The Black Isle

by Ed James

  The Black Isle

  Craig Hunter 3

  Ed James

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Back Matter

  Afterword

  Other Books By Ed James

  Meet Scott Cullen…

  About Ed James

  1

  ‘This place is amazing.’ Keith looks round at me, grinning like a child, his hair blowing in the wind cutting across the oil rig platform. ‘There’s enough here for, like, ten shows.’ He winks, hauls open the door, then sticks his head inside. ‘Hello?’ He waits a few seconds, shrugs and slips through.

  I don’t follow him immediately. A fresh blast of ice-cold rain hits my face, with it a salty taste and tangy smell, and it tears the paper out of my grip, sending it flying across the platform and out into the Cromarty Firth. I train the camera on the open water, getting that perfect line of golden sun hitting the waves where it breaks the clouds in the distance, aiming right towards us. In the distance, the Black Isle looms up out of the grey, lush and green. Like something from a King Arthur story. Beyond the Moray Firth, the land rises up to meet the Cairngorms, just about visible on the horizon.

  Being up this high is the perfect vantage point. Not that there is anyone about. The whole platform is dead, all signs of occupancy removed, save the living quarters Keith is peering inside. I keep the camera focused on the clouds, just as the sun slips behind.

  ‘Hot shit.’ Keith slips through the door to the living quarters and his voice is muffled by the wood. ‘There’s at least…’ And he’s gone, more noise than signal, just a tone.

  I hit the stop button on the camera but leave my head-mounted GoPro running. Never know what you might catch—always good for a swift cut, or that bit of point-of-view veracity as we give our viewers a cheap thrill. I open the door and peer inside.

  And I feel the metal on my neck. A faint smell of machine oil. Shit. It’s a gun.

  ‘Stay still.’ Slight accent—foreign, eastern European or Russian. The weak metallic scent of his aftershave washes over me.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I slowly raise my hands. ‘Take it easy, pal.’ I start to swivel round. ‘We’ll leave and—’

  ‘Shut. Up.’ He presses the gun close, digging into my skin now. ‘I—said—don’t—move.’ He punctuates the final word with a jab, making my skull rattle and my eyes lose focus.

  Think fast here.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You think you’re in a position to ask that?’ I see the muzzle of the gun wave at the door Keith went through, now shut again. ‘Are you alone?’

  I hope Keith heard enough of this to find a way back to safety. ‘Of course. Who else in their right mind would come here?’

  Something cracks my spine and knocks the breath out of my lungs. I stumble forward, gasping for air, and my knees thump off the steel floor.

  ‘This is the last time I’ll ask you, and I expect the truth.’ The gun rasps the skin on my neck—that exact spot where the spine connects to the brain. The brain stem or something. Seen so many YouTube documentaries on it, the perfect place to kill someone. This guy’s a pro. I’m fucked. ‘Are. You. Alone?’

  ‘I am, I swear!’

  ‘I heard you speak to someone.’

  ‘I was on the phone.’ I wave north-ish towards Invergordon and its phone masts. ‘Got some reception up here.’ I’m reaching, hoping to hell that he buys it. ‘I was speaking to the guy who brought me on the boat. He left, but he was just checking in. I had the phone on speaker. Said he’ll be back in two hours. But I lost reception.’

  ‘Then we have two hours to get you away, my friend. But I don’t believe you.’ He grabs my arm and snatches at my phone. ‘Who is—’

  I dig my elbow into his gut and he groans. I wrestle free of his grip and hurl my mobile at the open sea. But it drops a few metres shy of the edge.

  Shit.

  Then the phone starts sliding in the wind towards the water.

  ‘No!’ He lurches after it, but it’s gone, slipping off into the deep. He turns to face me, training the gun on me. His face is riddled with scars, a diagonal knife wound cutting from the top of his right ear through his lips to his neck. Hardcore. ‘Stupid.’ He pushes me, then frogmarches me over to the closed door.

  And all I can do is go along with it, his arm locked around my shoulder, the gun back in its place against my neck.

  ‘Open it.’

  I reach out with my left foot—he doesn’t give me much choice—and nudge the door, pushing hard against the wind. A long corridor, with countless doors peeling off in both directions. He pushes me forward again and we pass a large bedroom, two bunk beds. Metallic, stripped, bolted to the wall. Adult-sized, though. The window is open a crack. No sign of Keith. My captor pushes me again and we keep walking.

  Halfway down the corridor he grabs my arms to stop me. ‘Stay there.’ He walks into a room that’s identical except for the window being half open and rattling in the gusty breeze. He checks everything with military precision, just like my bloody brother searching my flat for dope. And I get another good look at my captor. A big lump. Bald and muscular, and kitted out in professional hiking gear. Outdoor wear. He stares right at me, a proper soldier’s glare. Definitely ex-military.

  I flash him the smile that gets me in places like this. ‘Look, pal, I’m sure we can work—’

  ‘Listen to me.’ He steps forward, pinning me against the wall. ‘You are not supposed to be here. As much as I would like to kill you, I have a much better plan. We are going to have so much fun.’

