The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) (13 page)

Hold onto your hats Blair Dubh, it’s happening again
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“I think it’s safe to say you’ve got your confidence back,” said a very happy Freya, resting her head on Craig’s chest, enjoying the frantic thud of his heart after some passionate lovemaking.

“Thanks to you,” he replied, kissing the top of her head and pulling her tighter against him.

She glanced at her watch and sat up. “We’d better start getting ready, we promised to meet your mum in the pub.”

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay here forever with you in our own little bubble.”

“Our own little bubble that constantly moves. I want to be on a stable surface.”

“You don’t have a nautical bone in your body, do you?”

“No and I don’t think I ever will.”

“Disgraceful, a Blair Dubh lassie too.”

“Shocking, isn’t it? Come on, we’re going to be late,” she said, tugging on his arm.

“Aw,” he grumbled. “I’m comfy.”

“It’s a beautiful evening,” she said, peering through the porthole to look at the sky streaked with pink and orange. “We can have a drink then take a stroll around the village and maybe find a quiet spot to sneak off to.”

Now she had his attention. Since he’d recovered his sexual confidence he was insatiable, a walking bag of testosterone. “That’s more like it,” he smiled, pulling her back down to him for a kiss.

CHAPTER 14

Docherty hid in the dense woods that curved around the village, scanning the boats with the pair of binoculars he’d bought from a tourist shop in Largs with the last of the money he’d nicked from the house in Glasgow. They all appeared to be in darkness, except for one. He didn’t know if it was Freya’s boat but his instinct told him it was. The vessel looked quite luxurious. It rankled that she was enjoying such comfort while he’d been stuck in a stinking prison. Where was the justice in that?

Movement had him gripping the binoculars so hard they shook. He had to take a deep breath to calm down and slow the banging of his heart as he watched someone emerge from the interior of the cabin cruiser. It was a face he’d seen many times during his research. Craig Donaldson, Freya’s husband. Bloody hell he was a big bastard. Docherty reassessed his plan to use him to make Freya suffer. If he tried that there was a good chance it could go wrong. Supercop was younger, fitter and stronger. The most important thing was getting to Freya so he’d just wait until he wasn’t around, it would make life a lot simpler. He’d no burning desire to take him on.

Freya followed a few seconds later and Docherty hyperventilated so violently he thought he might pass out. He watched Supercop descend the steps to the dock then wrap his big hands around Freya’s trim waist and help her down. They smiled at each other then kissed. They looked happy, in love. Good. That would make taking everything away from them all the more gratifying.

He had to own she looked good, sexy even. She’d stuck to her black clothes and she wore a long skirt with sandals and a cropped top that left her creamy midriff bare. Now this was more like it. Unlike Sally and Anita she looked healthy, she was taking care of herself. No sign of any nasty diseases. If he was going back to prison to be surrounded by men for the rest of his life he needed some relief first and he definitely wanted her husband out of the way for that. This would be a first, even for him but it would be the ultimate insult to a woman he fucking hated, who had hurt him more than anyone. He’d destroy her perfect new life and make her realise she was still the same filthy little homeless bitch who had lived in terror of him.

He crouched lower in the undergrowth as they drew nearer, passing very close by his hiding place. Supercop’s arm was firmly around her waist. She was laughing at whatever he was saying and something glittered in her bellybutton. Refocusing the binoculars Docherty saw it was a small silver bar with a red jewel on the end, piercing her smooth skin and he experienced a tightening in his trousers as he imagined ripping it out of her. The blood thundered in his ears, his lips drew back over his teeth and a growl rumbled in his throat.

He flattened himself to the ground when Supercop paused and looked in his direction. Docherty was forced to press his face into the grass to stifle the sound of his heavy pants.

“What is it?” said Freya.

“Probably just an animal,” he shrugged.

Docherty breathed a sigh of relief when they disappeared inside the pub, leaving him shaken. In that moment he’d completely lost control. That wouldn’t do if he was ever going to get to Freya. Supercop by all accounts was one hard bastard. He had to be smart about this and not let his impulses get the better of him. Easier said than done.

Although Freya refused to admit it she was apprehensive as she entered the pub. The last time she’d been here she had been locked in the cellar by some of the locals who thought she was a murderer then abducted by the real killer. She hadn’t thought she would feel nervous about coming here until she’d walked through the door. The villagers involved in locking her up had all apologised profusely, especially Bill, their ringleader, but that didn’t stop the irrational fear that there would be a repeat performance.

