Cradle to Grave by Aline Templeton Page A

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