5 Frozen in Crime (6 page)

It was a case of one step forward, two steps back.
Or one car’s length forward and so on. Charlie Smith was getting a sore neck
from holding his head at an unusual angle to peer through the windscreen and at
least to get a rough idea of where they were going. He made it up the hill from
Pitkirtly to the main road more by luck than judgement, with Keith Burnett not
saying very much in the front passenger seat except to ask in a near-whisper as
they approached the roundabout, ‘Would you like me to drive now, sir?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Charlie, narrowing his eyes
in the hope it would help him to see more clearly through the blizzard. ‘Now
then - do we want to go left or right here - what do you think?’

‘I thought you knew the way,’ said Keith
accusingly. ‘Sir.’

‘Didn’t you bring a map?’

‘There’s usually one in the glove compartment,
sir.’

‘Well, get it out then, as quick as you like, and
tell me whether to go right or left.’

Charlie circled the roundabout while Keith
struggled with the map.

‘It depends,’ said the constable annoyingly, after
a few minutes during which the chief inspector realised he no longer knew which
direction they had come from in the first place.

‘Depends on what?’

‘Do we want to be heading towards Rosyth or
Kincardine?’

‘Neither of those, you idiot. We’re looking for a
minor road that leads off this one, uphill, possibly ending up at Blairhall or
somewhere. For God’s sake, it isn’t rocket science!’

The radio crackled. Charlie sighed, pulled off the
roundabout in a random direction, and brought the Land Rover to a slightly
skewed standstill on what had been the grass verge before it was covered by a
foot of snow.

‘Chief Inspector Smith?’ said a familiar and
unwelcome voice.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Charlie.

‘What the hell are you doing, Charlie? Sergeant
McDonald tells me you’ve gone out into the wilds. On a wild-goose chase, too.
What were you thinking?’

‘Sir - I’m looking for a missing person. And
following up a lead on the jewel robbery.’

‘Both at the same time?’

‘Well - yes, I suppose so, sir.’

‘Madness!’ said Superintendent Williams. Charlie
could almost see his pursed mouth and steely glare. He would be wearing full
uniform, of course, even if he happened to be speaking from home or from the
pub, and he might be sitting upright at a desk or table, his fingers drumming
on it. ‘Complete and utter madness! Who is this missing person?’

‘It’s Mr Douglas, sir. David Douglas. He went off
in his pick-up truck -’

‘Oh, wait a minute, that David Douglas.’ There was
a pause. ‘Married to Jemima Stevenson - a friend of Amaryllis Peebles. Ah. I
see.’

There was no knowing what the superintendent saw.
Perhaps a lot more than was there to be seen. Charlie waited.

‘Well, carry on, then,’ added Superintendent Williams
after a moment, in a calmer tone. ‘Can’t leave him out in this weather… Not at
his age. What’s this other case? The jewel robbery? What’s that got to do with
this - expedition?’

‘A golden peacock,’ said Charlie. ‘Query Fabergé.
Once belonged to the Murrays of Pitkirtlyhill.’

‘Very good,’ said the superintendent. ‘Carry on.
Look after yourselves.’

He disconnected. Charlie looked at Keith Burnett
and they both laughed.

‘Quest for the golden peacock,’ said Keith
Burnett. ‘It sounds like a movie title.’

The boy was a bit of a dreamer, no doubt about
that. Whirling snowflakes - golden peacock.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Charlie, starting the
engine again. ‘He thinks it’s a wild-goose chase until he hears who we’re
looking for. I suppose he’s tangled with either Jemima or Amaryllis once too
often.’

‘And,’ he added, swinging the Land Rover away from
the verge and attempting a U-turn which ended up with them on the wrong side of
the road at an unusual angle, ‘no, I don’t think Tangling with Amaryllis would
be a good name for a lap-dancing act… And don’t ever tell her I said that
either.’

By some miracle Keith got the map the right way up
and they negotiated the roundabout in a more sensible way this time. Then they
found the road they thought they were looking for on the right, although it was
steeper than Charlie remembered from the time he had to drive over to Blairhall
to return a lost pet snake when he had been a young constable - which now
seemed as if it was a lifetime away.

