by Ed James
‘McCoull lives down in the lowlands. Just up here at the weekend. Got a cottage. Shug gets more than his half-share of value out of that boat, I tell you.’
Dougie looked up with a frown. ‘Again?’
‘Aye, another three.’ Jock clapped Hunter on the back, almost hard enough to wind him. ‘Tell you, my boy, these Americans don’t know how to drink!’
Hunter took him to the side. ‘Have you forgotten why we’re here?’ He stared at him, hard, like Jock used to before he cleared off, or on one of his infrequent returns when he wanted to instil some discipline in his unruly boys. ‘This isn’t a stag weekend. We’re looking for my brother. Your son.’
‘You found him?’
Hunter had to look away.
‘Thought not.’ Jock stared at the barman. ‘Lovely ale that.’
‘Right.’ Dougie looked up from the beer, forehead creased. ‘Listen, I might’ve heard Shug talking to these hipster boys. Like she says, they were in a week past Sunday. Talking about osprey.’
Jock scowled. ‘They were looking for a bird?’
‘Get a lot of them round here, as it happens.’ Dougie rested the beer on the counter. ‘The Osprey Alpha is an oil rig sitting off Invergordon, four of them waiting for decommissioning.’
Hunter groaned. All those files, all those videos. Not a boat. ‘Stupid bastards were urbexing in an oil rig.’ He nodded at Jock. ‘Any of the documents a match for that?’
Jock frowned. ‘Well, there were a couple, aye.’
‘Then that’s as good a place as any to start.’
Jock grabbed Fiona by the arm, tight. ‘Can you take us out there?’
‘At nine o’clock at night?’ She laughed. ‘In this weather?’
‘I meant tomorrow.’
Fiona tugged at her hair. ‘Two hundred quid and I’ll take you anywhere.’
‘You cheeky cow.’
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’
‘Hey, hey, calm down.’ Dougie jabbed a finger at Fiona. ‘Remember that you’re waaaaay past your last warning.’
‘Keep the heid. I’m not the one calling people cows.’ Fiona stared at Hunter. ‘Two hundred and I’ll think about taking you out.’
Jock shrugged. ‘First thing.’
‘Aye, nae danger, bud. Got an appointment with the mechanic at ten. Motor’s on the blink, hence me needing two hundred quid ASAP. If you can sub us a hundred now, I’ll—’
‘We’re not just going up an oil rig.’
‘Craig, we need to—’
‘No!’ Hunter glowered at Jock. ‘I need to call this in and get approval. I’ll find who owns this rig, then we can get up there. Okay?’ He patted Fiona on the arm. ‘You got a card?’
‘Not as such.’ She took a beermat and scribbled a number on it with a stubby bookie’s pen. ‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter pocketed it and pointed at Jock’s glass. ‘Make that the last one.’
‘Right, Dad.’ Jock bellowed with laughter. ‘Where you off to?’
‘Got to speak to the boss.’ Hunter slipped out into the pissing rain and called Cullen. Voicemail.
Great.
13
The hotel breakfast room looked across the bay, the first rays of the breaking dawn hitting the firth. A nice clear morning, the view stretching to some distant hills and to the thick grey cloud rolling in from the North Sea. If it still was the North Sea up here. Even down in the Borders where Murray lived, they didn’t have the scale of the mountains up here. So many trees.
If it wasn’t for the fact he was searching for his potentially dead brother, Hunter could consider moving up here. Away from Edinburgh and its drugs and crime and people.
Hunter checked his phone. Still nothing from Chantal or Cullen, just a missed call probably about ‘an accident that wasn’t your fault’. He hit dial and it went to Chantal’s voicemail again. He tried Cullen this time. Same result.
He had a voicemail of his own, though, so he checked it.
‘Hunter? Davie Robertson. No progress on the case, but call me back, cheers.’
Hunter hit dial, his heart thudding. Voicemail again. Bloody hell. ‘Hi, David, it’s Craig Hunter. Please give me a call.’
Hunter blew on his porridge but it was still too hot to eat. No idea what it’d been cooked on—a volcano?
A small boat slipped across the water, puffing up foam in its wake.
