Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) (21 page)

‘Will they be kept on remand until the trial?’ enquired Charlie Smith. His question must have been for the benefit of the others, since he undoubtedly knew the answer himself.

‘Yes, except...’ Keith knew what he was about to say would be considered as either bad news or extremely unfair by many of these present. But Mrs Ramsay had told him to mention it, so he went ahead. ‘Well, Mrs Cockburn has been bailed. So you might see her about. But we’ve advised her and her husband to go away for a while. They don’t need to stay around here getting in people’s faces. There’s a slight danger that more villains will come out of the woodwork anyway, and we might have to take them somewhere safer.’

‘More villains?’ said Jemima, bristling.

Keith didn’t think any villain worth his salt would want to come up against her, especially with Dave constantly in the background, but he tried to say something reassuring.

‘We’re fairly confident that we’ve rounded them all up, unless there’s some other dimension to this case that nobody’s thought of yet.’

He thought he saw Amaryllis’s eyes glinting in the middle distance, but it could have been his imagination.

‘What about the Face of Pitkirtly?’ said Christopher. ‘Will it still go ahead?’

‘Craig and I can’t use our entry,’ said Sammy. ‘Unless you want to show some of the movie footage in the Cultural Centre, Mr Wilson.’

‘No!’ said Keith. He didn’t realise how loudly he had spoken until several heads turned his way and he saw a few shocked expressions.  He moderated his tone a bit. ‘The movie footage is a vital piece of evidence. Even after the trial we may not be able to release it. You do realise there are laws to protect people from being filmed without their knowledge and consent, don’t you?’

‘Well, there are laws to protect people from being drugged and kidnapped and killed, too, aren’t there?’ said Sammy’s mother, standing up and pulling her winter coat round her more tightly. ‘But that didn’t help my Craig.’

‘Our Craig,’ said Bert Wishart, but he didn’t get up.

‘Does anybody have any further questions?’ said Keith hastily as Sammy’s mother stamped out of the bar, taking Sammy with her but pointedly leaving her husband behind. They had been brought to the meeting in a police car, so he thought they would probably wait outside for their lift home.

As the others began to get to their feet and pull on their coats in preparation for leaving, Amaryllis sidled up to him.

‘What about El Presidente?’ she muttered.

‘What about him?’ said Keith.

‘Have you locked him up too, or will he live to fight another Council election?’

‘Do you know of some reason why I should lock him up?’

‘Just for being an idiot?’ she suggested.

‘If I locked up everybody who’s capable of being an idiot,’ he said, ‘there would be a lot more people inside than there are out here.’

‘Present company excepted?’

‘Don’t push it.’

‘What if he’s Mr Big as well as El Presidente?’

‘There is no Mr Big,’ said Keith confidently.

Chapter 23 Looking for Mr Big

Amaryllis idly watched the small crowd dispersing after the meeting at the Queen of Scots. Jemima and Dave, arm in arm as ever, headed briskly along towards the harbour, from where she guessed they might go up to the fish shop in their apparently eternal search for a nice bit of lemon sole. Keith had arranged for a police car to come back and collect the Wishart family for their trip home to Rosyth. Amaryllis had a feeling Craig’s death might be a catalyst for the break-up of the family home. Sammy certainly didn’t seem all that happy with either of her parents, who were definitely at loggerheads with each other.

A woman limped past her and went towards the supermarket car park. Did Maggie Munro have a cleaning shift at the Cultural Centre on Saturday?

A thin, icy voice spoke just behind her. ‘I hope you’re satisfied, Ms Peebles.’

‘I hope you are, Mr Prestonfield,’ she said without turning round.

He laughed coldly. ‘I don’t see what I have to be satisfied about. You’ve managed to get David Jackson arrested on some trumped-up charge, and now my team is one down with the election only a couple of weeks away. Well, if you think you have any chance of winning a seat on West Fife Council, I can tell you now that you’re sadly mistaken. Our canvass returns show...’

‘I’m not entirely satisfied,’ she admitted. She turned towards him at last. His eyes, pale as ice, were fixed on her face. She knew if he could have turned them into real icicles and stabbed her with them, that was exactly what he would have done. Fortunately he was just a man and not a wizard, even if he seemed to think he inhabited a sphere that was apart from normal people and their concerns. Maybe that was how you had to behave to be considered a proper politician. Amaryllis knew in that moment that she couldn’t enter that sphere.