The Land Rover made it up the first part of the
hill, and then they saw the turning that Keith said was the way to Old
Pitkirtlyhill House on the left. There were pine woods just after that, and
Charlie was about to turn off when he noticed something further up the hill. He
accelerated sharply just after braking, which made for a bumpy ride. The road
was partially blocked by a Range Rover that seemed to have tried to turn over
and was now propped up on something else that lay under a snowdrift. It was
hard to turn over a Range Rover, Charlie reflected as he came to a slightly
slippery stop as near to it as he could. He realised as they approached that
the driver had run into the back of the submerged obstacle and tried to take
evasive action, which must have caused the catastrophe.

‘Wow, that’s a bit of a mess,’ said Keith Burnett,
critically surveying the front windscreen of the Range Rover. Charlie opened
the driver’s door and looked inside. Well, at least there was nobody in there
and he wouldn’t have to call an ambulance - yet. There was a lot of snow in the
front seats. He shone his torch in. No baggage or anything. But there was
something… he reached across and picked up a card from the floor on the
passenger side and looked at it. An identification card of the type that acted
as an electronic key, admitting members of staff to hidden areas of a building
where members of the public weren’t allowed to go. It had the pretentious logo
of West Fife Council, and the name under that was Christopher Wilson.

‘Keith, can you call in the registration for this
vehicle and see who it belongs to?’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think our Mr Wilson
is a driver. And Amaryllis doesn’t own a car at the moment as far as I know.’

‘You don’t think they’ve stolen it, do you sir?’
said Keith Burnett, eyes wide.

Charlie sighed. ‘No, I think we can safely say
they haven’t done that. There’s almost always some perfectly legal - if not
innocent - explanation for the things they get up to.. Wait a minute, let’s
have a look over here before you call in. There might be another car
underneath.’

He had walked forward to investigate what was
under the snowdrift, and as he wiped a layer of snow off it with his gloved
hand he realised it was also a vehicle. A pick-up truck.

‘Will I call this one in too?’ said Keith Burnett
eagerly.

‘No, don’t bother,’ said Charlie. ‘This vehicle
has been the subject of more bizarre complaints than all the others in
Pitkirtly put together - but there’s never enough evidence to bring a case. I
know it well. Everything from chasing a cyclist along the sea-front to looming
over a Fiat Panda with intent to cause a panic attack. Take a closer look,
Keith. You’re bound to come across it sooner or later. This is David Douglas’s
pick-up truck. It’s probably too much to hope that it won’t be worth salvaging.’

He walked round to the front and added, ‘I suppose
we’d better make sure he isn’t still inside.’

It was as if the house was frozen in time,
Christopher thought as they went through the green baize door to the kitchen
and, presumably, the servants’ quarters. A cold, musty air about the interior
and scary-looking family portraits lining the corridor contributed to this
impression.

He still wasn’t sure how pleased Amaryllis’s
friend Mal had been to see them. His eyes had flickered over them in a resigned
sort of way, and he had been slow to offer hospitality. Of course, he had
probably been in the middle of planning some exotic quest when they arrived,
and he wouldn’t be pleased to have this process interrupted by people on such a
prosaic errand.

Christopher wondered uneasily if they should have
called Jemima to tell her where they were before going inside. Or even
contacted the police to confess they had cut their way through the fence? But
he wasn’t even sure why he felt vaguely suspicious. Except that Mal’s presence
here was incongruous, to say the least. Was he an old family retainer? Was his
father a family retainer? Did he know the owner from the army or some local
organisation? Was he a burglar who had broken in while the family were away for
Christmas?

Amaryllis was chatting away to Mal, not apparently
sharing any of Christopher’s qualms.

‘So I don’t suppose you’ve got another orphan of
the storm here?’ she was saying. ‘Only his wife’s getting quite anxious about
him, and we should let her know if -’

‘There’s nobody here except me - and now you,’
said Mal, cutting her off in mid-sentence. He sounded brusquer and more
bad-tempered than he had been back at the Queen of Scots. But Amaryllis
persisted.

‘We wondered about searching the grounds for Dave
as well, in case he’s lying somewhere unable to get up. But of course, that was
when we thought there might be a whole party of people here to help. I suppose
we’ll have to leave it to the police and hope they come along soon.’