  2

  DC Craig Hunter sat back in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel. He checked the pedals for the five millionth time, depressing the clutch and tapping the accelerator to get a nice grunt from the engine. Then he jabbed the brake. All fine. All working.

  A bus trundled along the quiet street, glowing in the misty darkness, and pulled up a hundred metres away. A man hopped off at the stop, his breath clouding the air, and he looked around, over both shoulders, then set off towards Hunter.

  ‘Is that him?’ DI Sharon McNeill leaned between the seats. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear, but her cold expression never wavered. ‘Chantal?’

  ‘Not sure, Shaz.’ DS Chantal Jain leaned forward in the passenger seat, squinting. Hunter had to look round to focus on his girlfriend, her arms folded, T-shirt sleeves showing off toned coffee skin. ‘Could be, but…’

  McNeill tutted, then let out a slow sigh. ‘Craig, can you confirm that’s your suspect, please?’

  Hunter kept his gaze on the figure walking towards them and tried to compare the man against his memory. ‘Struggling here, ma’am. It’s too foggy.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ McNeill slumped against the back seat. The white glow lit up her scowl as she checked her mobile, her thin lips twisting into a sneer. Then she was back betwee
n them, holding out her phone. ‘Is this him or not?’

  Hunter compared the on-screen shot of Derek Farrell with the approaching figure passing between streetlights like a wraith, his breath hanging there. Same heavy coat, same business suit, same shiny designer glasses. But still, this was Edinburgh, most office drones dressed like that in winter. ‘Still too far to tell, ma’am.’

  ‘Christ’s sake.’ McNeill passed the phone to Chantal. ‘Come on, is it him or not?’

  Hunter twisted round and gave McNeill a stern look, the kind he’d deliver to captives back in his army days, the kind that’d have them quaking in their boots. The kind that bounced right off her. ‘Are you trying to pin this on us?’

  McNeill evaded his hard man act with a flick of her pencilled eyebrows. ‘I just want to—’

  ‘It’s him.’ Chantal pointed at the figure, lit up by another streetlight. ‘It’s Farrell.’

  ‘Finally. Come on, then.’ McNeill slid over the back seat and opened the street-side door. ‘Stay here, Craig. And call it in, okay?’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Hunter put his police radio to his mouth as they both got out. ‘Hunter to all units. Target spotted. Serial Alpha are go. Over.’

  Chantal walked lockstep with McNeill, looking like a pair of Instagram-perfect friends, all shiny hair and giggles as they flitted between the streetlights. Under-dressed for the cold Edinburgh Friday night, saving that precious few quid on the cloakroom.

  The radio clicked. ‘Serial Bravo receiving. Over.’

  Hunter sat back, slumping low to watch the scene play out. He tapped the pedals again. All three still worked perfectly. He engaged the clutch and checked that the gearbox hadn’t broken in the last five minutes. Still stuck going into fifth, but he wouldn’t need anything above third.

  Ahead, the second unmarked Volvo SUV pulled up just past the bus stop. Blink and you’d miss it, but another two officers slipped out of the back, leaving some other poor fool in the same situation as Hunter. Watching, waiting, the exhaust pumping out needless fumes in case he needed to shoot off in pursuit. McNeill could take Farrell down just with a glare.

  Their suspect stopped and got out his phone. He swung around, talking into it. Laughing. Joking.

  Scumbag.

  Drug dealer. Rapist.

  Hunter wanted to shoot off, slam the car into him. Pin the bastard to the wall of the converted bond warehouse. Reverse. Then drive into him again. And again and again.

  But he just checked the pedals once more, then the handbrake, then the gearbox, all the time watching Chantal and McNeill home in on the prick.

  Farrell wasn’t playing their game, though. Didn’t make friendly eye contact with McNeill or Chantal, wasn’t letting their lost tourist act play out as planned.

  Metres separated them now. McNeill tried to wave him down. She looked so obvious to Hunter.

  Farrell turned to face her, still listening to his phone call, but gave a slight nod, his lips moving, saying, ‘What’s up?’ Something like that. Even out of earshot, Hunter could hear his Dublin brogue.

  McNeill got in front of Farrell, asking something else.

  The other cops homed in from behind, boxing him in.

  Hunter put the car in first gear. Not time to go yet, but time to be ready to move. He reached into the middle console and got out another piece of gum. The mint hit his mouth like a slap in the face. He tried to keep focus.

  Way too hot in the car. Chantal always liked the heating at ‘Lanzarote in August’ level, whereas that kind of heat brought back unwanted memories to Hunter. Reykjavik in November was his preference. He wound the window down and rested his arm on the door. Anyone watching him would take him for a bored dad waiting for his over-sugared kids. Hopefully.

  Idiot—it was freezing out there, nobody would make that mistake.

  He started winding the window back up.

  A rumble came from behind, and he caught another approaching 36 bus in the wing mirror.

