by Ed James
‘Listen to me.’ Hunter held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Your country might specialise in brutal incarceration, but it’s no picnic over here. Especially for the amount of drugs you had in this house.’ He pointed over at Dani. ‘And your better half will serve time in Cornton Vale, a women-only prison. It’s not pretty there.’
Randy snorted. ‘This you saying you’ll drop the drugs charge if I talk?’
‘You’ll get a fine and a criminal record. But that’s it. You can get back home on your scheduled flight.’
Randy sank back in his chair, exhaling softly. ‘But a record?’
‘Sorry. You can’t possess that much coke and get away with it. Them’s the breaks.’
‘The drugs are all mine, right? Dani had nothing to do with it.’
‘Okay, deal. So, I need your side of the bargain first. Where is he?’
‘So I texted this guy at lunchtime, said we needed more stuff. He texted back, said he can’t come up to Cromarty, but we can go to him.’ Randy looked around the room. ‘Get me my cell.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he gave me his address, dumbass.’
Hunter stood up tall and reached out a hand.
Cullen held up an evidence bag, not looking too sure he should comply. Then he pulled out a swanky smartphone covered in so many stickers you couldn’t tell which brand it was. ‘What’s the passcode?’
‘Face ID, dude.’
Cullen pointed the phone at Randy then looked back at it. ‘That’s got it. He give you a name?’
‘Called himself Mick.’
Cullen tapped and swiped at the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He held up the phone to Hunter, showing a WhatsApp chat:
Mick
Ashworth’s Caravans, Kingussie
Call me when you get there
28
Hunter tore off a large chunk of battered haddock and bit into it. Tangy and a bit stale, but the only thing in the chip shop, and boy did he need his protein. And eating fish wasn’t like eating meat, was it?
The caravan site seemed normal to him. No swimming pool, no pub, not the sort of place the average gangster would hide out in. Elderly couples sat on their verandas playing cards, even in this weather. Rain battered the windscreen, thick and heavy. Deep bass pounded from somewhere. Close to pub chucking-out time, so he was expecting a few lads to make a trip to the Co-op off-licence and ‘all back to mine’.
Maybe it was perfect for hiding out, even if you weren’t a gangster so much as a mysterious drug dealer.
On the back seat, Elvis let out a burp, followed by a soggy fart.
Chantal scowled at him, still barely halfway through her own fish supper. ‘You don’t exactly get any better, do you?’
‘Can’t improve on perfection.’ Another burp. ‘Look lively.’ He pointed to a set of approaching headlights. ‘That the locals?’
Hunter looked over at Cullen’s car, parked a hundred metres closer, and got a flash of lights. ‘Looks like it.’ He re-folded his food and stuffed it in the door pocket. ‘Let’s go.’
Chantal shook her head. ‘I’m finishing this.’
‘Suit yourself, Sarge.’ Hunter winked at her and got out into the heavy downpour. He was drenched in seconds. He tugged his collar up and hurried over to Cullen’s car.
Cullen got out of his Golf. ‘Where’s Chantal?’
Hunter nodded at the Passat, just as Elvis got out, and cleared his throat. ‘Keeping up a recce.’
‘Right.’
‘Cracking chips these. Cheers, Scott.’ Elvis took another mouthful and rolled his wrapper into a ball. Hadn’t thought what to do with it, so just held on to it.
Bain got out the far side and waved at the oncoming squad car. Hunter would love to have been a fly on the wall for that journey down the A9.
A local cop got out of the car. No partner, just him. Resource cuts being what they were up here, that made sense to Hunter. And the guy was a giant. Late twenties, a slightly darker shade of stubble than Cullen, and with legs long enough to outrun a racehorse. The rain didn’t seem to bother him either, probably used to the onslaught. ‘Well, how can I help you at this late hour?’
Cullen joined him by the driver’s door, hoisting a brolly above his head. He’d need much longer arms to get it over both their heads. ‘PC Robertson?’
‘Davie.’
‘Call me Scott.’ Cullen shook his hand, but didn’t introduce the rest of the ragtag squad.
