Cradle to Grave

by Aline Templeton

  Kershaw was at least opening and closing her hands and moving her feet, and showing signs of being more aware of her surroundings. She looked sideways at Fleming. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need. Just rest – we’re all right here for the moment.’

  But were they? As the immediate physical problem receded, the other worries rushed in. The trouble was, she had no idea what was happening out there, and until she did it was difficult, if not impossible, to have any sort of coherent plan.

  Just stay in here, perhaps. Sooner or later – indeed, round about now – they would start wondering at headquarters why she hadn’t returned for the briefing and wasn’t in contact. Macdonald certainly knew where she had been, and he knew enough to check up on the Ryans.

  They should be safe enough meantime; Ryan would assume that they were out there somewhere in the mist, trying to work their way down to the road.

  Anyway, she wasn’t at all sure if there was much else she could hope to do, in their present state. Kershaw, with her head on her knees, had actually fallen asleep.

  It terrified her to be sitting blind in this shadowy hall. Suppose Black was even now prowling around outside? She itched to go to a window to look, but she had to fight the suicidal impulse, waiting with her skin crawling with nerves, listening for a sound that would announce his arrival.

  But she mustn’t think like that. There was no reason why anyone would suspect they might be here. They just had to wait, and wait.

  MacNee was on the slope just above the bridge. A faint breeze was stirring and in places the fog was starting to thin out; below him, he could see Ryan and badger man in conversation. At one point he could even hear the angry Glasgow voice, could even place the accent to within a few streets of his own birthplace. A bred-in-the-bone hard man.

  He was turning away from Ryan now – leaving him to block the bridge, just in case, no doubt, while he headed down the short road to the houses, where, MacNee hoped to God, Marjory and Kim had concealed themselves effectively enough to be safe until the lads arrived – or even till they announced their arrival and the man scarpered. The fog could be slowing the cars, of course, but still, the women would be fine. Of course they would.

  He’d have to tail badger man, though, just in case, and he drew out the telescopic baton, looped it over his wrist and extended it. He didn’t want to take on a professional with a gun – he wasn’t daft – but he’d been in plenty Glasgow street fights where there was some bam with a chib and he knew the principle: never mind the knife, play the moron. It was a bit different with guns, but here at least he’d the element of surprise.

  As long as badger man didn’t decide to take a quick look back. The fog was thinning all the time. Reluctantly, MacNee climbed a little up the slope behind the houses, dodging from one clump of whin to another, ducking down as the misty veil lifted. He felt a right idiot, playing hide-and-seek. And where were those buggers from Kirkcudbright? Didn’t they know what that pedal on the right was for?

  At first Fleming had thought the tiny sound she heard was imagined, born of her fears. But then there was another sound, and another: sinister, stealthy movements outside. Her eyes widened, following them along the side of the house as if she could see through the walls between them. They had been tracked down, then, after all. Black, the hired killer, arrived at last? Cold terror constricted her throat; she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, even.

  Fear – that was as much her enemy as the man outside. She had to do something – anything! – rather than huddling here, a sacrificial victim to her own cowardice. She jumped to her feet.

  Kershaw was still asleep; she shook her awake, putting a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Sssh! We’re going to go upstairs and lock ourselves in the bathroom.’ It was all Fleming could think of. ‘There’s someone after us who probably has a gun and he’s going to break in.’

  And how long would it take him to shoot out the lock on the bathroom door? Their only realistic chance had been if no one thought to look for them here. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They were cornered, here in this pleasant, domestic death-trap.

  Kim, though, was getting up obediently, looking bewildered and moving stiffly.

  ‘Come on,’ Fleming said. ‘Quick as you can.’

  And then she heard it – the beautiful, amazing sound of police sirens, approaching fast. With new energy she urged Kershaw towards the stairs, then heard the even more wonderful sound of pounding footsteps, running away.

  She dashed into the front room and caught just a glimpse of him before he was swallowed up in the fog as if he had only ever been a figment of her imagination. She sagged in relief as she turned to Kim.

