Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Cullen gave him a mock salute while he chewed another fatty mouthful. He swallowed it down with some beer and waved over at the bar. ‘Napalm’s your partner, right?’

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘With a name like Finlay Sinclair, you’d expect him to be a Lord Advocate or something.’ Cullen took another bite of his burger. ‘Has to be one monkey in every family tree, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Skinky…’ A wafer-thin skinhead loomed over Cullen, gave Hunter the briefest of nods. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’

  ‘The answer’s no.’ Cullen bit off half a chip. ‘Now, what’s the question?’

  ‘This case you’re working…’

  Cullen dipped another chip in a pool of beef fat on the plate. ‘You’re getting nothing, Rich.’

  ‘Come on, mate, you owe me.’

  ‘I know I do, but not like this, okay?’ Cullen bit another chip. ‘Unless you find the girl, you’re getting nothing.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a prick, Scott.’ Rich stormed off, hugging his laptop bag around him.

  Hunter’s stomach tied itself into knots, sounded like it was gargling with mouthwash. ‘Another member of the Scott Cullen fan club?’

  ‘Can never have too many.’ Cullen took another bite, seemed to ponder this one for longer than the cholesterol bomb deserved. Or he’d moved onto some unexploded ordnance in his private life. Must be enough women out there breeding from his toxic sperm. ‘Journalist. Used to share a flat with him.’ He chuckled. ‘Not like that, Craig. I know how you think.’

  Do you? You know people want to cut your balls off, do you?

  Hunter took a drink of his beer. ‘You need anything more on that teacher?’

  ‘Chantal chummed me in there. Waste of time, but the woman’s still in custody. Still don’t get why she harboured Stephanie, but hey. That’s more Sharon’s side of this.’ Cullen took another bite of the burger. ‘This case really messes you up, though. That poor girl. Abused by her own dad and then her stepdad. Some dirty bastards out there, mate.’

  ‘Aye, don’t I know it. Good riddance to her old man.’ Hunter couldn’t tear his eyes off the Brewdog bottle. ‘I’ve a mind to speak to the Custody Sergeant and get ten minutes alone with Doug Ferguson when we get him back in.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Scott, are you telling me you wouldn’t do it?’

  Cullen took another bite of his burger and mopped up the fat on his chin as he chewed. ‘That’s what juries are for, and it’s why we don’t kill people on the street.’

  ‘Some days I wish we could.’

  ‘You need to be one hundred percent sure with that vigilante shite, but I know what it feels like.’ Another swig of Brewdog. ‘Anyway, it’s immaterial, as we’ve still not found him. Chantal’s leading the hunt.’ Cullen swirled his bottle round and drained it. ‘You think he did it?’

  ‘What, abused his daughter?’

  ‘No, killed Robert Quarrie?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t get the why. More like the why now. Could’ve done it when he got out of prison or any time since.’

  ‘Wants to redeem himself, maybe?’ Cullen gripped the bottle tight but didn’t raise it, just kept in on the table. ‘While you and 1pac have been in here shortening your lifespans, I went through the transcripts of your interview with Ferguson. He said he collected Quarrie from the nick, right?’

  ‘Said he was warning him off. That’s what’s interesting. What if he wasn’t warning him? What if they’re in cahoots?’

  Hunter leaned back on the bench. Nothing keeping me, talking to this prick… ‘We’ve had nothing to suggest they might be.’

  ‘Maybe we need to dig a little deeper.’ Cullen bit into a chip. ‘Weird having Chantal working for me again. Forgot how annoying she can be.’

  ‘She’s not that bad.’

  Cullen winked at him. ‘Got a soft spot for her, have you?’

  Fire burnt under Hunter’s collar. ‘Just been working with her for the last day or two. She’s all right.’

  Cullen swigged more beer. ‘Aye, she’s okay.’

  How could that prick just sit there like nothing had happened?

  Hunter stared at him for a few seconds. ‘Like Yvonne was okay?’

  Cullen held his bottle in front of his face. ‘Come again?’

  ‘DC Yvonne Flockhart. Remember her?’

