The Black Isle

by Ed James

  He wrapped his arms around the American, just about interlocking his fingers around his obese waist. ‘Stay still!’

  Randy was a wriggler. Kicking and elbowing.

  ‘Stay! Still!’ Hunter twisted round and pulled his arm up into a half nelson. Then he got the other one round to complete the move, pushing Randy flat against the stairs. ‘You going to stop trying to get away?’

  A muffled, ‘Yes!’

  ‘I’ll let go and you can sit up but if you run I will take you down again, okay?’

  ‘Submit!’

  Hunter let him go.

  The big man eased himself into a sitting position. Looked like he had a few bruises coming. His coke mania seemed to have diminished slightly, though his rage was still boiling away.

  ‘It’s Randy, isn’t it?’

  It seemed like a shrug. Hard to tell.

  ‘Need you to answer a few questions about those drugs.’

  Randy just shook his head, breathing hard and heavy. ‘You can’t do this!’ A jab of the finger. ‘I know my rights!’

  ‘This isn’t about the drugs.’

  ‘You just said it was!’

  ‘It’s about who you got them from.’

  ‘No way, man. No way.’ Randy pulled a zip across his lips.

  Hunter wasn’t getting any more out of him. Not here and not like this.

  He grabbed his arm and pulled him to standing. ‘Right, you’re coming with me.’

  Hunter sat Randy by the kitchen table, now spotless and glistening. ‘Sit there.’

  Elvis was ringing out a cloth in the sink, shaking his head and scowling. The music had shifted to New Order, playing at a lower level. One of their dancier songs.

  Cullen was standing behind the American’s partner, hands on hips. ‘Where did you get the coke?’

  ‘Like I’m telling you that.’ Randy shook his head. ‘Son of a bitch.’

  Cullen gave Hunter a flash of the eyebrows as he sat.

  ‘This is fucking barbaric.’ The big man sat back, eyes swivelling in his head. The coke mania was still clinging to him. ‘I want you to speak to the goddamn embassy!’

  ‘The ambassador’s people are going to tell us to charge you with drug possession.’

  ‘This is goddamn outrageous.’ Randy slammed a meaty fist off the table, rage burning in his eyes. ‘You bust into our apartment and bring us in here?’

  ‘Sir, we witnessed you taking a controlled substance. Class A too. I don’t know what that’s like back in the USA, but—’

  ‘Goddamn make me sick, you limey fuckstick. We bailed your asses out in the Second World War and we’ve helped your sorry asses ever since. And this is how you repay us?’

  ‘Sir, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  Randy tried to flip the table. But the weight of Cullen and Hunter held it in place. He yelped—all he’d got was a sore wrist. ‘You motherfucker! This is outrageous! You can’t do this to Uncle Sam!’ The coke was talking. Shouting. Screaming.

  Hunter gave him a smile. ‘You’re from Philly, right?’

  That seemed to knock Randy off balance. ‘So?’

  ‘The next time you’ll see the city of brotherly love will be 2026. Class A possession with intent to supply carries a minimum seven-year sentence.’

  ‘Supply?’

  Hunter held up a bag containing over a hundred pills. ‘That’s a lot of ecstasy. And I found a lot of cocaine in your—’

  ‘Goddamn it!’ Another pounding on the table. ‘I’m not a drug dealer!’

  Cullen sat back, nodding and smiling. ‘It’s not for us to assess. We merely supply the facts to the procurator fiscal—that’s the district attorney in your language, Randy—and her team determines the charges. Given the mountain of evidence there, I suspect any jury will find you guilty.’

  Randy slumped forward, head in hands. ‘God damniit.’

  ‘Of course, if you said you’d never take drugs again, we could be lenient.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ He didn’t look up at them.

  ‘And if you helped us track down who you got the drugs from, well...’

  That got him. ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, we can see what we can do about forgetting what we saw. Or we can wait for the forensics guys to—’

  ‘Forensics?’

  ‘They’re on their way here to tear this place apart.’ Cullen pointed a finger pistol at him. ‘But if you tell us what you know about the dealer you bought the drugs off…’

  Randy took one look at his wife, then sighed. ‘Listen, we spoke to this guy in the pub one night. Shug? Is that even a name?’

