The Black Isle

by Ed James

  ‘You probably shouldn’t have said that.’ Hunter crouched before opening the flat door. Just like every single time, Bubble charged at him. He grabbed her and picked her up into a cuddle, her purr strobing against his neck. ‘Come here, you.’ He took her through to the living room, keeping his eyes trained on Muffin as Chantal shut the flat door. ‘Methven’s hardly notorious for having a sense of humour.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And what the hell is “Violet’s Train Trip”?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Chantal went through to the bedroom and started thumping around through there.

  Hunter put Bubble down and joined her. Matching his-and-hers suitcases lay on the bed, , padded black monstrosities with swivel wheels, big enough to fit both of them in. Not that it was either of their kink. ‘You should maybe have—’ His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. The time for the joke had passed and he couldn’t really remember what it was going to be. So he sat on the bed. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  She opened her underwear drawer and paused. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  Chantal grabbed a handful of knickers and stuffed them into her case. ‘They’re treating us like rows on a spreadsheet.’ She stuffed in a pile of socks. ‘We’re people, Craig. We have feelings and career aspirations and…’ She grabbed five blouses from her wardrobe, huffed out a breath, then folded them in one and stuffed them in her case.

  More throbbing from Hunter’s phone. He got it out and checked—a stack of email notifications. Great. He put it down and opened his underwear drawer. ‘Oh pish.’

  Chantal was comparing two pairs of trousers. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve no clean pants.’

  ‘Christ, Craig. I thought squaddies were supposed to be on top of this stuff?’

  ‘I am. Was. But these meds… You know what they do.’

  ‘Right, right.’ She stared hard at him. ‘We’ll stop at Markies at the Gyle on the way.’ She dumped both pairs of trousers in the case and jabbed a finger at him. ‘But you’re explaining to Crystal why we’re late, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Hunter sat on the edge of the bed and got out his phone. He scanned through his inbox. PlayStation Store adverts, Kindle Daily Deal, his fitness app reminding him he hadn’t worked out since Friday and at the top, an email from Murray Hunter.

  Hunter let out a groan. The subject was ‘Dead Man’s Switch.’

  What the hell? Heart thumping, he tapped it. Below was a ton of links, blue and underlined.

  Craigy boy,

  If I don’t check in after a week, this email gets sent out automatically. You’re receiving this because I’ve popped my clogs. Carked it. Left this mortal coil. Met my maker. I am an ex-Hunter.

  I’m dead.

  I have died.

  They don’t want this information to get out. Whoever they might be.

  I’m either dead—in which case, avenge me—or I soon bloody will be—in which case, come get me.

  I’m counting on you, bro. Send it all out. Fuck them all hard in every orifice.

  And remember Dalriada.

  Peace and love,

  Murray

  5

  Hunter jolted to his feet and read the message again. Tried taking it slow, but he just kept skimming the words.

  It couldn’t be right. Murray couldn’t be dead. Could he?

  But ‘remember Dalriada’. The seaside pub in Portobello where Hunter bought Murray his first legal pint.

  Assuming it was genuine, there could be any number of reasons it got triggered. Could’ve lost his phone and been ill somewhere abroad. Like three years ago in the Himalayas, when he was missing for two weeks and he’d just left his charger at his hotel before going on a massive hike, on his own. Or when there was no reception in Chile.

  But in neither case was that message sent.

  ‘What’s up?’ Chantal was holding a suit jacket over her case. ‘You okay, Craig?’

  Hunter didn’t know. He passed her his phone and watched her read it, his fingers twitching. He couldn’t escape the feeling that something really bad was going on.

  Not that Murray wasn’t one to joke, especially at his older brother’s expense. But that message meant something happened last Monday, which explained him not showing up on Friday night. Explained the radio silence all weekend.

  Chantal looked up at him, her forehead creasing. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘You know what a dead man’s switch is, right?’

  ‘Like when someone’s wearing a bomb vest.’ Chantal passed his phone back. ‘They hold down the trigger all the time, so when the police shoot the wearer it releases and explodes.’

