Cradle to Grave Page 8

  ‘Got my own, thanks.’ Joss Hepburn took out a packet of Marlboros and lit one, leaning back in an unyielding black chair and reflecting with a sort of desperate boredom that at least it gave him something to do. Sitting here while Crozier twitched wasn’t his idea of entertainment, though admittedly, trying to arrange a pop festival without Internet or even phone would make anyone twitch.

  But then, it had been a crazy idea in the first place, and he’d been crazy to allow them to twist his arm. He was regretting it now, though it had almost been worth it just to see Madge Laird’s face. A copper – who’d have thought it!

  ‘So, you’ve absolutely no idea what time the rest of the band are arriving?’

  ‘No,’ Hepburn said for the fourth time. ‘The arrangement was, they’d call when they landed. Never crossed my mind this would be a dead spot. I guess they’ll have your landline on a schedule somewhere, though that’s not exactly a whole heap of use at the moment.’

  ‘It’s a right bugger, this entire thing.’ Crozier crushed out his half-smoked cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. ‘Someone trying to tell me something, do you think? I can’t get confirmation of times of arrival for equipment or supplies or the other first-day groups – I don’t know where anyone is and they can’t tell me. Alex was taking time off from his legal duties in London to do a job for me and was to report back, but he’s obviously been delayed and can’t let me know, and the bands we’re expecting can’t warn me if there’s a problem. If I’m honest, I’m not sure how we’re going to cope, given the weather. Never seen rain like it at this time of year.’

  ‘Not just a huge amount you can do about it now, is there – artists on their way, kids starting to party out there already. But—’

  The door opened and a woman came in. She was small and slight, in her mid-thirties perhaps, with a cloud of fair hair and unhealthy-looking skin with a hectic flush. She was clearly distracted.

  ‘Have you seen Declan? I need him urgently.’ Her words were slightly thickened and she licked her lips as if her mouth was dry.

  Hepburn, after a swift glance at her eyes, drooping and red-rimmed, dropped his own and made a business of stubbing out his cigarette.

  Crozier’s voice was strained. ‘Gone up the hill to the campsite to see how many people have arrived, I think.’ She left before he finished his sentence.

  He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘My daughter, Cara,’ he said, then as Hepburn made a noncommittal noise, burst out, ‘I know, I know. You don’t have kids, do you?’

  ‘No. I never go looking for trouble.’

  ‘Wise man!’ Crozier said with feeling. ‘I found her stash yesterday and I got rid of it. Pointless, probably – she’ll get it from somewhere else. My adored only child and I’m helpless. I’ve tried everything – keeping her short of money, bribing her, threatening her – but she’s not interested in kicking it. All she says is, “I can handle it, Dad,” and then she gets upset with me. I may have to do something drastic, or she’s going to kill herself.’ He shrugged. ‘Before, I knew she maybe dabbled a bit, but recently . . . After all that’s happened to her, I can understand why she tries to blot it out.’

  With a sinking feeling, Hepburn finished his beer. Agony uncle really wasn’t his scene; there was nothing bored him more than other people’s personal problems, but he couldn’t exactly say, ‘Sure, sure,’ and walk out.

  He continued the discussion reluctantly. ‘Well, hard for kids, growing up in our kind of world. You can’t stop them meeting guys who’ll put the stuff their way.’

  ‘Like her husband,’ Crozier said grimly.

  ‘Declan? Oh, he’s not so bad. I’ve had a bit to do with him, off and on.’

  ‘He doesn’t do drugs himself, but she makes him get them for her.’

  It likely wouldn’t be tactful to say, ‘Oh well, keeps it in the family.’ Instead, he gave a discouraging, ‘Mmm.’

  Crozier barely heard him. ‘After the baby, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Something in the way he spoke must have betrayed his ignor-ance. Crozier looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t you know about the baby? Didn’t Declan tell you?’

  ‘We didn’t have that sort of relationship.’

  Crozier got up and walked to the window, turning his head away. ‘And I suppose it didn’t make the news in the States, like it did here. That was part of the hell of the whole thing.’

