The Black Isle

by Ed James

‘Deal.’

  ‘Call me at the end of the day. And keep it from Methven, okay?’

  ‘Cool. Will do. Thanks. I appreciate it, mate.’

  ‘Take care of yourself. And I hope you find him.’

  ‘Cheers, Scott.’ Hunter killed the call and opened Cullen’s text, tapping on the number and putting the phone to his ear. 01463, meaning he was based in Inverness. Why the hell was Murray up there?

  ‘Hi, you’ve reached PC David Robertson. I’m working night shift this week, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

  Hunter waited for the beep. ‘Hi, this is DC Craig Hunter, based out of Ba—’ He had to catch himself. ‘Out of the Edinburgh MIT. I’m looking into the disappearance of my brother, Murray Hunter. Just wondering if you could give me a call when you get a minute.’ He left his number. ‘Cheers.’ He ended the call and pocketed his phone.

  Chantal was sitting on the sofa, tossing her mobile in her hands. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a MisPer up in the Highlands, matching Murray’s name. Probably nothing, but you never know.’ Hunter took a deep breath, just the faintest hint of nerves in there. ‘Scott gave me the rest of the day, but I think I could string it out.’ He held her hand. ‘He wants you up in Perth ASAP.’

  ‘And I want to help.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m still clinging to this being my brother winding us up. You head off and I’ll see what I can find here.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Listen, I’m worried what Murray’s got himself into. And I’m sorry about not telling you about…’ Hunter thumbed at the hallway, and the atonal whistling coming from the kitchen. ‘About him.’ That same skin-crawling sensation slithered over him. ‘I’m not trying to keep anything from you, it’s just… I cope by compartmentalising him. Sticking him in this little box in my head that I never, ever open.’

  ‘Craig, you know you’ve got to stop bottling up your feelings, right? Your PTSD is under control because you’ve talked about stuff.’

  ‘And the elephant sedatives I’m taking.’ Hunter scratched at his neck. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’

  ‘Is there another reason you’ve never mentioned him?’

  Hunter nodded. ‘My old man’s always up to greasy shite, Chantal. Scams. Nothing major, nothing too illegal. He’s a trained mechanic, so he could always get work wherever he roamed. But there was always a whiff of shonky about all of it. It’s why I pretended to myself that he was dead. Helped me cope with the prospect of him actually being up to any really dodgy shite. Helped me become a cop.’

  ‘And you left him off your application form?’

  ‘Nah, must be he just never did anything bad enough to be caught.’

  ‘I just wish you’d told me, that’s all.’ Chantal kissed his cheek and got up. ‘Let me know if you find anything, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She gave him one last look and walked into the hallway. ‘Nice to meet you, Jock.’ She left the house and her footsteps crunched over to her car. To their car.

  Hunter got to his feet and stretched out. Chantal reversed out of the drive and spun off away from him, towards a murder case in Perth. He took a deep breath and headed through to face Jock, walking in to the smell of really, really nice coffee.

  ‘Some left in the cafetière.’ Jock was at the table, sipping from a giant Hearts FC mug, two piles of paper in front of him. ‘That your bird heading off?’

  Hunter helped himself to a cup, having to make do with a Scotland mug. Huge struggle to avoid throwing it on the old caveman. ‘She’s not—’

  ‘She’s not your bird?’

  ‘No, she is. Just don’t call her that. It’s sexist.’

  Jock grunted. Sounded like he said ‘snowflake’. He slurped at his coffee. ‘Right, so it’s just you and me, then. She always that prickly?’

  ‘Only to pricks. We’re kind of going through some shite at work. You getting anywhere?’

  ‘Hope your brother doesn’t mind me printing off all this stuff.’ Jock squinted at a sheet then put it in a pile. ‘You always know where you are with paper.’

  Hunter started looking through Jock’s discarded pages. More of Murray’s confused ramblings from the emails that Hunter had already looked at. Notes typed in bullet points, filled with comments to himself.

  Six pages of “evidence” of a nuclear war between the Aztecs and the Romans in 350ad, creating a Dark Ages which were two hundred years longer than otherwise known.

  An article connecting vaccines with HIV.

  Proof the Earth was flat.

