“You can say that again,” she sighed, relieved that part was over with, although the worst was yet to come.
“Who’s in charge?” said Eric. “Freya here can help.”
“You want to speak to DCI Armstrong over there,” said the PC, nodding in the direction of a big, hulking man with a deep frown and an angry face. He was talking to an equally large man with a big black moustache who was wearing full black tactical uniform and holding a Heckler and Koch MP5 sub machine gun, a pistol and taser holstered at his side. Four other officers, similarly armed, stood around listening to them talk. Freya’s fury mounted as she watched them standing there chatting while everyone in the village was in mortal danger.
“Take it easy Freya,” warned Eric, recognising the warning signs as she stomped her way towards them. “If you piss them off they won’t let you anywhere near this.”
Freya nodded, summoning up every bit of willpower she possessed. She had to control herself for Craig. “I won’t lose it. Promise.”
“You’d better not. You do realise when Craig finds out I brought you here he’s going to kill me.”
“Probably.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.”
Armstrong watched them approach with something between outrage and irritation. “Who are you two? What do you want? Who let you through here?”
Eric flashed his warrant card again. “DS Muir from Glasgow West End Sir. This is Freya Donaldson, DS Donaldson’s wife. I’ve informed her of what’s going on in Blair Dubh and she thinks she can help.”
Armstrong looked down at Freya doubtfully. “And how can you possibly help us?”
“I was born and raised in Blair Dubh, I know every inch of those woods. I can guide your men through them.”
“Absolutely not,” he said before turning his back on her.
Freya looked to Eric, who shrugged. When she continued to glare at him he cleared his throat. “Excuse me Sir, I really think you should hear her out before dismissing her.”
“Oh you think do you Sergeant? Well it doesn’t matter what you think. Now get yourself back behind that cordon.”
Eric flushed with anger but, before he could retort, Freya got there first.
“Oi, you,” she snarled, jabbing her finger into Armstrong’s back.
“Yes Madam?” he sighed, turning back round, not making much of an effort to disguise his impatience.
“Don’t madam me. Who the hell do you think you are? My husband and mother-in-law are trapped in that village with a gun-toting maniac. How dare you treat me like I’m nothing?” She was talking loudly on purpose so the hovering paparazzi could hear and Armstrong knew it.
“I didn’t mean to cause any offence Mrs Donaldson,” he said more contritely. “We’re just discussing a way into the village and I’m sure you’ll understand that time is of the essence.”
“That’s why I’m here you prat, I can give you a way in but you chose to ignore me before you’d even heard me out. Now you will listen carefully to everything I have to say. If you don’t and anything happens to anyone in that village because of your breathtaking arrogance I will sue the arse off you and I’ll be using your warrant card to scrape the dirt off my shoes.”
Armstrong’s expression was thunderous but wisely he realised she meant every word. His sharp dark eyes flicked to Eric, who stood beside her, cringing.
“I’m Sergeant Thorne,” said the armed man with the black moustache, addressing her a lot more respectfully than Armstrong had. “It’s vital we get in there as soon as possible so we’re willing to listen to any suggestion you have.” He was aware his superior officer was throwing him an evil look but he chose to ignore it.
“Thank you,” said Freya, relieved someone was giving her a chance. “I grew up in Blair Dubh, I spent my entire childhood playing in those woods and they haven’t changed. I could make my way through them blindfolded. The woods are the only way you’re going to get into Blair Dubh. The road’s blocked and the sea’s too dangerous. You and your men would only end up being thrown into the sea wall. The sniper can’t monitor the whole woods, they’re too vast. I can guide you in and you can take him by surprise.”
“I’m reluctant to take another civilian in there,” said Thorne. “Couldn’t you guide us in by radio?”
“No, I need to feel where I’m going. I know it sounds stupid but I need to be there. I don’t know anything about maps and coordinates, my route through the woods is in here,” she said, tapping the side of her head.
“You’re too emotionally involved,” said Armstrong. “What if you panic and guide my officers into danger? I’m told there are a lot of treacherous slopes in those woods.”
“There are and I know them all and I didn’t survive three serial killers by panicking.”
“That’s a good enough reference for me,” said Thorne.
Freya gave him a grateful nod.
Armstrong’s brow was still creased with doubt. “I don’t like it at all. The bastard’s got enough potential targets as it is.”
“It’s the best we’ve got,” said Thorne. “We can’t arse about out here any longer. Communication inside the village is sporadic at best and we haven’t had an update in almost an hour.”
“You haven’t?” said Freya, all the blood draining from her face.
“It’s this electrical storm. Nothing to worry about,” Thorne hastily assured her.
“Then the sooner we get in the better,” said Freya, practically hopping with frustration. “Please.”
“We need clearance to let a civilian in and I’m going to recommend this insanity isn’t allowed to happen,” said Armstrong.
“Then what do you suggest?” Freya yelled in his face.
“Mrs Donaldson, getting angry isn’t going to help your cause.”
“My husband is in there and if you can’t be bothered to help him then I can.”
