3

Kim Kershaw arranged her face in an expression of intelligent interest as DI Fleming explained her general philosophy of policing in the community. There was nothing wrong with it: good, standard ethical stuff that she’d heard often enough before, but she’d had bosses who talked the talk quite eloquently while their gait in walking the walk was uneven to say the least. She didn’t have a trusting nature – not now – and what she’d seen of both the police and the criminal fraternity had only deepened her cynicism.

Fleming’s hazel eyes were penetrating, though, and Kershaw was careful not to let these thoughts register on her face. She answered the questions Fleming posed about her professional life fully, about her personal life briefly: she was divorced; she had one child; she was renting a perfectly satisfactory ground-floor flat in Newton Stewart.

Despite sex-discrimination rules, she had suffered interrogation in the past about her childcare arrangements, but this time, when she didn’t elaborate on her circumstances, Fleming didn’t probe. Kershaw did catch a look on the inspector’s face, though, which suggested that this reticence might have been filed away as interesting information.

Fleming was winding up the meeting now. ‘Sorry I can’t give you longer, Kim, but as you can imagine, I’m up to my eyes this morning. Looking forward to working with you, though.’

While you’d never describe Big Marge as good-looking, her smile lit up her face in a very engaging way and Kershaw found herself smiling back.

‘Thanks, boss. I’ll do my best.’

‘Good. That’s all from my point of view. Any questions?’

Kershaw had been hoping for an opportunity. ‘Not a question, ma’am, but may I say something?’

‘Of course.’

The tone was cordial enough, but she sensed that the other woman was on her guard. She took a deep breath.

‘DS MacNee has just apologised to me. I appreciate your concern for me as a newcomer, but I don’t need you to fight my battles. I’m perfectly able to deal with him myself and it won’t help to have an awkward relationship made worse by him getting grief from you.’

There was a pause, during which Kershaw remembered Andy Macdonald’s warning and began to wish she’d taken it to heart.

Then Fleming said calmly, ‘I admire your capacity to be direct – and I don’t mean that in a sarcastic way. I’m all for straight talking. On the other hand, I don’t think you quite appreciate what I was doing. Your relationship with MacNee is your own business. You’ll have to sort things out between you. My business is the good discipline of my officers. A divided team is an ineffective team, and I don’t tolerate any behaviour that affects our standards of professionalism. My intervention was on that basis. Do you understand now?’

Wrong-footed, Kershaw muttered that she did.

‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be a valuable addition. Thanks, Kim.’

Kershaw left, reflecting on the interview. There had been no aggression, no animosity; Fleming had merely been as blunt as she had been herself in spelling out her position. Why, then, did she feel like saying, ‘Phew!’ as she shut the door behind her?

 

‘And this blue one on top. Now, what shall we do? Oh dear, over it goes!’

Beth Brown laughed as the toddler gleefully knocked the tower of bricks to the floor.

‘Do it again? Here we are – green one, red one . . .’

From her seat in the corner of her son’s sitting room next to the mottled brown thirties fireplace, Ina McClintock Buchan watched Beth like a spider assessing the potential of an unfamiliar species of fly.

A lifelong habit of discontent had etched itself on Ina’s features, producing eyes narrowed by suspicion and harsh lines between her brows. Even when she smiled, usually in triumph at some barb that had found its mark, there was still a sour downturn to her thin-lipped mouth.

Now she said, ‘You’ll be wanting away, to get back to your family, no doubt.’

Beth, placing a yellow brick on top of the green and the red, didn’t look up. ‘Not really.’

Ina frowned. ‘ “Not really”? What kind of answer is that?’

Beth gave her a sidelong look, then shrugged.

The thin lips tightened. ‘If that’s your idea of manners, it’s no wonder if your family don’t want anything to do with you.’

Goaded, the girl retorted, ‘I never said that! I’ve none to go to, that’s all.’

‘Funny thing, that – no family,’ Ina mused artlessly.

‘I’m an only child and my mother’s dead, all right?’ Beth snapped. ‘If it’s any of your business.’

