Blood Water Falls: A Scottish Detective Mystery (DCI Bone Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  BLOOD WATER FALLS

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BLOOD WATER FALLS

  A DCI Bone Scottish Crime Thriller (Book 2)

  T G Reid

  COPYRIGHT

  Blood Water Falls

  Published Worldwide by Glass Work Press.

  This edition published in 2021.

  ISBN: 9798767706020

  The right of all named persons, to be identified as the author of this work, has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Hanna Elizabeth

  Cover: megjolly.co.uk

  © 2021 TG Reid

  DEDICATION

  To Nick and Mark (Obi Wan and Two) - with gratitude and love.

  PROLOGUE

  Richard Jones scrambled up the last few feet of Craigend Cap, and onto the flat granite plate that perched precariously on the hill’s summit. For a moment he stood in awe of the breathtaking vista before him; a cinemascopic panorama of hills and glens, peaking above a thick carpet of whipped-cream mist that was stubbornly refusing to leave the valley.

  When he’d set off the night before in the pitch dark and the rain, he hadn’t felt very optimistic of capturing anything worthwhile, but the forecast promised a glorious solstice day, so he’d persuaded his brain to forgo the seductive warmth of his bed, catch the last train to Carrbridge, and head for the hills.

  He set up the tripod and snapped his high format camera into the clips on the top. With a quick readjustment of the tripod legs and a fiddle with the settings, he pressed the shutter button and the camera took ten consecutive shots, capturing the spectacle before the sun rose too high and its beams ruined the image.

  After another four or five shots, he carefully shifted the tripod over to the furthest edge of the outcrop, setting it down within a few centimetres of the sheer drop beyond. Reducing the height of the tripod, he dropped down onto his haunches and squinted through the viewfinder, adjusting the angle and focus to capture the top of Braeburn Falls as the roar of bubbling, crimson-tinted water tumbled down the cliffside into the deep pool thirty metres below. At this time of year, the iron sediment in the river was at its highest, and the deep red discolouration of the water gave the falls a strange and unique hue that attracted visitors from miles around.

  He clicked a few prep shots, and checking the results, his heart raced. He knew immediately this was going to be very special. He glanced up at the ascending sunrise. A single ray shot across the sky and hit the centre of the waterfall, the light exploding in all directions.

  “Bingo!” Richard yelled with delight and pressed the shutter button again, capturing the fleeting, perfect moment before it vanished forever. Seconds later, it was gone. Pulling the tripod back from the edge, he unclipped the camera and sat down on a boulder to check the shots. With shaking hands, he scrolled through his initial images until he landed on the money shot.

  Holding his palm over the screen, he scrutinised the image. It was about as perfect as he could ever have hoped for. He let out another loud yell, his voice carrying across the valley and bouncing back moments later. Richard smiled, saved the collection of images to the SD, and packed away his gear.

  Returning to the edge of the cliff, he checked the light conditions around the base of the waterfall. A few rays had penetrated the deep, narrow gorge surrounding the waterfall and its pool. Picking up his bag and tripod, he clambered over the far side of the outcrop and rejoined the path down to the base of the falls.

  At the bottom, he climbed over the stile and approached the falls. A few rays of sunlight bounced off the surface of the rippling pool as the waterfall struck the surface with a deafening roar. Up close, the crimson discolouration was even more dramatic and strange. Dropping his equipment, he snatched his camera from his satchel and quickly snapped the spectacle before it vanished.

  Clambering over a few boulders, he reached the edge of the pool and peered into the dark waters. The pool was deep, possibly twelve to fourteen feet. Deep enough to tempt idiots to jump off the cliff, sometimes with tragic consequences. He glanced back up to the top of the waterfall and shook his head. Idiots.

  Setting up his tripod on a boulder-free patch, he was about to start snapping again when he noticed a pink ring of foam gathered in the far corner of the pool. He unclipped his camera and went to investigate. The foam was more extensive than he first thought, covering almost a quarter of the pool. As he approached, he began to pick up a pungent chemical odour. Kneeling, he examined the contaminant more closely. The foam was thick and appeared to be both above and below the surface. Picking up a pebble, he tossed it into the middle of the foam’s mass and the foam consumed it, leaving a narrow hole that quickly closed.

  “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered and began shooting. A loud splash made him turn. A second splash as something hit the pool with force.

  “Oh, Jesus!” He glanced up to the top of the cliff. A silhouetted figure was standing on the edge. He checked the pool again but no one was climbing out or floating unconscious, or worse, on the surface.

  “Hoy, it’s too dangerous!” he hollered up to the figure, but his voice was lost in the roar of the falls. The figure disappeared. Checking the pool again for idiots, he took another couple of shots of the pollution and returned to his tripod. But the sun had shifted out of the gorge and the promise of a decent shot had vanished. With a sigh, he knelt to pack away his camera and to contemplate his long walk back to Kilwinnoch.

