Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3)

by Heather Atkinson

  “Obviously,” he said good-naturedly.

  She studied him carefully. For a second there his face hadn’t looked like his own, his hatred had such complete possession of him. “I bet Freya wasn’t impressed when you told her you were staying.”

  “No she wasn’t, so I didn’t tell her I was shot at.”

  “You bloody numpty.”

  “What have I done?”

  “It’s all over the news. All you’ve done is guarantee that she’ll hear it from someone else.”

  “Crap. I didn’t think of that,” he said, taking out his phone, which started to ring in his hand. “Damn.”

  “Glad I’m not you. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a telling off from Freya. Honestly Craig you are an intelligent boy but sometimes you can be such a walloper.”

  He took the whisky glass from her hand. “I think you’ve had enough of that.”

  “Hey, give me that back. I need it to steady my nerves. My only son was shot at today.”

  Craig wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, still clutching the ringing phone. “I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You were lucky Craig.” She ran a liver-spotted hand down her face. “I still can’t believe Adam shot at you. Why?”

  “That’s what I keep wondering,” he replied, the feeling that something was very wrong refusing to go. He’d tried convincing himself that it was shock telling him there was more to this than met the eye but the shock had gone and his instinct was still screaming at him to look into it further.

  “I’d better answer this,” he said, heading towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” said Nora, grabbing his arm.

  “Outside.” The phone went silent in his hand. “Crap.”

  “You can’t go outside after what’s just happened. Are you mad?” She lowered her voice before continuing. “What if you’re right and it wasn’t Adam?”

  Craig nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, I’ll go into the back room.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed with relief, settling herself onto a barstool and downing the rest of her whisky before asking Gordon to refill her glass. It numbed the fear gnawing away inside her as well as the pain in her ankle.

  “Freya, it’s me,” said Craig. He cringed at the angry tirade she fired down the line at him. “I’m sorry babe, I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You didn’t want to worry me? Are you completely insane? Didn’t it occur to you that I might hear about it anyway?”

  “To be honest sweetheart, no. I was going to tell you when I got back.”

  “Because you didn’t want me to insist you come home. Well I bloody well am. You’re coming back tonight and you’re bringing Nora with you.”

  “I can’t, I’m already tied up in the investigation, they won’t let me go until really late and I’m already knackered after the day I’ve had. You don’t want me driving tired, do you?” It was a low trick because he knew she couldn’t say yes.

  “Fine,” she sighed. “But you come back first thing in the morning and no excuses.”

  “I will.”

  “You’d better because if anything happens to you there will be hell to pay.”

  “Message received and understood.”

  “Silly bugger,” she said, a reluctant smile in her voice.

  “God I love you.”

  “Love you too. Just get yourself home.”

  “I will,” he replied, the seriousness returning to his tone. He looked out of the window at the darkening sky, twilight already setting in. Flashes of lightning lit up the clouds that were drifting towards them from the sea. That was something Freya didn’t need to know.

  From his spot at the bar Graeme had a good view of Craig talking on the phone in the back room. He looked troubled, which was understandable, but there was something else, something more. Not that it mattered, he still intended to proceed with his plan. The police were packing up, preparing to clear out for the day, leaving those three local numpties - Sergeant Hughes and his two stooges - to guard the crime scenes. They wouldn’t be enough to stop him.

  Craig was pacing now, phone clamped to his ear, obviously trying to placate his wife. She’d probably been against him coming here in the first place and now she would be demanding he return home. He was starting to change his mind about where Craig stood in his grand plan. He’d fought the evil that had come to this village, so really he should think of him as a fellow warrior, a kindred spirit. But then again he resented him for the envy that had settled in his own heart. Craig possessed the one person he had ever felt connected to, who could possibly understand him. Freya. He wanted to obliterate him just for that because these strange emotions made him feel weak and pathetic. Sentiment was something he’d never had to deal with before but when he looked at Craig Donaldson he saw the man he would have liked to have been - the local hero, loving husband and devoted father, avenues that had been closed to him long ago and the jealousy enraged him. It would be worth eradicating DS Craig Donaldson just to make those feelings go away.

  Craig had stopped pacing and he had a soppy smile on his face that made Graeme’s muscles stiffen with resentment. He swallowed the feelings back down inside himself, just like he’d been trained to do as a child by the uncaring relatives who had taken him in. Shut up, stop crying, pull yourself together, that was all they’d said when the nightmares had haunted him, when the memories had got too much and he’d suddenly burst into tears. Wetting the bed got him the worst punishment - he was made to stand for hours on the cold bare floorboards in just his thin pyjamas, shivering. His aunt and uncle seemed to think it would toughen him up when all it achieved was filling his heart with hate. He’d soon learned that emotion only made bad things happen and it was better if he kept everything in. He’d got very adept at it too and once again the trick worked, leaving him calm and in control again. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile as he watched Craig on his phone. His fate was decided.

  No one noticed as he slipped outside.

  Craig was glad to see Gary enter the pub as he concluded his call with Freya.

  “Alright Sarge. Was that your sexy missus on the phone?” he grinned.

  “Yes, that was Freya.”