  ‘He’s gone. And the lads will be here any moment now – listen.’ There was a siren very loud and close. ‘They’ll have stopped at the bridge, probably. I want to see where that man’s gone so I can tell them.’

  Fleming opened the front door and stepped outside.

  Where the hell was badger man? The wind had dropped and the fog had settled again; MacNee had lost him. But what he could hear was the blessed sound of sirens and he knew the man would be doing what any professional would do in those circumstances. He’d be trying to reach his car to make a quick getaway, and, MacNee thought with grim satisfaction, would be in for a nasty shock when he found it.

  He set off back along the road he had taken, and with a lift of satisfaction felt the wind pick up again, more strongly this time. Fog was a fugitive’s friend, and now it was personal. MacNee was going to nail the bastard.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw Fleming coming out of the house with Kershaw behind her. They’d have been better to wait till the boys had things tidied up, but the boss had never been what you’d call patient. And then his blood ran cold.

  MacNee? Fleming stared. He was sprinting up the road towards the bridge. What the hell was he doing here? Had she him to thank—

  From a space between the first and second houses on the side of the road backing on to the river a man stepped out, a man with a pale complexion and black hair that grew in a widow’s peak on his forehead, a man with a gun in his hand.

  Something strange happened to time. He seemed to be raising it in slow motion, levelling it at Fleming as she stood there, presenting a target as wide as a barn door. She tried to turn, but her movements seemed slow, almost balletic.

  And then Kim Kershaw was in front of her, moving between Fleming and the gun to take her solo part in the dance of death. The gun cracked and the bullet found her.

  Fleming caught her as she crumpled, slowly, slowly, then lowered her to the ground. She looked at the blood on her hands, feeling only an odd detachment as she waited for execution. The gun fired again.

  MacNee had launched himself at Black, but just failed to reach him before he got in that first deadly shot. Then he was on him, knocking him to the ground.

  The second shot went wide, as MacNee struck the gun from his hand with his baton, sending it spinning down the road. He got in a glancing blow to the back of Black’s head and, as the man scrambled to get away, flung himself on top of him, trying to pin him down. But Black was bigger, stronger and frenzied in his efforts to escape; a moment later MacNee was winded on the ground and Black vanished again, up the road and into the mist.

  Fleming, ashen-faced, was kneeling beside the crumpled figure. She looked half dazed and helpless; she was staring at her hands, red with blood, held out in front of her. As MacNee reached them, he saw the dark, spreading patch on Kershaw’s sweater. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Oh dear God!’ he said, ‘Is she . . . ?’

  Through numbed lips Fleming said, ‘It’s bad.’

  He could see that. He knelt down, checking for a pulse.

  ‘She’s breathing, at least.’ He stood up again, looking around impatiently. ‘Where the hell are the uniforms? A chest wound – we need to get it sealed and keep her warm till the ambulance gets here.’

  There we
re shouts and the sound of running feet as the first men arrived from the patrol cars. MacNee had his jacket off and was spreading it over Kershaw; one of the others did the same, then sprinted back for first-aid supplies and survival blankets.

  Another said urgently, ‘Where did he go?’ and MacNee pointed.

  ‘The gun’s on the ground there, though he might have another one.’

  The man nodded, then set off in pursuit, yelling instructions.

  MacNee turned to Fleming. She was looking ghastly, with a fresh bruise on her temple, and her body was racked by violent shuddering. ‘You’re needing a blanket too. You’re in a bad way,’ he said gruffly.

  Fleming didn’t seem to hear him. ‘She took the bullet for me,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘She pushed me aside, Tam. I – I think she wanted to die.’

  Watching, that had been his reading of it too, but he said robustly, ‘Well, she maybe won’t. Look, the fog’s definitely lifting and they could get the air ambulance here in twenty minutes. And afterwards we’ll all just have to give Kim something to live for.’

