Tears streamed down his face at the same time the baseball bat and torch slipped from his grasp, he wanted to scream. There was no movement, silence hung in the air as he saw three lifeless bodies sprawled across the floor. Each person had a trail of blood oozing from head wounds and the thing that he couldn’t grasp was that they all seemed to be looking directly at him with fear in their faces. Their mouths half open as if they were calling out for help.
He stood there shaking uncontrollably. His heart was fluttering, his head was in a spin and his brain was in neutral as he suddenly realised that he was witnessing a heinous cold blooded massacre. He wanted to call out to Carole, but nothing would come out his dry and open frozen mouth.
The awful smell of death quickly filled his nostrils. He staggered out to the front of the house, rinsed the vomit from his mouth from a garden tap, then rang his lifelong friend on his mobile and waited trembling on the front step.
He didn’t hear the sirens or DCI Scully asking him if he was okay.
He took him to the ambulance and asked the paramedics to check him for shock and left PC Blackie and PC McDonald to guard him and with instructions to take him directly to the station once the paramedics had checked him over and settled him down.
The street was now utterly cluttered with police cars, ambulances and a few journalists.
Spotlights threw dancing shadows on the exterior of the building and chaos reigned. But as far as the neighbours were concerned DCI Scully was in complete control. He thought to himself at that moment how it was possible to experience your own genius.
Carole Hunter her daughter and stepdaughter, at this stage were the only people who knew what had happened here this evening apart from their killer or killers.
Chapter 4
Alf Hunter was never happy when summoned to the Governor’s office but it didn’t faze him as he was there on a regular basis for alleged petty crimes in the prison. Which of course he never had anything to do with and was never found guilty of. There were plenty of petty criminals inside who would take the rap for him in return for favours or more importantly their safety and wellbeing.
Alf Hunter was born and brought up in the back streets of Abbeyhill after the war and his early childhood was super tough where you had to learn very quickly to be street smart or you didn’t survive.
Alf’s parents were working class with little education. They tried their very best to provide for the family of five children including his little brother and his three older sisters.
His first encounter with crime was stealing the bread rolls and pints of milk from the neighbours’ front doors on his morning paper round and selling them on to his schoolmates at a healthy profit. He liked the power, the money and especially how easy it all seemed. No need to look for a job when you could make easy dosh like this and it cost three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck-all. A life of crime and an addition to the future criminal ranks in Edinburgh was rapidly taking shape.
Years in and out of borstals and juvenile detention centres did nothing to reform him. It just became his apprenticeship to a life of crime and other criminal contacts, which were to become extremely useful down the track.
Alf Hunter soon became feared within the criminal fraternity and quickly established himself and the mob he had put together through his drug running and territory claims in Portobello and Musselburgh. This lasted over twenty years until a bright young Australian financial analyst seconded from the Australian Federal Police to the Scottish Police Force had him successfully charged and sentenced for money laundering. Something that had eluded the local cops.
Aussies therefore were not his favourite nationality and the bastards had just knocked his national team out of the recent Rugby World Cup Finals in another country he hated ... England! With the assistance of, in his opinion, a dodgy French referee. His next most-hated country.
Now in the third year of his non-parole period of twenty years he had comfortably taken command inside and this allowed him to live a life in Saughton Prison not available to any other prisoner. He was now able to give his full attention to the one thing with a burning desire – to punish the people on the outside who had helped to put him in here and of course finally deal with his beautiful and unfaithful wife and her lover.
The prison officer who accompanied him to the office on a regular basis was Stewie Howie, a tough no nonsense Glaswegian from the infamous Gorbals in Glasgow and known to the prisoners as ‘JamTart’ due to his somewhat unhealthy obsession for Hearts Football Club.
Poor sod!
The usual clapping and wolf whistles from the criminal men in criminal clothes accompanied the long walk to the office. Showing respect for the King of Saughton and jeering the enemy.
Jam Tart was unusually quiet and respectful, something Alf Hunter was not at all used to and he also noticed the other officers made sure they did not make eye contact with him. Must be something big going down. No worries to him; he never gave a monkey’s about anything, in here or outside …
“Please sit down Mr. Hunter,” was not the usual greeting from Governor Marshall Garriock who was a cranky but fair old soul who had seen it all after 30 years in the prison service and the last ten in Saughton.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Trying to grow tall if you don’t mind Mr. Garriock, sir.”
“Fine, Mr. Hunter. Unfortunately I do have some bad news for you.”
“What, DCI Scully had a stroke? That fuckin’ Aussie who put me in here been sent back to convict land? Or has the Queen’s pardon gone astray? Nah, no such luck, go on anyway.”
“Mr. Hunter, I regret I have to inform you that last night your wife Carole and your two children were found dead at your home at Sixty-Six Windsor Place.”
The Governor could sense that something was running in the back of his mind, just like an app, and he could see the anger forming.
