Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘Not for a while, sorry. Not on my Christmas card list.’

  ‘Well, thanks for your time. Good night, then.’ Hunter trudged back over to his car and got in, slumping low in the seat.

  So she did exist. Where are we now?

  One, he’s not a liar.

  Two, he’s still friends with an alleged child molester and—

  A car pulled up two ahead of him, grinding round a tight parallel park. The door clicked open and Alec Wishart got out. He looked up and down the street, his gaze jumping in steps. Then he knocked on the back window.

  Doug Ferguson got out, keeping himself low to the ground, shoulders hunched.

  Hunter eased his door open and put his foot on the damp pavement.

  Another door slammed behind him. ‘Here, you!’ Footsteps splashed through a series of puddles. ‘Your own bloody daughter?’ Dave Boyle was sprinting down the street, much closer to them than Hunter was. ‘How could you?’

  More doors slammed and heavier footsteps thumped along the pavement from the other side. Two twenty-stone skinheads.

  Terrific.

  ‘Police!’ Hunter darted across the road and tried to get between Boyle and Doug, pulling his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘I need you to—’

  Thump. A fist caught Hunter’s crown. He hit the ground, wet tarmac digging into his cheek.

  Footsteps went the other way.

  ‘Here, get back, you!’ The heavy footsteps thundered off. ‘You paedo cu—’

  Hunter got up on all fours. A boot cracked his ribs and he was down again.

  Fourth time in two days…

  ‘Here! That paedo bastard’s getting away.’ Boyle crouched down by Hunter and grabbed him by the collar. ‘You lot should’ve put that prick away when you had the chance, you hear me?’

  Hunter swung around and cracked his left boot into Boyle’s knee.

  He tumbled forward, just missing Hunter. ‘Ah, you bastard!’

  Hunter clambered to his feet and rubbed his knee. No sign of the skinheads.

  ‘Help!’ Sounded like Doug Ferguson. ‘Ah! No!’

  An engine started up and a car pulled off, screeching along the dead street. A red Hyundai tore past, swerving between the parked cars.

  Doug Ferguson was in the back, hammering at the glass, screaming his lungs out.

  34

  ‘Stand still!’ Hunter twisted Boyle’s arm up his back and gripped his neck, pushing him down onto the car’s bonnet. ‘Quit wriggling!’

  A hand gripped Hunter’s elbow from behind. ‘Craig, you can let him go.’ Steve, wearing his uniform and grinning away. ‘The cavalry’s here, big man. It’s okay.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter let Boyle go and stepped aside.

  Steve wrapped his cuffs around Boyle’s wrist. ‘Come on, you.’ He dragged Boyle over to a waiting squad car and nodded behind him. ‘Oh, there’s your lover girl. Thought her motor was in the garage?’

  Hunter swung round, Airwave out.

  Jain’s car pulled up, fresh darts of rain making the puddles dance.

  ‘Receiving.’

  ‘Aye, Control, it’s PC Hunter. Have you got an update on that red Hyundai, license plate SA61—’

  ‘Still a negative on that, Craig.’

  ‘Right. Cheers.’ Hunter pocketed the Airwave and stood his ground, watching and waiting.

  Jain got out of the car first, pulling her hood up over her hair, followed by Cullen.

  Hunter set off across the tarmac. ‘Sarge, back-up are taking Ferguson’s mates into custody.’

  ‘Good effort.’ Cullen ran a hand through his wet hair. The grey was less obvious when it was damp. ‘I gather you didn’t see who was driving?’

  ‘Sorry about that. Keeps happening…’

  ‘It’s okay. At least you saw it was Ferguson in the back. Opens things up a bit.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, he’s probably not taken Stephanie, don’t you think?’ Cullen was grinning at him.

  ‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that.’ Hunter had to look away. ‘Boyle had a couple of big bastards with him. Proper SDL types. They must’ve run off.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘I need to go through the timeline. Ferguson got Boyle to help. Say he took her for Ferguson and he’s keeping her somewhere. But he found out what the real story is, what Stephanie told us, and well… ’

  ‘I can buy that.’