‘What about your partner, then? Maidie said you’d a partner – apparently that’s what you call it these days when you’re a bidie-in.’

‘He’s – he’s away.’

Beth was biting her lip and she put the brick in her hand on to the tower so clumsily that it collapsed. Calum crowed and clapped his hands.

‘Away where?’ Ina persisted. ‘You’ll be wanting to let him know what’s happened before he sees it on the telly and gets a fright.’

‘Well, I can’t, can I? Phone’s not working.’

With malevolent glee, Ina heard real anger there. The girl was glaring at her, and there was something curious about her eyes. What was it, now?

As Beth looked away to say something to the child, Ina realised there was a gap between the bottom of the iris and the lower lid. It made her eyes look as round as marbles and oddly staring.

‘Funny eyes you’ve got. Not natural, that, is it?’ Ina was saying when the door opened and her daughter-in-law came in with mugs and a plate of biscuits on a tray.

‘For goodness’ sake, Gran, you can’t go saying things like that!’ Maidie protested. ‘Beth, don’t pay any attention. You’ve got very pretty eyes – lovely colour, and quite unusual with your dark hair.’

Ina pursed her lips in annoyance. Maidie’s unrelenting cheerfulness and imperviousness to insult had always been a source of frustration.

‘I’ll say what I like and you’ll not stop me,’ she said, but the moment had passed. Her victim was on her feet, persuading Calum to help put the bricks in the box before he got his juice.

‘Good boy, Calum! Now sit down nicely so you don’t spill.’ Beth scooped up the child with practised ease and settled him beside her on the sofa.

‘You’re an absolute godsend!’ Maidie handed Beth a mug. ‘I’ve got a dozen things done this morning that I haven’t had time to do for weeks, and there’s a cake in the oven for tea. That’ll be nice, won’t it, Gran?’

Gran’s face indicated merely irritation at this attempt at good cheer, and Maidie went on, ‘Calum’s been a wee angel for you, Beth. I barely recognise him! You must have worked with children – or have you young brothers and sisters?’

It was an innocent remark. So why should Beth’s face have gone scarlet? Ina wondered. Something odd there. ‘She’s an only child,’ Ina put in – purely in a spirit of helpfulness, of course.

‘I’ve – I’ve never worked with children,’ Beth stammered. ‘I – I did other things.’

It was so clearly untrue that Maidie in her turn became flustered. ‘Sorry, I – I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘She’s lying, obviously,’ Ina said in a conversational tone. ‘What’s she lying for?’

Beth jumped to her feet, startling the toddler, who bawled in fright. She went to the door and wrenched it open.

‘I’m going out.’

‘Beth, it’s pouring!’ Maidie protested in distress. ‘There’s no need—’

The girl turned in the doorway. ‘Oh, yes, there is. I’m leaving before I do something I’ll regret to that evil old bat!’

The door slammed behind her.

‘Well! Nice manners, I don’t think!’ Ina tittered.

For once provoked beyond bearing, Maidie picked up the sobbing Calum and carried him out, saying over her shoulder, ‘She’s absolutely right. I should have called you that more often, instead of just thinking it.’

The door was slammed again, leaving Ina McClintock Buchan alone, with an unpleasant smirk of satisfaction on her face.

 

Beth felt sick, sick and frightened as she half-ran past the kennels. They hadn’t believed her; she’d never been a good liar.

‘You were angry, weren’t you, when you had to give up your evening out?’

The man in the wig hadn’t moved his eyes off her face since the questioning began. She felt as if he had flayed away the skin, as if now he was paring the flesh off her bones.

She hesitated. ‘I said I didn’t mind.’

She knew it sounded feeble. He let a pause develop. Then, ‘You said you didn’t mind.’ He gave the word intense significance. ‘Said it. But you didn’t mean it, did you?’

And she hadn’t known how to reply.

What was going to happen now? She didn’t dare to think.