  ‘She works in Ally Davenport’s team. I borrowed her to make sure Elvis didn’t bugger up the CCTV.’ Another chip. ‘What about her?’

  Hunter sighed. ‘Quit playing that game with me.’

  ‘It’s not a game. Has she annoyed you or something?’

  What’s up with him?

  ‘We were engaged.’ Hunter rocked forward and gripped the edge of the table. ‘Then I caught you shagging her. Don’t tell me that’s just conveniently slipped your mind.’

  Cullen’s beer bottle toppled over. He righted it and started mopping at the spillage. ‘What?’

  ‘Remember Ally’s Christmas party in 2010? You went back to a flat and shagged someone.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ Cullen finished mopping the beer. ‘I … had sex with Yvonne?’

  Hunter gripped the edge of the table. ‘From behind, if I recall.’

  Cullen slumped back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. ‘Look, I was plastered and it was a long time ago. I was a bad boy back then, I’ll be the first to admit, but I’m in a … stable relationship now.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Craig, trust me, I’m not. Jesus, I can’t even remember it.’

  ‘You don’t remember me kicking you up the arse and pushing you down the stairs?’

  ‘Craig, I stopped drinking for that reason. Did a lot of shit when I was blootered, and it seems like I forgot a lot of it, too.’ Cullen chinked his nails off his beer. ‘This is alcohol-free.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Hunter stooped to look out of the window. ‘Think I just saw a pig fly past.’

  ‘Better believe it. Over a year and a half on the wagon.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘Give or take.’

  ‘You shagged her and we split up.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got a drink problem and…’ Cullen swallowed, his stubbly neck bobbing. ‘Jesus, no wonder you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder.’

  ‘You’re lucky I haven’t kicked you down another staircase.’

  ‘Craig, it’s… What can I say?’

  ‘Sorry would be a start.’

  Cullen drained his bottle and pushed it across the table. ‘I’m really sorry, Craig. I’m not going to defend my actions. You were a good mate to me and you deserved better. A whole lot better.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole, Scott.’

  ‘I don’t disagree.’ Cullen picked up a chip and bit it in half. ‘You did well in the interview, by the way.’

  Like that gets you off the hook, you prick.

  Hunter looked over. ‘Does that mean I’ve got the job?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, can I?’ Cullen shook his head. ‘And Donna Nichols is a stickler for process, if nothing else.’ He frowned. ‘What happened to you, Craig? Thought you were going places.’

  ‘So did I. Fell out with Davenport, didn’t I?’

  ‘The role’s in his team.’

  Hunter slumped back in the chair. ‘Right.’

  ‘Look, I can put a good word in for you. See if Bill Lamb or Colin—’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Sure? You’re a good officer.’

  ‘Wish other people thought so.’

  ‘You want to keep fishing for compliments or just take that one?’

  Hunter couldn’t help but grin. ‘Cheers, Scott.’

  ‘No worries.’ Cullen finished his burger and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back.’

  Hunter grabbed his arm. ‘Do you mind if I help?’

  �
�Calm down, Craig. You’re off duty.’

  ‘I know, but come on, Scott… You really owe me one.’

  ‘Look, if I broke up your engagement, you’ve got my apology. But I’m not letting you blackmail me, okay?’

  ‘I’m not going to run amok. I just really don’t want that scumbag out there, you know?’

  ‘You and I both. But you’ve been drinking. Get yourself home, watch some football and chill out, okay?’

  33

  Hunter crept down the corridor, slowly and calmly. Nobody about, just the hissing of a kettle somewhere deeper in the station. He stopped by the door to the MIT’s Incident Room and peered in.

  Jain was sitting by the window, hammering her laptop’s keyboard. Apart from her, the room was empty.

  Hunter walked over and sat next to her. ‘Hey.’

  She glanced around, bleary-eyed and blinking. Then groaned. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Helping. Cullen said it was okay.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Didn’t take long to set this up.’ Hunter waved around the room. The walls were already covered in photos from the crime scene in Cramond, the standard template on the whiteboard. Actions and suspects, all that jazz.

