Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) (16 page)

“I should go after him. He’s not thinking straight,” said Steve.

“Let the moron go,” said Jimmy, wandering in after them. “I’m just glad he had the sense to go out the back door. If he gets his head blown off it’s no loss.”

“How can you say that?” said Steve incredulously.

“I can say it after he left Gary for dead who, unlike him, is a good man and a bloody good officer. Hughes doesn’t give a shit about anyone else so why should we care about him?”

“I don’t know,” sighed Steve, still debating whether he should go after him.

“Don’t even think it. We need you here.”

“Jimmy’s right. Don’t leave us,” said Todd. “What if the sniper comes and there’s no police officer?”

This decided Steve. These people needed him. Hughes was on his own.

CHAPTER 17

The adrenaline flooded Craig’s body as they crept down the narrow back lane that ran behind the pub. Their first goal was Bill’s cottage for his shotguns.

He could hear the wash of the water hitting the shore, hear the grumble of thunder, smell the salt in the air. One thing he loved about his job was the sense of being alive, which was only heightened the more dangerous the situation became. He’d been very careful not to tell anyone about his secret adrenaline addiction because it wasn’t what his superiors, or his wife and mother, wanted to hear. It was the only secret he’d ever kept from Freya and he did feel guilty about it but it was to preserve her peace of mind. She’d only worry.

He’d been in some dangerous situations before, life-threatening ones too, but this was the first time he’d felt the situation was completely out of his control. Watching so many people he’d known his entire life get shot down like animals had been a devastating experience, one he knew he hadn’t even started to come to terms with yet. That would come when it was all over, if he was still alive.

It was pitch black, he couldn’t see a thing. He had absolutely no idea where the sniper was, who would be even more desperate and savage now he’d been injured. For all he knew he could be stalking them as they snuck down the path, slipping on the damp cobbles, worn flat by years of water erosion. He could be right behind him, aligning the barrel of the rifle with his head…

Craig whipped round, heart hammering, convinced someone was behind him but he could see nothing except darkness, which suddenly seemed to be alive, to be touching him.

He turned back round and focused on not falling over. That was a better use of his time than imagining armed phantoms. Still, he couldn’t deny it was a thrill not knowing where the maniac with the gun was. Even if the sniper did spot him Craig probably wouldn’t know anything about it until he was falling to the ground with a hole in his head.

They made it to Bill’s cottage without incident and with their skulls intact. They stole inside and paused to catch their breath.

“That was intense,” said Bill, leaning against the back door to recover.

“Tell me about it,” panted Craig, doubling over and resting his forearms on his thighs. They were whispering so anyone lurking outside wouldn’t hear. He straightened up. “Where are the guns?”

“In here.”

Craig was glad when Bill walked to the cupboard in the hallway. He didn’t want him to go upstairs and leave him all alone. Pathetic really.

“Here,” said Bill, handing him one of the weapons.

“I take it these are both licenced?”

“Course they are, what do you think I am? A fucking criminal?”

“Sorry Bill, I have to be sure in case we end up shooting someone. We have to cover our arses.”

“Well they are so stop fretting. Now let’s get out there and kill us a bastard.”

“Hold it,” said Craig, grabbing hold of his arm when he charged for the door. “We have to do this carefully.”

“Fuck careful. We have to take him down before he kills anyone else.”

“And we will but we don’t want to get ourselves killed in the process. You don’t happen to have any night vision goggles, do you?”

“No. I’m not a pervert,” said Bill indignantly.

“The sniper does, which gives him the advantage.”

“We’ve got our own advantage - we’ve not been shot.” Bill noted Craig’s wry look and added, “well I’ve not anyway.”

“We need to get moving. You ready?”

“To go into Graeme’s house? Too right I am, I just hope he’s there so I can unload this wee beauty into him,” he said, brandishing the gun.

Craig thought about telling him it would be better if
he
took Graeme down rather than a civilian then thought, what was the point? If Bill had a chance he was going to shoot and not think twice.

