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

CHAPTER 2

Freya and Craig walked through the door of their flat arm-in-arm, laughing.

“Come on, let’s see it,” she said, tugging up his t-shirt.

Craig grinned and pulled up his t-shirt to reveal a flowing black tribal design across his lower back with Freya’s name in the centre, droplets of blood standing out on the black ink, the surrounding skin red from the tattooist’s needle.

“It looks great,” she smiled.

He pulled his t-shirt back down and slowly started to unzip her jeans, staring intently into her eyes. “Now let’s see yours. It’s much more interesting. Lie down.”

She lay back on the couch as he tugged down her jeans to reveal the black roses on her left inner thigh intertwined with the black tribal swirls to compliment Craig’s tattoo, his name entwined with the stems of the flowers.

Gently he kissed the surrounding skin. “I’m under your skin now, literally. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

“Why would I want to get rid of you?” she said, running her fingers through his dark hair. “Who would put the bins out?”

“Oh ha ha,” he said sarcastically.

“I hope the doctor doesn’t want to examine me the morra, I don’t know what he’ll make of this,” she said, indicating her tattooed thigh.

Craig’s smile faltered. They’d been married for two years and had been trying for a baby for over a year, with no success.

In response her own smile fell. “I’m sorry Craig.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s my fault for abusing my body for so many years. If I’d only thought back then of the consequences.”

“Remember, it’s not the end of the world. There’s still IVF.”

“But it’s so expensive.”

“We’ll manage and we’ll get our family.”

She plucked up the courage to ask the question she’d been burning to ask ever since they’d first visited the fertility clinic. “If it doesn’t happen will you still want me?”

The vulnerability in her green eyes pained him. “I love you Freya and nothing will change that. You’re my wife and you always will be.”

“If I can’t get pregnant…”

“Then we’ll adopt. Anyway, I can’t leave you now, I’ve got your name tattooed on my back. I’d have to meet someone else called Freya.”

His grin as always was irresistible and she smiled back at him. “I love you.”

He kissed her lips. “I love you too. Now stop all this silly talk, we’ll soon have our baby.” His fingers brushed the top of her panties. “Let’s get some more practice in. Oh bloody hell,” he said when his mobile started to ring. “Sorry, that’s work.”

She sat up with him, eyes anxious. “It might be about the riot.” John Docherty, the tormentor of her years living homeless on the streets, was in that prison on the other side of the city. For the past couple of nights since the news broke she’d had horrible nightmares where she’d woken to find him standing at the end of the bed, a knife in hand, eyes a demonic red, the only sound his furious breathing.

“Hopefully they’ll have good news,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “DS Donaldson.”

Freya listened with her heart in her mouth.

“Right, thanks,” he said before hanging up.

“Well?”

“The riot’s over. All prisoners accounted for.”

Freya breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I had the horrible feeling Docherty was going to escape.”

“Not a chance but he is in Intensive Care in Glasgow Royal. Some of the mainstream prisoners broke into the Segregation Unit and attacked him. He’s cut up pretty bad by all accounts. They got hold of two kiddie fiddlers as well and half-killed them. Unfortunately they didn’t go all the way so they’re taking up precious NHS resources. They’re under heavy guard and Docherty hasn’t regained consciousness yet. You can stop worrying.”

“That is such a relief,” she said, burying her face in her hands. Her worst nightmare was Docherty escaping because she knew if he ever did manage that miracle then he’d come for her.

Craig had arranged for them to have their tattoos done today in an attempt to distract her. Ever since the riot had started she’d been a bundle of nerves, waking up in the middle of the night sweating and screaming, convinced Docherty was in their bedroom. Craig’s plan had worked. For a couple of hours she’d managed to put it to the back of her mind and now it was over. She felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her.

Freya smiled at him and Craig’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her. He had been warned that relationships initiated in high-pressure situations didn’t work and they didn’t get anymore high pressure than The Elemental serial murder case, but he and Freya were stronger than ever.

“Well that’s one thing less to worry about,” she said, already looking much more cheerful. “All we need is for the doctor to give us good news the morra and we can get on with our lives.”

“It’s tomorrow, not the morra,” he smiled.

“What can I say? I’m a Glasgow girl.”

“Ayrshire born though.”

“Glasgow at heart.”

“As you wish and I’m sure the doctor will give us some good news,” said Craig, pulling her to him so she wouldn’t see the doubt in his eyes.

Docherty had ditched the prominent green paramedic’s coat in favour of a dark blue short sleeved shirt he’d nicked from a shop. He’d learnt that everyone trusted a paramedic and the bulky coat had been very useful for shoplifting. Not only had he stolen the shirt but he’d also nicked a pair of blue denim jeans, a pack of razors, shaving foam, a pair of small nail scissors, a sandwich and a couple of cans of fizzy pop. He’d been an adept shoplifter when he was a kid, so good he’d always managed to evade arrest ensuring he had a clean record when he joined the force. It hadn’t been about the stuff, his family had never been short of a bob or two. He’d stolen for the sense of power, to prove he was smarter than everyone else and he was. Once again he’d proved it by escaping from one of the country’s toughest prisons.

Now he had to change his appearance. For all he knew McMillan could have woken up and be describing what had happened at that very moment, but he thought it unlikely. He was probably still in surgery, it would take several hours or maybe even days before he would be up to talking, although that would be difficult given the amount of damage he’d caused him. He had a bit of time yet to achieve his goals.

