. ‘Why didn’t she suffocate?’ he said. It wasn’t until Charlie answered that he realised he had spoken aloud.

‘Covered her nose and mouth with her woolly hat, and stuck the bone up above her head to mark the spot,’ said Charlie. ‘Amaryllis knows all about survival.’

‘I did avalanche training in the Pyrenees once,’ said the woman herself, arriving in the hut.

Christopher trailed along behind her, no longer furious but wearing his usual sheepish expression. It was very similar to the look Charlie’s dog had when he wasn’t being assertive, which was almost all the time.

‘It wouldn’t have worked if there hadn’t been people on hand,’ he muttered.

‘I knew you would rescue me,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I don’t know how you knew that,’ said Christopher, reverting to anger. ‘I was a mile away when I heard.’

‘Here,’ said Jock. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but he had his phone switched on.’

‘And charged up?’ said Amaryllis.

‘And it wasn’t on silent,’ said Jock.

They all paused to contemplate the miracle of Christopher’s use of modern technology.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever let me hear the end of it either,’ he said gloomily.

Chapter 8 Archaeology

It was the first Christopher had heard of an archaeologist being on the staff of the local Council. Apparently he advised on rescue digs when new sites were being developed, and had to investigate anything that was found that looked as if it might be of archaeological interest. On hearing this, Jock suggested the crisps in the Queen of Scots might fall into that category, and Charlie Smith threatened to throw them both out.

To avoid the shame of it, they retreated to the table where Jemima, Dave and Amaryllis were playing dominoes. Amaryllis had cleaned herself up a bit since being trapped in the hole, and she and Jock had more or less recovered from having to dash to the launch of the Christmas festivities which had taken place only an hour later than scheduled that afternoon. Jock had reported to Christopher that sitting in the tram had been even less enjoyable than expected, and the only thing that had cheered them both up was the sight of the press photographer being mown down by the husky team and their sledge.

‘Have you got a domino up your sleeve?’ Amaryllis was just asking Dave.

‘That’s pure muscle, lass,’ said Dave, laughing. ‘You can have a feel if you like.’

‘David!’ Jemima scolded.

‘So they still think that bone might be prehistoric?’ said Jock as they sat down.

‘Never!’ scoffed Amaryllis. ‘Thirty years old at the most. Probably less. They should be checking the missing persons files, not calling in an archaeologist.’

‘That isn’t what Jason Penrose says,’ Christopher told her.

‘Well, he’s an idiot in that case,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s very disappointing. He’s got such nice legs.’

‘You shouldn’t be ogling men’s legs at your age,’ said Dave, playing a double six with a flourish.

‘Where’s he staying?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Up at the hotel?’

‘No,’ said Christopher. ‘I think he’s lodging with Tricia Laidlaw.’

He said it in a whisper, hoping Jock wouldn’t hear. Everybody knew Jock had a soft spot for Tricia Laidlaw, although obviously he would have denied any such thing if anybody had interrogated him about it. He might not be pleased to know Jason Penrose was living under her roof. Her son Darren lived up at Rosie’s cattery most of the time and wouldn’t have made a satisfactory chaperone in any case.

Jock’s expression went from mild amusement to sheer rage and back to a mask of insouciance all in the same moment.

‘Poor wee Jackie Whitmore,’ said Jemima, probably in an attempt to change the subject. ‘She had her moments of not being very nice, but she didn’t deserve to be just thrown in a hole and left.’

‘She might not have been thrown in,’ said Jock.

‘Not very nice!’ said Dave scornfully. ‘She only tried to kill Neil Macrae.’

‘But he wasn’t very nice either,’ said Jemima, in another of the understatements of the century.

‘They were asking for trouble, letting her out in the first place,’ said Dave, shaking his head.

‘I think I’ll pop round there and have a word with Jason,’ said Amaryllis. ‘He might have some information he doesn’t even know he has.’

‘Round where?’ said Christopher.

‘Round to Tricia’s. Do you want to come? We could play good cop, bad cop.’

He shuddered. He didn’t even want to think about Amaryllis playing bad cop. That was, if she didn’t expect him to do so.

Now she was laughing at him. ‘You wouldn’t know where to start playing bad cop, would you?’

