Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Hunter got up again. ‘Thanks for your time, sir.’

  ‘Listen, should I be concerned about him?’

  ‘Unless you or he aren’t telling the truth, no.’

  ‘Are you implying something?’

  ‘It would be useful if there was some way to back this up.’

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  Hunter passed him a card. ‘Please do. And feel free to give me a call if anything comes to mind.’

  Ingram nodded. ‘Could I ask you to leave by the front bar, please?’

  Back outside, the din from the restaurant had returned to the original volume before Hunter had spoiled their fun.

  Quarrie was standing by the car, nibbling at his fingernails and making sure to keep his distance from Jain. He made a beeline for Hunter, twitchy fingers smoothing back the wings of his hair. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I just checked your alibi.’

  ‘Have you messed anything up for me?’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with us. For now.’

  Quarrie tilted his head to the side. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Hunter got in his face, though his forehead only reached to Quarrie’s chin. ‘If you’ve got anything to do with Stephanie’s disappearance, you’ll see what it means to be threatened by me. Is that clear enough for you?’

  ‘Look, son, what’s your problem?’ Quarrie shifted away from Hunter. ‘I’m not doing anything wrong here.’

  ‘So why haven’t you signed the Violent and Sex Offenders Register?’

  Quarrie took a great interest in his shoes. ‘I’m doing it tomorrow.’

  ‘You should’ve kept your local station in Stranraer informed as to your whereabouts. You know that.’

  ‘I spoke to a lad there. He said it was okay.’

  Complete bollocks…

  Hunter jabbed him in the ribs with his index finger. ‘Just keep away from your daughter and your ex-wife, okay?’

  The back door swung open and Ingram tottered over. ‘Robert, is that you?’

  ‘Aye, Stevie. Sorry—’

  ‘You’re late and you’ve brought the police.’

  ‘Sorry about—’

  Hunter took a step back. ‘Thanks for your assistance, sir.’

  ‘Okay.’ Quarrie wandered over to Ingram, his shoulders slouched low.

  Hunter opened the car door and collapsed into the driver’s seat. He had that burn in the pit of his stomach again. Eating away at his flesh. Robert Quarrie followed Ingram inside the pub, like a scolded child. ‘This bloody case…’

  ‘Face to face with a child abuser…’ She clicked a painted nail off her Airwave’s screen. ‘Did you clear his alibi?’

  ‘Aye, for now. Unless he’s lying, the manager saw him till ten to six. Quarrie didn’t pick her up from the hospital.’

  ‘Have to take his word for it?’

  ‘For now.’

  She checked her watch. ‘Could just about be our guy at the Ferguson house, timewise.’

  ‘You saw the height of him. It’s not him.’

  ‘Right. Well, Sharon’s called me back to the station.’

  ‘Anything I should know about?’

  ‘Just a briefing for her team.’

  ‘And am I in it?’

  ‘No.’

  17

  Hunter swung onto Ferry Road and turned the radio down, “Friday I’m In Love” fading to a whisper.

  Hadn’t Gaynor said The Cure were one of Stephanie’s bands? That tune was pretty far from their gothest, but it had some eerie darkness to it.

  He passed the low-rise strip mall, a failed American-style experiment on a failed Scottish housing scheme. Sun-seeking boozers surrounded the Ferry Boat Bar, looking like the set of a soap opera. Could only be a matter of minutes before the blues and twos piled in to stop a murder.

  He cruised past as the sodium street lights blinked on and glanced over at Jain, arms folded and sulking in the passenger seat. ‘Want to talk about why you keep trying to kick the shite out of men twice your size?’

  ‘They won’t last thirteen seconds with me.’

  Hunter frowned. ‘You an MMA fan?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Coincidence. ‘So, what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s like I said in that interview.’ She looked over at him, her lips tight. ‘Being face-to-face with evil. Seeing that dirty bastard sitting there, treating it as a joke.’

  ‘Sure that’s it?’

  ‘No, it’s not it, Craig.’ She hit the radio’s power button, killing Ocean Colour Scene before the DJ had finished talking over that infernal riff. ‘I’ve been thinking about Stephanie and her disempowerment.’