“One child if you don’t mind, the other was a stepdaughter.” He could not let them see any emotion. In prison emotion was a weakness that would be exploited. “Do you have any suspects at the moment?”
“Mr. Hunter, you assume that foul play took place?”
“With my history and long list of enemies. I would be surprised if it was natural causes. Trouble never travels alone. I would like to return to my cell now.”
“Mr. Howie will escort you back to your cell and if we can do anything for you in this tragic moment of grief, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Aye, now that you mention it. Can I have two pints of lager delivered to my cell within the hour along with a large Cuban cigar?”
In all his years in charge the Governor had come face to face with some notorious and sadistic prisoners but “Billy Bunter” was very different to the rest. He had no scruples, showed absolutely no emotion and was as cold as a winter’s morning in the Borders.
Even considering all that, his reaction or non-reaction to the news just delivered, stunned the Governor.
Alf’s mind was racing. Who fucked up and why? Don’t care about the fucking missus but my daughter. Hell, someone is going to regret this fuck up. Jesus, it hurts in here when I should be outside dealing with this mess. Need to eat.
In times like these he normally had a clear mind and strong sense of control but the feelings he was experiencing now were not normal to him. Need to relax, meditate and clear the mind. No visitor’s please. Pity he could not hang the do not disturb sign outside his cell. Although his henchmen would ensure that the prison officers would not disturb him.
After a solid night’s kip, Alf’s mind would be crystal clear and he would understand precisely what actions needed to be taken on the outside. First some food until the darkness disappears.
Chapter 5
DCI James Scully was feeling uncomfortable heading towards interview room one. It was first thing Monday morning and he was accompanied by DI Craig Spencer to interview his lifelong best friend.
From the time, they both attended Towerbank Primary School to playing professi
onal soccer together. Scully and Cram had shared birthdays and sometimes even girlfriends and always kept in touch. No matter what part of the world they were in.
“The Educator” got his name from his early days as a schoolteacher; a title he was never comfortable with. He felt he should be better known for his astute detective work in the Edinburgh police force and secretly would have been happier with the nickname ‘The Enforcer,’ like one of his favourite boyhood heroes.
Scully was brought up by strict Catholic parents. His two brothers were serving in the army and currently stationed in Iraq. He was a tall lean clean-shaven figure and prided himself on always being smartly attired no matter the occasion.
Once his early education was finished at Portobello High School he progressed to Edinburgh University. Scully tried unsuccessfully to enter politics before settling on teaching at one of the leading high schools in Musselburgh. He then joined the police force in the late eighties, working his way through the system to his current position in charge of Portobello Police Station.
Harry was now feeling extremely uneasy and nervous as the interview room door eased open and his friend accompanied by another plain clothed policeman were about to put him through what he imagined would be the third degree as the number one suspect in this heinous crime.
The tiny room was bitterly cold, had only one small window with bars, no drapes and the round table and four chairs could have been bought recently at any car boot sale. New furniture was obviously not on the recent budget expenditure. The lighting was terrible and he could just make out the recording machine sitting on top of a three-drawer filing cabinet in preparation for the interview about to commence.
Extras appeared to be the solitary ashtray and the overhead silent fan.
It all had the feeling of being properly stage managed.
After the usual warnings and introductions, the other policeman turned on the antiquated recording machine. No fancy one way windows here in Portobello. The interview commenced as they both sat opposite Harry.
“Let’s start with your movements yesterday Mr. Cram. Prior to entering the crime scene, tell us what you did from the time you got up on Friday morning,” asked DCI Scully.
Harry was a bit surprised by the detective’s formal initial opening but he shouldn’t have been. James was an excellent detective and he was just doing his job. Settle down and deal with this situation calmly and precisely were his immediate thoughts.
“Friday morning was no different to any other. Breakfast on my balcony, a walk on the promenade and then I drove to the office. I arrived at the office in Musselburgh at around seven-thirty am. Need to start early to catch the worms in Musselburgh. My receptionist arrived around eight a.m. Sofie is always on time, you can check with her.”
“We will Mr. Cram, we will,” DI Spencer replied suspiciously.
“Anyway, after Sofie made me a coffee I spent the next few hours looking over client files and catching up on some phone calls. Then around one-thirty, I dropped into the Ship Inn where they serve a good pub lunch.”
DCI Scully interrupted. “Anyone there vouch for you?”
“Sure. Contact Stella the barmaid. She served me my normal lunch of Iron Bru, haggis fritters and mango chutney. I also noticed that little shite Mikey McClure was there cowering in his usual corner making dodgy telephone calls on his mobile. When he saw me, he disappeared to his office in the back toilet. No other punters that I recognised. It was fairly quiet.
“After lunch, I went back to the office around two-fifteen and spent the rest of the day there until five. Then I drove back to my apartment and settled in to watch the horse racing on TV and relax with a couple of red wines until I was ready to go to Carole’s house.”
