The King's Park Irregulars E-Book

Wilson David

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

When retired solicitor Alasdair Mills is burgled, the robbers leave behind his money and valuables, only stealing a pair of slippers that once belonged to Sir Walter Scott. Dismayed that the police are not taking the theft of his prized possession seriously, Alasdair turns to his old friend, the cunning Abigail Craig, for help. Donning disguises and hunting for clues, the pair turn detectives to track down the thief themselves. But the investigation takes a turn for the worse when Abigail and Alasdair stumble across something more sinister and realise there is far more to this case than a pair of missing slippers.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Copyight

Chapter One

At eleven o’clock on a Monday morning in late July, Abigail Craig sat in a booth in The Burgh coffee shop watching the door for the arrival of her friend, Alasdair Mills, who would no doubt be running fashionably late as usual. Usually she was a creature of habit but since this particular coffee shop had only opened that very morning, it seemed like a good opportunity to try someplace new. Life can get stale if you don’t try new things, she thought, and for one reason or another, well really only one reason in particular, she had not tried any new things this past year. She looked around, taking in the surroundings from her prime vantage point in the booth. It looked like most coffee shops with its welcoming, black, soft leather sofas and a row of stools along a bar in the window and at the back, opposite the counter, a row of booths where Abigail now sat. Just then she was distracted as a flustered man in an overcoat, black cords, shirt and a tartan waistcoat came through the doors and waved as he walked over towards her, ‘Morning Abby, sorry I’m late. Had to get these flowers for Sophie.’

‘You don’t usually get flowers for her, which means you must either be in the dog house or up to something. Which is it?’

He threw his coat into the seat opposite and sighed heavily. ‘The latter I’m afraid. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, I need coffee first. What will you have?’

Abigail scanned the list of coffees along the back wall. ‘I’ll just have a regular coffee please.’

Alasdair raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on Abby, it’s an exciting time for coffee drinkers nowadays, why should the young have all the fun. I’m going to have a latte, with one of those fancy syrups. Can I tempt you? New coffee shop so a new you?’

‘No thank you. I’m quite happy with the old me and my normal coffee.’ Alasdair spun round and marched over to the counter to order the drinks with Abigail absently watching as he did so. At sixty-two he was only two years younger than she was but he could easily pass for being in his fifties. His greying hair was parted down one side and for his age he would still be considered handsome and, although his stomach had overtaken his chest in pushing out his waistcoat, his energy levels seemed undiminished. By comparison Abigail felt older these days than she should and her hair was almost completely grey, although thanks to her hairdresser it was always dyed over to keep up appearances, which was also aided with her smart clothes. Alasdair came back and slid into the other side of the booth and took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, what do we think of the new place?’ he asked, looking around. ‘I like the touch of having these books here.’ Along a shelf, which ran the length of the booths, were old sets of encyclopaedias which immediately drew Abigail’s approval.

‘Yes, I do like those. Anywhere there are books to read and especially for people to learn is always fine with me.’

‘That’s the head librarian talking but I agree, they are good.’ They peered at the books which to them felt out of place here but at the same time also appropriate. Stirling was, after all, a university city and students were apt to have coffee from time to time, she was sure. They were not current but not so out of date as to be of little use and they were arranged neatly in alphabetical order, the spines displaying the subject with which each book started and finished. Alasdair pointed thoughtfully, ‘Some of the contents seem quite intriguing,’ he said. ‘I take it these are where they start and end in the book.’ Abigail scanned along the spines as well while Alasdair pulled a couple down. ‘Look at this, Chicago Death, or this one with Arctic Biosphere and here’s Decorative Edison.’ Abigail noticed two teenagers in the next booth reach up and take down one of the books.

‘Look Alasdair,’ she whispered, ‘isn’t that wonderful. It’s lovely to see a thirst for knowledge in the young.’ The two teenagers giggled and then replaced the book before sliding out of their booth and heading for the door. Curious about the laughter, Alasdair reached over and pulled the book out again, and, after reading the spine, held it up to Abigail who just sighed. ‘Excretion Geometry! I might have known.’

Alasdair laughed. ‘A bit unfortunate if there’s a practical exam for that subject!’ he said, as Abigail’s brow furrowed.

‘Do you know I saw an article on breakfast television the other day. They said that in the next few years all reference books will be digitised and only available on the internet rather than being sold in book format. What do you make of that?’ Alasdair frowned and shook his head, showing his disapproval. ‘I mean what will that do for people’s knowledge? If you look for information on the internet you’re likely only to find out what you look for, and who knows who may have written it, but if you look it up in a book you might stumble on something on an adjacent page, or as you flick through the book, not to mention it having been checked over before it was published. It’s very sad.’ They sipped their coffees in silence for a moment, pondering the imminent downward spiral of general knowledge in society when Abigail remembered, ‘Oh, so why are you in the dog house with Sophie?’