“I know you killed Docherty,” said Craig quietly.

“So?” said Bill defiantly, as pumped with adrenaline as Craig was. “I’d do it again if he was stood in front of me right now.”

“I just wanted to say thanks, on behalf of Freya as well as myself.”

“She knows?”

“No. She thinks he fell and broke his neck and that’s how it’s going to stay.”

“You’re not going to arrest me then?”

“For getting rid of the man who tried to kill my wife? No.”

“Then why bring it up now?”

“I want you to know that I’m grateful just in case anything happens. I know it must have cost you a piece of yourself.”

“I paid it and I was glad,” said Bill gruffly. “I had to make it up to Freya for handing her over to Martin Lynch. I did it for my Bren too and Gordon’s Isla and every woman who’s suffered at the hands of the loonies that end up in this village.”

“Anyway, I’m glad that’s out of the way. You ready?”

Bill gripped the shotgun tightly, eyes gleaming in what little light there was. “Damn right. Let’s go kick some sniper arse.”

Craig raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I came over all Hollywood then.”

“Don’t go getting gung-ho, that’s a sure fire way to get yourself killed.”

“This might sound really bad but I’ve never felt so alive.”

“Me neither.”

The two men smiled at each other before creeping to the back door clutching the shotguns, Craig leading the way. He opened the door, holding his breath as he looked out and was greeted by nothing but the gentle breath of wind and the wash of the sea.

He turned and nodded over his shoulder at Bill, who nodded back and followed him outside, softly closing the door behind him. They tiptoed along the slippery cobbles to the next cottage - Graeme’s cottage.

Bill sighed with impatience when Craig hesitated as he attempted to judge whether the house was empty or not. Bill was desperate to burst in there and just start blasting but it appeared Craig was going for a more subtle approach.

Craig tried the back door, which opened beneath his touch. People rarely locked their doors in Blair Dubh.

They stepped inside and all the hairs on the back of Craig’s neck stood up. It felt as though an electric shock had run through him, his instinct screaming at him that there was something here to find. He remained still for a full minute, attempting to define the creaks of the house as it shifted beneath the force of the storm that was gathering its strength, ready to unleash more fury on them. These cottages were old and had been built to bend to the will of the tempestuous weather that tormented the village. The home he’d grown up in made the exact same creaks, so he thought he was well qualified to divine what was caused by the building and what was caused by the presence of a third person.

A bark made them both jump and Graeme’s little dog, Nippy, charged up to them, yapping and wagging her skinny little tail, excited to have some company.

“Shut the thing up,” hissed Craig.

“How?”

“I don’t know, you’re the expert with animals.”

“Since when?”

“Feed it or something.”

They both frantically pulled opened cupboard doors until they located a box of dog biscuits and tipped some out into a bowl on the floor.

“We’re supposed to be hunting down a mass murderer and here we are feeding his bloody dog,” muttered Bill.

“It’s not Nippy’s fault her owner’s a psycho. Anyway, it proves Graeme’s not here, we would have had his undivided attention by now.”

After checking downstairs and finding no one they crept upstairs and found that was clear too, Graeme wasn’t here. They began a methodical search of the house. Upstairs yielded nothing, no weapons, no trinkets or personal items to indicate where Graeme had come from and nothing to tell them why he was doing this. A rummage around downstairs was equally disappointing. However their search was hampered by the fact that they were in the dark and couldn’t turn on a light.

One motif was prevalent throughout the entire house. Religion. Crosses adorned every wall, images of Jesus and Mary, there was even what appeared to be an altar in the spare bedroom consisting of candles and crosses. Nothing made it clear what denomination, if any, Graeme belonged to, but it was obvious he was a believer.

“No photos, nothing. It’s like he doesn’t have a family,” said Bill.

“He probably shot them all,” commented Craig.

