Cradle to Grave Read Online Free Page B

defence witness and a somnolent hush had fallen. Despite the chilling majesty of the Old Bailey courtroom, she had felt heavy-eyed herself. Below her on a ledge, a bluebottle on its back spun round and round, buzzing and buzzing in a frenzy of helplessness. She knew just how it felt.
    When the next witness was called, the atmosphere changed as if a breeze had blown through. Suddenly there was a hum of talk and the reporters were sitting up.
    Her grandmother looked very tiny as she took her place in the witness stand, thin and frail, but with her pain-racked body fiercely erect and her chin tilted. Her flame-red hair looked almost like a flag of defiance.
    But compared to the loud, confident tones of the barrister, her soft Scottish voice sounded hesitant as she said, ‘But she’s always loved the bairns.’
     
    ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back, Marjory.’
    There was no mistaking Superintendent Donald Bailey’s sincerity. Even his bald pate was rippling as he gave her a beaming smile. ‘We had a couple of shocking substitutes wished on us – shocking.’ His plump face clouded as he detailed a few of the inadequacies of Fleming’s temporary replacements. ‘But we have to put all that behind us now.’
    ‘Absolutely, Donald.’ There would be no one happier to put it all behind her than DI Fleming herself. But she suspected Bailey, whose inadequacies when he was an inspector she had exposed in her most recent case, was no longer as supportive of her as he had once been; her suspicions were confirmed as he went on.
    ‘There’s something I have to say to you, though – not official, you understand, just a word to the wise. For your own sake, Marjory, be very careful for the next bit. There were mutterings in high places about the adverse publicity all this generated. So cover your back – everything by the book, all “i”s dotted, “t”s crossed. Keep your head down, that’s my advice.’
    She had worked that out for herself, but it didn’t feel good to have it spelled out. ‘Thanks for the warning, Donald,’ she said, a little stiffly. ‘I certainly intend to.’
    ‘Of course you do!’ His voice was slightly too hearty. ‘Excellent, excellent. The matter’s closed now as far as I’m concerned. Now, to business . . .’
    There was a considerable backlog, both operational and administrative, for Bailey to go through with her. Fleming’s head was spinning by the time he shuffled the papers together on his desk and said, ‘That about covers it.’
    Fleming flipped shut her notebook, keen to get going. She wouldn’t be out of here before midnight, by the looks of things.
    ‘Thanks, Donald. That’s been enormously helpful. Anything else?’
    ‘Our most immediate problem at the moment is the flooding. There was a demonstration yesterday afternoon – you heard about it?’
    Fleming nodded. ‘There’s a lot of sympathy in the town. It’s all in places where houses should never have been built. For instance, the Carron – I can remember myself seeing flooding at the mouth there years ago, so why the council allowed the project to go ahead without proper flood defences being in place . . .’
    Bailey snorted. ‘Absolutely ridiculous! They’ve been talking about defences for years and done nothing about it – there should never have been planning permission. And after all this rain, every river and burn is in spate, of course. I can tell you, Mr Crozier isn’t a popular man at the moment.’
    Gillis Crozier was a local lad who had done well out of the pop music he had been promoting since the late seventies in London, then a few years ago had reappeared to buy Rosscarron House, a former shooting lodge on the Rosscarron headland, as a second home. He had a finger in a lot of pies, though, and this latest property venture, right on his own doorstep, looked to have been ill judged.
    ‘And of course,’ Bailey went on, ‘this pop festival has been a flashpoint too.’
    Fleming