The Black Isle

by Ed James

  Hunter poured himself some tea, bracing himself for the onslaught of milk-based chat, but Jock was still chewing. He splashed the smallest amount of milk possible into his cup, hoping Jock didn’t notice.

  ‘Have you watched any of his videos?’

  Hunter shook his head.

  ‘Absolutely mystified why he’s able to afford that house from that. Still, it’s nice to see your brother finally being successful. Your mum must be proud.’

  ‘Like you’d care.’ Hunter put his spoon down on the bowl edge and held his father’s look until he won. ‘You saw his income statements in your printouts, though?’

  ‘Eye-watering.’ Jock refilled his cup, getting halfway before it ran out. ‘Ah, Christ, there’s hardly any left.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting to stop every five minutes with the amount you’ve had.’

  ‘Bladder like a tureen.’ Jock sank his tea and stared enviously at his son’s so-far untouched cup, hardly any milk or not. ‘He gets a lot of money, son. Every month. And just for videos?’ He shook his head.

  ‘It’s a global world now. Huge audience in the states and Japan.’ Hunter took a sip of tea. Stewed, undrinkable.

  ‘What do you think’s happened to him?’

  Hunter finished his soup and pushed his bowl away, fighting against the image of the bloodied face getting punched. ‘Until we find out, there’s no point in speculating.’

  ‘Fat lot of use you are.’

  ‘Thought I was getting a sandwich too?’

  ‘These’ll do.’ Jock held up a carrier bag. ‘Heading up into the arse end of nowhere, so I want us to be prepared.’

  8

  The fading sun lit up the road spinning off into the distance, crawling all over the Black Isle, old beech trees lining the way on both sides. Lush, and not at all what Hunter expected, especially after the brutal scenery of the drive up. Some horses roamed in a big field on the right, two cheeky-looking ponies hanging around by the gate midway along. Four or five oil rigs dotted the Cromarty Firth, Hunter couldn’t quite decide the number. This was as far north as he’d been in his life, and quite what they were doing there was anyone’s guess.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  For once, Jock didn’t have anything to say. Just head down, white knuckles on the steering wheel, a man pushed on by a goal.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Bursting for a pish, son.’ Jock’s knee was jiggling, his foot resting on the clutch. ‘Shouldn’t have made me finish that second pot of tea.’

  Downhill now, almost to the level of the firth, wild bushes climbing the easy hill across the road. Round another bend and a ‘Welcome to Cromarty’ sign whizzed past.

  ‘Christ, it’s almost up to my eyes, son.’

  The town eased into view, mostly white houses. The peninsula snaked out into the middle of the river to meet yet another dead oil rig. On the far side, tall buildings climbed up, looking like a shipyard or something. In the Highlands.

  Jock didn’t slow much as they hit the ‘30’ signs.

  A beach appeared, the tide far out. And the first homes of Cromarty, bungalows and post-war ex-council houses, the kind you’d see anywhere north of Berwick or Gretna.

  Jock took the left fork to follow the coast into the town, heading for the harbour. The Royal, a grand old Victorian hotel, sat on the right looking out to sea. The car had barely stopped before Jock shot out, flying through a door underneath the Belhaven Best sign.

  Hunter got out on the pavement and stretched out, his spine cracking in a particularly satisfying way. A Porsche rumbled past, low-slung, one of those eighties ones that did about an inch to the gallon.

  And the car started rolling.

  Shite!

  He dived back in and yanked at the handbrake, crunching as it snapped back on.

  Bloody hell.

  He grabbed his bag from the back seat and followed Jock inside the hotel.

  No sign of him, but tuneless whistling came from a door at the side.

  Panelled walls, dotted with old brewery mirrors. A long bar, with several pumps of real ale, still reeking of smoke, years after anyone could legally light up inside. Then again, with police cuts the way they were, who was to stop them up here?

  Three drinkers sat along the bar, enjoying their own company. One of them read a paperback, but the others just stared into their beer, self-medicating. The first looked round at him, did the old up-and-down, then went back to his fizzing lager.

  Jock reappeared, grinning from ear to ear as he did up his flies. ‘That’s got it.’ He paced over to the bar and grinned at the bear of a barman. ‘Two reservations, name of Hunter.’

  The barman looked even older than Jock, his wild beard climbed up to just below his eyes. He reached below the bar for a clipboard. ‘Hunter, eh?’ He looked at Jock, then his son, then back, like they were an unlikely couple.

  ‘Two rooms.’

  ‘Ah. that explains it.’ He rested the form on the scarred wood.

  Jock signed the form and pushed it back, and got a pair of keys in return. ‘Set us up a pint of the blonde, my good man. I’ll be back in a flash.’