Alisdair heaved another sigh. ‘Bit of a faux pas at a party yesterday and now she’s peeved with me. It’s my fault really although I blame her for letting me get the present.’ Abigail was already starting to get the picture. Alasdair’s wife Sophie was a saint and although he had retired a year or so ago she continued to work in her job in Human Resources in the Prudential just outside the city, leaving Alasdair to his own devices, which he used to try and embrace every possible notion that came into his head. She sipped her coffee waiting for him to continue.

‘We were at a party for one of Sophie’s work colleagues who was retiring, Bridget McAllister, a bit of a foul woman who was one of the supervisors. To be honest I think everyone was glad she was going. Anyway, Sophie was working to catch up with the new software system so she had asked me to go into town and get a present, then I was to meet her at the party afterwards in the Highland Hotel, which this Bridget woman had chosen. “No problem,” I said, and since she had told me a bit about her I assumed I’d be on safe ground but it turns out I wasn’t listening quite as closely as I maybe should have been.’

Abigail smiled. ‘Imagine that. What did you do?’

‘Well, I was running a little bit late and when I arrived they were just about to make the presentation so Sophie took the present off me and handed it over to Bridget in front of the assembled staff. But she seemed a little confused when she opened it.’

‘What had you got for her?’

‘Crampons.’

‘Crampons! Those things for your boots when you’re climbing?’

‘Yes! Sophie gave me a look as if to ask “What on earth?” and I said, “You said that Bridget went climbing with friends so I though these would be handy.” Sophie told me she’d said no such thing and Bridget was just looking at me as if I was a sandwich short of a picnic. Well, I suppose I wasn’t thinking and I just blurted out what Sophie had said, ‘No, you told me that Bridget was a social climber!’ Well, you can imagine the rest.’

Abigail roared with laughter. ‘Alasdair, you’re a tonic. I can well imagine. It’s a good job old Bridget was retiring!’ She wiped the tears from her eyes, ‘Sophie will let you off the hook later, she knows you well enough.’

Alasdair shrugged. ‘True. By the way are you still remembering about the Collectors’ Club meeting tonight?’ Abigail unfortunately couldn’t think of a good excuse to get out of it, although appreciated the thought of Alasdair trying to get her out of the house again and back socialising properly.

‘Yes, seven thirty isn’t it?’

‘No, seven o’clock tonight since it’s the first meeting in a couple of months, what with holidays and things. Why don’t I swing by around quarter to and we can walk over to the Smith together and I can introduce you to everyone?’ Abigail nodded and then slid out of the booth to put her coat on. ‘Are you working today? How’s the new girl getting on, the work experience one?’

‘No, it’s my day off today. She’s fine although always seems to be distracted. I don’t think working in the library was her first choice but we’ll get there. She’s young so maybe just needs to get used to working in the silence. I’m back in tomorrow.’ They left a tip on the counter and then walked outside, ‘Are you off home then, Alasdair?’

‘No, I’m going to go into the Marches to see the carbon people.’

Abigail looked confused. ‘The who?’

‘The carbon people from the council. They help you do your bit to save the planet, that type of thing. I’ve decided I’m going to go carbon neutral.’

‘You’re going carbon neutral?’ Abigail stuttered. ‘You do know that you’ll need to make some sacrifices to do it and I’m sure that Mercedes you drive isn’t a great friend to the environment.’ So this is the new notion for this week, she thought a little despairingly, we’ll see how long this one lasts.

Alasdair looked unphased. ‘I don’t think it’ll be that difficult, now that the boffins have had a few years to work on all the technology I’m sure it’ll be easy to make the changes without too much hardship. What’s the cost to change a few light-bulbs?’

Abigail smiled. ‘Ok, well good luck!’

Alasdair threw her a wave as he turned and marched off, as Abigail made her way up the hill in the opposite direction towards home.

Chapter Two

Alasdair strolled through the Marches shopping centre, as the crowd of morning shoppers were slowly blending into the gaggle of office workers racing around to do some SAS-style shopping (in and out in the minimal time and take no prisoners!) or pick up a sandwich for lunch. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that the mornings were for people of pensionable age to potter around but between eleven thirty and twelve those people should start to go home to make way for those who came out at lunchtime and were in a rush due to the need to return to their place of work. Alasdair watched as the younger men and women seemed to weave like grand prix drivers in and out of the last few remaining older people, although rather than being concerned with running off the race track they merely had to avoid clipping a tartan canvas shopping bag every now and again. Alasdair thought that he was in no man’s land at this time since he was not actually of pensionable age, having taken early retirement from his law firm last year, but neither did he work. His role he felt was to be the buffer between the two, and to this end he would often find himself walking more slowly than he was capable, purely because he was aware of someone behind him on a mobile phone who wouldn’t interrupt their conversation to say ‘Excuse me’, but would insist on trying to squeeze by anyway.

