Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) (3 page)

Nora cast her eyes to the floor knowing she was at fault but unable to concede she was wrong. Craig shook his head, got up and went into the kitchen to make her sandwich, closing the door behind him so she wouldn’t see how angry he was. She was cranky and frustrated being laid up with her bad ankle, he’d be lashing out too if he was in her position, but not at Freya. She’d suffered enough and he wasn’t going to let his mum give her a hard time.

He buttered the bread angrily, accidentally tearing a hole in it. He grunted in irritation, threw it into the bin and started again. His mum had disappointed him, he’d expected more from her.

“There’s your sandwich,” he said, returning to the sitting room with it on a plate and dumping it on the table next to her chair.

“Thanks,” she quietly replied.

Ill feeling filled the air and they both wanted to clear it but both were equally stubborn.

“If you’ll be okay for an hour or two I thought I’d nip across the road to the pub and say hello.”

For a moment it looked like Nora was going to object and Craig felt even worse for being desperate to escape the house. Instead she released a martyred sigh and nodded. “Feel free. Don’t let me stop you.”

He bent to kiss her cheek. “Thanks Mum. I’ll take the pictures of Petie to show. Don’t worry, I’ll bring them back.”

Nora opened her mouth to object when he snatched up her photos, grabbed his jacket and left, but he was out the door before she could say another word.

CHAPTER 3

Craig was greeted by a hearty cheer when he entered the pub. As usual the men were crowded around the L-shaped bar while the women sat in small groups at the tables.

Gordon as ever was standing sentinel behind the bar. “Craig, good to see you again,” he smiled. “Brought the family this time?”

“No,” he replied, colouring slightly. “You know how it is.”

They all looked vaguely disappointed, although Lizzy must have told them by now that Freya and Petie weren’t with him.

“Pint?” said Gordon.

Craig was shocked by the landlord’s appearance. After he’d discovered his beloved wife Isla - who he thought had run off years ago - had in fact been buried alive in the village graveyard by Father Logan, he’d gone into a decline. The last time Craig had seen him he’d lost weight and his hair had thinned but he was practically bald and his clothes hung off his thin body. He’d always been a big, hearty man but now he was half the man he used to be, literally. Neither did it appear that he’d bought new clothes to accommodate his skinny frame. In fact they were so old they were frayed at the elbows and knees. His skin was pale and pasty, as though he didn’t get out much and his eyes were sunken and hollow. Even his voice had lost its deep timbre.

“Please Gordon,” Craig replied, settling onto a stool.

“How’s the bairn?” said Bill Miller, a huge bear of a man with an even bigger beard.

Craig had thought he’d feel awkward being around Bill but he didn’t. Bill had taken John Docherty into the woods, killed him then made it look like an accident. Craig knew this but he’d never said a word. As far as the world was concerned Docherty had tried to escape, fallen down a ravine in the woods and broken his neck. In the village only himself, Bill and Jimmy - who was there with Bill at the time - knew what had really happened. Craig would always be grateful to him because Docherty had sworn he wouldn’t stop coming after Freya until she was dead.

“Petie’s great. He’s walking now,” said Craig proudly.

“And Freya?” said Bill as everyone gathered round to listen. That was the way in this pub - one person held court while the others listened, taking it in turns to talk.

“She’s good. Back at work now Petie’s in nursery. How’s everyone been?” he said, attempting to deflect the conversation away from himself.

“Fine, apart from your mum taking a tumble down the stairs,” said Jimmy Clark, Bill’s best friend and Lizzy’s husband.

“No mad killers on the loose,” said Bill with a grim smile. “You can tell Freya it’s safe.”

“Even if I did it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“So she’s really never coming back?” said Howard, a short, portly man and another lifelong Blair Dubh resident.

“Never say never,” replied Craig enigmatically.

“Who can blame her after the horrible things she’s gone through here,” said Lizzy. “This village ruined her life.” She patted Craig’s hand. “Things got better for her when you two met up again.”

Craig and Freya had been best friends as children until Freya had been torn from the village when she was eleven by Social Services after the murder of her mother. She’d been dumped on relatives in Glasgow, who’d resented a damaged child intruding on their lives and her own life had gone into a decline. It had taken her years to drag herself out of the gutter.

