by Ed James
Meaning it was going to moor.
Meaning someone would come up.
Hunter checked around. Shite—four CCTV cameras. Shouldn’t have assumed they were all as dead as the rest of the rig. ‘How do we get back to your boat?’
‘This way.’ Fiona pushed through the door and snaked off across the platform, keeping low, but she didn’t have much to hide behind.
Heavy breathing announced Jock’s presence. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Someone’s come over. We need to go.’ Hunter pushed Jock through the door. ‘Hurry!’ He set off after his father, but Jock was slow, and still carrying his porn haul.
Hunter snatched it out of his hands and tossed it behind them. ‘Jesus!’
‘Why the hell did you do that?’ Jock’s legs slipped from under him, and he crashed onto the platform with a damp thud.
Hunter reached down to help him, but Jock was a dead weight. ‘We need to hurry!’
Jock rolled to his side, then got up on his knees. ‘Why did you—’
‘Come on!’ Hunter grabbed his arm and yanked him, fast-walking through the heavy wind and across the slimy platform. God knows what it was like out at sea, probably had secure walkways to stop this nonsense.
Fiona stood by the ladder, pointing down. ‘Big guy climbing up that leg.’
‘Just one?’
‘Right.’
Hunter peered down the ladder. A man mountain winched himself up the ladder—a different technique from Fiona’s spider-monkey one, but just as fast. Clang, clang, clang, clang. ‘You recognise him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Hide.’ Hunter pointed to a low wall by the nearest leg and dragged Jock over, pinning him down and covering his mouth with a hand. He waited, listening to the clanking.
The guy appeared over the edge of the ladder. He was huge and didn’t seem perturbed by the gale. Black fishing gear, glistening with rain. He tugged his hood down. Completely bald head, almost pink from the cold. He scanned the area, looking right at them.
Shite!
Hunter ducked low and listened hard again, but the wind and rain were too loud to hear any footsteps. Could be standing over them, could be miles away. He sneaked another look.
The guy was by the door to the crew quarters. ‘You!’ He stormed towards them. ‘You’re trespassing.’
Hunter tried to show his warrant card, but his hands weren’t doing what they told him to. ‘I’m a cop.’
The words didn’t seem to make any odds. ‘Have you got a search warrant?’ Slight Russian accent. ‘This is private property.’
‘Do you work for Lord Oswald?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for my brother. Murray Hunter.’
The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. ‘You are going to—’
Then he toppled forward.
Jock stood behind him, lugging a length of metal pipe. ‘Take that, you prick!’
Hunter let out a breath. ‘Jesus.’
‘The boy pulled a gun on you!’
Hunter searched the guy for ID. Nothing. He scanned around the deck. ‘Where is his gun?’
Jock frowned. ‘Lost track of it.’
Hunter grabbed the guy’s lapels and checked his wound. Blood and already showing signs it’d bruise. He was out of it. Hunter slapped him. But the guy didn’t wake up.
‘There’s more boats coming here!’ Fiona was shouting over the screech of the wind. ‘We need to go!’
Hunter patted him down and found a phone in a zipped-up map pocket by the collar. He checked it. Locked, but it clearly wasn’t his. The background was a photo of Murray Hunter and a man with a soul patch, hugging on some beach somewhere.
So Murray had been there. And this guy either had Murray’s phone, or he had his friend’s. Assume it was Keith.
Hunter stared at their attacker and wanted to drag all of the information out of him. Find out what he knew about Murray. But he’d pulled a gun on them and if his mates were as hostile, then they were in deep shit. No chance he could get him down the ladder, even if he weighed as little as Fiona.
She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Come on!’
‘Go!’ Hunter grabbed Jock and hauled him over to their ladder, pushing him to go first.
The old bugger stepped over and eased himself down, even slower than his walking pace.
Fiona went next, and Hunter stood there, watching for any more predators, the polyrhythmic clanging from below. Then he grabbed the ladder and followed Fiona down, both having to keep to Jock’s slow pace. Still, no man left behind. Seemed to take forever, keeping his head looking up as he descended, but he soon reached the halfway point.
