Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Hunter had totally lost his bearings. Again.

  Jock looked up from a sheet of paper. ‘This is the place.’ He slapped on the door and stepped back.

  Looked like a fisherman’s home, ‘Vennel Cottage’ stencilled in slate. Tall and narrow, and really old. ‘This is Murray’s Airbnb?’

  Jock looked at Hunter like he was simple. ‘Where did you think we were going?’ He thumped the knocker this time. ‘Well, there’s clearly nobody in, so we need to—’

  The door shot open and an obese man peered out, thin shoulders and face hidden by a neat beard, his colossal belly barely constrained by his T-shirt. ‘Can I help you, buddy?’ East Coast American accent.

  ‘Police, sir.’ Hunter stepped in front of his old man. ‘Looking for a Murray Hunter. He in?’

  ‘Randy?’ A woman appeared, flame-haired and about a foot shorter. Hunter couldn’t place her accent, though—could be English, could be American. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police, Dani.’ Randy focused on Hunter. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We believe a Murray Hunter was staying here.’

  ‘Might’ve been.’ Randy grabbed the inside door handle, looking ready to shut it in their faces. ‘But he’s not now. Sir, we’re tourists. Over from Philly, renting this place while we explore my ancestors’ homeland.’

  ‘What’s your full name, sir?’

  ‘Randy Jablonski. But my grandpappy was a Mowat, came from round these parts.’

  ‘De Monte Alto.’ Jock nodded. ‘First Sherriff of Cromarty when it became a royal burgh. Became the Mowats.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘The boy here’s mother was of that clan.’

  Hunter glanced at Jock, giving a snort of frustration. ‘You know where Mr Hunter might be?’

  ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’ Randy waved back up the street towards the road with the pub on it. ‘But the woman who manages this place lives just next to the Cromarty Arms. She might know.’

  The address was a symmetrical two-storey villa, two gables jutting out either side, the doors and window surrounds painted dark green.

  ‘Think they were at it?’ Jock stepped under the similarly green porch and pressed the buzzer, leering in the evening gloom. ‘Because if they were, the boy was punching above his considerable weight.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Got to lighten the mood somehow.’ Jock pressed the buzzer again. ‘Sure you should be pulling that police trick?’

  ‘Worked, didn’t it? Besides, I’m not exactly off duty. This is an official case.’

  ‘Think that boy would’ve told anyone anything just to get back to pumping—’

  ‘Hello?’ A wizened old woman squinted out of the right half of the door. ‘What you wanting?’

  Hunter folded his arms, keeping his warrant card in his pocket this time. ‘Do you own Vennel Cottage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t rent it out?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Hunter huffed out a sigh. Felt like he’d caught the habit off Scott Cullen, but he’d only seen him for ten minutes that morning. ‘So, which is it?’

  ‘I manage it for the owners. Gay couple. Live down in Glasgow.’ She spat out the city name like it was a swearword.

  Hunter smiled at her, the grin that he’d usually reserve for elderly witnesses. ‘I’m looking for a Murray Hunter. I believe he rented that cottage last week?’

  ‘That’s right, aye. Him and a pal. Pair of them left it in a right state.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She sneered at him. ‘Had to get a cleaner to tidy it up, came all the way over from Dingwall! That’s twenty miles! Cost me a pretty penny that I’ll never see again.’

  Hunter glanced at Jock and caught a bit of worry. ‘What kind of mess are we talking?’

  ‘Well, like someone had a few too many sherries and decided to wreck the place. Real rock star stuff, the TV was the only thing not smashed. A shocking state of affairs.’

  ‘You said there was a pair of them. Did they cause it?’

  ‘Didn’t catch the other guy’s name.’ She opened the door and stepped out, leaning in to whisper, ‘Were they lovers?’

  Jock started fizzing like the beer he’d downed at the hotel.

  Hunter shot him a shut-up glare, then smiled at the old woman again. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I just thought that, what with the owners being,’ she whispered again, ‘that way.’ She cleared her throat. ‘That there might be some sort of club I didn’t know about? I dunno. But there was this Russian chap asking about them.’