He popped open his supplements case and swore. Just vitamin pills. He’d left his PTSD meds behind in their rush to leave Edinburgh. He needed to find a pharmacy and pray they’d let him get some. Either way, missing for a day should be fine. Shouldn’t it?
His phone rang. Chantal. ‘Hey, have you been avoiding me?’
She huffed out a long and weary sigh. ‘Just finishing up for the night.’
‘It’s half six?’
She yawned. ‘Aye.’
‘You solve it?’
‘Hardly. Got a couple of suspects. Methven wanted me and Scott to interview them and…’ Another long yawn. ‘Neither’s our killer.’
‘You sound like you need your bed.’
‘I need our bed, Craig. With you in it.’
Even with all the shite going on, he couldn’t help but grin. ‘I miss you too.’
‘Well, if you were here, you’d be able to share this hell. We’ve got nothing. Nothing. Guy was shot six times and nobody saw a thing. Nobody’s talking. And the guy was just an ex-insurance man, retired to do some fishing and potter around in his garden. It’s bizarre, and you know Brian Bain, right?’
‘Not in the biblical sense, but he’s my new sergeant.’
‘Shite, aye. Well, he’s running around shouting about Albanian gangs. Some deep insurance fraud or something.’
‘And let me guess, he’s got no evidence for that?’
‘Right.’ She laughed. ‘How’s your hunt going?’
‘Hard to say. I mean, I’m an experienced detective but… We’ve got a thin thread and I don’t want to tug it too hard in case we snap it.’ Hunter tried his porridge again. Goldilocks temperature. ‘And Jock’s getting on my tits. His son being missing plays second fiddle to getting shit-faced.’
‘Oh, Craig.’
‘I swear, he’s turning this into a stag weekend. After that trip to Portugal, that’s the last thing I need.’ Another mouthful of porridge. Too salty, but decent enough. ‘So, what’s Bain been up to?’
‘He’s off the leash here. He made a neighbour cry in an interview. Nasty little man.’ Another sigh, mixing with a yawn. ‘I mean, it’s hard enough to sympathise with Scott Cullen, but he’s managing Bain and me.’
‘Tough gig.’
‘Speaking of which.’ Muffled voices in the background.
Hunter took another spoonful of porridge.
‘Craig.’ Cullen’s dulcet tones, sounding as tired as Chantal, his voice that bit slower and deeper, the consonants sliding together even more. ‘How’s it going, mate?’
‘Well…’ Hunter took another spoonful of porridge, giving himself time to think it through. ‘The good news is we’re picking up Murray’s trail, but you know my brother, right?’
‘Well, a bit.’ Cullen yawned. ‘I could really use you here, mate. How long’s it going to take?’
‘This is a piece of string case, Scott.’
‘Strings, threads. You and your metaphors.’
‘You know what I mean. Could be a month, could be over in an hour.’
‘What’s happening in an hour?’
‘Nothing. Look, I’ll call you back later today.’
‘Right.’ Another sigh-yawn. ‘Craig, if there’s anything you need, give me a shout, okay? The case is logged, and there’s a local Inverness cop assigned to it. Oh, he’s on leave today.’
‘Shows how high a priority this is, doesn’t it?’
‘Look, Craig, you’ve got a conflict of interest here, so don’t do anything stupid. You can use police resources if you need to, but don’t take the piss.�
��
‘Does that mean Methven doesn’t know?’
‘I told you not to take the piss.’
Hunter dipped his spoon into his porridge. ‘Oh, and if I were you I’d check out the Crafty Butcher podcast.’
‘What? Have you finally cracked?’
‘I’m serious. It’s a craft beer podcast presented by the King and the Billy Boy. The King as in—’
‘Elvis?’ Cullen gasped down the line. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Like I say, check it out.’
Cullen laughed. ‘I’ll put you back on with your lover.’
‘Wait a sec. Can you run a check for me?’
‘Here we go. I already regret my hollow offer of help.’
‘Oil rig called the Osprey Alpha. It’s possible Murray visited it.’
‘Okay, I’ll get someone to have a look into it.’
‘Cheers, Scott. Is that going to be Elvis?’