  ‘What can I say, the MIT are a slick machine.’ Jain tugged her scrunchie free and let her hair hang loose. ‘Did Scott really say it was okay?’

  ‘Didn’t say it wasn’t.’ Hunter picked up a document from her desk. ‘Is Doug Ferguson in custody yet?’

  ‘Come on, Craig… If Scott’s DI finds out you’re snooping around, I’ll be for it. You know that, right?’

  ‘How about I was helping provide background?’

  ‘Stinking of beer?’

  ‘Didn’t even have one pint.’ Hunter started flicking through the document on the desk. Looked like it was summarised from his notes so far. ‘Have you found—’

  ‘Go home, Craig.’

  ‘Come on, Chantal.’

  ‘Is this what last night was about?’ She slammed her laptop lid. ‘Get in my knickers and I’ll speak to my mates in the MIT? Maybe get you that job?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, Chantal. I really like you.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘I mean it. Liked you for years, just too much of a mess to say or do anything about it.’

  ‘Craig, I swear.’ Jain opened her laptop again. ‘If you’re trying it on, I will kill you.’ She tied her hair up again. ‘Now piss off.’

  Hunter got out of his car and looked down Sandport Street, a pizza box tucked under his arm. Place was still damp from the rain, but at least it had stopped. The air had that clean smell, like everything had been washed away and we could all start over again.

  Two buses hissed past each other at the end, spraying a few pedestrians on Commercial Street.

  Hunter twisted his keys in the lock and entered the building. The marguerita tang hit his nostrils as he climbed the stairs. Better than the smell of half-feral cats from number one. He opened his flat door and walked into the tiny little space — most bedsits would be ashamed to share the name.

  ‘Mieaow.’ Bubble immediately started swarming around his legs, then stopped to hiss out into the hall at some invisible threat.

  Hunter pulled the door shut and picked her up. Barely weighed anything, but she looked as healthy as the day he’d got her. He carried her into the kitchen and plonked her on the counter, making sure to put enough space between her and the pizza.

  His eggs lay burnt in the pan, tiny nibbles taken out of the crisp whites. He put his nose against Bubble’s fur. ‘Have you been eating my eggs?’

  ‘Miaow.’

  ‘Dirty little bugger.’ He picked up her food bowl and dumped in a pile of biscuits from the tin. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Miaow!’ Bubble squatted down on her haunches and started munching through the bowl, as he filled the kettle and flicked it on.

  He got a teabag out of the cupboard and put it in yesterday’s mug, just a vague brown stain at the bottom. Didn’t look too bad. Boiling water would kill any bugs anyway.

  He got his phone out and checked for messages. A text from Jain.

  Sorry for being a bitch. Girls don’t like clingy men.

  Terrific.

  What to do…

  He tapped out a reply as the kettle started to rattle and hiss.

  I thought they wanted to be serenaded.

  The kettle came to the boil and he poured the steaming water over his teabag.

  Her reply flashed up on his screen.

  Well, this one doesn’t. You have gone home, right?

  He got a spoon out and started mashing the teabag against the side of the cup, tapping out a reply with his free hand.

  Getting something to eat while my cat molests me. Sorry about earlier. Don’t let not being able to help.

  The message had sent with that typo in it. Bugger. He typed:

  *like not let. Bloody phone.

  He yanked the teabag out and left a little trail of dark brown droplets as he carried it over to the compost caddy. He reached into the fridge for the milk — still in date — and tipped it in, turning the liquid just the right colour.

  Cup in hand, he took the pizza over to the TV, all of two metres away. He collapsed into his chair with a groan and started supping the scalding tea as the screen warmed up with a crackle. Got a bit of pain from his knee. Nothing a slice of fat and salt couldn’t cure.

  He opened the box and let the aroma drift up. Mushroom, pineapple and banana. Heaven.

  Netflix popped up. “Better Call Saul” was the first on “Continue Watching for Craig”.

  ‘Miaow!’ Bubble sproinged onto Hunter’s chest, making him drop the slice of pizza onto the cardboard.

