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    Careless Death
    Careless Death
    Careless Death
    Ebook253 pages5 hours

    Careless Death

    By Cecilia Peartree

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    About this ebook

    This is the 19th in the Pitkirtly Mystery series of novels set in a small fictitious town on the coast of Fife in Scotland.
    When Mollie goes to work one morning, she doesn't expect to receive a visit from the police with news of a death in her house. This is just the start of Mollie's unexpected adventures, during which she gets on a bus without having the fare ready, sleeps in a barn and encounters a secret agent who persuades her to don a disguise and take part in a boat race. Meanwhile, Amaryllis takes on an uncharacteristic rôle, and Christopher finds that the Cultural Centre has been the focus of hostile reconnaissance.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCecilia Peartree
    Release dateSep 6, 2019
    ISBN9780463717820
    Careless Death
    Author

    Cecilia Peartree

    Cecilia Peartree is the pen name of a writer from Edinburgh. She has dabbled in various genres so far, including science fiction and humour, but she keeps returning to a series of 'cosy' mysteries set in a small town in Fife.The first full length novel in the series, 'Crime in the Community', and the fifth 'Frozen in Crime are 'perma-free' on all outlets.The Quest series is set in the different Britain of the 1950s. The sixth novel in this series, 'Quest for a Father' was published in March 2017..As befits a cosy mystery writer, Cecilia Peartree lives in the leafy suburbs with her cats.

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      Book preview

      Careless Death - Cecilia Peartree

      Careless Death

      (Pitkirtly Mysteries 19)

      Cecilia Peartree

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright Cecilia Peartree 2019

      All rights reserved

      Cover image: Ian Ogilvy Morrison

      CONTENTS

      Chapter 1 From Crisis to Crisis

      Chapter 2 Night Visitor

      Chapter 3 Welcoming Strangers

      Chapter 4 In the Dark

      Chapter 5 Green for Danger

      Chapter 6 Mythical beasts

      Chapter 7 Mr Dixon Joins the Fray

      Chapter 8 Green in the Morning

      Chapter 9 Missing Mollie

      Chapter 10 A Second Getaway

      Chapter 11 A Complaint, a Question and an Invitation

      Chapter 12 Harbouring a Suspicion

      Chapter 13 Mollie and the Animals

      Chapter 14 A New Career Beckons

      Chapter 15 Will the Real Mr Dixon Please Stand Up?

      Chapter 16 The Last Place They’d Look

      Chapter 17 Starting Work

      Chapter 18 Walking with Jock McLean

      Chapter 19 Adventures with Green

      Chapter 20 The Homecoming

      Chapter 21 Averting His Eyes

      Chapter 22 Locked Up Again

      Chapter 23 A Respite from Caring

      Chapter 24 The Russians are Here

      Chapter 25 In and Out of Custody

      Chapter 26 Putting Two and Two Together

      Chapter 27 Don’t Panic

      Chapter 28 Unsettled

      Chapter 29 Held Up

      Chapter 30 A Matter of Timing

      Chapter 31 Back at Work

      Chapter 1 From Crisis to Crisis

      Mollie held on to the wooden gate for a moment before reluctantly swinging it open. Even then she hesitated before setting foot on the path that led to the front door. She never knew what she would find when she came home. Some days there were broken plates on the floor and an old woman sobbing, and other days it was as quiet as death, and her mother had dropped off to sleep in front of a silent television, the covers folded neatly back and her hands resting calmly on top.

      The front door opened suddenly when she was halfway up the path.

      The afternoon carer tiptoed out, closing it gently behind her. She gave a start when she noticed Mollie.

      ‘Oh dear, Mollie, I didn’t see you there,’ she whispered.

      ‘Is she asleep?’ Mollie replied, not quite whispering but in a low voice. She refused to tiptoe or whisper. Mother would have to learn to live with a bit of household noise. Mollie would never be able to glide silently round like a nun, not with her build. In any case, that would have meant treating her mother like a recalcitrant toddler who wouldn’t go down for her nap.

