The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1)

by Heather Atkinson

  “We need to talk to you about Alexander.”

  “Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong, you just enjoy harassing him. He’s the best man in this village, far better than any of you, including your swine of a father.”

  Craig decided it would be best to ignore the comment about his dad. He also noted how Claire referred to her son in the present tense even though he’d been dead for two years. She was losing it more than he’d realised. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Steve had been hypnotised by the hairy mole on Claire’s chin.

  “Are you referring to the killings fifteen years ago?” said Craig, the cold permeating his bones. Over Claire’s shoulder he could see a cheerful fire in the sitting room grate and he hoped she’d invite them in to sit down but it seemed no such invitation was going to be forthcoming. Rainwater dripped from their clothes, forming pools on the hallway tiles but if Claire noticed she didn’t care.

  “Course I am, are ya deaf as well as gleekit? Those women were wrong, all wrong and Sergeant Donaldson blamed my beautiful boy for their deaths. As if he’d touch them, the dirty whores. He’s pure and they were tainted, filled with evil.”

  “Why were they evil?”

  “My boy knew what they were, he knew they were all wrong, that they’d infected his congregation with their wickedness,” she said, eyes wide with the same religious fervour that had possessed her son.

  “Why were they evil Claire?”

  But she wasn’t listening and continued to ramble on. “Spoiling our lovely village with their offensive ways…”

  “Did they confess their sins to Father Logan? Did he tell you what they did, is that why you think they were bad?”

  She ignored him, crossed herself and recited something in Latin. They were both astonished when Steve smoothly responded in the same language. Claire’s eyes snapped onto him, chin wobbling with emotion, causing the mole to quiver. She responded in more Latin and he said something that caused her eyes to fill with tears.

  “My son speaks Latin so well in his beautiful deep voice. You’re the only other person I’ve met in years who can speak it as well as he can, other than myself. What a joy it is to hear it. Come and sit by the fire PC…”

  “You can call me Steve, Mrs Logan.”

  “It’s Claire to you. Come away in.”

  The invitation wasn’t extended to Craig but he followed anyway and was allowed to take one of the chairs by the fireplace. Claire furnished them with tea and scones that were so overcooked it was like biting into rock. He had to give Claire her due, she was still sprightly and seemed to enjoy fussing over them. She and Steve continued to banter back and forth in Latin so Craig took the opportunity to study the room. It was just as he remembered; big and dark with thick oak panelling, antique hand carved furniture and animal heads mounted on the walls. Very gothic. Freya would probably love it. Religious icons were everywhere, pictures adorning every inch of free wall. He was surrounded by the Holy Trinity, Doves, the Archangels, Madonna and Child and Christ the Teacher. However the centrepiece was an enormous gold cross hanging over the fireplace, dominating the room. It was a beautiful piece but it made Craig feel like a little boy again, waiting here beneath Claire’s watchful eye before being summoned to Logan’s study for the inevitable telling off.

  Craig sat bolt-upright in his seat. The study. He recalled it was just a couple of doors down the hall. If Claire had left it as intact as this room then he might find something useful in there.

  “Excuse me Mrs Logan, may I use your bathroom?” he said.

  She appeared irritated by the interruption to her rather impressive flow of Latin.

  “You can use the one down the hall. The one upstairs hasn’t been used in years,” she replied distractedly before returning to her conversation with Steve.

  Craig left the room and crept down the hall feeling like a thief, bypassing the bathroom. Judging by the smell emanating from it he wouldn’t want to use it anyway.

  He opened the study door and was taken straight back to his childhood. Logan’s massive oak desk still stood beneath the bay window. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d trembled before it while the tall figure in black glared down at him. If it was a sunny day the light shone straight in through the window behind him, lighting him up, making him look like an avenging angel. After being told his evil young soul would burn for eternity because he’d back-chatted his mother he was usually on his best behaviour for weeks after. Once he and Freya had stood here side by side after they’d gone to play in the woods, got lost and had the entire village combing the area for them. He was embarrassed to recall that when they’d been dismissed he was the one who’d burst into tears and Freya had comforted him. She’d had tears in her eyes too but managed to keep them in. That strength had seen her through the turbulent years ahead.

  Craig remained on the threshold, not wanting to enter without a summons from the master of the house. Logan’s presence here was still strong, his personality so dominant it lived on without his physical presence. It was absolutely silent, the only sound the heavy fall of rain and the wail of the wind down the chimney. Any moment he expected to hear the boom of a deep voice commanding him to enter.

  “Stop being stupid,” he said, forcing himself to step inside.

  The window of Logan’s office looked out over the churchyard and Craig skirted the desk to gaze out at it. If Logan had indeed been The Elemental then he would have had a perfect view of the graves of his victims. He even presided over their funerals. Did he enjoy looking out at them to relive his crimes? Was he proud of what he’d done, like the Bellfield Monster? The prospect made him shiver.