  ‘Her what?’

  ‘Disempowerment. Want me to spell it for you?’

  ‘Won’t help me.’ Hunter slowed at the lights to let a pair of skinheads lurch across. ‘So, disempowerment… What do you mean?’

  Jain sat up briefly, fiddling with her seatbelt, then slumped back as Hunter pulled off at the green light. ‘I mean the suffering that poor girl’s been through her whole life.’ She thumbed back the way, aiming at South Queensferry. ‘That animal abused her when she was a child, put her through hell. Sexual and physical violence to compound the emotional kind. Can you imagine?’

  Hunter couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even look at her. Just kept his gaze on the oncoming cars thrumming past them.

  ‘She’s been subjected to the whims of men who didn’t have a second thought about violating her. Or about what it’ll do to her long-term.’ She hauled at her seatbelt, pulling the material blade-tight. ‘To men like Robert Quarrie and Doug Ferguson, she’s just a vagina. Something they can shag. Someone they can control, someone they can abuse without repercussions.’

  Hunter slowed at the arc of red brake lights ahead of them. ‘So why not come to us?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ She let go of the seatbelt. ‘Really?’

  ‘Listen, I hear what you’re saying. I just mean… why didn’t she report this abuse earlier?’

  ‘Because she’s been conditioned to hide everything.’ She looked over as Hunter pulled up at the Crew Toll Bridge, the red bike route arches spidering across the road. ‘And the reason she’s run away is because two male police officers pitched up in her hospital room saying there’s no evidence of rape. Of course she panics. Jesus. All her life she’s put up with that sort of thing.’

  Hunter stared at his hands. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, but… Jesus.’ She stared over at him, eyes looking like they were cast from rock. ‘This is different from your CID days, Craig. Took me a while to get it, but the victims here aren’t dead. They’re alive and they get stuck with this trauma for the rest of their life.’

  ‘Well, we are where we are, I suppose.’ Lauren clicked her tongue a few times. Leith Walk was dark outside the window, just a thin sliver of light catching the side of a passing bus. ‘Finlay, what do you think?’

  Finlay looked up from his laptop, bleary-eyed and blinking. ‘Sorry?’

  Lauren sighed. ‘Constable, you’ve got us into this mess. The least you could do is pay attention.’

  ‘Aye, sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What do you think about Robert Quarrie?’

  Finlay shrugged. ‘You didn’t let me out to play, so how should I know?’ He snorted. ‘Might be worth speaking to anyone who knew him inside, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘See what he was like in there?’ Finlay scratched the top of his head, his elbow pointing up at the ceiling. ‘Getting locked up for fiddling his own daughter might’ve put him on the radar of some of the big lads in there. Boy could be angry at her for grassing him up.’

  ‘While I don’t approve of your terminology, that’s not a bad idea.’ Lauren nodded slowly. ‘I’m impressed. For once.’

  ‘I’m not as bad as everyone says.’ Finlay went back to his lap
top.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Lauren scribbled a note on her pad. ‘Right, I’ll see what I can get done overnight. Might be worth a trip up to Glenochil. I’ll get someone to look into it.’

  ‘Just as well we’ve got Craig Hunter on this.’ Finlay smirked as he opened his laptop’s lid. ‘Going to need the Master Detective to find her, eh?’

  ‘I suggest you leave the humour to people who are actually funny.’ Lauren glared at him until he strolled over to the printer and started rattling the plastic casing, tip-a-tap, tip-a-tap, tip-a-tap. ‘What about us visiting Stranraer?’

  ‘Let’s settle for a cosy chat once Dumfries & Galloway have their ViSOR records in order.’

  ‘See? I’m not so bad, Sarge.’

  Nobody could be that bad, could they?

  Hunter collected up his things and got to his feet. ‘That us, Sarge?’

  ‘For now.’ Lauren clicked her new pen and put it down. Looked like she’d spent a few quid to avoid blue fingers. Until her next case of frost bite anyway. ‘Night shift are taking over this mess.’

  ‘There’s got to be something else we can do.’ Hunter undid the clasps on his stab-proof. ‘We got any update on the phone?’