“What time did Sofie leave the office? When did you leave your apartment? And did you go straight to Mrs Baxter’s house?” asked DI Spencer.
“Sofie left at the usual time, five p.m. I left my apartment at the bottom of Bath Street around seven o’ clock. Only takes me ten minutes to walk to Carole’s. So, I must have arrived there around seven-ten.”
Both started to shift in their chairs. “That will be all we require right now, Mr. Cram,” stated DCI Scully. “You want a cup of tea from the canteen?”
“Can I go now?”
“Not just at the moment. We need to sort out some paperwork.”
“Then I’ll have a coffee please, milk, no sugar.”
“Done. DI Spencer, organise a coffee for Mr. Cram. We shall be back in around fifteen minutes.”
Jesus. Why weren’t they concentrating on the crime scene or interviewing some local criminals rather than talking to him; stuffing around here while the real criminals might be on their way out of the country. Harry’s patience was being tested in the middle of one of the worst times in his life. Surely, they realised he had nothing to do with the crime. He was frustrated and angry at what he thought was a lack of urgency in the investigation.
Now alone in more ways than one, Harry also felt uncomfortable with the way the short interview had gone. Did they know something that he didn’t? Relax nothing to worry about, complete the interview, tell the truth and go home.
My God poor Carole and her kids …
Twenty agonising minutes went past before the door eased open, but this time only DI Spencer entered.
Looking like he had been recently watching some old episodes of Taggart, he crept around the room for a few moments in silence before eventually speaking. “Mr. Cram, we are satisfied with your early explanation and have no reason at this stage to hold you any further. You are free to go, but we will be in touch in the coming days. Please refrain from leaving Edinburgh at this stage.”
At this stage, sounded very ominous.
Chapter 6
It was difficult to understand what had gone down during the weekend and he needed time to reflect on what was the darkest and deepest day of his life. He also needed to prepare himself for the next police interview that would inevitably take place and he had no doubt in his mind that he was their prime suspect.
Harry had bought the near new top floor apartment two years ago mainly for the views and the prime location at the bottom of Bath Street on the promenade, where he loved relaxing in his favourite lounge chair and looking out from the large balcony windows across the Firth of Forth towards the Kingdom of Fife on the other side.
It was a large apartment by Scottish standards, with two huge bedrooms, one small bedroom and old-fashioned twelve-foot ceilings. The modern kitchen was complete with stainless steel fittings, dishwasher, wall oven and a central galley finished in quality Italian marble.
The lounge room was quite spacious, easily accommodating his two three-seater sofas and the dining area had enough space to fit a four-seat dining set. He didn’t have much in the way of furniture. Typical bachelor’s pad. But he loved the two contemporary industrial paintings that hung on his lounge wall. A treasured gift from an old Greek-Australian contemporary artist friend in Australia.
He had also invested big bucks in a modern barbecue that sat alone on the balcony accompanied most days with the not so gentle breezes from the North Sea ...
He could have bought a semi-detached for the same price with the mandatory conservatory which he thought would be akin to living in an igloo. Too cold in winter and too hot in summer. In Scotland that could be as little as two weeks a year. Looking out into the neighbour’s yard was not as satisfying as the views he currently had. To him the decision had been a no brainer.
He settled down for what he hoped was a quiet afternoon and evening at home with a quality Australian Shiraz and hopefully just his own company.
It was difficult to understand what had gone down at the weekend and he needed to reflect.
Almost always he found that taking a memory walk around his beloved city of birth allowed him to clear his mind and recharge the batteries.
This time, he decided to move around a memory timeline starting with his first recall and ending with his
last memory before leaving for Australia to continue his professional football career in 1995.
Most people reckon they have their first recall around the age of three but Harry’s first memory was around the age of four as he prepared to go to school where his family lived in Craigour Crescent. The suburb was called Craigour but some referred to it as Little France. It acquired its name from members of the entourage brought to Scotland from France by Mary Queen of Scots, who took up residence there. Making it sound more glamorous than Craigour.
Highlight of his first few years at Moredun Park Primary School was the day he received his first team football jersey on a Friday afternoon. That meant slinging it over his shoulder and parading it all the way home so everyone knew he was in the first team tomorrow.
Even though he was a couple of years younger than the rest of the team, his talent shone through in being the first boy in the school to be selected for the first team at the age of seven and on his way to his dream of becoming a professional footballer.
Harry’s father worked in Portobello and the daily cycle of the two-hour round trip was taking its toll so the family made the decision to move to Portobello.
Wow! Living near the beach, a golf course and the best public park in Edinburgh where most of the town’s talented footballers played every Sunday. He had no regrets leaving Craigour Crescent.
Magdalene Gardens in Portobello became home for the next ten years. It was a tough but fair area. The only place in Edinburgh where you could get your heart and jaw broken on the same day.
Towerbank Primary School was located only metres from the beach and most importantly had a football team.
The final two years at primary school passed quickly and it was time to move to the “big school” Portobello High School.
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