Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) (4 page)

‘Not as far as we know,’ said Christopher, although he wasn’t sure if Keith Burnet would have wanted him even to divulge that much. ‘They’re still investigating. There’s a team coming over from Edinburgh.’

She gasped. ‘From Edinburgh?’

‘It’s all centralised now,’ said Christopher, trying to sound as calm as possible to counteract her apparent fear of people from outside Pitkirtly. ‘There’s hardly anything local any more, as far as police work goes.’

Keith Burnet came out again and stood on the step at the front of the building.

‘There’s Keith now,’ said Christopher. ‘Come on, we’ll have a word with him before the rest of them arrive. Don’t worry, he’s very nice.’

He could tell from the expression on Keith’s face as they approached that he had overheard this description and wasn’t very impressed with it. Being nice probably didn’t rank very highly on the list of qualifications for being a policeman, although in Christopher’s opinion it should have done.

They went into the office and, with a lot of prompting, Maggie told Keith about the keys and he asked her some questions about the two young artists, what state the Folk Museum had been in just before they all left, and when and where she had last seen them.

‘I do my best at cleaning that place,’ she told them earnestly. ‘It’s hard though, with all the stuff lying around in there. Specially after that quilting lot’s been in – bits of thread all over the place, things on all the surfaces. I never know what to move and what not to move. I usually just clean round it all. I hope that’s all right, Mr Wilson?’

Christopher assured her it was all right. She had exaggerated a little, he knew, but the quilting class did leave a certain amount of chaos in its wake. In some ways, although he knew Maisie Sue wouldn’t agree with him, he thought the destruction of the quilt represented a kind of cosmic retribution for all the mess they had made over the past months. Completely out of proportion, of course, as cosmic retribution tended to be.

Keith firmly rejected Maggie’s plea to be allowed in to tidy up, and she and Christopher left the building just as a couple of dark cars drew up outside and a number of men in dark clothes got out and immediately began to unpack and put on white suits before heading into the Cultural Centre.

Amaryllis materialised while all this was going on. Christopher was relieved to see she wore her usual black outfit. She had seemed subtly different when dressed for politics, and he didn’t like subtle differences. It was as if his brain couldn’t cope with the fine distinctions involved, instead becoming blurry and dysfunctional.

‘This is a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘I suppose it’s standard procedure,’ said Christopher. ‘When there’s so much blood involved.’

He had forgotten about Maggie. Her mouth fell open in shock as she heard his words.

‘There wasn’t any blood when I left,’ she said, when she recovered the power of speech. ‘What’s been going on?’

‘It probably isn’t human blood,’ said Amaryllis. Maybe she was trying to sound reassuring. It didn’t come out that way.

‘Probably?’ said Maggie in a high quavery voice.

‘We’d better go for a coffee,’ said Amaryllis.

‘I don’t know if I should leave just yet,’ said Christopher uneasily. ‘They might need to talk to me.’

‘Phhhtt,’ said Amaryllis. ‘They’re detectives – they’ll find you.’

The café near the foot of the High Street had just opened. Jan from the wool shop was already in there for a take-away coffee, and while they waited to be served Maisie Sue appeared. Of course. Christopher decided he must have conjured the woman up by hoping so hard not to have to face her just yet. He hustled the two women to a table and told them he would go and order.

‘Don’t say anything about the blood to anybody,’ he said urgently to Maggie Munro. ‘The police wouldn’t like it.’

‘All right... Will they want to speak to me again?’

‘Maybe. But it’ll be fine. You’ve got nothing to hide.’

Amaryllis had her sceptical look on – the one that said everybody has something to hide, and the less often you speak to the police the better. He ignored her.

‘Do you want scones? Jam? Butter? Cream?’

‘They don’t do scones and cream in here,’ scoffed Amaryllis.

‘I think you’ll find they do,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Tea or coffee?’

He went to the counter.

‘Oh, my, Christopher, what a grim face this morning!’ commented Maisie Sue. ‘I guess Jemima would ask who stole your cookie if she could see you now.’

‘I guess she would,’ said Christopher. How could he persuade her not to go anywhere near the Cultural Centre? Even if she got as far as the supermarket she would see the police car across the car park, and knowing her she wouldn’t rest until she had found out what was going on. Well, to be fair, nobody he knew would rest until they’d unearthed all the grisly details. It wasn’t just her.

He puzzled over this until they had placed their orders and were moving towards the table. It was too much to hope, of course, that Maisie Sue wouldn’t want to sit with them.

Where was it Maggie Munro lived? He could ask Maisie Sue to take her home – but would Maggie be able to keep the blood story to herself all the way? It seemed unlikely. That would start Maisie Sue off wondering what was going on, and that might send her down to the Cultural Centre anyway.

