by Ed James
‘That prick. Selling my boy’s stuff. It’s disgusting.’
‘Let it go. We know Murray was here. That’s something, right? We need to find whoever he was with.’
The waitress sloped over with a fresh pot of tea for Hunter. ‘Need more milk?’
‘Please, but I need to ask you something.’ Hunter picked up his phone and showed her a photo of his brother, caught on a crisp Borders morning with blue skies and red hens swarming round him. ‘You recognise this guy?’
The waitress’s eyes darted over to the door, then back at him, all narrow. ‘You police or something?’
‘If I said no, you wouldn’t believe me. Right?’ Hunter reached into his coat pocket for his warrant card and showed it. ‘It’s a missing person’s case, so if—’
‘He came in for breakfast a couple of times.’ Eyes back at the door. ‘Seemed very focused, working on laptops.’
‘Laptops plural?’
‘Yeah, pair of them. Two laddies. Get a lot of writers in here. Order a coffee and nurse it for hours.’ She walked off.
Jock slid his plate to the side. ‘You think that’ll give us anything?’
‘Not sure.’
A jug of milk snapped onto the table in front of Hunter. The waitress picked up Jock’s plate and frowned. ‘I did see them in the pub too.’
Hunter stepped through the door and sucked in every detail of the pub. Just after seven and pretty busy. A pair of old-timers sat at the bar, staring into their beer, just like in the hotel bar. Hunter couldn’t tell if they were the same men. Next to them, two female office workers were trying to order. The nearest table had four women, mid-thirties, a bottle of white in a chiller between them. A red-haired woman in a suit gave Hunter the up-and-down, then went back to laughing. A man with short dark hair sat in the window, hammering his laptop’s keyboard like it’d insulted him.
Jock sidled up to the bar, an alpha male in his natural habitat, grabbing the barman’s full attention despite the strong competition. ‘Pint of the Rogue Wave, cheers.’ He turned to the side. ‘Craig?’
Hunter followed him over and checked the pumps. He groaned as the barman poured Jock’s order. ‘Dad, that’s a bit strong.’
‘Saying I can’t handle a five point seven percent IPA?’
More like Hunter couldn’t handle him when he was shit-faced. ‘It’s not the strength of one pint, it’s the strength over ten or twelve.’
‘Take a hold of yourself, son. It’s hardly Special Brew!’
Hunter held his gaze. ‘Get me a Happy Chappy.’
‘You heard the man.’
The barman gave the nod of a consummate professional, then poured from a separate tap as Jock’s wreck-the-hoose juice settled.
Hunter eased his phone out of his pocket and showed it to the barman. ‘You recognise this guy?’
The barman didn’t take much of a look, just stayed focused on the beer. ‘He was in with a mate. Last week.’ He started topping up Jock’s pint. ‘Oh aye.’ He slid the glass over and finally made eye contact. ‘Got a bit ripped one night. Started upsetting the natives.’
Hope was surging in Hunter’s gut. ‘Which night?’
‘Be a week past Sunday. I almost had to turf them out but they left before I started threatening them with physical violence as opposed to ocular.’ As if to emphasise his point, he narrowed his eyes at them.
Sunday would fit the timeline for the dead man’s switch. One week would be this morning, assuming Murray had checked in a week ago.
‘Who was he with?’
‘A man. Medium height, soul patch.’ He tickled just below his lips. ‘Pair of them were off their faces on that ale I’ve just poured for your old man there.’
Hunter braced himself against the bar. ‘Were they speaking to anyone?’
‘Who weren’t they speaking to?’ The barman rolled his eyes. ‘Chatted to everyone. Absolute pish, too. Drunken nonsense. Pair of clowns.’ He passed Hunter his beer. ‘That’s a lovely ale, pal. Good choice.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter took a sip. Tangy and hoppy as fuck. Perfect. ‘You speak to them?’
‘Weren’t interested in anything I had to say, other than how much their round cost. Tried to suggest they lay off the strong stuff, but they wouldn’t be told.’
‘Speak to anyone who’s in here just now?’
