Cradle to Grave (56 page)

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 no 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.

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 were 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.