Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

‘This isn’t part of the deal.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Hunter stood next to Jock, arms folded. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘Christ.’ Fiona finished hitching the boat to the side, shaking her head and moaning under her breath. ‘Seriously, another hundred bar and I’d be happy to come up with you.’

  Jock grabbed her arm. ‘You’re already getting paid enough for this.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fiona set off up the ladder like a monkey climbing a tree, hands and feet barely touching the rungs.

  ‘Okay.’ Hunter went next. He placed one hand, then the other, on the slimy metal— it felt like it’d been underwater for years. As soon as both feet were on, he started to feel better. More stable and above the level of the waves. Felt less like he was going to throw up again. ‘See you up there.’ He started climbing and soon got into a rhythm—left, right, left, right, left right. Looking north, another four rigs forming a procession to Invergordon, the town’s lights flickering in the morning grey.

  His foot slipped, and he pulled his body close to the ladder while he caught his breath again. He looked down at Jock, only a few rungs above the jetty. Hunter must’ve done at least thirty. Good progress. He started up again.

  What the hell was Murray up to, coming up here, just for his YouTube channel? Poking around a derelict oil rig with torches and cameras to get kids to sit through adverts and pay off his colossal mortgage? Who was Hunter trying to fool? Murray was earning so much he’d just paid cash for the house.

  And where the hell was he? Were they going to find his body at the top?

  Hunter clambered up onto the platform that marked the halfway point and waited in the spitting rain. The wind was stronger now, pushing with a force he hoped he could overcome, but he was getting less and less sure. Thick rain poured down on the firth, blocking the view back to Cromarty. The view down the Black Isle towards Dingwall was clear, but the North Sea was a wall of grey, like the elements didn’t want anyone heading out there.

  The metal rang out in a slow rhythm and Jock’s head peered over the top, a few jerky movements bringing the rest of him up and over. He collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily, his face screwed tight. ‘Christ on the cross.’ He gulped in more air, then frowned. ‘Is that Tain over there?’

  Hunter followed his gaze across the land to the north. Nigg, or whatever it was called on the map. ‘Don’t be daft. There’s a ton of hills between here and Tain.’

  ‘Swear I can see it.’

  And you can see pink elephants, you old lush.

  Hunter didn’t say it.

  ‘That lassie’s got a bloody cheek. Another hundred quid to go up there?’ Jock grabbed the up ladder and set off ahead of him, taking it slow and not very steady.

  ‘Keep the heid, Jock.’ Hunter followed him up, settling into a much slower groove than when he’d been unhindered, but maybe a steadier one. And the stronger wind meant that slow was a better idea.

  ‘Should’ve gone to the police when she heard what happened to Murray, I swear. She knew, didn’t she?’

  Hunter was catching enough to get the general drift, but the occasional word was swept out to sea.

  ‘If anything’s happened to my boy, I’ll drop her off the bloody side.’

  ‘In front of a police officer?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll drop you as well.’ Jock looked down, grinning. His eyes bulged and he looked up again.

  ‘Don’t even joke about it.’ Hunter had to slow his rhythm again. Left hand, left foot. Right hand, right foot. Over and over, until Jock slipped over the edge. Then it was Hunter’s turn to climb over the last rungs onto the platform.

  Up here, the wind screamed in his ears. The rain battered his face, making it a struggle to keep his eyes open. His jacket was nowhere near up to the task and he was already soaked.

  The platform was deserted and a lot bigger than Hunter expected. Grey sheet metal covered in rust and giant bolts where equipment had been locked in, but was now mostly missing. Painted white signs pointed to the helicopter platform, but even that had been taken away. The winch’s cable swung in the gale, and the only other thing standing was the living quarters, according to the signs, a two-storey grey block almost indistinguishable from the sky. Four CCTV cameras, but none had the telltale red blink, and two had their cables severed.

  Hunter had a flash of the video in Murray’s notes. It was here. The live feed had broadcast from here.

  Fiona shrugged her shoulders. ‘Okay, so what’s the plan?’

