The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) (7 page)

The nurse’s face flushed with anger, unable to bear a helpless individual being abused. Besides, anyone with such pretty eyes couldn’t be that bad and her patient’s eyes were so vibrant, the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She loved the hope and happiness that filled them whenever she came into view. They were so expressive too, making it easy for her to translate his needs, which was fortunate given that his face was covered.

“You are out of order Mr Jacobs,” she told him, ready to defend her patient.

While they bickered Will was forced to lie there as the poison threaded its way through his veins. His allergy was so severe that in a matter of minutes his body would react violently. At least he was in a hospital, but would they realise what was wrong? After all, they thought he didn’t have an allergy.

He felt it descending upon him, the sense of impending doom draping over him like a black veil, announcing the arrival of the poison in his organs, sending his heart rate skyrocketing. He managed to roll his head to one side and release a low groan when in his head he was screaming for help. He wished his lips would work properly.

The nurse threw Jacobs a disgusted look before bending over her patient, placing her warm hand on top of his head. It failed to have its usual soothing effect as the fear gripped him. She frowned, not liking the way his eyes bulged through the bandages.

“Did we scare you with the arguing? I’m sorry. Don’t worry, we’ve stopped now.”

Jacobs snorted with disgust before returning to his newspaper.

Will groaned again as his throat tightened, a wheeze rattling in his chest and the panic squeezed him harder. As he struggled to breathe he started to kick and thrash.

The nurse frowned. “Something’s wrong.”

“Good,” muttered Jacobs, not looking up from his newspaper. “Want me to sign a do not resuscitate order?”

The nurse took one of Will’s hands in her own, running her fingertips over the red rash forming on the skin then took his pulse. As suddenly as it started the thrashing ceased and he lapsed into unconsciousness. She recalled the fear in his pretty eyes when she told him she was going to inject Penicillin into his drip and she hit the crash button.

“I need adrenaline now,” she yelled.

CHAPTER 8

DCI Gray sat at his desk, brooding over the death of Anita Kelly. The rage that had been imprinted on her body niggled him. Her boyfriend hadn’t done it and they couldn’t come up with anyone else who harboured such violent emotions against her.

Gray had personally escorted her parents down to the mortuary to view the body and her mother had collapsed. They’d tried so hard to entice their daughter back home, never given up on her. Both Anita and her dad had strong personalities and they’d constantly clashed, leading to blazing rows. Anita herself had once told Gray that they’d never been abusive or unkind, she’d just wanted freedom to grow and she felt they were stifling her by setting rules no different to any other household. Gray thought they were just trying to be parents and had done his best to persuade her to go home but she’d refused. Now he wished he’d tried harder. He felt partly responsible for what had happened to her. He’d seen victims of horrible physical and mental abuse run away from home to escape a life so hopeless they’d rather take their chances on the streets but Anita had been brought up in middle class comfort, cocooned in love, and he’d thought her reasons for running away petty and childish. It was too late to get through to her now.

Gray thought of the recent prison riot. Was it coincidence that Anita was murdered so soon after? Probably. All the prisoners had been accounted for once the riot was quashed and Docherty himself was in hospital. It had given him great pleasure to learn that he’d been given a good fucking hiding. But it was still a coincidence and he didn’t like coincidences, he didn’t believe in them. What if he’d managed to incite someone to attack Anita from hospital? The curious prickle on the back of his neck that he’d experienced at the crime scene bothered him again so he decided to check up on Sally and Freya too.

He ran a check on Sally and his jaw hit the desk. She’d been murdered only the night before, barely twenty four hours after the prison riot. Snatching up the phone he asked to be put through to the detective in charge of the case.

“Oh yeah, that was a nasty one,” said the voice down the line. “She was beaten to death by a punter. She was working as a prostitute to feed her heroin habit.”

“Any leads?”

“One of the other working girls saw her going into the alley with a stocky man in a baseball cap. That was all she saw, it was getting dark and she wasn’t really paying attention. They were gone about ten, fifteen minutes at the most before the man came out of the alley alone. When she realised Sally hadn’t come out half an hour after that she got worried and went to investigate. There was no CCTV of course but we did find an image of someone in a baseball cap two streets away a few minutes after the man was seen leaving the alley, but we can’t make out his face.”

“Can you e-mail me the footage?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“We’ve had a murder here and there’s a possibility they could be linked.”