‘Aye. Call him, not me. And good luck finding Murray. I mean it.’
More muffled chat and Chantal was yawning down the line, like she’d not stopped during Cullen’s chat. ‘He’s grinning like he’s—Craig, what did you tell him?’
‘I gave him a podcast recommendation, that’s all.’
‘Right. Do I want to know?’
‘Probably. Anyway, what’s on the docket today?’
‘Breakfast with a load of mouth-breathing arseholes, then as much sleep as I can manage, then back to taking statements and all the crap you usually get on these cases. Never rains, Craig. Never rains. And I don’t know Perth at all.’
‘You’ve surely been?’
‘Is there a reason to go to Perth?’
If there was, Hunter couldn’t think of it. ‘Sounds like you’re getting on with it, though.’
‘One way of looking at it.’ A pregnant pause. ‘Good luck today. Hope you find him. Love you, bye.’
‘Love you too. Bye.’ Hunter ended the call and rested his phone next to his empty bowl. They were saying they loved each other so casually now. Almost like they’d stopped meaning it. Or maybe they’d gone from infatuation to true love.
‘What’s not to understand?’ Jock’s voice tore out across the quiet room. The elderly couple looked at Hunter then at the door as Jock stormed in, fists in pockets, shaking his head. ‘Drip, ideally from ground beans. Got it?’
The Polish waiter stood next to him, frowning at his notepad. ‘Baked beans?’
‘Coffee beans.’ Jock pinched his nose. ‘Christ on the flaming cross. Filter coffee. Four mugs of it. Black, big jug of milk on the side.’ He stretched out his thumb and fingers, indicating a pint-sized vessel. ‘If it’s from beans, great. If you’ve just got pre-ground, that’ll do.’ He smiled at the waiter. ‘You got that?’
The frown betrayed any certainty, but the waiter gave a nod and walked off.
Jock sauntered over and sat, slapping that morning’s Press and Journal onto the white tablecloth. ‘Craig.’
‘Morning.’ Hunter poured himself another mug of tea before Jock got in there. ‘You not having breakfast?’
‘Just coffee.’
‘Sure that’s wise after last night?’
‘It’s my fasting day.’
Hunter let out an involuntary groan. Fast train to hangry central.
‘Got to keep in shape, son.’ Jock patted his flat stomach. ‘Six hundred calories today.’
‘That’s it?’
‘It’s got other benefits too. Like low blood sugar and what have you. Sure you’ll be getting all that with your hocus-pocus martial arts I saw you doing this morning.’
‘Tai chi.’
‘Whatever. You look like an idiot doing it on Cromarty beach at the crack of sparrow fart. In the dark.’
‘How did you see me, then?’
Jock tapped his nose and looked around the room, smiling at the elderly couple.
‘When did you finish up last night?’
Jock dropped his surveillance of the room and picked up his paper. ‘Chucking-out time.’
Hunter sighed. ‘You started drinking at four and you were on the randan until the back of eleven?’
‘Midnight.’
‘We’re here to look for my brother.’
Jock lowered his paper enough to scowl at Hunter. ‘While you were back in your room speaking to your Asian babe, I was chatting to—’
‘My what?’
‘You know, your bird.’
‘My bird?’
‘Calm down, Craig.’ Jock tossed his paper on the table. ‘No need to be such a snowflake.’
Hunter gritted his teeth.
Jock leaned in close, mischief twinkling in his eyes. ‘So I was chatting to these lassies who work in the solicitors. They didn’t see Murray, but they backed up that Fiona lassie’s take on things. Saw her chatting to some boy and twatting him one. She’s a feisty one, that’s for sure.’
Hunter nodded slowly. He should’ve done that himself, canvassing locals for additional verification of the tale. But he didn’t, instead heading back to his room. And not even speaking to Chantal, only one text back from her: Busy
The waiter came over with a tall cafetière, the plunger at full reach, the coffee darkening the water almost black. ‘Is this what you want?’
‘It’ll do, thanks.’ Jock smiled at him, giving a good measure of the famed Hunter charm that hadn’t been passed down to his oldest son. He shoogled the cafetière, round and round. ‘This country’s going to the dogs.’ Then he plunged it and poured some out into a mug. A waft of bitter steam spread across the table as he tipped in enough milk to turn the coffee muddy brown. ‘What happened to employing staff who could understand what you wanted, eh?’