Jock was already on the second section.
Fiona stood there, fists clenched. ‘Bud, this is worth—’
‘Keep going!’ Hunter pushed her towards the ladder.
‘Hoy!’ The guy was at the top, staring at them from above. ‘Stop!’
Hunter didn’t answer, instead rushing down the ladder, climbing fast.
A gunshot rang out, echoing like it was fired into the sky rather than down at them.
Hunter’s left hand slipped and he fell, but he caught himself on the lower rung. He stopped to look back up.
The man slid down the upper ladder at a rapid lick, but no sign of the handgun.
Below, Fiona’s boat started up.
Hunter set off again towards the jetty—fast, fast, fast.
The metal clanged. Above, the man was on the lower ladder now, heading right for them.
Hunter tried to go faster. Not long now. But the guy was closing on him. He let go with his right hand to reach down, but his foot slipped and he tried to correct his grip. His other foot squeaked away from the metal and he plummeted to the jetty, landing with a crunch.
The air flew out of his lungs. Stars spun in front of his eyes.
He tried to get up but couldn’t.
The man was almost down at Hunter’s level, powering down a ladder like nobody should be able to, at least nobody that size. Each rung, he seemed to grow.
Hunter rolled over and pushed up. His ribs felt like someone had tried tearing them out with pliers, but had given up halfway through and left them all broken and twisted. He got up to standing and rested against a pillar.
The boat was ten metres away. Fiona was pleading with him. ‘Come on!’
The man jumped the last few metres, landing with a clatter.
Hunter stumbled towards the boat and toppled in, landing on the floor. If it was called the floor. He didn’t know. His ribs burned and the stars were still spinning.
The engine revved and the boat rumbled off across the water. ‘Shite!’ Fiona kept looking behind her. ‘Who the hell is that?’
All Hunter could do was lie there, panting hard and heavy, his chest burning. He checked across his chest for telltale holes or blood. Nothing. Just sweat and hair.
Hunter pushed himself up. Two speedboats shot towards the oil platform. ‘Can we get away from them?’
‘On it.’ Fiona pulled a handle and their boat blasted through the waves.
Hunter looked back towards the rigs but couldn’t see any sign of approaching boats, not that his eyesight was up to much. Saw double, quadruple, octuple of everything. And the stars were denser, more tightly packed and swimming faster. He let himself take a breath, but it hurt like someone was stabbing his chest. His heart was thudding, his whole body shaking like it hadn’t since Kandahar.
He knew what he needed to do to calm down, but the prospect of a boat filled with gunmen ploughing towards them meant he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
A speck appeared in the distant foam. Was that a boat? No, it was a seal coming up to eat. Of all the times to see that.
Hunter gave another scan of the horizon and decided they were clear. The boat’s diesel fumes stung his nostrils. Salty tang on his lips. He turned to face the land Fiona was navigating them towards.
The wide sandy
beach sprawled ahead of them. Dark clouds blocked out the sun, a faint disc hanging above the town. The lights of Cromarty glowed in the grey morning. Behind, the Sutors were a grey-blue, those giant hills guarding the narrow entrance to the firth from the sea.
And he was back. Heart rate back to seventy. Under control.
Unlike Jock, who couldn’t keep his manic eyes from the distant threat. ‘The bastard had a fucking gun!’
Fiona was remarkably calm, steering them towards the small harbour, her singing lost in the engine drone. Hunter kept catching snatches of melody and she could carry a tune, but he had no idea what it was. Probably some sea shanty.
Jock stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was shivering and trying to hide it too. ‘Did we learn anything?’
Hunter sat up and tried to process everything. His lizard brain had been in charge, focused on getting them the hell out of there. And now… Now it was for the mammalian brain to process everything, to plot out moves and strategies, to rationalise everything, to connect dots.
And that part had very little to offer.
