One to Six, Buckle to Sticks (Grasshopper Lawns Book 11)

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  A note to the reader about words and spellings used in these books

  ONE TWO BUCKLE MY SHOE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  After Christmas

  THREE FOUR KNOCK ON MY DOOR

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  All’s well that ends well

  FIVE SIX PICK UP STICKS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Aftermath

  FUTURE BOOKS AND OTHER STUFF

  Glossary

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  One To Six

  Buckle to Sticks

  The first three books of the Grasshopper Lawns series

  EJ LAMPREY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and settings are either fictitious or used fictitiously and not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book can be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

  Copyright © 2013 EJ Lamprey

  All rights reserved.

  A note to the reader about words and spellings used in these books

  No book set in Scotland could be without occasional moments of Scottish. Beyond the soft burr of the accents, which will have to wait for the audio version, it is very nearly a language on its own, descriptive and pungent. Some words shared with English are pronounced differently, and some words are unique to the country. In Scotland, you would chap on a poorly neighbour’s door and offer to get their messages (knock and offer to do their shopping). All Scots speak English, but few can resist the temptation to slide sideways into the joy of Scots every now and then and my characters are no different.

  The general meaning should always be clear from the context—a brief glossary has been added at the end for easy reference. Definitely is pronounced deffi-NATE-ly in Scotland and has deliberately been spelled ‘definately’ in appropriate dialogue. The same applies to other spelling ‘errors’ spotted in dialogue (jag for injection, polis for police, deid for dead, etc). I have kept this to a minimum, to avoid puzzling non-Scottish readers, but hope you will enjoy the occasional reminder that you are north of the border.

  The police force in Scotland changed completely when it became Police Scotland in April 2013. Even before then, the smaller autonomous divisions were being amalgamated. In this one respect, the first two books ignore the march of progress in the fictional town of Onderness

  One Two Buckle My Shoe

  THE PURPLE HAT

  There’s an old story about the ages of women, which goes something like this:

  Age 5: She looks in the mirror and sees a princess.

  Age 15: She looks at herself and sees an Ugly Sister (Mom, I can't go to school looking like this!)

  Age 25: She looks at herself and agonizes ‘too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly’

  Age 40: She looks at herself and sees ‘too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly’ but tells herself at least she looks tidy.

  Age 50: She looks at herself and sees lines and the first grey hairs, but also wisdom, laughter and ability.

  After 60: Doesn't bother to look. Just puts on a purple hat and goes out to have fun with the world.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It can be hard to pin down exactly when a story starts. You join this one on the second Thursday in December, not twenty miles north of Edinburgh …

  The caller was very deaf – after twice exhorting the duty officer to speak up, she gave up and merely repeated herself.

  ‘This is Elizabeth Campbell, from number one at Grasshopper Lawns. There’s been a murder done. My dear woman, I can’t hear you. Just send a polisman and I’ll tell him all about it.’ She hung up with a decisive click.

  ‘If this is that DJ doing a wind-up call I’ll have him on a charge, so I will,’ the duty officer muttered under her breath, but logged the call and passed it on, adding that it wasn’t a cry for help, the caller had sounded more annoyed than alarmed.

  For that matter it wasn’t the first call from the retirement village, although the usual cry was of missing treasures, which turned out not to be missing at all, only misplaced. Any real cause for alarm would be phoned in by one of the Trust’s staff, so it was close on an hour before DI McLuskie and Sergeant Cameron from the small local division, who had just ended their surveillance of a store owner suspected of selling alcohol to minors, were free to call on the old lady.

  Iain McLuskie, new to the Onderness posting, asked the controller to repeat the address and still didn’t look confident, but Kirsty Cameron touched his arm reassuringly.

  ‘I ken where it is, Iain, got an aunt living there. Just head towards Linlithgow and turn left after the motorway.’

  ‘Oh aye, that’s what she said.’ McLuskie put the car into gear. ‘You’re telling me they’re living on that campsite, then.’

  Kirsty giggled. ‘Grasshopper Lawns is opposite. In fact the campsite is for their visitors, but opens to the public as well.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was another retirement place in these parts—that big place near Linlithgow, aye, but nothing local. Keep themselves to themselves, do they?’

  ‘The purple hatters;’ Kirsty shot him a mischievous glance, ‘started as a joke, but they like it, you must have seen them on Thursdays in Onderness, that’s the day they come through here to shop and go to the library.’