“In that case I’ll send it now.”

“Thanks.”

Gray’s hand shook slightly as he hung up. His theory was mad but somehow he knew he was right. Docherty had someone on the outside settling old scores.

As he waited for the footage to arrive he ran a check on Freya Macalister, or Donaldson as she was now called. He’d heard she’d married a copper of all people, which was amazing given how she used to be terrified of them. She’d got herself clean and he was very pleased for her.

“Please not Freya, please not Freya,” he murmured as he mashed the keyboard with his thick fingers. “Oh thank God,” he breathed when the search results came up. She was alive and well.

There was something special about Freya, a strength that was rare and a privilege to see. He’d spent hours tramping the streets talking to Docherty’s victims, trying to convince them to testify against him. He recalled a succession of weary, defiant faces, even the hardest and most streetwise of the women looking petrified at the mere mention of his name. Out of the dozens he’d spoken to only three had had the nerve to actually help put him away and out of those three Freya had been the most determined. He smiled at the memory of her in court standing up to Docherty’s ferocious lawyer, refusing to back down. Docherty had been squirming in his seat and he enjoyed reliving the smug prick’s discomfort. Now she might pay for that courage with her life. He recalled the fury in Docherty’s eyes when he was sentenced, the shouts and the threats. Docherty was one of those people who found it impossible to take responsibility for his own actions. He’d put the blame on those three women for everything that had gone wrong in his life. He’d blamed Gray too. In interview, after hours of interrogation, he’d finally dropped the innocent act and snapped. Gray had calmly taken all the vile abuse Docherty had hurled at him before threatening to crack his head open. Gray had taken great delight in adding threatening a police officer to the long list of charges. He hated crooked coppers more than the criminals. Docherty hadn’t joined the force to make a difference or help people, he’d done it because he was a sad inadequate individual who craved the power a warrant card could give him, he treated it as a licence to do what the hell he wanted.

The ping of his e-mail roused him from his reverie and he brought up the footage. He squinted at the screen, able to make out a large blurred figure wearing a baseball cap crossing the street. He recalled the eye witness who said she saw a man in a baseball cap leaving the scene of Anita’s murder, but lots of people wore baseball caps. Another coincidence? He was becoming more and more uneasy.

“I’m going mad,” he murmured to himself.

Before taking any drastic action he studied the footage of the crowd at the scene of Anita’s murder, but once again there were so many men in baseball caps it was impossible to single out one particular individual.

After giving the dilemma some careful thought he phoned the prison governor and asked him if he was sure it was Docherty in that hospital bed.

“Of course I’m sure,” the man snapped. Gray could understand his annoyance, it was a bloody silly question.

“What injuries did he sustain?”

“He was badly beaten and had severe cuts to the face.”

“Face? Was he recognisable as Docherty?”

“Well, yes I suppose.”

“What do you mean, you suppose?”

“It was Docherty, alright?” he barked.

“Are all your staff accounted for?” said Gray but he’d already hung up.

Gray slammed down the phone, snatched up his jacket and raced out of the building.

Davey frowned at the figure who entered his office. He’d seen a lot of wrong un’s in his time, spent the majority of his fifty five years inside, so he was well qualified to spot a dodgy bastard when he saw one. Scruffy, a bit dirty, shaved head, heavy stubble and a cut to the forehead. A lot of their clients weren’t exactly well turned out but this one screamed ‘dangerous’. Nevertheless his business was giving people second chances and helping them turn their lives around, so he forced himself to remain as pleasant as possible.

“Can I help you?” Davey said in his gruff voice.

“I’m looking for Freya Donaldson.”

“She’s not here.” He could explain that she’d gone away for a few days but his instinct was to tell this creep as little as possible.

“Oh. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Probably not until after the weekend.”

The man hovered in the doorway, clearly expecting more information but he wasn’t going to get it.

“I really need to speak to her,” he continued when Davey just stared at him in silence, willing him to leave.

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible. Will I do?”

“No,” he snapped, starting to lose his temper. Docherty took a deep breath and forced a desperate smile. “She’s helping me with my drink problem. I’ve had a really bad week and I’m tempted to have a bevvie.”

“Take a seat and we’ll have a blether about it,” said Davey, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

“I’m comfortable with Freya. It would be too weird discussing it with anyone else.”