“We can’t leave it any longer to act,” said Thorne, “and with respect Sir, we’ve got nothing else.”
Armstrong looked furious at being outvoted. “Fine but on your head be it,” he snarled at Thorne. “I think it’s fucking madness.”
“Noted,” he replied dryly. “Come on Freya, let’s get you kitted up. Helmet and body armour.”
“There’s no time.”
“You don’t go in without it.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “Just please, do it quickly.”
“Before you go Mrs Donaldson,” called Armstrong.
She stopped and turned, realising her expression must have been ferocious when his scowl returned.
“Do you know Graeme Doggett?” said Armstrong.
“Yes I do. He’s not been shot, has he?”
“We think he’s the shooter. What do you know about him?” he prompted when she fell into stunned silence.
“He…he’s a newcomer to the village,” she replied breathlessly.
“Yes, we’re already aware of that,” he said impatiently. “That’s the only thing we’ve been able to establish thanks to a butcher in West Kilbride whose shop he visited regularly. Can you tell us anything more?”
“He made some of the villagers uneasy,” she continued, getting over her initial shock. “They said he gave them the creeps. Nothing specific, just a feeling. He’d sit in the pub with a whisky and listen to everyone talk, never joining in.” Freya recalled a conversation she’d had with him when she’d discovered her parents’ graves had been desecrated by Docherty. “He told me once that he sensed evil in the village.”
Armstrong for the first time looked genuinely interested in what she had to say. “Evil? Did he give you any specifics?”
“No. At the time I had no idea what he was on about and later when I thought about it I assumed he was referring to Docherty, it was around that time but he couldn’t have known he was even in the village then. What if he meant he thought the village was evil?”
“Anything else?”
“He lost someone he loved violently.”
>
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say. Could this be some sort of twisted revenge?”
“It’s possible I suppose,” said Armstrong. “The only problem is we can’t check. Graeme Doggett is an alias and we’ve no idea what his real name is or where he’s come from but we intend to find out.” His eyes moved past her. “Looks like Sergeant Thorne’s waiting for you. Thank you Mrs Donaldson,” he said more respectfully before turning to a plain-clothes detective to impart what he’d just learnt.
Eric followed Freya to the back of one of the armed response vehicles. “Are you sure about this?” he asked her, uncertain now it was actually happening.
“Yes,” she said determinedly, holding up her arms while Thorne pulled the Kevlar jacket over her head.
“We can’t take torches in there, the sniper will see us coming a mile off,” Thorne told her. “So you’ll have to wear these.”
Freya stared mistrustfully at the night vision goggles he held out to her. She’d suffered from claustrophobia ever since the night she’d seen her mother being buried alive by Father Logan and she thought they might bring on a bout of it. Hesitantly she took them from him, dismayed by the weight of them.
“Are you okay?” frowned Thorne.
She cleared her throat. “Fine.”
“Think of Petie,” continued Eric, determined to do everything he could to dissuade her. “God forbid, but what if something happens to you and Craig? What about your son?”
“I hope he’ll be proud and learn from his parents not to back down or be afraid to do what’s right.”
“I’m never going to convince you not to do this, am I?”
“No. I’d do anything for my husband.”
Eric didn’t think he’d ever admired anyone more than he did Freya in that moment. Craig was a lucky sod.
“Please look after yourself. Don’t do anything reckless.”
“I’ll be safe. Look at the bodyguard I’ve got,” she said, indicating the team of four armed men.
“They don’t know the terrain like your sniper does and that gives him the advantage. You do know Craig wouldn’t want you doing this?”
“Yes but I’m not going to stand by and let him get shot.” She looked impatiently at Thorne. “Are you ready?”
“We are,” he smiled, his respect for this slender, determined woman with the heavy black eye make-up increasing by the second.
“Finally. Are you sure the sniper’s not snuck out of the village yet through the woods?” She still wasn’t comfortable referring to him as Graeme. Despite his odd ways she was having a difficult time believing he was capable of what they were accusing him of.
“Sure,” replied Thorne. “We’ve extended the cordon to include them. He’s not going to escape.”
“Then let’s get in there after him.”
Freya hugged Eric before she walked away, encircled by the armed police. He watched her trudge fearlessly into the woods and evaporate into the darkness. If her determination was anything to go by the sniper should be worried.
CHAPTER 19
The shadows were closing in on Graeme and he swallowed nervously as he watched them pass the windows. He was fortunate these cottages were small and he could watch both front and back from one spot.
“Nippy, go to your basket,” he told his little dog when she ran up to him, tongue lolling out and tail wagging. She certainly picked her moments to regain her courage. He wished he’d bought a Rottweiler or a Doberman instead, something that would have ripped the throats out of any intruders, but he’d had a soft spot for the pathetic little mongrel he’d come across in the dogs’ home. She was an outcast, just like him.