“Is Toby still not welcome in here?” said Craig in another attempt to change the subject.

Gordon shook his head angrily. “The prick’s still running his murder tours. After John Docherty he’s busier than ever, cashing in on other people’s pain. None of us have anything to do with him anymore but he doesn’t care, he’s too busy making money.”

“He’s a leech living off grief and darkness,” said Jeanette, the small, elderly, bird-like woman who ran the shop.

“I noticed the souvenirs in your shop window,” frowned Craig, her hypocrisy astounding him.

She coloured and looked away.

“Who are they?” Craig asked when he noticed a man and woman sitting together at the back of the room, whispering to each other and blatantly staring at him.

“Tourists,” said Gordon, voice strengthened with disgust. “They were on Toby’s murder tour. They’re probably wetting themselves to see you here. Oh no you don’t,” called Gordon, voice ringing out loud and clear across the pub.

Craig turned on his stool to see the man lowering his mobile phone, the camera of which had been aimed right at him.

“You try that once more and you’ll be thrown out of here on your backsides,” added Gordon.

Craig was surprised by the ferocity in his eyes. Gordon had always been so laid back.

“Sorry about that Craig,” added Gordon, still glowering at the tourists, who had both turned bright red and hung their heads. “They look so normal. You wouldn’t think they were fucking ghouls, would you?”

“It’s okay,” said Craig. He’d got used to being stared at. Still, Gordon’s anger heartened him. Maybe he wasn’t in as bad a way as he’d thought.

Craig glanced over his shoulder to study the strangers. Both appeared to be in their early forties and looked respectable and well-off. They also looked like they should be holidaying somewhere upmarket with a golf course and a five-star restaurant, not the murder village.

Graeme occupied his usual corner in the pub, one slender white hand wrapped around a whisky glass. As was his custom he didn’t speak, content to listen to the villagers’ banter. At first they’d thought his insular silence strange, but they’d become accustomed to his ways and accepted him as part of the furniture. Craig’s appearance here tonight was unexpected and Graeme was surprised to realise he was disappointed Freya hadn’t come with him, the one person in the world he could empathise with, who had suffered like he’d suffered.

Craig’s arrival was the sign he’d been waiting for and now he could finally execute his grand plan. He’d already initiated phase one but Craig being here just made everything seem so right, so fitting. Graeme didn’t like staying in one place for too long and he’d been here almost two years, longer than he’d stayed anywhere, but Blair Dubh deserved his special attention. It was about to get it too.

He took a sip of whisky, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat and realised Craig was frowning at him. He snapped himself out of it and looked away. He must have been staring again, he had a habit of doing that when he drifted into his own world and some people took offence. Craig didn’t like him because he’d caught him staring at his wife once too often but he really had been looking at her, she fascinated him. He’d got into a physical fight with the husband too and Graeme was proud of himself for giving as good as he’d got, even though he was physically slighter.

His ears pricked up as the conversation took another turn, the residents putting voice to their worries.

“Fred hasn’t been seen for a few days,” said Bill.

“Is Joanie bad again?” replied Craig. Joanie had cancer and it wasn’t unusual for Fred to stay at home with her when she took a turn for the worse.

“She’s never good,” said Gordon. “I don’t think she’s got long left.”

Lizzy was appalled. “Well that’s a nice thing to say.”

“True though,” he remarked.

“Has anyone been round there?” said Craig.

“Both me and Lizzy have knocked but there’s no answer,” replied Bill.

“Maybe she’s gone to hospital?”

“If she had then someone would have seen the ambulance come into the village. Fred doesn’t drive,” said Jimmy. “You’re a police officer, it would be best if you were there if something bad has happened.”

There was a vague rumble of thunder outside and Craig’s t-shirt was becoming sticky with sweat as the humidity continued to rise. He looked out of the window and recalled Freya’s words about how the weather always became violent when something bad was about to overtake Blair Dubh. He was glad she and Petie were safe in Glasgow.

“Alright, I’ll take a look,” he said, reluctantly pushing himself up off the bar stool.

“We’ll come with you,” said Bill.

Graeme took this as his cue to leave. No one noticed as he quietly slid off his stool and slipped outside, body humming with excitement.

“Hold it. You’re staying here,” Jimmy told his wife.