‘I don’t understand what you want, so what chance has that poor lad got?’
Jock muttered something under his breath as he slurped at his mug. ‘Decent coffee, though.’
‘You’re seriously fasting today?’
‘That a problem?’
‘When you don’t eat, you’re like a bear with a twelve-pint hangover.’ Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, wait…’
‘It wasn’t that much last night.’
‘Wasn’t it? You were throwing them down your neck.’
Jock took another sip of coffee. ‘I think we should get on this Fiona lassie’s boat and see for ourselves.’
‘I’m not trespassing on a bloody oil rig.’
Jock grinned. ‘Chicken?’
‘No, it’s illegal. And I’m not paying her two hundred quid until we know for sure Murray was there.’
‘How do we go about doing that, Sherlock?’
Hunter picked up his phone and called Elvis.
Unlike his bosses, Elvis still picked up. ‘What’s up, you fanny?’ Sounded like he was in a café. Probably with Chantal’s group eating a hotel breakfast.
‘Just wondering if you’d spoken to Cullen yet?’
Elvis sighed down the line. ‘Right, well aye.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m doing some digging just now while I’m at my cornflakes.’ Elvis crunched and sooked. ‘Thing is, it’s not a simple story. You got a pen?’
14
Hunter let the automatic gearbox do the heavy lifting as he slid along the main road, lined with mature beech and oak, all seeming wild and natural to his untrained eye.
The Crafty Butcher bled out of the speakers, the only thing that seemed to pacify Jock. How the roles were reversed…
Bain: ‘So, if you were thinking about New World hops in a no-deal Brexit world, would you stock up now?’
Elvis: ‘Of course, Bri—Billy. You don’t know how it’s going to go. Nobody does. And as a hardcore home brewer, I don’t want to run out of galaxy or citra hops in November as I’m putting together my Christmas IPA. Do you?’
‘See, I’m thinking I might try going back to traditional British hops, make some lovely real ales.’
‘Old-school. I like it. Very hard to source, though.’
Hunter reached over and killed the stereo. ‘Nice car, have to say.’
‘Never scrimp on your motor, son.’ Jock yawned into his fist, all that caffeine still not beating its way through the hangover. ‘Where the hell are we?’
Hunter floored it to climb a gradual hill, powering down the middle road through the wide Black Isle. According to Jock’s satnav, the Cromarty Firth was a couple of miles north, the Moray Firth five or so south. This definitely seemed the road less travelled.
The road dipped down to an ancient gatehouse glowing in the morning gloom. Hunter slowed by the entrance and let a bus past, sitting there, the indicator ticking away. Down in the lowlands, the gatehouse would’ve been turned into a family home a long time ago, but this looked like it still guarded the stately home beyond from the hoi polloi. Shit, it did—a checkpoint blocked entry.
Hunter slid across the road and waited by the barrier.
‘Sure this is the place, son?’
Hunter scanned around, looking for any way through. ‘That’s what my source told me.’
‘Your source?’
‘A cop mate. He got me the registered address of the owner of that rig Murray went out to.’
‘This is all a bit too professional for you. I was expecting you to get that daft wee bugger to take us out there at first light.’
A bright light clicked on and a man stepped out of the front door, brandishing a clipboard, his muscular frame barely contained by his dark-grey suit.
Hunter wound down the window on Jock’s side and leaned across to hold out his warrant card. ‘Police. Looking for the Oswald Partnership.’
The guard clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Okay, follow the road round through the trees. The receptionist will be waiting for you.’ His accent was southern English, big hints of Thames Estuary but some Midlands too. Way out of place up here.
The barrier rumbled up.
‘Thanks.’ Hunter doffed his imaginary cap and drove through. The road narrowed to a single track, twisting through banks of rhododendrons and Scots pine.
A red squirrel darted across and Hunter hit the brakes. The car braked hard and the squirrel skipped off up a tree. ‘Holy shit, I’ve never seen one of them before.’
‘Shut up.’