Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Chantal tipped a pan of water into the sink and was engulfed in a cloud of steam, soon whizzed away by the extractor. ‘I’m cooking veggie bloody pasta for your brother and he’s not even bothered to turn up on time?’

  ‘He’s only an hour late.’

  ‘Only…’ She took a sip of wine and looked over at him. ‘Christ, Craig, you really don’t look good.’

  ‘Well, I feel ten times worse than I look.’

  Chantal took another slug of wine, the red almost matching her lipstick. ‘The only good thing that’s come out of this—the only good thing—is that Sharon got off worse than you.’

  ‘You going to tell me what happened in there?’

  She emptied her glass and splashed more in. ‘She said I was to stay and fix this mess. I pointed out to her that it was her fault Farrell got away. Or Kate from Edinburgh letting his cuffs go. She didn’t take it very well, so I told her I was done with her stupid team.’ She took a long sip without looking at him. ‘As of Monday, I’m reporting to Scott bloody Cullen.’

  ‘Wait, he’s a DI now?’

  ‘That’s the bit you’re focusing on?’

  ‘No, it’s… It’s a shock, that’s all.’

  She held up the bottle for Hunter, but he couldn’t be arsed to move. ‘Suit yourself.’ She sank another couple of fingers of wine. ‘Can you imagine what he’ll be like as a DI? I mean, he’s only Acting, but still… Sharon’s my best friend and I’ve worked for her on and off for seven years. We’ve put bad people away, again and again, and in the SO unit, I’ve delivered for her. And this is how she treats me? All the years we worked together.’ She aimed her glass at Muffin, now licking himself on the sofa arm like he was playing the cello, and some wine splashed onto the wooden floor. ‘We even split up Muffin and his brother to re-home them.’

  ‘You said Cullen’s only an Acting DI, right?’

  ‘Craig, get over it. Jesus.’

  ‘No, I mean that, if he doesn’t get it permanently, then maybe you’ll get a turn.’

  ‘Been there before. It didn’t end well.’

  Hunter sipped at his wine, slowly, so he didn’t have to move to get a top-up any time soon. Still managed to spill some down his shirt. His mouth was numb, like he’d had a filling removed and the dentist had frozen his mouth. ‘Look, come Monday morning, this’ll all be a distant dream. You’ll have DCI Methven moaning at you for—’

  ‘Bloody Crystal bloody Methven…’

  ‘And maybe Sharon will have apologised.’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned, she can take her apology and ram it up her sorry arse.’

  Hunter rested his glass on the coffee table and walked over into the kitchen. He wrapped an arm around Chantal and pulled her close. ‘Come on. I’ll text Murray and tell him to forget it, okay?’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Serve that up and I’ll pour some of that Châteauneuf-du-Pape he got us for Christmas. Then we can go out and get sufficiently drunk that we don’t remember any of this.’

  4

  St Leonards police station basked in the harsh morning sun, three storeys of L-shaped brick misery lining the corner of the road. Or maybe J-shaped. Either way, it was exactly the same as it had been the last time Hunter worked there five years ago. Three stations crammed inside one, the best bits of Edinburgh’s CID units merged into one dysfunctional team. Stale, tired, jaded. And way too busy. Or was that just Hunter?

  He looked over to Chantal in the passenger seat. ‘Still nothing?’

  She shifted her focus from the make-up mirror to glance at her mobile. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Your message definitely sent?’

  ‘Checked it seven times, Craig.’ She clipped her bag shut and stuffed it in the glovebox. ‘Have to say, I didn’t expect this.’ She shook her head. ‘Years and years of friendship and this is how it ends?’

  ‘She’ll get over it. You’ll see.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She gave a shrug. ‘But I won’t.’

  Hunter opened his door and stepped out into the bitter morning, dark and buffeted by Edinburgh’s famous wind. He looked across the car roof to Chantal, trying to psych himself up. ‘You ready for this?’

  ‘No, but since when has that stopped me?’