  ‘You wee bugger.’ He tried to nudge her away. ‘You’ve got your own food.’

  ‘Miaow!’

  The nuclear warning klaxon blasted out of his mobile.

  Bubble spread herself low and hissed.

  ‘It’s okay, cat.’ Hunter checked the phone and answered it. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ Jain yawned into her handset. ‘Sorry, I’m really tired. Look, helping the case means being stuck in here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being stuck in you.’

  ‘Quit it with the cheese, Hunter.’

  ‘Ah, go on. You love it. Anyway, you getting anywhere with that cock-block of a case?’

  She sighed down the line. ‘In the thirty minutes since you last pestered me, the case hasn’t moved forward.’

  ‘Seriously, nobody’s seen Ferguson? He can’t just have disappeared, can he?’

  She spoke into the phone, like there was someone near. ‘Cullen’s worried you’ll take some vigilante action against him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They call it extra-legal violence these days. You ex-squaddies with your PTSD and cupboards full of stolen guns.’

  Hunter ran a hand down Bubble’s spine as she sniffed at his pizza. ‘I’ve not got PTSD.’

  ‘What about the guns?’

  ‘Ha. Ha.’ Hunter picked Bubble up one-handed and lifted her away from the food. ‘Look, that’s not funny, you know? Took me years…’

  ‘Shit, do you…?’

  Jesus… Not like this. Not over the phone with a feral cat and a roaring belly.

  ‘In Iraq, an IED went off next to me, killed my squad mate. Two years of therapy later, the police took me in. And I’m on antidepressants for the rest of my life.’

  The line crackled for a few seconds. ‘Shite, Craig.’

  ‘The Combat Stress charity really helped me. Helped put all that shite in the past.’

  A long pause before Jain coughed. ‘It’s not just ex-squaddies that get it.’

  ‘I know that. But why bring it up at all?’

  ‘You’re thinking of going after him, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Hunter yawned and took a sip of scalding tea. Just right. ‘When are you finishing?’

  ‘Midnight at this rate.�
�

  ‘Do you want to come round here?’

  ‘I’m shattered and I need to feed my own cat.’

  ‘Well, Bubble’s stuffing her skinny little face. Maybe I could see you there?’

  ‘Good night, Craig.’

  The phone clicked dead. Charming…

  What to do, what to do.

  Hunter closed the lid of his pizza box and picked up his car keys. He pecked the cat on the top of her head. ‘Sorry, Bubble. Daddy’s got to go out to play.’

  Hunter put the last pizza crust in his mouth and chewed slowly, still getting a hit of the caramelised banana.

  He took a sip of water and looked around the street. No sign of Alec Wishart or his wife, if she even existed. And no sign of Cullen’s uniform unit, either.

  He dumped the pizza box on the back seat and rubbed the grease off his fingers.

  What if the wife didn’t exist? What did he call her? Marie.

  Assume Marie doesn’t exist, what does that leave us with?

  One, a lying bastard.

  Two, a lying bastard who’s a close friend of an alleged child molester. Said friend who introduced said child molester to the mother of a previously abused girl.

  Three, that’ll do.

  Hunter got out of the car and walked across Mountcastle Terrace. Other than the distant drone of traffic, the only sounds were the gate creaking open and his feet splashing in the puddles as he approached the door. He hit the bell and stood back.

  Nice street, though probably full of older people whose—

  ‘Can I help you?’ Harsh Northern Irish accent, Belfast area. Tall, raven-haired, eyes that could pierce armour.

  ‘I was looking for Mr Wishart?’

  ‘Aye, he’s not in. And you are?’

  ‘PC Craig Hunter. Are you Mrs Wishart?’

  ‘Ms Marie Henderson.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Where’s your uniform?’

  ‘I’m working plainclothes for a case.’

  ‘Right, right. Well, like I said, he’s not here.’ She crossed her legs like she was a small child needing to go to the toilet. ‘Is this about that stuff with Doug Ferguson?’

  ‘Have you seen him recently?’