by Ed James
‘I’m serious.’
Jock shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
Hunter drove off and the trees separated into a wide opening. A hulking country house was perched on top of a small hill overlooking a loch, and the road led into a half-full car park in front of a modern office building, ‘Oswald Partnership’ etched in bright orange on grey slate. A Victorian factory clock hung from the modern gable, reading 07:12.
Hunter parked in a guest space and hit the power button. ‘Need you to stay here, okay? I’m a police officer. This is my job.’ He fixed him with his hard-cop stare but it didn’t seem to make any difference to Jock. ‘Besides, I’m “playing the daft laddie” here.’
‘Aye, well you’re shit hot at that.’
‘Stay here.’ Hunter jabbed his finger at Jock. ‘I mean it.’ He got out of the car and, wonder of wonders, Jock stayed, hidden behind his broadsheet newspaper. Hunter walked across the car park towards the office, already busy for this early on a Tuesday. From somewhere in the woods behind, came the deep rumble of machinery. Probably a tree-felling operation. He stopped by the entrance to let a small Fiat past—two mid-twenties women singing along to a Beyoncé tune—then he stepped across the wet flagstones and pushed through the heavy metal door.
The place felt way too busy for this early an hour.
Inside, it was like an expensive restaurant. Granite flagstones lined at the edges with purple striplights, their glow running up the wooden reception desk and meeting at the Oswald Partnership logo.
A slim Asian man in shirt and trousers stood up with a broad smile. ‘Hi, how can I help?’ Didn’t look like a security guard.
Hunter stepped over to the desk. ‘Looking for an Iain Oswald.’
‘I’m afraid that Lord Oswald’s rather busy today. If you’d phoned ahead, we—’
‘It’s a police matter.’ Hunter held out his warrant card. ‘An urgent one.’
‘Edinburgh police? Interesting.’ The receptionist picked up a smartphone, tapped the screen and put it to his head, still with the same vacant smile. He turned away, speaking in a mutter, then back with the same smile. ‘He’ll see you now. Callum will show you through.’
A door flew open and a burly security guard sashayed through, his fluid movements belying his size. Callum was yet another big guy in a sharp suit — shirt open to the neck, wiry sandpaper hair poking out. He gripped Hunter’s hand in an iron handshake and walked over to a wide doorway, where he swiped a card through a reader. The door clunked open and he led Hunter into a half-full open-plan office, the kind you’d see anywhere. Banter, chatting, phones ringing, coffee smells. And still Callum didn’t speak.
‘Bit taken aback by how many people you’ve got here.’
Callum didn’t answer, instead marching over to the far side, where another office overlooked the loch. And he literally marched—the guy had definitely seen some time in the military. He opened the door and popped his head in, then came out with a thumbs up and let Hunter enter. Callum followed, though. Harder to play the daft laddie with an audience.
A man reclined on an office chair, feet up on an ornate mahogany desk, talking on the phone. ‘Well, I’ll see what we can do about that.’ God knows where these guys were tailored, but he had the best-fitting suit of the lot of them. ‘Of course.’
By the window, a middle-aged woman, looking Hunter up and down. Mustard-brown polo neck, checked skirt and knee-high boots. A small toy dog in her arms. She held out her hand, like she expected it to be kissed. ‘Lady Margaret Oswald. How do you do?’
‘DC Craig Hunter.’ He shook her hand softly. ‘I’m looking for Lord Oswald?’
‘My husband’s on a call with some clients from the Gulf. Terribly busy time.’
‘Right, I’ll phone you later. Thanks.’ Oswald hung up and stood, hand out. ‘DC Hunter?’
Hunter took it, like shaking hands with a drunk puppy compared with Callum’s iron grip. ‘Should I call you Lord Oswald?’
‘Of course not! Lord Oswald was my father.’ Oswald slumped in his chair with a loud crunch and a happy smile. ‘Please, call me Iain.’
‘Okay, Iain.’ Hunter took one of the chairs in front of the desk. ‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice.’
‘Happy to help the police at any time.’ Oswald gave his wife a smile. ‘I’ll catch you over at the house, dear.’