Hunter barged between them. ‘We spoke this morning. You’re running the missing person investigation, aren’t you?’
‘You’ll be Craig, then?’
‘Right.’
‘Sorry for radio silence. Night shift this week. And we’ve got no end of trouble up here. All the cutbacks mean I can cover anywhere from Dunkeld to Thurso, if I’m not careful. Sorry about your brother.’
Hunter nodded his thanks for the little Robertson had achieved. ‘I’ll assume you know nothing. An intelligence source pointed us towards a person of interest staying in one of the caravans. Name of Mick.’
‘Mick?’
‘That’s all we’ve got. I need him safe and sound, okay?’
‘Okay.’ Robertson put his ringing phone to his ear. ‘Aye, Andy. See us? Right.’ He hung up. ‘Owner. Andy Ashworth. Good lad.’
A squat man walked over, dressed for the weather, unlike the rest of them. Hood wrapped around this face, a couple of blonde curls poking out, darkened by the rain. ‘So eh, Alex, how’s it going, eh?’ A nasal whine. Rural Perthshire if Hunter had to put money on it, each ehh stretching out. ‘How can I help?’
Robertson folded his arms. ‘Looking for a Mick.’
Ashworth nodded. ‘Eh, caravan thirty-seven’s owned by an Edinburgh guy. Steven West. Not seen him in, eh, months, but there’s a guy called, eh, Michael staying there.’
Cullen pointed at Elvis. ‘Get the address off him then put in a call to Inspector Buchan in Edinburgh, get units to pick this Steven West up.’
‘Can you bin this for me?’ Elvis passed his wrapper to Ashworth. ‘Buchan’s not speaking to me.’
‘What?’
‘I beat him at chess and—’
‘So call Lauren Reid. Call anyone. Just get someone to pick him up.’
‘Boss.’ Elvis walked off, phone to his ear.
Robertson stepped in close to Cullen and Hunter. ‘Drug dealer? Sure?’
‘That’s what our intel says.’
‘Well. Holidays, weekend golfing. Not drugs.’
‘People golf up here?’
‘Decent courses.’
‘Take your word for it.’ Cullen gestured for the team to huddle round him. ‘Okay, we need to surround the caravan and take him for questioning. Craig, you’re with me on entry. Bain and Chantal.’ He smiled at Bain. ‘Brian, can you find Chantal and guard the rear exit?’ Then he smiled at Robertson. ‘Constable, can you and Elvis keep—’
‘Elvis?’
‘DC Gordon.’ Cullen looked over at him, still on the phone. ‘You two keep a wide perimeter in case he makes a break for it. Might be an idea for you to have your engine running.’
‘Got it.’
‘You got any lads who could offer support?’
‘Not here. One car north of Inverness. Two south.’
‘But that’s hundreds of miles!’
Robertson gave a flash of eyebrows.
Cullen clapped his hands together. ‘Right, let’s do this.’
Hunter followed Cullen over to the caravan. ‘This going to work?’
Cullen glowered. ‘Got to.’
‘That’s shite logic, Scott.’
‘You’re telling me.’
Bain dragged himself away from the gossip.
Cullen stopped by the pebble path outside the static caravan. Dim lights inside, the faint rumble of the TV and the smell of almost-burnt toast.
Hunter smiled at Chantal as she headed round the back of the caravan with Bain.
Brighter lights flicked on
inside.
Hunter pulled Cullen down into the flooded flowerbed, his thighs getting a splash of cold water. The curtain twitched. He whispered, ‘Well, there’s someone in there.’
‘Okay, let’s just brazen this out.’ Cullen walked up to the caravan’s door and knocked on the plastic. ‘Police!’
‘Get to fuck!’
Hunter recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it.
Cullen hammered again. ‘Sir, I need you to open up.’
‘Fuck off!’
Dim headlights lit up Cullen. A car drove up the thin path.
Hunter squinted through the rain.
A dark Range Rover. The guy from the Osprey Alpha was behind the wheel, caught in a flash of headlights from the side. ‘Scott, that’s the guy from the oil rig!’
‘Get him.’
