Cradle to Grave

by Aline Templeton

  MacNee was still fuming at being carved up as he drove on towards Rosscarron. The man hadn’t been some young tearaway; he’d seen him in the rear-view mirror, a middle-aged man, pale-faced with black hair in a deep widow’s peak. Should have known better—

  Suddenly it triggered a picture: the night he’d kept watch by Gillis Crozier’s body, the face that had appeared from the undergrowth, the badger out hunting . . .

  Badger. He felt cold and sick. He accelerated, and his mind raced too, as he focused on keeping the car on the road round the unseen corners.

  He should have thought of this whenever Bill told him: if Lisa Stewart had been killed to order, the Ryans had ordered it. The information MacNee had given Fleming yesterday had sent her straight into a trap.

  Without hesitation this time, he called in immediate assistance, top priority. But Kirkcudbright was the nearest station: he knew how long it would take them to reach here, in weather like this. It was up to him.

  When Black reached Rosscarron House, he was in an evil mood. The walk from the bridge to the house had been longer than he had thought it would be, and his light jacket was little protection in this sort of weather. He hated the country anyway, and this whole operation was freaking him out. He’d taken more antacids in the last two days than in the previous three months.

  The gun in the special interior pocket in his jacket, his familiar Glock 19.9, was a heavy, reassuring weight. He checked that it was half cocked before he rang the bell.

  It was Cara Ryan, he presumed, who opened the door, all bright and chatty and offering coffee, for God’s sake.

  ‘Where are they?’ he snarled. ‘Show me, then get out of the way.’

  The woman gave a nervous giggle. He had the gun in his hand as he followed her through the hall. Her shoes were clicking; he grabbed her arm as she went to open the door below the stairs.

  ‘Tell me where to find them and stay here,’ he said under his breath.

  He saw her eyes widen at the sight of the gun, though in excitement rather than alarm. ‘I’ll be quiet,’ she whispered, as she opened the door quietly and pointed to the cupboard.

  Black gestured. ‘Bugger off.’ He didn’t wait to check on her obedience, pulling the door to behind him and moving on the balls of his feet as he went towards the cupboard. Another check on the gun, then he turned the key and the handle.

  He kicked open the door and for a moment couldn’t take in what he was seeing – an empty larder. He slammed the door back until it banged on a shelf – no one behind it, then. No one above, lying on a shelf. Empty. Had the silly cow told him the wrong cupboard?

  But when Black came out again, she was still standing by the door to the hall, and the expression on her face told him that there was no other cupboard.

  He strode up to her. ‘What – has – happened?’ he bellowed. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I – I don’t know! They were there, secure,’ Cara bleated.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Black said grimly. ‘Right. How much do they know about me?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing!’ Cara began to cry. ‘Let me go! I just—’ She stopped.

  ‘You just what?’

  ‘It slipped out. I said I knew about Lisa being killed – they probably didn’t even notice. Don’t hurt me!’

  Black would have liked to smash in her stupid face, but there was no time. He went icy calm. ‘Then we have to find them. Where could they have gone?’

  They were definitely lost, moving in some sort of circle. Fleming recognised the rock configuration in front of her, though she couldn’t remember how long ago it was that she had seen it. The cold was getting to her brain and she was so tired she was reaching the stage where just lying down would be worth it even if she didn’t get up again.

  She mustn’t, she mustn’t. Then she heard a sound behind her and turned. Kershaw had fallen and was making no attempt to rise. Fleming came back and shook her. The woman was icy cold, but it seemed as if she had stopped shivering – a serious sign of hypothermia.

  She lay down beside her, trying to share their body heat, rubbing her with her own numb hands, trying to generate some sort of warming friction, and felt with relief the shivering start again.

  ‘Get up, Kim,’ she urged. ‘You can’t lie here. We must be nearly there.’

  ‘You don’t – don’t understand,’ Kershaw said through her cold-stiffened lips. ‘I don’t care. Go on, leave me.’