  McLuskie started to laugh. ‘I have, then. One old fellow in a purple balaclava, just the other day. He was walking along the road with another old ‘un in a purple tweed cap, and a woman in a kind of purple and red turban. Very good!’

  ~~~

  Grasshopper Lawns certainly didn’t flaunt its status. The rural road off the A904 was flanked on either side by sturdy stone-built farm walls. On the Grasshopper Lawns side there was a further screening of wintery ornamental hedge with a few rebel twigs poking above its well-pruned even six feet. The first break in the wall had a closed five-bar gate, with a small notice directing callers further down the road to the main house, but when McLuskie did pull into the main entrance and draw up with a brisk scattering of gravel he was impressed.

  The building before them was built on classic lines, either of stone or stone-faced, and perfectly proportioned to its three levels, well furnished with windows, and fronted with a flourish of stone steps. In view of its purpose, curving sturdy hand-rails flanked the stairs and a discreet ramp inclined gently to one side. To either side of the parking area at the front of the house, a paved and well-maintained service road was tucked away against the original farm walls. On the inner side of the service road there were long low blocks of bungalow units surrounding a park-like attractive garden of generous proportions, to judge by the glimpse through the gap between the house and the first bloc
k.

  The two police officers strode into the large entrance hall, greeted with raised brows by Megan, the front-of-house receptionist, and watched with interest by three elderly people reading newspapers in the sofas set about the big area, and two equally elderly Labradors in large dog beds. Megan, an attractively rounded woman in her late forties, greeted Kirsty by name with a smile, then turned her attention fully back to McLuskie, who explained that they wanted to see Mrs Campbell.

  ‘Miss Campbell.’ Megan corrected gently. ‘But I didn’t know Betsy needed the police? If you’ll wait just a moment I’ll give her a ring.’ Her brows drew together as she held the house-phone to her ear. ‘She’s not answering …’

  ‘The controller did say she was very deaf.’ Iain McLuskie offered, and Megan nodded at him.

  ‘She is, but her phone has a flashing light system all round her apartment. Oh dear—Jamie, do you think—’

  ‘Oh aye, I’ll tek the polis to her.’ Jamie relinquished his newspaper with alacrity and heaved himself to his feet with the aid of a particularly fine silver-ornamented mahogany walking stick. The December day was mild, and he contented himself with facing the elements in a tweed cap and a well-worn tweed jacket, leaving a scarf and greatcoat still draped over the back of the sofa. He led the way briskly down the ramp and plunged through a gap in the winter-thin rhododendrons onto a covered walkway.

  ‘You’ll be a regular visitor then, missus?’ he asked Kirsty, who explained about her aunt.

  ‘Oh aye,’ Jamie chuckled. ‘Edge is a card, she is. Actually, you look like her, now’s I’m looking. It’s right here.’

  The door of number one was shut, but Jamie played a jaunty flourish on the bell, then cracked the door ajar, peered inside, and pushed it open. They followed him into a spotlessly tidy kitchen, leading to a short passageway. Doors opened either side to a bathroom and walk-in closet, and the door ahead stood half open. He knocked again, peered round the door, nodded over his shoulder to the police and mouthed ‘sleeping’ before turning back to roar in a voice unsuspected in one of his slender frame, ‘Betsy, hen, here’s the polis to see you.’

  McLuskie, peering past him, saw a large woman in a comfortable armchair, her head to one side and her mouth open as she slept on. Or not—gently putting Jamie to one side he entered the room and hunkered down next to the woman, touching her arm. ‘Miz Campbell?’ He moved his hand to lay the length of his palm on her arm, then turned his head to Kirsty. ‘Can you get Jamie out of here?’ he asked quietly, but Jamie was having none of it.

  ‘Is she deid?’ he demanded and when McLuskie lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug that was nonetheless confirmation, his well-worn face creased further. ‘Ach, no. She made grand scones, so she did.’

  ~~~

  ‘Normally we wouldn’t assume the worst.’ McLuskie told the administrator, who nodded in understanding.

  ‘Oh, I do agree. She phoned you, she said she had a murder to report, and she herself was dead when you arrived. I completely understand, of course. I only hope it doesn’t get into the papers, that sort of thing is so bad for a place like this.’

  ‘An investigative team had to be called in, under the circumstances, but until we get the report back on how she died, we’re not necessarily treating it as suspicious. But in view of what she told the controller, we would like to know who else has died lately?’ McLuskie persisted and the administrator narrowed her eyes in thought, then pressed a button on her intercom.

  ‘Megan, dear, can you find me the termination files for the—I think for the last year should do it?’

  ‘Are there so many deaths?’ Kirsty was horrified but Harriet Blake smiled reassuringly. She was a heavily-built woman, unflatteringly dressed in a severe pin-striped jacket and skirt, and her face, in repose, looked stern. Her smile, however, was particularly charming and more in keeping with the soft silk tie of her spotless white blouse.

  ‘Oh no, my dear, but I don’t like to rely on my memory—I’m nearly retirement age myself, you know, I find it best to work with records. I can think of two, only one of them recent, but poor Betsy could be meaning someone further back. Thank you Megan;’ as the other entered with a slim sheaf of three files and put them on the desk. ‘Three? Oh dear—oh, that’ll be Angus, of course.’

  ‘Maybe you could join us?’ McLuskie looked up at Megan.

  ‘I’ve left Josie on the desk.’ She glanced at Harriet uncertainly.

