Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘No, I want to come with you. It’ll be just an extra hour, okay? I’ve booked a cat sitter. We’ll go down, find him, read the fucking riot act to him, then drive up to Perth.’

  The road ahead blurred and Hunter struggled to keep his focus on it. He glanced over at Chantal behind the wheel, then back at Murray’s email. None of the links gave any clue as to what happened to him, just a load of tinfoil-hat-wearing nonsense. Conspiracy theories, if they were even that fully formed. Confused ramblings. Paranoia.

  Christ, Murray’d been getting further and further down the rabbit hole and Hunter hadn’t noticed.

  ‘You’re muttering, Craig.’ Chantal slowed as they entered a small town, then took the first right, heading up a hill. ‘Something about tinfoil?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hunter shut his sore eyes for a few seconds. ‘You know those American nutters who think they can block the CIA’s mind control rays with hats made of tinfoil? That’s a tinfoil hat wearer.’

  ‘Murray’s one of them?’

  ‘I mean, he doesn’t literally wear one. It’s a figure of speech. But they’re not all American and it’s not just the CIA. And it’s not just tinfoil. Or hats.’ Hunter stared down at the footwell, still smeared with dried mud from their Sunday hike up in the Pentlands. No time or inclination to clean it.

  ‘You okay, Craig?’

  ‘Not really.’ Hunter looked over at her. The rugged landscape rolled past, giant round hills covered in nothing but sheep and grass. Perfect hiking country. Dry-stone dykes marked out fields in arbitrary divisions, up and over the hilltops. Stone cairns claimed three peaks, dual tracks linking them. ‘Next right.’

  Chantal started indicating way too early.

  Through a thick wood, Hunter caught a glimpse of Murray’s sprawling estate. An off-white house surrounded by four fields, two filled with trees. In the main one, a ragtag bunch of hens pecked the ground next to a stable. Murray’s rooster, a big boy called Zlatan, darted across the grass to jump on one of them. A couple of seconds of wriggling and he jumped off again, strutting around.

  Chantal ploughed on down the road. ‘Still jealous of his house?’

  ‘Hard not to be.’

  ‘Guy might have all that money, but he’s living alone.’ Chantal took the corner way too fast and turned into Murray’s drive, crunching over the pebbles. She killed the engine and the car rattled to a halt. A shiny old VW sat in the carport next to the two-storey garage. ‘That his car?’

  ‘Don’t know. He changes it every six months.’

  Chantal’s phone rang and she sighed. ‘Cullen.’

  Hunter got out and walked over to the large modern house.

  Someone inside. Cooking smells, fried eggs too. Movement in the bay window the other side of the front door.

  Hunter’s heart was thudding, but he felt a surge of relief. Murray was alive. Right?

  He hit the doorbell, one of those fancy internet ones, and an ascending chime sounded inside.

  Chantal joined Hunter by the door, cupping her hands and looking through the kitchen window. ‘Cullen said we’ve got an hour to sort this out, then we’ve got to head to Perth, okay?’

  The door clattered open.

  ‘Murray, what the—’

  ‘Craig?’ A man peered out into the morning gloom, his hair jet black despite his craggy face. Fooling nobody with that dye job. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘STOP!’ A big, meaty hand blocks me getting inside. It’s Daddy and he’s looking angry. Blinking at me, like he sees two of me.

  Hunter tried to centre himself again, fighting against the flashback to his childhood. The PTSD, but his meds could only do so much. Felt like an army of snakes were crawling up Hunter’s back. ‘Looking for my brother.’

  ‘Murray?’

  Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘Have I got another one?’

  ‘You tell me. Quite the lad back in the day, wasn’t I?’ He jolted round, head tilted to the side and aimed a grin at Chantal. ‘Jock Hunter, pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Chantal Jain.’ She shook it with a frown.

  ‘I’m Craig’s old man. Sure he’s told you all about me.’ Jock opened the door wide. ‘Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.’

  Hunter took one look at Chantal’s frosty glare and followed his father inside.