      The carer, possibly either Jackie, or Diane? – Mollie had tried to keep track of the names at first, but had given up after the fifth or sixth of them – nodded and smiled. ‘She’s just dropped off now.’ She lowered her voice until she was only just breathing the next sentence, and Mollie had to lean forward and strain to hear her at all. ‘I’m afraid we may be heading for another crisis, Mollie. She’s too quiet.’

      Mollie couldn’t help laughing out loud, at which the carer gave her a reproachful look.

      ‘Another crisis? Life’s just one long crisis.’

      ‘It’s a pity you feel like that,’ said the carer. ‘She has her ups and downs, right enough. But she isn’t too bad, all things considered. You should see some of the poor old souls I have to deal with.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Mollie, now desperate to get inside the house and make herself a bite to eat before the crisis began. She didn’t want to hear any more about the poor old souls.

      ‘Well, see you tomorrow,’ said the carer with a smile that must surely be false. ‘And by the way, can you get her some more baby wipes? We’re just about out of them.’

      She whisked herself out through the gate, closing it so violently behind her that it seemed about to fall off its hinges.

      Mollie knew the request for baby wipes was a tactical response to being laughed at. In any case, she wasn’t going to trek down to the chemist or the supermarket just now. She would get them on the way home the following day.

      She opened the door and went into the house, irritation carrying her forward despite her earlier reluctance to arrive home.

      She had the frying-pan on the hob with butter sizzling in it for an omelette when she heard the familiar sound of the bed creaking in the room above as her mother stirred. As usual, this was followed before long by something banging on the floor up there. Mollie kept removing the stick to stop her mother doing this, but the carers kept putting it back on the flimsy grounds that she might need it to help her get out of bed.

      Mollie had considered installing an intercom of some sort, as she felt that being asked for help in that way would have been marginally better than being summoned by somebody banging on the floor, but she hadn’t had the energy to get round to it yet.

      She had better go up before her mother fell out of bed or something.

      She hurried up the stairs.

      ‘So you’re home from your work now, are you?’ said her mother accusingly. She had never quite accustomed herself to the fact that Mollie went out to work for a living, and on a bad day she would mock her daughter for never having got married.

      ‘Yes, because time didn’t stop in the nineteen-fifties,’ Mollie muttered. She counted to ten and then said, in a louder voice, ‘Are you ready for your tea now?’

      Her mother wrinkled up her nose. ‘I don’t really fancy anything much to eat today. Maybe just egg on toast. Oh, and some of that Victoria sponge, if you haven’t finished it. And there’s a packet of biscuits young Janet brought me. And a cup of tea, of course.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Mollie. ‘Do you want the television on?’

      She knew putting the television on was a huge operation, starting with the hunt for the remote, and continuing with a painstaking journey through all the channels until they found one that delivered the right kind of news. This of course was a fruitless quest in the current political situation, and she knew the evening would bring several more instances of banging on the floor so that Mollie could go up and change the channel again and again.

      There was a sudden, piercing, prolonged bleep from the smoke alarm, and she remembered she had left the butter melting in the frying-pan.

      As she charged down the stairs, she couldn’t decide whether she wanted the house to burn down or not. There was something to be said on both sides of the argument.

      During a quiet spell that evening, Mollie reflected on her day at work. She would really prefer not to have done so. After months in which they had been unable to get cover for the two missing members of staff at the Cultural Centre, a temporary replacement for Harriet had appeared in the library that week. This should have been good news, particularly as the school holidays had started and Isla was planning to take two whole weeks off to be with her children. No doubt she would come back afterwards looking even more pale and harassed than usual.

      But Cassandra Hargreaves had looked like trouble from the moment she had entered the library, trailing slightly behind Christopher in a diffident way that must have been put on for the occasion.

      Christopher had coughed politely to attract the attention of Mollie and Isla, incidentally also alerting a couple of library users who obviously had nothing better to do with their time.

      ‘I’d like to introduce Cassandra Hargreaves, who will be with us for a while on a temporary basis. Cassandra, this is Mollie, our senior librarian, and Isla, the assistant.’ He addressed Mollie. ‘Cassandra has a good deal of experience in various university libraries. She’ll be a huge asset to the Cultural Centre.’