‘Very well.’ She hugged her dog tight and left the room.
Oswald gave Callum a nod, but it didn’t mean ‘leave us to it’. The big guard stayed by the door, hands clasped behind his back. ‘So, Detective Constable, what brings you here?’
‘I gather you’re the owner of Osprey Alpha?’
‘Well.’ Oswald nodded slowly. ‘Legally, it’s a complex arrangement involving—’ He smiled. ‘Let’s just say that yes, I am the legal owner. My father built up this business to refurbish the rigs back when the oil boom started, with my assistance of course. But I’m sure you’re aware the North Sea oil supply is dwindling?’
‘I’ve heard mention of it.’
‘It’ll hit the Scottish economy hard, particularly Aberdeen. We’ve almost run out of viable oilfields and there’s so much competition from fracking, and what have you, that the remaining ones are becoming uneconomical. And this climate crisis is pushing people towards electric cars, wind turbines and so on.’ He paused to lick his lips, possibly aware of some tendency to digress from the point. ‘Anyway, we now decommission the rigs as well as refurbishing them. As someone who’s proud of what this tiny nation has achieved, I find it profoundly heart-breaking when we do, but I’m glad to be able to assist the tidy-up operation and restore the region to nature.’
‘Very noble of you.’
‘Glad you agree.’ Oswald shuffled some papers into a pile and stuffed them into a drawer. ‘Now, how can I help?’
‘I’m working a missing persons investigation. A man from Edinburgh disappeared while he was up here.’
‘And why should I know anything about that?’
‘Because I believe he went aboard your oil rig.’
‘I see. Well, oil rigs are extremely dangerous sites, especially those in the process of decommissioning. People shouldn’t be snooping around them.’
Hunter sat back in the chair, eyes narrowing. ‘Name of Murray Hunter.’
‘Ah.’ Oswald picked up a newspaper. ‘I saw the notice in this morning’s P&J. Murray Hunter, last seen in Cromarty. Says a PC David Robertson is investigating, though. Why is a DC Craig Hunter from Edinburgh showing up?’
‘He was my brother.’
‘And are you here officially or trying to railroad me, mm?’
‘This is an official investigation, sir. I’m assisting PC Robertson. You’re welcome to contact his sergeant.’
‘Look, I don’t mean to get off on the wrong foot, Constable, but, like I say, oil rigs are incredibly dangerous places. The wind alone… If your brother indeed went up there, it’s just possible he was whipped off to sea. And most of the equipment requires formal training.’
‘I want to get aboard Osprey Alpha and see for myself.’
‘Oh.’ Oswald swallowed. ‘Well, I’d need to check.’ He looked over to the door. ‘Callum, can you…?’
The goon finally left the room.
Oswald seemed to relax, but only slightly. ‘It might be possible for you to have a wee look, but it’d have to be supervised, of course. Only thing is, my guys are working fourteen-hour days just to clear this backlog, so it might be a while.’
‘Why have you got an office full of people when you really need engineers to service oil rigs in the firth?’
‘Because…’ Oswald laughed. ‘Listen, the grunt work is done by third parties. Here, it’s all sales and relationship management. And there are relationships governing a lot of people to keep sweet. We’ve got three rigs sitting at Invergordon that are due in the Gulf urgently.’
‘Is Osprey Alpha one of those?’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t, which is
why it’s the most hazardous. There’s a lot of machinery that’s incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands.’
‘Sir, it’d really help my investigation if I could get up there. I just need half an hour to look around.’
‘Look, it’s strictly off limits until my guys can run a full inspection. And that’s where our priorities have to lie.’
The door opened and Callum marched in, charging over to Oswald’s side of the desk. He whispered something, and not just a few words. Sentences, paragraphs.
Oswald nodded and patted Callum’s arm. ‘Okay, thanks.’ He grimaced at Hunter. ‘Osprey Alpha is going to the dry dock at Invergordon for a full decommissioning next week. It was in the Buchan oilfield, which ceased production last year. One of the older fields out in the North Sea, a site where the operator used underbalanced drilling to allow them to keep extracting long after anyone else would bother to. As is common, that can result in extensive corrosion to the drilling equipment and to the platform itself.’