  Jock turned into the kitchen, a large room with lemon-yellow units on two walls and a giant kitchen table in the middle, surrounded by a sea of wooden flooring. He filled the kettle from the sink and stuck it on to boil. ‘Back in a sec.’ He slipped off towards the utility room.

  Hunter grabbed his arm. ‘I need you to—’

  ‘And I need to drain the lizard, son.’ Jock slipped out of his grasp and seconds later the bathroom fan started humming.

  Chantal was over in the bay window, looking out across to the distant hills. ‘You told me your dad was dead.’

  ‘I wish he was.’ Hunter looked through to the utility room to the source of the whistling and splashing. ‘He left us when I was nine. Murray was six.’ He let air slowly out of his nostrils. ‘Kept slipping in and out of our lives, not really wanting anything to do with us until Murray got successful.’

  The kettle rumbled to a boil.

  ‘Still, you should’ve told me, Craig.’

  Hunter walked over and started rooting around in the cupboard. He found some teabags in a copper tin and dropped them in the grey teapot, followed by the hot water. ‘Sorry. I should’ve.’ He clattered some mugs off a mug tree onto the countertop. ‘I hate even thinking about him. Makes my flesh crawl.’

  The toilet flushed and Jock came through, drying his hands on his trousers. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Well, for starters, I’m wondering what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Your brother asked me to look after his hens.’ Jock opened the fridge, rammed with beer and ready meals. ‘Let them out first thing, put them away last thing, keep foxy-foxy away from them, all that shite.’

  Hunter poured the tea into three cups. ‘Having a wee bit of accommodation difficulty?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Jock glanced at his son, then Chantal. ‘How do you take it?’

  She gave him a tight smile. ‘Just milk.’

  Jock splashed milk into two of the mugs and passed Hunter his tea. ‘Are you his bidie-in?’

  ‘We’ve been living together over a year.’ Hunter blew on the dark-brown surface of his tea. Nowhere near enough milk. He took a sip. Burning hot and weak as hell. ‘So where is Murray?’

  Jock walked over to the window and rested his cup on the sill. Staring out, head bowed. ‘Up north somewhere, doing some new video thing.’

  ‘When did he go?’

  Jock took a sip and gasped. Just like he did every single time. ‘At least a week, why?’

  ‘You heard from him since?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Not even to check the fox hasn’t eaten his hens?’ Hunter sighed. ‘Look, has he sent you an email?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Not had the time to check. Had to take a hen to the vet this morning. Poor thing was ill. Didn’t survive. I’ll plant a tree over her later.’

  ‘Murray cool with that?’

  ‘Happens a lot, he reckons. Best to put them out of their misery as soon as you can, then bury them. Great fertiliser, apparently.’

  Hunter got out his phone. ‘I got this from him this morning.’ He showed his father the message.

  Jock took a glug of tea and grimaced. ‘Ah, shite.’ He sat at the head of the table and woke up a laptop that looked steam-powered. ‘Let me see.’ He finished his tea and rested the mug on the wood, frowning. ‘That’s bloody weird.’

  Hunter looked over Jock’s shoulder. His inbox was out of control, just like everything else in his life. 4,235 unread messages. But one was open and Jock was reading it. The subject was ‘Dead Man’s Switch’.

  6

  ‘Scott, mate, I’m sorry.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the mus
hroom-coloured sofa, clutching his phone tight. ‘But I’m worried about him.’

  Cullen sighed down the line. ‘Your bloody brother, eh?’

  A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Mum’s old retirement thing, out of place in the spare minimalism of the rest of Murray’s living room. She wasn’t even dead and yet she’d given it to him.

  ‘My bloody brother.’ Hunter looked over at Chantal in the doorway, on a call too. ‘My dad got the same message.’

  ‘And your old boy… Is he still…?’

  ‘A pisshead? Leopards never change their liver spots.’ Hunter got up and started pacing the room. A male pheasant strutted on the front lawn. ‘I forwarded the email to you. Dead man’s switch.’

  ‘And I’m looking at it now. Think he could be winding you up?’

  ‘Doubt it.’ Hunter’s forehead twitched. ‘He’d want to see our reactions.’

  ‘See your point, but not sure I buy it. You been through any of this stuff?’