  If his intention was to get the truth out there, it’d be impossible to publish this lot without a shitload of work and, even then, what would it achieve? Besides, it was all complete bullshit.

  Hunter looked over at Jock. Hard to believe he was in the same room as the old bastard. ‘You found anything related to the Highlands?’

  ‘The Highlands?’ Jock was reading something. ‘No. Why, should I?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Be straight with me, Craig. Do you think something’s happened to Murray?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m sufficiently worried something has happened to him to be sitting here with you.’

  Jock slurped at his coffee, oblivious to yet another barb. ‘I’ve got two lovely laddies and that’s how I’d like it to stay. But I’ve found the square root of bugger all here. This is all mad stuff. I mean, people believe that shite about vaccines?’

  ‘Sadly. But you didn’t pick up on the nuclear war between—’

  ‘There’s probably something in that, son.’ Jock touched his pile. ‘This one’s all of his…’ A frown. ‘What do you call it again?’

  ‘Urbexing. Means urban exploring.’

  ‘That’s it. Got some stuff about an old loony bin in the Borders. There’s stuff about a place over near Fort William. And this is an old cinema in the Californian desert. Didn’t know Joshua Tree was a town, just thought it was that Simple Minds album.’

  ‘It’s U2.’

  ‘What? Of course it was Simple bloody Minds, Craig. You were a laddie when it came out.’

  Hunter’s head hurt too much to argue. ‘Is he over there?’ He knew he was clutching at straws, but anything to prove Murray wasn’t in the Highlands…

  ‘He wasn’t flying, I remember that much. Kid’s got one of them electrical cars now. Cost a bomb.’

  ‘Okay, but where was he going?’

  Jock clicked his fingers. ‘The Highlands.’

  It hit Hunter in the gut. ‘I asked you if—’

  ‘No, you asked if any of this shite related to the Highlands.’

  Hunter took a sip of coffee to cover his anger. Full-bodied with a caramel finish. ‘Do you know where in the Highlands?’

  Jock frowned. ‘Can’t mind.’

  ‘How the hell can you not remember where?’

  ‘Craig, this isn’t my fault. The boy’s just disappeared in a puff of smoke.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. He’s gone somewhere and you were too pissed when he told you to remember where.’

  ‘This isn’t—’

  ‘Let’s just find him, okay?’ Hunter drained his mug and picked up the bottom half of the pile of prints, the coffee taste still lingering. He started doing a fast sort. Junk. Conspiracy junk. Urbex junk. But all junk. Three urbex notes in a row. ‘You know urban exploration is illegal, right? It’s trespassing. He’s lucky he’s not had a visit from my colleagues. Especially as he’s posting videos on the internet all the time.’

  ‘Probably thinks you’ll help him get off.’

  ‘Like I’ve got any sway.’ Hunter looked at the next page, entitled ‘The Dangers of Urbexing’.

  It read: ‘The biggest danger to urbexers is running into other urban explorers. And I mean criminal types using the same places you’re nosing around in for nefarious ends. These places are secluded, secret, hidden. Perfect for exploring, but—hoo boy—even better for stashing stuff. Drugs, guns, d
ead bodies. You name it.

  ‘Where I’m going next, well, let’s just say some past urbexers have suffered unfortunate accidents. You might think it’s conspiracy bullshit but it might, equally, be some real murky stuff. Shady guys doing greasy shit. I’m going to find out what’s happened. Then I’ll publish it.

  ‘And—holy moly—I don’t want to end up like this guy.’

  A YouTube video link.

  ‘I’ll be streaming some of our trip live, so keep an eye on it.

  ‘Peace and love,

  ‘Murray.’

  Another YouTube link.

  Hunter got out his phone. The email was still open. He found the same note among pieces on Antarctic civilisation and UFOs in the Andes, and clicked the first video link.

  A dark room. The camera was low down, looking diagonally up at a man sitting on a chair. Bound and gagged, the grey material bloody. His left eye was swollen, like he’d been hit. Nose bent, but his lips were worse, puffy and twice the normal size. He was looking at someone the camera didn’t pick up. ‘Please, Admir. Stop.’

  A fist lashed out and the man’s head snapped back.

  Then the video cut out.

  Hunter’s heart was fluttering in his chest. It could’ve been a fake video, the injuries all prosthetics. Staged by dickheads to get clicks from innocents.

