Lc05 the juniper key, p.1
LC05 - The Juniper Key, page 1
part #5 of Losers Club Series
THE JUNIPER KEY
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LOSERS CLUB MURDER MYSTERY BOOK FIVE
YVONNE VINCENT
Copyright © 2023 Yvonne Vincent
All rights reserved.
By Yvonne Vincent:
The Big Blue Jobbie
The Big Blue Jobbie #2
The Wee Hairy Anthology
Frock In Hell
Losers Club (Losers Club Book 1)
The Laird’s Ladle (Losers Club Book 2)
The Angels’ Share (Losers Club Book 3)
Sleighed! (Losers Club Book 4)
CONTENTS
Untitled
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Afterword
Scotland will never be rich, be rich,
Till they find the keys of Bennachie;
They shall be found by a wife’s ae son, wi’ ae e’e,
Aneath a juniper tree.
Attributed to Thomas the Rhymer in the book Bennachie by Alex. Inkson McConnochie, 1890.
A Wee Word Before We Begin
Bennachie (pronounced Ben-a-hee) is a range of peaks in Aberdeenshire, although to many it is synonymous with the most well-known, Mither Tap. The name “Bennachie” is believed to derive from the Gaelic, Beinn na Ciche, which means hill of the breast, reflecting its breast-like shape, with the distinctive Mither Tap (Mother Top) forming the nipple.
Like any ancient landmark, Bennachie is steeped in history and legends, such as the boulder throwing giant, Jock O’ Bennachie. It is said that Jock lies, held by an enchantment, somewhere beneath the mountain and that the key to release him will be found under a juniper tree by a one-eyed boy who is an only son.
Aberdeenshire abounds with standing stones, castles and cairns; rich pickings for anyone with imagination. Yet a few years ago, a wee spark was lit within me during a visit to the Garioch (pronounced gee-ree) Heritage Centre in Inverurie, where I learned of the Colony, a squatter community resident on common land on Bennachie from the early nineteenth century. The neighbouring landlords eventually took possession of the commonty, demanding rents, and the population declined. The last of the Colonists, George Esson, lived there until his death in 1939, and the remains of his and other Colonist crofts can still be explored today.
Learning about the lives of these people made me wonder – what if there were Colonists in the here and now? Who would they be? My story of road protesters is fiction, of course, but Transport Scotland really did propose to build a dual carriageway through the foot of Bennachie. The local community strenuously voiced their objections, and the proposal has since been dropped.
I wish I had known about the history when my parents dragged me up Bennachie every weekend (we were poor, and it was free). Had someone told me there was a sleeping giant nearby, I think I would have been more excited at the prospect of freezing my Mither Taps off and losing my wellies to hidden rocks in the heather.
My thanks go to Una at the Garioch Heritage Centre and to Heather MacEwen, who answered a thousand daft questions and gave me a peek into the inner workings of Inverurie Police Office. Plus, Anette, Fiona, Dawn, Louise and Dianne, who are my writing angels. Finally, I can’t walk away without mentioning the readers of my Facebook blog, Growing Old Disgracefully, who enthusiastically joined a heated debate as to how you express the Mission Impossible theme tune in do-dos, diddlies and dum-dums. Marvellous nonsense.
As an aside, Juniper Investments does not relate to any real companies with similar names.
PROLOGUE
The power of the afternoon sun was waning as the young woman trudged upwards. It was sinking low behind the trees, shrouding the path in a cold gloom. She shivered and removed the jumper that she had tied around her waist at the beginning of the walk, when it had been unnaturally warm for a March day in Scotland. She was used to this, though, used to the capricious weather and the long walk back to the place she called home, for now at least.
She was almost there now, at the camp they called the Colony. One more steep bank and she’d be back with her tribe. Only, things were different from when she’d left that morning; her happy little world tainted by the words of that man. Trust no one, he’d said.
She hefted her backpack from her shoulder, the weight of its contents metaphorical as much as physical. Her secrets were in there, locked away from prying eyes behind passwords and firewalls. Trust no one, he’d said.
The jumper provided immediate solace from the cool nip that had burrowed into her bones. She hadn’t noticed it at first, so focused was she on getting up the hill as quickly as possible. Youth and long strides had kept her body warm, leaving her mind free to obsess over the seed that the man had planted, the notion that even here, disconnected from the world, she was not safe. But now the early evening was almost upon her, creeping stealthily through the forest dragging behind it the eerie blanket of night that only the warm fireside of the camp above could dispel.
She had walked this lonely path a hundred times, yet she had never felt so afraid as she did in this moment. Trust no one, he’d said.
Her mind being preoccupied by more human fears, the faint rustle in the bushes passed her by. Weeks ago, it would have startled her, but now, inured to the foraging of the birds and animals with whom she shared these heather slopes, the young woman paid no heed to the crackle of branches and the whisper of leaves. They did not so much as gently brush her consciousness.
The shock of the blow seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Bang.
A lance of pure agony piercing her brain to the very core.
