The Black Isle

by Ed James

  Jock nodded along with it. ‘So what now?’

  Hunter tried slumping further back in the chair, but couldn’t. ‘Well, we could wait around until Lord Oswald calls me and lets us on the Osprey Alpha.’

  ‘You don’t seem too happy about that.’

  ‘We could be talking weeks. And what will we do in the meantime? Even the prospect of sitting in a café with you grumping about how hungry you are is—’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Aye, bollocks you are.’ Hunter looked over at the office again. The sun caught the glass as it rose.

  ‘So you want to just head up there and have a look ourselves?’

  ‘It might be incredibly dangerous up there, but it’s where Murray was last seen.’ Hunter hit the start button and put the car in drive. ‘Call Fiona and get her to meet us at the harbour.’

  15

  Hunter pulled up his hood and trudged along the Cromarty shore. Despite the early morning calm, the wind and rain were now brutal, like the sea was emptying onto land, and Noah’s flood was starting today. Out at sea, waves climbed two metres high. And they were going out in that… ‘I need you to behave here, okay?’

  ‘Behave?’ Jock looked round, his face lashed with rain, his hair plastered to his head in a severe parting. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

  ‘I mean it. Fiona is helping us here. She isn’t working for us. Our priority is looking for Murray, not being a dickhead to him.’

  ‘A dickhead?’ Jock stepped over the low wall. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Just keep the heid.’

  ‘I always bloody do.’ Jock stomped off towards the jetty.

  Fiona crouched low by a small motorboat and, unlike Jock in his leather jacket, she’d dressed for the weather, just a small hole in her hood where her bright blue eyes poked out. Hungry eyes. ‘You got the money, bud?’

  Jock looked round at his son.

  Hunter handed her a hundred quid, folded in a roll.

  She didn’t even have to count. ‘We said two.’

  ‘You get the rest when we’re back here, safe and sound.’

  ‘Wanker.’ Fiona pocketed the cash in her waterproof trousers. ‘Come on, then.’ She hopped into the boat.

  Jock reached out to Hunter then took his time lowering himself into the boat, swaying around like he was ten-pints drunk. Not that Hunter had ever seen that… He sank into a seat out of the rain. ‘So, hen, why didn’t you go to the cops?’

  Fiona looked round, eyes full of fury. ‘Eh?’

  Hunter hopped in and grabbed hold of Jock before he did any further damage to their relationship. ‘Jesus, I told you not—’

  ‘Are we walking into a trap here?’ Jock was reaching past Hunter, giving the full force of his anger to Fiona.

  ‘I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.’ Fiona was untying a rope. ‘If you want to pay more, then maybe I’ll start caring about your—’

  ‘Stop!’ Hunter nudged Jock with his elbow, blocking him from getting at Fiona. ‘I told you about being a dickhead. Any more and we’re going out without you.’

  Jock’s eyes bulged. ‘Don’t be an arse, Craig.’

  ‘I’m not the arse here. I warned you, and you’re close to the final straw.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jock looked at Fiona with the expression that had melted Hunter’s mother’s heart way too many times. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’m just worried about my boy.’ He sat again. ‘Now, can we get going?’

  Fiona went back to untying his rope, and gave Hunter a thunderous stare. ‘Is he always like this?’

  ‘This is him on a good day.’ Hunter sat next to Jock, giving him another warning glare.

  Fiona turned on the motor, which gave with a belch of diesel fumes, and they shot off across the pitching waves onto the Cromarty Firth. The boat rocked and rolled, fast then slow, then slow then fast and—

  Hunter lurched, then tipped his head over the side and vomited, his porridge looking like it’d barely been digested.

  Jock clapped his back, roaring with laughter.

  The Osprey Alpha loomed out of the sea like a giant kraken, ready to swallow them up and take them down into the depths.

  The further they’d gone down the firth, the less the boat pitched around, the less the waves foamed and leapt up at them. Hunter still felt sick, still had acid burning his throat and mouth.

  Jock stroked his arm, a rare sight of parental concern. ‘You okay, son?’

  ‘I’ve never been in a boat before.’