 

‘The super’s right – Donaldson is a bit of an old woman,’ Fleming said, as she drove towards Kirkcudbright with MacNee. ‘But that isn’t to say he hasn’t got a point. After all, the Carron’s burst its banks already and this rain’s showing no sign of letting up. The bridge was still clear when he checked it yesterday, but the level wasn’t falling. And apart altogether from the question of the strain on the bridge with the river in spate, you have to consider that you could have hundreds of fans stranded if it rises any more. There’d be absolutely no way of getting them off the headland that wouldn’t involve helicopters or a flotilla of boats, and I’m not sure how much of the Dunkirk spirit survives in Kirkcudbright.’

MacNee grunted. ‘Good excuse to cancel the whole thing. A lot less hassle – traffic control, undercover drugs surveillance . . .’

Fleming gave him a look of exasperation. She’d been prepared for awkwardness, ready to work towards their old easy relationship, but he was just being bloody-minded. ‘For heaven’s sake, Tam, we were all young once! At least I certainly was, and I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘If it’s cancelled, we’ll still get the morons arriving anyway, just ettling to cause trouble.’ MacNee was determinedly morose. ‘Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.’

‘You’re a right little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you? Maybe the rain will stop and the river will go down.’

She had hoped he might respond in kind, but MacNee only pointed through the windscreen where, beyond the frenetic wiper activity, all that could be seen were banks of purple-grey cloud.

For Fleming, patience had never been one of the easier virtues. Be like that, she thought and, switching to professional mode, said, ‘Anyway, do you have any background on Gillis Crozier?’

MacNee shrugged. ‘Not a lot. He comes and goes to London. We’ve certainly not got anything on file. I took a wee look after I’d a call from my pal Sheughie in the Glasgow Force a while back, saying the name Rosscarron had come up and asking if one of the big boys on his patch was hanging round here.’

Fleming raised her brows. ‘And was he?’

‘If he was, he wasn’t selling tickets. But there’s maybe more to Crozier than meets the eye. Suddenly he’s in the building trade – makes you wonder . . .’

‘Indeed it does. And this new pop festival too – it’s pretty low key, and he can’t be expecting to make big money from it. But that’s another perfect way to launder cash, with all the casual payments. Let’s put some feelers out. We’ve a few CHISes around who might know something, haven’t we?’

‘If we’re allowed to speak to them any more, with all these new regulations,’ MacNee said with some bitterness. ‘In the old days I could have picked my pub, bought one of the grasses a wee quiet bevvy and found out everything I needed to know.’

‘Covert human intelligence sources, not grasses. That’s an offensive term.’ Fleming was getting tired of MacNee’s attitude. ‘You know damn well that cosying up to villains led to money changing hands in the wrong direction – there were far too many scandals that way. In any case, nowadays in some circles getting hold of a gun’s not a lot more difficult than buying a pint of milk and CHISes need serious protection.’

‘Cloak-and-dagger stuff,’ MacNee sneered. ‘Just a word over a pint would be less obvious. Here! I wonder where they’re away to in such a hurry?’

They were just coming past the end of the road to Kirkcudbright Police Station when a badged car, lights flashing, pulled out ahead of them.

‘Will I check in and find out?’ MacNee leaned forward to the radio, but Fleming groaned.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t go looking for trouble! If we’re really needed they’ll call us in, but if we’re not, I don’t want to feel obliged to offer support. I’ve enough to do today without anything extra.’

‘Fine,’ MacNee said, elaborately moving his hands back. ‘You’re the boss.’

The words ‘Too right I am’ sprang to her lips, but Fleming managed not to say them.

The police car sped off and vanished, while Fleming drove at a more sedate pace along the road south, watching for the unmarked side road leading to Rosscarron.

‘It’s one of these places you’re not meant to go to unless you know where it is,’ she was complaining, when she saw the first AA temporary sign saying, ‘Rosscarron Music Festival.’

‘Maybe if we took it down, they’d all give up and go home.’ MacNee earned another exasperated glance from his boss as she turned off again at the next sign.

This road, even narrower, ran along the line of the river and Fleming gasped as she saw the extent of the flooding on the farther, lower side.

