together.
‘Maybe,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But it depends…’
‘On what?’
‘ On whether either of them has any connection with the case. Let’s have a look at their names and addresses.’
They all stared at Christopher’s notes. He had evidently used the same piece of paper for a number of different purposes, writing on different topics at various angles.
‘Are these the names?’ said Charlie uncertainly, pointing.
‘No, of course not!’ said Christopher. ‘That’s some family history stuff I was doing in my spare time for one of our regulars in the library. Here are the names from the Aberdour Breweries website. And the addresses I got from the phone book. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I printed out the pictures to see if you recognised any of them. Here we are.’
He had put his jacket on the back of the chair; now he rootled around in a pocket and produced a piece of paper that had been folded too many times. Amaryllis and Charlie peered at the dim faces on it.
‘There,’ said Amaryllis at last, pointing out a man with a grin that was too wide, and eyes that were that bit too big and ingenuous. Christopher had met people like that and didn’t trust them. He preferred it if strangers behaved like strangers and not like friends he hadn’t met yet.
‘Who’s that?’ said Charlie.
‘Bill Lawson,’ said Amaryllis, screwing up her eyes to see the caption printed under the photo. Christopher wondered if she needed glasses. She was probably putting off getting them because he knew she hated to admit to any weakness. ‘That’s the man who identified you as a cop at the brewery.’
‘Nasty piece of work,’ muttered Charlie. The dog stirred from its post-takeaway slumber and growled faintly under the table.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Christopher. ‘Did he make threats?’
‘Not really,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I just knew we had to get away from him.’
‘So that’s why you ran through somebody’s garden?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an instinct for these things.’
‘So – Bill Lawson,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘Does the name ring any bells?’
‘It does with me,’ said Neil Macrae grimly, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘He’s Andrea’s husband.’
‘Who’s Andrea?’ said Christopher. ‘And how did you get in?’
Jock McLean appeared behind Neil, grinning in his usual annoying fashion.
‘Oh,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s you.’
‘Andrea’s his ex-wife,’ said Jock helpfully.
‘So you ran away from Neil’s ex-wife’s husband?’ said Christopher to Amaryllis.
‘So there’s somebody with a connection to Pitkirtly and a reason to want Liam dead,’ she said in excitement. ‘I think we need more toast.’
Chapter 15 Old Pictish Brew
‘Toast isn’t enough for this sort of thing,’ said Jock McLean as he and Neil walked away from Christopher’s house later that evening. ‘What we really need to get the brain cells going is Old Pictish Brew.’
They had talked round the case for ages, not getting anywhere.
If Jock hadn’t been desperate, he wouldn’t even have thought about doing it. But now that he had the idea in his head – and could almost taste the Old Pictish Brew on his tongue – he had become determined to follow it through.
Neil tried to talk him out of it, but not very convincingly. It was almost as if his heart wasn’t in it.
‘The police are still meant to be keeping an eye on the place,’ he said. ‘You might get caught.’
‘But they’re only patrolling the area once every so often,’ said Jock, who had heard about Amaryllis’s efforts. ‘I’d have to be really unlucky to break in at the same time as they came along. And anyway, they won’t be looking inside. They’ll just swing past in a patrol car. Or on a bike, depending on how much they’ve cut back lately. And if it’s local men, they won’t bother me.’
‘You’d need a torch,’ said Neil. ‘You won’t be able to put the lights
‘Maybe,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But it depends…’
‘On what?’
‘ On whether either of them has any connection with the case. Let’s have a look at their names and addresses.’
They all stared at Christopher’s notes. He had evidently used the same piece of paper for a number of different purposes, writing on different topics at various angles.
‘Are these the names?’ said Charlie uncertainly, pointing.
‘No, of course not!’ said Christopher. ‘That’s some family history stuff I was doing in my spare time for one of our regulars in the library. Here are the names from the Aberdour Breweries website. And the addresses I got from the phone book. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I printed out the pictures to see if you recognised any of them. Here we are.’
He had put his jacket on the back of the chair; now he rootled around in a pocket and produced a piece of paper that had been folded too many times. Amaryllis and Charlie peered at the dim faces on it.
‘There,’ said Amaryllis at last, pointing out a man with a grin that was too wide, and eyes that were that bit too big and ingenuous. Christopher had met people like that and didn’t trust them. He preferred it if strangers behaved like strangers and not like friends he hadn’t met yet.
‘Who’s that?’ said Charlie.
‘Bill Lawson,’ said Amaryllis, screwing up her eyes to see the caption printed under the photo. Christopher wondered if she needed glasses. She was probably putting off getting them because he knew she hated to admit to any weakness. ‘That’s the man who identified you as a cop at the brewery.’
‘Nasty piece of work,’ muttered Charlie. The dog stirred from its post-takeaway slumber and growled faintly under the table.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Christopher. ‘Did he make threats?’
‘Not really,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I just knew we had to get away from him.’
‘So that’s why you ran through somebody’s garden?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an instinct for these things.’
‘So – Bill Lawson,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘Does the name ring any bells?’
‘It does with me,’ said Neil Macrae grimly, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘He’s Andrea’s husband.’
‘Who’s Andrea?’ said Christopher. ‘And how did you get in?’
Jock McLean appeared behind Neil, grinning in his usual annoying fashion.
‘Oh,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s you.’
‘Andrea’s his ex-wife,’ said Jock helpfully.
‘So you ran away from Neil’s ex-wife’s husband?’ said Christopher to Amaryllis.
‘So there’s somebody with a connection to Pitkirtly and a reason to want Liam dead,’ she said in excitement. ‘I think we need more toast.’
Chapter 15 Old Pictish Brew
‘Toast isn’t enough for this sort of thing,’ said Jock McLean as he and Neil walked away from Christopher’s house later that evening. ‘What we really need to get the brain cells going is Old Pictish Brew.’
They had talked round the case for ages, not getting anywhere.
If Jock hadn’t been desperate, he wouldn’t even have thought about doing it. But now that he had the idea in his head – and could almost taste the Old Pictish Brew on his tongue – he had become determined to follow it through.
Neil tried to talk him out of it, but not very convincingly. It was almost as if his heart wasn’t in it.
‘The police are still meant to be keeping an eye on the place,’ he said. ‘You might get caught.’
‘But they’re only patrolling the area once every so often,’ said Jock, who had heard about Amaryllis’s efforts. ‘I’d have to be really unlucky to break in at the same time as they came along. And anyway, they won’t be looking inside. They’ll just swing past in a patrol car. Or on a bike, depending on how much they’ve cut back lately. And if it’s local men, they won’t bother me.’
‘You’d need a torch,’ said Neil. ‘You won’t be able to put the lights
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