  The roar of the falls silenced the crunch of boots on gravel approaching him at speed from behind and the muffled thud of a hammer striking the back of his skull. He fell forward, his face smashing onto the rocks and shattering his nose. Still alive, he scrambled forward and plunged into the pool. Half conscious, he thrashed his arms around in the water and kicked forward towards the torrent of water ahead.

  He felt someone grab at his feet and calves, dragging him back. He kicked out, and reaching the falls, lunged through the wall of water. The waterfall struck the back of his head like a second hammer blow and the force of it pushed him under.

  Gurgling and choking, he re
ached out and his hands connected with a narrow ledge protruding from the cliff wall behind the falls. He snatched at the slippery wet stone and pulled his head up and out of the water. He gasped and gurgled for air but swallowed more water as it pummelled his head from above. Kicking against the surface, he found a foothold and somehow managed to half-haul himself up. But the waterfall continued to pound against his shoulders, and he slipped back into the water.

  With one final, desperate push, he clambered up again, and on his stomach, he slithered along the ledge. As he reached the cliff wall, he felt the weight of a body land on top of him. A hand grabbed his sodden, blood and water drenched hair, and yanked his head back, twisting his neck so he could see his assailant’s face. But before Richard could cry out for help or mercy, his attacker struck him again on the side of the head, this time, the weapon punching a hole through his skull, and leaving the image of the assailant’s sneering smile imprinted on Richard Jones’s final memory.

  ONE

  “So, what you’re saying is, you see dead people?” Constable Tam Windsor asked, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

  “Well, I understand it’s a manifestation of my subconscious and a symptom of PTSD,” DCI Duncan Bone replied, instantly regretting that he’d started the conversation.

  The support group sat in silence for a moment, staring at Bone. The central heating pipes in the counselling room hummed gently, adding to the tension.

  “Is he here now?” DC Debs Mallory asked, glancing around the room and over Bone’s shoulder.

  “He’s not real, Debs, I’m just saying that—” Bone cut back.

  “And he helps you solve your cases?” asked Constable Windsor. The group members continued to stare, the semi-circle closing in around Bone.

  “I know it sounds daft… oh jeez… I shouldn’t have—”

  “Can I just step in here?” Counsellor Brendan Nichols interrupted.

  “Thank you,” Bone said, rolling his eyes.

  “As we’ve discussed in previous sessions, PTSD can affect our physical, emotional, and cognitive behaviour in all sorts of ways. Sometimes they may seem very strange to others.”

  “I didn’t speak for four months,” Community Officer Sandra Black said. “Not a single word. And no desire to either.”

  “Yes, that’s very common,” the counsellor replied. “The brain sometimes just needs peace and quiet and space to recover.”

  “Hardly, I’ve three kids and a husband with verbal diarrhoea. He was gutted when my voice finally came back,” Officer Black said with a smirk.

  “I used to see a giant chicken at the bottom of my bed,” Detective Sandra Paterson said, shaking her head.

  “What?” Constable Windsor replied.

  “Oh, aye, I’d wake up and it was right there large as life, like that big rooster in those cartoons.”

  “Foghorn Leghorn,” Officer Gail Braithwaite whispered, staring at the floor.

  “What was that?” Paterson asked.

  “Ah said, Foghorn Leghorn!” Braithwaite boomed and added, “Ah said,” with a smile.

  “And how did you deal with that hallucination?” Counsellor Nichols asked.

  “I used to talk to it. It made me feel calm.” Paterson said. “My partner used to as well, once she’d got used to the idea of a big rooster in our bedroom.”

  “That’s lovely and so supportive of your partner,” the counsellor said.

  “Did he ever speak to you?” Bone asked.

  “What? Are you daft? It’s a chicken.” Paterson shrugged. “How?”

  “Okay,” Counsellor Nichols interrupted again. “It’s interesting that this apparition made you feel calm. This tells us that it’s your brain’s way of helping you heal.” He smiled reassuringly. “Just going back to your particular symptom, Duncan. Does this deceased suspect make you feel calm?”

  Bone scanned the semi-circle again. Although all eyes were fixed on him, the faces around the group betrayed a spectrum of distracted thoughts.

  “I wouldn’t say—” Bone replied.

  “Is it the Peek-a-boo killer?” Windsor interrupted. “Is it him?”

  Bone stared at Windsor as the constable continued to chew on his cheek; the horror of the serial killer case that nearly cost Bone his life roared through his skull and punched at the scar left on his forehead by the bomb.

  “You don’t have to talk about this if it’s making you feel uncomfortable, Duncan,” the counsellor said. “Remember everyone, this is a safe space for us all.”