In a park he found some stinking graffiti-covered public toilets, urine and used condoms on the floor, but it had a sink with running water and that was all he needed. He hacked at his hair with the scissors, careful to throw the dirty brown bits into the overflowing bin, then shaved off the tufts left behind with the stolen razors. He’d never gone bald before and it was a shock but he had the face shape to pull it off. It made him look like a thug, someone not to be messed with, especially with the cut across his forehead. He left his stubble to grow, it always grew very quickly, so in a couple of days it should be well on the way to being a full beard.

He stepped outside feeling uncomfortable and out of his skin with his new look. Even though it was the height of summer, the day uncomfortably hot, his head still felt cold and exposed so he pulled the baseball cap he’d stolen from the paramedic back on, pulling it low over his face, feeling more secure and protected.

He found a bench to sit and eat, stuffing the food into his mouth and gulping down the Irn Bru. After years of prison food the prawn sandwich tasted divine.

Finally replete he just sat for a while, it only now hitting home that he’d escaped from prison. It had happened so fast and he’d been so focused on his escape and changing his appearance that he hadn’t really had chance to consider it yet.

Docherty knew he was on borrowed time. It was very rare for anyone to escape and stay at liberty. In order to pull that off he’d need a new identity, fake passport and documents. There was no way he could get any of that, everyone had abandoned him when he’d got sent down, the treacherous bastards. Not that he was bothered. His friends were more casual acquaintances and he hated his family. He recalled his mum’s screeching voice, his dad’s big fists and his perpetually sick younger brother and shuddered. He was well out of it.

He tilted his face to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face, trying to drive away his prison pallor. Being locked up for twenty three hours a day wasn’t good for anyone’s skin. Initially they’d tried putting him in the main prison population and at first he’d thought it would be okay, until some bastard let it slip he was an ex-copper. He was sure it was that bastard Jacobs just so he could get him back on the seg unit to continue his tortures. The moment word got out his life had been made a misery; bodily fluids and shards of glass in his food, beatings, faeces left on his bed. When a violent assault put him in the infirmary the governor decided to move him back to seg for his own safety, locked up with the paedos, rapists and informers. It was important he make the most of his time on the outside so he could have something to think about when he was locked back up. He needed to build himself a stack of good memories to wile away the years because once he was back inside they would make damn sure he never got out again.

Four names. Sally Sinclair, Anita Kelly, DCI Gray and Freya Donaldson nee Macalister. The four people who had destroyed his life. DCI Gray had been his superior officer and, unbeknownst to him, had been onto him for years, it just took him time to put a case together. He’d snuck around, convincing the homeless girls to testify against him, having him watched by his handpicked team, recording him selling on the drugs he’d taken from the peddlers. Sally, Anita and Freya were the only ones stupid enough to stand up to him and the jury had believed them, despite the best efforts of his defence team. He’d been amazed.

He closed his eyes and recalled the violence he’d inflicted on McMillan. It had woken the thirst in him again to cause pain and suffering, the memory of the fear in the man’s eyes and his cries of pain sending the adrenaline rocketing through his veins, putting him on a high and he released a groan. The violence to him was as much a sexual thrill as it was about the power and control it gave him over others. As he’d beat the homeless girls he’d enjoyed the worry in their eyes that he was going to go all the way and kill them. The sensible ones just shut up and took it until he’d got it out of his system. They were the ones who walked away with relatively fewer injuries but the real bitches, like Freya, fought back, fuelling his rage and the only way he could expend it was by inflicting worse injuries on them, hitting them until they went quiet and stopped struggling. Another memory returned to Docherty that hit him so hard he was rocked in his seat. He was back under a bridge in the city centre pursuing Freya, her scared white face continually glancing over her shoulder, green eyes widening when she saw he was getting closer. Her hair had been blond then, shining like a beacon, making it easier for him to follow her in the gloom. That was one reason why she’d turned to the all-black, she’d thought it would hide her in the dark, but it didn’t work. In fact it only made him more determined to get her. She was fast but in poor health and when she started to tire he always caught up with her, wrapping his hand in that long thick hair, dragging her to him kicking and screaming, a fist in the face to silence her. But that never worked. Her green eyes would burn with anger and defiance and those small but powerful fists would start pummelling him.

No matter how hard she fought he always won. She’d be laid on the ground, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, face swollen, gasping for breath. He’d bend over to whisper in her ear
I’ll see you again soon
. Even then she would still be insolent, hate in her eyes as she stared back at him, refusing to look away. He’d just smile and shrug and walk away, feeling strong and potent and incredibly aroused. But he’d never touched the homeless girls like that, most of them were prostitutes and carried nasty diseases. Plus they were dirty and stank. He did have his standards. Instead he’d go to one of his girlfriends at the end of his shift and work off that particular energy, but all the time he’d be thinking about the violence, it was the only way he could come. He’d used to be popular with the birds too, he’d been good looking and had a great body until he was put away and fed poor food and stuck in a cell for most of the day. Now his gut was flabby and his looks fading fast. That was their fault too. He’d visit them one by one, in the order they gave evidence against him. Sally first, the weakest of the three, followed by Anita then Freya. DCI Gray must have known Freya would be the strongest, saving her till last to give the other girls’ evidence more credence.

He pictured how Freya would look when he’d finished with her and released another groan. A young couple walking past arm-in-arm gave him a quizzical look and he glared at them until they walked away, picking up the pace. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch.

His first task was to find Sally. He knew where she used to hang about selling her body and if she wasn’t there anymore it would be easy enough to track her down. The homeless network was remarkably efficient.

He drained the last of his drink, threw the can in the air and kicked it, watching with satisfaction as it sailed through the air and settled on the grass right next to a big dog turd. What a shot. With a smile he wandered off with his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling to himself. He had work to do.