  But it could’ve been real. Admir sounded like a name. He typed it into Google and got millions of names. Looked like a common male name in Bosnia, Albania, and a few other places in that part of the world.

  With a shaking hand, Hunter clicked on the second video and it started playing with a timestamp reading “1 week and 18 hours ago”. Wind buffeted the microphone. A camera caught a steel-grey sky, then wheeled down to catch distant land then gloomy sea, foaming white and yellow. Then it rested on a concrete walkway. No idea where it was. Then a scream tore out, clear above the howling gale. A man’s scream.

  Murray?

  Then the video stopped.

  That was it?

  Hunter stared at the video again, trying to discern anything. Was it on a boat? Why would Murray urbex on a boat?

  It didn’t give him anything new, but it did put the fear of god into him.

  Hunter went through the rest of the pile, barely focusing on anything that didn’t mention the Highlands. What was Murray up to?

  Wait. There. An Airbnb email. A booking confirmation for a cottage in the Highlands. He passed it over to Jock. ‘You heard of Cromarty?’

  ‘Town just north of Inverness, son. On the Black Isle. Course it’s not actually an island.’ Jock scowled at him. ‘Christ, Craig. Me and your mother took the pair of you every summer until…’ He trailed off. ‘Your, eh, your grandfather grew up there. Your mother’s old man.’

  ‘Did Murray go there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Hunter passed the page over. ‘Does this ring any bells?’

  Jock inspected it like it was a hefty gas bill he couldn’t pay. ‘I would’ve minded if he’d said Cromarty.’ He frowned at it, then at Hunter. ‘Think he’s still there?’

  Hunter pushed himself to standing. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  7

  ‘—next episode should drop on Friday. Look forward to you joining us then.’ The podcast’s closing theme tune burst out of the speakers, all serious and political. Jock’s ancient iPhone was connected up to the car stereo. One thing about Jock, despite the chaos in his private life, he was always on top of the political scene. Made sense he’d be switched on to podcasts, but the nonsense they’d been spouting made Hunter’s blood boil.

  Dark clouds loomed over the nearby hills, all covered in dark-green trees. Not yet into the Cairngorms where the bare mountainsides suck all life and hope out of you.

  Another podcast image flashed on the car’s display, a foaming pint of craft beer in a too-tall glass. Fake pub noise bled out of the speaker. Tinkling of glass, genial chatter, laughter.

  ‘Welcome to the Crafty Butcher podcast with me, the King—’

  ‘—and me, the Billy Boy.’ A nasal whine, south Glasgow accent. ‘Coming up this week, we’ve been sampling some Nuclear Winter, a lovely APA from a new Edinburgh brewery called Slam and Deeliant, but boy is it strong!’ The voice was really familiar. ‘And a lovely porter called Overlapping Centre Halves from our favourite South Yorkshire brewery, the Rich Blades.’

  ‘And over in homebrew corner, I’ll tell you how my experiment with mixing New World hops and some old-school ones from Kent has been going.’ Christ, both voices were familiar.

  Was the King… Elvis?

  No, it couldn’t be.

  The image flashed to a photo of two men in a pub.

  Hunter grabbed Jock’s phone from the cradle and checked the screen. There they were, a photo of the pair of idiots—Elvis and DS Brian Bain, calling himself the Billy Boy. Doing a podcast about craft beer?

  Hunter reached over and killed the sound.

  Jock looked over, mouth wide open, taking his eyes off the A9 again. ‘I was listening to— SHIIIITE!’ He swerved back to their side of the single carriageway, narrowly missing clipping a navy Nissan.

  Hunter shoved the paperwork back in the footwell and pointed to the right, at the sign for the House of Bruar. ‘You need a break. Stop here.’

  ‘I don’t need a bloody break!’

  ‘Tell that to the driver having palpitations back there.’

  Jock let out a sigh, slowing as he slipped into the right-turn lane. A steady stream of traffic ploughed towards them, a bow wave of cars behind a slow-moving coach. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph…’

  ‘Just take your time.’