  ‘By name?’

  ‘Well, not in so many words.’

  ‘He was definitely Russian?’

  ‘I think so. Big lump he was too.’ She eyed Hunter. ‘Even bigger than you.’

  Jock frowned. ‘I’m taller than him!’

  ‘Aye, in your dreams.’

  Hunter flashed a smile. ‘Thanks for your time, ma’am.’

  She nodded. ‘Funniest thing, though, they left a load of stuff behind.’

  9

  A chandelier shone inside the antique shop, the twinkling lights crawling halfway across the dark pavement towards the damp road. Hunter couldn’t see anyone inside, but the sign hadn’t been flipped over to ‘closed’ yet.

  Hunter opened the door and entered the shop, the bells tinkling. The place smelled of dust and oil. A vintage radio played, just about revealing some classical music among the crackling. And nobody about.

  ‘Lovers.’ Jock was still fizzing, hands stuffed in his pockets, face screwed tight. Seemed more interested in the accusations against his son than in finding him. ‘What the hell did she mean by that?’

  ‘Come on, Jock.’ Hunter shook his head at him. ‘It’s not like Murray ever brought a girl home, was it? Oh, hang on. You were never around, were you?’

  ‘Craig, me and your mother, we…’ Jock picked up a small framed map and sniffed at the price. ‘You remember we got back together when you were in the army?’

  ‘Just like you should remember me not coming back to Porty for my leave that year.’

  ‘Right, aye. Well, Murray was at the university.’ A twinkle sparked in Jock’s eyes. ‘He brought this lassie home once, though. Tidy piece, she was. Can’t mind her name, though. Alison? Marion? Kim? I’d’ve smashed her back doors in, I tell you.’

  ‘And yet you can’t remember her name.’

  Jock started leafing through a box full of mounted maps, ready for framing. ‘Some nice things in here, son.’

  A clatter came from behind a half-open door.

  ‘Back in a sec.’ Hunter left Jock to his maps and looked out on a large back yard where a garden should’ve been. Mossy flagstones covered in junk: a Victorian swing set; wicker patio furniture; an eighties briquette barbecue; four of those gas patio heaters that were supposed to be illegal now. Another clatter came from a door to the right.

  Hunter eased his way through the junk.

  Inside the door, a bald man in tweeds perched on a cream milking stool, just his red-trousered legs visible below his belly. Looked every inch the vulture, but one dressed to the nines. He was sifting through a cardboard box with one hand, scribbling in a brown leather notebook with the other. He looked up at Hunter and beamed. ‘Good evening, sir. Let me know if you need anything.’ English accent, like his parents had spent big on his education. And he went back to his box.

  Hunter entered the room. The stink of acrid coffee. A sink sat underneath a window looking over the yard, the counter filled with coffee paraphernalia like the guy fancied himself as an upmarket barista. Bean grinder, filter machine, high-end espresso setup, and one of those press things Murray gave Hunter for his last birthday. He swallowed down the memory and cleared his throat. ‘Mary Donaldson said she gave you a box of—’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Tweed tapped a shiny brogue off the battered cardboard. ‘This very thing.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I mainly source my wares f
rom house clearances, but I sometimes take left-behind goods from guesthouses and what have you. It’s amazing how frequently people just up and leave.’

  ‘You manage to sell it all?’

  ‘Most of it I can’t, no, so it goes to various reputable charities in Inverness. But there’s usually something here that’ll—’ He stopped dead, frowning. ‘What are you looking for, exactly?’

  ‘My brother. Just want to check whether the stuff is his or not.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Mr Tweed winched himself up to standing, barely up to Hunter’s chest. ‘Well, by all means, have a look. Anything you don’t want or need, I’m more than happy to dispose of.’ He poured a cup of coffee into a mug adorned with ‘My Other Car’s A Bentley’. ‘Now, I’ll just be through in the shop.’ And he swaggered off, like he was doing something morally defensible.