  ‘I tried going after them, Scott, but I had my hands full with Boyle.’

  ‘Big pair of bastards won’t be hard to find, surely?’ Cullen looked up and down the street. A few curtains were still twitching. ‘What were you doing here, Craig?’

  ‘Trying to help.’ Hunter lifted a shoulder, could barely put any defiance into it. ‘So, what now, Sarge?’

  ‘Given you don’t seem to like being told to head home, I want you and Chantal interviewing these clowns.’

  Alec Wishart prodded his jaw, swollen up even bigger than his bulbous head. ‘This hurts more than it looks.’

  ‘Well, it looks pretty bad.’ Hunter got up from his seat and joined the Custody Officer by the door, propping himself up against the tattered wallpaper. The only position that didn’t hurt like he’d been through a blender. ‘Mr Wishart, we just want to know what you saw at the crime scene.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Wishart kept his fingers on the black and purple skin around his mouth. ‘Someone smacked me one. Knocked me out, pretty much.’ He tried to smile, but it switched to a grimace halfway through. ‘Ah, Jesus.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘Just heard some shouting, then they clattered me. That was it.’

  ‘What about before that? You collected Mr Ferguson from here earlier, right?’

  ‘Aye, downstairs.’ Wishart’s fingers traced his jaw, not wanting to press too hard. ‘Just being a mate to Dougie, you know?’

  ‘Did he mention anything to you?’

  ‘Doug wasn’t speaking much. Could get like that. See if the Hibs lost, or Torquay or Elgin City buggered up his accumulator… Man.’

  ‘He’s the silent type?’

  Wishart shrugged. Even that seemed to hurt. ‘Can be. Likes to brood.’

  ‘Did he ever get into a fight at the pub?’

  ‘No, but…’ He tailed off with a pained gasp.

  ‘Go on…’

  Wishart shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Try us.’

  ‘Well, Davie Boyle, right?’ Wishart’s head dipped, like he was in confession. ‘I’ve seen him assault people in the pub before. Saw him work a boy with a pool cue. Guy ended up looking like something from Fight Club.’

  ‘And you reported this to the police, yes?’

  Wishart looked away, started trying to click his jaw. ‘Bar policy is to let the fighters sort it out among themselves.’ He slid his hand across his bulbous forehead. ‘You know the drill… Stripped to the waist, fighting on the cobbles. No need to involve the police here, gentlemen. We can look after our own.’

  Hunter tilted his head, gave him an appraising look. ‘I’m not a big fan of people taking the law into their own hands.’

  ‘Aye, me neither.’ Wishart covered his mouth with his hands and shut his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Look, he kicked the shit out of a boy a few months back. Really battered him, ended up looking like an orc from Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘Who was this guy?’

  ‘Someone said he was a paedo.’

  ‘And was he?’

  Wishart rolled his shoulder. ‘Doesn’t make any difference to Davie.’

  ‘No. Comment.’ Dave Boyle slumped back in his chair, his mouth hanging wide open. Like a toilet bowl needing to be flushed. ‘You corned beef, or something, darling?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, Mr Boyle.’ Jain tucked her hair behind her ears, as if to emphasise the point. ‘We’re going to charge you with assault.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You attacked Mr Wishart.’

  ‘No I never.’

 
; ‘Don’t start. We’ve got witnesses.’

  ‘Here, I’m a hero. Taking some paedo scumbag off the street. Should be giving me a medal.’

  ‘We tend to take a dim view of vigilantes, Mr Boyle.’ Jain started flicking through a blank sheaf of paper. ‘Tends to make our jobs a lot harder and people often get the wrong end of the stick without a proper evidence trail.’

  Boyle battered his thumb off the table a few times, quick and tight, a scowl just about keeping his mouth locked tight. ‘What the hell do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s start with the Ferguson’s garden last night?’

  ‘What about it.’

  ‘We know it was you.’

  Boyle’s mouth hung wide open again. ‘What if it was?’

  ‘Did Mr Ferguson ask you to raid the house?’