  Hunter didn’t see many options. And he didn’t know what he expected, maybe Murray running towards them as they came over the top. ‘Let’s start with the living quarters.’

  ‘That’s pretty much where we’ll finish.’ She set off, stepping slowly through the maelstrom.

  Hunter followed equally jerkily, too busy keeping the icy rain off his frozen cheeks to check on Jock.

  Fiona stopped by the door.

  Someone had snapped open the padlock. Murray? Or someone else?

  ‘Let me.’ Hunter eased the door open and peered inside. Looked like a canteen, pretty large too. Mercifully free of any wind or rain, but it stank of rust and rotting meat. Rows of bolted-in tables and seats ran down the middle. A bar and serving hatch occupied the far side, though the window through to the kitchen was boarded up. Old-school CRT TVs hung from the ceiling, their power cables dangling free. Hunter hadn’t seen any satellite dishes outside, but that’s how they’d while away their weeks at sea, watching satellite football in here. That and the pair of table tennis tables in the corner, a bat still resting on a ball on one side. A smashed-in fruit machine lurked in the other corner. Either someone had lost big style or just wanted to destroy something.

  ‘Jesus, it’s all pish lagers.’ Jock was inspecting the taps, his face as sour as the beer he’d been drinking the previous night. Didn’t stop him tugging on one, though it ran dry.

  ‘Stop it.’ Hunter waited until Jock looked over, then followed Fiona over to the door marked ‘Quarters’. Through it, the corridor split left, right and straight ahead, with a staircase leading up. He took a look up the stairwell, but it seemed just as dead as the mess hall. ‘Right, let’s split up. This floor, then regroup and check upstairs.’

  ‘Suits me.’ Fiona walked through the door on the right, leaving it hanging open.

  ‘Born in a bloody barn…’ Jock scowled but didn’t rush over to shut the door behind her. Maybe betraying a fear of what might be behind it. ‘Right. Back here in ten, okay?’

  ‘Works for me. I’m going to keep a close eye on her.’

  ‘Wise.’ Jock took the straight-ahead corridor.

  Hunter followed Fiona. The first door hung open. Empty, just a bunk bed screwed to the wall, the lower mattress full of exposed springs, the upper intact but heavily stained.

  Fiona winked at him. ‘Fancy a bunk up?’

  ‘Seriously? I’m hunting for my brother here.’

  ‘Come on, I’m a girl, you’re a boy…’

  The sink was dry, but no doubt pissed in more times than in Scott Cullen’s flat.

  ‘Look, I’m in a relationship.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’ She sauntered off out of the room.

  But Hunter saw something in her. Spending fortnights at sea, the only woman on a boat. She didn’t seem to shag around, but she must’ve put up with so much hassle. And this is how she dealt with it. Teasing.

  Hunter followed. He tried the door across the corridor and got the same result. The next door was a shared bathroom. Mouldy curtains hung over two baths. Two shower stalls were smashed in, the precious pipework long since removed. Two toilet cubicles with dry bowls. The fractured remains of sinks—someone had gone to town on them with a sledgehammer, leaving broken porcelain all over the floor.

  ‘You finding what you expected?’

  ‘Not really.’ Hunter went back out into the corridor and crept up to the end, ten more bedrooms on either side, three more bathrooms. A door led o
ut to the other side of the platform, just a narrow walkway leading to a ladder down.

  No signs that Murray had been here, no signs that anyone had for a long time.

  ‘Come on.’ He led Fiona back to the meeting point, taking it slow and double-checking the bedrooms and bathrooms again. No sign of Jock, but still three minutes to go.

  ‘Maybe I’ll try it on with your dad.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘He’s a good-looking guy.’ She looked anything but relaxed, her nervous gaze sweeping around.

  ‘Come on.’ Hunter opened the door leading straight on.

  ‘Look at the state of this.’ Jock stood in a doorway halfway up, sifting through a box. ‘Christ, they’ve got all flavours here.’

  Hunter joined him. DVD cases and magazines. Porn. Lots of porn. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No internet out in a North Sea oilfield, son, so you have to keep it old-school.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’

  Fiona ambled up the corridor towards the window at the far end.