‘I could if I wanted to,’ he said uneasily, hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff.

She was still laughing to herself quietly when they left the pub fifteen minutes later and walked up the hill in the direction of Tricia Laidlaw’s. Jock, his mouth closed tightly in a thin line, had refused an invitation to come with them, saying he would rather eat crisps and play dominoes.

‘What’s the point of this exactly?’ said Christopher as they passed the last of the shops and turned along Tricia’s street.

‘I want to know what he was doing on the Island,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I told you what he was doing. It was a field trip in search of Old Pitkirtly.’

‘But why there?’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t they have been better to look at the harbour, or the old station? Everyone knows there’s hardly anything out on Pitkirtly Island.’

Christopher shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe he thinks he knows better. He’s been looking at a lot of old maps and stuff in the library. Zak’s been giving him a hand from time to time. And the FOOP people have been in there with him with whatever their agenda is.’

‘Where did the FOOP people come from? Why haven’t we heard of them before?’

‘They’ve been around for a while,’ said Christopher. ‘Bruce has, anyway. He’s been involved in almost everything. Apart from PLIF, of course. I think he was going through some sort of personal crisis at that time.’

‘Ha! Wasn’t everyone?’ commented Amaryllis.

Christopher ignored this. ‘Tamara’s quite a recent arrival. She doesn’t live in Pitkirtly, though. I have a feeling she shares a farmhouse somewhere in the wilds – it might be a kind of commune, from what I’ve heard. The two younger ones aren’t around all the time. I think they’re maybe away at university in term-time. There are some others too. I can’t remember their names. But they’re a bit half-hearted. It’s Bruce and Tamara who drive it along.’

‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it,’ said Amaryllis, ‘that someone like Jason Penrose was prepared to come all the way up here, to a place with very little history, just because two people asked him to?’

Christopher gave her a reproving glance. ‘Everywhere has history. You just have to know where to look for it.’

‘But don’t you think Jason Penrose would want something exciting to put on this famous blog of his? Even if he and the rest of them dig up some medieval pottery or Celtic pendants, it isn’t really going to amount to much.’

‘You never know,’ said Christopher. ‘Remember Old Pitkirtlyhill House and the tunnels?’

‘I’d rather not think about that, thanks.’

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they approached Tricia’s house, not even pulling back when Tricia opened the door to them.

‘Nice to see you! Are you all right, Amaryllis? Jason was telling me about your accident today.’

As Amaryllis reassured her, they all went through to the front room. Jason was reclining on the settee in a way that Christopher knew would have angered Jock McLean if he had seen it. More unexpectedly, Zak Johnstone was on his hands and knees on the floor, a map spread out in front of him. Harriet, from the Cultural Centre, was at the other side of the map. They both scrambled to their feet, looking guilty, when they saw Christopher and Amaryllis.

‘We just came round to see if Darren was at home,’ said Zak. ‘We’d better get going now.’

‘No, you’re fine,’ said Tricia. ‘Would anybody like a drink?’

‘Just water for me,’ said Jason. ‘Evening, Christopher. Amaryllis, I don’t think we were properly introduced before you went down that hole.’

He stood up in one enviably fluid movement – Christopher wasn’t sure when he had started envying people for the fluidity of their movement – and held out his hand for her to shake.

‘We still haven’t been introduced,’ said Amaryllis. She was as wary as a cat, and as elegant, thought Christopher, standing back to observe.

‘Do you often do that kind of thing?’ Jason was enquiring. His eyes twinkled again – how did he do that?

‘It depends on what kind of thing you mean,’ said Amaryllis.

‘Jumping into the middle of situations without a second thought,’ said Jason, holding on to her hand.

‘That isn’t what I did,’ said Amaryllis, sounding surprised. She snatched her hand back.

They all sat down, including Zak and Harriet. Christopher found himself on the settee next to Jason, although he was sure Jason had tried to manoeuvre things so that Amaryllis sat there. He had evidently been outmanoeuvred. Christopher wondered why Amaryllis hadn’t taken to the man, even when he had been at his most charming. Maybe being charming made her suspicious, which would explain why she was so fond of Jock McLean.

Tricia brought in a tray of miscellaneous refreshments ranging from plates of cheese scones and squares of home-made fudge – at least it looked home-made - to brandy, a jug of coffee and a small bowl of apricots.