  Hepburn got to his feet too. ‘Hold it right there, Gil – we can’t have this sort of conversation without a glass in our hand. What you need is a Scotch. Where do you keep it?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Crozier looked at him blankly for a second, then said, ‘Cris – ask Cris. He’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Great!’ Hepburn went out, rolling his eyes and groaning quietly as he shut the door.

  The music had changed to a mordant Leonard Cohen number. Crozier stared blankly out of the window. He wasn’t thinking about the baby. He was thinking about Kenna, when he had seen her that last time, after she had so terribly betrayed him: the burnished copper of her hair, still without a thread of grey, springing from her head as if its energy had drained the colour from her face and life from her wasted body. It should have been a time for love and grief, not for accusation and anger.

  The door opened again behind him and Hepburn’s head appeared round it.

  ‘Gil, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to break up our talk, but the boys will have landed by now and be trying to raise me. I figured that if I headed off towards Kirkcudbright, I could pick up a signal and get you an ETA. And I’m almost out of Marlboros too – don’t know if they’ll have heard of them out here in the boondocks, but I sure hate smoking anything else. Hold the thought, will you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Crozier said bleakly. He had been naïve to try to open up about his personal tragedy to Joss Hepburn, whose ruthless disregard for anything except his own interests was one of the secrets of his professional success. And anyway, talking didn’t change anything.

  DS Andy Macdonald knocked, a little hesitantly, on the door of Superintendent Bailey’s office. On the few occasions when he had entered this sanctum he’d been summoned. He hadn’t been the bearer of bad news either, and he certainly didn’t trust the super not to shoot the messenger. In response to an impatient, ‘Come!’ he took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Bailey scribbed a signature on a paper in front of him, then looked up. ‘Macdonald?’ He was clearly surprised.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s DI Fleming.’

  ‘Yes, Fleming! Where is the woman? I need to talk to her about a statement on the Rosscarron Cottages, but I can’t get hold of her.’

  ‘No, sir. We think she and DS MacNee went to Rosscarron House.’

  ‘Yes. I sent her. Should have been in an ideal place to send back a report.’

  ‘There’s no signal there for mobiles, as you probably know.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Bailey was always reluctant to confess to ignorance. ‘But she’s got a radio, hasn’t she?’

  ‘That’s just it, sir. The communications room has reported that DI Fleming’s car radio has gone dead.’

  ‘Gone dead? What on earth for? Oh, malfunction, I suppose.’

  ‘We don’t know, sir.’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  Bailey was chewing his lip. He was, Macdonald guessed, under pressure from somewhere; generally, he wasn’t bad as supers went, but he tended to lose it when things went wrong.

  He went on, ‘Phone the man – what’s-his-name – Crozier. Ask where she is.’

  Macdonald shifted uneasily. ‘The phone lines are down too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ Bailey slammed his fist hard on the desk. ‘I don’t know what Fleming thinks she’s playing at. The press are getting very restless – how can I release a statement when I haven’t had a report from her?’

  Pleased that his guess had been accurate, Macdonald said helpfully, ‘Well, I�
�ve been to the scene. Perhaps I could . . .

  ‘For heaven’s sake, man, why didn’t you say so? Have you something down on file?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Then get it down, Sergeant. You’ve got half an hour. Less, preferably. All right?’

  ‘Sir.’ Macdonald turned to go, then paused. ‘And do you want someone to check on DI Fleming?’

  ‘Oh, no doubt she’ll turn up. It’s too bad – there’s been enough trouble over her already. I should have thought the least she could do is keep a low profile and get on with her job . . . What are you waiting for, Macdonald?’

  MacNee’s head was spinning. The scream of futile brakes, the crump of mangled metal, the explosive force of the airbags, the shock of icy water creeping up around him . . . and now a sudden, brutal silence. His eyes shut against the dizziness, he tried to make sense of it.