He could maybe persuade Amaryllis to feign illness, but would it be at all convincing for her to need anybody’s help to get home? Christopher didn’t think so.

As they sat down, the café door-bell jingled again and the local minister, Mr Cockburn, came in. Amaryllis kicked his foot hard under the table.

‘Ow! I mean – how much longer are we going to have to wait? You’d think they were harvesting the coffee beans or grinding the flour out there in the kitchen.’

‘It isn’t like you to be so impatient, Christopher,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘I just love the way there’s no hurry here. You can sit for hours visiting with people or looking out the window. I always say, I’d trade our great customer service skills any day for the way your waiting staff can slow the pace right down.’ She glanced round in the direction of the service counter. ‘Why, there’s Mr Cockburn the minister! Do you think he’d like to join us?’

‘No,’ said Christopher just as Amaryllis said, ‘Yes, of course! What a great idea.’

‘I don’t go to church,’ Christopher added grimly.

‘That won’t bother Mr Cockburn,’ said Maisie Sue helpfully. ‘He’s very broad-minded.’

‘I’m not,’ growled Christopher.

‘But he’s working on a real interesting project,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘He’s been planning to speak to you about it. As long as you’re not working today, maybe he’d like to run through it now.’

‘Is that the time?’ Christopher improvised desperately, pretending to look at the watch he knew he had forgotten to put on that morning. ‘I’ve just remembered – I promised to be somewhere else. In Inverkeithing. Meeting somebody off the train... Can I have a quick word with you, Amaryllis?’

‘Yes,’ said Amaryllis, not getting up from the table.

He gritted his teeth. ‘A quick word outside.’

‘All right.’ She took her time. Why had she chosen this morning to be at her most annoying?

‘Don’t tell her anything,’ he said to her as soon as they were on the street outside the café. ‘And don’t let her see what’s going on at the Cultural Centre. And don’t let her speak to Mr Cockburn. Oh, and don’t speak to him yourself. About anything.’

‘I might as well go on a retreat, in that case,’ she said.

‘Keith told me not to speak to the minister. He told me to tell you as well. We’ll get into trouble with the police if we do.’

‘Do you really think I’m bothered about that eventuality?’ she said.

‘Well, I am!’ he snapped. ‘And you should be too – if you want any chance of getting elected to the Council.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘If I’d known that was going to be an excuse to stop me from ever doing anything interesting again, I wouldn’t have put myself forward as a candidate.’

‘Fine,’ he said.

She considered that for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Don’t be silly – of course I won’t do any of these things. But I might try smuggling Maggie Munro and Maisie Sue in through the fire exit and taking them on a murder mystery tour of the Cultural Centre... You should think about offering that kind of thing, you know. It might pull in the visitors.’

He relaxed slightly, knowing she was teasing.

‘You just do that, then.’

‘Right then, I will.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

He walked off, heading up the High Street. He was hoping not to have to go to Inverkeithing, because he had no earthly reason to do so. With luck he could get safely home before Maisie Sue came out of the café.

He had never considered it before, but going on a retreat was beginning to seem like an excellent idea.

Chapter 4 A Policeman’s Lot – rants, apologies and interviews

Keith Burnet heaved a long sigh of relief as he closed the door of the Cultural Centre behind the last of the crime scene team. He leaned against the reception desk in the foyer and wondered what would happen next. The team of specialists had taken away with them everything that could even have been slightly relevant, from the rogue security camera to the table where the blood-soaked quilt had been found and the display case through in the other room with its disturbing contents. And of course the blood-soaked quilt itself, complete with the bin bags Christopher and Amaryllis had intended to put it in. He had been allowed outside in the middle of the day, but not to fetch sandwiches as he had originally hoped, instead being expected to track down the two of them and collect DNA samples. He had finally run them to earth after following a few false leads – the Queen of Scots, the now abandoned coffee kiosk near the harbour, Jock McLean’s house - in their own separate homes.

Christopher was in his kitchen with a hazy far-away expression on his face and a number of yellowing letters spread out on the table in front of him, while Amaryllis claimed he had interrupted her in the middle of her daily martial arts refresher routine. She had protested long and hard about having to give another DNA sample, saying that the authorities already had enough of her DNA to construct a whole new person – a concept that had caused a distinct shiver to run up Keith’s spine. He found the existing version of Amaryllis more than enough to deal with. If there had been another one of her, he would probably have been taken away by the men in the white coats long ago, along with Charlie Smith, Sergeant Macdonald and many other innocent bystanders.

Left to his own devices, Keith knew he could have made much more progress that day in establishing exactly what had happened, as opposed to just watching people collect the scientific evidence. If he had worked on into the evening he might have been able to carry out some interviews then. But with Inspector Armstrong away on long-term sick leave and nobody to stand in for him, it was almost impossible to get overtime authorised, so Keith, although a conscientious worker who liked to get things done, decided he could best recover from the tribulations of the day by cycling round to the Queen of Scots and having a word with Charlie Smith.