‘So,’ said Amaryllis, addressing Jason Penrose directly, ‘what made you go to Pitkirtly Island this morning, Mr Penrose?’

Christopher choked on a piece of fudge. He had not expected her to be quite so direct. Tricia, in whose kitchen someone had died not long ago after apparently choking on a bite of apple, looked horrified and rushed round to pat him on the back.

‘Ancient mines,’ said Jason. He glanced round the room as if expecting applause. ‘And please do call me Jason. Mr Penrose sounds like an antiquarian with a long white beard and half-moon glasses.’

Amaryllis gave him a critical glance. ‘Well, I suppose you’re a kind of antiquarian.’

‘Historian, please,’ he murmured.

‘I take it you know about the more recent mines and tunnels,’ said Christopher.

Jason nodded. ‘I’ve seen your digital maps. Interesting.’

‘There was a cave-in. They aren’t safe now,’ he said.

‘It’s all quite unstable,’ said Jason, ‘as indeed we saw today.’

There was a respectful silence until Amaryllis said cheerfully, ‘Unstable enough to bury me alive anyway.’

‘Have some brandy,’ said Tricia suddenly, almost in Christopher’s ear. ‘You look as if you’re going to fall over.’

Christopher doubted that very much. He could see that if he fell over he might land in Jason Penrose’s lap, and that idea was enough to keep him upright. Still, he accepted a restorative glass of brandy and sipped at it, reflecting meanwhile on how nice Tricia Laidlaw was, and what a comfortable partner she would make for somebody.

‘Are the police really planning to bring in an archaeologist?’ said Jason.

Christopher nodded. ‘They’ve already asked the Council archaeologist to stand by. But they’ve got their own people working on the bones anyway. As well as – the rest of it.’

‘Was it really Jackie Whitmore?’ said Tricia.

Amaryllis nodded. ‘I don’t know if her father will have to do a formal identification but it’s definitely her.’

‘Poor wee thing,’ said Tricia, reinforcing Christopher’s opinion of her. ‘She was so young.’

‘You said you thought she’d been in there for twelve hours,’ said Jason.  ‘What did you base that on?’

‘Just experience,’ said Amaryllis. ‘When you’ve stumbled across as many corpses as I have....’

‘Quite,’ said Jason, as if to cut her off before she said anything worse. ‘I take your point.’

Christopher reflected that Amaryllis, on the other hand, wouldn’t make a comfortable partner for anybody. She was glaring at Jason again, as spiky and on edge as a cat that had just spotted a rival at the end of the garden.

‘Do you still want to use Pitkirtly Island for a field trip?’ said Christopher.

‘I don’t think we’ll be allowed to, not for a while at least,’ said Jason. ‘The police have closed it all off now. The local dog walkers won’t be pleased.’

‘Was the man with the little white dog there when you arrived?’ enquired Amaryllis.

‘Yes, of course he was. He was the one who found the hole – or at least his dog did.’

‘I suppose he probably walks round that way every morning,’ Amaryllis mused. ‘It must have been a shock for him... Did you catch his name?’

‘No, but the police are bound to have it.’

Jason was watching Amaryllis with a puzzled expression. She often affected people in that way.

‘Are the FOOP people meeting again tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘I think so. I’m only up here for a few more days, so we’d better make the most of it. We may have to explore some different options.’

‘You could go to Culross instead,’ said Tricia. ‘They’ve got plenty of history there.’

‘Mmm,’ said Jason. ‘I like to find history in unexpected places. I’d be over the moon if we found something that suggested Roman occupation.’

‘That might be more likely at the far side of the Forth Bridge,’ said Zak. ‘Across the river from the Roman fort at Cramond.’

Christopher regarded his protégé with approval. Zak was good at considering all the evidence quietly and then reaching a reasoned conclusion. Unlike some people, who just pulled remote possibilities out of the air before looking for any evidence. He wouldn’t put it past Jason Penrose to manufacture his own evidence, he thought darkly. He looked forward to talking through that idea with Amaryllis as they walked home. Maybe then she could investigate and together they could discredit the man. Any man who went around in a long dark coat and skin-tight jeans at his age deserved everything he got.