Cradle to Grave Read online

  MacNee was twitching anyway. There was nasty stuff going on here, and he’d never liked closed spaces much. Maybe you couldn’t describe acres of moorland as a closed space, but it felt pretty oppressive when you couldn’t get away, and he was capable of feeling trapped in a cul-de-sac when he’d only to walk to the end of the road.

  Still, he reminded himself, it had been an interesting afternoon. Since they had set out from the house, his driver had not once glanced in his direction or said a word. Oh, at the start Ryan had been all pally, falling over himself to be helpful, but the charm had worn thin as MacNee showed no sign of leaving him to get on with his purchases in peace, and it had vanished altogether as MacNee succeeded in his objective of getting under his skin. What he needed to decide was whether the vibes he was now getting from Ryan were annoyance or fear. He was without doubt under stress of some kind.

  Likely both. The Lawtons, certainly, had been sweating. Without the camouflage of a whole pop festival, they were standing out like a sore thumb. Of course, that was their protection as well: nothing was going to happen while he was anywhere nearby, and now he wasn’t, no doubt there would be expensive little packages being stashed all over the countryside. Still, he would put the word out to the Drug Squad and with any luck they’d be picked up next time.

  Ryan was blatantly planning to lay in supplies for his wife before their handy doorstep delivery was moved off the site. MacNee had the distinct impression that Daddy didn’t approve, and could be heavy-handed, so maybe it was tricky keeping the stuff around, or getting it locally.

  Actually, he had the impression that there was quite a lot Daddy didn’t approve of, starting with his son-in-law and going on to what went on in the Ryan household – like the way they brought up their son, who seemed almost disturbed. Perhaps the kid was just over-indulged, but with a mother who had Cara’s problem it wouldn’t be surprising if it was a bit more than that.

  The kids up at the campsite had seemed clean enough, though – a bit of weed or E going around, no doubt, but he’d be surprised if it was more than that.

  MacNee was still uncertain about the two young men he and Fleming had remarked on before. One, thickset, tall and uncommunicative, still seemed to be on his own, but the other, who introduced himself as Damien – in his mid-twenties, probably, and still a bit baby-faced with gelled brown hair – had stood with his arm familiarly round one of the teenage girls, who was all over him like a rash. If MacNee was her father, he wouldn’t have been happy about it. Not happy at all.

  Perhaps it was just as well he wasn’t anyone’s father, though Bunty wouldn’t see it like that. He gave an unconscious sigh.

  ‘Here we are!’ Ryan pulled in at the side of the road. ‘Frigging hell, that’s some mess!’ He jumped out and without waiting for MacNee went to stand on the bank of the river.

  The Carron was still running high and strong, though defin-itely lower than it had been. Joining Ryan, MacNee looked hopefully across to the other side, but the road was empty. Given that the punters should be arriving in their hundreds by now, that suggested warnings had been posted, but there was certainly no sign of a rescue party.

  ‘They’re not going to put this right overnight, exactly. How long are we going to be trapped here, then? You’re the police – how do they deal with a situation like this?’

  MacNee felt sick, seeing now the full extent of the damage. ‘Depends on how urgent they think it is. They could call in the army, get them to put up one of those Bailey bridges they use to get tanks across rivers – they’d have it sorted in half a morning – but it’ll be at the bottom of the to-do list. If anything goes wrong in the Central Belt, they’ll jump to it, but out here . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We’re just meant to put up with it till they’ve sorted everything else.’

  He was looking at the wreckage of the bridge as he spoke and suddenly he stiffened. ‘Here! See that spar, sticking up? That’s not broken – that’s a clean edge. Someone’s cut through it deliberately.’

  Ryan followed his pointing finger. ‘What! Are you telling me someone’s sabotaged it? You’re kidding!’

  ‘I wish I was. There’s another spar the same, look – over there.’

  ‘For God’s sake! Who would do something like this? Someone could have been killed.’

  ‘Someone almost was,’ MacNee said grimly. ‘And as soon as I get to a working phone, we’ll start finding out. Come on – let’s get back.’