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began to search the room, starting with the desk. To his dismay all the drawers were locked and there wasn’t a key in sight. He was tempted to jemmy them open with the letter opener on top of the desk but he didn’t have a warrant so he discarded the idea. He had to do this by the book. One mistake could mean a murderer walked free, so he turned his attention to the bookcases instead. Not surprisingly they were filled with volumes on religion and history. He couldn’t read most of the titles because they were in Latin, so he jotted some down in his notebook for Steve to take a look at later.

  The only other thing in the room was a beautiful polished oak cabinet with double doors that thankfully weren’t locked. Inside were reams of files and papers. To his disappointment they appeared to be Diocese records, just mundane administrative stuff and he wondered why it was all still here and not in the care of the Diocese, unless it was so meaningless it didn’t matter. A lot of it appeared to be minutes of Parish meetings. However, on taking a closer look he saw beneath this stack of paperwork was a pile of folders, each one marked with the name of a village resident in Logan’s dramatic italicised hand. His heart leapt when he saw Rose Macalister’s name.

  “I would really love some more of your delicious scones Claire,” Steve said loudly.

  “Never mind that. What’s that sneaky friend of yours up to?” she screeched back.

  “Shit,” said Craig, replacing the papers and hastily closing up the cabinet. He rushed out of the study, closing the door behind him and almost collided with Claire.

  “What were you doing in there?” she demanded.

  Craig grimaced as her spittle landed on his face. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

  “Liar. You’ve been snooping while your friend distracts me.” She then launched into a shocking tirade of cursing and foul language before ordering them both out.

  “Alright Claire, we’re leaving,” said Craig, holding up his hands.

  “It’s Mrs Logan to you, you little bastard. Get out or I’ll get Alexander to discipline you. You don’t like that, do you? I remember you crying like a baby.”

  “Mrs Logan, your son’s dead. He had a heart attack. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course he’s not dead you stupid wee wanker, he can never die. I saw him just yesterday.”

  The lig
hts flickered off, plunging them into moody gloom. Steve flinched when he saw a large dark shape through the stained glass of the front door, then relaxed when he realised it was just the shadow of a bush outside. Claire’s dry angry breathing filled the air, furious blue eyes fixed on Craig but he didn’t even notice, his gaze involuntarily drawn back to the open study door. He could feel Logan’s presence snaking out of it, creeping down the hall towards them. His heart banged in his chest and he retreated a couple of paces, certain he could hear the slow beat of footsteps hidden beneath the drumming of the rain.

  The lights came back on and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw there were only the three of them there.

  The flood of light seemed to push Claire over the edge and she screamed at them to leave, shoving them towards the front door while wishing all sorts of plagues down on their heads. Once they were outside she slammed the door shut in their faces.

  “Well that wasn’t weird at all,” said Steve wryly.

  “My fault, I took too long. That was impressive Latin by the way.”

  “I studied it at university,” he replied, torn between pride and embarrassment. Steve’s parents had dreamed of a glorious future for him as a great scholar, until he’d realised he’d go insane spending his life sat at a desk surrounded by dusty books and, to their horror, decided he wanted to be a police officer instead.

  “Let’s go back to Mum’s. There’s something I want you to take a look at.”

  As they hurried down the path Steve’s feet got tangled in some creeping weeds and he fell flat on his backside, unfortunately landing on a large bramble that managed to tear through the seat of his combat trousers. When Craig attempted to help him up he went down too and they both ended up covered in mud and prickles, the wind and rain beating down on them. Over the howling wind Craig made out another sound and saw Claire at the door cackling dementedly at their plight. She looked quite eerie standing there, silver hair blowing about in the wind, coiling round her like snakes. She gave him the finger before slamming the door shut.

  By the time they made it back to the car they looked like they’d been in a war zone, covered in mud, blood and soaked to the skin.

  They drove back to Nora’s cottage in silence, Steve sulking the entire journey while Craig concentrated hard on steering the car back down the hill, flinching whenever the scratches on his hands pressed against the wheel. Despite the fact the windscreen wipers were working overtime the water poured down the glass, obscuring his vision, the tyres sliding on the slippery surface. When he finally pulled up outside his mum’s cottage he breathed a sigh of relief and released his stranglehold on the steering wheel, hands stinging. They both limped to the door and slowly removed their sodden jackets and boots.

  Freya and Nora appeared in the porch.

  “My God, what did she do?” said Nora. “She’s in her eighties for heaven’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t her, it was the brambles in her garden,” replied Craig. “It’s like the Amazon up there.”

  There was a snigger and he looked up to see Freya with her hand pressed to her mouth and shoulders shaking.

  “Sorry,” she giggled.

  Craig gave her a mock pout then a wink. It was good to hear her laugh.

  “Jesus, my arse is killing me,” groaned Steve.

  “I’ll run you a hot bath then I’ll examine the area,” said Nora.

  Steve appeared horrified. “I can manage,” he squeaked.

  “And how are you going to look at your own backside? Don’t look so nervous, I’ve raised a son and I was married for forty years, I know what the male body looks like. Or if you prefer you can limp about with prickles in your arse?”

  She led him still protesting up the stairs while Freya studied Craig with concern.

  “Your hands look bad,” she said.

  “They’re okay.”

  “Come on, I’ll clean them up, which is a much more pleasant job than Nora’s got.”