  ‘It’s Scots for Hugh. Like Dod for George.’ Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘Or Jock for John.’

  Randy nodded like he followed it. Maybe the gravity of the situation was getting through to him. ‘Well, Shug said his guy had gone to ground and passed us to this dealer he’d just met. We bought a load of coke and ecstasy from this dude. Now we’re running low and—’

  ‘What?’ Hunter shook the bag. ‘This is running low?’

  ‘Sure. Not the X, but the coke is like one night left.’ Randy rubbed at his nostrils, his eyes darting around like he wanted to shove some more up there. ‘I really wanted some ketamine to take the edge off this high, but he’s gone to ground.’

  Hunter walked over to the stereo and killed New Order. He stared hard at Randy, trying to keep him focused. ‘What was this guy’s name?’

  Randy broke into a broad grin. ‘I am not saying shit, man.’

  Cullen gave Hunter a long hard look, then flicked his head towards the doorway. ‘What a bloody mess.’

  Elvis joined them, shaking his head. ‘Boy’s away with the bloody fairies.’

  Cullen pinched his nose. ‘Does anyone know where the drugs squad are?’

  ‘Stuck.’ Elvis started picking at his teeth. ‘Heard there’s a big accident on the A9. Three-car pile-up just north of Dunkeld.’

  ‘So I need an Inverness cop who knows any drug dealers in Cromarty. Christ, saying that out loud makes it sound that bit more impossible.’

  Elvis clapped his hands together. ‘Leave it with me.’ And he left the house.

  Hunter stared at Cullen. ‘Let me nail him down.’

  ‘No violence.’

  Randy leaned against the table, completely wasted, and not elegantly. The guy was barely hanging together, eyes rolling around.

  Hunter crouched low, going to Randy’s eye level and slapped the fat guy on the back. ‘Randy, I need to speak to your dealer.’

  ‘He’s back in Philly, dude.’

  ‘Your one here. The one who gave you the ecstasy and the cocaine.’ Hunter leaned in close. ‘I’ll maybe get you some ketamine.’

  Randy frowned. ‘That guy.’

  ‘You going to tell me his name?’

  Randy shrugged. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Hunter held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Your country might specialise in brutal incarceration, but it’s no picnic over here. Especially for the amount of drugs you had in this house.’ He pointed over at Dani. ‘And your better half will serve time in Cornton Vale, a women-only prison. It’s not pretty there.’

  Randy snorted. ‘This you saying you’ll drop the drugs charge if I talk?’

  ‘You’ll get a fine and a criminal record. But that’s it. You can get back home on your scheduled flight.’

  Randy sank back in his chair, exhaling softly. ‘But a record?’

  ‘Sorry. You can’t possess that much coke and get away with it. Them’s the breaks.’

  ‘The drugs are all mine, right? Dani had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Okay, deal. So, I need your side of the bargain first. Where is he?’

  ‘So I texted this guy at lunchtime, said we needed more stuff. He texted back, said he can’t come up to Cromarty, but we can go to him.’ Randy looked around the room. ‘Get me my cell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he gave me his address, dumbass.’
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  Hunter stood up tall and reached out a hand.

  Cullen held up an evidence bag, not looking too sure he should comply. Then he pulled out a swanky smartphone covered in so many stickers you couldn’t tell which brand it was. ‘What’s the passcode?’

  ‘FaceID, dude.’

  Cullen pointed the phone at Randy then looked back it. ‘That’s got it. He give you a name?’

  ‘Called himself Mick.’

  Cullen tapped and swiped at the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He held up the phone to Hunter, showing a WhatsApp chat:

  Mick

  Ashworth’s Caravans, Kingussie

  Call me when you get there

  28

  Hunter tore off a large chunk of battered haddock and bit into it. Tangy and a bit stale, but the only thing in the chip shop, and boy did he need his protein. And eating fish wasn’t like eating meat, was it?

  The caravan site seemed normal to him. No swimming pool, no pub, not the sort of place the average gangster would hide out in. Elderly couples sat on their verandas playing cards, even in this weather. Rain battered the windscreen, thick and heavy. Deep bass pounded from somewhere. Close to pub chucking-out time, so he was expecting a few lads to make a trip to the Co-op off-licence and ‘all back to mine’.