  He opened his eyes as the airbags deflated. He was half suspended by his seat belt, with the Vauxhall at a nose-down angle. But he could move everything – he was all right. He took a deep breath.

  ‘God!’ he said with a shaky attempt at lightness. ‘Donaldson wasn’t such an old woman after all, was he?’

  Fleming didn’t respond.

  ‘Marjory? Marjory?’

  She was slumped against the steering wheel, facing towards him. Her side airbag had failed to inflate; her eyes were closed, and he could see a bruise on her temple.

  He stretched awkwardly to feel for a pulse in her neck. The car rocked crazily at his movement and his stomach lurched with it. He still hadn’t got a pulse.

  He dared not lean further over. He reached cautiously for her limp hand and at last found the tiny node with its throb of life. Thank God for that!

  But they had to get out of here. Water was beginning to build up, but if he dislodged the car, if it tipped, rolled over . . . MacNee could feel the cold sweat standing out on his brow.

  There were no lights at all showing on the instrument panel and he was afraid even to try the radio; he was pretty sure it was dead anyway, and he could smell petrol. If the tank was breached, the tiniest electrical spark could turn the car into a fireball. He wasn’t even going to think about other short circuits water might create.

  He had to get out. Craning his neck, he took stock of the pos-ition: the bridge above him, tilted at a crazy angle with its metal railing broken and twisted; wooden spars and debris floating in the swirling water; the tail of the car resting halfway up the steep bank on the headland side.

  The rain had come on again. In the diminished light, the river seemed colder, darker, more deadly than ever. And it was coming into the car, higher and higher; soon, if the weight shifted, it would dislodge the car anyway.

  With another glance at his unconscious companion, MacNee tried, not hopefully, to open the door, but the force of the water was holding it shut, and though the window was just clear of the surface, it was electric. He dared not even try to operate it.

  There was a heavy torch in the glovebox. It was under water, but bracing himself against the dashboard and moving with infinite caution, MacNee groped until his fingers grasped it. His first attempt to smash the window failed, but it shattered at the second blow. Clearing the remaining glass rubble from the window frame, he didn’t even notice the dozen tiny cuts it made on his hands until he saw his blood in the water.

  Fleming gave a faint groan and moved a little. The car swayed. Good that she was coming round, sure, but MacNee wasn’t so crazy about the moving part.

  He’d have to move himself, though. No alternative. He prised off his shoes and undid his seat belt, then hers. If the car ended up on its roof in the river, he didn’t want to be fumbling with straps.

  Gritting his teeth in a grimace of concentration, MacNee levered himself up and out through the window space, twisting painfully to get a grip on the roof for purchase, then eased himself out. For a terrifying moment the car rocked, but settled back.

  He lowered himself into the fast-running river and, clinging to the edge of the window, tried to calculate the depth – five, six feet? The difference was crucial to a man of his height who couldn’t swim.

  It was mercilessly cold. There was debris from the bridge buffeting him, and the pull of the current was a shock. His feet didn’t touch the bottom and for a second MacNee thought he would be swept away. But he grabbed on to the door handle then, kicking out with his feet for buoyancy, worked his way along to the one on the rear door. Beyond that, the tail of the car rose out of the water above him and he paused to catch his breath.

  Seven feet, eight feet round below the unstable car to the river’s edge – could he stay afloat that far, with the current against him? The car was shaking now: Fleming must be starting to come round. He didn’t fancy being below it if it was dislodged.

  With a sort of frenzied doggy-paddle, MacNee launched himself round the end and across the stretch of water. Greedily, the current snatched and tugged at him with almost animal force, but high on terror, he fought through and at last solid, if muddy ground was beneath his feet. His breath sobbing in his chest, he leaned against the bank. But there was no time to waste – Marjory next.

  It was only then he realised that the car’s tail, resting on a curve in the bank, was blocking his access to the driver’s side. He simply hadn’t thought that through. His teeth were chattering with cold, he was aching in every muscle, and now he would have to climb a steep, muddy bank, then come back down again. And quickly – anything could happen to the car. Swearing didn’t do any good, but he carried on anyway.