Deflated, her tail drooped and she returned to her basket, watching him from her little corner of the living room, hurt and disapproval in her soft brown eyes. Normally Graeme would have showered her with affection, he loved animals. Unlike people they were innocent, only killing to eat or defend themselves. They didn’t commit atrocities, they didn’t blackmail, rape or murder. Evil was the domain of the human race. However he was too scared and in too much pain to bother soothing Nippy’s jangled nerves. His arm was giving him some gyp, making holding the gun awkward. With a sigh he slung the rifle over his shoulder and drew the pistol from his belt instead, which he only needed his right arm to handle.
He couldn’t sit around here, time was running out. The police would make their move soon, he was lucky they hadn’t done it yet but none of his alarms had been tripped. He refused to allow himself to get trapped in here.
Softly Graeme got to his feet and glided up the stairs. He wasn’t going to make himself a direct target for that shotgun. At the top of the stairs he rushed into his bedroom and peered out of the window that overlooked the main street and could see nothing.
Exiting this room he crept across the hall to the second bedroom that overlooked the water. Looking down he caught sight of movement at his back door. Whoever was at the front was being more cautious, more professional. That just had to be Donaldson.
Graeme returned to the hallway, quietly pulled down the set of ladders leading into the loft space with his good arm and ascended them into the attic. The space was tiny, only used for storage, but as Graeme travelled light it was empty, all except for the black briefcase, which he popped open. Inside was a third pistol, which he stuffed into one of the pockets of his black jacket, and a second sniper scope that was equipped with a red dot sight. He replaced the scope on his rifle with this one, which he thought would be more useful if he did end up running from them through the woods, it would allow him to lock onto his target easier.
He opened the skylight, which was just about wide enough for him to fit through, and out onto the roof. He sat on the tiles for a moment to catch his breath. It was hot up here, the clouds so low the effect was almost claustrophobic. Tentatively he raised an arm, expecting to touch them, but instead his fingers raked through the air that positively crackled around him. The black sea churned just feet below him, the same sea that had swallowed Martin Lynch whole than spat back out his battered, chewed corpse. The castle stood out in brilliant relief as the clouds were once again lit up from within, the church just below it squat and sinister. All the while the soft tread of footsteps drifted up to him from below.
Bracing himself with the heels of his boots he slowly lowered himself down to the edge of the guttering, keeping up a continuous prayer that the whole lot wouldn’t give way beneath him. But the roofs of the buildings in Blair Dubh were well-maintained, they had to be if they were to survive the frequent and savage winds that regularly buffeted the village. The wound in his shoulder was grousing but he did all in his power to ignore it. Now was not the time to give way to weakness.
Down below he could see not one but two shapes but he couldn’t quite see enough of them to get a shot off. If he fired he’d only alert them to his presence and send them running when he needed to take them unawares.
His phone vibrated violently in his pocket.
Shit, he thought. Hastily he pulled it out of one of the cavernous pockets of his jacket and was enraged to see the perimeter he’d set up in the woods had been breached. He’d spent weeks in the those woods, camping out in them for days at a time so he could spend the nights walking them until he knew them so well he didn’t need a light to make his way through. He probably knew them better than the locals, who didn’t venture anywhere near, especially not after Docherty had died in them. The silly, superstitious bastards thought they were unlucky.
He’d ascertained there were only three routes into those woods that a person could safely traverse without getting hopelessly entangled in brambles or falling and breaking their neck, just like Docherty had. On each of those three routes he’d taken the opportunity to install a mobile infra red sensor that detected heat signatures of only upright running or walking targets, so the damn things wouldn’t go off every time an animal passed them. If one of them was breached an alert was sent to his phone. Now they were telling
him that five upright walking figures had breached the perimeter and were making their way towards the village.
“Fuck,” he whispered. The police were coming, it was the only explanation. He had to get to those woods and fast.
He let off three shots over the side of the house and heard swearing from down below followed by the scuffle of footsteps. Then he scrabbled back up the tiles, which once again held his weight, and slid back into the loft space. In his haste the wound in his shoulder was forgotten. He felt renewed, alive with purpose, as though he was feeding on the gathering energy in the air.
Instead of using the ladders he jumped out of the loft space onto the landing and sped downstairs. From outside the rear of the house came the sound of voices and he snatched up the rifle and night vision goggles, ran into the kitchen and fired more shots out of the window, shattering the glass. Cries sounded from outside and he didn’t know if he’d hit anyone, although he hoped he had. Without pause he rushed back through to the living room - Nippy watching him go with a perplexed expression - and straight out the front door. The breath was pushed from his lungs with fear, half-expecting a shotgun to be discharged in his face, but no one was there. If that had been Donaldson creeping about out front he would probably have gone round the back to help his friends. It was all clear.
Instead of pursuing them he ran across the road. From there he could make his way towards the woods without being seen. He could deal with the villagers later, stopping the police was his priority right now.
But he’d underestimated his pursuers. When he paused for breath he heard footsteps behind him.
“Stop Graeme.”
It was Donaldson again. The stubborn, unrelenting bastard. Graeme dodged around the side of a cottage, breathing hard. He hadn’t actually put the night vision goggles on yet, instead they dangled from his arm. He pulled them on, already feeling more secure as the blackness jumped out in dark green. He had an advantage that Donaldson didn’t.
Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) Page 16