  Maybe it was perfect for hiding out, even if you weren’t a gangster so much as a mysterious drug dealer.

  On the back seat, Elvis let out a burp, followed by a soggy fart.

  Chantal scowled at him, still barely halfway through her own fish supper. ‘You don’t exactly get any better, do you?’

  ‘Can’t improve on perfection.’ Another burp. ‘Look lively.’ He pointed to a set of approaching headlights. ‘That the locals?’

  Hunter looked over at Cullen’s car, parked a hundred metres closer, and got a flash of lights. ‘Looks like it.’ He re-folded his food and stuffed it in the door pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chantal shook her head. ‘I’m finishing this.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Sarge.’ Hunter winked at her and got out into the heavy downpour. He was drenched in seconds. He tugged his collar up and hurried over to Cullen’s car.

  Cullen got out of his Golf. ‘Where’s Chantal?’

  Hunter nodded at the Passat, just as Elvis got out, and cleared his throat. ‘Keeping up a recce.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Cracking chips these. Cheers, Scott.’ Elvis took another mouthful and rolled his wrapper into a ball. Hadn’t thought what to do with it, so just held on to it.

  Bain got out the far side and waved at the oncoming squad car. Hunter would love to have been a fly on the wall for that journey down the A9.

  A local cop got out of the car. No partner, just him. Resource cuts being what they were up here, that made sense to Hunter. And the guy was a giant. Late twenties, a slightly darker shade of stubble than Cullen, and with legs long enough to outrun a racehorse. The rain didn’t seem to bother him either, probably used to the onslaught. ‘Well, how can I help you at this late hour?’

  Cullen joined him by the driver’s door, hoisting a brolly above his head. He’d need much longer arms to get it over both their heads. ‘PC Robertson?’

  ‘Davie.’

  ‘Call me Scott.’ Cullen shook his hand, but didn’t introduce the rest of the ragtag squad.

  Hunter barged between them. ‘We spoke this morning. You’re running the missing person investigation, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’ll be Craig, then?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sorry for radio silence. Night shift this week. And we’ve got no end of trouble up here. All the cutbacks mean I can cover anywhere from Dunkeld to Thurso, if I’m not careful. Sorry about your brother.’

  Hunter nodded his thanks for the little Robertson had achieved. ‘I’ll assume you know nothing. An intelligence source pointed us towards a person of interest staying in one of the caravans. Name of Mick.’

  ‘Mick?’

  ‘That’s all we’ve got. I need him safe and sound, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Robertson put his ringing phone to his ear. ‘Aye, Andy. See us? Right.’ He hung up. ‘Owner. Andy Ashworth. Good lad.’

  A squat man walked over, dressed for the weather, unlike the rest of them. Hood wrapped around this face, a couple of blonde curls poking out, darkened by the rain. ‘So eh, Alex, how’s it going, eh?’ A nasal whine. Rural Perthshire if Hunter had to put money on it, each ehh stretching out. ‘How can I help?’

  Robertson folded his arms. ‘Looking for a Mick.’

  Ashworth nodded. ‘Eh, caravan thirty-seven’s owned by an Edinburgh guy. Steven West. Not seen him in, eh, months, but there’s a guy called, eh, Michael staying there.’

  Cullen pointed at Elvis. ‘Get the address off him then put in a call to Inspector Buchan in Edinburgh, get units to pick this Steven West up.’

  ‘Can you bin this for me?’ Elvis passed his wrapper to Ashworth. ‘Buchan’s not speaking to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I beat him at chess and—’

  ‘So call Lauren Reid. Call anyone. Just get someone to pick him up.’

  ‘Boss.’ Elvis walked off, phone to his ear.

  Robertson stepped in close to Cullen and Hunter. ‘Drug dealer? Sure?’

  ‘That’s what our intel says.’

  ‘Well. Holidays, weekend golfing. Not drugs.’

  ‘People golf up here?’