‘That’s a disaster! Those houses weren’t cheap and it’ll cost a fortune to sort them out once the water goes down.’

The smart executive homes were indeed a sorry sight. Filthy water was lapping two feet above ground-floor level and outside, three or four vehicles were engulfed in a sea of sludge. Even with the car windows shut, the officers could smell the stench from the drains.

‘You’d think that must be a serious health risk,’ Fleming said. ‘Do you know if everyone’s moved out?’

‘They were evacuating them a couple of days ago, but one or two were pretty reluctant to leave and we can’t force them. There’s one in particular kicking up. He’s aye greeting about something – even came all the way to Kirkluce to speak to the super in person.’

‘Donald did just mention that.’

‘Jamieson’s his name. He’s been raging about the festival for weeks now till the local lads are sick fed up – maybe he’ll be happy now he’s really got something to complain about. Wants officers round the clock to guard against looting, seemingly. Looting, down here, for any favour! And of course we’re to arrest Crozier. Jamieson seemed kinda hazy about grounds for a charge, but dead sure he should be in jail.’

‘I see. I can feel for him, of course, but let’s hope he’s seen sense and cleared out by now.’

The road had a film of water covering it at first, but as it rose towards the bridge, the banks of the river, dark and dirty with mud, rose too and here the water was still contained, though deep and gushing down with considerable force. As she drove across, Fleming peered anxiously at the level, though so far at least the bridge was still three or four feet clear.

‘From what Donaldson told me, I’d say it hasn’t risen much since yesterday. And it looks a solid enough structure. The forecast isn’t great, but most of the headwater will have come through by now. I’ll get out and have a good look around to appease Donaldson on the way back, but I can’t see a real problem.’

‘Fine,’ MacNee said, but he was looking over his shoulder towards the smaller road on the right.

‘Something caught your eye?’

He turned round again. ‘There was a man walking down there to the houses, so someone must still be staying there.’

‘Jamieson?’

‘Don’t know what he looks like. It was just he looked round, and when he saw the car, he walked faster. Maybe we should . . .’

‘It’s an unmarked car, so why should that be suspicious? He probably just thought of something he meant to do,’ Fleming said dismissively. ‘Anyway, we’re not on patrol, Tam. We’ve a job to do, and the sooner it’s done, the sooner I can get back to my in-tray. I could swear that when I left, the legs of the desk were beginning to buckle.’

 

The eight-year-old boy, wearing premium jeans and a Diesel top, was sitting on a high stool at the breakfast bar in the clinically white kitchen of Rosscarron House. He had fair, curly hair, worn long, and he was rhythmically kicking the counter.

‘Don’t do that, Nico.’ Cris Pilapil glanced across the room with ill-concealed irritation. He was chopping onions at the stainless-steel-topped island unit, and in a pan on the range-style cooker spices were roasting, filling the air with their sharp fragrance.

Nico went on kicking. ‘You didn’t say please.’

‘Please, then.’

‘But I don’t want to stop. And I don’t have to do what you say.’

‘Fine.’ Cris took the pan off the heat, then went back to chopping the onions with neat, economical movements.

‘I want my breakfast.’

The demand was ignored. Suddenly Nico jumped down, pushing the stool over with a crash. He shouted in the man’s ear, ‘I want my breakfast!’

Cris finished the onions and picked up a red pepper. ‘You didn’t say please.’

‘I don’t have to say please. You’re my servant.’

‘I’m your granddad’s servant. Let’s go and see what he thinks, shall we?’

Nico took a step back, considering. Involving his grandfather in situations like this was seldom a good idea.

‘Please,’ he threw over his shoulder, then picked up the stool and climbed on to it again.

Cris put down his knife. ‘What do you want?’

‘Bacon roll.’

As the man went to the huge American fridge to fetch the bacon, Nico began kicking again.

 

‘Can’t raise the boss,’ DS Andy Macdonald said to DC Ewan Campbell. ‘She’s not in the car and her phone’s off.’