  ‘Exactly. But this is like the bomb is an email.’ Hunter checked the long list of hyperlinks. His mouth was dry and he had to swallow. ‘He can’t be dead, can he?’

  Chantal nodded at the mobile. ‘Christ’s sake, Craig! Phone him!’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter hit dial and put it on speaker, his heart thudding in his temples.

  Chantal glared at his mobile, like she could force Murray to answer the call. ‘When did you last hear from him?’

  ‘Couple of weeks ago. When we arranged dinner.’

  ‘Nothing since?’

  ‘Nope.’

  It immediately hit voicemail.

  Hunter ended the call and immediately redialled. Still nothing. He looked through the texts from Murray—nothing from his brother since two weeks earlier, just a few unanswered messages from Hunter, jokes and funny thoughts, the kind Murray would respond to maybe half the time. Same story with the emails, funny forwards and articles. But nothing in reply. Usually, that was fine and he wouldn’t think twice about it. But with this message?

  He dialled a Portobello number and listened to it ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, out of breath. In the background, a washing machine rattled through its spin cycle.

  ‘Mum, it’s Craig.’

  ‘What’s up, son?’

  ‘Just wondering if you’d heard from my idiot brother?’ His voice was shaking.

  ‘Murray? Not for a couple of weeks. He said he might pop in next week. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. He was supposed to come to dinner on Friday but didn’t show up.’

  ‘Sounds like your brother.’

  ‘You… You had any emails from him?’

  ‘He only texts me, son. Sorry. And my email is broken.’

  ‘How can…’ Hunter sighed, knowing not to argue with his mother. ‘Well, if you speak to him, tell him I’m waiting for an apology.’

  ‘Will do. Bye.’

  Hunter clutched his phone, hoping it’d light up with a call from Murray any second now, and gripped his knees, still sitting on the bed. ‘I need to go and see him. Murray’s down in the Borders and Perth’s completely the wrong direction. You head to Perth, I’ll—’

  ‘No, I want to come with you. It’ll be just an extra hour, okay? I’ve booked a catsitter. We’ll go down, find him, read the fucking riot act to him, then drive up to Perth.’

  The road ahead blurred and Hunter struggled to keep his focus on it. He glanced over at Chantal behind the wheel, then back at Murray’s email. None of the links gave any clue as to what happened to him, just a load of tinfoil-hat-wearing nonsense. Conspiracy theories, if they were even that fully formed. Confused ramblings. Paranoia.

  Christ, Murray’d been getting further and further down the rabbit hole and Hunter hadn’t noticed.

  ‘You’re muttering, Craig.’ Chantal slowed as they entered a small town, then took the first right, heading up a hill. ‘Something about tinfoil?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hunter shut his sore eyes for a few seconds. ‘You know those American nutters who think they can block the CIA’s mind control rays with hats made of tinfoil? That’s a tinfoil hat wearer.’

  ‘Murray’s one of them?’

  ‘I mean, he doesn’t literally wear one. It’s a figure of speech. But they’re not all American and
it’s not just the CIA. And it’s not just tinfoil. Or hats.’ Hunter stared down at the footwell, still smeared with dried mud from their Sunday hike up in the Pentlands. No time or inclination to clean it.

  ‘You okay, Craig?’

  ‘Not really.’ Hunter looked over at her. The rugged landscape rolled past, giant round hills covered in nothing but sheep and grass. Perfect hiking country. Dry-stone dykes marked out fields in arbitrary divisions, up and over the hilltops. Stone cairns claimed three peaks, dual tracks linking them. ‘Next right.’

  Chantal started indicating way too early.

  Through a thick wood, Hunter caught a glimpse of Murray’s sprawling estate. An off-white house surrounded by four fields, two filled with trees. In the main one, a ragtag bunch of hens pecked the ground next to a stable. Murray’s rooster, a big boy called Zlatan, darted across the grass to jump on one of them. A couple of seconds of wriggling and he jumped off again, strutting around.

  Chantal ploughed on down the road. ‘Still jealous of his house?’

