‘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.