‘The police know you’re here?’ said Mal.

‘Not exactly,’ said Amaryllis.  ‘But they know we’re
out looking for Dave.’

Christopher wondered if there was some reason why
Mal didn’t want the police up here. He had got out of the Queen of Scots quite
quickly that afternoon too, when Mr Smith had come in with the constable. He
began to try and picture Mal with a balaclava over his head. Would his eyes
look bigger and darker in those circumstances? He had noticed Mal had a limp
too. Some heroic war injury, Christopher caught himself thinking with a trace
of disdain which embarrassed him even although he knew the others couldn’t read
his thoughts. Well, Mal couldn’t anyway. He had always been unsure about
whether Amaryllis could.

They went through another door and arrived in a
massive kitchen with a small range-type cooker at one end, and lots of old pots
and pans hanging from the ceiling and from hooks. Apart from the cooker, which
was an Aga or Rayburn or some other trendy brand, the whole place seemed to
have been left as it was since Victorian times. A massive old kitchen table was
almost completely covered with scruffy-looking maps or plans.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mal, sounding a bit
more hospitable. ‘You must be frozen solid. At least you can get warmed up
before you go out in the cold again.’

So he was planning to get rid of them as soon as
he reasonably could? Christopher’s unease increased. It seemed as if the man
must have something to hide: most likely the fact that he had no right to be
here. Of course, neither did the two of them, but they did have an innocent
explanation, even if they had cut a hole in the fence which definitely counted
as trespass or criminal damage or something.

‘Nice neat hole in the fence, by the way,’ said
Mal as he crossed to the sink to fill the kettle. ‘I always admire people who
damage things neatly.’

‘How do you know about that?’ said Christopher,
staring at him.

He laughed. ‘Ask your friend here.’

Amaryllis frowned. ‘Alarms? Cameras? Both?’

‘I happened to be watching the screens as you came
along. I was curious to see what you’d do… I’d have done the same. Biscuit?’

He had reached into a cupboard and brought out an
ancient-looking tin decorated with some sort of royal wedding picture. Did the
fact that he could go straight to the biscuit tin mean he was less likely to be
a burglar? Christopher wasn’t sure. Mal could have checked out the cupboards
before they arrived. In the intervals between watching the security screens and
doing whatever else he was doing.

There were ordinary-looking mugs with stripes, and
a non-matching plate for the biscuits. The coffee was instant. Unless this
really was the servants’ quarters, the owner of this big house didn’t live in
the lap of luxury. But then, just keeping up this kind of place must take a lot
of resources. There probably wasn’t any money left over for interior design,
coffee machines or fine china.

As Mal measured out the coffee, poured on the hot
water and got milk out of the fridge, Christopher noticed Amaryllis studying
the maps on the table. Apparently absent-mindedly, she got out her phone and
took some pictures of them before Mal turned round again. Smartphones must be a
godsend to spies, Christopher mused. They didn’t even make much of a sound when
they took photographs.

‘I’ll get these out of the way,’ said Mal a moment
later, folding them together quickly and moving them to one end of the table to
make room for the mugs and the biscuit tin.

Christopher sipped at his coffee, although it was
too hot to drink. He had an almost irresistible urge to jump up and get out of
the place as soon as he could, but without arousing suspicion on Mal’s part, of
course. Amaryllis, on the other hand, seemed completely relaxed. She made idle
conversation about the house.

‘So, are all the rooms habitable?’

‘What do you think? It isn’t a ruin. People have
fought very hard over the centuries to keep it standing.’

‘How many rooms altogether?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lost count. There are
fifteen bedrooms, for a start. Then there are reception rooms downstairs - some
of them are parlours, some are small sitting-rooms. A dining-room big enough to
hold a banquet, of course. A small ball-room…’

‘Is it open to the public at all?’ said Amaryllis
casually.

Christopher decided her questions weren’t idle at
all, but were definitely leading somewhere. Was she trying to establish whether
Mal belonged here or not? He certainly seemed to know his way around, unless he
was making up all his answers, which was always a possibility.