Just past the store, which had been the old Woolworths, there was a little stand in the middle of the floor, with a sign advertising the current push in the city to reduce your carbon footprint. Alasdair approached the young woman, who was hovering around with a small handful of leaflets ready to leap out at passers-by.

‘Good morning, young lady,’ Alasdair was oblivious to her subtle stiffening at his address, ‘I live in the city and I’m interested to do my bit.’ The young woman, whose badge on her lapel stated she was called simply, Pamela, smiled at him.

‘That’s lovely, sir. It’s always nice when people come to speak to us. So much of my day is spent chasing after people trying to give them leaflets that it’s a nice change when someone comes to me. If I could only harness the energy I spend trying to catch people then I could power a small village!’ She laughed at her own joke, and then stopped as Alasdair looked ready to walk off again, ‘But anyway, can I ask what you do at the moment?’

‘Well, I must confess that I don’t really do much at all at the moment, however that’s why I’m here. My wife and I do recycle of course but then these days you have no choice in the matter do you?’ He raised his eyebrows as he said this, ‘I mean if you don’t recycle then you’re very much frowned upon, it’s the new parking in someone else’s space, don’t you think?’ Pamela kept smiling, although an almost imperceptible wrinkle appeared on her forehead.

‘Yes, sir, you do have to recycle but it’s all for a good cause. The amount of waste that is needlessly dumped into landfill each year, each day in fact, is not good for our planet. We can all be so wasteful these days that I think it’s nice to think twice about what can be used again. What about saving energy in the home?’ Alasdair pondered for a moment.

‘I’m not sure I can honestly say I’m doing anything on that front either. There’s just my wife and I so we don’t use too much energy, although Sophie does bake a lot for her committee meetings, and we do need to keep the house warm, and it’s a big house even for the two of us.’

Pamela seized on this. ‘Ah yes, sir, but have you considered that if it’s only you and your wife then you could close the door on some rooms and only heat the ones you’re using?’

‘No, the trouble is you never know which room you might want to go into at any time of the day.’

‘Ok, what about energy-saving light-bulbs?’

‘No.’

‘Solar heating?’

‘No.’

‘Or wind power?’

‘No.’

‘Recycling of water for the garden?’

‘No. Unless our gardener does it, you’d have to ask him though.’ Pamela’s face changed slightly as a not unknown medical reflex came into play whereby the exact amount her smile faded was instantly replaced by the same amount of frown on her forehead. She knew there were a lot of people in Stirling doing fantastic work on the project, and she wondered how many of them were doing it to compensate for this one individual. But if I can change this one, she thought, that’s like winning the World Cup. Alasdair was looking at the papers on the small desk, ‘Good idea sir, why don’t we have a seat and go through the energy survey and we can perhaps identify your needs.’

Twenty minutes later Pamela sat back, her hand throbbing slightly from the amount of writing she’d had to do in detailing where Alasdair was going wrong, and where he could start to put things right. ‘It’s not so much that you have a carbon footprint, Mr Mills,’ she told him, ‘It’s more of a carbon crater.’

Alasdair glanced down the list. ‘There are an awful lot of things on this list.’

‘Yes it’s not easy going Green, it takes a bit of effort but it pays off in the long run.’

Alasdair made a low ponderous noise. ‘Perhaps what I need to do is not go the full hog and just go slightly Green. Maybe just to go Green light? That sounds like it would be the thing; after all, I’m not solely responsible for the state we’re in. I could start a Green Light movement.’

Pamela smiled at him. ‘Yes, but if you take all these things on board then just think how much future generations will have to thank you for.’ Alasdair rose from his seat and folded the papers into his coat pocket, ‘You do want future generations to have a good opinion of you, don’t you Mr Mills?’

Alasdair forced a smile, looking around. ‘I like to think I’ll be remembered. Like Woolworths,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t fully appreciated while I was here, but when I’m gone everyone will realise how good it was to have me around!’ With that he strolled off, leaving Pamela to slump down in her seat and put the ‘Closed’ sign on top of the desk.