  ‘We’re here to find my brother, not get banjaxed.’

  ‘I’m gasping, son.’ Jock’s eyes were wild like he really needed a drink. ‘And I am actually shiting myself about what’s happened to your brother. You go shit, shower, shag, shave, and back here. Let me deal with it in my own way, okay?’ He smiled at the barman. ‘Thanks.’

  The barman reached for a glass.

  ‘Beautiful pint that, Craig. Beautiful.’ Jock was powering along the pavement through Cromarty. ‘Swear I could go another twenty.’

  Going to be hard keeping the old rascal sober. The beer glass had been empty by the time Hunter returned to the bar. He followed a few paces behind, the dull ache in his skull returning with a vengeance. The kind of vengeance that you got from downing painkillers on an empty stomach.

  He struggled to tell where Cromarty’s centre was. It seemed to be a collection of fishing cottages with the occasional grand old mansion. An antiques shop with green signage sat opposite a café, both open, but no sign of a high street.

  Jock stopped and sucked in the air. ‘Beautiful.’ He set off down a backstreet, if anything, faster than before. ‘Just up ahead, son.’

  This road turned out to be the main street. A day-glo turquoise café was still open. A few doors down was the Cromarty Arms, a red Tennent’s T hanging above the door.

  Hunter stopped. ‘I’ve not come all this way to go to the bloody pub.’

  ‘Keep your wig on.’ Jock walked past the pub, then a wild garden overgrown with weeds already, before disappearing off down a side street which the stone wall marked ‘Big Vennel’, marching down towards the water.

  Hunter had totally lost his bearings. Again.

  Jock looked up from a sheet of paper. ‘This is the place.’ He slapped on the door and stepped back.

  Looked like a fisherman’s home, ‘Vennel Cottage’ stencilled in slate. Tall and narrow, and really old. ‘This is Murray’s Airbnb?’

  Jock looked at Hunter like he was simple. ‘Where did you think we were going?’ He thumped the knocker this time. ‘Well, there’s clearly nobody in, so we need to—’

  The door shot open and an obese man peered out, thin shoulders and face hidden by a neat beard, his colossal belly barely constrained by his T-shirt. ‘Can I help you, buddy?’ East Coast American accent.

  ‘Police, sir.’ Hunter stepped in front of his old man. ‘Looking for a Murray Hunter. He in?’

  ‘Randy?’ A woman appeared, flame-haired and about a foot shorter. Hunter couldn’t place her accent, though—could be English, could be American. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police, Dani.’ Randy focused on Hunter. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We believe a Murray Hunter was staying here.’

  ‘Might’ve been.’ Randy grabbed the inside door handle, looking ready to shut it in their faces. ‘But he’s not now. Si
r, we’re tourists. Over from Philly, renting this place while we explore my ancestors’ homeland.’

  ‘What’s your full name, sir?’

  ‘Randy Jablonski. But my grandpappy was a Mowat, came from round these parts.’

  ‘De Monte Alto.’ Jock nodded. ‘First Sherriff of Cromarty when it became a royal burgh. Became the Mowats.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘The boy here’s mother was of that clan.’

  Hunter glanced at Jock, giving a snort of frustration. ‘You know where Mr Hunter might be?’

  ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’ Randy waved back up the street towards the road with the pub on it. ‘But the woman who manages this place lives just next to the Cromarty Arms. She might know.’

  The address was a symmetrical two-storey villa, two gables jutting out either side, the doors and window surrounds painted dark green.

  ‘Think they were at it?’ Jock stepped under the similarly green porch and pressed the buzzer, leering in the evening gloom. ‘Because if they were, the boy was punching above his considerable weight.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Got to lighten the mood somehow.’ Jock pressed the buzzer again. ‘Sure you should be pulling that police trick?’

  ‘Worked, didn’t it? Besides, I’m not exactly off duty. This is an official case.’

  ‘Think that boy would’ve told anyone anything just to get back to pumping—’

  ‘Hello?’ A wizened old woman squinted out of the right half of the door. ‘What you wanting?’

  Hunter folded his arms, keeping his warrant card in his pocket this time. ‘Do you own Vennel Cottage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t rent it out?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Hunter huffed out a sigh. Felt like he’d caught the habit off Scott Cullen, but he’d only seen him for ten minutes that morning. ‘So, which is it?’

  ‘I manage it for the owners. Gay couple. Live down in Glasgow.’ She spat out the city name like it was a swearword.

  Hunter smiled at her, the grin that he’d usually reserve for elderly witnesses. ‘I’m looking for a Murray Hunter. I believe he rented that cottage last week?’