The barman didn’t even look. ‘Nope.’
Hunter handed over a tenner, not expecting any change. ‘What about anybody not currently here?’
The barman went over to the till. ‘That bloody idiot Fiona was chatting to them.’
‘Who’s Fiona?’
‘Kid’s bad news, not that she’s a kid anymore.’ The barman returned, his nostrils flaring, and passed over two shiny pound coins. ‘No idea what they were talking about.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter took his beer over to an empty table, one with a good view of the door and the quiet street outside. He sat and caught the woman looking at him again, then she went back to her pals, tossing her hair like she knew someone was watching her. ‘Apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, did it?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘My brother sure liked a drink.’
‘Still does, hopefully.’ Jock sucked down a sip, covering his top lip with foam. ‘Oh, that’s gorgeous.’ He passed it to his son. ‘Try it.’
‘I’m fine.’
Jock held it in his face. ‘Go on!’
The door opened and the woman from the café stepped in. She ran a hand through her hair, her gaze shooting round the room, finally settling on Hunter.
Hunter looked over at the barman and got a narrow-eyed nod. Fiona.
‘You’re barred! Get out!’
‘Aye, I’m fucking off.’ Fiona walked back out again.
Hunter pushed up to standing and set off. ‘Stay here, Dad.’
11
Fiona was a hundred metres or so away, head low and walking with great purpose. She took a left down towards the shore.
Hunter braced himself against the bitter wind, laden with tangy sea rain. The houses he passed were mostly dark and quiet. Probably holiday homes, or commuters from Inverness who hadn’t returned yet. The house on the corner glowed, a family crowded round a television like in some advert.
Along the curve of the coast, the promenade’s lights swayed in the breeze. A squat wall separated the shingle beach from the road and its parked cars, the waves hissing over the pebbles. Across the firth, industry rumbled, bright lights and cranes arcing slowly.
No sign of Fiona.
Up ahead, someone passed under a streetlight.
Hunter sped up and followed on the opposite side, using the parked cars as cover, but he soon lost Fiona as the street bent round. He came to a junction, the coast road merging with another that headed out of town, guided by a tall stone wall. The old brewery over the way was bright, the sounds of a ceilidh band inside—the solid thump of drums and bass accompanying a fiddle, clumping feet almost matching the rhythm. Another stone wall sat at the end of the street leading back to the heart of the town, opposite two old houses lurking in the darkness.
A short woman stood, talking to someone just out of sight. Hunter could make some words out over the music. ‘You’re a good lassie, Fiona Shearer. I’ll see you later.’ She walked towards Hunter, crossed over and headed into the old brewery, letting the clatter of the ceilidh out. Didn’t look like she had her dancing trousers on, but then what was going on inside wasn’t exactly dancing.
Up ahead, Fiona powered on, back towards the pub.
Hunter walked faster now, narrowing the gap with each long stride. The street was barely wide enough to park cars and still let others past, not that it had stopped the locals. Fiona slipped down a narrow vennel, a row of small fishing cottages cast in pitch black, not quite catching the light from the promenade.
And Hunter had lost her again.
Movement, over on the left, by a gate leading to a back garden and a shed piled hi
gh up the windows with junk. Hunter set off towards it, slow and cautious.
Something hard pressed in his back.
Knife? Gun? Either way, Hunter stopped, hands up.
A voice in his ear, ‘What do you want?’ Deep, but still definitely female.
‘I’m a police officer, Fiona.’
The pressure on his back slackened off. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’
‘Check in my left pocket, you’ll find my warrant card.’ Hunter felt a hand slip inside his jacket, then caught another flash of reflected light. ‘That do you?’
The knife went away with a sigh. ‘Can’t be too careful.’ The hiss was now a gentle Highland lilt and a lot less deep. ‘What do you want?’
Hunter turned slowly, his foot almost giving way, and he reached into his pocket for his phone. ‘Looking for someone.’ He eased it out and unlocked it, then showed Fiona the photo of his brother.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you think I’d recognise him?’
‘Heard you were speaking to him in the pub.’