The bar was busy and when they entered the narrow oddly-shaped room it went deathly silent, everyone staring at them in surprise. Freya gripped Craig’s hand and stepped into him for comfort.

A cheer went up and the villagers surrounded them, shaking Craig by the hand and kissing Freya on the cheek, asking after them both. When Bill stepped forwards Freya swallowed hard and stared up at him. He gave her a gentle smile before enveloping her in a hug and she hugged him back, sensing his desperation for atonement. She was well aware that what he’d done to her haunted him. Granted, he’d been mad with grief at the time, his wife having just been murdered, but that was no excuse for nearly getting another woman killed. Nothing he ever did could atone for handing her to that monster on a platter.

“How are you Bill?” she said, smiling up at him.

“Not bad hen, not bad. Yourself?”

“Good thanks. Love the beard.”

He smiled and ran a hand over it, the hairs rasping against his calloused skin. “So what are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I’m a fully qualified drug and alcohol counsellor now.”

“That’s fantastic sweetheart. Any wee Donaldson’s about to make an appearance?”

She swallowed hard. “Not yet.”

“Don’t fret. You’re young, plenty of time.”

Freya glanced sideways at Craig, who was being asked the very same question by Lizzy Clark, a beefy redhead, and looking very uncomfortable about it. He mumbled a similar response to the one Freya had given Bill then Nora was fighting her way through the crowd towards them.

“Give them some space for God’s sake, they can’t breathe.”

Freya and Craig were both grateful when the crowd parted at his mother’s word and they could step towards the bar. Freya barely gave the bottles a second glance. Not that long ago all those gleaming bottles of whisky would have had her salivating with need but now she felt nothing. She had Craig, she didn’t need anything else.

Gordon, the landlord of the pub, stood ready and waiting to serve them. Freya was shocked by how much he’d aged in the time they’d been away. For years he’d thought his adored wife Isla had run away and left him when in fact she’d been buried alive in the village graveyard by Father Logan, just like Freya’s own mother. All that time the thought that she was happy, living a nice life somewhere and that one day she might come back to him had kept him going but the knowledge of the horrific fate she’d actually suffered had destroyed him. Once a portly man, the weight had dropped off him, his hair had all but fallen out and he barely slept more than four hours a night.

“Good to see you again,” said Gordon, forcing a smile. It looked strained on his face, as though he’d forgotten how.

“Pint for me please,” said Craig. “Freya?”

“Orange juice please Gordon.”

“Mum, do you want a drink?” said Craig.

“No ta, I’ve got one.”

“Craig, we heard what you did to Toby,” said Jimmy Clark, Lizzy’s husband and Bill’s best friend. “Brilliant.”

The rest of the locals raised another cheer.

“So I take it his murder tours aren’t popular with you all?” said Freya.

“No they’re not,” glowered Bill. “We couldn’t believe his bare faced cheek, especially after he claimed to love Catriona. He’s profiting from her death as well as my Brenda’s,” he added angrily.

“It’s sick,” nodded Freya.

“We tried everything we could to stop it but he still went ahead,” said Gordon in his tired, weak voice. “I barred him and told him he’d be welcomed back when he’d seen sense and stopped his stupid tours, but he doesn’t care. Now he’s the village outcast.”

“That man has no sense of community,” said Fred, one of the oldest residents of the village and the Blair Dubh gravedigger. When Freya’s eyes locked with his he looked away, suitably ashamed. He was one of the men who had accused her of being a murderer and refused to listen to her denials.

Adam, who had recently been released back into the community, was also present. He too had been a member of the group that had locked her up but at least he had the excuse of not being in his right mind at the time. An attractive boy in his mid twenties with a shock of blond hair, he gave Freya a shy smile. She smiled back, glad to see how much happier he looked. She was pleased the village had welcomed him back into the fold.

The whole pub gathered round them to chat and deride Toby and his greed, all except for one man, who Freya noticed was sat alone at the end of the bar.

“Who’s he?” she quietly asked Nora.

“That’s the newcomer, Graeme Doggett. Moved here about six months ago. Likes to keep himself to himself. He’ll sit there quietly, listening to the conversation but he rarely joins in. No one knows where he came from. From his accent Bill reckons he’s a teuchter, possibly Caithness and Sutherland, somewhere way up north anyway.”