  Jock frowned, staring into space. ‘Here, maybe they’re Murray’s jazz mags. Normal straight stuff. Just like his old man.’

  ‘What, a wanker?’

  ‘Shut up, Craig.’

  ‘What’s the big deal with him being gay, anyway?’

  ‘He’s not gay!’

  Knowing not to argue with him when he was like this, Hunter checked down the corridor. ‘You found anything else?’

  Fiona was looking through one of the doorways. She turned to shrug.

  Jock inspected a magazine. ‘Hard to get past this little treasure trove. Reckon I could get a few quid for this lot on eBay.’ He kept flicking through. ‘Christ, you don’t get many of them to the pound.’

  Hunter checked the next room. A backpack rested against the wall next to the bed. He opened it and found another cornucopia of pornography. He took it back out to the corridor. ‘Here’s another load.’

  But no sign of Jock.

  Hunter looked both ways, fearing the worst—his father hunched over a bathroom sink, a jazz mag in his left hand and—

  But Jock came out of the next doorway and thumbed back into the room.

  Hunter took it slow and walked in. Jock had dumped his porn collection on the lower bunk but a sheet of paper lay where the pillow should be. A message, dated last Monday:

  ‘Murray, I’ll meet you back at the cottage—Keith.’

  ‘Who the hell is Keith?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Hunter checked the note again. ‘This not being our Murray is way too much of a coincidence. And last Monday…’ He let out a deep breath. ‘Where the hell is he? Is that—’

  Footsteps thumped towards them. Fiona, running, eyes wild. ‘There’s a fucking boat on its way over!’

  16

  Hunter shot through the canteen and stopped by the door to the platform to peer out. The sky had brightened to brilliant blue, the grey pushed over to the mainland.

  Fiona joined him and pointed over towards the other rig. ‘See them, bud?’

  Hunter squinted, struggling to see what she was on about. Then he caught it. A speedboat, the noise muted by the roaring gale, but the bright-white slipstream glowed in the murky green-brown water. Just one, though, and it slipped out of view under the rig.

  Meaning it was going to moor.

  Meaning someone would come up.

  Hunter checked around. Shite—four CCTV cameras. Shouldn’t have assumed they were all as dead as the rest of the rig. ‘How do we get back to your boat?’

  ‘This way.’ Fiona pushed through the door and snaked off across the platform, keeping low, but she didn’t have much to hide behind.

  Heavy breathing announced Jock’s presence. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Someone’s come over. We need to go.’ Hunter pushed Jock through the door. ‘Hurry!’ He set off after his father, but Jock was slow, and still carrying his porn haul.

  Hunter snatched it out of his hands and tossed it behind them. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Why the hell did you do that?’ Jock’s legs slipped from under him, and he crashed onto the platform with a damp thud.

  Hunter reached down to help him, but Jock was a dead weight. ‘We need to hurry!’

  Jock rolled to his side, then got up on his knees. ‘Why did you—’

  ‘Come on!’ Hunter grabbed his arm and yanked him, fast-walking through the heavy wind and across the slimy platform. God knows what it was like out at sea, probably had secure walkways to stop this nonsense.

  Fiona stood by the ladder, pointing down. ‘Big guy climbing up that leg.’

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘Right.’

  Hunter peered down the ladder. A man mountain winched himself up the ladder—a different technique from Fiona’s spider-monkey one, but just as fast. Clang, clang, clang, clang. ‘You recognise him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hide.’ Hunter pointed to a low wall by the nearest leg and dragged Jock over, pinning him down and covering his mouth with a hand. He waited, listening to the clanking.

  The guy appeared over the edge of the ladder. He was huge and didn’t seem perturbed by the gale. Black fishing gear, glistening with rain. He tugged his hood down. Completely bald head, almost pink from the cold. He scanned the area, looking right at them.

  Shite!

  Hunter ducked low and listened hard again, but the wind and rain were too loud to hear any footsteps. Could be standing over them, could be miles away. He sneaked another look.