  Of course he didn’t. Jock fired across the front of a Jaguar SUV, narrowly missing adding them to the long list of fatalities on this stretch of the notorious road. ‘There we go, safe and sound.’ He wound through the corkscrew surrounding the beige building, a round tower and perpendicular extensions pretending they were way older than they actually were, then slammed into a disabled bay. He popped his blue badge on the dashboard.

  Hunter picked it up. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Jock tapped his nose. ‘If anyone asks, my name is Eric Hunter.’

  ‘Uncle Eric gave you this? You know that’s a crime, right?’

  Jock let his seatbelt whiz up. ‘He’s not using it, not since his latest heart attack.’

  Hunter let his seatbelt go and put a foot down on the tarmac. ‘You’re just using it ’cos you’re too lazy to walk the extra hundred metres at Tesco for your yellow-item haul.’

  ‘Wheesht.’ And with that Jock got out. ‘Lunch is on me, son. Soup and a roll.’

  ‘We should just get a sandwich and drive.’

  ‘I need to stretch out and take my eyes off the road.’

  Hunter followed him at a distance, checking his messages. Still nothing from PC Robertson in Inverness, still nothing on any Admirs in the system. Just a text from Chantal: Arrived in Perth. Love you.

  He replied: ‘At House of Bruar. Haven’t murdered him yet. And love you too.’

  The ellipsis appeared on her side of the message chain. ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’

  ‘Long story. Short version. Murray might be in Highlands. Call you later. Love you x’

  Over by the front door, Jock was chatting to a red-faced old guy wearing a tweed coat and garish crimson trousers. This section looked like a Victorian train station transplanted to the Perthshire countryside, ornate columns holding up a pitched glass roof over the walkway, the slate-roofed food hall behind it.

  Jock thumbed at Hunter as he neared. ‘No clean undercrackers, can you credit it?’

  ‘All the same, that generation. Heids up their erses.’ The old timer cackled, then slipped off with a slap on Jock’s arm.

  ‘Catch you later, my man.’ Jock picked up a box of red grapes from the greengrocer stand. ‘See the price on these, Craig?’ He shook his head. ‘Right, I smell Scotch broth. You get yourself s
ome clobber, I’ll get us some scran.’

  Hunter walked through the busy restaurant, scanning the rows for any sign of Jock. All those strange faces, checking you out as you passed, like being in the old Leith Walk station canteen. He found Jock at a table looking out across the car park, talking at a young couple who looked as bored as Hunter would be in their situation.

  ‘Aye, here he is. Number one son.’

  Hunter sat, dumping his bag at his feet and smiling at the couple. ‘Nice to meet you. Hope he hasn’t killed you of boredom.’

  ‘As if!’ Laughing, Jock slid a bowl of soup over the table. ‘Don’t say I’m not good to you.’

  Hunter tore off a chunk of bread and dunked in the thick, glistening broth. ‘Didn’t realise how hungry I was.’

  ‘You get yourself all clobbered up? Need to take out a second mortgage?’ Jock laughed and elbowed the young guy next to him, hitting hard like he was going up for a corner with him in a late-eighties Old Firm match. ‘’Cos it’s so bloody expensive here!’

  A pair of polite nods from the couple. Their sportswear brands were all unfamiliar names, German by the looks of it. Not that something like them not speaking English could ever stop Jock’s banter.

  Hunter took another mouthful of bread and soup. Thick meaty taste and not too many teeth-like lumps of pearl barley.

  Looked like Jock had barely touched his. Too busy talking shite to random strangers while his son was missing, presumed dead.

  The young couple got up and gave equally polite smiles to Jock. ‘Thank for hospital, sir.’

  Jock’s frown was brief. He doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Slainte, my friend.’ He picked up his teacup like it was a whisky and his gaze followed them through the café, though at the height and direction of her rear end. A sharp intake of breath and he was back on Hunter. ‘I was going to say, you should just go commando.’

  Hunter scowled at him. Mouth full of soup, so he couldn’t reply. He set up another spoonful as he finished chewing, then blew on it. He caught his teeth on the metal.

  Jock finished his coffee and looked enviously at Hunter’s giant teapot. ‘Could do with another coffee.’ Without asking, he poured tea into his cup, splashing a lot on the table. ‘Not sure how we’re supposed to share your brother’s nonsense with the great unwashed if we can’t even understand it.’