  Their new office space was empty, just a loud voice booming out of an office to the side. DI Colin Methven shouting into a phone by the sounds of it. A laser printer spewed out pages and pages of some stupid report, the toner ozone smell mixing with burnt coffee from the filter machine.

  Hunter found his desk. At least, the triangular name badge resting on top of the monitor read Craig Hunter, but someone had scored it out and written ‘CUCK’. Charming. He picked it up and dropped it in the recycling. ‘This place never changes.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ Chantal found her desk behind a row of filing cabinets. She held up a handwritten sign earmarking the area for ‘The Dashing White Sergeants’. ‘Really?’

  ‘Think they’ll be happy with a foxy brown sergeant?’

  She actually laughed at that.

  Hunter joined in, but the searing pain in his head stopped him. Made his eyes water.

  ‘Craig?’ Acting DI Scott Cullen struggled through the stairwell door, clutching two coffee cups. Idiot had clearly never heard of the concept of drinks holders. New dark-grey suit, though, bright orange tie, designer stubble. Every inch the detective sergeant pretending he was a detective inspector. He rested a cup on Hunter’s new desk and held out a hand. Then his eyes bulged. ‘Christ, what happened to you?’

  ‘Should see the other guy.’ Chantal strolled over to join him and did the old cheek kiss dance. ‘I’d like to say it’s nice seeing you, Scott, but I can’t believe we’re back dealing with this shite again.’

  ‘This shite is my life.’

  ‘Well, if it smells of shite and tastes like shite…’

  Cullen sucked coffee through the lid. ‘I’d have got you one, but Crystal didn’t mention you were starting today.’

  ‘Figures.’ Chantal frowned over at the office, Methven’s drone still booming out. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘That’s not my story to tell.’ Cullen tapped Hunter on the arm. ‘Need a quick word, though.’

  Hunter flicked his eyebrows at Chantal and got a grin. ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, when I heard we were getting new recruits, I was surprised it was you two. I thought you were doing well over there.’ Cullen paused to take a drink. ‘Sharon up to her old tricks again, eh?’

  Chantal folded her arms. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘No easy way to say this, but I need to lay down the law about you two working together. It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘You say that like we—’

  ‘Chantal, you need to remember that you report to me, okay? You and Craig can only be in the same room on the same case with my express permission.’

  ‘You sound more and more like Methven every day.’

  ‘Enough backchat. Please.’ Cullen smiled at her. ‘Now, do we have an understanding?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Craig?’ But Cullen kept his gaze on her.

  ‘Who am I reporting to?’

  Now Cullen looked over, but he struggled to maintain eye contact. ‘DS Bain.’

  ‘Oh for…’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Right.’

  ‘Craig, know you’ve had your difficulties—’

  ‘Aye, and you haven’t?’

  ‘Look, I can only play the cards I’m dealt.’ Cullen gave a firm nod. ‘Come on.’ He led them over to the office.

  DCI Colin Methven stood behind his desk, his ultra-marathon runner physique leaning forward like he was stretching. His wild eyebrows sprouted everywhere. A phone headset was clamped to his scalp and he was shouting down the line, like he didn’t trust the copper wires to transmit his signal. ‘We’ll be up there as soon as I can manage, Carolyn. Please use DCs Gordon and Buxton as an advance party until I can get my A-team up the A90 to Perth.’ He laughed. ‘No, it was an accident. It’s
actually the M90 after the bridge, isn’t it?’ He pointed at them to sit at his table and chairs, laughing away.

  Cullen sat facing away from Methven, shaking his head as he drank coffee.

  ‘Okay, later.’ Methven tore off his headset and tossed it on his desk. ‘I swear, at least half this job is sending smoke signals up to their radar.’

  Hunter stifled a laugh as he sat next to Chantal. Still got a good medium-sized kick in the shins.

  ‘Thanks, Inspector.’ Methven eased off his coffee lid and sipped at the milky froth, covering his top lip, and cast his gaze over his two new recruits. ‘Thanks for coming in.’ He wiped it clear. ‘Normally we’d have a briefing where you could introduce yourselves to the wider team, who you probably already know, but I’m afraid that we’ve caught a case up in Perth. The Dundee MIT are swamped with a series of murders on the Angus coast, so we’ve been instructed by the high-heid yins to take this on with some uniform support to provide local colour. Hence my team being in a convoy up the M90.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘Actually, some of them are on the train.’