  At that moment Fleming heard the sound of a car engine, coming closer. They must be near the road after all, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, she could dimly see it passing. It was the Discovery, and it was heading downhill at a steep angle. The steep part of the drive was only a couple of hundred yards short of the bridge.

  She stood up. ‘We’re all right, Kim. I know where we are.’ For what good that was, since they would be going down to block the bridge! Then suddenly she remembered the houses in the flooded development – deserted, probably, since no construction would be going on in this weather, but at least offering shelter and a hiding place. She said urgently, ‘Look, I know where we can get shelter. There are houses just down here. It won’t take long. Get up, Kim.’ Then, ‘Constable, that’s an order. Get up.’

  She wasn’t sure it would work, but it did. Kershaw got slowly to her feet. Slipping an arm behind her for support, Fleming set a course parallel to the drive, at a distance where they would reach the little road that served the estate.

  And there it was just below them, a thin ribbon in the mist, which was slightly less dense here at the lower level. Breathing a prayer of thankfulness, Fleming helped Kershaw down the last slope.

  It would be safer to stick to the rough ground instead of the metalled surface, but by now they were so exhausted that she had to take that risk. They would hear the engine of the Discovery anyway and could take cover if necessary.

  She was fairly sure now she would have been bound to hear the sound of another car arriving. Perhaps, after all, there wasn’t a professional out there looking for them. Or not yet, at any rate.

  He had to stay calm. Giving way to temper and taking out the two drooling retards who had got him into this situation wouldn’t help anyone. With the pistol still in his hand, Black walked down the road, listening and looking, though there wasn’t a lot of point in that, when you couldn’t see five feet to either side. He wasn’t going to take to the hills either, though doubtless that was where they’d gone. He wasn’t the outdoor type and you could make a serious fool of yourself, stumbling along after an unseen quarry and probably breaking your ankle in the process.

  If the Ryans could be trusted – if! – the women hadn’t been gone long enough to get off the headland. With Ryan dispatched to block the bridge, it would just be a waiting game.

  They couldn’t explain how the pigs had escaped and it seemed to have been pure chance that they hadn’t been able to drive away and alert the entire police force. Save him from amateurs! He’d never before relied on anyone else for one of these jobs, and this was why.

  Black walked on down the hill, brooding. How long would it be before someone started asking questions about where the inspector was? How long before he decided that whatever the consequences, he’d simply have to abort the mission?

  He was soaked through, cold and afraid now too. Afraid not just of the police, but of his clients.

  The men who had commissioned him were dangerous – that went without saying. All his professional dealings were with dangerous men. Who else could afford what he charged? But Lloyd and Driscoll were not only dangerous, they were desperate this time, and Lloyd’s cold eyes when he briefed Black had spelled out the price of failure.

  It hadn’t bothered him much. Dealing with hicks from the sticks, and good money – seriously good money. Piece of cake! Except it wasn’t.

  He was torn with indecision. Lloyd and Driscoll would be vindictive enemies; on the other hand, it was looking bad and putting his head in a noose wasn’t smart either. Very not sma
rt, if he wanted a chance to look at the sky anytime these next twenty years.

  He had to play the percentages. When he reached the bottom, he’d tell Ryan he was on his own, pick up the car and head back to the safe anonymity of Glasgow. Unless a miracle happened between here and there.

  And then it did. He heard a woman’s voice, from somewhere on the rough ground up to his left, saying, ‘Look, I know where we can get shelter. There are houses just down here. It won’t take long. Get up, Kim.’ Then, ‘Constable, that’s an order. Get up.’

  Black smiled. He took back all he’d said about Lady Luck.

  28

  DS MacNee reached the Bailey bridge, then hesitated. He could drive up to Rosscarron House, US Cavalry to the rescue, guns blazing. Then what?