  ‘What? That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Funnily enough, my old man never took me out when I was young.’

  Jock muttered something under his breath. ‘What about in the army?’

  ‘Not in my training, no.’ The boat tipped again and Hunter felt his stomach turn upside down. He leaned over the side, staring deep into the brine, but nothing came up.

  ‘Christ, son, you should’ve just skipped breakfast and saved yourself the hassle.’

  ‘This isn’t funny.’ Hunter couldn’t even look round at Jock. Another dry heave, but still nothing.

  They approached the column of oil rigs, which seemed impossibly tall this close. The dirty spray of rain obscured any names or signage and all four looked identical. Lights glowed high up the nearest and one further over. From the nearest platform, a walkway ran out across the water, stopping about a hundred metres away from another, darker rig, just leaving a sharp drop into the sea. Behind, a low town spread along the coastline.

  ‘Invergordon.’ Fiona was following Hunter’s gaze. ‘Bandit country, bud. Full of third- or fourth-generation Weegies. Lads who left Govan to work up here. Now it’s the only place where that work still exists. Try to avoid going anywhere near.’

  ‘Will anyone spot us?’

  ‘In this?’ Fiona winked at him. She clapped his arm, her grip lingering maybe a bit too long. ‘Get yourselves ready.’ She steered them towards the oil rig, the one past the end of the walkway. The platform loomed above them, dark against the pale-grey sky, concrete legs covered in barnacles and other shells. No signs of life up there, no lights and none of the industrial grinding coming from its neighbour. She stopped at a small jetty next to one of the legs and moored the boat. A narrow steel ladder, rusted to a coffee brown, ran up to the platform, which seemed like miles above their heads, was a massive winch. A giant hook to scoop supplies up. Probably not even connected to the power.

  Fiona stood, hands on hips. ‘Right, I’ll wait here for you.’

  ‘Oh no, you bloody don’t.’ Jock stood over her, like he was trying to intimidate her, though the rocking of the boat was undermining the effect. ‘Last time a Hunter came here, the boatsman came back without him. You’re going up there first.’

  ‘This isn’t part of the deal.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Hunter stood next to Jock, arms folded. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘Christ.’ Fiona finished hitching the boat to the side, shaking her head and moaning under her breath. ‘Seriously, another hundred bar and I’d be happy to come up with you.’

  Jock grabbed her arm. ‘You’re already getting paid enough for this.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fiona set off up the ladder like a monkey climbing a tree, hands and feet barely touching the rungs.

  ‘Okay.’ Hunter went next. He placed one hand, then the other, on the slimy metal— it felt like it’d been underwater for years. As soon as both feet were on, he started to feel better. More stable and above the level of the waves. Felt less like he was going to throw up again. ‘See you up there.’ He started climbing and soon got into a rhythm—left, right, left, right, left right. Looking north, another four rigs forming a procession to Invergordon, the town’s lights flickering in the morning grey.

  His foot slipped, and he pulled his body close to the ladder while he caught his breath again. He looked down at Jock, only a few rungs above the jetty. Hunter must’ve done at least thirty. Good progress. He started up again.

  What the hell was
Murray up to, coming up here, just for his YouTube channel? Poking around a derelict oil rig with torches and cameras to get kids to sit through adverts and pay off his colossal mortgage? Who was Hunter trying to fool? Murray was earning so much he’d just paid cash for the house.

  And where the hell was he? Were they going to find his body at the top?

  Hunter clambered up onto the platform that marked the halfway point and waited in the spitting rain. The wind was stronger now, pushing with a force he hoped he could overcome, but he was getting less and less sure. Thick rain poured down on the firth, blocking the view back to Cromarty. The view down the Black Isle towards Dingwall was clear, but the North Sea was a wall of grey, like the elements didn’t want anyone heading out there.

  The metal rang out in a slow rhythm and Jock’s head peered over the top, a few jerky movements bringing the rest of him up and over. He collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily, his face screwed tight. ‘Christ on the cross.’ He gulped in more air, then frowned. ‘Is that Tain over there?’