  ‘Glanced at it. Looks bonkers conspiracy stuff.’

  ‘Not the sort of shite he’d usually put on his YouTube channel?’

  ‘That’s all about urbexing, Scott.’

  ‘Minor celebrity, eh? Must be making a decent bit of money.’

  ‘Living like a king.’ Hunter looked around the room, at the massive flat-panel TV, the minimal soundbar nestling in front of it, the stack of games consoles underneath. Such an empty life. ‘He’s made a packet from YouTube videos, him urbexing in various stupid places, and fair enough. I don’t begrudge anyone their success. He’s worked hard. But this conspiracy stuff, Scott… It’s all lies. It isn’t healthy.’

  Sounded like Cullen was hitting a keyboard. ‘I’ve checked the PNC and can’t find him being reported missing. There’s going to be a ton of John Does at hospitals and so on. I talked to Al Buchan about this, and it’s now logged on the system. But there’s a report of a MisPer by the name of Murray Hunter in the Highlands.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘A PC David Robertson’s been allocated the case. Based in Inverness. Technically, you’re supporting him, so play nice. I’ve texted you his number.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all we can do, Craig.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter hauled himself to his feet. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘Come on, mate. My hands are tied. If he’s dead and we’ve got a body, it’s a completely different matter. But there could be any number of reasons behind this. Didn’t he—’

  ‘You mind if I take some time out?’

  Cullen sighed. ‘Look, I’m heading up to Perth as soon as Methven finishes speaking to every single senior officer in Police Scotland… Every phone call, you think “that’s it, here we go”, but no, there’s another one and they want a different set of stats and I’ve got to pull them together for him. We should be investigating this murder, not—’ He sighed again. ‘Look, I wish I could help, but I’m up against it here.’

  ‘I get that. But this is my brother, Scott. Just a couple of days.’

  Cullen blew air down the line. ‘Right. Today, then we’ll see how it’s looking. And I need Chantal in Perth. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Call me at the end of the day. And keep it from Methven, okay?’

  ‘Cool. Will do. Thanks. I appreciate it, mate.’

  ‘Take care of yourself. And I hope you find him.’

  ‘Cheers, Scott.’ Hunter killed the call and opened Cullen’s text, tapping on the number and putting the phone to his ear. 01463, meaning he was based in Inverness. Why the hell was Murray up there?

  ‘Hi, you’ve reached PC David Robertson. I’m working night shift this week, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

  Hunter waited for the beep. ‘Hi, this is DC Craig Hunter, based out of Ba—’ He had to catch himself. ‘Out of the Edinburgh MIT. I’m looking into the disappearance of my brother, Murray Hunter. Just wondering if you could give me a call when you get a minute.’ He left his number. ‘Cheers.’ He ended the call and pocketed his phone.

  Chantal was sitting on the sofa, tossing her mobile in her hands. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a MisPer up in the Highlands, matching Murray’s name. Probably nothing, but you never know.’ Hunter took a deep breath, just the faintest hint of nerves in there. ‘Scott gave me the rest of the day, but I think I could string it out.’ He held her hand. ‘He wants you up in Perth ASAP.’

  ‘And I want to help.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m still clinging to this being my brother winding us up. You head off and I’ll see what I can find here.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Listen, I’m worried what Murray’s got himself into. And I’m sorry about not telling you about…’ Hunter thumbed at the hallway, and the atonal whistling coming from the kitchen. ‘About him.’ That same skin-crawling sensation slithered over him. ‘I’m not trying to keep anything from you, it’s just… I cope by compartmentalising him. Sticking him in this little box in my head that I never, ever open.’

  ‘Craig, you know you’ve got to stop bottling up your feelings, right? Your PTSD is under control because you’ve talked about stuff.’

  ‘And the elephant sedatives I’m taking.’ Hunter scratched at his neck. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’

  ‘Is there another reason you’ve never mentioned him?’

  Hunter nodded. ‘My old man’s always up to greasy shite, Chantal. Scams. Nothing major, nothing too illegal. He’s a trained mechanic, so he could always get work wherever he roamed. But there was always a whiff of shonky about all of it. It’s why I pretended to myself that he was dead. Helped me cope with the prospect of him actually being up to any really dodgy shite. Helped me become a cop.’