Craig opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled on the light, feeling it was safe to do so because the cupboard was windowless. He saw something in there that caused those little hairs to rise all over again. “I think this is all the proof we need,” he said, indicating the screwed up white paper suit splattered with blood that lay on the floor.

“Jesus,” said Bill. “Where did that come from?”

“I’m guessing he wore it when he killed Adam and when he shot at us in the McNab’s cottage. Forensics didn’t find evidence of a third party at the scene. This explains why. It also confirms Graeme’s the sniper.”

“Why? What did we ever do to him?” said Bill, looking a little distraught.

“I’ve no idea.” He thought back to the Docherty incident, when Graeme had spoken to Freya in the church. “The last time she was here he said to Freya something about evil in the village.”

“Evil? Who, Docherty?”

“She wasn’t really sure. At the time she assumed so but what if he wasn’t talking about him? What if he meant the whole village? You’ve seen all the iconography. What if he thinks he’s on a holy mission?”

“Great, a religious loony,” said Bill. “At least now we know what we’re up against.”

“If he is on some sort of mission then he won’t leave until we’re all dead.” Craig stared at the paper suit and sighed. “He’s done this before. Look how organised he is, how prepared.”

“Oh fucking marvellous. So he’s experienced?”

Craig nodded. “Using the McNab’s as bait to draw us in, the awareness of forensics, the night vision goggles, the booby trap to keep the emergency services out. Course he’s experienced. God only knows how many people Graeme’s killed. This guy could be a mass murderer.”

“And now he’s hunting us,” whispered Bill, looking around him uneasily, as though Graeme might spring out at him from the shadows. “And we’re in his house.”

“We have to get back to the pub and get Steve to radio this through, the police don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with,” said Craig grimly.

“Or we could wait here and blast the bastard the second he comes through the door.”

“What if he doesn’t come back here?”

“He might if he’s injured.”

“If he’s any sense he’ll have somewhere else lined up that he can run to so he can patch himself up, somewhere he can keep an eye on the pub from. Ah, look what else I’ve found.”

“What?”

“Night vision goggles,” he said, producing a pair from the closet.

“There doesn’t happen to be another set in there, does there?”

“Sorry, not that I can see.”

“Typical,” sighed Bill.

Craig held them out to him. “You take them.”

“No lad, you keep them. You’re the one with the wife and bairn.”

“And you’re the civilian.”

“If anyone’s going to stop this bastard it’s going to be you. Keep them.”

They went still when they heard footsteps approaching, slipping and sliding on the cobbles outside. As a shadow loomed against the glass in the back door Craig and Bill retreated into the pantry, cocking the weapons as they went, ensuring they were hidden from view when Graeme came inside.

Craig peered through the crack in the pantry door and saw a figure enter. Beside him Bill was rapidly losing his cool - his teeth ground together, his hands gripping the shotgun were white and sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled down his face, leaving streaks. Unable to contain himself any longer, Bill released a startling roar and kicked the pantry door open.

“Chew on this you fucking bastard,” he bellowed before pulling the trigger.

“Stop,” cried Craig, grabbing his arm and tilting the barrel upwards. The discharged shot ploughed into the ceiling, punching a huge hole through it. The dog released a yelp and went charging upstairs in fright.

“What are you doing you madman?” cried Hughes, cowering against the kitchen units.

“You bloody idiot, I could have taken your head off,” exclaimed Bill. “Why the fuck are you creeping about a murderer’s house in the middle of the night?”

“I could ask you the same thing and do you have a licence for that?” he said, pointing at the shotgun.

“Yes I do you pompous little sack of spunk. Why don’t you piss off back to the pub with the other old ladies?”

“Will you two keep your voices down,” chided Craig. “We have to get out of here, Graeme will have heard all that.”

He saw Hughes’s face pale even more in the darkness and wondered if his bottle was going to go again. To his surprise the little man straightened himself up. “Then we’d better move fast.”

Bill and Craig looked at each other with surprise when he walked to the back door and pulled it open.