  He wasn’t about to share them, but he had his own ideas. The man he had seen on the road going down to the flooded houses, the man he had guessed was Jamieson, who had an obsessional grudge against Gillis Crozier. His revenge? If so, he was dangerous, seriously dangerous.

  Maybe the scale of destruction would have satisfied him, but maybe it was only the start, and how could you predict what someone clearly doolally would do next?

  Of course, he might have left the headland before it happened. He could be anywhere, but he could also be right here, in one of the flooded houses, biding his time . . . Perhaps MacNee should go along and check, though he’d have preferred to do it once there was back-up available.

  When they reached Rosscarron House, Ryan said, ‘Maybe they’ve got the phones back on,’ and jumped out, leaving MacNee to follow. Remembering his own problem, he glanced at his watch. Almost half past five – he hoped to God that they were back in touch with the outside world.

  With her back literally to the wall, Fleming felt like an animal at bay as Joss Hepburn advanced towards her with a teasing smile.

  He was, if anything, a more attractive man now than he had been at twenty-five. Then, he had seemed an exotic creature in staid Kirkluce, glamorous and edgy; he was still that, but the hooded eyes and sardonic lines around the mouth gave him a more sophisticated gloss of cynical charm. Not for the first time, she thought how unfair it was that men aged so much better than women and she was conscious, too, that with the bruising to the side of her face she was hardly looking her best. Not that it mattered, of course.

  Fleming forced a smile. ‘Joss.’

  ‘Struggling back on duty, in the best traditions of the Service? Are you sure you should be out of bed? How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Twelve,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I always thought the two extra ones were a bit creepy, myself.’

  She almost had to push past him to reach one of the chairs, where she sat down with an assumption of ease as Hepburn threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘There’s no one quite like you, Madge – you know that? Can’t think why I let you go.’

  ‘You hadn’t a choice,’ she pointed out, with some asperity. ‘I dumped you, remember?’

  ‘Helped by your bucolic friend. Oh, I remember.’ He sat down opposite her, fingering his crooked nose. ‘Do tell me – did he hang on to his prize, or did you give him a courteous thank-you and move on to someone more . . . entertaining?’

  Fleming felt her hackles rise. ‘If by “entertaining” you mean the sort of person who thinks it’s clever to put LSD in my drink, knowing the kind of reaction I had when I tried cannabis, I wouldn’t agree with your definition.’ She found she was still angry, though it was years now since she’d suffered from the hideous flashbacks.

  Hepburn did, actually, look abashed. ‘OK, I shouldn’t have done that. But to be honest I reckoned the cannabis story was a cover for being scared in case your policeman father found out and shopped you.’

  ‘Scared! It was nothing to do with being scared, except of what could happen if I tried it again.’ Suddenly she was nineteen once more, easily goaded to unwisdom by the age-old taunt ‘Scared, are you?’

  She wasn’t nineteen. She was a mature woman and a senior police officer and she had to do better than that. Sounding professionally po-faced, she said, ‘Considering the mopping-up I have to do for people who didn’t have a bad experience early on, I count myself lucky. I hope age has brought wisdom to you too – or are you still desperately in search of your youth with the wac
ky baccy?’ She’d smelled its faint, sickly trace on him when he came into the room.

  Hepburn looked amused at her acerbic tone. ‘I think I should take the Fifth on that one, given who I’m talking to. You might whip out the handcuffs, though on second thoughts . . . ?’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  She wasn’t going there. Ignoring the provocation, Fleming firmly changed the subject.

  ‘Joss, tell me what goes on here.’

  To her surprise, she saw him go very still for a moment. Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and gestured towards her. ‘Do you mind? I guess you don’t indulge?’

  Fleming shook her head. He lit the cigarette, but over the flame his eyes were watchful. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t strike me as anyone’s ideal holiday home. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere with a less relaxing and welcoming atmosphere.’

  ‘Oh, I get it!’ Hepburn laughed – surely not with relief?? ‘It’s because it’s not really a holiday home. It’s a combination of an office and a hotel – say, like a kind of conference centre. It’s cheaper to have a headquarters outside London, and Gillis had this romantic idea of going back to his roots. Saw himself returning as the laird, I guess, and he can have business contacts here and give them the fishing and shooting bit as well.’