Hunter spun round the side of a thick tree, trying to circle the back of the car. But it squealed off through the park. He got out his radio. ‘Hunter to Robertson, get after that vehicle!’
‘On it.’
The local squad car whooped its siren in the dark night and sped off after the Range Rover.
‘Shite!’ Cullen’s voice.
Hunter swivelled round. Cullen was in the flowerbed again, flat on his back.
A shadow caught in the bright light from the caravan door. Mick, running for it.
Hunter hauled Cullen up to standing, then sped off deeper into the caravan park. Hunter motioned for Cullen to take a right and head Mick off at the pass. He chased through darkness cut apart by shafts of light from caravan windows.
And he lost him.
Right at the edge of the park. A wall blocked exit or entry. Tall slats, interlaced enough to let the light in. He looked back the way, knowing he must’ve missed him somewhere. The last four caravans were arranged in a diamond, like a little village square. Benches sat outside. One had a long veranda. Bingo—Mick was up there, hiding from the light.
Hunter stepped towards him, taking it slow and quiet.
And Cullen blundered over, splashing in the puddles. The guy spotted Cullen’s approach and shot towards him, eating up the distance before Hunter could let out a warning shout. Mick punched Cullen in the face, then a swift knee in the bollocks and Cullen went down.
Hunter didn’t have time to see if he was alright, just focused on keeping pace with his target back through the caravan park.
Bain and Chantal closed in on him from the other side. Mick stopped dead and the three of them circled round their prey. A flash of light and Mick lurched at Bain, who tripped over and landed in a paddling pool, ice-cold rainwater splashing out.
‘YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD!’
Hunter thundered after Mick and his feet started sliding on the muddy grass, but he wasn’t letting the last lead in finding his brother—or what was left of him—get away.
The target was running towards a car, hand above his head and clicking a remote. The lights flashed. He got to the door and tore it open.
A fat smudge shoulder-barged Mick, cracking his head off the frame. Both of them went down.
Hunter caught up.
Elvis lay on top, rummaging around for spilled handcuffs, just out of reach.
‘Here.’ Hunter grabbed them and passed them over. ‘Good work.’
Elvis got up and helped Mick to his feet. The light from the caravan caught his pale skin.
Hunter let out a deep breath.
‘Mick’ was none other than Derek Farrell, the drug-dealing rapist they’d been hunting for months.
29
Cullen winced with each step towards them. ‘You got him?’ He was still clutching his groin.
Hunter nodded. ‘It’s Derek Farrell.’
‘Should I know that name?’
‘I presume you DIs have a newsletter that covers wanted criminals, one you’re supposed to actually read?’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ Cullen let out a deep breath. Looked like his eyes were watering and not from the rain. ‘Swear, I’ll never have kids now.’
‘That’s a good thing for the human race.’
‘Craig, I mean it. The number of times I’ve seen Methven get clocked in the nadgers… Christ. Where is he?’
Hunter pointed off into the distance. ‘Robertson and Elvis are taking him to Inverness. Robertson lost the guy from the rig.’
‘Right.’ Cullen got out his radio. ‘And definitely can’t place the guy’s accent?’
‘Could be anything, mate.’
‘Okay. Sort that rabble out in there.’
‘Boss.’ Hunter stepped into the caravan, dripping wet, and joined Elvis in the living room.
Surprisingly nice. A long kitchen table set between Shaker units. In the corner, an L-shape sofa sat around a giant wall-mounted TV showing some aggressive beachside porno.
‘Get that off.’
Bain was rooting around in the kitchen. He was still soaking wet, shivering, shaking his head. ‘Eh?’
‘The… Never mind.’ Hunter hit the power button.
‘Got something.’ In a gloved hand, Bain held up a block of drugs very similar to the one on the GoPro footage.
Hunter took a long look at it. Pure white powder, too clean to be coke, but not dirty enough to be heroin. Certainly not street heroin. The evidence trail wasn’t dead yet.
Bain walked over to the bathroom, giving the place a quick scan. ‘Nobody’s flushing anything down the toilet. Okay, toots, you want to do the other room? Check nobody’s torching a stash.’