‘In what way?’ he enquired, raising his eyebrows.

She lowered her voice. There were still a few people about, and she didn’t want witnesses to anything she might say to him. ‘I think you know more about this than you’ve told the police, Mr Prestonfield. I might be a bit more satisfied if I thought you’d got your just desserts.’

He held up his hands. ‘Who amongst us is without sin, Ms Peebles?’

‘They’ll catch up with you sooner or later, Mr Prestonfield. They’ll find out about your dealings with the people from Cowdenbeath.’

For the first time he looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Cowdenbeath? I wouldn’t even know how to get there.’

‘Oh, really? You just get on to the A92 and follow the signs,’ she told him. ‘It isn’t all that far, as the crow flies.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ Now he seemed exasperated as well as puzzled.

El Presidente was up to his neck in something. Amaryllis was no longer sure what it was. Maggie Munro, on the other hand....

She swore, whirled round and stared after the woman.

Maggie Munro! Amaryllis cast her mind back to the night she had broken into the church hall and the couple she had seen walking along the other side of the road as she and Keith had stood outside with the police cars waiting to take away Young Dave and his partner in crime. She tried to picture the scene in her mind and to work out which leg that woman had favoured.

As she stood there, she saw that a man had come over to meet Maggie. The two of them turned and went off together, his hand under her elbow.

What was it that had made her suspicious that night?

‘What are you staring at over there?’ enquired Christopher.

‘Has Giancarlo Petrelli made a miraculous return from New York?’ said Jock with a chuckle. The wee white dog gave a yap and wagged its tail furiously. ‘Calm down, you. There’s no more steak... Charlie gave them both a dish of meat to keep them busy while we were in there,’ he explained. ‘It’s put ideas in his head. Wait until Tricia comes back. It’ll be dog biscuits and water then,’ he added, addressing the dog.

‘It’s only Maggie Munro and her husband,’ said Christopher.

Amaryllis turned to him. ‘Maggie Munro. Do you remember where she came from?’

‘I don’t know. Auchterderran.... Lumphinnans.... Cowdenbeath...’

‘Cowdenbeath? Oh, for God’s sake!’ She set off at a run.

‘What’s so exciting about Cowdenbeath?’ Jock McLean called after her.

‘Drugs!’ said Amaryllis over her shoulder.

After a moment she heard running footsteps behind her, and Christopher said breathlessly, ‘Aren’t you going to tell Keith?’

‘He doesn’t deserve to know,’ said Amaryllis, slowing her steps as she got closer to her quarry.

Damn! They were getting into a van. Was it the one they had used in the attempted abduction in the High Street? Or did they swap vans regularly to ensure it wasn’t recognised?

Christopher’s hand swept her out of the way at the last minute just as the van driver accelerated right at them and then out of the car park.

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I wanted El Presidente to be Mr Big.’

‘It’s no use taking them on by yourself,’ said Christopher. ‘You should have told Keith right away.’

‘I didn’t know until I saw them together,’ said Amaryllis.

‘What made you realise?’

‘I saw them near the church that night when Keith nearly arrested me.’

‘What?’

Amaryllis had forgotten she had glossed over some of the key events of that night when speaking to Christopher.

‘I’ll tell you later. I didn’t want to worry you.’

‘Ha! That’s never stopped you doing anything in the past.’

‘Tomorrow is another day,’ she said with dignity and began to walk back to where Jock McLean and the wee white dog were waiting. She saw that Keith Burnet had joined him and was glaring at her.

‘What was all that about?’ he said.

‘Mr Big lives,’ said Amaryllis.

‘And now he’s kidnapped Maggie again, thanks to you and your interference.’

‘He hasn’t kidnapped Maggie,’ said Amaryllis.

‘But we all saw him,’ said Keith.

‘He doesn’t need to go off with Maggie,’ said Christopher. ‘He’s her husband.’

‘There you are,’ said Amaryllis to Keith. ‘It isn’t just me.’

‘We’ve already got the son in custody,’ said Keith. ‘Dave Jackson grassed on him, and when we pulled him in for questioning I recognised him from that night at the church hall. He was the other man with Dave then.’