‘... so those two nutters could be up to no good right now while I’m talking to you,’ he ranted, standing at the bar while Charlie rearranged glasses and nodded sympathetically. ‘And nobody’s bothered about it. They could be running riot round the town leaving a bloody trail of – um – blood and stuff wherever they go and calling it art!’

‘There’s no knowing what people will call art,’ Charlie murmured. ‘Are you ready for another pint yet?’

‘Just keep them coming,’ said Keith, taking a long slurp of Old Pictish Brew.

There was nobody else in the bar yet, otherwise he wouldn’t be talking like this. Charlie wouldn’t pass on anything. You could rely on him. Solid as a rock. Good old Charlie.

Realising he was in danger of sobbing into his pint, Keith pulled himself together.

‘Do you know anything about this Face of Pitkirtly thing?’ he enquired.

Charlie gave him an odd look. ‘Didn’t you notice? Opposite the coat rack when you come in?’ He came out from behind the bar – the dog following – and beckoned to Keith. ‘Come on, have a look.’

‘Interesting,’ said Keith, staring at the portrait. ‘Did he sit for it?’

‘He almost always sits,’ said Charlie. ‘The hard part is getting him to stand up.’

They glanced down at the dog, which had collapsed on Charlie’s feet. Maybe sensing their attention, he looked back at them with his usual apologetic expression.

‘Who painted it?’

‘An art student, Mr Cockburn said. He came round and did some sketches and that seemed to be enough for him to do the painting. The minister brought it the other day and we hung it up.’

‘Do they do people as well?’ said Keith.

Charlie shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen any yet. Apparently there’s a dog picture at the Bowling Club too.’

‘Seems a bit odd for Mr Cockburn to be behind it,’ said Keith.

‘Right enough,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe he’s just interested in art.’

They walked back to the bar, the dog following again.

‘I’d better have a chat with Mr Cockburn tomorrow,’ said Keith. ‘As long as the scene of crime people don’t come back. I’m hoping they’ll be busy with all their tests and so on. Let me get on with the proper police work.’

‘Have you got any leads on the two young ones? Are they local to Pitkirtly?’

Keith shook his head. ‘Nobody seems to know that. They just appeared and then disappeared again.’

‘They’ll have left some sort of a trail,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ll find them,’ said Keith.

Preceded by a flurry of cold air, a couple of regular customers hurried into the pub. It was the signal for Charlie’s and Keith’s quiet conversation to end.

It was only then that Keith remembered he still had to apologise to his girl-friend, Ashley, about their interrupted date the night before. He groaned. There would of course be hell to pay. But he knew from past experience of postponed, cancelled and ruined dates that chocolates would probably help.

There was no word from the scene of crime people when Keith arrived at the police station the following day, so he decided to go ahead and interview Mr Cockburn anyway. He was hoping the minister had kept a list of names and addresses or contact numbers for the artists. That would be the responsible thing to do, if he was going to encourage them to go around causing mayhem all over the place. Although of course he might not have been aware of what they were planning to do exactly. It certainly seemed to have taken Christopher by surprise.

‘Where are you off to at this time?’ said Sergeant Macdonald as he left.

‘Interviewing somebody,’ said Keith.

‘Is anybody going to deal with all the complaints this week?’

‘What complaints?’

‘Just the usual. People wanting to be able to come into the police station at all hours of the day and night like they used to.’

‘That isn’t up to me,’ said Keith. ‘You want some PR person from headquarters for that. Or Inspector Armstrong.’

‘Hmph,’ said Sergeant Macdonald. ‘I’m guessing that’s why he went off on sick leave in the first place.’

The phone rang on the desk, and Keith seized his opportunity to slip out while his colleague answered it.

It wasn’t a very nice day to go outside. It was dark and dim, and there was a constant feeling of rain in the air. Keith hoped the minister had a good blaze going in the manse fireplace, and maybe even a pot of tea on the go.

He was doomed to disappointment. There was no answer at the manse and he had to go on to the church, which he knew from past experience was always cold and unwelcoming, no matter how much effort had been put into cheering it up with posters about death by crucifixion and dead people coming out of graves, both of which had given Keith nightmares when he was younger.

Mr Cockburn was whistling as he worked away, cleaning the communion table with a can of spray polish and a yellow duster. If he hadn’t been the minister it might have seemed irreverent.

‘Morning, Sergeant,’ he boomed. ‘Can I help you today or do you need a higher power?’

‘You’ll do,’ said Keith, and immediately worried that he had been too brusque. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I tried the manse but there was nobody in.’

It’s one of my wife’s visiting days,’ said Mr Cockburn. ‘She visits prisoners, you know, takes them chocolate, sees that they’re all right.’ He spoke almost as self-righteously as if he himself were involved in this good work. Maybe he was, for all Keith knew.

