The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) (15 page)

A couple of minutes later Freya and Supercop followed. Even though it was baking hot Freya refused to relinquish her black clothes, wearing a long black skirt, sandals and a black vest, leather bracelets on her wrists and her fingers bedecked with rings. Still sexy. He decided to follow. He managed to keep them in sight as he descended the hill, losing them when he returned to the car park and they disappeared behind the side of the pub. He hung back in the car park as they crossed the main street towards one of the cottages. The tourist group were standing outside a cottage a few doors up and Docherty was intrigued when Freya and Supercop paused to glare at them. It was obvious the big nosed Englishman had seen them and was doing his best not to look their way.

“Bugger,” he muttered when they disappeared inside the cottage. He wondered if that house belonged to Supercop’s mum, the famous Nora.

After seeing the look Freya and Supercop had given the group he decided to see what it was all about and tagged onto the end.

“And heere in this innocuous-loooking hoose,” drawled the big-nosed berk in his crap accent, “Martin Lynch killed his first victim, Catriona Wilson. He drowned her in her oon bath.”

So, the tour was about The Elemental murders, he remembered that woman’s name from his research. Docherty wondered if his own antics would be included in the tour when he’d killed Freya. Probably. In that case he had to think of something suitably dramatic for the tourists.

“And that hoose a few doors doon belongs to Craig Donaldson’s ma,” continued the big-nosed man, pointing to the cottage Freya and Supercop had entered. “Where Freya was almost murrderred by Marrtin Lynch.”

“Can we take a look?” said one excited tourist.

“No, sorree,” he replied before hastily moving on.

After this useful titbit Docherty decided to do the full tour in case he learned something knew. No one realised he shouldn’t be there, certainly not the idiot leading them. They wandered up the road to a creepy-looking granite house with a gothic tower and overgrown garden. As they got closer he saw it was just a gutted shell, the windows boarded up. The sight of crows circling its rooftop only made it look more sinister.

“Herre Marrtin Lynch murrderred Father Logan’s own ma,” said the big-nosed man. “Burrnt her alive in her oon fireplace. At the end she wis senile, thinking her murrrderer was her oon son come back fer her.”

“Does anyone live here now?” said another eager tourist, an Englishwoman.

“Noo, it remains empty. Some short-sighted residents of the village have petitioned tae have it demolished, but it still belongs to the diocese and so far they have nae done oot aboot it so herre it still stonds.”

“Can we go in?” the woman asked.

“Sorree no. It’s still unsafe after the fire. No repairs were carried oot so it’s in danger of fallin’ doon.”

There were a few disappointed murmurs.

“Onwards tae the castle,” called the tour guide, “where Freya Donaldson was almost murrderred.”

The disappointment was eradicated by this statement and they all continued on up the hill, talking and enthusiastically pointing out landmarks.

It was a relief to step into the shadow of the castle, the cool ancient stone sheltering them from the sun. Docherty risked removing his cap and ran a hand over his scalp, wincing when he caught a burnt spot.

They were led straight to the stinking pit where Freya had almost died and they jostled for space to get a good look at the oubliette through the metal grille covering it, which was padlocked shut.

“The Elemental kidnapped Freya from the pub and broot her herre,” announced the guide.

“Is it true you were one of the men who helped lock her up in the pub cellar, leading to her being abducted?” said the same Englishwoman.

The guide just gave her a haughty look before continuing. “It was January then and a storrm descended on us. At high tide this oubliette always floods, but in winter the watter drags in with it tons of soil and muck. Freya was caught in a deadly whirlpool of silt that threatened to bury her alive. She was oonly saved at the last minute by Serrgeant Donaldson, who is noo her husband.”

“That Craig’s well fit,” one young woman told another. “I wouldn’t mind being saved by him.” When she caught the guide staring at her disapprovingly her smile fell. “Sorry.”

“Near death, she was dragged tae the surface,” continued the guide. “Serrgeant Donaldson resuscitated her and as she came roond the pair fell in love right herre, on this very stone floor.”