‘Out at Rosscarron. No signal there.’ Campbell, a red-headed Highlander from Oban, tended to speak as if dictating an old-fashioned telegram with a charge per word.

Macdonald looked at him with respect. ‘You don’t say a lot, but you always know what’s going on, don’t you?’

‘I listen,’ Campbell said simply.

Macdonald grinned. ‘OK, I talk too much. We’d better head on down there, anyway. This is going to be an all-hands-on-deck ­situation. Does Your Omniscience know where Kim is?’

‘Late shift,’ Campbell obliged.

‘Just lost her morning off, then, hasn’t she? You’ve got her mobile number, no doubt.’

Campbell looked at him coolly. ‘Lazy bastard. Get it yourself.’

‘That’s hurtful, you know, really hurtful. And insubordinate. Anyway, I’ve just remembered I’ve got it on speed dial, so I won’t put you on a charge just this once.’

 

Kim Kershaw leaned over the child in the wheelchair, holding out a brightly coloured toy bird.

‘Look at this, Debbie!’ She jiggled it invitingly and after a moment the girl stretched out an uncertain hand and touched it.

Kim’s face brightened. ‘Well done, honey! Now, if we press this, it sings – listen!’

At the sound of the little tinny song, the blank eyes flickered with some sort of interest and a carer passing by stopped with a sympathetic smile.

Kim turned eagerly. ‘She actually reached out for this. That’s definitely a step forward.’

‘Debbie’s in a good mood today,’ the woman said. ‘Got a smile from her this morning, didn’t I, Debbie?’

‘Did you?’ Kim looked wistfully at the child’s expressionless face, sighed, then said, ‘She’s so much better here. I can see real improvements. It was so awful in that other place – nobody cared. They didn’t talk to her like you do. You couldn’t expect her to make progress there.’

‘We-ell,’ the carer said uncomfortably. Talking couldn’t make any difference to Debbie Kershaw and it was heart-breaking if her mother thought it would.

‘I wish I could have her at home,’ Kim said, ‘but . . .’

‘She needs more care than you can give her,’ the woman said firmly. ‘Don’t go beating yourself up about it. And if there’s an emergency . . .’

Kim shuddered at the recollection of previous emergencies, before she had been persuaded to put Debbie into residential care, occasions when she had thought that thanks to her lack of skill she might lose Debbie altogether.

She smoothed back the dark hair from Debbie’s face. The brown eyes were dull again, and Kim looked in the bag at her feet. ‘Now, let’s see what we have here. The musical box – you liked that yesterday.’

Kim was winding up the gaily decorated toy when her mobile phone rang. She fetched it out of her bag, glanced at the caller number and grimaced.

‘Yes? . . . Oh, all right. Be there as soon as I can.’

She put the toys back in the bag and, taking the thin, fragile hand, bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead. ‘Bye, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon.’

The carer watched her go. Some people truly had it tough. She’d just been brooding about the fuss at breakfast over her own ten-year-old wanting her ears pierced. Put it all in perspective, really.

 

In a house the size of Rosscarron, it was only to be expected that there would be staff – a local wifie, perhaps, drafted in when the owner was in residence. But Fleming was definitely taken aback when the front door was opened by an exotic-looking young man with dark brown eyes and skin the colour of café au lait. He smiled politely at the officers.

They showed their warrant cards. ‘Is Mr Crozier in?’ Fleming asked. ‘We were hoping for a word with him.’

‘He’s just got back – upstairs changing. It was all pretty messy, as you can imagine. I’ll tell him you’re here. If you’d come with me . . .’

Exchanging puzzled glances, Fleming and MacNee followed him across the hall. Its architectural style was high Victorian, but it had been painted glossy white with one dramatically purple wall. A couple of white chairs with purple upholstery stood against the back wall on either side of a narrow white table, but otherwise it was echoingly empty.