  Hunter took his seat on the warm stool and peered into the box. Larger than he thought, the size to fit an old TV in before the days of lightweight flat panels. An Adidas sports bag looked like the best first place to check. He unzipped it—just clothes and toiletries, but they were packed in Murray fashion, all neat and tidy, strapped into the various compartments. Despite the general chaos in his life, he knew how to travel. Shirts, trousers and towels all rolled rather than folded, designer underwear tucked into a box, socks balled up, all tips fresh from the latest Marie Kondo book. He set the bag aside and dug into another, bigger, and filled with enough pasta and tinned goods to get through the first few weeks of the apocalypse. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then Hunter spotted his brother’s designer leather satchel. Could even remember buying it for him, torn back to the shop in Edinburgh’s West End, one that shut down a few years later. Hunter just wanted a birthday beer with his brother but, flush with demob money, he’d promised Murray anything in the shop. The leather was a bit worn and creased now, showing that Murray appreciated it.

  ‘Lovers.’ Jock was standing by the open door, hands still in his pockets, an expression like sour milk. ‘The cheek of the woman.’

  Hunter went back to the satchel. ‘I’ve found Murray’s stuff.’

  ‘Right.’ Jock went over to the coffee machine and helped himself. ‘Can you believe her?’

  ‘What would be so wrong about him being gay?’

  Jock didn’t answer. Either he didn’t have one, or didn’t want to consider his son’s sexuality any further than his outrage would allow.

  Hunter popped the catch and opened the satchel. A MacBook was tied up like a hostage, the power supply neatly coiled up next to it. A couple of paperback books on the Highlands padded it out, but no notebooks or anything that could tell them what the hell Murray was up to here. He liberated the laptop and flipped the lid, hit a few keys and yep, got a password screen. He huffed another sigh. ‘Any idea what Murray’s password could be?’

  Jock slurped coffee. ‘Like I’m privy to any of his deepest secrets.’

  Hunter tried HIGHLANDER and got nothing. Then lower case, then a few of the combinations he’d try himself. 1 instead of I. 3 instead of E. Nothing worked. If only getting into a laptop was as easy as in the films. Maybe Cullen could get that Dundonian guy back in Edinburgh to have a look? What was his name? Charlie something…

  ‘Anything else there?’

  Hunter looked it all over again. ‘Square root of bugger all.’ He tossed the clothes bag over. ‘Take this, I’ll grab the rest.’

  Jock looked inside the bag, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want to seem homophobic, Craig. It’s just…’ He put the bag over his shoulder, the strap pushing his man boobs apart. ‘Are you keeping any secrets from me?’

  ‘What?’ Hunter snarled. Then caught himself—that’d just feed the old sod’s paranoia. So he smiled. ‘No. Nothing big, anyway.’

  ‘It’s the…’ Jock sucked in a deep breath. ‘I don’t know, son.’

  ‘You really expect me or Murray to trust you?’

  ‘I just don’t like people keeping secrets, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re the expert.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Let’s speak to him.’ Hunter led Jock back through. The bag was heavy as hell.

  ‘Excuse me, but where do you think you’re going with that?’ The vulture shifted over to block the door, arms folded. ‘That’s my stuff!’

  ‘Correction, that’s my brother’s stuff. I’m claiming it back.’

  ‘Under whose authority?’

  Hunter dropped his bag and flipped out his warrant card. ‘Police Scotland.’

  ‘You should’ve told me when you came in, you know?’

  ‘And you shouldn’t be trying to sell my brother’s stuff.’

  ‘I’m an honest businessman.’

  ‘Selling dead men’s laptops.’

  ‘There’s a chap down in Inverness who can factory reset those Apple thingies. Can be quite lucrative.’ Tweed frowned. ‘Dead?’

  ‘That’s my working assumption, aye.’

  ‘You’re a murder detective?’

  Hunter gave him a truthful smile. ‘I am. Based in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  Jock handed him back the mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘I didn’t say you could have any.’

  ‘All the same, it’s lovely stuff. Where do you get your beans?’

  ‘Jock.’ Hunter shot a warning look as he held out his mobile showing a photo. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  A frown twitched across his forehead. ‘This is…?’

  ‘My brother. Murray.’

