Docherty was woken he didn’t know how much later by the murmur of voices. It was absolutely pitch black outside but there was a watery glow cast from a couple of underwater LED’s used to light the way on the dock so no one would fall in the water. Slowly he pulled himself up to the window, careful not to agitate the boat. Peering out he saw Supercop pulling Freya onto their boat. They stood together swaying as it gently rocked, Freya clinging onto him, the pair of them giggling like school kids. They kissed and their moans drifted to him on the gentle night breeze, making him seriously horny. Enviously he watched as they disappeared inside the boat. Sure as shit they were going to have sex. Bastards. He released a soft chuckle as he thought he would soon be enjoying what DS Donaldson was enjoying at that moment.
CHAPTER 15
Davey was troubled. He’d printed an image of the bald headed stranger off the security system at the offices and shown it to some of his old contacts, but no one recognised the man. This was frustrating because without a name he couldn’t run a check on him. The sense of unease the man’s visit had instilled in him hadn’t gone away, in fact it had only got stronger. He’d tried to convince himself over and over that he was just being paranoid but the feeling refused to dissipate. He still had some police contacts and wondered if he should take it to one of them.
Just as Davey was pondering the problem a short stocky man with rounded shoulders, a craggy face and long arms that swung alarmingly when he walked appeared in the open doorway.
“Davey Woods, long time no see.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Gray,” smiled Davey, getting to his feet and extending a large hand. “I heard all about you from Freya, you’ve done bloody well for yourself.”
Twenty years ago Davey never would have thought he could be pleasant to this man, who was the most unrelenting stubborn bastard in the city. He was known as Stone Gray because he was as inflexible as the substance. Gray had been responsible for sending him to Bar-L for eight years for drugs offences, but back then he’d been a humble PC. In fact Gray’s illustrious career had begun on the back of his arrest.
Davey had spent the first two years of his sentence dreaming up ways to destroy the man. However, after going through a rehab programme on the inside, he’d managed to wean himself off the drugs. When he’d finally started to see his life clearly he’d realised Gray had done him a favour. He’d been on a certain path to self-destruction; drug dealing, loansharking and acting as a heavy for whoever could pay him enough. He’d already suffered a near death experience before he was put away, receiving a deep stab wound to the gut from a rival dealer. Continuation on the same path would only have ended in a tragic early death and what would he have had to show for his life? Nothing. Who would mourn him? No one. The police might have thrown a party if he’d croaked it, he’d been a major pain in their collective arses for years, but that would be it. This terrible insight had terrified him into changing his ways. He’d begun counselling other inmates and found he had a knack for it, using his own experiences to understand and help others and he’d been reborn. Freya had been one of his greatest successes and was now one of his best friends.
“What brings you here?” said Davey.
“I’m looking for Freya.”
“Why?” barked Davey, preparing to leap to her defence.
“She’s not done anything. She could be in danger.”
“What sort of danger?” said Davey, recalling the stranger.
“What I’m about to tell you is absolutely top secret. Only a handful of my team and the prison service know. Blabbing about it will put Freya at risk, as well as my career.”
“You can trust me. Go on.”
“I know I can.” Those were words that once upon a time he’d never thought he’d utter but Davey was a changed man and a good one at that. “Docherty’s escaped.”
Davey sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew all about that wanker, Freya had told him everything when he was counselling her. “How in the name of holy fuck did that happen?” he snarled, furious.
“During the riot he cut up a guard so badly his face was unrecognisable, switched clothes and walked right out the gates in the chaos.”
“That’s fucking mental. Why was no one checking? It’s a fucking category A prison.”
“There’ll be an investigation and heads will roll. He’s already killed two of the women who testified against him. Freya’s the third and he’ll be after her next.” Then me.
“I think he’s already started,” replied Davey, taking the picture of the stranger out of a drawer and tossing it onto his desk. “He came here yesterday looking for her. He tried to make out he was a client but I wasn’t buying it so I refused to tell him anything. He didn’t look best pleased. It never occurred to me it could be Docherty but why should it? He should be under fucking lock and key,” he said, thumping a fist down on his desk. “Freya’s been through enough what with her ma being buried alive, then Docherty, then Martin Lynch. I can’t fucking believe it,” he bellowed, banging his fist again.