  Shite. Hunter tapped the horn and McNeill glanced round, but quickly went back to talking. He spoke into the radio: ‘This is DC Hunter. Bus encroaching on acquisition site. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.’

  ‘Received, over.’

  But not by McNeill. She reached into her pocket and held out her warrant card.

  Farrell jerked his head around, sussing out his options, then settled on one. He lurched forward, kicking McNeill in the knee, then pushed her into Chantal, both women collapsing in a heap, and he darted off, pounding the pavement towards Hunter. The other cops broke ranks and sprinted after him.

  Hunter slipped off the handbrake and drove straight at Farrell, eating up the distance in seconds. Eyes bulging, Farrell noticed almost too late. But he jumped, skidding over the bonnet and landing on the road on all fours. Then he was off again, pushing away like an American football player—head low, thundering along Bonnington Road towards the bus stop and the crowd of gawpers getting off the 36.

  Hunter was halfway through a three-pointer, bumping the pavement as he swerved round. He stuck it in first and shot off. The other two cops hammered along, keeping pace until he floored it.

  Farrell ran in front of the bus. And stopped dead in his tracks.

  And Hunter was going too fast. He hit the brakes, but the car slid on ice, out of control. The wheel locked, wouldn’t shift. He pumped the brakes, but it seemed to speed up if anything. Heading right at Derek Farrell.

  Then Hunter regained control. He swung the wheel to the left, fishtailing the rear towards the bus, still going to hit the man.

  A figure darted out in front of the car, pushing Farrell away.

  The car crunched into the bus and bounced back, the engine screaming. The cabin lights came on.

  And Farrell was running up the side street, leaving a woman on the pavement clutching her belly.

  Hunter wrestled his seatbelt free and pawed at the billowing airbag until it wasn’t in his face. His door wouldn’t budge. He shifted over to the passenger side and clawed at the handle until it opened, then stumbled out into a run, his boots slapping the ground.

  Farrell was way ahead, but looking back. Each step, the distance closed.

  Hunter’s lungs burned as he powered after the other man, narrowing the distance to inches by the corner. He threw himself into a rugby tackle and caught Farrell’s arm. A scream tore out as they landed, something soft squishing under Hunter’s knee.

  ‘Get off me!’ Farrell was all elbows and fists. ‘Get the fuck off me!’

  Hunter jerked Farrell’s hand up his back and got a squeal. A really, really satisfying squeal. ‘Derek Douglas Farrell, I’m arresting you for the rape of Jennifer Harris.’ He snapped a cuff on, too tight. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’ Then the other cuff, way too tight, but no sound from Farrell. ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He sucked in a deep breath and hauled Farrell to his feet. ‘Do you understand?’

  Farrell hung his head low, staring at his feet. No emotion on his face.

  Hunter jerked him again. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Course I understand. Wasn’t me, though.’

  ‘That’s for a judge and jury to decide.’ Hunter grabbed Farrell by the sleeve and led him back to the chaos.

  The bus stood in the middle of the road, a giant obelisk blocking the traffic. Bonnington Road was a rat run between central Edinburgh and Leith, and traffic was piling up in both directions.

  McNeill stood next to the bus, mouth hanging open, shaking her head at the battered pool Volvo sticking out the wreck. She looked over at Hunter, eyes full of fire and fury. Then she clocked Farrell and the glare softened, but not much. She walked right up to Hunter.

  He took a deep breath, knowing he’d pay a price for the carnage, but collaring a serial rapist who’d been on the run for months and months was a huge tick in the plus column.

  The two cops from the othe
r car finally showed up, as usual after all the fun was over. Big Jim stood back, hands splayed like he was fighting Bruce Lee. Kate grabbed Farrell’s jacket. ‘Come on, then.’ She looked down at his wrists. ‘Christ, are you trying to stop the circulation in his hands?’ She got out her key and stepped behind him.

  Farrell snapped his forehead forward into McNeill’s nose. She stumbled back against the bus and thumped to the ground.

  He swung out with his left hand, the flailing cuffs slicing through Big Jim’s ninja posture and sending him flying against the wall. Kate went down on top of him. Farrell’s elbow lashed backwards and cracked into Hunter’s eye socket. Pain exploded through his head. All he could do was try to keep a grip on him.

  Metal flashed as Farrell swung the cuffs, cracking the steel off Hunter’s teeth. He had to let go and dropped to his knees. A boot to the side pushed him over.

  The sound of receding footsteps and everything went black.

  3

  McNeill’s face was a mush of dried blood and bandages. Even sitting behind her desk looked like it hurt. ‘This is a royal fuck up.’

  In the darkened room, Chantal was illuminated from behind by the full-blast lights from the open-plan office outside.

  The glow made Hunter’s eye sting again, all over the puffy flesh, so he looked back at McNeill in the darkness. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ He touched the chair arm and lowered himself down. ‘I take resp—’

  ‘STAY STANDING!’ McNeill’s voice drilled into his skull. ‘Get to your feet, Constable!’