The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1) by Heather Atkinson Page B

loose. Although there wasn’t a storm back then the police said no one was allowed to leave because we were all suspects. Old secrets and rivalries surfaced. A few quarrels broke out, there were even a couple of fights, neighbour turning on neighbour, accusations flying about. It was terrible and it looks like it could be starting again.”
    “ You don’t think Catriona’s death is a one off?”
    “ No I don’t.” She smiled and patted Freya’s cheek. “You know, now I’ve got used to your new look I quite like it. I always wished I’d done something daring when I was younger but I played it safe and now it’s too late.”
    “ Safe is good,” she said quietly.
    Nora saw the sadness in her eyes and wanted to snap her out of it. “Let’s tackle the bedrooms first, eh?”
    Freya smiled. “Okay.”
    “ It’s nice having another woman about the house. I’ve always lived with men. It’s refreshing living with someone who smells nice and tidies up after herself.”
    Despite everything, Freya smiled. Nora was still the warm maternal woman she remembered and she was grateful for her.

CHAPTER 7
     
    “Who lives here, the Munsters?” said Steve as they sat in Craig’s car, staring up at the Parish House. It was a big granite edifice with its very own tower, looming over them and blotting out the turbulent sky. Crows hunkered down in the eaves, sheltering from the wind that ruffled their feathers. The garden that Logan had kept immaculate was overgrown, weeds asphyxiating the roses that had once been his pride and joy.
    Carefully they picked their way up the path, trying to avoid the brambles that snagged at their trouser legs. They managed to get to the front door without incident and Craig rang the old pull-cord bell, one sombre note echoing throughout the house. The wind was even wilder up here and they had to hold onto their hats to prevent them from blowing away, huddling up to the front door for shelter. When it did eventually open they almost fell inside.
    They were greeted by a wizened old woman dressed entirely in black. Since the day her husband died fifty years ago Claire Logan had kept to her mourning clothes. Her hair was silver and fell to her waist and her eyes - that had once been the same piercing blue as her sons - were rheumy with cataracts and glared at the two officers with sheer malevolence.
    “ What’s the meaning of this? Are you spying on me?” she demanded in a voice croaky with age.
    “ No Mrs Logan. It’s me, Craig Donaldson. I work for the police now,” he said in that voice everyone reserves for the very old and deaf.
    “ Well I didn’t think you were lollipop men, ya clatty wee bastard. Always covered in muck and filth you were, always up to something.”
    Craig was shocked. She used to be so straight-laced she wouldn ’t have dreamed of swearing but he’d heard she was going senile, which was why Social Services wanted her in a home and not rattling around up here, alone.
    “ 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