Fiona looked around, eyes darting about like they were in Waverley station at rush hour and she couldn’t find his platform. ‘Can’t do this here.’ She set off across the road. ‘Come on.’
The bay window looked onto the lane, now lit up from stray light. Fiona drew the curtains and let it return to darkness. ‘Coffee or tea?’
Hunter stayed standing. ‘Tea’s fine.’
Fiona shifted over to the tiny kitchen area, a dark alcove lined with units on three sides. The kettle hissed to the boil and she tipped water into a tired-looking grey teapot, which had probably been white at some point.
Hunter walked over to the window and leaned against the wall. ‘Fiona Shearer, right? Like the footballer?’
‘Duncan or Alan? Take your pick.’
‘Who’s Duncan Shearer?’
‘Played for Aberdeen in the nineties.’ Fiona’s eyes glazed over. ‘It’s a fairly common Highland name, though.’
‘What were you talking to my brother about?’
‘Not sure I should be talking to you, bud.’
‘You want me to take you down to Inverness? Put you in a room, maybe get a lawyer in? You want to play that dance? Waste your time and mine?’
‘You’re the one coming into a single woman’s flat.’ Fiona stared at him, long and hard. ‘Who knows what happened in here?’
‘I’m recording this.’ Hunter held out his phone again. ‘You just threatened a police officer.’
‘Shite.’ She didn’t even look like she was going to go for it. ‘I’m thinking that if this was above board, you’d have already arrested me when I stuck a knife in your back.’
‘This is above board. Got a missing persons case on the go, allocated to some guy in Inverness who won’t return my calls. But the way you’re acting makes me think you know something about what happened to him. Maybe you’re involved.’
Fiona reached into a countertop beer fridge for a squished carton of milk and sniffed it. ‘Look, I saw them in the pub. Pair of them were hammered. Get that fairly often in there, people heading up here for a weekend jolly.’ She poured tea into two battered mugs. ‘You take milk or sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
A splash and Fiona walked over to hand him the mug. World’s Best Dad. ‘Slainte.’
‘Slainte.’ Hunter held up the mug. One look round the tired room, the tired life, and he didn’t want to press her on the mug’s story. ‘So, you were in the pub?’
‘Right.’ Fiona slouched back over to the kettle and her own tea. Her own territory. ‘I was chatting to an old pal in there when that boy on your phone ordered a beer, you know how it is.’ She paused, like Hunter’s knowledge of buying alcohol in a pub was in any way important.
‘I know.’ Hunter blew on the tea, knocking the scum and breaking it into much smaller dots. No way was he drinking that. ‘The ancient art of small talk, right?’
‘Damn right.’ Fiona drank some tea. ‘Anyway, this boy, whatever his name is, started saying how he’s up on a fishing trip.’
Murray, fishing? But Hunter played along with it, resting his mug on a stack of bills on the windowsill. Outside, a car trundled down the lane, headlights picking out the rough path.
‘I’m a fisherman by trade. Fisherwoman. Been working on the water since I was yay high.’ Fiona held out her hand. ‘You have no idea how hard it is being a lassie on those boats.’
‘As hard as being a laddie?’
She smiled at that. ‘Based in Fraserburgh the last ten years. Tell you, nothing like driving round the north coast on a freezing Sunday evening as you know you’re going to spend two weeks out at sea. Decent money, too. Not like the rigs, but decent.’ She stared into space. ‘Least it was. Not had any work for a while, though.’ She shook her head.
‘So what do you do for money now?’
‘I’ve got my old man’s boat. He raised me on his own after Mum died. Took me sailing all the time. Silly old bugger called it Dignity, like in that Deacon Blue song. Can you believe it?’
‘I can believe most things about fathers, aye.’
Fiona laughed. ‘Not that it’s the season, but I take tourists out along the Cromarty Firth. Maybe up to Dornoch for the seals. Or maybe further out, whale watching. Or fishing, like these hipsters who were in the boozer.’ She took another glug of tea. ‘The ones you’re so interested in.’
‘You get their names?’
Fiona shrugged. ‘This guy I was chatting to at the bar was called Murray, I remember that.’