  ‘Good heavens. Well, he was here. Him and another chap. Spent a while looking at the maps. His friend was interested in the piano score. Didn’t buy anything, but such is the nature of the business.’

  ‘They say anything?’

  ‘To each other, yes. Constant jokes and comments and remarks about my shop. But I’m used to that.’

  ‘Listen to me, son.’ Jock got in the vulture’s face, towering over him. ‘That’s my boy’s stuff you’re hawking there.’

  ‘Please, I’m just trying to earn a living here!’

  ‘I should kick your arse for this.’

  And Hunter saw it. The telltale signs of Jock being hangry, seen so many times as a small kid, then sporadically as a teenager, then never since. Low blood sugar plus discovery of a secret his son had been keeping from him could only ever equal a paternal explosion and smashed crockery, unless Hunter got some calories in him.

  10

  ‘This is good.’ Jock chomped his ciabatta, the brie and bacon mixing into a mush in his open mouth. He took a sip of cola before he’d finished and swallowed down the unholy mixture. ‘I hear that pizza place by the harbour is beautiful. Hard to get a table, mind. This’ll be our tea, aye?’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter picked at his salad, down to the last chunk of marinated squash. Still wasn’t that hungry. ‘You feeling any better?’

  ‘Not really.’ Jock snapped a crisp and swallowed it down. ‘It’s just… Do you think you can come to me about anything?’

  ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you left us when we were kids. A few returns over the years. How the hell can we trust you after that?’

  Jock frowned, his lips twitching like he was ready to start smashing shit up, but he leaned over his plate instead. ‘Woman at your five o’clock keeps looking at you.’

  Hunter nodded, then ate his last bit of salad. Kept it calm, chewing away. Then loud: ‘Where’s the waitress? Could do with another cup of tea.’ He looked left, right, then behind him.

  The café had clearly been a pub at some point. A big bar ran the length of the room, but the hardwood was now painted baby blue, with bunting running along the top and into the corners.

  And the woman sitting at the next table was peering over. Dark hair streaked with grey, hanging around a cherubic face. Jeans, green T-shirt, Doc Martens. She locked eyes
with Hunter, then went back to her scone, slowly buttering the top half.

  Hunter waved over at the waitress who was thumping the buttons on the till. She gave him a frustrated nod, but didn’t shift, just kept hitting the cash register. So he looked back at Jock. ‘She’s definitely watching us.’

  ‘Why, though?’ Jock finished chewing. ‘What’s she after? Not another lassie after my bloody body.’ He spoke like it was a constant battle.

  ‘I think it’s more likely that she’s wondering who the strangers in her café are. It’s not exactly tourist season.’ Hunter stared at his plate, smeared with dark dressing, dotted with green oil. ‘But we need to focus on the fact the trail’s gone cold.’ He looked up and locked eyes with Jock. ‘But that isn’t the end. First, we now know Murray was here in town. Second, we know he wasn’t alone.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whether he’s gay or not doesn’t matter. Third, we don’t know who he was with, but we know Murray and whoever he was with left in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s hardly a lot to go on.’ Jock scoffed his last crisp. ‘Anything else?’

  Hunter finished his tea, now lukewarm but still drinkable, and stared into space. ‘It was just Murray’s stuff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was just Murray’s clothes, right?’ Hunter nudged the bags on the floor with his foot. ‘The food might be shared, but it’s all Murray’s clothes and laptop and stuff. Agreed?’

  Jock reached down and had another look. ‘Take your point, aye.’ He sat back and ran a hand across his face. ‘One thing about your brother is, he always wore the same clothes. Those hiking trousers, that brand of T-shirts. The plain ones. American something.’

  ‘Glad you agree.’ Hunter looked over at the waitress, still battering the till. Their observer had cleared off, leaving the bottom half of her scone and a fiver on the table. He caught the waitress’s eye and raised his tea cup. Got a nod and roll of the eyes, then focused back on Jock. ‘When Murray’s mate or boyfriend or whoever he is left, he took his own stuff but Murray’s ended up in that vulture’s clutches.’