  He knew fine what they were up against. Down here, when you were dealing with local crime, you could maybe forget that Glasgow, the murder capital of Europe, was just two or three hours away. But he’d lived long enough in the more squalid parts of that city to know that if one of the pros was on this patch, he’d have a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

  Fleming, he believed, was in deadly and immediate danger, but getting himself shot in a full-on approach wouldn’t help her. MacNee knew precisely what the official position was: he would be guilty of misconduct if he did anything other than wait for the back-up he had summoned, and even then if there was reason to believe guns were involved, their instructions would be to wait for an armed-response unit.

  And how long would that take? Long enough for the shooting and the escape – after which, of course, stable doors would be shut and bolted with a great stushie about lessons being learned and there’d be a fine funeral with all the top brass in their Sunday-best uniforms.

  Or he could just take it quickly and quietly, get himself up there unnoticed, see what was going on and take his chances. MacNee might be too late already, but whatever happened to him, at least he’d know he’d tried.

  With any luck, the lads from Kirkcudbright would be well on their way by now. He’d better keep their path clear; he drove further on, up round a corner. There, off the road on a piece of rough ground under some scrubby trees was a black Toyota. He parked his own car nearby and jumped out.

  MacNee was rarely without his Swiss Army knife, and it was the work of a moment to slash all four tyres. If it turned out that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, he’d pay the outraged owner out of his own pocket. Then he turned his car and drove back round the corner again.

  He shrugged on his heavy waterproof jacket, took a telescopic baton from the glove compartment and stowed it away. He got out and took a deep breath. ‘May coward shame disdain his name, The wretch that dares not die!’

  For speed, he’d have to take the metalled road up to the house until he reached the gate towards the top of it, which led into the camping field. That was the risky bit. After that he could get down to the house from behind, unseen.

  It was uphill and MacNee maybe wasn’t quite as fit as he should be, but he could still cover the ground. He had already reached the field where the fog would conceal him when he heard the voices outside the house.

  Declan Ryan was saying in a tone that suggested panic, ‘I don’t know! I came back to the house about half an hour ago and they were there then. They must have picked the lock. But they won’t have got far in this weather – they wouldn’t risk going down on the road.’

  Another voice with a strong Glasgow accent gave him his character with an impressive flow of invective. ‘Get down and block the sodding bridge,’ it finished. ‘I’ll check around here.’

  The car door slammed and a minute later the Discovery came barrelling past.

  So Marjory was still alive, anyway. She’d got away from them, was out there, somewhere in the fog, alone and aware that she was being hunted. She must be scared, and wet, and very, very cold; MacNee, in his police-issue jacket, was cold enough. How could he find her?

  He couldn’t. But at least he had found her pursuer. MacNee concealed himself behind the wide gatepost at the entrance to the field and waited.

  It was two minutes later that he came past, only feet away on the road, looking round about him – the badger man MacNee had seen in the rear-view mirror. He was carrying a gun, a semi-automatic pistol from the look of it. MacNee held his breath; the effects of a fog blanket were strange, muffling some sounds and amplifying others. He could hear the man’s own laboured breathing, so he was stressed, then. Good! Stress led to error.

  Not that MacNee was feeling calm himself, but his presence being unknown and unsuspected gave him a feeling of power that buoyed him up as he set off, walking silently on the grass verge trailing his quarry.

  He was almost at the bottom when he too heard Fleming’s voice, and his heart gave a massive thunk! in his chest. Ahead of him, the footsteps had stopped: the other man was listening too.

  MacNee could, of course, launch an attack now and hope with the element of surprise to seize the gun. But gunshots could go anywhere, and Fleming – and apparently Kershaw too, for God’s sake! – were nearby.

  He looked at his watch. In another fifteen minutes back-up should be arriving, and he’d specified blues and twos. Hearing that approaching, any professional with half a brain would chuck it and run. Fleming only needed to evade him for ten minutes more.