      There was a nervousness to his tone that told Mollie he was not quite as confident that Cassandra would fit in as his last words suggested. He was probably afraid that the woman would know exactly how things should be done, and show them all up. At times it had seemed that Harriet would do just that, but poor old Harriet would have been no match for this woman, who even looked like a movie director’s idea of a librarian, with her pencil skirt and her large round spectacles.

      ‘Hmph!’ said Mollie to herself, sitting at the kitchen table putting together a sandwich she hoped her mother would find appetising the following day, or at least not throw at the lunchtime carer. ‘University libraries, my foot! No place for real life there.’

      She wrapped the sandwich in foil and put it in the fridge. Ideally she should have made herself one as well, but her enthusiasm for the task had run out. She would just have to grab a scone and a couple of doughnuts on the way to work in the morning. She wouldn’t mind eating a few doughnuts right now, in fact.

      She opened the cupboard and found the packet of biscuits her mother had asked for earlier. She had rationed Mother to two of them, which meant there were lots left. Mollie reasoned that she needed the calories more than her elderly relative did in any case. After all, what sort of exercise did the old woman get, lying in bed most of the day? Apart from banging her stick on the floor and shouting at the carers when the mood took her.

      Only an hour later, she stared mournfully at the empty biscuit wrapper. It would have been easy to stop at one or two if she hadn’t had to run up and down the stairs several times, once to see what her mother wanted, a second time to deliver a cup of tea, and once to try and find a television channel showing something soothing. The last task was the hardest. In the end they had settled for a programme about alpacas. Mollie fully expected to be summoned by her mother again when one of the animals was shot, or eaten by a lion, or met some other grisly fate.

      Later still, she took her mother a glass of water and the usual sleeping pill.

      Her mother lay serenely under the covers, eyes open and staring, hands resting on top of a fold in the sheet, but as Mollie held out the pill to her, she lifted a hand and batted it away. It rolled across the floor and under the dressing-table.

      ‘… trying to finish me off,’ the old woman muttered, and rolled over on to her side, facing the wall.

      Mollie started back in surprise and water from the glass spilled down her front.

      Had her mother just said what she thought she had heard? Or was she herself losing her grip on reality? It was very hard to tell. Harder than it should have been.

      She didn’t bother retrieving the sleeping pill from under the dressing-table, but went downstairs in a reflective mood, dabbing at the front of her blouse in a feeble attempt to dry it as she made her way to the front room.

      Chapter 2 Night Visitor

      This wasn't how the day usually started. Amaryllis almost never fell out of bed, and waking up to find herself on the floor was like a dash of cold water in the face.

      To be more accurate, after a quick assessment of the situation she realised that someone had in fact thrown liquid in her face. There was evidence in the form of drops trickling down her nose and off the end of her chin.

      Then there was the blinding light in her eyes.

      It took her back to an extremely unpleasant experience she had once had, close to the Tibetan border. And to the other agent who had been present at the time.

      ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Green?’ she grumbled, fighting her way free of the duvet with some difficulty. ‘You’re lucky I don’t still sleep with a ceremonial Cossack battle-axe under my pillow.’

      ‘You mean you don’t?’ said an annoyingly familiar voice. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Red.’

      He moved away and flicked the light switch. She finally threw off the clutches of the duvet and stood, poised on her toes, ready to spring when the right moment arrived.

      He switched off the torch he had been shining into her eyes, and tucked it back into his belt.

      ‘I never expected you of all people to go soft,’ he continued. ‘I suppose that’s what living in a one-horse town at the back of beyond does for you. Just as well I came along to get you back in shape.’

      ‘Oh really?’ said Amaryllis, trying to disguise her indignation. ‘I suppose you’re still just as fit as you were then, are you? Lifting weights every morning before running up the nearest mountain? Keeping your brain in gear by doing those puzzle books for pensioners.’

      ‘How do you keep yours ticking over, then, in a place like this? Bingo sessions?’

      ‘Only on these bleak winter days when you get half an hour of daylight if you’re lucky, and there’s nothing else to do.’ She smiled to herself. ‘You’d be surprised, Green. You really would.’

      He shrugged. ‘Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t... Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here?’