Lizzy folded her arms across her considerable bosom. “Who do you think you are talking to me like that Jimmy Clark?”

“We don’t know what we’re going to find. It might be unpleasant.”

“I used to be a nurse you numpty, I’ve seen things that would make your bloody hair curl, what’s left of it.”

“After everything that’s happened in this village I’m taking no chances. You’re staying here if Gordon has to lock you up in the cellar.”

Everyone cringed at his words, Jimmy recalling too late that he as well as Bill had been part of the plot to abduct Freya and lock her in the pub cellar because they’d thought she was a serial killer when in fact the real culprit had been Martin Lynch, the local GP.

“Sorry Craig, I didn’t think,” said Jimmy, looking stricken.

“You big, stupid f…,” began Lizzy.

“It’s alright,” said Craig, talking over her. “Let’s get over there and make sure Joanie and Fred are alright.” The second rumble of thunder did nothing to reassure him that this was a good idea. Steeling himself he strode outside, Bill and Jimmy following.

“Lizzy, stay here,” the latter called over his shoulder.

She huffed and threw herself onto a barstool, looking decidedly unimpressed.

CHAPTER 4

Outside the atmosphere positively crackled. As they breathed in the heavy air it weighed them down, making the short walk across the road difficult and sluggish.

“A storm’s coming,” remarked Bill.

Unease ran down Craig’s spine. His eyes remained riveted to the front of Fred’s house as they approached, the pretty blue painted door suddenly ominous, as though it hid something awful.

“Gordon’s changed,” Craig commented simply because he wanted to fill the silence. The street was deserted, the residents either in the pub or their homes, sheltering from what they knew was coming.

“All the bad stuff that has happened in this village hit him hard,” said Bill. “It’s been a downhill slope for him ever since he found out what really happened to Isla.”

“He’s losing interest in the pub too,” said Jimmy. “That place has been his life for years and now he can’t be bothered. Sometimes he forgets to order stock and he runs out of beer. He forgets about bills too. We were all in there once when the lights went out. Daft bastard had forgotten to pay his electricity bill, or he just couldn’t be arsed, we never worked out which.”

“He gets drunk a lot too,” said Bill. “He’s always liked a dram but he’s drinking every day now, which is why he’s forgetting to do other things. He’s lucky Iza does the cleaning or the place would be a pigsty. He doesn’t forget to pay her though, she won’t let him.”

All three were gathered outside the front door of the cottage, well aware they were only talking to delay the moment they had to go inside.

“Well, we’d better do this I suppose,” said Craig, not liking the disquiet he was experiencing. Instinct was a powerful thing and it was telling him something wasn’t right.

Jimmy and Bill hung back to allow Craig to knock. They were relieved he was here. If there was anything unpleasant waiting for them inside then he would deal with it.

When no one answered his knock Craig pushed at the door, which swung open and unwillingly he walked inside, closely followed by Jimmy and Bill.

“Fred?” he called, striding into the living room then into the small kitchen. Two plates dotted with breadcrumbs and two mugs still stained with tea had been left unwashed in the sink.

“That’s not like Fred, he’s a fussy bugger,” said Bill, eyeing the unwashed crockery with unease. “Jesus, I hope he’s not topped himself. He told me once when he’d had one dram too many that he couldn’t live without her.”

“Let’s check upstairs,” said Craig, wishing even harder that he was still in Glasgow.

As the three of them ascended the stairs they all wrinkled their noses.

“What’s that smell?” said Jimmy.

Craig knew. In the course of his career he’d smelled it plenty of times. He decided not to respond, it wasn’t as if Jimmy really needed a reply.

At the top of the stairs Bill and Jimmy once again hung back to allow Craig to lead the way. As he pushed the door open he already knew what he was going to find, the only question was how it had happened. Already he was convinced Joanie had succumbed to the cancer and Fred had killed himself, unable to go on without her.

The smell hit him like a brick wall.

“Oh Jesus,” he groaned, pressing his hands to his face when he saw the two bodies on the bed, blood splattered up the walls, congealed pools of it soaked into the bed clothes.

“What is it?” said Bill as he entered the room. “Oh holy hell,” he cried. “What the fuck happened?”

The gaping holes in the victims’ heads told Craig they’d been shot but he couldn’t process it. He’d known these two people his whole life. Who would do this?