  ‘Hard not to be.’

  ‘Guy might have all that money, but he’s living alone.’ Chantal took the corner way too fast and turned into Murray’s drive, crunching over the pebbles. She killed the engine and the car rattled to a halt. A shiny old VW sat in the carport next to the two-storey garage. ‘That his car?’

  ‘Don’t know. He changes it every six months.’

  Chantal’s phone rang and she sighed. ‘Cullen.’

  Hunter got out and walked over to the large modern house.

  Someone inside. Cooking smells, fried eggs too. Movement in the bay window the other side of the front door.

  Hunter’s heart was thudding, but he felt a surge of relief. Murray was alive. Right?

  He hit the doorbell, one of those fancy internet ones, and an ascending chime sounded inside.

  Chantal joined Hunter by the door, cupping her hands and looking through the kitchen window. ‘Cullen said we’ve got an hour to sort this out, then we’ve got to head to Perth, okay?’

  The door clattered open.

  ‘Murray, what the—’

  ‘Craig?’ A man peered out into the morning gloom, his hair jet black despite his craggy face. Fooling nobody with that dye job. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘STOP!’ A big, meaty hand blocks me getting inside. It’s Daddy and he’s looking angry. Blinking at me, like he sees two of me.

  Hunter tried to centre himself again, fighting against the flashback to his childhood. The PTSD, but his meds could only do so much. Felt like an army of snakes were crawling up Hunter’s back. ‘Looking for my brother.’

  ‘Murray?’

  Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘Have I got another one?’

  ‘You tell me. Quite the lad back in the day, wasn’t I?’ He jolted round, head tilted to the side and aimed a grin at Chantal. ‘Jock Hunter, pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Chantal Jain.’ She shook it with a frown.

  ‘I’m Craig’s old man. Sure he’s told you all about me.’ Jock opened the door wide. ‘Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.’

  Hunter took one look at Chantal’s frosty glare and followed his father inside.

  Jock turned into the kitchen, a large room with lemon-yellow units on two walls and a giant kitchen table in the middle, surrounded by a sea of wooden flooring. He filled the kettle from the sink and stuck it on to boil. ‘Back in a sec.’ He slipped off towards the utility room.

  Hunter grabbed his arm. ‘I need you to—’

  ‘And I need to drain the lizard, son.’ Jock slipped out of his grasp and seconds later the bathroom fan started humming.

  Chantal was over in the bay window, looking out across to the distant hills. ‘You told me your dad was dead.’

  ‘I wish he was.’ Hunter looked through to the utility room to the source of the whistling and splashing. ‘He left us when I was nine. Murray was six.’ He let air slowly out of his nostrils. ‘Kept slipping in and out of our lives, not really wanting anything to do with us until Murray got successful.’

  The kettle rumbled to a boil.

  ‘Still, you should’ve told me, Craig.’

  Hunter walked over started rooting around in the cupboard. He found some teabags in a copper tin and dropped them in the grey teapot, followed by the hot water. ‘Sorry. I should’ve.’ He clattered some mugs off a mug tree onto the countertop. ‘I hate even thinking about him. Makes my flesh crawl.’

  The toilet flushed and Jock came through, drying his hands on his trousers. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Well, for starters, I’m wondering what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Your brother asked me to look after his hens.’ Jock opened the fridge, rammed with beer and ready meals. ‘Let them out first thing, put them away last thing, keep foxy-foxy away from them, all that shite.’

  Hunter poured the tea into three cups. ‘Having a wee bit of accommodation difficulty?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Jock glanced at his son, then Chantal. ‘How do you take it?’

  She gave him a tight smile. ‘Just milk.’

  Jock splashed milk into two of the mugs and passed Hunter his tea. ‘Are you his bidie-in?’

  ‘We’ve been living together over a year.’ Hunter blew on the dark-brown surface of his tea. Nowhere near enough milk. He took a sip. Burning hot and weak as hell. ‘So where is Murray?’

  Jock walked over to the window and rested his cup on the sill. Staring out, head bowed. ‘Up north somewhere, doing some new video thing.’