He wasn’t a bad looking man but it was his sinister demeanour that made him unattractive. Freya guessed he was in his late forties. He was tall and spindly, hunched over on his stool, one long thin hand wrapped around a whisky tumbler that he raised to wide red lips. His hair was black, as were his eyes, which were set too far apart. Those eyes locked almost thirstily onto the face of each speaker in turn, as though he was unaware of everything and everyone else around him except for who was talking at that particular moment. When those eyes settled on Craig she wanted to slap the man and tell him to stop staring at her husband. After years of living on the streets her innate sense of danger was finely attuned and she didn’t like the vibes this man was giving off. He put her in mind of a reptile who could bite if he felt threatened. She would ask Gary or Steve to run a check on him, just to make sure Nora and the rest of the villagers weren’t in any danger.

The man must have sensed her watching him because his watery eyes snapped onto her so unexpectedly it was almost startling. He gave her a slow nod of the head and raised his glass to her and she nodded in response, not liking the deviousness that filled those unnerving eyes. Then he seemed to get bored of her and turned his attention to Fred, who had started to speak.

“He gives me the willies,” said Nora.

“Me too,” replied Freya.

Docherty had been watching the pub for a while and, as the whole village seemed to have gathered there, he deemed it safe to come out of his hiding place. He reasoned it was probably the only thing to do at night in this Godforsaken place. It was either go for a swally or sit at home polishing your shotgun while contemplating blowing your brains out. He’d never liked the countryside, he needed the hustle and bustle of the city, the busy nightlife and the traffic. It was too quiet out here with just the lapping of the waves and the occasional screech of an owl. The first time he’d heard one of those bastards he’d nearly shat himself before he’d worked out what it was.

He decided to give it a few more minutes before emerging from the woods, just to make sure he didn’t encounter any stragglers heading to the pub. However when he heard something sniffing around the undergrowth behind him he was tempted to run out screaming. He prayed it was a fox or a badger. What if it was something bigger, like a bear? Were there bears in Scotland? It was embarrassing how little he knew about his own country. When he felt something skitter across his foot he ran around in a mad circle, frantically searching for the source of the noise, but he could see nothing in the darkness. The light had all but gone, just a couple of fiery streaks across the sky left by the departed sun.

He’d entertained illusions about camping out in the woods. The weather was very mild, he had thought he could lie down in the soft grass and gaze up at the stars before drifting off into a peaceful sleep but now he realised it was completely out of the question, he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with creepy crawlies using his body as a playground all night and he was exhausted, he’d barely slept since his escape and he needed to be at full strength to tackle Freya. At least he could relax for a little bit, she wasn’t going anywhere tonight. The question was where could he sleep? He wished he’d kept the Volvo but he’d ditched it on a quiet back street in West Kilbride then walked back to Blair Dubh, afraid a stolen car left in the village would bring in the police.

He stuck to the woods as he circuited the village, checking it was all clear before darting out onto the dock. All the boats were in darkness. On the dock he paused, straining to hear any noise, but all was quiet. He was very aware of the hulking outline of the creepy castle. In the darkness it looked like a giant standing sentinel over the village. Up the hill was the church, the crooked gravestones visible against the dying light on the horizon. He narrowed his eyes, certain he could see a shape darting among them. Docherty remained frozen to the spot, waiting to see if it was a local but whatever it was appeared to be gone. The breeze caressed the back of his neck and he shivered. He hated this place, it was unnatural that it was so quiet. In prison the noise was constant and sometimes it drove him mad. Now he found himself pining for it, anything to indicate that the world hadn’t ended beyond the boundaries of the village.

To take his mind off the eeriness he concentrated on making his way along the dock towards Freya’s boat. He made sure no one was looking before climbing aboard and hurrying to the doors leading to the lower deck. They were locked.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He’d assumed everyone around here would leave their doors open. He tried peering inside but could see nothing. He could try breaking in but he didn’t want to leave any sign of his presence for Supercop to find.

While he was here he needed to take the opportunity to make sure they wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. He knew sod all about boats, the only time he’d been on one was the Dunoon ferry when he was a kid. If he could cause some damage, any damage, they’d have to stay put until it was fixed. He spotted a very small crack in the fibreglass on the inner rim of the boat close to the glass doors and smiled. One thing he did know was that fibreglass broke easily when weakened.