  ‘Look, Doug asked me to see what’s going on there. Said he’s worried about Steph.’ Boyle sniffed and ran his wrist over his nose. ‘Now I know why. Doug wanted us to get close to Steph, find out if she was grassing on him for noncing her.’ He stretched his arms out wide. ‘That was me in the garden, aye. Wish I hadn’t helped him, now. Stoat just wanted me to cover over his dirty trail.’

  Hunter took his seat again and made a show of scribbling a note. No idea what to charge him with, if anything… ‘Does the name Robert Quarrie mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘He’s Stephanie’s father.’

  ‘Right. Never knew the boy’s name.’ Boyle shook his head, nostrils curled up like he’d stood in dog shit. ‘When Pauline told Doug that her ex had been calling, he was raging. Full on Begbie. Said he wanted Quarrie taken out.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Monday night. In the boozer. Watching Man City tonk West Brom.’ Boyle’s tongue flicked around his exposed teeth. ‘Why are you asking about him?’ He frowned, his mouth wide open. ‘Wait, has something happened to the boy?’

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  ‘Aw, shite.’ Boyle buried his head in his hands. ‘Look, I didn’t kill the boy, okay?’

  ‘We’ll need to check alibis.’

  ‘Don’t doubt it, princess.’ Boyle looked up through his fingers. ‘I didn’t slot him.’

  ‘How did you know he was stabbed?’

  ‘Shite.’ Boyle sank even lower in his chair. ‘Shitey bollocks.’

  Hunter let him sit there, panting away, a wad of spit dribbling down his chin. Not going to get any more out of him now… Not on this, anyway. ‘Do you know where Stephanie is?’

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘Did Doug ask you to abduct her?’

  ‘No way, man.’ Boyle raised his hands. ‘I’m not going to kill for a paedo scumbag like Doug bloody Ferguson.’

  ‘Sure you didn’t find her this morning, assault me and kidnap her?’

  Boyle sat up straight. ‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’

  ‘And you didn’t fall out with him when I told you—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘—Mr Ferguson had been accused of—’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Hunter tapped at the table. ‘See, those two knuckle-draggers you were with at Alec Wishart’s house haven’t been found yet. They’re not in on the act with you, are they?’

  ‘No way.’

  Hunter sighed and turned to nod at Jain. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I believe him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Craig, back down, okay?’ Jain twisted round to smile at him, winking with the eye Boyle couldn’t see. She switched the grin to Boyle. ‘Mr Ferguson passed a message to you through his lawyer, correct?’

  ‘I’ve told you this.’ Boyle frowned, then clicked his fingers. ‘Some boy called me up. Posh sod, Williamson or something.’

  ‘Hamish Williams?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the punter.’

  ‘And you took that as an instruction to root around in their back garden, correct?’

  ‘It was pretty clear, aye.’

  ‘Did you receive any other messages from Mr Williams?’

  Boyle sniffed a few times.

  ‘We’re checking your phone records as we speak, Mr Boyle.’

  ‘Fine, the boy called us this morning. Cannae mind what he said...’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Jain stood up and put her hands in her pockets. ‘Mr Boyle, I’m detaining you under the suspicion of murdering Robert Quarrie.’

  ‘You are besmirching my good name, Sergeant.’ Williams straightened out his suit collar. ‘Not to mention that of McLintock, Will—’

  ‘Mr Williams, you committed a criminal act.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’ Williams spluttered a gob of saliva onto the table, a little pool forming on the wood between them. ‘How dare you bring my name into disrepute in such—’

  ‘Did you or did you not pass on two messages to Mr Boyle.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘So you deny passing any information to David Boyle?’

  Williams slumped back, his lips twitching. ‘Well.’

  ‘We’re searching for phone calls between you and Mr Boyle.’

  Williams started paying close attention to a button on his suit jacket. ‘Of course, you have the text of this message?’

  ‘We’ve got a witness statement from the man we believe carried out the attack on Mr Quarrie. Our understanding is this message was an instruction to murder.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This message may have led to the murder of one Robert Quarrie.’