Chantal left him and entered the bedroom. Then stopped dead. ‘Craig!’
Hunter walked over.
A girl lay on the bed, half-dressed. Biting a gag and mumbling. Eyes wide, but out of her head on something. Maybe roofies, maybe something even worse. And she looked young. Barely fourteen, let alone sixteen.
Hunter entered the private room and gave the doctor a stern look. ‘Can you give us a moment?’
He nodded and followed them out into the hospital corridor, giving Chantal a nod. ‘Sergeant.’
‘How is she?’
‘Well, we’ve completed a rape kit, but that’s up to your lab to process.’
‘I’ll get it fast-tracked.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Sadly, even your fast track goes round the houses.’
‘Found out what she’s on?’
‘Vodka, judging by the smell. Her blood alcohol level’s still high. And I suspect it was spiked too.’
‘Rohypnol?’
‘Be a while before I can confirm, but you’ll know as well as I do that date rape drugs like that don’t persist in the bloodstream. We might have caught this early, though.’
Chantal smiled at him and patted his shoulder. ‘Can we have a word with her?’
The doctor took his time considering, then folded his arms. ‘I am concerned for her wellbeing.’
‘I’ve had training, sir. Until Friday, I was in the Sexual Offences Unit and—’
‘Fine, fine.’ A flash of a smile. ‘I trust you.’ He snorted, then sloped off down the corridor.
Hunter took a deep breath and braced himself. Never got any easier.
Elsa lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Didn’t seem anywhere near as out of it as back in the caravan, and she didn’t seem to have woken up to the truth. And Christ did she look young.
Hunter sucked in another breath and followed Chantal in. ‘Hi there. My name is Craig. This is Chantal. How you feeling?’
Elsa glanced at them. A smile danced across her lips, then disappeared, replaced by a frown. ‘What do you want?’
Thirteen and she’d already sussed out the world.
‘We wanted to ask you about Derek Farrell.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The man you were… The man whose caravan you were in.’
She sat up in the bed, frowning. ‘You mean Mike?’
‘You know him as Mike, that’s fine. We want to know what happened to you. That’s it.’
She reached over for a cu
p of water and sipped at it. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not the first he’s done this to.’
She put the cup back on the nightstand and grimaced. ‘It was my first time. And it hurt.’
‘You poor thing.’ Chantal sat by the bed and reached out a hand.
Elsa took it. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘He’s not a nice man.’
‘He seemed it.’
‘They all do. Men like this Mike. Until they get what they want.’
‘But he seemed so nice.’
‘You want to tell us what happened? It’s okay if you don’t.’
‘Right.’ Elsa clenched her jaw. ‘Mum works as a cleaner, clearing out people’s caravans every week. I go along, do my homework while she works. Sometimes I help her. But he started chatting to me when Mum was emptying her bucket.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Am I going to get into trouble?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was drinking.’
‘No way.’ Chantal held her gaze, each passing second adding to the trust pile. ‘His name is Derek Farrell. He has raped five women that we know of. You’re the sixth.’
‘Oh my god.’
‘Tell me about the drink.’
‘He asked if I wanted some bev. That’s what we call it. Mum was still outside. I said, of course. He said to come round later. Mum works in a pub in the village, leaves me on my own. But I sneaked out, went to his caravan. He gave me some vodka and coke. It was lovely. Then I don’t remember much. He was stroking my hair. Then he took my bra off. And my pants. And…’ She shut her eyes, her face twisted by tears.
Footsteps thumped out in the corridor. ‘Where is she?’ Then a ruddy face in the doorway, a fierce-looking woman scowling at Chantal, then Hunter, then Elsa. ‘Oh my god, poppet. Are you okay?’
Hunter gave her space. Hard not to feel a world of anger for letting her daughter get into this situation. But he also empathised with her. Clearly a single mum, doing her best to raise a girl on her own, working at least two jobs, struggling to hold her shit together, while the father was nowhere to be seen.
Where had he seen that before?
Hunter stood in the shelter outside the police station in Inverness, watching the rain lash through the darkness. Beginning to feel like a second home. A car hissed past, taking it slow.