Chapter Three

As Alasdair was leaving the shopping centre, Abigail was turning the corner into her street in the King’s Park area where she had lived for over twenty years. The King’s Park is what estate agents would describe as being ‘a highly desirable area’ and in this case it would actually be true, consisting of street after tree-lined street of Victorian houses. The area had grown in the late nineteenth century when wealthy merchants and business people, buoyed by the prosperity of the Victorian age, moved to Stirling from Glasgow for a healthier lifestyle away from the smog-infested city. They would commute by train to and from work but enjoy living in the healthier surroundings of Stirling, something which has not much changed today in some respects. Albeit the trains are newer but the jury remains out on whether they are any better.

As she turned into the front path leading up to her semi-detached four-bedroom house, she was greeted by a ginger and white-coloured cat sitting on the doorstep looking up at her as she walked towards the door. It purred loudly as she stroked it behind the ear, ‘Hello there. Who might you be?’ She looked at the tag hanging from its collar, ‘Aah, Waffles, nice to meet you.’ She unlocked and opened the front door, trying to step over the cat, but as soon as the gap was big enough he padded in and wandered up the hallway with Abigail shouting after him, ‘Waffles, come here! Bad cat! Come on out you go.’ But the cat seemed oblivious to her calls and proceeded through the lounge door and out of sight from Abigail. She closed the door, stooping to pick up the post and, looking through the pile, tutted loudly on finding yet another plastic bag from a charity. It’s not that she wasn’t generous with donations to her charities but this was now the sixth bag waiting to be collected once it had been filled with old clothes. How many clothes do they think I have? If I could fill every one of these bags with clothes then I would have a bigger wardrobe than the Queen she thought as she placed the bag on the small shelf next to the door, causing them all to slide off onto the floor and making her tut loudly again.

Waffles the cat had made himself comfortable on an armchair, catching the sun as it shone in through the bay window. Abigail put a hand under his rump and tried to lever him off the chair but Waffles miaowed loudly and wouldn’t budge an inch. ‘Bothersome cat,’ she muttered, as she went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, and then returned to sit in the chair opposite Waffles, watching him relax in the warm sun. ‘I think you’re an old cat aren’t you Waffles? You seem to have that look about you, and a distinct lack of get up and go.’ She sighed, ‘I know how you feel.’ Her head drifted onto the back of the chair and she watched the trees outside the window sway in the gentle breeze. Waffles looked up and miaowed as the kettle clicked off in the kitchen and then he resumed his relaxed position. Abigail laughed to herself, ‘You might as well have a cup of tea since you’re as much at home here as I am by the look of you,’ she stroked him on the head as she walked past to the kitchen. ‘What a trusting cat. You must come from a good home to be this easy with people. Although once you get to our time of life there’s not too much left worth fearing, is there Waffles?’

As she came back in with her cup of tea, she went back out into the hallway and looked at the small pile of plastic bags on the floor. Right, she said to herself, we need some sort of indexing system for those I think. If I’d let the library get into that state then we’d never find anything. She went upstairs to the large cupboard in one of her spare rooms, rooting around the boxes of Christmas decorations, cards, tinsel, and a holly wreath for the front door which she didn’t know if she would bother putting up this year. Aah, here we are, perfect.

She went back downstairs and stood the green, plastic card tree against the wall just inside the front door. Down each side there were slots in which you could slide cards to display them rather than have them lined up along the fireplace. She slotted the charity bags into the tree in order of the days they had to go back out on the doorstep. There, she thought, standing back admiring her ingenuity, there’s always a solution if you think about it. It won’t get me on Dragons’ Den but problem solved.

Once back down in the lounge, she sat down in her armchair again and enjoyed the heat from the sun which had moved round just enough to hit her chair as well. Five minutes and then you’re going out, I’m sure your owners might be wondering where you are. But five minutes came and went as Abigail’s eyes closed and she drifted into a sound sleep, with a gentle purring from the cat the only sound in the house.

Chapter Four

Alasdair Mills’ wife, Sophie, checked herself over in the bedroom mirror, adjusting her grey woollen jumper and smoothing down her dark trousers. Her short blonde hair had been carefully brushed and minimal make-up applied just to show willing. After all, the other members of the Stirling Community Planning Committee were generally a reserved bunch and as she was trying to organise the biggest event in their history she wanted to appear in every way respectable and in command of the job. She came downstairs to find Alasdair sitting on the sofa gazing at a pair of tatty old slippers on the table in front of him. ‘Still trying to come to terms with the fact that you paid eight thousand pounds for those flea-bitten things?’