“You’re preaching to the converted but my priority is finding Freya before he does. I’ve been to her flat and there’s no sign of her,” replied Gray, studying the image. It could have been the same man on the footage leaving the scene of Sally’s murder, he was the right build, similar clothes.
“She’s gone away for a few days, her and Craig hired a boat.”
“So I believe. I spoke to DS Donaldson’s superior. I’ve tried calling their mobiles but I’ve been unable to get hold of either of them.”
“Freya’s mobile is here,” he said, taking it out of his desk drawer. “She left it in her office.”
“Any idea where they might be?”
“Craig mentioned they would be taking a cruise down the west coast. He wanted to go to Arran first, spend a couple of days there, maybe go on to Turnberry then stop at Blair Dubh on the way back to visit his ma. Freya didn’t know, it was a surprise.”
“So they could be anywhere?”
“Afraid so, which is good because it means it will make it harder for Docherty to find her.”
“I’m not convinced of that. He used to be one of us, unfortunately, he’s good at tracking people down. He’ll find her. I need to find her first.”
“She’s got Craig with her.”
“Docherty’s a coward, he’ll wait until he’s not around to go for her.”
“If he tries and Craig gets hold of him he will kill him. He worships that girl.”
“Good, she deserves some worship. So it’s vital we get to her first not only to protect her but DS Donaldson’s liberty too.”
Davey sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Then you’d better hurry. They were off to Arran, you’d best try there first.”
“Jesus Christ how did that happen?”
Freya jumped awake, pulled on her robe and rushed up onto the deck. “What’s wrong?”
“Look,” said Craig, gesturing to a hole in the side of the boat.
“Isn’t it supposed to be like that?”
“No it bloody well isn’t”
“What do we do?”
“We have to get it fixed. I can’t give it back to Muir in that state. How did it happen? Did we do it last night when we came back from the pub? I’d had a few.”
“No you didn’t. We went straight downstairs.” She bent over to study the damage. “How could it happen?”
“Someone must have done it, but this is Blair Dubh. I can’t imagine it being any of the locals. Probably some pissed tourist.”
“Why our boat?” Freya went rigid. “It’s this place. It doesn’t want us to leave.”
“Don’t be silly. It was probably just a seagull or something.”
“A seagull? Now who’s being silly. I’m telling you, it’s this village,” she said, clutching her arms about herself and staring up the hill towards the church where the bodies of Logan and Lynch lay. “It’s a lovely little village until I come back.
I unleash something dark in Blair Dubh. I’m a jinx.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Seagulls are big mean bastards. We might have spilt some food on deck and they came down for a feast and did some damage in the process, there was a crack there anyway. Or it might have been one of the tour group we pissed off yesterday, it could even have been Toby.”
Freya didn’t believe it and neither did he. Luckily this was Blair Dubh and most of the village would know how to repair the damage.
“Bill’s our best bet at getting it fixed, I’ll go and see him,” said Craig.
Freya didn’t want to be left alone on the boat. “Let me get dressed and I’ll come with you.”
Docherty lay in the boat listening to their conversation with a smile. Perhaps Donaldson wasn’t such a supercop after all. As if a fucking seagull could have made that hole. The good news was they weren’t going anywhere any time soon.
He stretched his back out, wincing when his muscles screamed after a night on the firm bench, but at least he felt refreshed. All he needed now was to treat his head wound again and find some food then he’d be ready to get his ultimate revenge. If this was Glasgow he’d nick something to eat but he was stuck in this small poxy village and if he went into the shop he’d get noticed and remembered.
While he pondered the problem he fiddled with the little radio he’d found in the cabin, attempting to find a station. Eventually he happened upon the news, which was crackly and distorted but just about audible. Still nothing about his escape and he knew information about escaped prisoners was circulated around the whole country. McMillan must still be out of it. With a bit of luck he’d die. Looking back on it he wished he’d just killed him outright, it might have given him a free pass, a new start. However DNA or fingerprints might have been taken from the body, just to be sure, and they would have clocked on to what had really happened a lot sooner. The riot had taken everyone by surprise and he’d had little time to think through the consequences. He’d had to make a snap decision and he had.