Sighs of longing echoed around them from the women of the group. Docherty thought it was a load of over-romanticised bollocks.

“Please feel free tae take pictures. We’ll continue the toor in ten minutes,” called the guide before pulling out a bottle of water and taking a long drink.

Docherty stared down into the gloomy pit imagining Freya down there, trapped and helpless, screaming her head off. He wondered if he should bring her back here to finish her off. The guide himself said it floods at high tide. He could throw her in and watch her drown. The grille was padlocked but that wouldn’t be a problem, he’d got good at picking locks when he was a teenager. The image of Freya whirling about down there, drawing water into her lungs every time she screamed for help got him excited and the Englishwoman gave him a funny look when he released a thrilled gasp that sounded very sexual. He swore under his breath for getting himself noticed.

To his chagrin they were led into the creepy graveyard. Somehow the warmth of the day failed to penetrate here. A shadow in the corner of his eye caught his attention, something gliding between the graves, but when he looked there was nothing there. Docherty wasn’t prone to letting his imagination run away with him but this place gave him the fear.

They were shown where the two killers and their victims were buried, Docherty noting the graves of Freya’s parents neatly tended with fresh flowers. Another way to get at her.

He hung back as the rest of the group ambled back down the hill. He’d lost interest. As the last of the group disappeared from view Docherty smiled. Finally he was alone with Mr and Mrs Macalister.

CHAPTER 16

Freya was bored. They were back on the boat watching Bill repair the large hole that had mysteriously appeared overnight while he and Craig discussed excruciatingly dull technical details of the vessel that went right over her head. Any nerves she might have felt about the vandalism had vanished in the wake of the extreme boredom she was now suffering from and she felt she must get away before she pushed them both over the side.

“I’m going for a walk,” she announced.

“Want me to come with you?” said Craig.

“No thanks, you two carry on.” She pecked him on the lips when he looked concerned. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. You’re both boring the arse off me. I want to take a walk up to the church. Your mum said it’s left open all the time because of the tour groups.”

“Why do you want to go in there? It’s seriously creepy.”

“I need to lay some ghosts to rest. That’s all.”

“If that’s what you want. Take this,” he said, holding his mobile phone out to her. “I know you left yours at work.”

“Don’t you need it?”

“I’ve got my work phone. The number’s programmed into that one. If you need me call me on it.”

“I will.”

“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Yes,” she smiled sweetly, pocketing the phone then kissing him again before leaping off the boat and landing nimbly on the dock.

“Wow,” said Craig, smiling down at her.

“I’m getting use to the swaying,” she grinned.

As she reached the end of the dock she turned and waved. Craig was watching her go and he gave her a cheery wave back. She knew he wanted to go with her, that he was worried she was trying to get away from him but she had to this, she needed to see Father Logan’s personal palace falling into dilapidation, his legacy crumbling into dust. After so many years of being tortured by the injustice of her mother’s murderer being worshipped by the local population this was finally what she’d been waiting for, the world knowing Father Logan for what he really was and despising him for it. It would be impossible to ostracise him from the villagers’ collective memories after what he’d done but at least he would be remembered as the monster he really was and not the mask he’d hid behind. His good name was in tatters, a byword for evil. The church no longer held any fear for her. Once she’d been unable to even look at it, so afraid had she been of Logan’s spectre, but now she saw the building for what it really was - an empty soulless shell.

Halfway up the hill she grew lethargic, the heat sapping her strength. It should feel cooler here by the sea than it had in the city, but Blair Dubh wasn’t any old village. The elements were always exaggerated here, a warm day turned into a scorching hot one, the relentless heat burning the ground, wilting the flowers and sending the wildlife running for the shade of the woods. The sun seared the skin of her back through her clothes, burning the tops of her shoulders despite the lotion she’d put on so she forced her tired legs to pick up the pace, needing to find shade fast.

As she approached the church she tried not to think about what she was doing. Taking a deep breath she jogged up the steps, pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

Docherty straightened up and stretched, breathing heavily. He was dripping with sweat, the sun burning into his back and shoulders, hands aching and raw and covered in soil but it had been worth it.