  Hunter followed his gaze across the land to the north. Nigg, or whatever it was called on the map. ‘Don’t be daft. There’s a ton of hills between here and Tain.’

  ‘Swear I can see it.’

  And you can see pink elephants, you old lush.

  Hunter didn’t say it.

  ‘That lassie’s got a bloody cheek. Another hundred quid to go up there?’ Jock grabbed the up ladder and set off ahead of him, taking it slow and not very steady.

  ‘Keep the heid, Jock.’ Hunter followed him up, settling into a much slower groove than when he’d been unhindered, but maybe a steadier one. And the stronger wind meant that slow was a better idea.

  ‘Should’ve gone to the police when she heard what happened to Murray, I swear. She knew, didn’t she?’

  Hunter was catching enough to get the general drift, but the occasional word was swept out to sea.

  ‘If anything’s happened to my boy, I’ll drop her off the bloody side.’

  ‘In front of a police officer?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll drop you as well.’ Jock looked down, grinning. His eyes bulged and he looked up again.

  ‘Don’t even joke about it.’ Hunter had to slow his rhythm again. Left hand, left foot. Right hand, right foot. Over and over, until Jock slipped over the edge. Then it was Hunter’s turn to climb over the last rungs onto the platform.

  Up here, the wind screamed in his ears. The rain battered his face, making it a struggle to keep his eyes open. His jacket was nowhere near up to the task and he was already soaked.

  The platform was deserted and a lot bigger than Hunter expected. Grey sheet metal covered in rust and giant bolts where equipment had been locked in, but was now mostly missing. Painted white signs pointed to the helicopter platform, but even that had been taken away. The winch’s cable swung in the gale, and the only other thing standing was the living quarters, according to the signs, a two-storey grey block almost indistinguishable from the sky. Four CCTV cameras, but none had the telltale red blink, and two had their cables severed.

  Hunter had a flash of the video in Murray’s notes. It was here. The live feed had broadcast from here.

  Fiona shrugged her shoulders. ‘Okay, so what’s the plan?’

  Hunter didn’t see many options. And he didn’t know what he expected, maybe Murray running towards them as they came over the top. ‘Let’s start with the living quarters.’

  ‘That’s pretty much where we’ll finish.’ She set off, stepping slowly through the maelstrom.

  Hunter followed equally jerkily, too busy keeping the icy rain off his frozen cheeks to check on Jock.

  Fiona stopped by the door.

  Someone had snapped open the padlock. Murray? Or someone else?

  ‘Let me.’ Hunter eased the door open and peered inside. Looked like a canteen, pretty large too. Mercifully free of any wind or rain, but it stank of rust and rotting meat. Rows of bolted-in tables and seats ran down the middle. A bar and serving hatch occupied the far side, though the window through to the kitchen was boarded up. Old-school CRT TVs hung from the ceiling, their power cables dangling free. Hunter hadn’t seen any satellite dishes outside, but that’s how they’d while away their weeks at sea, watching satellite football in here. That and the pair of table tennis tables in the corner, a bat still resting on a ball on one side. A smashed-in fruit machine lurked in the other corner. Either someone had lost big style or just wanted to destroy something.

  ‘Jesus, it’s all pish lagers.’ Jock was inspecting the taps, his face as sour as the beer he’d been drinking the previous night. Didn’t stop him tugging on one, though it ran dry.

  ‘Stop it.’ Hunter waited until Jock looked over, then followed Fiona over to the door marked ‘Quarters’. Through it, the corridor split left, right and straight ahead, with a staircase leading up. He took a look up the stairwell, but it seemed just as dead as the mess hall. ‘Right, let’s split up. This floor, then regroup and check upstairs.’

  ‘Suits me.’ Fiona walked through the door on the right, leaving it hanging open.

  ‘Born in a bloody barn…’ Jock scowled but didn’t rush over to shut the door behind her. Maybe betraying a fear of what might be behind it. ‘Right. Back here in ten, okay?’

  ‘Works for me. I’m going to keep a close eye on her.’

  ‘Wise.’ Jock took the straight-ahead corridor.