Spreading. Neck, jaw, eyes, ears. Hot and bursting.
Hands out.
Knees ripping and burning.
Slowly sinking, down, down, towards the blackness.
Grey.
Panting and dragging.
Jumper snagging and pulling, then down, down again.
Gasping.
Fear, visceral, primal.
‘Don’t move, bitch.’ Who said that?
‘Enjoy the ride.’
‘No. No.’ Who said that?
A tightening then a prick. No, stop.
Sleepy, so sleepy. Shh. Go to sleep.
Down, down, down. Forever down.
Trust no one, he said.
And then she was dead.
CHAPTER 1
VIK GAZETTE 6th MARCH
LOSERS WIN!
The members of a weight-loss group travel to the mainland today to attend the Police Scotland Bravery Awards, where they will be presented with the Chief Constable’s Special Award for Outstanding Bravery.
Losers Club, the weight-loss and healthy lifestyle group founded by islander Penny Moon, has repeatedly made the headlines for its involvement in the capture of several murderers, but it was the group’s takedown of a cult leader that caught the attention of the judging panel.
Local vet, Jim Space, who was injured in the capture of Thaddeus Height, a fugitive wanted by Police Scotland since the 1970s, told the Gazette, “Aye, well, aye.” A profound statement from the man who also sustained a severe brain injury when he saved the life of Penny Moon a few months earlier.
An islander, who wishes to remain anonymous, said, “Aye, and mine he murdert Elsie the librarian as well. Yon bampot Height, I mean. Nae Jim Space. He’s a fine loon, for a vet. There’s nae a coo on the island that he hisna had a hand in. Aye, I mean the calving, nae their backsides. Onywye, dinna print my name in yer paper. I dinna want onybody ti ken it wis Randy Mair. I couldna cope wi’ the celebrity.”
Losers Club members, Penny Moon, Jim Space, Eileen Bates, Mrs Hubbard, Sandra Next Door, Sergeant Wilson and Fiona and Gordon from Braebank farm, are to be honoured next Friday night in a ceremony at Garioch House Hotel near Inverurie. To thank them for their efforts in retrieving his stolen diamond last Christmas, Laird Hamish Deer has arranged for the group to spend the week in the luxury hotel, calling it “A well-deserved five-star break for some ten-star people.”
In the proud tradition of celebrating our achievements as an island community, the trophy will be on public display in the big cabinet at Vik Police Office, alongside PC Piecey’s Cycling Proficiency certificate and the swimming badges posthumously awarded to Fred the Fisher, three months after he was lost at sea.
BRINGING PRESSURE TO BEAR
A march through Port Vik is planned for tomorrow, to coincide with the arrival of Elaine Bear, Cabinet Secretary for Net Zero, Energy and Transport, who will be visiting the island to discuss a proposed offshore windfarm.
The windfarm is facing stiff opposition from islanders, who rely heavily on tourism and are concerned that the installation will affect the unspoilt character of Vik.
Mary Hopper, self-appointed chief spokesperson for the Warrior Islanders, Vik’s battle re-enactment group, is encouraging all islanders to join the march and make their voices heard.
“The Vik economy is built on tourism and fishing. This will displace our fishermen from the areas they have fished for centuries, and it will ruin our beautiful seaside views. More importantly, it will scare off the seagulls, who rely on stolen chips and ice cream for their survival. Really, if they’re that desperate for wind power, they just need to feed my Len a few parsnips, and Aberdeen will be lit for a week. March with us to stop the windfarm.”
The Scottish Government declined to respond to Mary’s statement, but #feedlenparsnips is trending on Twitter, and the Cabinet Secretary can expect some difficult questions tomorrow.
The Parish Council has asked for volunteers to help clear up after the meeting because the football club have the hall booked for five-a-side at 8pm.
Elaine Bear is tipped to be Scotland’s new First Minister following the shock resignation last month of Andrea Forglen,
A FINE FANDANGO
Araminta Hubbard stunned onlookers at the Vik Ballroom Dancing Championships yesterday with her lively fandango.
Mrs Hubbard and her husband Douglas have been practising for weeks and, while the dance isn’t traditionally seen in ballroom competitions, Mrs Hubbard’s modified fandango straddled the divide. It was certainly enough to take the couple through to the finals, where they will come up against Ben McCulloch’s cha-cha-cha. Let’s hope they can pull it off.
CHAPTER 2
‘Give it a wee shoogle, dearie.’
‘Cordon bleu, I think we’re at the max here, Mrs H.’
‘Och, we can surely fit a few more in. It’s my second biggest handbag!’
‘I suppose we should be glad you didn’t bring your biggest one. We’d have to hire some of them shepherds come check-out time.’
‘What are you on about, Eileen? Which shepherds? German Shepherds?’
‘No. The ones that help folk on Mount Everest.’
‘Do you mean St. Bernards? The ones with the little barrels of brandy on their collars? I always thought the Swiss must be such nice people, bringing folk a wee nip up there in the mountains.’