Before he had the chance to admire his handiwork a figure appeared.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Hastily he scanned the area, seeking somewhere to hide but he needn’t have worried. The figure marched straight into the church without even glancing his way, the door closing behind them. He’d recognise that hair and those clothes anywhere.

“Freya,” he smiled, throwing down the shovel.

The bang of the door closing behind her echoed eerily through the empty stone building, shutting out the light and heat. The church had been emptied of everything except the pews, giving it a sad, neglected air. The beautiful stained glass windows should have let in plenty of light but for some unfathomable reason they failed in their duty, the interior gloomy. The heat didn’t penetrate the old stone either, as though it wanted nothing to do with the place. Coming into the sudden cool after the intense heat outside made Freya’s skin prickle and she wrapped her arms around herself as a shiver ran down her spine.

She inhaled one long deep breath, exhaled shakily then tentatively began to make her way down the aisle, her eyes riveted on the pulpit from which Logan used to lecture the entire village on how evil and damned they all were. Hypocrite.

She took a seat on the front pew where she had sat by her mother’s side every Sunday for eleven years, come rain or shine, a little blond girl with bunches, terrified into being good by Logan’s fire and brimstone sermons, which she now knew to be a load of rubbish. Despite all the bad things she’d done - the drug taking, the drinking, the fights and thefts, she’d been given a second chance. God didn’t turn his back on you for being bad, like Logan had repeatedly told them, he forgave you and helped you move on. She wondered how this applied to Logan after what he’d done. Were his actions forgivable? Had he sought or even wanted God’s forgiveness?

Freya recalled one winter her mother had suffered a bout of flu and rather than miss church she’d hauled herself up here and sat through the service shivering and shaking, pale as death. No matter how she was feeling her eyes had always been full of rapture as she’d stared up at Logan, hanging on his every word. Freya had thought this had been because of her devotion to God, her mother had been a true believer. Now she had Craig she understood it had been love shining out of her eyes, love for Logan who she’d been having an affair with, his position in the community meaning they had to keep their relationship a secret.

“What did you see in him?” she said to the air. Her mother had been young, beautiful and vibrant while Logan, although handsome in a scary sort of way, had been dour and lacking any discernible sense of humour.

“Your temple’s gone Logan,” she said, voice bouncing back at her off the old stone. “They see you now, they see you.”

A whisper to her left had her turning in her seat just in time to catch a shadow running along the left wall, disappearing into the sanctuary.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” she said with a small smile. “You don’t scare me anymore. Make all the shadows you want, you have no power anymore.”

“Freya?”

She leapt two feet into the air, cursing herself when she saw a flesh and blood person standing at the back of the room. Her relief quickly turned to unease when she realised it was Graeme Doggett, the newbie.

“Who are you talking to?” he said, his soft light voice running through the building towards her.

“No one,” she replied, feeling stupid.

“Old ghosts need laying to rest?”

She was surprised that he, a stranger, had divined her purpose so easily. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

Her heart sank when he made his way up the aisle towards her. What the hell did he want? Dammit, why had she told Craig not to come?

As he wended his way down the aisle towards her Freya was tempted to run out of the building, there was a back door after all but she thought that would be silly. She’d no evidence this man posed a threat, for all she knew he was a very nice person. She was judging by appearance and that wasn’t fair. What exactly was it about him that made him seem so peculiar? Nothing specific, it was something inside her that cringed whenever he was near and that part of herself was now curled up in a tight little ball praying he went away quickly. All she could do was watch as he continued his slow relentless progress towards her, those unnerving dark watery eyes riveted on her.

“May I?” he said politely, gesturing to the pew behind her.

Docherty had been extremely pissed off when the tall spindly man had followed Freya into the church and closed the door behind him. Who was he? He hadn’t noticed him on the tour so Docherty assumed he was a local. Killing Sally and Anita had been so easy but Freya was proving a much harder target. Typical of that obstinate cow but he had to admit he was enjoying this game of cat and mouse where the mouse had no idea she was about to be devoured.