‘I’ve just come for a bit of information I think you might have. It’s about some artists.’

‘Ah, yes, the Face of Pitkirtly project,’ said Mr Cockburn, nodding. He put down the can and duster on the table and sat in the front pew. Keith preferred to remain standing. You never knew when you might want to make a quick getaway when you were talking to a minister. Best to be on your toes.

‘Have you got a list of the artists involved?’ said Keith.

‘Oh, yes, there’s a database. For people to get in touch with them. With a view to commissioning work, or buying things from the exhibition. It could be a worthwhile investment, you know, not just something to hang on your wall.’

Keith couldn’t imagine buying a portrait of Charlie Smith’s dog to hang on the wall or indeed as an investment, but he had to admit he didn’t know much about art - either the creative or the financial aspects of it.

‘I need to track down a couple of artists,’ he said. ‘Have you got their names and addresses on your database? Mobile numbers? Email addresses?’

‘I don’t know if I should be passing them on to you,’ said Mr Cockburn suspiciously. ‘Data protection, you know. We must all abide by the law of the land.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Keith. ‘We have reason to believe these two may have been involved in something outside the law.’

‘Oh, dear me,’ said the minister. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. They’re all such nice young people.’

‘Nice or not,’ said Keith, ‘at the very least they’ve committed acts of vandalism. It might even be worse than that. Or they might have been the victims of crime. It’s important that I find them and speak to them right away.’

‘One person’s vandalism is sometimes another person’s work of art,’ said Mr Cockburn thoughtfully. ‘I hope you’re taking that into account and not being too – well, literal – about it.’

Keith shook his head. ‘I know what I’m talking about… Are you going to give me their contact details or will I have to get a warrant?’

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Cockburn. He stood up suddenly. ‘You’d better come round to the manse for a minute. The computer’s in my study. I’ll print the information off for you.’

Keith wondered if the minister had heard a voice inside his head telling him he’d better co-operate with the police. Was that how it worked? Maybe that was how you knew you were a true believer. No hope for him, then. But maybe he would at least get a cup of tea once they got to the manse.

The minister’s database was quite impressive, Keith thought. Considering it had been made by an amateur. There were photographs of the artists, and impressions of what their artwork would look like. There was a big blank space in that part when they came to the record for Sammy and Craig.

‘They said they couldn’t condense it down into a form that would fill a wee square box,’ said Mr Cockburn. ‘They said it was a kind of performance artwork that would evolve as it went along.’

‘I bet they did,’ muttered Keith. ‘Did they give you any hints about what sort of materials they might use?’

‘Materials? Not really. I gathered the main concept was something that could only be expressed in video footage. Quite a bit of contemporary art uses that medium, as I understand it.’

‘Video, eh?’

Keith stared at Mr Cockburn’s computer screen, hoping it would somehow give him the answer he wanted despite his failure to ask the right question. He knew computers didn’t work like that really, but there was no harm in hoping. Maybe that was what religion was about too. He shook his head as if to disperse these weird thoughts. That was what he got for setting foot in the church.

‘So they’re brother and sister, are they?’

‘Yes, Craig and Samantha Wishart. They’re from Rosyth, but we’ve got to be broad-minded, haven’t we?’

‘When did you last see them?’

‘Oh dear,’ said the minister after a pause. ‘You don’t think something’s happened to them, do you?’

‘We’ve got no reason to believe they’ve come to any harm,’ said Keith. ‘But they may be able to assist with an ongoing enquiry.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the minister again. He sat down heavily in the computer chair. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I think I heard my wife coming in.’

I thought you’d never ask, Keith very nearly said. He changed it to ‘That would be nice’ at the last minute.

The minister dragged himself upright again and went out of the room, carelessly leaving the database open. Keith was tempted to take out his notebook and write down everything about the two young artists, in case Mr Cockburn changed his mind about letting him have the information. But it seemed like something Amaryllis might have done, so he knew it wouldn’t be ethical. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t have been content to wait until the man showed her the database. She would have broken into the manse the previous evening while the minister and his wife were watching television – Keith didn’t think ‘The Epilogue’ existed any more, otherwise they might have had that on – and got into the computer. Or, even better, she would have hacked into the minister’s wi-fi and somehow extracted the data that way.

By the time Mrs Cockburn brought in tea and biscuits, Keith’s imagination had run riot altogether and he was picturing Amaryllis dangling from the ceiling of the study in a harness, operating the keyboard and mouse upside-down while transferring the entire contents of the computer to an invisible micro-chip embedded in her earlobe.

He was sipping at his tea and wondering if Mr Cockburn would mind if he had another biscuit, or whether Mrs Cockburn might be offended if he didn’t, when his mobile rang.