  “Could I just stop for now? Would that be okay?” Bone asked,

  “Of course,” Nichols said.

  “Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to…” Windsor said.

  “One of the most challenging and often upsetting things about PTSD is that just when you think you’re over it, it can return,” Nichols continued. “Sometimes completely harmless moments or situations can trigger varying degrees of relapse. However, it’s important to remember that as our brains heal, the fear and threat of its return slowly diminishes. We learn to find our best new ways to live.”

  Bone picked up his ancient canvas backpack and slipped his arms into his jacket.

  “I’ll see you,” Bone said to the group and everyone in the semi-circle nodded back. Counsellor Nichols stopped him at the door.

  “You know you can talk to me any time Duncan. That’s my job here.”

  “I’m fine, just need to get back to work,” Bone replied.

  “You did very well today. It’s not easy facing the demons.”

  “They’re not demons. I’m fine.”

  “Just keep talking, okay?” Nichols urged.

  “I’m really okay,” Bone said.

  “Well, we’ll see you next month, or call me sooner if you need to.”

  “Sure,” Bone replied. “I’m really okay,” he added with a reassuring nod and left.

  Out in the car park, Bone let out a long sigh and marched across to his ancient, bottle-green Saab. He climbed inside, slotted a tape into the player, and the soft horn section of Billie Holiday’s orchestra gently swelled and filled the car. He sat back in his seat for a moment and let his heart rate fall and the cogs in his head slow. Then Billie’s warm and welcoming young voice soared above the wall of harmonious sound.

  A sharp rap on the window by his head made him jolt upright and he turned. Tam Windsor’s flushed turnip face was pressed up against the pane. Bone reluctantly hit the stop button and unwound the window.

  “Hi, Duncan,” Tam said. “I’m sorry if I upset you in there earlier.”

  “Not at all,” Bone lied, smiling.

  “You know, when I mentioned that evil bastard.”

  “It’s okay. We’re all dealing with all sorts of shit.”

  “I just wanted to say that I totally get it. There was this wee girl that was killed years ago. I wasn’t even involved in the case, but it was nasty. Sometimes I hear her, you know, her screams. It’s horrible.”

  “That’s awful, mate.” Bone said. “You should talk to Brendan.”

  “I do. It comes and goes, and it gets better.” He stepped back from the car. “Anyhow, I totally get you don’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have been such a dick.”

  “Hey, that’s what the session’s for, isn’t it?”

  “What, being a dick?” Windsor replied.

  “Whatever it takes,” Bone quipped.

  Windsor looked down at the car. “Nice wheels,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Thanks,” Bone replied.

  “Where are the horses?”

  “Horses?”

  “To pull you out of the car park,” Windsor quipped.

  “Classic car, this,” Bone said.

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” Windsor replied. “You’re coming back, right?” he added, leaning back in. “I mean, next month?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Good man.” Windsor gave him a thumbs up, the pain in his eyes lifting momentar
ily. “Well, safe journey,” he said with a snort.

  Bone started the engine and Windsor applauded.

  “A modern-day miracle.”

  With an unconvincing toot, Bone stuttered out of the car park and back out into the world.

  TWO

  DCI Bone rapped on DSU Roy Gallacher’s door and entered.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Bone asked, approaching Gallacher who was propped up at his desk, flicking through a copy of the morning’s Chronicle.

  “Good morning, Duncan. Sit,” Gallacher said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite. “Sorry to drag you in at the weekend, but this can’t wait.”

  “My social calendar isn’t exactly busting at the seams,” Bone quipped. “What’s going on?”

  “Before we get to that, how are you?”

  “I’m okay, thanks, sir,”

  “I mean up here.” Gallacher tapped his temple.

  “I’m doing fine. I was at a session this morning.”

  “And your injury? Not giving you any bother?”

  “The odd headache, but all is calm,” Bone said with a smile.

  “Good,” Gallacher nodded. “And work?”

  “Work saves me, sir,” Bone said. “Though, it has been quiet of late and sharing space with a bored Mullens is not good for anyone’s mental well-being.”

  “Well, about that,” Gallacher cut in. “Have you seen this?” He handed Bone the paper.

  Bone sat down and scanned the front page. “How many days is it now?” he asked.

  “Four since he was last seen,” Gallacher replied. “Head office have been on the phone.”

  “Have they now?” Bone rolled his eyes.

  “They want us to help find this guy, hopefully alive.”

  “Isn’t that Missing Persons’ job?” Bone replied.

  Gallacher leaned forward, careful not to disturb the perfectly placed array of stationery lined up in neat rows across the back of the desk. “Richard Jones is a highly respected local boy; head of the Geography Department at Kilwinnoch Academy and vocal campaigner and fundraiser for local charities and causes. In short, he’s a highly respected and well-loved member of the community that everyone knows.”