  Hunter looked over at Chantal, then Cullen. ‘What’s the case, sir?’

  ‘One Alistair McCoull.’ Methven tossed a set of crime scene photos onto his desk. The kind you didn’t really want to look at for any longer than you had to. ‘Shot six times, gangland-style. An execution, we believe. Something very out of the ordinary for Perth.’

  Chantal nodded slowly. ‘What do you want us to do, sir?’

  ‘First, I need you to head home and get packed, Sergeant. Enough for a week. But,’ Methven held up a finger as he slurped more coffee, ‘I need to clear the air with you first.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I’ve had a word with DI McNeill vis-a-vis the Farrell case.’

  Chantal’s nostrils twitched, but she kept her peace.

  ‘Just so we’re abundantly clear, I will keep the pair of you separate. And I don’t like liars.’

  Chantal sat back, expression unreadable. ‘Is that supposed to mean something, sir?’

  ‘Just that I need you to be upfront about your relationship, okay?’

  ‘Do you want me to list our favourite positions? I’m into the wheelbarrow, whereas Craig’s all about Violet’s Train Trip.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Come on, sir.’ Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘Craig and I are banging each other’s brains out and so long as he doesn’t report to me, everything’s cool. Right?’

  Methven stared hard at her for a few seconds. ‘I’ve spoken with DI McNeill and I know she wanted to keep you over there, sergeant, but you decided not to accept that offer? Well, as much as splitting you two up would be an apt punishment in her book, I have no choice. I’m desperate for resources and you’re both excellent officers. But you will not be working together, am I clear? On this case, you’ll be assigned very different roles and any discussions pertaining to it must occur in the presence of DI Cullen or myself. Am I clear?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘Very well. Obey the rules and everything will be fan dabi dozi.’ He finished his coffee and crumpled the cup as he stood. ‘Now, please pack and I shall see you both up in Perth.’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t have said that.’ Hunter crouched before opening the flat door. Just like every single time, Bubble charged at him. He grabbed her and picked her up into a cuddle, her purr strobing against his neck. ‘Come here, you.’ He took her through to the living room, keeping his eyes trained on Muffin as Chantal shut the flat door. ‘Methven’s hardly notorious for having a sense of humour.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And what the hell is “Violet’s Train Trip”?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Chantal went through to the bedroom and started thumping around through there.

  Hunter put Bubble down and joined her. Matching his-and-hers suitcases lay on the bed, padded black monstrosities with swivel wheels, big enough to fit both of them in. Not that it was either of their kink. ‘You should maybe have—’ His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. The time for the joke had passed and he couldn’t really remember what it was going to be. So he sat on the bed. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  She opened her underwear drawer and paused. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  Chantal grabbed a handful of knickers and stuffed them into her case. ‘They’re treating us like rows on a spreadsheet.’ She stuffed in a pile of socks. ‘We’re people, Craig. We have feelings and career aspirations and…’ She grabbed five blouses from her wardrobe, huffed out a breath, then folded them in one and stuffed them in her case.

  More throbbing from Hunter’s phone. He got it out and checked—a stack of email notifications. Great. He put it down and opened his underwear drawer. ‘Oh pish.’

  Chantal was comparing two pairs of trousers. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve no clean pants.’

  ‘Christ, Craig. I thought squaddies were supposed to be on top of this stuff?’

  ‘I am. Was. But these meds… You know what they do.’

  ‘Right, right.’ She stared hard at him. ‘We’ll stop at Markies at the Gyle on the way.’ She dumped both pairs of trousers in the case and jabbed a finger at him. ‘But you’re explaining to Crystal why we’re late, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Hunter sat on the edge of the bed and got out his phone. He scanned through his inbox. PlayStation Store adverts, Kindle Daily Deal, his fitness app reminding him he hadn’t worked out since Friday and at the top, an email from Murray Hunter.