  He’d been a fool to take the time to get in the shot, but Black had simply lost it, furious at the bungling that had landed him in this situation, desperate to retrieve his position. It was all to play for: when he saw the door opening and the women coming out, he couldn’t resist. And then he hadn’t even got the right one.

  Now he was cowering on a hillside in mist that was lifting by the minute, with God knows how many policemen on his heels. He was following the course of the river, upstream of the bridge. He’d have to ford it somewhere, then come down on the other side to his car.

  They’d have had no reason to suspect it would be up beyond the turn to Rosscarron House. Once he reached it, he could put his foot down and blast his way through whatever was down there. At least it was a chance.

  He could hear them shouting to each other, behind him and lower down. The water was a bit shallower here – and anyway, what alternative did he have? Making as little noise as possible and grimacing, he scrambled down the bank and struggled across.

  At least he was on the right side now, and though he could see maybe twenty, thirty feet in either direction, there was nothing alarming. For speed, he must risk taking the road down, though he hugged the edge where a scrubby hedgerow of bushes might give him cover. He could hear a chopper overhead; he might need to disappear.

  There was his car now. Maybe there was, after all, a chance to escape disaster. With a prayer to his patroness, Lady Luck, he reached it and opened the driver’s door.

  It was only then he noticed a slashed tyre. A second later the door slammed over, pinning him painfully against the car, and holding it in place was a small man with an unpleasant, gap-toothed smile. It sent cold chills down his spine, that smile – that, and the three uniformed officers standing behind.

  ‘You and me’s got a wee bit of unfinished business, pal,’ the small man said. ‘Maybe you’d like to try resisting arrest?’ He smiled again. ‘We’ll all have a fine time subduing you, you dirty bastard.’

  And suddenly no one was smiling any more.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need a CAT scan,’ Marjory Fleming protested. ‘It was only a slight knock.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ the young houseman said cheerfully. ‘And then there’s a brain clot and they drop dead without warning two days later.’

  ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you had a wonderful bedside manner? No, I thought not,’ Marjory said, with forced cheerfulness.

  It was a huge effort to act normally, but it was the only way she could get through all this without disintegrating. She daren’t let herself think about the woman in the operating theatre who was, in the conventional phrase, fighting for her life. Particularly since Marjory was fairly sure she wasn’t.

  But certainly, once she’d had the scan, it was a relief to know that there had been no lasting harm. Bill, looking shaken, had arrived just as she got the verdict.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Surface damage only.’

  ‘The surface is pretty bad,’ he said with husbandly candour. ‘They’ve said I can take you home – probably afraid you’ll scare the other patients.’

  Marjory managed to smile. ‘Good. Lucky the hens are made of sterner stuff.’ But when Bill went to take her in his arms, she said quickly, ‘Don’t, Bill. I want to get home before I go to pieces. Make another joke – that might help.’

  She hobbled out of the cubicle on her bandaged feet. Behind her, Bill said, ‘Not sure I can make a joke to order, but I could repeat the one Hamish Raeburn told me about a farmer, a lady vet and a farrowing sow—’

  ‘Anything but that,’ Marjory groaned, but it got her out to the car before the tears came.

  Thursday, 27 July

  ‘A good, thorough go to the hall this morning, Hayley,’ Susan Telford admonished the young woman in a pink nylon overall. ‘There’s the brass to do, and it’s time the floor was polished again.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Telford,’ Hayley said meekly, only pulling a face when her employer’s back was turned. Fussy old bat! But she switched on the hoover and got on with it. If it wasn’t properly done, she’d only end up having to do it again.

  She poked the hoover under the hat-stand. A piece of paper stuck to the nozzle; she picked it up and glanced at it incuriously – just a copy of the sheet they put in all the bedrooms. She binned it and went back to her task.

  Bailey thought he was doing Fleming a favour by ordering her to take time off, and it was true that she was still feeling ill with shock. But she would so much have preferred to be in the thick of it all, to have an inquiry that was rapidly gathering pace to occupy her mind. She had phoned Andy Macdonald, who had told her briefly that the Fraud Squad had gone in to Rosscarron House and a very promising laptop computer had been found in the kid’s bedroom. They’d sworn out warrants for Lloyd and Driscoll, and both Ryans were in custody.

