6 The Queen of Scots Mystery by Cecilia Peartree Page B

some fish and chips on the way round to yours?’ said Neil. ‘I’ve been living on sandwiches and you wouldn’t believe the bread they give you in there. It’s like sawdust. If I dared to serve it in a ploughman’s lunch, I’d be done for trade descriptions.’
    They were walking down towards the fish and chip shop when they heard someone shouting behind them. Jock stopped and half-turned back to have a look. He frowned.
    ‘What does she want?’ he muttered.
    ‘Who is it?’ said Neil, anxious to get on. He could almost taste the fish and chips. There was nothing like a good helping of fish batter to make you feel better. Hmm. It was definitely time to leave the country, to protect his arteries if nothing else.
    ‘Will we pretend we didn’t hear her?’ said Jock in an undertone, but in the end he was too polite to do this. He paused to allow the woman to catch up to them.
    ‘Jock! I just wanted to say to Neil, I’m so glad they’ve let him out,’ said the woman breathlessly as she got closer. Neil peered at her. He didn’t think he’d met her before, but her face and hair were so nondescript that he could easily have forgotten.
    ‘Hello Jan,’ said Jock coolly. ‘I didn’t know you knew Neil.’
    Jan blushed, not at all becomingly. ‘I don’t really, but it seemed so awful, somebody being thrown in prison for something they didn’t do.’
    Neil smiled at her – not too broadly, or she might make something of it. A small smile to show he appreciated her concern. ‘Thanks for your support, Jan,’ he said.
    Her face went even redder, and it now clashed with the extraordinary clump of flowers on the border of her cardigan. Were they actually knitted? He didn’t want to lean any closer to find out, in case she misinterpreted it. Maybe Jock would know the answer.
    ‘Neil!’ called someone from across the road. A girl with dark gypsyish looks plunged into the traffic, almost crashing into a motorcyclist who had parked outside the greengrocers’ and was sitting on his bike while chatting to a friend.
    ‘Hello, Jackie,’ said Neil, relieved if anything by the girl’s arrival. Maybe this annoying woman would leave them alone now.
    Jackie Whitmore glared at Jan from the wool-shop. In fact it was more than a glare: almost a snarl. Jan’s face somehow went redder still, and she removed herself from the little group, muttering something that could have been an apology or a curse that had been handed down in her family by generations of witches.
    Where were all these thoughts of gypsies and witches coming from?
    ‘What did she want?’ Jackie said rudely, speaking loudly enough for the other woman to hear her as she walked off up the road.
    ‘I thought we were going for fish and chips, not holding a salon out in the street here,’ grumbled Jock, at Neil’s other side.
    ‘Why don’t you go for the fish suppers, Mr McLean?’ said Jackie. ‘Me and Neil have things to discuss.’
    Jock shrugged his shoulders and ambled off towards the chip shop. Neil waited patiently. He didn’t think Jackie had anything to say to him that she hadn’t already said many times before, but there was no point in getting the wrong side of her. By the time Jock returned with his bundle of fried goodies, they had completed their discussion.
    Round at Jock’s house, munching the fish and chips, and drinking Ir’n Bru, Neil wondered what he was supposed to do with himself now. How much longer would the Queen of Scots be a crime scene, and did he even want to go back there after what had happened? He had owned the place for nearly ten years, having bought it with the money he had made as a professional darts player, and maybe he had just had enough. The weather in Pitkirtly was nothing to write home about, he wasn’t married any longer and a friend of his had offered him a share of a pub in Spain.
    ‘When’s the Queen of Scots opening again?’ said Jock, putting the kettle on.
    Neil shrugged. The way his thoughts had