‘Which means?’
‘Well, I’m afraid that I can’t allow anyone up there.’
‘Not even your own men?’
‘Well, I just don’t have the resources. Like I say…’ Oswald wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just too dangerous. I have three guys insured to go on a rig like that and they’re all needed on critical tasks.’
‘Thanks for your time.’ Hunter stood up with a smile and passed over a business card.
Oswald inspected it, then gave Hunter a sympathetic look, his forehead creasing in all the right places. ‘I’m truly sorry, though. If your brother has been up there and has perished, then I’ll do everything I can to support your investigation.’ He pinched his brow. ‘Let me see what I can do. We might have some flex. Can I ring you?’
‘I’d appreciate that, sir. I’ll await your call.’
Oswald uncapped a fountain pen and scratched a note. ‘And I’ll also double security on Osprey Alpha to make sure no further incursions happen.’
Hunter smiled his thanks, but he knew that’d make his Plan B much less likely to succeed. And much more urgent.
Hunter got in Jock’s car and eased the door shut, resisting the temptation to slam it. He knew they were being watched, so didn’t want to give anything away.
‘Well? Did the daft laddie get anything?’
Hunter sat back and pressed his head against the rest, drumming his fingers on the wheel. ‘Not sure.’ He looked across the car park to the office. ‘He’d heard of Murray. It was like he was expecting me.’
‘That’ll help fuel your James Bond fantasies.’
‘Very good.’ Hunter looked over at Jock and tapped the Press and Journal’s front page. ‘He said there was an announcement in the paper.’
‘Ah, right.’ Jock flicked through the pages. ‘Saw it myself. This your doing?’
‘It’s standard procedure. Once it’s on the system, the press office issue it.’
Jock folded his paper up and dumped it in the door pocket. ‘So, can we go up onto the platform?’
‘Nope.’
‘He refused the daft laddie?’
‘I felt so bloody stupid in there.’ Hunter rubbed his neck. ‘Either something’s fishy here and he’s buying time, or Murray died through misadventure up on that rig.’
Jock nodded along with it. ‘So what now?’
Hunter tried slumping further back in the chair, but couldn’t. ‘Well, we could wait around until Lord Oswald calls me and lets us on the Osprey Alpha.’
‘You don’t seem too happy about that.’
‘We could be talking weeks. And what will we do in the meantime? Even the prospect of sitting in a café with you grumping about how hungry you are is—’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Aye, bollocks you are.’ Hunter looked over at the office again. The sun caught the glass as it rose.
‘So you want to just head up there and have a look ourselves?’
‘It might be incredibly dangerous up there, but it’s where Murray was last seen.’ Hunter hit the start button and put the car in drive. ‘Call Fiona and get her to meet us at the harbour.’
15
Hunter pulled up his hood and trudged along the Cromarty shore. Despite the early morning calm, the wind and rain were now brutal, like the sea was emptying onto land, and Noah’s flood was starting today. Out at sea, waves climbed two metres high. And they were going out in that… ‘I need you to behave here, okay?’
‘Behave?’ Jock looked round, his face lashed with rain, his hair plastered to his head in a severe parting. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’
‘I mean it. Fiona is helping us here. She isn’t working for us. Our priority is looking for Murray, not being a dickhead to him.’
‘A dickhead?’ Jock stepped over the low wall. ‘Eh?’
‘Just keep the heid.’
‘I always bloody do.’ Jock stomped off towards the jetty.
Fiona crouched low by a small motorboat and, unlike Jock in his leather jacket, she’d dressed for the weather, just a small hole in her hood where her bright blue eyes poked out. Hungry eyes. ‘You got the money, bud?’
Jock looked round at his son.
Hunter handed her a hundred quid, folded in a roll.
She didn’t even have to count. ‘We said two.’
‘You get the rest when we’re back here, safe and sound.’
‘Wanker.’ Fiona pocketed the cash in her waterproof trousers. ‘Come on, then.’ She hopped into the boat.