Alasdair looked at her. ‘These are not flea-bitten things as you well know, and they were worth every penny!’ He picked them up gently and put them back inside the glass display case which he had ordered to be specially made for them and which would have pride of place in his study bookcase very shortly. The slippers had once belonged to Sir Walter Scott and as Alasdair had a passion for collecting everything he could to do with the man, when these had come up for auction a few weeks ago he had decided he must have them for his collection. He knew they would cost him a tidy sum since they were highly prized by Walter Scott collectors, and the museum at Abbotsford, Scott’s former home, wanted them badly as well. But Alasdair had held his nerve and outbid everyone else for them and not without a huge air of satisfaction had he posed for a photograph in the paper to make sure other collectors could see that he had been victorious. As far as he was concerned this was the crowning glory on his collection of first editions and other items – a pair of slippers once owned and, who knows, perhaps even once worn by the great man himself as he wrote.

Sophie was getting organised, ‘Are you remembering I’ve got my committee meeting tonight?’ He nonchalantly picked up the newspaper as if not really interested.

‘Yes. Do you want me to come along to lend a hand?’ he said, trying again to hide his peevishness at never having been invited to attend the Stirling Community Planning Committee despite his status as a respected local solicitor, now retired of course.

‘No thanks, I think you’ve done enough to help me out already, don’t you?’

He looked hurt. ‘Why, what have I done?’

‘You know very well this is the last meeting before the big day on Sunday and I’ve got to keep everyone on side and make sure things are organised. That’s difficult enough but as you well know Bridget McAllister will be there and I’m not exactly her favourite person at the moment.’ He lifted his newspaper and rustled it into shape.

‘She shouldn’t be so touchy. Anyway, I’ve got a Collectors’ Club meeting tonight at the Smith. I’ve persuaded Abby to come along and see if she likes it.’

Sophie sat down next to Alasdair. ‘How is she doing? I’ve not seen her much recently what with being so busy with the organising committee.’

Alasdair lowered the paper again. ‘I think she’s fine, although she seems like a shadow of who she used to be. It’s like the winds just died from her sails.’

‘I hoped she would be picking herself up again by now, it’s been nearly a year since Arthur died.’

Alasdair smiled at her. ‘But when you’re married that long it takes a long time to even start getting over it, if you ever do. She mentioned she’d been looking through Arthur’s stamp collection and had found a list of stamps he was missing to complete it and she might try to find them. I think she felt it would just be a nice thing to do for him since he can’t do it himself now.’

‘That’s nice, might help her to move on. Is there anyone at the club that can help her with it?’

‘Yes, Bruce is a stamp man so he’ll hopefully be able to give her some pointers. Arthur was quite the philatelist and his collection is quite impressive; he showed it to me a few years ago when he used to work on it in the office at lunch. Well, we’ll see how she goes. I think it might just do her good to get out and about again. She’s as tough as old boots really, she’ll be fine.’

Sophie kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s just not true what everyone says about you is it?’ a wry smile forming on her lips. ‘You’re quite a considerate soul after all.’ She got up before he could reply, ‘I’m going to head off, see you later.’ She disappeared out of the lounge door, picking up her coat and shoulder bag as she went, leaving Alasdair to gaze wistfully at his famous slippers, his face a picture of pride and joy.

Alasdair was organised and leaving the house fifteen minutes later to walk round to Abigail’s house, which was only five minutes away, as he and Sophie also lived in the King’s Park. He turned right at the end of his garden path and walked up the street, past a white works van parked at the road, although no one was inside. ‘That’s the trouble with these old houses,’ he thought, ‘always something going wrong with them.’

At Abigail’s house he knocked on the door and waited to see the frosted shape of Abigail through the glass coming to let him in, but she never appeared. This time he gave the door a louder knock and bent down to the letterbox, ‘Abby! Come on, tick tock tick tock!’ He heard movement inside and let the letterbox go with a metallic crack as it closed.

A few moments later Abigail opened the door and was about to chide him for making such a racket but before she could, a ginger fur ball came racing down the hall and out through Alasdair’s legs nearly knocking him off balance. ‘Good God Abby! What the hell was that?’

‘That was Waffles, and I didn’t think he had that amount of energy in him. He’s been keeping me company this afternoon.’ She watched as he ran over the road and then came to a sudden stop, clearly deciding it was now time to wash. ‘He’s fast for an old cat.’ Alasdair closed the door behind him.

‘Where did he come from? He’s not yours is he?’

Abigail glanced back. ‘What if he is?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, ‘But no, he just appeared on the doorstep and then made himself at home. He was on a five-minute warning but I fell asleep in my chair, the heat from the sun just knocked us both out. I’ve never seen him before, so I think he’s maybe new to the area. I’ll not be a moment and then we can go.’ She started walking up the stairs as Alasdair went into the lounge.