‘And his Mum and Dad were walking along the street outside at the time, very carefully not watching what was going on,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I noticed them because of that. But I must admit I didn’t recognise Maggie in the dark. I didn’t know she had a limp.’

‘Bad hip,’ said Christopher. ‘She told me when she started work she wasn’t sure if she could do heavy lifting.’

‘I’m not sure if she was really in on it,’ said Amaryllis. ‘She wasn’t with them earlier in the day when they were casing the joint.’

Keith shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hard to see how she wasn’t in on it, in the circumstances. Wouldn’t she have noticed things going on? Wondered why they had to leave Cowdenbeath?’

‘The family kept an eye on her,’ said Christopher, heaving a weary sigh. ‘The father and son came round to the Cultural Centre to see me, supposedly about Maggie’s welfare. They must have just been checking to see if anybody was on to them.’

‘But – she was abducted by the gang,’ said Keith. ‘Did the others turn against him or something?’

‘Probably a red herring,’ said Amaryllis. ‘To make us think they were above suspicion.’

‘I wonder why they left Cowdenbeath,’ Christopher mused. ‘They were much more conspicuous here, in a strange town.’

‘Cowdenbeath must have been too hot for them,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I still don’t know why they attacked me,’ said Keith.

‘I think that was just Mrs Cockburn going rogue,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Once she’d drugged you they just had to deal with it. They wouldn’t have wanted to harm a police officer – it would have meant they attracted unwelcome attention.’

‘Maggie seemed so nice,’ Christopher complained. ‘We’re going to have trouble recruiting a new cleaner.’

‘That’s the least of our worries,’ said Keith grimly. He took out his phone and made a couple of calls.

It must have been difficult for Keith to admit the case wasn’t quite over yet, after he had held the meeting at the Queen of Scots and everything. Amaryllis felt almost guilty for insisting there was a ‘Mr Big’, and at the same time she was cross with herself for maintaining her belief in El Presidente’s guilt long past the time when she should have given in.

She did still cling to the theory that he must be guilty of something. Sooner or later she would catch him out.

In the mean-time Sarah Ramsay rang her secretly to thank her for the information that had led to the arrest of Mr and Mrs Munro. Like her, Sarah wasn’t entirely sure that a case could be made against Maggie, and because nobody knew how many more people were implicated in the drugs syndicate, it seemed there was a chance Maggie could be given a new identity and moved somewhere a long way from Pitkirtly.

To her surprise and alarm, Amaryllis found herself feeling sorry for the woman. It was only after a lot of ruthless self-talk that she could persuade herself it was all Maggie’s own fault for not walking out on that loser of a husband sooner. Even so, a tiny crumb of pity remained to unsettle her for some time.

Chapter 24 The People Speak

The election count was almost finished. Christopher had been forced to agree to it taking place in the Cultural Centre, because that was the only building in Pitkirtly belonging to the Council, apart from a couple of schools, whose head teachers had refused to co-operate.

Amaryllis couldn’t believe they had waited until the morning after the election even to start counting. It just showed how low democracy came on their list of priorities. Somewhere after installing new speed bumps and deciding whether to let cyclists ride on the pavement or not.

By the look of things, democracy didn’t come very high on most people’s list of priorities. One of the seasoned campaigners, who had stood at every election for about thirty years as an independent whose only policy appeared to be getting a sea wall built along the river front to stop Pitkirtly being swamped by the rising sea levels he insisted were due to happen any time now, did a rough estimate of the percentage poll, and he shook his head and said it was the worst ever.

One big disadvantage of holding the count in daylight hours was the number of onlookers. Jemima and Dave had popped in earlier to see what was going on, but it didn’t hold their interest for very long.

‘We’re just on our way to the fish shop,’ Jemima told Amaryllis. ‘If we can get something nice we’ll get away home and cook it for our dinner. If he only has those big ugly fish we won’t bother, so we might be back.’

So now democracy was in the hands – or the fins – of big ugly fish. Maybe they were better qualified to deal with it than most people, Amaryllis reflected.

Christopher emerged from his office and wandered through to the library, where it was all happening.

‘Any news yet?’