  And did, Fleming wondered, the business contacts include the ‘big boy’ MacNee’s pal Sheughie had been interested in? Once she got out of this place, she was definitely going to take a closer look at Mr Crozier’s interests. ‘What line is he in?’ she asked, trying to make it sound like an idle question.

  Hepburn matched her tone. ‘Don’t ask me! The pop scene, obviously, but that apart I guess he’s an entrepreneur – a bit of this, a bit of that. Tell me about you, though. The police force – that was a bit of a shock. What happened to the crazy Madge I knew?’

  He’d copied her own tactic for getting away from an unwelcome subject, but she wasn’t about to let it get personal again. ‘She grew up and found an interesting job. And you? You’re based in the States now?’

  ‘Based, yes. But I’ve done a lot of stuff in Europe as well. Not much over here – only since retro disco’s taken off.’

  ‘My daughter’s a serious fan. She’ll be gutted that the concert’s off.’ This was better. This was edging into the area of normal, boring small talk.

  ‘I can give you a signed photo for her, if you think she’d like it.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d be thrilled.’

  ‘And I could write a bit on the back, about some of the things her mother got up to.’

  The door opening was a welcome sound. Even more welcome was the sight of Tam MacNee. But . . .

  ‘Tam!’ she said in astonishment. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

  MacNee flushed a dark red. ‘My clothes are being dried,’ he said gruffly. ‘This was what they gave me.’

  ‘Might be the start of a whole new look for you.’ Fleming didn’t try to hide her amusement.

  ‘I see you got yours back a bit sooner than I did,’ MacNee said sourly. ‘Maybe the lad that took mine away could hurry along with them.’

  ‘Cris?’ Hepburn was enjoying himself too. ‘Must have figured you needed a makeover. He’s quite a guy – not a great talker, but I guess he’s got a warped sense of humour. Tell you what, as a favour to a friend, I’ll see if I can find him.’

  He was just going out when a sudden blast of cacophonous sound came through the speakers. Fleming and MacNee both jumped.

  Hepburn paused. ‘Ah, that must be Gillis back.’

  ‘What – what on earth is it?’ Fleming said faintly.

  ‘Metallica.’ Hepburn was amused by their reaction. ‘Used as torture at Guatánamo, I’m told.’

  ‘How do we switch the bloody thing off?’ MacNee growled.

  Hepburn, still grinning, obliged. As he went out, MacNee looked at Fleming.

  ‘Take it you’re feeling all right, then, having wee jokes with your pal at other folks’ expense. Well, get a load of this. The bridge collapsing wasn’t an accident.’

  Horrified, Fleming listened as he explained.

  ‘And we’re stuck here,’ he finished. ‘God knows how long it’ll be before they get us out.’

  ‘If we’re stuck, and you’re right about Jamieson, he could be stuck as well,’ she said. ‘Not a pleasant thought.’

  ‘It had occurred to me,’ MacNee said dryly.

  ‘If he reckoned sabotaging the bridge was just a gesture, he’s reckless at the very least. But then, we don’t know that he did it, Tam. There’s no way we could detain him. The most we could do is have a chat, and it might be better not to scare him off by letting him know we’re on to him. Anyway, let’s find a car and get down there to have a look.’

  ‘Not before I get my own clothes back,’ MacNee said firmly.

  Beth Brown hurried back to Keeper’s Cottage. Her haste made her hot and sweaty, but it was only when she got within sight of the house that she risked putting her hood down.

  Maidie Buchan, with Calum on her hip, was just closing the gate to the kennels, where the dogs were guzzling bowls of food. As Beth reached her, it was clear she had been crying.

  The right thing to do was ask what was wrong, but that would only waste time. Living with Alick Buchan and the old witch was enough to make anyone cry and there wasn’t a lot Beth could do about that, even if she wanted to. And at the moment all she wanted was to get away from here, slip back into her old anonym-ous life.

  Calum, recognising a friend, beamed and held out his arms. Touched and flattered, Beth took him from his mother and gave him a hug.