“Jesus H Christ,” whispered Jimmy, face paling. He was forced to cling onto the door when his knees went weak. “They’ve been shot. They’ve been
shot
,” he repeated in an attempt to make himself believe it.

“Did Fred kill her then himself?” said Bill. “I know he couldn’t stand watching her suffer, he probably thought this was kinder. He was probably right.”

Finally Craig recovered from his shock long enough to assess the scene. Something was very wrong with this picture. “If that was the case then where’s the gun? And why was Fred shot in the back of the head?”

“Someone came in and did this? Is that what you’re saying?” said Bill.

“Must have done. There’s no other explanation. Couldn’t have been a robbery, everything’s in place. No drawers left open after being rifled, I even saw some money on the sideboard downstairs.”

His thoughts were disturbed by Jimmy doubling up and retching in the corner of the room.

“Don’t,” said Craig when Bill took another step into the room. “This is now a crime scene.”

But Bill wasn’t listening. “Why is the window broken?”

“A bird could have flown into it, it happens,” mumbled Jimmy, remaining crouched on the floor while his stomach continued to roll over.

Craig looked from the window to the two bodies. “They were shot through the window. The killer was never in here.”

“Are you seriously suggesting we have a sniper?” said Bill.

“Yes, I am.”

Bill sighed and threw his arms wide. “Why not? We’ve had serial killers and escaped prisoners. This is getting bloody silly.”

“Why would a sniper shoot Fred and Joanie?” said Jimmy. “She was dying for fuck’s sake.”

“I wish I knew,” said Bill sadly, gazing at the corpses.

The village wouldn’t be the same without them. They’d been at the very heart of it. Joanie had even delivered some of the residents in her role as midwife, including Freya.

Craig forced aside his personal thoughts and feelings and tried to treat this as another murder case. “This doesn’t make sense. Why target the weakest in the village?”

“Because they were easy targets,” said Jimmy, straightening up on shaky legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But it doesn’t make sense. Shot through the window. Why?” An image came to Craig of a wildlife documentary he’d watched a few weeks ago. It had been the only vaguely interesting thing on television when he’d arrived home at three in the morning after a sixteen hour shift. He’d watched a bird use bread crumbs to lure a fish into its trap. Bait.

“Get down,” he yelled, hurling himself at Bill and Jimmy. As they fell there was a tinkle of glass and Jimmy cried out in pain. The three of them hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. There was a thud in the wall behind them followed by a shower of plaster then a second thud and a third, angry, frustrated.

“Anyone hit?” mumbled Craig, his face stuffed into Bill’s considerable stomach. Not daring to raise his head above the level of the bed he rolled off Bill instead, who released a gasp of relief.

“For fuck’s sake, what’s happening?” exclaimed Bill.

“Stay down you daft bastard,” said Craig, pulling him back down behind the bed when he tried to get up. “The sniper’s got us in his sights.”

“Jimmy, oh hell,” said Bill when he saw his best friend bleeding on the floor.

Craig belly-crawled towards him to peer at the wound. “It’s alright, the bullet just caught the top of his right arm.”

“You wouldn’t be saying it was alright if it was your arm,” muttered Jimmy. “It sodding hurts.”

“Better your arm than your head,” retorted Craig. “Just stay down and keep your hand clamped to the wound until we can get you out of here.” He pulled his mobile phone from his jeans pocket and grimaced. It was smashed to bits after throwing himself on the floor. “Shit. Bill, give me your mobile.”

“I don’t have one,” he said as he attempted to become one with the carpet.

“Who doesn’t have a mobile phone in this day and age?”

“Well I don’t, they’re annoying.”

“Fine. Jimmy, give me yours.”

“I would but it’s at home on the coffee table.”

“Jesus Christ, what’s the point in having something that’s mobile if you don’t carry it with you?”

“Joanie has a phone on her bedside table in case she has a bad turn when Fred’s out,” said Bill. He trailed off when he realised he was using the present tense.

“Great. Now all we have to do is reach it without getting our heads blown off,” said Craig.

“Who’s doing this?” exclaimed Jimmy, nursing his wounded arm. “Haven’t we had our fair share of lunatics?”

“It’s got to be Adam,” said Bill. “His house is right across the road. I knew they let him out of that mental hospital too soon.”

