“Get that soppy look off your face. You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?”
“I like her but I’ve no idea where it’s going.” He threw down his fork, his appetite gone. Maybe he shouldn’t have rushed into things so quickly? Why did he have to sleep with her? That took everything to a new level. Now he risked upsetting a woman whose confidence could be smashed with a rejection. What if she turned back to drink because of him? But he just found her so sexy, so alluring.
“You’ve done a really stupid thing,” said his mother severely.
“I know.”
“Your bosses at work won’t be happy if they find out.”
“I know.” His good mood was rapidly dissipating. “We’ll see, alright? That’s all I’m saying on the matter.”
Nora held up her hands. “Far be it from me to interfere in my grown-up son’s life.” She chose to ignore his sceptical look. “I just want what’s best for you and Freya. She’s been hurt enough.”
Craig suddenly felt like a pig.
“You just have a good think about what you’re doing. Finished with that?” she said, gesturing to his plate.
“Yes,” he replied and she snatched the plate away.
Craig left the house just after seven and trudged across the road to Freya’s cottage. It was still dark and he was dripping wet by the time he’d managed to fight his way across the street, banging on the door with one large fist.
Steve’s heart sank when he opened the door to his Sergeant with a face like thunder. “Come on in, we’re just finishing breakfast,” he said with forced cheer.
Craig waited for them in the sitting room. As he looked out of the window at the dark deserted street it felt like the end of the world. The entire human race could have been snuffed out and they wouldn’t even know. His eyes involuntarily flicked to the upper level of his mum’s cottage, picturing Freya snuggled up under the duvet and he smiled. As he recalled the steamy night they’d spent together he was sure the rain water started to evaporate off him faster. Being smart would be telling Freya last night had been a mistake, she said it would be okay if he told her before things got too far. One great night thanks, but it can’t go anywhere. But if that was so sensible, why did his instinct rebel against it?
“Bugger it, I really like her,” he said.
“Sorry Sarge?” said Gary emerging from the kitchen.
“Nothing,” he replied, not taking his eyes off that window behind which lay a warm and naked Freya.
“So, what’s the plan of attack for today?”
Craig sighed and tore his gaze from the house. “I want to take a look around the old church. This is connected to the past. We checked the Parish House and there’s nothing there, or if there was its been destroyed. The church is the only other place connected to Logan.”
“But it’s all boarded up.”
“Have you any better suggestions?”
Neither of them did.
“Didn’t think so. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 12
Craig drove them very carefully up the hill, a white-faced Steve gripping the dashboard as the car slipped and slid its way up the incline. When they finally made it to the church he offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
As Craig got out of the car he glanced towards the graveyard where Rose Macalister had died, where four women murdered fifteen years ago lay, soon to be joined by two more. He would have liked to walk through the graveyard but the weather was wild and they had to hurry for the shelter of the church, crowding under the porch while Gary jemmied the door open with a crowbar Craig had taken from his dad’s old shed. Howard held a set of keys to keep an eye on the place and do any maintenance as required, but Craig didn’t want to alert anyone to the fact that they were interested in it.
“Are you sure this is alright Sarge?” said Steve as they listened to Gary cursing, face turning purple with the effort. “It still belongs to the Diocese.”
“Gie’s a break, two women are dead and the answer to who killed them might lie in there. If you hadn’t noticed there isn’t a PF about to ask nicely for a warrant. Give me that, you’re making a pig’s arse of it,” snapped Craig, snatching the crowbar from Gary.
“Sarge, language. Remember where we are,” said Steve. He caught Craig’s look and cringed, his eyes flicking to the metal bar he brandished. “Please don’t hit me with that.”
“Well stop being a tit, I’m not in the mood,” he said, ramming the crowbar into the lock and yanking it hard. There was a crack as the wood splintered followed by a clang as the lock broke. The door swung open with an ominous creak and they all peered inside.
“Go on then, get in there,” said Craig, pushing Gary’s shoulder.
“Why do I have to go first?”
“Because you’re a constable. When you’re sergeant you can send the grunts in ahead.”
“Charming,” he said, pulling a torch from his belt, the watery beam doing nothing to illuminate the darkened interior. Craig and Steve’s torches helped to dispel a little more of the gloom, highlighting dust motes floating through the air, which swirled wildly when they were blasted by the wind. The three of them stepped into the vestibule, Craig closing the door behind them, shutting out the storm, the sound of it hitting the ancient building a quiet rumble in the background. Slowly they made their way through the nave, the light thrown through the huge stained glass windows causing shadows to chase each other through the echoing room, the spindly fingers of the old oak tree outside scratching against the glass.
“Jeezo this is giving me the fear,” said Gary softly, as though if he spoke too loudly he’d wake something nasty.
Craig nodded. Memories of Father Logan standing in the pulpit returned, his deep bass voice bouncing back at them off the old walls, everyone’s eyes riveted to him. Had he looked down at his congregation and picked out his victims as he’d told them not to sin? Had he planned his murders in this very room, deciding who was guilty enough to die? Did the copycat killer come here for inspiration? Had they been connected to Logan? Great, everyone in Blair Dubh had been connected to Logan. He’d been a pillar of the community, he’d known everyone and their secrets.