  ‘Listen to me very carefully.’ Williams tugged his suit jacket wide. ‘I have not knowingly passed on a message of such a nature to a contact of any of my clients.’

  ‘What about if it read as something pretty innocuous?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Did Mr Ferguson get you to pass on a message to Mr Boyle?’

  ‘It was just a note to an acquaintance of his, that’s all.’ Williams flicked through his legal pad, covered in enough arcane inscriptions to look like an original language copy of the bible. ‘The message was “Daddy can’t come home”.’

  You stupid, stupid bastard.

  Hunter folded his arms. ‘That doesn’t sound to you like a message about Mr Quarrie?’

  Williams stared into space, frowning. ‘What? I assumed my client was merely – and innocently, I hasten to add – referring to the fact that, due to your unfounded insistence on his continued detention, he was indisposed and could therefore not return–’

  ‘Mr Quarrie is, as you should know, Stephanie’s biological father. As for “can’t come home”, well, don’t you think that could be read as a kill order?’

  ‘Good work, Craig.’ Cullen thumped Hunter on the shoulder. Made his jaw rattle. ‘We’ll certainly follow up on this.’

  Hunter tried to shift away from him, but Lauren’s office was a small space and he had him cornered. ‘So you really think Boyle killed Quarrie?’

  ‘It fits.’ Cullen glanced at his phone and shook his head. ‘That message can be construed as an instruction. Wishart told us Boyle’s got previous as a vigilante. He’s then gone and assaulted Doug Ferguson, looked like he was trying to kill him.’

  ‘You think he’s taken Doug?’

  ‘His two mates are still at large, aren’t they? And we still don’t know where Stephanie is.’ Cullen got up and let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Wouldn’t be the first person who’s tried to pull the wool over our eyes.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Hunter thumbed over to the office door. ‘Given what Williams has just told us, I’d like to get back in there with Boyle.’

  ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’ Cullen gripped his shoulder tight, gave it a good matey squeeze. ‘Get yourself home, Craig. Back in at seven tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter hauled himself to his feet, felt like he was lifting a sack of tatties. ‘I’d like to—’

  ‘Craig, I’m really sorry about Yvonne, okay? I didn’t
know I’d done that.’ Cullen shook his head. Looked like it was aimed at himself, the disgust of discovering the deeds of your drunk Mr Hyde. ‘Especially not to a good mate. I thought we’d just drifted apart, like friends do.’

  ‘Accepted. See you tomorrow.’ Hunter bundled over to the door, rage twisting his gut, and went out into the corridor, his pace picking up as he put distance between himself and the reason for his failed engagement.

  Drifted apart… Like me and Angus. You don’t just drift apart… There’s always something behind it, some hidden misery.

  Shame on me for not confronting you about it. For keeping my misery hidden.

  Hunter opened the stair door and nearly bumped into Jain. Dark rings under her eyes, much darker than the rest of her skin. ‘Good night, Craig.’

  Hunter stopped and frowned. ‘Thought you might want to grab a drink?’

  ‘Sorry, but no.’

  The pit of Hunter’s stomach fell away. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s just … Not tonight.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Craig… Look, just back off.’

  Day 3

  Thursday

  13th August

  35

  Hunter dropped to his hands, then lay face down, panting hard. Pushed back up and stretched his aching body out. Tucked his knees under his chest and planted his feet on the carpet. Then kicked up to standing and stabbed the button on his phone, sitting on the bed next to him.

  ‘In ten seconds, do one burpee.’ The music blasted out of the speakers, the sort of tinny dance tune pissed-up squaddies went mental for.

  One. Last. Time.

  ‘Three, two, one.’

  Hunter dropped onto his hands, then to lying face first on the carpet again. Pushed, jumped upright, and stabbed the phone.

  ‘Congratulations, you’ve now completed the burpee pyramid. One hundred burpees in twenty-two minutes fifteen seconds.’

  Hunter collapsed onto his bed, sweat pouring off him in thick rivulets. He gulped tepid water, spilling half the glass down his chest.

  Why do I do this to myself? Can barely feel my knees, there’s so much ibuprofen in my system…