  ‘Josie gets a bit fidgety.’ Harriet explained, a bit apologetically. ‘She’s absolutely fine to cover Megan for a few minutes at a time but we’d normally get one of the others for Megan’s lunch break, for instance.’

  McLuskie conceded that Josie’s relief outweighed Megan’s participation and she left the room. He looked at Harriet with his brows up. ‘Any volunteers you can get, eh?’

  ‘Oh, not at all.’ She separated the three files on her desk. ‘Several of the residents take it in turns to work a standby shift, they get house credits for it which can be very useful.’ She shot him a quick glance under her rather heavy brows.

  ‘House credits can be spent on drinks at our little pub, or meals here, you know. Some residents are on quite tight budgets, so it frees up cash. Some of them work part-time in the kitchen, or helping out generally. We couldn’t run this place to the standard we do without them, either—it all works out very well. Josie’s delightful, and very popular with callers, but she’s easily distracted. If there isn’t much going on she gets bored and if too much happens at once she gets flustered. We work to people’s strengths, but also to their limitations. Now, the most recent first. Moses McKenzie died only a week ago. It was very sad, he choked to death in his apartment, and although there are panic buttons all over the place he never reached one, so nobody went to his aid. I don’t think that can be what Betsy meant, because choking—well, you can’t murder someone that way, can you? Nobody could force someone to choke.’

  She selected the death certificate from the papers in the file and passed it over for inspection. ‘Then there’s Betty Taylor, Elizabeth Taylor she liked to be called, but most people called her Betty. She died in August of pneumonia, but she was in the hospital in Larbert by then. We have a Frail Care centre here in the house, with a fine matron, but you can’t take chances with pneumonia, you know. They call it the old man’s friend, but Betty wasn’t old. Not yet seventy. It was very sad but again, I can’t see it could have been murder?’

  Another death certificate passed across the desk, exchanged for the first, which was carefully re-filed. ‘And Angus Burns;’ she flicked swiftly through the bottom file, her heavy brows drawing together. ‘Oh dear. There was an inquest for Angus, because he took an overdose of his sleeping pills, and his friends insisted it couldn’t have been deliberate. The procurator fiscal eventually signed it off as misadventure rather than suicide. Betsy could have meant Angus although she never met him, she moved here after he died.’ This time the returning death certificate was exchanged for the procurator fiscal’s report, which McLuskie flipped through before handing it to Kirsty.

  ‘What did you think at the time?’ he asked Harriet, who lifted her heavy shoulders very slightly.

  ‘I don’t have as much to do with the residents as Megan, she’s the best person to ask. I did know Angus, because he was a rip-roaring old character, hugely popular, had some wonderful stories, but he was getting a little doddery, well over eighty. The life he’d had, so full of adventure, going on safari in Africa and sailing to Australia—I did think he had wanted to escape the indignities of extreme old age, so I assumed it was suicide. But as I say, I didn’t know him as well as his friends did, and they were very convincing at the inquest. Back in the day being a suicide would have meant he couldn’t be buried in a churchyard. That doesn’t matter nowadays, but the stigma of suicide still matters to some. I was glad when the coroner came up with a misadventure verdict.’

  ‘And Miz Campbell—how was her health? If she hadn’t phoned us, would you have called
us when she was found?’

  ‘Yes I would.’ Harriet Blake said decisively. ‘Betsy Campbell was, apart from her increasing deafness, a hale and hearty woman in her early sixties, one of our best bakers, and as fit as a flea. She not only joined the aerobics class here every day, she was a great walker and hasn’t had so much as a sniffle all winter. I am extremely surprised, and disturbed, to hear of her death.’

  ‘One last question,’ Kirsty leant forward. ‘If you’ll permit—you said you were near retirement age yourself. Would you want to live here?’

  ‘I already do.’ Harriet smiled thinly. ‘The Administrator position includes an apartment on the third floor of this house, but I know what you mean, would I want to stay on as a resident when I retire. I certainly would if I could. However, it isn’t cut-and-dried—there’s a waiting list of nearly a hundred approved applicants.’

  She glanced from one to the other. ‘Grasshopper Lawns was founded, and is still largely funded, by a Trust set up by a very wealthy businesswoman who, as she approached retirement age, was determined to spend her leisured years in the company of interesting people. The place is unique, and we get hundreds of applications every year. To be approved, you have to be without family,’ she bent her index finger down, ‘you have to have led an unusual life, or had unusual experiences,’ second finger down, ‘and you have to be in good health, mobile and independent. Many applicants are only in their fifties. Then you get interviewed by at least three members of the admissions board, and if they rubber-stamp your application you get added to the approved list. She was still here when I became Administrator about eight years ago, and she insisted the admissions board included not only the Trust staff but five representatives from the residents. Every application has to be signed off by at three people, at least one of whom has to be a resident. Four years after coming here I applied for an eventual place and I am an approved applicant, but not even close to the top of the list. So, yes, I would become a resident if I could, but I may end up having to go elsewhere.’