      ‘No.’ Amaryllis deduced from the daylight seeping inexorably round the edges of her black roller blinds, which she had been thinking of replacing with blackout curtains, except that curtains of any kind might add an unwelcome touch of softness into her stark environment, that it was early morning and not the middle of the night as she had at first thought. She sighed heavily and headed for the kitchen, where her shiny coffee machine waited, ready to process enough caffeine to take the edge of the worst possible start to the day.

      The worst possible start got unexpectedly worse when she heard him laughing.

      She spun round. If she had indeed had a ceremonial battle-axe concealed on her, she would have thrown it in that moment, splitting his head open and making a terrible mess all around the immaculate white, chrome and glass sitting-room. She was cross enough with him to take that risk.

      ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, his shoulders still shaking. ‘It’s just that outfit. Is that what you always wear to bed?’

      ‘I don’t think that’s anything to do with you,’ said Amaryllis primly. But as she went on into the kitchen, she couldn’t help glancing down at her plain black long-sleeved top and tight black leggings. They were the nearest she could find to her usual day-time outfit of black jeans and black leather jacket. The nearest that she could sleep in without feeling like a baked potato, anyway. She spun round to face him again. ‘I don’t know what’s so funny. Do you want me to use my unarmed combat skills to throw you out the window?’

      ‘That’s a bit crude,’ he complained. ‘I’d have expected you to do something more subtle.’

      ‘Do you want a coffee, or do you want to find out what it feels like to be strangled with a tea-towel?’

      ‘Decisions, decisions… Coffee. Please.’

      Saying ‘please’ was definitely a step too far. She had never known Green to be polite before, not even when their lives depended on it. What could he possibly want that was important enough to make him say it now?

      She had to get her brain working properly, and then she would interrogate him. But in a gentle way, so that he didn’t realise what she was doing.

      When the machine finished all its spluttering and gurgling, she turned to take the cups into the sitting-room, and found Green hovering in the doorway. She gave hm a look and he swiftly stepped back to allow her to pass.

      She paused before handing over the cup. ‘Give me a good reason why I should let you drink this, otherwise there’s still time for me to turn nasty and pour it into your shoe.’

      ‘No need to be so belligerent. I’m here for a reason.’

      ‘And?’ Amaryllis set down the cups on the glass coffee table and folded her arms, waiting.

      ‘I’m on the run,’ he said. ‘Now can I drink it?’

      ‘All right. Mind you don’t spill it.’

      They sat down, Green on the extremely uncomfortable chrome and black leather sofa, Amaryllis on a matching chair that was marginally less uncomfortable. She noticed a small scuff on the leather. Surely it couldn’t be time to replace the furniture already? She had only been here for a couple of years – or was it three? Or five? Or seven? And since when had she been so fussy about an odd scuff, probably perpetrated by Hamish on one of his invasions of the space.

      ‘I hope you aren’t on the run from agents of a foreign power,’ she said sternly.

      ‘Not quite.’

      ‘I don’t want you bringing that kind of mayhem to Pitkirtly,’ she told him. ‘We’re used to a nice quiet life here, you know.’

      ‘Don’t worry – it isn’t a foreign power.’ He paused, taking another gulp of the coffee. ‘Red, you wouldn’t have put something in this, by any….?’

      His speech slurred over the last few words, and at the same time he slumped sideways on the sofa, eyes closed. Hmm, that worked fast, Amaryllis thought, unless she had miscalculated the dosage and killed him. Oh, well. Just one of the hazards.

      She went round and lifted his feet on to the sofa, shifting his shoulders so that he lay back with his head on the arm-rest. At least if he was lying down like this he wouldn’t need urgent physiotherapy when he woke up. Probably.

      So, Mr Green, she thought, standing back and frowning at him, what does bring you to a one-horse town at the back of beyond?

      She was still pondering that question a bit later when she left the apartment, having first activated every security device she possessed. He had been partly correct in his assumption that she had gone soft. She had at last managed to train herself not to suspect everyone she encountered of hatching evil plots against democracy, the international world order, and herself personally. But perhaps his arrival was a sign that she should revert to her old ways.

      Walking along past the harbour, she was still pondering this problem when she became conscious of a presence not far behind her. If she hadn’t identified it as the presence of a small dog straining at its leash and panting, she might have reacted badly. Even guessing it was Hamish, she had turned on her heel

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