  He daren’t follow the man down the road. With deep distaste, MacNee scrambled up on to the moorland and began taking a downward path at breakneck speed. And he probably would break his neck, if he fell. Banks and bloody braes, eh? If he’d his way, he’d concrete over the countryside. All of it.

  ‘Have you seen Big Marge?’ DS Macdonald said, coming into the CID room. ‘It’s almost time for the briefing and there’s no sign of her and there’s been no message.’

  Campbell, working at one of the desks, looked up. ‘Don’t know where she is, but MacNee’s just declared some sort of emergency at Rosscarron House.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ Macdonald said acidly. ‘I understood he was off at the moment.’

  ‘The boss went out there this morning. With Kim.’

  ‘So she did.’ Macdonald frowned. ‘I’m edgy about this. I happen to know there’s been a tip-off that a professional from Glasgow’s in the area – you know, the guy we’ve been told to look out for but not to approach. There are some of the Glasgow bosses who might be taking an interest, pals of Crozier’s.’

  ‘Right.’ Campbell was frowning too. ‘So we think he took out Lisa Stewart? But why would they want Lisa Stewart killed?’

  Macdonald absorbed that, then said slowly, ‘They wouldn’t, as far as I can see. If Ryan paid Williams to persecute the girl, he could have paid someone to rub her out, and the boss was last known to be going to see Cara Ryan. Has she walked into something?’ He was sounding alarmed. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Sounds as if Tam’s doing it,’ Campbell pointed out.

  ‘If it’s what I think, it should be armed response. I’d better talk to Bailey.’ With considerable reluctance Macdonald went along to Superintendent Bailey’s office, with not much more than a gut feeling to back up his request.

  Donald Bailey was inclined at first to be sceptical, but Macdonald found himself becoming more convinced as he argued the case and eventually had Bailey almost as concerned as he was himself. After a phone call to the assistant chief constable, the immediate mobilisation of armed response was authorised.

  ‘There may be no point,’ Bailey said heavily at the end of the interview. ‘If you’re right, she could be dead long before they get anywhere near her. We can only hope you’re entirely wrong – though of course that would make it a shocking waste of money, Macdonald.’ He shook his head.

  With one more worry to add to his concerns about his colleagues, Macdonald went gloomily back to the CID room.

  They were both limping badly – Fleming’s shoes were heelless and all but destroyed; Kershaw’s were little better – but they were reaching the houses now. There was n
o one working there today; JCBs and concrete mixers were still, shrouded shapes.

  The worst of the mud had been removed and the houses nearest looked to have been cleared, with doors and windows repaired. As Fleming picked up a stone to break a pane in the back door of the first one they came to, she felt a pang of guilt, but she didn’t think she had the strength to go further to one still awaiting attention, and she was quite sure Kershaw didn’t. Slipping her hand through the hole, she found the key in the lock inside and opened the door.

  By then Kim had slumped on the doorstep. Fleming hauled her in, locked it again on the inside and removed the key. No point in making it easier for anyone who might come looking, though she had no illusions about what would happen if Black worked out where they were.

  It was a relief, though, to have shelter from the cold and penetrating wet, and wonderful to sink down on the stairs in the internal hall, which was lit only by a small staircase window; once she had shut all the doors, they would be invisible from outside. There was even a telephone there, though when she tried it, the line was dead. Well, she hadn’t expected anything else.

  Kershaw seemed alarmingly cold. Might there still be furnishings, or even clothes, upstairs? Fleming didn’t know how she would find the energy to climb the stairs, but hauling on the banister, she made it and in the first room found blankets still on the bed, and some towels in the bathroom. She carried them to the stairs, though her feet were so numb she didn’t trust herself to walk down; she bumped and slid to the bottom, then swaddled Kim in blankets, pulled one round herself and started to rub Kim’s arms and legs with the towels.

  Her own numb extremities began to thaw out painfully. Her feet, she noticed with a sort of abstract interest, were badly bruised and lacerated and blistered, and on the injured side of her face, the gash had stiffened and started to throb.