‘Not really,’ said Mal. ‘The owner likes his
privacy. But the gardens are famous for their snowdrops, so they open a few
times in early spring. Mid-January, February, that kind of time.’

Christopher desperately wanted to ask Mal what he
was doing in the house, but he was slightly wary of this former soldier with
his grand plans and his inspiring past. He could probably kill with one blow,
and there was no telling which side Amaryllis might be on in a fight. Well, he
hoped she would rally round to protect him, of course, but he was conscious of
a lingering doubt about that in some remote corner of his mind.

‘Another biscuit?’ said Mal, waving the tin in
front of Christopher with a smile that was either warm and friendly or devious
and sinister, depending on how you looked at it.

‘And what about the rest of the grounds?’
Amaryllis enquired. ‘Is there a swimming-pool? Or a croquet lawn? A deer park?’

Mal laughed and held up his hand to stop her. ‘Enough!
Yes, there’s a small deer park. Stables, round the back. No swimming-pool - did
you seriously expect one in this climate?’

There was a pause in which Christopher drank the
rest of his coffee very quickly, and hoped Amaryllis would do the same so that
they could leave.

‘Any more questions?’ said Mal. ‘More coffee? Or
do you want to get on your way?’

‘Is there a reasonable mobile signal up here?’
said Amaryllis. ‘We’ll need to phone someone for help with the car.’

‘It should be ok,’ said Mal.

He showed no sign of wanting to keep them there,
and he seemed to be trying not to give the impression of hustling them out the
door, but Christopher sensed that he did want rid of them. Of course, if he was
a burglar - and that was still possible if he had hurriedly memorized the
number of bedrooms and the list of outdoor amenities - he must be waiting to
leave too, with his swag. There should be some way of challenging him about
that without either committing a major social faux pas or running into danger,
but Christopher couldn’t immediately think of it.

‘We’d better get on, then,’ said Amaryllis. ‘If
you do see Dave anywhere about - he’s big and elderly, but don’t tell him I
said that - please could you let the police know? In Pitkirtly?’

‘I certainly could,’ said Mal. ‘But I doubt if he’d
be able to get on to the estate. Not without wire cutters.’

He smiled as if to indicate that there were no
hard feelings, and showed them out.

After they had gone down the front steps, taking
their time because there was a layer of ice everywhere, Christopher breathed
out at last.

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He seemed very much at home,’ said Amaryllis in a
neutral tone.

‘You don’t sound too sure of that.’

‘I’m reserving judgement,’ she said.

‘Do you want to break in round at the back? See if
you can find out any more?’

‘Don’t be silly. He isn’t up to anything. If we’d
asked, we would probably have found he’s the gamekeeper’s son and he’s
house-sitting for the laird or something. What else could it be, with his
history?’

‘What, his history of swanning around Afghanistan
with a rifle, you mean?’ said Christopher.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, you know - maybe he needs the excitement.
Maybe he misses the adrenalin rush of being in danger. He could easily have
broken into the house - for kicks or because he needed the money.’

‘Look! - there’s a deer!’ said Amaryllis, ignoring
him and pointing over to the left. He peered into the night. A shadow moved in
the distance. It could have been a deer, a fox, a rabbit, a tiger, anything.

‘Why did you photograph the maps?’ asked
Christopher.

She shrugged. ‘Because they were there.’

It wasn’t much of an answer; there must be more to
it than that. He resolved to follow it up later – if he remembered, what with
Christmas and the weather and everything.

They plodded back towards the gates. There were
two men just outside, standing patiently at the far side as if they were
waiting for a bus.

‘Oh, great, that’s all we need,’ said Amaryllis
crossly.

As they got closer, Christopher saw that the men
were Charlie Smith and the young constable he had had with him at the Queen of
Scots. They were swathed in layers of police clothing and looked about twice
the size they had done earlier.

‘Have you found Dave yet?’ he asked hopefully.

They shook their heads in unison, the snow on
their hats causing a minor blizzard.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Amaryllis.

‘Oh, we wanted to see Lord Murray. But he isn’t
answering his phone,’ said Chief Inspector Smith.

‘He isn’t there,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s just one
of the gamekeeper’s sons. House-sitting.’