He put all that to the back of his mind. Right now his most pressing need was to treat his injury and food.
He peeked his head out of the cabin to check the coast was clear. No one was about. Agilely he jumped onto the dock and casually strolled away clutching the carrier bag he’d taken from the bungalow, hands in his pockets, trying to look like a tourist. On the small car park next to the pub were some public toilets. Fortunately they were empty so he took the first aid kit out of the carrier bag and removed the dressing. He grimaced at the thin line of pus staining the white padding, but this was good because it meant the antiseptic cream was drawing out the infection. He cleaned it up with water and a paper towel, slathered more of the thick smelly cream onto the wound then applied a fresh dressing, tossing the old one into the bin. He didn’t feel ill or feverish so the infection mustn’t have entered his bloodstream.
After a thorough wash in the sink he exited the toilets and noticed several cars pulling in, the occupants climbing out and congregating around some stuck-up-looking arsehole with a big nose.
“Hellooo all. Oover here,” the man called.
Docherty released a loud snort. Obviously an English prick putting on a crap Scottish accent. The tourists were lapping it up.
The crowd’s attention was drawn to the git as he launched into his spiel, so Docherty took the opportunity to study the cars and spotted a picnic basket on the back seat of one. Casually he leaned against it, his hand tugging at the door handle. Naively it had been left unlocked. In seconds Docherty had removed the basket, quietly closed the door and raced round the back of the toilets. He clutched the basket to him jealously, stomach growling in anticipation as the smell of cooked chicken wafted out of the top of it. Where should he go to enjoy his feast? He didn’t want to return to the boat in case the owner came back. He spied a path leading up into the hillside so he followed it. Unused to long country walks, the further he got up the incline the more he puffed and panted, sweat beading on his forehead, his shirt sticking to his back.
At the summit he flopped onto the warm grass and surveyed the view. Now he understood what people saw in this village. The scenery was magnificent, looking down the Clyde estuary towards the open sea, the mountains of the island of Arran in the distance so clear it was possible to make out every scar and crevice on their craggy surfaces. Below the ferry cut a wake through the clear blue water, which was dotted with pleasure crafts and yachts. Seagulls hovered overhead, some of them homing in on his basket. He was careful to keep the lid closed as he ate, refusing to throw the greedy circling swines a single crumb. Desperately he stuffed the food into his mouth, which was fresh and obviously good quality. Roast beef sandwiches, latticed pie, chicken legs, olives and cous cous followed by chocolate biscuits and homemade cheesecake for dessert, all washed down with traditional lemonade. After suffering the dreadful food in prison his senses were overloaded. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Replete, he removed his sweaty shirt and lay back on the grass, enjoying the sun on his face, gazing up at the blue sky and experienced a sudden yearning for freedom. For the briefest flicker of a second he considered ditching his plan to kill Freya and just disappearing. The problem was, how? It wasn’t possible. His disappointment was wiped out by anger when he recalled her giving evidence against him, her defiance, the satisfaction in her eyes knowing she’d won. If he didn’t kill her he’d never know a day’s peace again. He had to go through with it. With a bit of luck he could manage both - kill her then disappear forever. Even though the odds were stacked against it you never knew your luck. McMillan might croak it and no one would guess he wasn’t Docherty. He’d have to play it by ear.
From up here he had a good view of the dock and he pulled himself up to a sitting position when he saw Freya and Supercop returning to their boat with another big bastard with a beard. Why were all the men in this village so large? Did they put something in the water or was it the inbreeding? It wouldn’t surprise him if they all had six fingers and webbed toes. Docherty raised the binoculars and saw the beardie frowning at the damage he’d done to the boat and although he couldn’t hear what was being said he could see there was lots of head shaking. A few words were exchanged then the big man wandered back down the dock, no doubt to get his tools.
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.
The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) Page 13