  The bank, eroded by the flood water, shelved in and MacNee, exhausted already, slipped back down again, and again, and again. Even when at last the tufty grass on the top of the bank was within his grasp, a clump came out in his hand and it took a contortionist effort to save himself from falling back to the bottom. He hauled his wet body over the lip of the bank and collapsed, his chest heaving with exertion. At least the effort had warmed him up a little.

  But Fleming was still down there, still in imminent danger, starting to move, perhaps. If she moved too much . . . Groaning, he got up, walked round the curve to the other side of the car and dreeped down, lowering himself by his arms as far as he could, then dropping into the water. He had no idea how deep it was here; he could find himself slipping under and having to fight his way to the surface, or landing awkwardly on a rock and ending up a casualty himself.

  At last, though, his luck seemed to have turned. He landed on soft ground, in the shallows, and he could wrench the driver’s door open. A flood of water poured out at his feet.

  ‘Marjory!’ he said sharply. ‘Marjory! Can you hear me?’ He slapped at her hand.

  Her eyes shot open. They looked ill focused; she screwed them up in an effort to see. ‘Tam? What’s – what’s happened? Where . . . ? Can’t move!’ The words were slurred; her eyes closed again.

  ‘Bridge collapsed. Move your hand, Marjory. Can you move your hand?’

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Fear grabbing at him again, he picked up her hand and slapped it. ‘Move your hand, Marjory!’

  At last, uncertainly, she moved her fingers.

  ‘And your feet, Marjory – your feet!’

  MacNee could see that at last she was coming to, and as she did, he saw panic appear in her face.

  ‘My feet – yes. But Tam, I can’t sit up! I can’t sit up!’ Her breath was ragged with terror.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. The car’s nose down, that’s all. Just don’t make any sudden movements and we’ll be fine,’ MacNee said with a confidence he didn’t really feel. ‘Does anything hurt except your head? No? Now look, I’m going to put my shoulder below yours and lever you up, and then you’ll see . . .’

  Her mind was obviously clearing and she looked shame-faced when she realised that gravity, not injury, was the problem. ‘Sorry. Not very impressive, that. I’m remembering now. The bridge – should have checked it before, not after.’

  ‘You’l
l know another time. Now, we’re needing to get you out of here before we die of cold.’

  They were both shivering violently. The rain was lessening and a wicked little gusting breeze had sprung up, driving the clouds scudding across the sky and bringing greater wind chill, and Fleming’s dismay showed as she realised her position.

  Her face was alarmingly pale, apart from the bruising round her temple. Blood clots, depressed fractures . . . MacNee knew enough about head injuries to be afraid she might without warning drop at his feet, but it would hardly help if he started to panic now.

  ‘Och, you’re fine,’ he said robustly. ‘Now, slide towards me – that’s right, good lassie! Put your arm round my shoulders and I’ll pull you clear.’

  Fleming gave a cry of fright as the car tipped, but MacNee, his strained muscles screaming, pulled her clear with a supreme effort and dragged her back through the shallows in case it fell. With a shudder, though, the car settled back.

  She leaned against the bank, swaying a little, but with control of all her limbs and clear enough in her mind to start insisting that she was absolutely fine. Which plainly she wasn’t, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

  She was also grateful. ‘I could have drowned in there. You saved my life, Tam. I don’t know how you begin to thank someone for that.’

  ‘Och, havers,’ MacNee said gruffly. ‘Buy me a pint sometime and we’ll call it quits.’

  He hadn’t finished the job, though. How the hell was he to get her up the bank? MacNee was a small man, Fleming a tall woman; manhandling her out of the car had been hard enough, and he couldn’t see her now doing much to help herself.

  Fleming was looking at it despairingly. ‘I can’t get up there. You’ll have to go for help.’

  He didn’t want to leave her. She was chilled to the bone already, her knees were buckling, and if he left her, he didn’t think she could stand for any length of time; if she sat down in the water, hypothermia could have set in by the time he got back.