  ‘When did he go?’

  Jock took a sip and gasped. Just like he did every single time. ‘At least a week, why?’

  ‘You heard from him since?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Not even to check the fox hasn’t eaten his hens?’ Hunter sighed. ‘Look, has he sent you an email?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Not had the time to check. Had to take a hen to the vet this morning. Poor thing was ill. Didn’t survive. I’ll plant a tree over her later.’

  ‘Murray cool with that?’

  ‘Happens a lot, he reckons. Best to put them out of their misery as soon as you can, then bury them. Great fertiliser, apparently.’

  Hunter got out his phone. ‘I got this from him this morning.’ He showed his father the message.

  Jock took a glug of tea and grimaced. ‘Ah, shite.’ He sat at the head of the table and woke up a laptop that looked steam-powered. ‘Let me see.’ He finished his tea and rested the mug on the wood, frowning. ‘That’s bloody weird.’

  Hunter looked over Jock’s shoulder. His inbox was out of control, just like everything else in his life. 4,235 unread messages. But one was open and Jock was reading it. The subject was ‘Dead Man’s Switch’.

  6

  ‘Scott, mate, I’m sorry.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the mushroom-coloured sofa, clutching his phone tight. ‘But I’m worried about him.’

  Cullen sighed down the line. ‘Your bloody brother, eh?’

  A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Mum’s old retirement thing, out of place in the spare minimalism of the rest of Murray’s living room. She wasn’t even dead and yet she’d given it to him.

  ‘My bloody brother.’ Hunter looked over at Chantal in the doorway, on a call too. ‘My dad got the same message.’

  ‘And your old boy… Is he still…?’

  ‘A pisshead? Leopards never change their liver spots.’ Hunter got up and started pacing the room. A male pheasant strutted on the front lawn. ‘I forwarded the email to you. Dead man’s switch.’

  ‘And I’m looking at it now. Think he could be winding you up?’

  ‘Doubt it.’ Hunter’s forehead twitched. ‘He’d want to see our reactions.’

  ‘See your point, but not sure I buy it. You been through any of this stuff?’

  ‘Glanced at it. Looks bonkers conspiracy stuff.’

  ‘Not the sort of shite he’d usually put on his YouTube channel?’
r />   ‘That’s all about urbexing, Scott.’

  ‘Minor celebrity, eh? Must be making a decent bit of money.’

  ‘Living like a king.’ Hunter looked around the room, at the massive flat-panel TV, the minimal soundbar nestling in front of it, the stack of games consoles underneath. Such an empty life. ‘He’s made a packet from YouTube videos, him urbexing in various stupid places, and fair enough. I don’t begrudge anyone their success. He’s worked hard. But this conspiracy stuff, Scott… It’s all lies. It isn’t healthy.’

  Sounded like Cullen was hitting a keyboard. ‘I’ve checked the PNC and can’t find him being reported missing. There’s going to be a ton of John Does at hospitals and so on. I talked to Al Buchan about this, and it’s now logged on the system. But there’s a report of a MisPer by the name of Murray Hunter in the Highlands.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘A PC David Robertson’s been allocated the case. Based in Inverness. Technically, you’re supporting him, so play nice. I’ve texted you his number.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all we can do, Craig.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter hauled himself to his feet. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘Come on, mate. My hands are tied. If he’s dead and we’ve got a body, it’s a completely different matter. But there could be any number of reasons behind this. Didn’t he—’

  ‘You mind if I take some time out?’

  Cullen sighed. ‘Look, I’m heading up to Perth as soon as Methven finishes speaking to every single senior officer in Police Scotland… Every phone call, you think “that’s it, here we go”, but no, there’s another one and they want a different set of stats and I’ve got to pull them together for him. We should be investigating this murder, not—’ He sighed again. ‘Look, I wish I could help, but I’m up against it here.’

  ‘I get that. But this is my brother, Scott. Just a couple of days.’

  Cullen blew air down the line. ‘Right. Today, then we’ll see how it’s looking. And I need Chantal in Perth. Deal?’