  ‘Still waiting on her phone being switched on. Other than that, I’m afraid the MIT’s taking up all of Tommy Smith’s time just now and his team is stretched thin as it is. This murder at Dumbiedykes requires a lot of extracts.’

  ‘Come on…’ Hunter dumped his stab-proof on the desk, the buckle clattering on the wood. ‘It’s just one phone, Sarge.’

  ‘I know, Craig. I’ve tried to call in a few favours with the MIT to see if we can get the records sped up, but the quickest we’ll get them is the morning.’ Lauren pouted at him. ‘I did manage to get some of Paul Gordon’s time to help us with the analysis.’

  ‘Elvis’ll love that.’ Hunter picked the vest up again, swinging it like a school satchel. ‘What about social media?’

  ‘Same story, except for him actually doing something on it. He’s still not got anything from the Facebook team.’

  Hunter blew air up his face. ‘In my experience, you just have to go in there and print it yourself.’

  ‘Well, in that case, we’ll all need to roll up our sleeves and get stuck in.’ Lauren looked across the office. A shaven-headed man was lurking in the doorway, like someone had just channelled lightning through a corpse. ‘I’ll see you at home, John.’ He snorted and headed off.

  Hunter got up and started pacing around the room. ‘I want to get out there, Sarge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stephanie’s still out there and we’re just sitting around chatting.’

  ‘So what do you propose? Sitting in a car like you’re in a Raymond Chandler novel?’

  Hunter stopped by the window and looked at her. ‘At least it’ll feel like we’re doing something.’

  ‘Leave the hardboiled heroics to fictional detectives, Craig. I get your impatience, but what we need here is a softly-softly approach, okay?’ Lauren sighed and rubbed her sleeves. ‘Bloody freezing in here still.’ A shiver sent goosebumps up her arms. ‘Oh, there was something. Neil Alexander, the boyfriend, he’s been out speaking to the few friends of hers he knows. He called in to say a friend of Stephanie saw her in Musselburgh.’

  ‘He was supposed to call me.’ Hunter hefted his vest up, ready to put it back on. ‘Want me to—’

  ‘No. You’re off-duty as of now.’

  ‘Come on, Sarge. If she’s—’

  ‘There’s a reason we’ve got multiple shift patterns. Besides, East Lothian isn’t our remit.’

  ‘We should be digging into Neil’s background a bit harder.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll get the back shift on that, as well.’ Lauren scribbled another note and nodded at Hunter. ‘How’s it going with DS Jain?’

  A chill ran down Hunter’s spine. Felt like he was Lauren for a second or two. ‘Has she said something?’

  ‘I just need to know if you’re getting on well with her, Craig, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re fine. Make a decent team.’

  ‘There’s nothing I should know about?’

  ‘Well, I’m feeling excluded from their meetings.’

  ‘You don’t want to be in them, trust me. DI McNeill’s hauling them across the coals as we speak. I was lucky to get out of there.’ She zipped her fleece up to her chin. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Fresh as a daisy, please. That means a daisy that hasn’t had six pints.’

  Hunter entered the changing room, yawning. Empty, save for the faded benches and rows of grey lockers. He opened his locker and sat on a bench to untie his shoelaces.

  Master bloody Detective…

  Cheeky bastard.

  He reached into his pockets for his keys. The blue Ford logo glimmered in the strip lighting.

  Could just scout out a few places. Everything in the police took too long… Someone somewhere must know something.

  This Alec Wishart character… Introducing Doug to Pauline. Very innocent and very Edinburgh on the surface. Friend of a friend.

  But lurking below that surface could be a network of paedophiles preying on damaged single mothers and their innocent children. Violating them. Brutalising them.

  Robert Quarrie would get off at midnight. Worth following him down the Almond from his pub to his flat, see if he gave anything away.

  Maybe the man in the garden was back at Pauline Ferguson’s house. Maybe—

  The door tore open and Finlay bundled in. He tossed his vest on the bench and tugged off his T-shirt. ‘Hey, jabroni. Wanna head over for some brewskis?’

  Like I can be arsed with that…

  Hunter frowned as he got his civvies out. ‘Got a thing on tonight.’