  From upstairs there came the sound of running water followed by more of Steve’s protesting and Nora snapping, “don’t be soft, just get ‘em off.”

  Freya released a tinkle of laughter that made Craig grin. It was only when she smiled that he realised how sad she usually looked.

  He followed her into the kitchen to find Gary tucking into a plate of biscuits and a mug of tea, dry and warm and not covered in mud or prickles. The sight annoyed him.

  “I’ve finished interviewing everyone,” Gary mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. “No one saw or heard anything, blah, blah, blah. Got me nowhere so I thought I’d be best coming here to keep an eye on Miss Macalister.”

  Craig scowled at him. They were trying to find a murderer and all he wanted to do was flirt. “And you went to every cottage?”

  “Yep. Whoever killed Catriona must have gone round the back way. No one would have been able to see because the back of her house looks onto the hill.”

  Craig thought he was probably right, which annoyed him even more.

  Gary frowned. “What happened to you?”

  “Attack of the bloody triffids,” he sighed, slumping into a chair at the table.

  Freya rinsed some tweezers in boiling water to sterilise them then produced antiseptic cream and cotton wool from the first aid kit in the kitchen cupboard.

  “This will sting,” she warned him before pulling a bramble from the palm of his hand.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, settling down to watch her work. “You seem very efficient at this,” said Craig. “Have you done a first aid course?”

  “I got quite good at patching myself up,” she replied without looking up from her work.

  Craig wished he’d kept his big mouth shut.

  “There, that’s your hands all done. What about the rest of you? Does your arse need attending to like Steve’s?” she grinned.

  Gary’s lips curled into an evil smile. “Really?”

  In response, from upstairs there was a loud, “ouch,” followed by Nora saying, “stop being such a baby and keep still.”

  The three of them burst out laughing, Craig’s grin falling when Freya cocked an eyebrow at him, eyes dancing. “Well, does it?” she said.

  “My arse is fine thank you. I fell on my knees.”

  “Let’s have a look then.”

  “But I’ll have to take my trousers off.”

  “I’ll cope.”

  Craig turned crimson.

  “Look, if they’re not sorted they’ll get infected, then where will you be?”

  “You can see my knees if you want Sweetheart,” said Gary.

  “Quiet Constable,” said Craig. He looked back at Freya. “Alright, but I’ll try rolling them up instead.”

  Grimacing, he rolled up his trouser legs. Fortunately the material had enough give to rise just above his knees. Freya’s eyes widened when she saw the tattoo curling around his calf and her heart pounded. She wanted to touch it but fought the urge.

  As she worked Craig tried not to think about her knelt between his legs but it was futile and he experienced a tightening in the underwear department.

  Gary could feel the tension building in the room and was caught between jealousy and amusement. Both of them were blushing furiously.

  “There, all done,” she said when she’d finished tending to the grazes.

  “Thanks,” he replied, rolling down his trouser legs. That single moment with Freya had been more exciting than his entire relationship with Mental Mandy back in Inverness.

  Steve limped downstairs wrapped in Craig’s robe, his hair still damp, followed by Nora clutching his dirty clothes.

  “You’d better not be naked under there,” said Craig in a warning tone.

  “No, your mum leant me one of your t-shirts.”

  “And a pair of your undies,” chimed in Nora. “Don’t look so horrified, he’s no spare clothes. What do you expect the poor boy to wear?”

  “You can keep the lot,�
�� Craig told him.

  Nora threw the bundle into the washing machine. “When they’re dry I’ll sew up the holes for you. Craig, give me your clothes too, I’m not putting on two washes.”

  Craig slowly pushed himself to his feet.

  “Oh, in my room you’ll find that inflatable donut thing your dad used when he had piles. Bring that down for Steve to sit on,” said Nora cheerfully.

  Gary snorted with laughter, sending a spray of biscuit crumbs onto the table, earning himself a withering look from both women.

  After delivering the donut to a very humiliated Steve, Craig took a shower. While he was changing into jeans and a jumper his mobile phone rang and he found it heartening that he still had a signal. Hopefully the storm would blow itself out early. It was DI Armstrong with the post mortem results. The line was terrible but he managed to get the gist and went downstairs to tell the others. He wondered whether he should share the results with his mum and Freya - especially Freya - but the whole village would want to know.

  “I’ve just spoken to the DI,” announced Craig when he entered the kitchen. “The PM showed Catriona had been badly beaten first but she was alive when she went into the water.”

  “So you’re looking for a man?” said Freya.

  “Not necessarily. A strong healthy woman could have done it.”

  “Damn,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t understand,” interjected Nora.

  “I’m a suspect,” she replied, “which is why Craig brought me here, to keep an eye on me.” There was a challenge in her eyes when she looked at him.

  “I brought you here because you’re a potential victim, the only one I’m certain of,” he retorted.

  “That too. It’s okay, I understand. You’ve a job to do and you wouldn’t be doing it properly if you didn’t suspect me. You can’t ignore the coincidence that this started just after I came back to the village.”

  He wanted to tell her that he didn’t think it was her but he couldn’t, that would be unprofessional so he remained silent.