  Hunter let out a groan. The subject was ‘Dead Man’s Switch.’

  What the hell? Heart thumping, he tapped it. Below was a ton of links, blue and underlined.

  Craigy boy,

  If I don’t check in after a week, this email gets sent out automatically. You’re receiving this because I’ve popped my clogs. Carked it. Left this mortal coil. Met my maker. I am an ex-Hunter.

  I’m dead.

  I have died.

  They don’t want this information to get out. Whoever they might be.

  I’m either dead—in which case, avenge me—or I soon bloody will be—in which case, come get me.

  I’m counting on you, bro. Send it all out. Fuck them all hard in every orifice.

  And remember Dalriada.

  * * *

  Peace and love,

  Murray

  5

  Hunter jolted to his feet and read the message again. Tried taking it slow, but he just kept skimming the words.

  It couldn’t be right. Murray couldn’t be dead. Could he?

  But ‘remember Dalriada’. The seaside pub in Portobello where Hunter bought Murray his first legal pint.

  Assuming it was genuine, there could be any number of reasons it got triggered. Could’ve lost his phone and been ill somewhere abroad. Like three years ago in the Himalayas, when he was missing for two weeks and he’d just left his charger at his hotel before going on a massive hike, on his own. Or when there was no reception in Chile.

  But in neither case was that message sent.

  ‘What’s up?’ Chantal was holding a suit jacket over her case. ‘You okay, Craig?’

  Hunter didn’t know. He passed her his phone and watched her read it, his fingers twitching. He couldn’t escape the feeling that something really bad was going on.

  Not that Murray wasn’t one to joke, especially at his older brother’s expense. But that message meant something happened last Monday, which explained him not showing up on Friday night. Explained the radio silence all weekend.

  Chantal looked up at him, her forehead creasing. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘You know what a dead man’s switch is, right?’

  ‘Like when someone’s wearing a bomb vest.’ Chantal passed his phone back. ‘They hold down the trigger all the time, so when the police shoot the wearer it releases and explodes.’

  ‘Exactly. But this is like the bomb is an email.’ Hunter checked the long list of hyperlink
s. His mouth was dry and he had to swallow. ‘He can’t be dead, can he?’

  Chantal nodded at the mobile. ‘Christ’s sake, Craig! Phone him!’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter hit dial and put it on speaker, his heart thudding in his temples.

  Chantal glared at his mobile, like she could force Murray to answer the call. ‘When did you last hear from him?’

  ‘Couple of weeks ago. When we arranged dinner.’

  ‘Nothing since?’

  ‘Nope.’

  It immediately hit voicemail.

  Hunter ended the call and immediately redialled. Still nothing. He looked through the texts from Murray—nothing from his brother since two weeks earlier, just a few unanswered messages from Hunter, jokes and funny thoughts, the kind Murray would respond to maybe half the time. Same story with the emails, funny forwards and articles. But nothing in reply. Usually, that was fine and he wouldn’t think twice about it. But with this message?

  He dialled a Portobello number and listened to it ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, out of breath. In the background, a washing machine rattled through its spin cycle.

  ‘Mum, it’s Craig.’

  ‘What’s up, son?’

  ‘Just wondering if you’d heard from my idiot brother?’ His voice was shaking.

  ‘Murray? Not for a couple of weeks. He said he might pop in next week. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. He was supposed to come to dinner on Friday but didn’t show up.’

  ‘Sounds like your brother.’

  ‘You… You had any emails from him?’

  ‘He only texts me, son. Sorry. And my email is broken.’

  ‘How can…’ Hunter sighed, knowing not to argue with his mother. ‘Well, if you speak to him, tell him I’m waiting for an apology.’

  ‘Will do. Bye.’

  Hunter clutched his phone, hoping it’d light up with a call from Murray any second now, and gripped his knees, still sitting on the bed. ‘I need to go and see him. Murray’s down in the Borders and Perth’s completely the wrong direction. You head to Perth, I’ll—’