  ‘And you left him off your application form?’

  ‘Nah, must be he just never did anything bad enough to be caught.’

  ‘I just wish you’d told me, that’s all.’ Chantal kissed his cheek and got up. ‘Let me know if you find anything, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She gave him one last look and walked into the hallway. ‘Nice to meet you, Jock.’ She left the house and her footsteps crunched over to her car. To their car.

  Hunter got to his feet and stretched out. Chantal reversed out of the drive and spun off away from him, towards a murder case in Perth. He took a deep breath and headed through to face Jock, walking in to the smell of really, really nice coffee.

  ‘Some left in the cafetière.’ Jock was at the table, sipping from a giant Hearts FC mug, two piles of paper in front of him. ‘That your bird heading off?’

  Hunter helped himself to a cup, having to make do with a Scotland mug. Huge struggle to avoid throwing it on the old caveman. ‘She’s not—’

  ‘She’s not your bird?’

  ‘No, she is. Just don’t call her that. It’s sexist.’

  Jock grunted. Sounded like he said ‘snowflake’. He slurped at his coffee. ‘Right, so it’s just you and me, then. She always that prickly?’

  ‘Only to pricks. We’re kind of going through some shite at work. You getting anywhere?’

  ‘Hope your brother doesn’t mind me printing off all this stuff.’ Jock squinted at a sheet then put it in a pile. ‘You always know where you are with paper.’

  Hunter started looking through Jock’s discarded pages. More of Murray’s confused ramblings from the emails that Hunter had already looked at. Notes typed in bullet points, filled with comments to himself.

  Six pages of “evidence” of a nuclear war between the Aztecs and the Romans in 350 ad, creating a Dark Ages which were two hundred years longer than otherwise known.

  An article connecting vaccines with HIV.

  Proof the Earth was flat.

  If his intention was to get the truth out there, it’d be impossible to publish this lot without a shitload of work and, even then, what would it achieve? Besides, it was all complete bullshit.

  Hunter looked over a
t Jock. Hard to believe he was in the same room as the old bastard. ‘You found anything related to the Highlands?’

  ‘The Highlands?’ Jock was reading something. ‘No. Why, should I?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Be straight with me, Craig. Do you think something’s happened to Murray?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m sufficiently worried something has happened to him to be sitting here with you.’

  Jock slurped at his coffee, oblivious to yet another barb. ‘I’ve got two lovely laddies and that’s how I’d like it to stay. But I’ve found the square root of bugger all here. This is all mad stuff. I mean, people believe that shite about vaccines?’

  ‘Sadly. But you didn’t pick up on the nuclear war between—’

  ‘There’s probably something in that, son.’ Jock touched his pile. ‘This one’s all of his…’ A frown. ‘What do you call it again?’

  ‘Urbexing. Means urban exploring.’

  ‘That’s it. Got some stuff about an old loony bin in the Borders. There’s stuff about a place over near Fort William. And this is an old cinema in the Californian desert. Didn’t know Joshua Tree was a town, just thought it was that Simple Minds album.’

  ‘It’s U2.’

  ‘What? Of course it was Simple bloody Minds, Craig. You were a laddie when it came out.’

  Hunter’s head hurt too much to argue. ‘Is he over there?’ He knew he was clutching at straws, but anything to prove Murray wasn’t in the Highlands…

  ‘He wasn’t flying, I remember that much. Kid’s got one of them electrical cars now. Cost a bomb.’

  ‘Okay, but where was he going?’

  Jock clicked his fingers. ‘The Highlands.’

  It hit Hunter in the gut. ‘I asked you if—’

  ‘No, you asked if any of this shite related to the Highlands.’

  Hunter took a sip of coffee to cover his anger. Full-bodied with a caramel finish. ‘Do you know where in the Highlands?’

  Jock frowned. ‘Can’t mind.’

  ‘How the hell can you not remember where?’

  ‘Craig, this isn’t my fault. The boy’s just disappeared in a puff of smoke.’