The room Pilapil showed them into was also shiny white and, Fleming supposed, minimalist. It was bare, certainly, with no signs of the casual detritus of normal family life, and the only decoration was two of what were probably called objets in stainless steel on a glass table, and a huge abstract consisting of black and orange stripes. But this looked perfunctory, somehow, as if it had been painted to order to match the sofas and chairs, which were solid blocks of black and orange leather. These were placed at uncomfortable distances from one another, which confirmed the impression of indifference. The only signs of personal taste were a huge plasma-screen TV and speakers in all four corners of the room.

‘Brr!’ MacNee said, sitting down. ‘Makes you feel cold, just coming in here.’

‘Wouldn’t choose it, myself. What was all that about?’

‘Seemed to be expecting us, didn’t he? Sounds as if something’s happened. Maybe that’s what the lads in Kirkcudbright were going off to.’

With some irritation, she could hear him thinking, We should have checked. ‘OK, we should have checked. I was wrong. Satisfied?’ Aware that she had let her annoyance show, she went on, more temperately, ‘Still, sounds as if we’re going to find out now.’

Fleming walked over to the window. The room was towards the back of the side of the house, and beyond a characterless garden, consisting mainly of roughly mown grass, some shrubs and a sort of copse of low trees and bushes, she could see a structure at the top of the rising ground behind.

‘That must be the stage,’ she said. ‘And there are some caravans beside it – for staff, presumably – and then a few small tents lower down. Some of the fans must have started arriving already. Why would anyone choose to spend an extra night camping in weather like this? They must be mad!’

From somewhere in the house, someone began to play an ­electric guitar. It sounded as if it was directly overhead, and MacNee winced.

‘Someone practising for the gig, I daresay,’ Fleming said, her mouth twitching at her sergeant’s expression. ‘Sounds pretty good, actually.’

‘Hmph. Loud, anyway. Just so long as no one expects me to listen to a performance, that’s all.’

‘You’d probably be expected to pay, from the sound of it,’ Fleming was saying dryly when Gillis Crozier came into the room. They both got to their feet.

He had just a look of Clark Gable’s Rhett Butler, Fleming thought, only an older, sadder, wiser Rhett, and clean-shaven, of course. The seamed lines on his face suggested the same whiff of brimstone, and she guessed that to groupies in the music world he would have been powerfully attractive when he was younger. Now, though, that face suggested that life had not just been a giddy round of glamorous parties with willing young women.

He didn’t greet them formally. ‘Dreadful thing, this,’ he said heavily. ‘Dreadful.’

The officers looked at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid this is something we haven’t heard about,’ Fleming said. ‘We came to discuss the problems with vandalism.’

‘Oh, yes, that.’ He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘I thought you’d come about the landslide at the Rosscarron Cottages down below there. A man dead, a woman injured, homes destroyed . . .’

The guitar had just stopped and there was an appalled silence, before Fleming said, ‘That’s terrible news. I think, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave the other matter for the moment.’ She took her mobile out of her pocket and squinted at it. ‘No signal. If I might just use your phone . . .’

‘No point. Lines must be down somewhere – they’ve been out since last night.’

‘Then we’d better get on over there.’

Just then the sitting-room door opened and a man came in behind them, a very tall, slim man with a mane of iron-grey hair swept back from his face – an interesting face, with a slightly crooked nose and grey eyes so light they were almost silver. The black jeans and black granddad shirt he wore made him look taller still.

‘Oh, sorry, Gil!’ He had a faint American accent. ‘Am I interrupting something, or—’ He broke off. Stared. Then said, ‘Good God – Madge!’

Slowly, Fleming turned her head and for a moment time slipped. She could hear the thump, thump, thump of the heavy bass, taste the astringent burn of smoke in her throat. The air was thick with it, blue-grey wisps floating in the beam of the rigged-up spotlight. There was a sickly-sweet, decadent edge to it too, as well as the rawer smell of beer and sweat and youth itself in the cramped back room of the pub. The band was coming to the raucous end of the last number now, its signature tune, ‘And the Walls Came Tumbling Down’, and for a moment she had almost thought they would.

‘Joss? But – but you’re in America!’ she said stupidly.

‘Evidently not.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘So, how’s it been, these last twenty-odd years?’