Craig paused by the confessional, the really old-fashioned type with the grille between the priest and the person confessing. Had those women sealed their fate by confessing their darkest secrets to a man they thought they could trust, who then used that trust to condemn them to death?
They passed into the sanctuary and reached the altar. Logan used to say the church was built for the altar, not the other way round, that this was the beating heart of the building. If Craig had hoped to find something here then he was disappointed, unless that thing was dust. There was plenty of that and he stifled a sneeze. He kept his eyes off the darkened area of the pulpit located to the left of the sanctuary, nursing a childhood fear that Logan was standing there in the shadows glaring at them for the intrusion. This was his house.
As they moved through the sanctuary Craig realised the cross that habitually hung over it was missing. Then it struck him. He’d admired that very same cross when he was sat in the Parish House, it had hung above the fireplace Claire had died in. Had it still been there when they found her body? He thought hard but couldn’t remember, he’d been too distracted by the charred body. He opened his mouth to ask the others then closed it again, afraid of speaking out loud in this hallowed place, secretly fearful of rousing the devil that used to hide within it.
They moved into the sacristy, which had been emptied of all its precious goods after the Diocese decided the church was to close.
Steve turned, scanning the room and released a cry of surprise, causing his colleagues to whirl around like demented dervishes.
“What is it?” demanded Craig, frantically flicking the torchlight around the room, trying to find the danger.
“Sorry,” said Steve, gesturing to something black hanging off the back of the door. “That scared the shit out of me.”
“Languag
e,” said Gary.
“Actually the Sacristy isn’t consecrated with the rest of the church, so get it up ya,” retorted Steve.
Pulling on his latex gloves, Craig took down the item that had frightened Steve and shook it out. “Priest’s robes.” He sniffed the material. “Freshly laundered.”
“Father Logan’s?” said Gary.
“Looks his size, he was a big man, but why would it be sat here nice and clean?”
“Maybe one of the village ladies washes it regularly, in respect like?” said Gary.
Craig appeared doubtful as he ran his finger across the surface of the desk, which came away dusty. “Why would this be dirty but the robes clean?” He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, Steve holding it open while Craig slid the item inside. Handling something that might have belonged to Logan when he committed murder gave him the creeps. “Maybe it was the one Bill wore to scare Freya and he hid it here? I’ll ask him.”
“And if it wasn’t him?” said Steve.
“Then it could belong to the killer. I’ll speak to Howard, see if anyone has borrowed the keys for this place recently. The killer might like to come here and walk in Logan’s footsteps.” A thought occurred to him and his head snapped up. “The graves.”
“What?” said Gary.
“Outside, it’s been raining, there might be prints,” he said, sprinting outside.
“Oh great,” said Gary as he and Steve followed their sergeant, struggling to keep up with his bobbing torchlight. Even though it was morning there was zero visibility and the torches made life only a little easier.
Craig skidded to a halt by Rose’s grave, casting the torch about, too excited to bother about getting wet. “Look, fresh footprints. They go round and round the grave, as though someone was circling it and they’re big footprints, a man’s.” He thought back to when he was up here with Freya. The grass had been damp but the ground was hard with no mud or prints. He moved to Rhona Campbell’s grave. “There’s more here.” The same set of prints were around Mary Cassidy’s and Lorna MacDiarmid’s graves too. “Check the other graves for footprints.”
Steve and Gary rushed around the graveyard and met up with Craig in the middle.
“There aren’t any prints around any of the other graves, except for Father Logan’s. No one’s been up here since the storm broke,” said Steve.
“Except the killer,” added Gary, causing the three of them to glance around them uneasily.
Craig stared into the dark corner where Rose had been buried alive. “Red roses,” he said.
“What?” said Gary.
“A red rose bush grows where Rose Macalister’s body was found. Logan planted it himself. You can’t see it now, it’s died back for the winter but it’s beautiful in summer.”
“Was it planted before or after her death?” said Steve.
“After, he said it was in remembrance of her. What if the red rose we found in his study was for her, taken from that bush?”
“Then who was the yellow one for?” said Gary. “One of the other victims?”
“There aren’t any rosebushes here,” he said, gesturing to the graves around them. “All the roses grow there, at the back of the graveyard by the wall and he planted Rose’s right on the spot she was killed,” he said, gesturing to the area where Freya’s mum had been buried alive.
“So he planted the yellow rose bush in memory of another victim,” said Steve. “Could that be the fifth one Freya was talking about, the ether?”
“I really don’t know,” he said, staring into the shadowy recess beneath the oak tree. He had the strange feeling Logan was laughing at him.
“I can hardly stand upright,” said Brenda as she stepped outside her cottage with Lizzy. It took both hands just to keep the hood of her pink coat up.
Bill and Jimmy had gone on ahead to repair a table they’d broken at the pub the previous night during their fight. All four of them were the best of friends again after their fallout and Craig’s warning.
“Hurry up, I’m gagging for a drink,” said Lizzy.