‘Buggre-moi, the Swiss send sainted shepherds up mountains to deliver booze? On top of making nice clocks and Toblerones? Is there nothing they can’t do? Maybe I should move there.’
‘You’d have to move to the German speaking part, dearie. Your French still needs some work.’
‘Which bit is Mount Everest in?’
‘Oh, I think that’s in the Tibetan part.’
‘Oi! Will I arrest you for thievery now, or shall we wait until after the awards ceremony?’
The two women froze at the sound of Sergeant Wilson’s voice. Mrs Hubbard was midway through transferring a small bottle of conditioner from the housekeeping trolley to her handbag, which Eileen was struggling to hold due to the weight of the illicit goods within.
‘Well, they shouldn’t leave trollies full of free stuff just lying about the place, waiting for the unwary pilferer,’ sniffed Mrs Hubbard, placing the conditioner back on the cart.
‘What’s the haul so far?’ asked Sergeant Wilson.
Eileen took a moment to inspect the contents of Mrs Hubbard’s second biggest handbag and surmised, ‘About fourteen shampoos, eight conditioners, five rose-scented soaps and twelve teacakes.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ exclaimed the Sergeant. ‘You put the teacakes in with the smelly stuff? That’s just ignorant. Next time, bring two bags. Right, are we off to breakfast?’
Mrs Hubbard regarded the Sergeant doubtfully. Martisha Wilson was dressed in a faded pink dressing gown and a pair of battered carpet slippers with a hole above the left big toe. Her upper torso looked suspiciously well padded.
‘Will you be wanting to get dressed first, dearie?’ the older woman suggested.
In response, Sergeant Wilson scowled defiantly and declared, ‘The leaflet in my room said to make myself at home.’ Then she marched off in the direction of the dining room.
‘Is she wearing her body armour under her housecoat?’ Mrs Hubbard whispered to Eileen, eyeing the rather stout retreating back of the police officer.
‘She’s probably expecting to be accosted by a big sausage.’
Eileen turned at the sound of a short snort of laughter and smiled to see Jim standing behind them, fully dressed in jeans, dog-haired fleece and walking boots.
Jim gave her a salacious wink and said, ‘If that woman ever wants to be on the receiving end of a big sausage, she’ll have to stop sleeping in her stab vest. Do you reckon she wears it over or under her nightie?’
Laughing, the trio followed Sergeant Wilson to the dining room, where Penny, Sandra Next Door, Fiona and Gordon had installed themselves at a large, circular table and were practically mainlining a full Scottish breakfast.
‘God, this is so good,’ mumbled Penny through a mouthful of square sausage. ‘I know I should be setting an example, but I could never resist a nice sausage.’
She ignored Jim’s low chuckle. If they were to get through the next three days of fabulous breakfasts, he was going to have to grow past the sniggering every time someone said sausage. Yesterday, it had taken him ten minutes to calm down after she’d asked the waiter “is your sausage locally sourced?”
Now, his expression one of contrived innocence, Jim enquired, ‘How many sausages have you had this morning?’
‘Three,’ she told him.
‘And how many for breakfast?’
‘Shut up.’
‘This isn’t helping me shift the baby weight,’ Fiona chimed in, spearing a chunk of fried tomato and popping it in her mouth.
‘Och, dearie, you’re slimmer than you ever were,’ said Mrs Hubbard, settling in next to Fiona and ladling three spoonfuls of sugar into a large bowl of porridge.
‘I wasn’t talking about me,’ said Fiona, jerking her head in the direction of her husband. ‘I had to use the emergency sewing kit in the bathroom last night after Gordon bent over to pick up the remote control off the floor. That’s the third pair of dungarees this month.’
Hearing his name, Gordon looked up and winced as his wife deftly plucked a baked bean from his beard before continuing, ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wore underwear. Honestly, I’m having nightmares about being winked at by a muckle ginger tabby.’
‘Matching collar and cuffs, eh, Gordon?’ said Sergeant Wilson, clapping a hand on his shoulder so hard that a baked bean shot out of his mouth and landed on Sandra Next Door’s toast.
Sandra Next Door opened her mouth to object but was beaten to the punch by Eileen, who asked, ‘Why are you going paratrooper?’
‘Commando,’ Gordon corrected her.
‘I don’t think they’ll let you command anything with no pants on, dearie,’ said Mrs Hubbard.
‘It’s an expression for not wearing underwear. Me and Fiona are going to try for another baby, and I thought I’d get a head start on...’
‘Whipping the boys into shape? Tadpole production?’ interjected Sergeant Wilson. ‘By the time you two get round to having another one, it’ll be like a pair of loose maracas down there.’
Penny said, ‘Sometimes I feel like I know too much about what goes on in Gordon’s dungarees. Can we discuss our plans? We have five nights in a posh hotel, courtesy of Laird Hamish being pals with the owner, and we still haven’t agreed anything beyond attending the awards ceremony on Friday.’