  The guy was by the door to the crew quarters. ‘You!’ He stormed towards them. ‘You’re trespassing.’

  Hunter tried to show his warrant card, but his hands weren’t doing what they told him to. ‘I’m a cop.’

  The words didn’t seem to make any odds. ‘Have you got a search warrant?’ Slight Russian accent. ‘This is private property.’

  ‘Do you work for Lord Oswald?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for my brother. Murray Hunter.’

  The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. ‘You are going to—’

  Then he toppled forward.

  Jock stood behind him, lugging a length of metal pipe. ‘Take that, you prick!’

  Hunter let out a breath. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘The boy pulled a gun on you!’

  Hunter searched the guy for ID. Nothing. He scanned around the deck. ‘Where is his gun?’

  Jock frowned. ‘Lost track of it.’

  Hunter grabbed the guy’s lapels and checked his wound. Blood and already showing signs it’d bruise. He was out of it. Hunter slapped him. But the guy didn’t wake up.

  ‘There’s more boats coming here!’ Fiona was shouting over the screech of the wind. ‘We need to go!’

  Hunter patted him down and found a phone in a zipped-up map pocket by the collar. He checked it. Locked, but it clearly wasn’t his. The background was a photo of Murray Hunter and a man with a soul patch, hugging on some beach somewhere.

  So Murray had been there. And this guy either had Murray’s phone, or he had his friend’s. Assume it was Keith.

  Hunter stared at their attacker and wanted to drag all of the information out of him. Find out what he knew about Murray. But he’d pulled a gun on them and if his mates were as hostile, then they were in deep shit. No chance he could get him down the ladder, even if he weighed as little as Fiona.

  She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Go!’ Hunter grabbed Jock and hauled him over to their ladder, pushing him to go first.

  The old bugger stepped over and eased himself down, even slower than his walking pace.

  Fiona went next, and Hunter stood there, watching for any more predators, the polyrhythmic clanging from below. Then he grabbed the ladder and followed Fiona down, both having to keep to Jock’s slow pace. Still, no man left behind. Seemed to take forever, keeping his head looking up as he descended, but he soon reached the halfway point.r />
  Jock was already on the second section.

  Fiona stood there, fists clenched. ‘Bud, this is worth—’

  ‘Keep going!’ Hunter pushed her towards the ladder.

  ‘Hoy!’ The guy was at the top, staring at them from above. ‘Stop!’

  Hunter didn’t answer, instead rushing down the ladder, climbing fast.

  A gunshot rang out, echoing like it was fired into the sky rather than down at them.

  Hunter’s left hand slipped and he fell, but he caught himself on the lower rung. He stopped to look back up.

  The man slid down the upper ladder at a rapid lick, but no sign of the handgun.

  Below, Fiona’s boat started up.

  Hunter set off again towards the jetty—fast, fast, fast.

  The metal clanged. Above, the man was on the lower ladder now, heading right for them.

  Hunter tried to go faster. Not long now. But the guy was closing on him. He let go with his right hand to reach down, but his foot slipped and he tried to correct his grip. His other foot squeaked away from the metal and he plummeted to the jetty, landing with a crunch.

  The air flew out of his lungs. Stars spun in front of his eyes.

  He tried to get up but couldn’t.

  The man was almost down at Hunter’s level, powering down a ladder like nobody should be able to, at least nobody that size. Each rung, he seemed to grow.

  Hunter rolled over and pushed up. His ribs felt like someone had tried tearing them out with pliers, but had given up halfway through and left them all broken and twisted. He got up to standing and rested against a pillar.

  The boat was ten metres away. Fiona was pleading with him. ‘Come on!’

  The man jumped the last few metres, landing with a clatter.

  Hunter stumbled towards the boat and toppled in, landing on the floor. If it was called the floor. He didn’t know. His ribs burned and the stars were still spinning.

  The engine revved and the boat rumbled off across the water. ‘Shite!’ Fiona kept looking behind her. ‘Who the hell is that?’

  All Hunter could do was lie there, panting hard and heavy, his chest burning. He checked across his chest for telltale holes or blood. Nothing. Just sweat and hair.