Jock reached out to Hunter then took his time lowering himself into the boat, swaying around like he was ten-pints drunk. Not that Hunter had ever seen that… He sank into a seat out of the rain. ‘So, hen, why didn’t you go to the cops?’
Fiona looked round, eyes full of fury. ‘Eh?’
Hunter hopped in and grabbed hold of Jock before he did any further damage to their relationship. ‘Jesus, I told you not—’
‘Are we walking into a trap here?’ Jock was reaching past Hunter, giving the full force of his anger to Fiona.
‘I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.’ Fiona was untying a rope. ‘If you want to pay more, then maybe I’ll start caring about your—’
‘Stop!’ Hunter nudged Jock with his elbow, blocking him from getting at Fiona. ‘I told you about being a dickhead. Any more and we’re going out without you.’
Jock’s eyes bulged. ‘Don’t be an arse, Craig.’
‘I’m not the arse here. I warned you, and you’re close to the final straw.’
‘Fine.’ Jock looked at Fiona with the expression that had melted Hunter’s mother’s heart way too many times. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’m just worried about my boy.’ He sat again. ‘Now, can we get going?’
Fiona went back to untying her rope, and gave Hunter a thunderous stare. ‘Is he always like this?’
‘This is him on a good day.’ Hunter sat next to Jock, giving him another warning glare.
Fiona turned on the motor, which gave with a belch of diesel fumes, and they shot off across the pitching waves onto the Cromarty Firth. The boat rocked and rolled, fast then slow, then slow then fast and—
Hunter lurched, then tipped his head over the side and vomited, his porridge looking like it’d barely been digested.
Jock clapped his back, roaring with laughter.
The Osprey Alpha loomed out of the sea like a giant kraken, ready to swallow them up and take them down into the depths.
The further they’d gone down the firth, the less the boat pitched around, the less the waves foamed and leapt up at them. Hunter still felt sick, still had acid burning his throat and mouth.
Jock stroked his arm, a rare sight of parental concern. ‘You okay, son?’
‘I’ve never been in a boat before.’
‘What? That’s bollocks.’
‘Funnily enough, my old man never took me out when I was young.’
Jock muttered something under his breat
h. ‘What about in the army?’
‘Not in my training, no.’ The boat tipped again and Hunter felt his stomach turn upside down. He leaned over the side, staring deep into the brine, but nothing came up.
‘Christ, son, you should’ve just skipped breakfast and saved yourself the hassle.’
‘This isn’t funny.’ Hunter couldn’t even look round at Jock. Another dry heave, but still nothing.
They approached the column of oil rigs, which seemed impossibly tall this close. The dirty spray of rain obscured any names or signage and all four looked identical. Lights glowed high up the nearest and one further over. From the nearest platform, a walkway ran out across the water, stopping about a hundred metres away from another, darker rig, just leaving a sharp drop into the sea. Behind, a low town spread along the coastline.
‘Invergordon.’ Fiona was following Hunter’s gaze. ‘Bandit country, bud. Full of third- or fourth-generation Weegies. Lads who left Govan to work up here. Now it’s the only place where that work still exists. Try to avoid going anywhere near.’
‘Will anyone spot us?’
‘In this?’ Fiona winked at him. She clapped his arm, her grip lingering maybe a bit too long. ‘Get yourselves ready.’ She steered them towards the oil rig, the one past the end of the walkway. The platform loomed above them, dark against the pale-grey sky, concrete legs covered in barnacles and other shells. No signs of life up there, no lights and none of the industrial grinding coming from its neighbour. She stopped at a small jetty next to one of the legs and moored the boat. A narrow steel ladder, rusted to a coffee brown, ran up to the platform, which seemed like miles above their heads. A massive winch hung over, with a giant hook to scoop supplies up. Probably not even connected to the power.
Fiona stood, hands on hips. ‘Right, I’ll wait here for you.’
‘Oh no, you bloody don’t.’ Jock stood over her, like he was trying to intimidate her, though the rocking of the boat was undermining the effect. ‘Last time a Hunter came here, the boatsman came back without him. You’re going up there first.’