Jemima wasn't all that keen to go to the fish and chip shop, especially to eat in; she really had in mind to see if the good fishmongers’ in the High Street had any lemon sole – they didn’t often get it in these days because of the expense, and sometimes the fish were much too small and skimpy to make a meal for a grown woman – but after spending the whole day so far in the company of family historians it was quite a relief to be amongst ordinary people again. And of course, nice to have a meal cooked for her instead of having to cook for herself and perhaps David as well.
The fish and chips meal came with sliced white bread and butter and a pot of tea included in the price. There was something very comforting about eating it all, although she couldn’t finish all the bread and David ate the second slice for her as she didn’t want to leave it on the plate.
At the end of the meal, as they were both sitting back, afraid to stand up in case they were no longer capable of it, David said,
‘Good to get away from those people for a bit. No offence, Jemima, but some of them were completely barking mad.’
‘I know,’ she said sadly.
‘But you did meet a cousin, though.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘What’s wrong with that? Or is it the cousin you didn’t meet that’s bothering you?’
‘It was a bit of an anti-climax meeting Mr Halloran,’ she admitted. ‘And of course the other thing is terrible. We only just heard about Ms Farquharson, and now this....’
‘It’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’ said David thoughtfully. ‘Do you think there could be a connection?’
‘Ms Farquharson probably just fell in the water on her own,’ said Jemima. ‘I don’t see how there could be any connection.’
‘Oh, well, if there is one the police’ll find it, no worries,’ said David. He held out a hand to help her to her feet. ‘Come on then, we’d better get you home.’
Halfway up the hill, he said suddenly,
‘What about that phone message from Ms Farquharson?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
Her heart sank. She had just started to look forward to getting into her own familiar house and shutting the door behind her – and behind David, if he wanted to come in – and forgetting all about the day’s events. She had even planned a new scrapbook page in the other scrapbook, not the family history one but something else she had started on for fun, a book of Pitkirtly through the seasons.
‘You should maybe have told the police about that,’ he suggested tentatively. She knew why he was being tentative: it was because he knew that she didn’t like making a fuss.
‘I don’t think it’s important,’ she said.
‘It might have been Ms Farquharson’s last message,’ he said.
‘No! Don’t say that!’
‘Well, it might have been,’ he insisted. ‘If you don’t report it, the police might think you’ve got something to hide.’
Jemima frowned. She was quite cross with David in a way for bringing this up, and she just didn’t think they would be interested - and why should she provide free amusement for the whole incident team?
‘You listen to it first, and see what you think,’ she said.
She hoped he would forget about it before they reached her house, but the first thing he did once they were in the hall was go straight to the house phone and pick it up.
She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He joined her a few minutes later, looking very upset by his standards – David was a stoical man and his emotions didn’t usually show in his expression.
‘There’s a new one,’ he said.
‘New what?’ said Jemima, getting the biscuit tin down from the shelf.
‘A new message,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute and let me do that?’
‘What I’d like to know is this,’ said Jemima quite snappily. ‘Why does everybody suddenly think I might fall over if I hear something bad? What’s going on?’
‘It’s the phone call,’ said David, looking so shaken that she thought maybe she should get him to sit down too. ‘It sounds – well, threatening.’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ she said.
‘Go and have a listen, then, if you don’t believe me. I’ve saved it.’
She replayed both the saved messages, first the one from Ms Farquharson telling her not to go to the Cultural Centre and then another one, which almost sounded as if it might be from Ms Farquharson as well, only with a very sore throat, saying, ‘It’s going to be the worse for you if you keep interfering in things, you silly old bat. You’ve been warned.’
That’s funny, thought Jemima. Ms Farquharson didn’t sound like herself the first time and then she sounded a bit like herself the second time, when it couldn’t possibly have been her. What’s going on here?
‘That’s funny,’ she said, going back to David in the kitchen. He had brewed up the tea and opened the new packet of biscuits, the Polish ones that looked like hedgehogs. She sat down at the table opposite him.
‘It isn’t funny,’ he said. ‘It’s serious. We need to get on to the police right away.’
‘Maybe we should try Christopher or Amaryllis first. They’d know what to do.’
‘The police,’ said David firmly.
‘I can’t face going out again just now. I’ll go and see them in the morning.’
‘They’d come out and see you if they thought it was urgent,‘ he said.
Later on David went home to see if there were any odd messages on his machine, which he hadn't checked for several days. It was lonely that night without him but Jemima told herself firmly that it was never a good idea to get too dependent on someone else. Self-reliance was the name of the game as far as she was concerned.
The next morning something happened that pushed the whole phone message problem right out of their heads.
The morning started normally enough. Jemima always had a cup of tea first thing while she read the local paper, if it had been delivered in time. Sometimes the delivery boy slept in, and once or twice he hadn’t got up at all and Mr Khayyam from the paper shop had to deliver the papers himself. On this occasion the paper arrived on time, and she read about the events of the day before with interest. Of course they had made a lot of mistakes, which was annoying, but it was nice to see the Cultural Centre and the family history day getting a mention, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. The journalist didn’t seem to have heard anything about Ms Farquharson’s accident, but concentrated on Lorelei’s death, with the identity of the victim adding a lot more drama to the story.
Jemima decided she would have to get her porridge and toast ready before carrying on with the paper, since there was so much to read that she needed more than tea.
The door bell rang. It was a bit early for the post, David didn’t usually ring but let himself in with his own key, and she had already received the paper. Jemima couldn’t think who it could be. Maybe Christopher or Amaryllis... but she wasn’t particularly expecting either of them, not that it wouldn’t be very nice to see them if they did turn up all of a sudden.
She put on a cardigan in case it was cold out on the doorstep, and went to the front door and opened it.
Jim Halloran fell into the hall, landing face down on the beige carpet she often wished she had never bought in the first place.