  ‘A thing?’ Finlay opened his locker. ‘Sounds pretty vague, mate. Come on, let’s have some pints, shoot some pool.’

  Hunter took his time taking his top off, breathing hot air into the black fabric. ‘I’ve got Krav Maga tonight.’

  ‘Sounds like a gay nightclub, jabroni.’

  ‘It’s a martial art.’ Hunter pulled the T-shirt right off. ‘Israeli Defence Force.’

  ‘Ah, right. Doesn’t stop punks battering you all day, does it?’

  ‘Most martial arts are based on seeing your opponent coming.’

  ‘Thought you flirting with men in pyjamas was on Thursday’s?’

  ‘It never ends with you, does it? All that latent homophobia… Sure you’re not covering over—’

  ‘Piss off.’ Finlay’s tongue swivelled across his lips. ‘I thought you went to that fighting thing on Thursdays?’

  ‘Instructor’s on holiday this week.’ Hunter put his left leg into his jeans, caught a whiff of dog shite in amongst the tang of half-hour-old Lynx spray. ‘Have to go to one at Meadowbank instead.’

  ‘Right.’ Finlay tapped his watch. ‘It’s quarter to ten, mate.’

  Hunter tucked his checked shirt over his head, trying to buy some time. ‘It’s at this guy’s house. Pay by the hour.’

  ‘I bet you do… Another time, yeah?’ Finlay slammed his locker and twisted the key. ‘Tomorrow night?’

  ‘If we’re still in a job by then.’

  ‘Shut up, mate.’ Finlay sighed as he zipped up his leather jacket. ‘Think it’s that serious?’

  ‘What, you cocking up guarding a teenager? Aye, it’s that serious.’

  ‘It wasn’t just my fault.’

  ‘Finlay, that game… You’ve dropped a … clanger on this, okay? She walked past you. What do you think’ll happen to you if she turns up in someone’s sex dungeon?’

  ‘Come on, mate. That’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘What about that bloke I chased at their house?’ Hunter shook his head. ‘You really need to pull your finger out. You know what it’s been like over the last two years. Sacking you might save someone’s bacon.’

  Finlay stepped into his loafers. ‘You mean Buchan?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m just sayin
g. You’ve been a cop for twelve years. You should know you need to cover your arse or someone else will kick it. And you don’t want to lose your pension, right?’

  ‘Not going to happen, Craig.’ Finlay rested his hand on the door. ‘And on that uplifting note, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He pushed out into the corridor but stopped halfway. ‘Look, if your Krav Maga instructor pulls out, I’ll be in the Elm, aye?’

  ‘Sure.’ Hunter pulled on his jacket and dumped his new uniform back in his locker, waiting for the click of the shutting door. He laced up his Timberlands and dangled his keys in the air. Time to do it.

  Out in the corridor, he kept an eye out for Finlay checking his alibi. Even the most inept of cops should see through that one.

  The door to the ladies’ locker room juddered open behind him. ‘Evening, Craig.’

  Hunter spun round and took a step back. Jain, with a thin wool coat slung around her, hugging her curves. Lucky coat. ‘Chantal…’ He swallowed, his pulse racing. ‘Have fun at your secret briefing?’

  ‘Secret, my arse…’ She stuck her head back and huffed. ‘You’re not still angry about that, are you?’

  ‘Not really. It’s just—’

  ‘Save it.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘I’m off the clock and you look like you are too.’

  Hunter stepped back, his mouth tingling. ‘Right. Sorry.’

  ‘Look, I’m heading over to the Elm for a drink, if you fancy it?’

  18

  The Cask & Barrel was pretty much dead. Tuesday dead. Over at the bar, Jain was chatting to the bearded barman, her casual charm seeming to work on him, too.

  Hunter nibbled at his right thumbnail. His left hand drummed a tattoo on the wooden table.

  Not been this nervous since Kandahar…

  Jain wandered over, eyes locked onto his, and dumped a pint on the table in front of him, the contents pale-brown and cloudy. ‘I got you a Jarl. The barman says you can still drive after that one.’

  ‘Think I can trust him?’

  ‘Let’s just see.’

  Hunter took a sip, sharp and hoppy. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’