He moved through the churchyard and skirted the side of the church, checking for a back door. He found it unlocked and stepped inside to find himself in a room empty except for a dusty wooden desk. Having hardly ever set foot in a church before and having no belief in God whatsoever he had no idea what this room was. It was dim, dirty and stank of decay and he had the urge to step back outside into the warmth and sunlight. What the fuck was wrong with him? This village was sending him round the bend. No wonder two people had gone mental and started killing. His guess was that even after he was back inside there would be more murders here, this place was a magnet for weirdness.

The thick carpet of dust on the floor muffled the sound of his trainers on the bare wood and he crept to the door at the far end. He peeked out to find himself facing a magnificent altar, Freya’s voice racing around the room as it bounced off the walls, the effect a little disconcerting. He managed to angle himself better so he could see her sat on the front pew. Fortunately she was looking away from him, her head turned to talk to the spindly man he’d seen entering the church earlier who was sat on the pew behind her. Was this some sort of tryst? It would be fucking marvellous if she was running round behind Supercop’s back. Unfortunately he didn’t think that was the case here. Freya seemed uncomfortable in the man’s presence, shifting in her seat, eyes continually darting to the door, seeking escape. He strained to hear what she was saying but the words were muffled, as though they were being absorbed by the stone. Docherty experienced the sudden horrifying feeling that the building was alive, soaking up their very essences, including his own, in order for it to live again.

Stop it,
he told himself.
You’re losing the fucking plot.
He needed to kill her quick before he went crazy.

Pushing away these ridiculous thoughts he focused on trying to decipher what she was saying.

Freya nodded her permission for Graeme to sit and knew the gesture must have looked stilted and strained judging by how tense all her muscles had gone. It was a relief when he sat in the pew behind her, nevertheless she would still have to move past him to reach the door.

Graeme sat, elegantly crossing one leg over the other and folding his long thin hands in his lap. “I like to come here,” he opened. “I like to sit in the cool and quiet and just gather my thoughts. It’s so peaceful, don’t you think?”

Fuck no.
“Not really.” Graeme might creep her out but she wasn’t going to agree with something that went against every fibre of her being just to appease him.

“I do apologise, that was most insensitive of me.” He cocked his head to one side and stared at her in silence.

“What?” she frowned.

“I wonder how you can stand to be in here after what happened to your mother?”

She found the question intrusive. What the hell was it to do with him? But he made her so uneasy she thought it best to answer then try to get out as quickly as possible.

“I’m not letting him beat me.”

“So you’re here in defiance?”

“Yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully and stared into the air, lost in his own little world. Freya saw this as her chance. “Well, I’d better be going…” she said, getting to her feet.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he said.

She sighed and sat back down. “No.”

“Don’t you think the thought comforting? What if you could see your mother again?”

Freya’s eyes narrowed. “No offence but I don’t want to have this discussion.” His words had hit a nerve she’d only just realised existed. All these years she’d thought of the things she should have said to her mum but never did. Right then the impulse was so strong to glimpse her just one last time that tears filled her eyes and she turned her head away so Graeme wouldn’t see. Angrily she wiped them away. How could this stranger affect her so deeply? How had he seen that vulnerability hidden deep inside her? There was only one explanation.

When Freya turned back to face him her green eyes burned with curiosity. “You lost someone to violent death too, didn’t you?”

The change in his demeanour was abrupt. He shut down completely, all the expression draining from his face and his body went stiff with tension.

“I’m right,” she said, struggling to keep the triumph out of her voice. “Not nice when strangers get too close, is it?”

She got to her feet and hurried past him to the door, trying not to break into a run.

“Freya, wait,” he called.

She stopped and turned, keeping her hand on the door. “What?” she snapped, nerves and anger seething inside her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Well you did,” she retorted, her voice ringing out loud and hurt.

“We’re the only ones who know what the pain’s like. Only we know true evil.”

They stared at each other in silence, Freya’s eyes wide with wonder, her hand still on the door, wondering whether she should run outside or resume her seat and talk to him some more. Graeme steadily stared back at her willing her to make the decision he knew she was wrestling with.