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Extenuating circumstances and my nerves are on edge.”
They kept their heads down as they walked to prevent the stinging rain from getting in their eyes.
A whirl of movement to her right caught Brenda’s attention, something black. Her head snapped round but she could see nothing through the curtain of rain. She shrugged and continued on her way.
“Lizzy wait for me,” she called as her friend hurried on ahead, her white coat receding in the distance.
Brenda jumped when she saw the swirl of black again, closer this time, felt something brush her shoulder. Releasing a cry that was stolen by the wind she increased her pace. Lizzy was quite a distance ahead of her now, hurrying for the haven of the pub.
“Brenda,” called a voice to her right.
She hesitated. “Who’s there?” Brenda knew this village like the back of her hand but in the storm it looked alien, familiar shapes distorted, disorientating her. She got a blast of water in the face, the wind blowing back her hood but she didn’t care.
“Brenda,” repeated the voice, made androgynous by the roar of the wind. Her heart pounded as she spun round in a frantic circle, searching for the owner of the disembodied voice.
Panic surged through her when she saw her friend’s coat had disappeared and she ran in the vague direction of the pub, chest tightening from exertion and fear, breath rattling in her throat. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a big black shape and she screamed, but once again the sound was lost. A hand clamped down on her right arm and dragged her backwards. She screamed again when something sharp was jabbed into her neck…
“Where’s Brenda?” Bill demanded of Lizzy the second she walked through the door.
She turned round, fully expecting her friend to be there. “She was right behind me.”
Bill gripped her firmly by both shoulders. “Where is she?” he said, starting to panic.
“Like I said, she was right behind me.”
Bill shoved the door open and peered outside but the only movement was from leaves caught up in the wind, whirling in a funnel before being scattered in four different directions.
Just before he plunged outside he saw a figure staggering towards him, a hand clamped to their neck.
“Bren,” said a relieved Bill, hurrying out to greet her.
She fell into his arms, blue eyes wide and afraid as they looked up at him. Her mouth was stretched open and she released a throaty rasp.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you breathe?” frowned Bill.
Frantically she shook her head, hand still clutched to her neck.
“Jimmy,” bellowed Bill as he hauled her inside. “Brenda can’t breathe, fetch Martin.”
Jimmy nodded and plunged bravely into the storm, forgoing his coat.
“Is it your asthma? Where’s your inhaler?” said Bill.
Unable to reply she just shook her head.
“Lizzy,” he cried, verging on hysteria when he saw how purple his wife’s face was turning in her fight to breathe. “She can’t breathe, I don’t know what’s happening.”
Lizzy, who was a trained nurse, snapped into action. “Lie her back on the floor, prop her up.”
Brenda clung onto her husband’s hand as she was settled onto the carpeted floor. He snatched up cushions off the chairs and piled them under her.
Brenda’s breathing became even more laboured, a ragged wheezing filling the air.
“Let me look,” said Lizzy, peeling her hand from her neck to reveal a small red pinprick, the edges angry and raised. “Looks like a sting,” she frowned.
“She’s allergic to bee stings,” wailed Bill. “It makes her throat swell up.”
“She needs an adrenaline shot. Where’s Martin?”
“It’s okay Sweetheart, just concentrate on breathing,” said Bill, desperately trying not to panic, clutching his wife’s hand.
&n
bsp; Brenda attempted to open her mouth to reply but her tongue was so swollen it was impossible. The skin around her eyes was puffing up, reducing her pretty blue eyes to slits.
“I’m sorry, I should have waited for you,” said Lizzy, tears running down her face.
“Where’s the doctor?” Bill shouted in anguish.
In response the door banged open and Martin charged in clutching his black bag, followed by a wet Jimmy. Lizzy stood back to allow him access.
“What’s happened?” he demanded.
“Looks like a bee sting,” said Bill. “She’s allergic to bee stings.”
Martin popped open his bag and pulled out a syringe.
“What’s that?” said Bill.
“Epinephrine, a form of adrenaline. Help me get her coat off.”
The three of them pulled Brenda’s left arm out of her big pink coat and Lizzy rolled up her sleeve, allowing Martin to give her the shot.
“It’s not working, why isn’t it working?” demanded Bill, a tear running down his cheek as his wife’s lips turned blue. Her chest rose and fell rapidly but she couldn’t take in any air. Her eyes had now entirely disappeared among the swollen skin and her lips were twice their normal size.
“I…I don’t know why it’s not working. It should be working,” said Martin.
“It’s not. Try something else.”
“I don’t know what…” He peered at the wound and frowned. “It’s not a sting, I think it’s a hypodermic mark.”
“A needle. She’s been injected with something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I have no idea, I’d have to take bloods, have them analysed.”
“Don’t just sit there staring, do something,” cried Bill as his wife’s efforts to breathe slowed, the lack of oxygen causing her to pass out.
“I’ll try an antihistamine,” he said, injecting her in the arm again and they all looked at her expectantly but her breathing only became more strained. Martin tilted her head back and tried blowing air into her mouth.
The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1) Page 16