He let out a slow breath, keeping his focus on the horizon. ‘All we’ve got from our excursion is the possibility that Murray might’ve been there. And the name Keith, I suppose.’
‘He was there.’ Jock reached into his pocket and his shaking hand held out the paper with the message.
Hunter took hold of it. It wasn’t evidence anymore, but it was information. Intelligence. A lead. Hope. He tried to swallow it down.
Jock shook his head. ‘Craig, something’s happened to your brother on that rig. That boy meant business. I mean, you’ve got all your ninja stuff, but you were lucky I found that pipe because if I hadn’t, you’d be in the water.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And I’d have no sons left.’
Hunter struggled to wrap his brain around the reality of Murray being dead. Before, it’d been a prospect, but that armed numbskull drawing on a police officer? It was real now.
‘I don’t know what happened up there, son, but your brother had a habit of finding trouble. Or it found him.’
Hunter looked at the note again. ‘Any idea who Keith is?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, son.’
‘You were staying at Murray’s house for two weeks and he didn’t mention a Keith?’
‘Your brother doesn’t exactly confide his deepest, darkest secrets to me.’ Jock stood as they came in to the jetty, keeping perfectly still against the rolling waves.
Hunter stared off at the distant oil rig, hazy and blue. Maybe the guy was just working on another rig, finding out who was trespassing on their property. But in no way would anyone doing that shoot at a cop. He looked over at Fiona, who was mooring the boat to the wharf. ‘Did you get a plate off the boat?’
‘A plate?’ Fiona roared with laughter. ‘It’s not a car.’
‘So what is it?’
‘You’re looking for the boat’s name. And theirs was covered. Whoever they are, they don’t want to leave a trail.’
‘You recognise them?’
‘Afraid not. It was a Bayliner 2855, unless I’m very much mistaken. No idea where they’re docked, mind. Cost you fifty grand if you could find one.’ Her gaze narrowed. ‘Look, can I stay with you guys? I don’t feel safe after what happened to Shug.’ She looked back out to sea. ‘That big guy must’ve killed him too.’
‘Figures.’ Jock frowned at Hunter. ‘You think those guys worked for that Oswald boy?’
‘I need to find out.’
17
Jock drove along the road, his podcast blasting out. Fiona was in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. Down on the beach, a couple walked their dog, tossing a tennis ball into the surf at high tide. The dog was having the time of its life. Dropping the ball at the man’s feet and rushing for it as he hurled it into the brine. A red car followed the curve to follow the road along the river.
No sign of any armed Russian operatives.
The guy was hard as nails. And skilled. Hunter assumed the accent was Russian, but he heard so little of it he couldn’t be sure. Could equally be Israeli, Ukrainian, or any flavour of eastern European, either inside the EU tent or outside.
Hunter’s phone rang. Chantal’s grinning face beamed out, snapped late at night when they’d been drinking. She looked happy. He answered and she sounded anything but. ‘What’s up?’ Her yawn rattled the speaker.
‘Morning.’ Hunter touched his ribs and the bruises bit back. Didn’t feel like he’d cracked anything, none of that telltale ache, but it didn’t stop it hurting. ‘How you doing?’
‘Not good. Barely slept and I’ve got two missed calls and five texts from you. And Scott wants me and Elvis to interview someone assaulted by an Albanian.’
Albanian?
Did that hang together better? Most of the heroin in the UK was run by them, sometimes in tandem with Turkish gangs. The Met closed down a gang in Southend the year before, tied to some assassinations in London.
‘Sorry.’ Hunter focused on a Range Rover behind them, the gunmetal catching the sparse sunlight. ‘We went out to this oil rig and—’
‘CRAIG! What the fuck were you doing on an oil rig?’
‘Long story. We were following my brother’s trail to—’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘But we found a message to Murray from someone called Keith and…’ Hunter got the sheet of paper out of his pocket. Next to Keith’s still-locked mobile. ‘Someone was there and they… we got away.’
‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’
‘This was…’ A sigh eased out of his lips, giving only the mildest jab of pain. ‘No, you’re right. I can’t.’
‘Did you speak to the owner?’
‘First thing. He told us not to go.’
‘Wonder why…’ Another rasping sigh. ‘I’m coming up there right now.’
‘Chantal, it’s fine. We got away.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ll speak to Scott, get some time off and get the train or I can hire a car. Shite, I’ll even get the bus. You can’t go up on oil rigs, you stupid bastard. You can’t get into fights with people and—’
‘Can you get Elvis to check who owned the boats that chased us?’
She paused, air rattling her microphone. ‘I’ll ask him. But seriously, do I need to—’
‘No. Look, I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No, you arsehole, you should’ve. Like you should’ve told me about your father not being dead. Christ, Craig. What’s up with you?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And if this was the other way round, you’d just tell me it’s all fine?’ She left a space he couldn’t honestly fill. ‘I’ll speak to Scott. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.’
‘Seriously, I’ll be fine. Don’t come. Okay?’
‘Craig, is there something else going on?’
‘Of course not. Look, can you look into that Oswald guy for me? I get a bad feeling about him.’
‘A hunch, great.’
‘Chantal, my brother went up on his oil rig and went missing. I did the same and some big security brute chased us off.’
‘And you’re heading there now?’
‘If Oswald knows where Murray is or what’s happened to him…’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
‘Thanks. Love you.’
‘Mm. Love you too, Craig, but you push it at times.’ And she was gone.
Fiona craned her neck round, a mischievous grin on her face. ‘That the ball and chain?’
‘Her name’s Chantal.’ Hunter watched the Range Rover overtake them.
‘So what the hell are you going to do, big guy?’
Hunter didn’t know. Assume him and this Keith went to the rig and someone got kidnapped. By Oswald’s people? Or by some Albanian gang? Or aliens? Or nuclear-powered Aztecs or Incas?
‘Here we go.’ Jock slowed for the gatehouse entrance to the Oswald estate. The guard took one look at them and waved them through.
Through the trees, Hunter watched the building. Seemed even busier than first thing. Smokers outside the front door.
A Range Rover was parked nearby, and a big lump got out the driver’s side. The guy from the oil rig.
‘Turn round.’
Jock glanced at Hunter. ‘Eh?’
‘Turn round. Leave.’ Hunter tried to disarm him with a smile. ‘That’s our friend from the oil rig.’
‘He’s a henchman working for that Oswald boy?’
‘It’s likely.’
‘So let’s pile in there and grab him.’
‘Not the smartest move, Dad. There’s a possibility Murray’s alive. We bring that guy in, there’s no chance we’ll find him.’
Jock cleared the gatehouse and took a hard right, back towards Cromarty. ‘So the trail’s cold?’
The trail wasn’t as cold as he’d thought. If they could find Keith, or Fiona’s mate who took them to the rig, then maybe—
‘So this Lord Oswald boy is involved?’
It was hard to tell. Very hard to tell, but it felt like he was hiding something. As well as knowing more than he should, he was evasive. It felt like too much of a stretch, at least with the information to hand.
Hunter looked round at Jock. ‘Involved in what, though?’
‘Drugs, people trafficking. Could be anything.’
‘Why would someone like Oswald need to run a drug operation?’
Jock’s nostrils flared. ‘You need to listen to me, son. That boy shot at us!’
‘Look, don’t mention that to anyone, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Just trust me.’
‘Fine, but I think we should get over to that boy’s office, pin him to the table until he spills.’
‘Aye, that’s exactly what’ll happen.’ Hunter rolled his eyes.
Jock glared at Fiona. ‘What about you, toots? You know this guy?’
‘Never heard of him. Toffs like that never speak to the likes of me. And please don’t call me toots in front of him. He’ll get jealous.’
Jock laughed. ‘Where we headed?’
The Mowat Brewery Coffee Shop was all hard edges—wooden tables and chairs, granite slabs and bar—and the sound echoed like a dub techno twelve inch.