‘I think it could be a while. We might even need a recount,’ she said hopefully. The piles of ballot papers all looked about equal, but then she had no experience of this kind of thing.

El Presidente strolled over to them. She noticed he hadn’t dared approach her when she was on her own. Evidently Christopher’s presence made him feel safe. He had been even less friendly since Young Dave’s re-arrest.

‘This is the worst part,’ he commented.

‘Oh? I thought that would be when you heard the results and realised you’d come last,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I’m sure you’ll find out about that very soon, Ms Peebles,’ he said with a false smile. He glanced round the library and added, to Christopher, ‘It’s a pity they had to do this in here, Mr Wilson. We could have offered them the use of a room at the bowling club if I’d known they were so desperate.’

He wandered off again, secure in the knowledge that he had offended them both more or less equally.

‘I don’t know he managed to be the one who got away,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I thought he was bound to be mixed up in things somehow. He should be arrested for employing Young Dave to help with the election, if nothing else.’

‘Is Stewie coming along today?’ enquired Christopher.

‘I think he’s over in Rosyth helping Sammy get some of her stuff together. They’re both moving in with Mrs Petrelli again. I think Sammy’s parents are splitting up.’

‘What if Giancarlo comes back from the States?’

‘I don’t think he ever will,’ said Amaryllis, and heaved a tragic sigh. ‘But at least I’ve got something to remember him by.’

‘I expect I’ll be sorry I asked, but what’s that?’

‘Well,’ she said with the beginnings of a smile, ‘I discovered who the mystery artist was.’

‘The mystery – oh! The series of pictures of you?’

‘Yes. It turns out that Giancarlo has been studying me more closely than I ever imagined,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t realise he was so good. I think he’s actually gone to some special art school in the States, not just to work in his cousin’s ice-cream shop after all.’

‘What happens to the pictures at the end of the exhibition?’

‘I don’t know about the rest, but I’ve staked my claim on those,’ said Amaryllis. ‘If you went and looked at them now, you’d see the red dots in the corners.’

‘Where does the money go? Into Mrs Cockburn’s defence fund?’

‘Christopher!’ said Jock McLean from just behind them. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with her. The money’s to go to charity. Everybody knows that.’

‘You haven’t brought your dog into the library again, have you?’ said Christopher, just before turning round and seeing the wee white dog lurking behind Jock’s legs almost as if it sensed his disapproval.

‘It isn’t a library today,’ said Jock.

‘I’m not sure you’re allowed dogs at election counts either,’ said Christopher.

‘Unless it’s a highly trained sniffer dog who’s part of the security team,’ said Amaryllis.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ Christopher muttered.

‘Look!’ said Jock. ‘They’re going to make an announcement.’

‘I thought they told the candidates secretly first,’ said Amaryllis indignantly, ‘in case they burst into tears when they hear.’

‘You’re not going to burst into tears, are you?’ said Jock.

‘Not really... Here he comes. Hold on to your hats! It’s going to be a bumpy ride.’

As the official led her away to the official announcing place, somewhere between Biography and Self-Help, she heard Jock say to Christopher, ‘Do you think we should go down to the front with some tissues?’

She didn’t hear Christopher’s reply, but as he stayed in his lurking position near the community leaflet stand, she assumed he didn’t have tissues with him. Either that or he didn’t think she would be reduced to tears.

El Presidente stood aside politely so that she could line up with the others. One of them was a woman she didn’t think had been in evidence at the hustings and whom she didn’t recognise from any of the rival candidates’ leaflets she and Stewie had carefully gathered up and ceremonially burned behind the pavilion in the park. She had seen the others before, and nodded to them. Their expressions ranged from agonised to bland.

The official took a scrappy piece of paper and stared at it for a moment, his mouth falling open as he did so.

Oh, no, I’ve won, thought Amaryllis, and he’s about to keel over from shock.

El Presidente, on her right, shuffled his feet. He was nervous. Good.

The official beckoned to the candidates and they clustered round him. So this is the part where he tells us the result, thought Amaryllis. She was slightly indignant that he had waited to do so until they were in the spotlight, so to speak. Not that there was actually a spotlight. In fact this was one of the dimmer corners of the library. Someone could easily have been hidden in the shadows either stealing votes, or rearranging them, or making them disappear.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever known a situation like this in all my years of elections,’ said the official in a low voice, glaring round at them all. At least he wasn’t showing favouritism, not even to El Presidente, whom she had assumed had the whole West Fife Council in his pocket already.