‘Murray’s my brother.’
‘Shite, bud. I’m sorry.’
‘You catch his mate’s name?’
‘Nope.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Average height. Muscles. Good looking, except he had one of those beard things under his mouth.’
‘A soul patch.’
‘Right. Didn’t really speak to him.’ Fiona finished her tea and poured a fresh cup, like she was buying time to either weave a sufficient lie, or to figure out which bits to leave out. ‘They were looking for someone to take them out. Fishing, they said.’
‘And did you?’
‘I was too busy. Taking this pair of Yanks out, this big guy and his wife. They’d set it up months ago, paid in advance. And I mean, overpaid in advance. Wanted to see the dolphins. Good money in that. Took them out, Monday morning, first thing. Decent weather, got a few sightings and a whale too.’
‘Anyone take Murray up on his offer?’
Fiona tipped in the last of her milk and chucked the carton in the bin. ‘Like I told you, I didn’t take them. They were a bit cagey about the details. Didn’t seem like too far out, though. But I passed them to my mate Shug. Sat on the happy bus to Fraserburgh together. They kept him on a few months longer than me, but they still booted him. Less internet-savvy than me, so he’s got to take what he can get from punters in pubs.’
‘You know if Shug took them out?’
‘No idea.’
‘Shug got a surname?’
‘Mowat.’
Hunter almost grinned. ‘De Monte Alto, right?’
‘Take your word for it. Millions of them round here, though. Well, hundreds.’ A coy smile flashed across her lips. ‘Some old Mowat must’ve put it about a fair amount.’
Hunter started to see a path through this. Murray and his mystery friend looking for a charter. ‘You any idea where Shug might be?’
‘That’s the thing.’ She held up her phone. ‘Okay, so I was messaging him on WhatsApp the other day. He told me he was abroad. Been there for a month.’
‘But?’
‘Well, I saw him last Sunday night when your brother was in. That’s why I’ve been in there asking people until Dougie the barman went radge at me on Friday.’ Tears glistened in her eyes. ‘I’m worried some bampot’s nicked his phone, pretending he’s fine when really he’s dead.’
One missing person had become three.
12
The Cromarty Arms was even busier and felt like a much earlier age, when people used to spend their evenings in the pub, rather than destroy a box of cheap supermarket lager in one sitting.
Jock had a table over in the corner, three empty beer glasses with varying degrees of decaying foam on the insides, talking at the American couple they’d clearly interrupted earlier. The big guy got up and walked over to the bar, rubbing his thick beard but grinning like he was having the time of his life.
Fiona leaned on the bar, keeping her voice low as Hunter joined her. ‘That’s the Americans.’
The barman slapped his beer towel over his shoulder. ‘Told you, Fi, you shouldn’t be in here.’
‘Dougie, I’m sorry for getting into that state. Bar me if you like, but I’m just worried about Shug, that’s all.’
Dougie the barman slowly licked his lips, then caught sight of the American. ‘Same again, son?’ He got a nod and started pouring.
‘Dougie, I’ve not seen or heard from him since a week past Sunday.’
‘Well, I’ve not seen him since, either.’
‘And you don’t think that’s weird?’
Dougie jabbed a finger at her. ‘Doesn’t excuse what you did.’
Hunter got between them. ‘What did she do?’
Fiona ran a hand across her face. Didn’t answer. Or couldn’t.
‘She started a fight on Friday night. I had to end it.’ Dougie passed three pints of beer to the American. ‘I’ll add it to the tab, son.’ He returned his focus on Hunter. ‘Got herself a bit rat-arsed, thought it’d be a good idea to punch Wee Ally, and his name’s ironic. Guy’s six five.’
‘He was lying.’
‘Fiona.’ Hunter raised his hands, trying to defuse the situation and steer it where he wanted it to go. ‘Who’s Ally?’
Fiona looked over. ‘Ally shares the Pride of Cromarty with Shug Mowat. Said Shug hadn’t been here in ages, but I saw him with my own eyes with your brother. So what am I supposed to think, eh?’
‘Can I speak to Ally?’