Davey hauled his bulk upright and walked round the desk towards him. “Freya isn’t in. If you’re that desperate I will do, unless you have an ulterior motive for being here?” He raised a knowing eyebrow when the man backed up a step.

“No, just fighting the craving, you know how it is,” replied Docherty, attempting to look desperate and non-threatening at the same time, but he just looked demented.

“If you won’t let me help you then I suggest you leave,” growled Davey in his most intimidating voice.

Docherty was enraged that this fat bastard had rumbled that he was hiding something but he’d met plenty of his kind inside, clearly he was an old lag. He also looked like he could take care of himself so he decided it wasn’t worth his while trying to beat the information he so craved out of him. He didn’t have time and the last thing he needed was to really be put in hospital. If she wasn’t at work then it was very likely she was at home. He would try there next.

Davey watched the stranger leave from his window, wanting to make sure he’d really gone. He didn’t take his eyes off him until he’d turned the corner at the bottom of the street and vanished from sight. His innate sense for trouble was going wild but should he tell Freya? She really needed a break, she’d been so stressed with trying to get pregnant and mental Mandy. She was off on a boat somewhere so that arsehole wouldn’t be able to find her, she was safe for at least a few days.

Davey made the decision to keep it to himself until she got back. He could just be paranoid but he was savvy enough to know when someone was lying and that man hadn’t told him a single truth. Freya was Davey’s protégé, he’d trained her himself. She’d also been a client of his when struggling with her addiction and now she was riding high, living a good clean life and he was buggered if he was going to let anyone spoil it. He’d do a bit of discreet digging, see if he could find out who he was then take it from there.

DCI Gray burst into Docherty’s hospital room without waiting for an invitation to find a doctor, nurse and an enormous prison guard gathered around his bedside.

“What’s up with him?” he demanded.

They all turned to look at him and frowned.

“Who are you?” said Jacobs, still on guard duty.

He flashed his warrant card. “DCI Gray. I’ve reason to believe this man is not John Docherty.”

“Are you off your heid?” said Jacobs. “Course it is.”

“What’s up with him anyway?” Gray said, pushing his way towards the bandaged figure lying on the bed. Just by looking at him it was impossible to tell if it was Docherty or not. The dirty blond hair was approximately the same colour, his build was similar, but it was nowhere near enough for a definite ID.

“He had an allergic reaction to the Penicillin we gave him for an infection and he’s not regained consciousness yet,” replied the doctor. “According to his medical notes he’s not allergic to Penicillin.”

Gray seized on this. “Because it’s not Docherty.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it is,” said Jacobs. “You’ve no right to be here anyway.”

“I’ve got two women who testified against him on ice. Bit of a coincidence don’t you think just after the riot? Even you in all your fucking wisdom has to admit it is.”

“Get a grip of yourself before I boot you oot the door.”

“Try it and I’ll nick you for assaulting a police officer.”

“Gentlemen, please. This is a hospital,” said the doctor. “If you don’t calm down you’ll both be booted out the door.”

Gray was practically hopping with impatience. “Docherty has a tattoo of a skull on his left buttock. I want this man checked for it.”

“I’m not looking at his arse,” exclaimed Jacobs.

“Then I will,” said Gray, attempting to pull down the blankets.

“You most certainly will not,” said the doctor. “Nurse McDiarmid will do it who is trained to move critically ill patients with the minimum of stress.”

“Bloody do-gooders,” muttered Jacobs, failing to understand why everyone was showing the shite in the bed so much consideration. He was also wondering why anybody would have a skull inked on their backside. It just went to prove Docherty’s depravity.

“Fine. I don’t care who does it just as somebody does. Lives literally depend on this ID,” said Gray.

“Very well. Staff Nurse McDiarmid, if you would be so kind,” said the doctor.

They all watched in silence as the nurse gently rolled the patient onto his side and sneaked a peek under the covers.

“No tattoo,” she said, her face colouring slightly at the sight of the smooth toned backside.

Jacobs, who had returned to his newspaper thinking the whole thing a waste of time, threw the item aside and leapt to his feet, barging the nurse out of the way in his haste to see. “Fucking hell she’s right. There must be some mistake, this has to be Docherty. All the prisoners were accounted for.”

“Have any members of your staff gone missing?” said Gray, hoping he didn’t sound too smug.

“No. Two guards were injured badly enough in the riot to be signed off sick.”

“Their names?”

“Jason Clark and Will McMillan.”