Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) Read Free Page A

hear anything. As a result the wee white dog had a panic attack and began to yap, drowning out some opening remarks the President had evidently decided to make while they were still talking. He cast another glare in their direction, focussing particularly on Jock McLean.
    ‘I’d better be ready for a quick getaway,’ whispered Jock. ‘He’ll likely have me and the dog taken out and shot any minute now.’
    ‘I don’t think he can spare anybody from the audience,’ said Christopher. Apart from their little group and a handful of people who were hovering at the back in the capacity either of Bowling Club officials who were worried that the audience would become so inflamed that they would trash the place, or of election helpers such as Young Dave, clutching leaflets and trying to look enthusiastic, only two people had bothered to turn up to the meeting. If the candidate with the chicken-pox had been able to be there, there would have been the same number of candidates as voters present. It was a sad reflection on the engagement levels of the electorate.
    Each of the candidates gave a short speech explaining their unique selling point – this was how Amaryllis had put it when she was describing the event to Christopher and Charlie beforehand – and then the members of the audience were encouraged to ask questions. As usual that was the cue for a deathly hush.
    Christopher was trying to think of a question to break the silence when the sinister-looking woman in the row behind suddenly said, ‘So what about the planning application for a supermarket at St Margaret’s Mill, then? What are you going to do about it?’
    Surprisingly, at least to Christopher, this sparked a lively debate between the President, who seemed to think the voters were entitled to a supermarket on every street corner, and the woman in the Fair Isle jumper, who evidently wanted everybody in Pitkirtly to grow their own food and possibly even keep a goat in their own garden if space permitted. Then another candidate who didn’t seem to have been paying attention accused the President of owning part of the land under discussion and wanting to profit from the misery of others – although it wasn’t entirely clear whose misery was in question here. Amaryllis then pointed out that the site wasn’t suitable for any kind of development anyway because of potential flooding problems, and that they might as well try and build on Pitkirtly Island. She got a small round of applause at this point. Christopher wondered if he should be panicking yet at the thought that she might be elected after all.
    After an hour or so of this, and then two men who had arrived late haranguing the panel about the frequency of bin collections, it was clear that there wouldn’t be any more questions as some members of the audience had begun to shuffle and cough, and others were sitting in a sullen silence.
    Amaryllis almost skipped off her chair and up to them. ‘That went better than I expected,’ she said. ‘Last one down to the Queen of Scots pays for the drinks?’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said Jemima. ‘We’re going straight home, aren’t we, Dave?’
    ‘So it seems,’ said Dave.
    ‘There’s a scrapbooking programme on the television,’ said Jemima. ‘I knew they’d get round to it eventually.’
    She led a grumpy-looking Dave off. He wasn’t quite dragging his feet but it was a close thing.
    Jock put the wee white dog on the floor. ‘Scrapbooking!’ he said scornfully. ‘I never thought it would come to this. Dave’s right under the thumb now.’
    Christopher suddenly remembered the two young artists he had left with Maggie Munro. He frowned uneasily. ‘Maybe I’d better go by the Cultural Centre,’ he mumbled. ‘I think I forgot something.’
    ‘We can all go round that way,’ said Amaryllis brightly.
    Christopher’s unease grew as they walked down the road. He shouldn’t have left them with Maggie Munro. It had been utterly irresponsible of him. Still,