  Hunter followed Fiona. The first door hung open. Empty, just a bunk bed screwed to the wall, the lower mattress full of exposed springs, the upper intact but heavily stained.

  Fiona winked at him. ‘Fancy a bunk up?’

  ‘Seriously? I’m hunting for my brother here.’

  ‘Come on, I’m a girl, you’re a boy…’

  The sink was dry, but no doubt pissed in more times than in Scott Cullen’s flat.

  ‘Look, I’m in a relationship.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’ She sauntered off out of the room.

  But Hunter saw something in her. Spending fortnights at sea, the only woman on a boat. She didn’t seem to shag around, but she must’ve put up with so much hassle. And this is how she dealt with it. Teasing.

  Hunter followed. He tried the door across the corridor and got the same result. The next door was a shared bathroom. Mouldy curtains hung over two baths. Two shower stalls were smashed in, the precious pipework long since removed. Two toilet cubicles with dry bowls. The fractured remains of sinks—someone had gone to town on them with a sledgehammer, leaving broken porcelain all over the floor.

  ‘You finding what you expected?’

  ‘Not really.’ Hunter went back out into the corridor and crept up to the end, ten more bedrooms on either side, three more bathrooms. A door led out to the other side of the platform, just a narrow walkway leading to a ladder down.

  No signs that Murray had been here, no signs that anyone had for a long time.

  ‘Come on.’ He led Fiona back to the meeting point, taking it slow and double-checking the bedrooms and bathrooms again. No sign of Jock, but still three minutes to go.

  ‘Maybe I’ll try it on with your dad.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘He’s a good-looking guy.’ She looked anything but relaxed, her nervous gaze sweeping around.

  ‘Come on.’ Hunter opened the door leading straight on.

  ‘Look at the state of this.’ Jock stood in a doorway halfway up, sifting through a box. ‘Christ, they’ve got all flavours here.’

  Hunter joined him. DVD cases and magazines. Porn. Lots of porn. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No internet out in a North Sea oilfield, son, so you have to keep it old-school.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’

  Fiona ambled up the corridor towards the window at the far end.

  Jock frowned, staring into space. ‘Here, maybe they’re Murray’s jazz mags. Normal straight stuff. Just like his old man.’

  ‘What, a wanker?’

  ‘Shut up, Craig.’


  ‘What’s the big deal with him being gay, anyway?’

  ‘He’s not gay!’

  Knowing not to argue with him when he was like this, Hunter checked down the corridor. ‘You found anything else?’

  Fiona was looking through one of the doorways. She turned to shrug.

  Jock inspected a magazine. ‘Hard to get past this little treasure trove. Reckon I could get a few quid for this lot on eBay.’ He kept flicking through. ‘Christ, you don’t get many of them to the pound.’

  Hunter checked the next room. A backpack rested against the wall next to the bed. He opened it and found another cornucopia of pornography. He took it back out to the corridor. ‘Here’s another load.’

  But no sign of Jock.

  Hunter looked both ways, fearing the worst—his father hunched over a bathroom sink, a jazz mag in his left hand and—

  But Jock came out of the next doorway and thumbed back into the room.

  Hunter took it slow and walked in. Jock had dumped his porn collection on the lower bunk but a sheet of paper lay where the pillow should be. A message, dated last Monday:

  ‘Murray, I’ll meet you back at the cottage—Keith.’

  ‘Who the hell is Keith?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Hunter checked the note again. ‘This not being our Murray is way too much of a coincidence. And last Monday…’ He let out a deep breath. ‘Where the hell is he? Is that—’

  Footsteps thumped towards them. Fiona, running, eyes wild. ‘There’s a fucking boat on its way over!’

  16

  Hunter shot through the canteen and stopped by the door to the platform to peer out. The sky had brightened to brilliant blue, the grey pushed over to the mainland.

  Fiona joined him and pointed over towards the other rig. ‘See them, bud?’

  Hunter squinted, struggling to see what she was on about. Then he caught it. A speedboat, the noise muted by the roaring gale, but the bright-white slipstream glowed in the murky green-brown water. Just one, though, and it slipped out of view under the rig.