  He added, with obvious relief, that they’d been able to stand down the armed-response unit before it dented the budget, and that Bailey was taking all the credit going for exposing the fraud and condescending to Glasgow about having rounded up one of their serious villains. Macdonald hadn’t time to chat, though, and while she was grateful for these crumbs of information, it only made her hungry for more detail.

  The house was empty. Bill was away today at a sale, the kids were at school, and though her mother, Janet, clucking her distress, had said she’d be out to see her, she’d a friend to take for a hospital appointment first, so Fleming was delighted when she saw Tam MacNee’s car pulling up in the yard and hobbled out on her bandaged feet into the drizzle to greet him.

  Meg, bored by inactivity, bounded out too and MacNee looked gratified by the welcome. ‘Oh, it’s great to be bonny and well liked, as they say. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine. Come on in – I’ll put the kettle on. Everyone else is too busy to talk to me. I’m glad to have a companion in ignorance.’

  ‘Who says?’ MacNee said cockily, and she turned from the range to look at him.

  ‘What do you know? Oh, have you heard anything about Kim? I phoned this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me because I’m not a relation.’

  ‘The word is, she came through the op, but she’s critical.’

  They were silent for a moment and then MacNee went on, ‘Cara Ryan’s got herself one of the Glasgow lawyers who knows every trick in the book and has a few wee wrinkles of his own, and she’s ready to say she knew nothing about it and lay all the blame on her husband. And Ryan’s claiming he didn’t do anything except keep quiet about what she and Jason Williams were up to.’

  ‘Where are you getting all this from?’ Fleming demanded, pushing a mug of coffee across the table. Then, when MacNee winked and tapped the side of his nose, she said, ‘And you’re not getting any of my mother’s baking if you don’t tell me.’

  MacNee caved in at once. ‘Jock Naismith and I are old pals, and nothing goes on that he doesn’t know
about. He’s agreed to keep me posted.’

  ‘Right. So what about – Black?’ She couldn’t control a shudder as she said the name.

  ‘He’ll appear on petition this morning and they’ll remand him, of course. There’s a lot of interest in the gun. The lads up in Glasgow seemingly think it might clear up one or two outstanding murder cases for them. He’s looking at thirty years, and that’s if the judge is in a sunny mood.’

  Fleming had been eating a flapjack, but she put it down again, feeling queasy. ‘I couldn’t really take it seriously, you know, before. I couldn’t quite believe it. I mean, look at this.’ She gestured around the farmhouse kitchen – the cheerful curtains, the Aga, the dog asleep beside it, the dresser with the unmatched china and the holiday postcards and the photos of the family. ‘This is real – the other’s fantasy. Only it isn’t.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ MacNee agreed. ‘I’ve known that since I was just a wee boy. But anyway, we got him.’

  ‘You got him.’ Fleming crumbled her flapjack. ‘The next bullet would have been for me. You and Kim between you – you saved my life. You’re making a habit of it.’

  ‘Och, haud your wheesht!’ MacNee looked embarrassed. ‘And Kim’ll be all right, you’ll see. She’ll have to be, to corroborate your allegations about Cara Ryan or they’ll be claiming she’s no case to answer. A good lawyer would say your fingerprints in the larder were just the result of a search and it would be your word against hers. I’ll tell Kim she’s needed, if they’ll let me in to see her. It’ll give her something to fight for.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fleming said gloomily. ‘Oh, it’s all such a mess and a muddle – I’m not sure I’ve got it clear even now.’

  ‘It’s looking as if it was Cara who was pulling the strings all along,’ MacNee said. ‘She wanted to punish Lisa Stewart.’

  ‘And she wanted to punish her father for bringing Lisa into their lives,’ Fleming added. ‘She said as much. And we saw for ourselves how little she minded his death.’