  ‘Decent courses.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’ Cullen gestured for the team to huddle round him. ‘Okay, we need to surround the caravan and take him for questioning. Craig, you’re with me on entry. Bain and Chantal.’ He smiled at Bain. ‘Brian, can you find Chantal and guard the rear exit?’ Then he smiled at Robertson. ‘Constable, can you and Elvis keep—’

  ‘Elvis?’

  ‘DC Gordon.’ Cullen looked over at him, still on the phone. ‘You two keep a wide perimeter in case he makes a break for it. Might be an idea for you to have your engine running.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘You got any lads who could offer support?’

  ‘Not here. One car north of Inverness. Two south.’

  ‘But that’s hundreds of miles!’

  Robertson gave a flash of eyebrows.

  Cullen clapped his hands together. ‘Right, let’s do this.’

  Hunter followed Cullen over to the caravan. ‘This going to work?’

  Cullen glowered. ‘Got to.’

  ‘That’s shite logic, Scott.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  Bain dragged himself away from the gossip.

  Cullen stopped by the pebble path outside the static caravan. Dim lights inside, the faint rumble of the TV and the smell of almost-burnt toast.

  Hunter smiled at Chantal as she headed round the back of the caravan with Bain.

  Brighter lights flicked on inside.

  Hunter pulled Cullen down into the flooded flowerbed, his thighs getting a splash of cold water. The curtain twitched. He whispered, ‘Well, there’s someone in there.’

  ‘Okay, let’s just brazen this out.’ Cullen walked up to the caravan’s door and knocked on the plastic. ‘Police!’

  ‘Get to fuck!’

  Hunter recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it.

  Cullen hammered again. ‘Sir, I need you to open up.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Dim headlights lit up Cullen. A car drove up the thin path.

  Hunter squinted through the rain.

  A dark Range Rover. The guy from the Osprey Alpha was behind the wheel, caught in a flash of headlights from the side. ‘Scott, that’s the guy from the oil rig!’

  ‘Get him.’

  Hunter spun round the side of a thick tree, trying to circle the back of the car. But it squealed off through the park. He got out his radio. ‘Hunter to Robertson, get after that vehicle!’

  ‘On it.’

  The local squad car whooped its siren in the dark night and sped off after the Range Rover.

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nbsp; ‘Shite!’ Cullen’s voice.

  Hunter swivelled round. Cullen was in the flowerbed again, flat on his back.

  A shadow caught in the bright light from the caravan door. Mick, running for it.

  Hunter hauled Cullen up to standing, then sped off deeper into the caravan park. Hunter motioned for Cullen to take a right and head Mick off at the pass. He chased through darkness cut apart by shafts of light from caravan windows.

  And he lost him.

  Right at the edge of the park. A wall blocked exit or entry. Tall slats, interlaced enough to let the light in. He looked back the way, knowing he must’ve missed him somewhere. The last four caravans were arranged in a diamond, like a little village square. Benches sat outside. One had a long veranda. Bingo—Mick was up there, hiding from the light.

  Hunter stepped towards him, taking it slow and quiet.

  And Cullen blundered over, splashing in the puddles. The guy spotted Cullen’s approach and shot towards him, eating up the distance before Hunter could let out a warning shout. Mick punched Cullen in the face, then a swift knee in the bollocks and Cullen went down.

  Hunter didn’t have time to see if he was alright, just focused on keeping pace with his target back through the caravan park.

  Bain and Chantal closed in on him from the other side. Mick stopped dead and the three of them circled round their prey. A flash of light and Mick lurched at Bain, who tripped over and landed in a paddling pool, ice-cold rainwater splashing out.

  ‘YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD!’

  Hunter thundered after Mick and his feet started sliding on the muddy grass, but he wasn’t letting the last lead in finding his brother—or what was left of him—get away.

  The target was running towards a car, hand above his head and clicking a remote. The lights flashed. He got to the door and tore it open.

  A fat smudge shoulder-barged Mick, cracking his head off the frame. Both of them went down.

  Hunter caught up.

  Elvis lay on top, rummaging around for spilled handcuffs, just out of reach.

  ‘Here.’ Hunter grabbed them and passed them over. ‘Good work.’

  Elvis got up and helped Mick to his feet. The light from the caravan caught his pale skin.