  “I bet she’s not very happy about you being here?”

  “That’s an understatement. I’m going to suffer when I get home.”

  “You lucky bugger.”

  “Did you want something Gary?” he said, now not so glad to see him.

  “TFU and CSI have left for the night. It’s getting dark so they’re going to carry on examining the scene in the morning. They want to reconstruct the bullet trajectories in daylight. Me, Steve and the fud have been left to guard the crime scenes overnight so I just thought I’d check if there’s anything you need us to do and for a cheeky wee pint while I’m at it.”

  “I can’t believe the fud allowed that.”

  “He didn’t. He’s guarding the McNab home.”

  “On his own? I thought he would have palmed that off on you two.”

  “You’re joking? He’s hoping for a bit of glory out of all this. He’s probably hoping he’ll find some magical clue CSI missed, the stupid wee prick. I hope Gordon’s arranging one of his famous all-nighters,” he said to the landlord standing behind the bar.

  “Too right I am. The village needs it after this shitty day,” he replied, placing a pint on the bar before Gary.

  “Good. Best pub in Scotland this,” he said, taking a sip. “Me and Steve thought it would be a good idea to see if you’ve come up with anything yet, you know, about your theory?” said Gary, lowering his voice.

  “I wish I had,” sighed Craig. “For now I’m just keeping an eye out.”

  “Fair enough. Hello there Nora, how are you doing?”

  “Not so good Gary. Someone shot at my son today.”

  “Yeah but at least the bastard who did it is dead.”

  “Is he?” she replied enigmatica
lly before sipping her whisky.

  “Go easy on that Mum, you’re on painkillers.”

  “I’ve stopped taking them. Whisky’s much more effective. Top me up Gordon.”

  Craig sighed and shook his head.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Gary asked Craig.

  “There isn’t one.”

  “I thought you’d have something up your sleeve.”

  “I’ve got sod all pal. Maybe I am just chasing shadows? Adam did it, end of story.”

  “Probably but there’s no harm in being sure.”

  “I owe it to Adam. I thought he was a serial killer before and it turned out he was being set up by Martin Lynch. What if history’s repeating itself?”

  Gary nodded sagely. “Alright. What do we do?”

  “Whoever killed Fred and Joanie was local. He knew they were vulnerable and that no one would worry if they weren’t seen for a couple of days. If it wasn’t Adam…”

  “Then it’s someone here now.”

  They cast suspicious eyes around the room but the scene looked normal. Everyone was in their little groups, talking and drinking. Not one of them remotely resembled a psychopath. Most were too old to start taking pot shots at people out of windows.

  Gary spotted the two tourists sitting with Toby. “Who are they?”

  “Part of Toby’s murder tour,” said Nora with disgust. “When all this kicked off today they decided it was too exciting to leave. Parasites,” she called loudly across the room. The couple stared into their glasses of white wine, pretending they hadn’t heard.

  “Do you mind not abusing my tour group?” chided Toby, striding across the room towards them, large nose stuck up in the air. “Where’s the famous Blair Dubh hospitality?”

  “They’ve come here to enjoy the trauma my son and daughter-in-law were put through so they get nothing,” retorted Nora fiercely. “What sort of sickos are they?”

  Most of the room had ceased their conversations to listen.

  “You’re not wanted here either, you great big stupid stick insect,” continued Nora, jabbing her finger in Toby’s face, slurring her words slightly. “You’re even worse than they are because you’re making money out of it. You disgust me.”

  “You know what Nora, I couldn’t care less,” he sneered, throwing back his large oval head.

  “You’ve had your say Toby. Sit back down and finish your drink,” said Craig, voice heavy with warning.

  “She insulted me.”

  “No less than you deserve. I suggest you shut it and go and sit with your little friends before the rest of the village has its say because, trust me, you won’t like what you hear.”

  Gary chuckled into his pint as he watched Toby retake his seat with the two tourists, doing a good job of maintaining his dignity as the entire room stared at him.

  “Do you think it could be him?” said Gary quietly as the noise in the pub increased again now the drama was over. “What if he wants more murders to talk about on his little tour?”

  “Good theory but no. Toby’s all bluster. Underneath he’s a complete coward.”

  “Maybe you’re right. What about the tourists?”

  “Not possible. They were at Toby’s house when the shooting started, I saw them.”

  “What if they’re in it together?”

  “Interesting, but I think unlikely. What’s their motive?”

  “A cheap thrill. They might want to be part of Blair Dubh’s sick history.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh crap, Steve will be pissed off. I said I wouldn’t be long.” Hastily he downed his pint then hurried to the door. “Catch you later Sarge.”

  “Bye Gary,” Craig replied absently, his mind still ticking over the scene in Adam’s bedroom. Murder/suicide. No way, not Adam. His eyes scanned the pub, studying each person in turn. One of these people had murdered the McNabs and set up Adam to take the fall. What worried him was whether whoever was responsible was finished with Blair Dubh yet.