  ‘Have you been feeding the doggies?’ Calum nodded solemnly. ‘What a clever boy!’

  Maidie’s tragic face brightened. ‘He’s been so good this afternoon, haven’t you, my lambie?’

  Calum, satisfied at having undivided attention, held out his arms to his mother again.

  ‘You’re just a wee rogue!’ she said fondly, taking him back. ‘Did you have a nice walk, Beth? Lovely now the sun’s out.’

  Beth ignored the polite enquiry. ‘Maidie, I’ve been thinking. Thanks for everything, but I’d better go now. I thought Alick could maybe take me to Kirkcudbright. Then I’ll be fine—’

  ‘Alick!’ Maidie’s bitterness burst out. ‘Alick’ll not be taking anyone anywhere for a bit. He’s sleeping it off. Got drunk and insulted his boss, and come tomorrow we’ll probably have to be out of here, without a roof over our heads. Anyway, no one’s going anywhere. The bridge is down, and God only knows when it’ll be repaired.’

  Preoccupied though she was with her own problems, Maidie did wonder about the look of horror on Beth’s face as she said, ‘You mean I’m trapped? Trapped here?’

  ‘The phone’s still off,’ Declan Ryan said, as he came into the kitchen, where Cris Pilapil was preparing the evening meal.

  Pilapil didn’t look up. ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Gillis won’t be pleased. What are we going to do about it?’

  Pilapil brought the side of his knife down to crush a clove of garlic and shrugged.

  Ryan raised his voice. ‘I said, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘We could try shouting, I suppose, but short of that the answer’s nothing.’ His sidelong glance was contemptuous.

  Clenching his fists, Ryan said coldly, ‘I’m looking for Gillis, as it happens. Where is he?’

  ‘In his office, I presume. I heard the music start not long ago.’

  ‘He’s not there. That was me. I can’t find him.’

  Pilapil was chopping lemongrass now. ‘He said he was going up to see the contractors.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t. I drove up to the top field just now and the minute I arrived they pounced on me. Wanted to know what was happening, when they were going to be paid. Put me in an awkward position.’

  ‘Bad luck.’ Pilapil picked up a wok and set it on the stove. ‘I saw him leave the house after lunch. That’s all.�
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  ‘You’ve been your usual charming and helpful self.’ Ryan went to the door. ‘If you see him before I do, you might like to tell him that someone sabotaged the bridge, probably his little friend who likes writing messages with weedkiller. He could have killed someone. Let’s just hope it hasn’t given him a taste for it. We can’t get away, and probably neither can he.’

  MacNee had got his clothes back and returned the shirt and chinos with sarcastic thanks to Cris Pilapil, whose polite expression gave nothing away. He produced the keys for the staff runabout and MacNee, with more sincere thanks this time, collected Fleming and drove off towards the river and the flooded houses.

  Fleming was shaken when she saw the evidence of deliberate destruction. ‘That could have been kids, in a small car without the airbags we had to protect us – more or less,’ she added, fingering her brow. ‘I hadn’t realised quite how bad it was. Tam, how long are we going to be stuck here?’

  MacNee’s only answer was a shrug. He was looking across the river. ‘No one there,’ he said, looking at the empty road, then at his watch. ‘I’d been hoping . . .’

  He’d looked at his watch several times, she realised, and he was definitely anxious. ‘What’s the matter, Tam? They obviously know what’s happened and they’re turning people back. That’s good news.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed heavily, turning away. ‘Not a lot we can do about it, I suppose. Do you want to drive along towards the houses or walk?’

  Fleming stopped. ‘Tam, there’s something wrong. You’ve been twitching all the way down here. I want to know what it is.’

  MacNee looked at her. Then he said, ‘Och, it’s just the animals. They get fed at six o’clock and it’s past that now. I can’t see when we’re going to get back and my neighbour won’t know to go in.’

  ‘What about Bunty? Surely—’

  ‘Bunty’s away.’

  Tam always hated being without her. It probably explained why he seemed out of sorts at the moment, though usually she’d have been deaved long before now with his complaints about looking after the selection of abandoned dogs and pathetic cats that Bunty always had under her motherly wing.