“And do you think they trained him as a sniper?” said Craig sarcastically. “Now I need a phone before whoever it is starts picking off people walking about on the street.”

“I noticed a phone at the bottom of the stairs, out of sight of the front windows,” said Bill. “That might be a better bet than reaching up over that bed.”

“Right, I’m going for it,” said Craig. His training had kicked in, deadening the panic and horror he’d first experienced on entering the room. He was thinking clearly and logically. “I need a distraction.”

“I’ll sort that,” said Bill, Craig’s change in demeanour affecting him too, calming him down. “Get ready to go.”

Careful to keep his head down below the bed, Bill reached up and pulled a pillow off it, grimacing at the feel of dried blood and other horrible matter that he decided not to think about. The movement disturbed Fred’s body, which slid to the floor, making them all jump.

“Shit, this is fucking awful,” whispered Bill.

“We’re running out of time,” said Craig.

“Alright, on three. One, two, three…”

As he tossed the pillow into the air Craig threw himself out of the bedroom door. There was the sound of breaking glass and the pillow erupted into a mess of feathers tinged with blood. Bill and Jimmy watched the red-white feathers slowly float to the floor in fascination.

“Craig, you okay?” called Bill.

“Fine,” he called back, rubbing his bruised shoulder. He’d hit the wall in the hallway pretty hard.

Fortunately there were no windows on the staircase so he could run down to the ground floor without fear of getting shot. At the bottom he snatched up the phone off the hallway table then returned to the stairs to make the call.

Graeme was raging. How could he have missed all three of them? He’d waited until they were all in the room, he hadn’t wanted to fire too soon and scare one of them off but stupid Jimmy, who had probably been throwing up, had been out of his line of sight and by the time he’d got hold of himself Craig had clicked on to what was happening.

He was tempted to pump more bullets in their direction just to vent some of his fury but that would be stupid and wasteful. He must retain control. There was only one thing for it. He had to adapt and improve his plan, that was what he did when things went wrong. But how could he adapt this debacle? Three people - one of whom was a police officer - knew there was a sniper loose in the village and all were still breathing. Craig had more brains than he’d anticipated, he’d quickly realised it was a trap. There was only one answer. Cover up what he’d done and return to fight another day.

Placing the rifle on the floor he picked up a pistol, the white paper suit that covered him from head to toe rustling. Inside it he was sweating, the humidity was steadily rising and the air, even in the small cottage, crackled with energy.

Adam, tethered to his own bed, screamed into the gag, but the cloth absorbed the sound. Frantically he tugged at his bonds, which Graeme had carefully secured over the sleeves of his jumper so they wouldn’t leave any marks. Tears streamed down the boy’s face when the gun was aimed at him. As Graeme looked down at him he experienced a pang of regret. Adam was so young, barely in his twenties, but he needed a scapegoat and the only paranoid schizophrenic in the village was the perfect patsy. It was vital he remained free so he could continue his great work.

The noise the gun made when Graeme fired was little more than a pop, which was why he’d selected it, and Adam was finally put out of his fear and misery. He’d shot him through the temple, where the majority of suicides shot themselves. He cut his bonds and placed the gun in the boy’s hand, ensuring he got gunshot residue all over his hands. The local loony had gone on the rampage and killed two residents before taking his own life. These things happened.

Graeme stripped off the SOC suit, pulled on his long black trench coat then scrunched the suit up into a ball and stuffed it inside the coat. He also collected the rope that had bound Adam and left, leaving the rifle behind. He hurried down the stairs.

“Adam?” called a withered voice from the direction of the living room.

Graeme didn’t even bother to reply. Betty - Adam’s gran and only living relative - was now completely blind and partially deaf. As a witness she didn’t really count. He had intended to kill her too but now his plan had been ruined he didn’t have time. Instead he exited by the back door. No one would see him leave, he was shielded by the cottage on one side and the sea on the other.

He raced two doors down to his own cottage and entered via the back door. Nippy, his little Jack Russell, greeted him, her tail wagging. Without pausing for breath Graeme removed his long coat and threw it in a cupboard. He was about to chuck the rope and white paper suit into the wood burning stove then hesitated. A fire in this humidity would look suspicious, so he tossed them into the cupboard too so he could dispose of them later.