  CHAPTER 8

  Graeme stood on the hilltop beside the castle, staring down at the village below. Dark was setting in, slowly encroaching over the small, steadfast cottages. The humidity had risen even more and the air felt thick in his lungs, the pressure weighing him down, making him feel sluggish. The storm was just beginning, rolling in over the sea, the odd flash of light amid the unsettled black clouds accompanied by the occasional rumble of thunder. This was just the calm before the storm.

  He closed his eyes and was once again twelve years old, hiding under the table in his parent’s kitchen, watching that huge pair of black boots pace the floor, his dad’s dead body off to one side, chest and head ruined. He’d held his breath, silent tears rolling down his face. The fear was paralysing, stopping his brain as well as his body. He’d never felt anything like it before, the fear of the dark or the certainty that a monster lived in his wardrobe didn’t even come close. He didn’t know what to do and he wished his dad would wake up and tell him.

  When those boots suddenly stopped pacing warmth seeped through his trousers. He wet himself with terror as the owner of those boots slowly lowered himself to the floor. He found himself staring into a huge, florid face with a big black beard. Drops of blood and something else that made him want to be sick were stuck in the hairs of that beard. Even more disturbing were his black eyes, which were just vacant of anything. It was then he realised monsters didn’t live in wardrobes, they lived in houses and looked like ordinary people. He could see the huge shotgun clutched in one of Malcolm’s enormous, calloused hands. The sight of it, instead of scaring him, just fascinated him. That was what had caused the terrible destruction, that long, thick lump of metal. He wondered what it would feel like to wield such power.

  Malcolm followed his line of sight. “You like this do you wee man?” he said in his deep, hard voice that sounded like nails being shaken around in a tin can.

  He slunk backwards, away from him, cowering against one of the solid, sturdy legs of the table. His eyes remained locked on the end of the barrel as it was raised and pointed at his face. It looked huge, two massive yawning holes as empty as Malcolm’s eyes. Any second he expected to hear a bang, to fall to the floor, knocked over by the brute force of the weapon, to be wracked with intense pain as the shot tore his childish body apart.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Voices just outside the house drew Malcolm’s attention from him. The gun vanished as Malcolm got to his feet, heavy boots rushing towards the back door. There was a howl of wind as the door opened, cut off when it slammed shut behind him.

  He was torn - hide under the table or poke his head out and see what was happening?

  Curiosity got the better of him. He scrambled out from under the table, experiencing a strange sense of floating, of being out of his body and looking down on himself. His father’s body lay to his left, his mother’s past that in the small corridor that linked the kitchen to the living room. Although he couldn’t see her he knew his sister was lying dead in the front room. She’d been the closest to the front door when Malcolm had burst through it, brandishing the shotgun. He’d heard her screams before the massive blast that had silenced them forever.

  He forced himself not to look that way as he walked across the kitchen floor, trainers slipping and sliding on the warm, congealing blood of his father. He tried not to think about the danger, tried not think about the fact that his entire family was dead as he rushed to the window. For some indefinable reason it was incredibly important to him that he witness what was about to happen.

  The back door hadn’t been shut properly and the wind banged it about in the frame, the sound drowned out by the loud clap of thunder overhead. Cautiously he peered out of the window, the lightning raging overhead, illuminating the scene.

  He saw three men all armed with shotguns, again all men he’d known his whole life. This was a farming community so practically every household owned a gun. They were all yelling at Malcolm, pointing their weapons at him. He in turn had his own shotgun p
ointed right back at them. He remained calm and unafraid, facing his potential death with equanimity. This was the decimator of his family but he still experienced a curious sense of admiration. He seemed so strong, so fearless. To a little boy who suddenly felt incredibly weak and powerless it was exhilarating.

  He couldn’t hear what they were saying, the ferocious thunder was too loud but he could see the three men screaming at Malcolm to put the gun down. When he didn’t they shot him. The roar of the guns all firing in unison was even louder than the tempestuous weather. Huge holes appeared in Malcolm’s body as the hungry shot ate its way through him, his limbs agitated by the force, body dancing like a puppet on strings. The spray of blood was black in what little light there was. The deafening noise seemed to go on and on but he refused to cover his ears, refused to look away.

  When the noise died down Malcolm was splayed on his back in the mud. The giant had been felled. His slayers stood over him, one poking at his leg with the toe of his boot. They took his gun from him and threw it far away into the mud.

  The lightning crackled around them, raising the hairs on his arms. He was in the centre of something incredibly primal, nature at its most primitive - the violence of humanity and the violence of the natural world as one. The men weren’t sorry he was dead. They would be later when the shock finally hit, but as yet they were just glad he was gone and they were glorying in the kill. Unlike Malcolm’s dead eyes theirs were bright, almost frenzied, reflecting the dazzling light of the storm. Bloodlust had them in its grip. They looked down at Malcolm as though hoping he’d get back up so they could kill him all over again,

  He watched as they all looked at each other, lips curling into ghastly smiles. Another flicker of lightning, a clap of thunder and his heart rate soared, breath coming out in shallow gasps as he delighted in the kill with them. He’d never felt so alive.

  One of the men - a man named Harold who had been his dad’s best friend since they were small boys - spotted him watching through the windows and pointed him out to his friends. He calmly waited for them as they stepped over Malcolm’s body and entered through the back door.