‘What’s happened?’ said one of the others, an ineffectual middle-aged man she assumed must be a Liberal Democrat.

‘It’s a tie,’ said the official. ‘We’re going to have to do a recount.’

There were groans at various volumes and pitches. It sounded like the bassoon section tuning up.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said El Presidente, glaring back at the official as if it were all his fault. ‘There must be some other way.’

‘We could draw lots,’ said the official.

‘Are you serious?’ said the ineffectual man.

‘I never joke about elections.’

‘So what happens?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Can we go away and come back tomorrow? And do all the votes have to be re-counted or just the ones involved in the tie? What if the result’s still the same?’

‘If we’re going to do this, we have to start now and not leave until we’ve finished,’ said the official, getting grumpier by the minute. ‘And it’s a three-way tie so everything will have to be started from scratch.’

‘A three-way tie?’ El Presidente stared at the official as if he had just announced he was planning to take all his clothes off and run round the outside of the building three times anti-clockwise to conjure up the spirit of a long-dead unicorn.

‘Who is this tie between?’ said the ineffectual man accusingly.

‘I can’t possibly...’

‘It’s among,’ said Amaryllis. She wasn’t usually pedantic but she felt it only right that she should correct the man’s mistake if there was any chance of him being elected to such a responsible position.

‘Among what?’

‘No, among whom is the tie?’ she said.

Now they were all staring at her as if she had been speaking in one of the ten sub-dialects of Tibetan she had once had to learn.

‘Never mind that,’ she said impatiently. ‘Just tell us who’s in the frame.’

‘I really don’t think...’

‘Go on – no-one’s listening,’ she urged.

It was true enough. The three women who had been sitting on the nearby chairs, looking as if they might whip out their knitting at any minute to accompany the whir of the descending guillotine blade, had gone a few moments before. Jemima and Dave weren’t back from the fish shop and Christopher and Jock had retreated to the far side of the library and seemed to be arguing by the historical romance shelf.

‘Well,’ said the official, apparently determined to draw this out for as long as possible – did he get paid by the hour or something?

‘Come on, man, just tell us the worst!’ said El Presidente.

‘It’s a tie between you, Mr Prestonfield, and Ms Peebles and Mr Somerville,’ said the official, speaking so fast that all his words blurred together. Or perhaps it was that Amaryllis found them so hard to believe that her brain had partially tuned them out.

She gave an excited little jump.

‘That’s impossible!’ snapped El Presidente. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘That’s why we’ll need a re-count,’ said the election official patiently.

‘No – I mean, they can’t have got the same number of votes as me. It’s a travesty.’

‘It’s only a travesty if I declare it one,’ said the official. ‘Then we would have to re-run the whole bye-election. And then nobody would be very pleased,’ he added. ‘I’m guessing the electorate would vote with their feet. The poll would be even lower than it is this time.’

Amaryllis shuddered. The hustings – the leafleting – the irate voters – the snappy dogs. She didn’t want to be involved in another election campaign as long as she lived.

She never wanted to stand for election again. It was very simple when she thought about it. She never would. She might as well not have stood this time. It was obvious that El Presidente would want the votes counted and re-counted until he won.

Let him win.

‘You can win if you like,’ she told him. ‘I’m going down to the Queen of Scots now.’

She was halfway across the library when the official caught up with her.

‘Are you formally withdrawing your candidacy?’

‘I certainly am.’

‘I’ll need your signature here and here,’ he said, holding a piece of paper out to her.

She signed happily.

The ineffectual man, whom she now knew was Mr Somerville, came up behind her. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Life’s too short. He can do it.’

He gestured towards El Presidente, who was watching them with a bewildered expression.

‘You coming to the Queen of Scots?’ Amaryllis asked him.

‘Hell, yes.’

They collected Christopher, Jock McLean and the wee white dog on the way. Jemima and Dave joined them in the car park. They were a merry band of revellers as they hurried down the road to the pub.

‘It’s a travesty of democracy,’ said Jock McLean happily when they got to the bar. ‘Mine’s the usual, thanks Charlie.’