  ‘That’s right, aye. Him and a pal. Pair of them left it in a right state.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She sneered at him. ‘Had to get a cleaner to tidy it up, came all the way over from Dingwall! That’s twenty miles! Cost me a pretty penny that I’ll never see again.’

  Hunter glanced at Jock and caught a bit of worry. ‘What kind of mess are we talking?’

  ‘Well, like someone had a few too many sherries and decided to wreck the place. Real rock star stuff, the TV was the only thing not smashed. A shocking state of affairs.’

  ‘You said there was a pair of them. Did they cause it?’

  ‘Didn’t catch the other guy’s name.’ She opened the door and stepped out, leaning in to whisper, ‘Were they lovers?’

  Jock started fizzing like the beer he’d downed at the hotel.

  Hunter shot him a shut-up glare, then smiled at the old woman again. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I just thought that, what with the owners being,’ she whispered again, ‘that way.’ She cleared her throat. ‘That there might be some sort of club I didn’t know about? I dunno. But there was this Russian chap asking about them.’

  ‘By name?’

  ‘Well, not in so many words.’

  ‘He was definitely Russian?’

  ‘I think so. Big lump he was too.’ She eyed Hunter. ‘Even bigger than you.’

  Jock frowned. ‘I’m taller than him!’

  ‘Aye, in your dreams.’

  Hunter flashed a smile. ‘Thanks for your time, ma’am.’

  She nodded. ‘Funniest thing, though, they left a load of stuff behind.’

  9

  A chandelier shone inside the antique shop, the twinkling lights crawling halfway across the dark pavement towards the damp road. Hunter couldn’t see anyone inside, but the sign hadn’t been flipped over to ‘closed’ yet.

  Hunter opened the door and entered the shop, the bells tinkling. The place smelled of dust and oil. A vintage radio played, just about revealing some classical music among the crackling. And nobody about.

  ‘Lovers.’ Jock was still fizzing, hands stuffed in his pockets, face screwed tight. Seemed more interested in the accusations against his son than in finding him. ‘What the hell did she mean by that?’

  ‘Come on, Jock.’ Hunter shook his head at him. ‘It’s not like Murray ever brought a girl home, was it? Oh, hang on. You were never around, were you?’

  ‘Craig, me and your mother, we…’ Jock picked up a small framed map and sniffed at the price. ‘You remember we got back together when you were in the army?’

  ‘Just like you should remember me not coming back to Porty for my leave that year.’

  ‘Right, aye. Well, Murray was at the university.’ A twinkle sparked in Jock’s eyes. ‘He brought this lassie home once, though. Tidy piece, she was. Can’t mind her name, though. Alison? Marion? Kim? I’d’ve smashed her back doors in, I tell you.’

  ‘And yet you can’t remember her name.’

  Jock started leafing through a box full of mounted maps, ready for framing. ‘Some nice things in here, son.’

  A clatter came from behind a half-open door.

  ‘Back in a sec.’ Hunter left Jock to his maps and looked out on a large back yard where a garden should’ve been. Mossy flagstones covered in junk: a Victorian swing set; wicker patio furniture; an eighties briquette barbecue; four of those gas patio heaters that were supposed to be illegal now. Another clatter came from a door to the right.

  Hunter eased his way through the junk.

  Inside the door, a bald man in tweeds perched on a cream milking stool, just his red-trousered legs visible below his belly. Looked every inch the vulture, but one dressed to the nines. He was sifting through a cardboard box with one hand, scribbling in a brown leather notebook with the other. He looked up at Hunter and beamed. ‘Good evening, sir. Let me know if you need anything.’ English accent, like his parents had spent big on his education. And he went back to his box.

  Hunter entered the room. The stink of acrid coffee. A sink sat underneath a window looking over the yard, the counter filled with coffee paraphernalia like the guy fancied himself as an upmarket barista. Bean grinder, filter machine, high-end espresso setup, and one of those press things Murray gave Hunter for his last birthday. He swallowed down the memory and cleared his throat. ‘Mary Donaldson said she gave you a box of—’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Tweed tapped a shiny brogue off the battered cardboard. ‘This very thing.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I mainly source my wares from house clearances, but I sometimes take left-behind goods from guesthouses and what have you. It’s amazing how frequently people just up and leave.’

  ‘You manage to sell it all?’

  ‘Most of it I can’t, no, so it goes to various reputable charities in Inverness. But there’s usually something here that’ll—’ He stopped dead, frowning. ‘What are you looking for, exactly?’

  ‘My brother. Just want to check whether the stuff is his or not.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Mr Tweed winched himself up to standing, barely up to Hunter’s chest. ‘Well, by all means, have a look. Anything you don’t want or need, I’m more than happy to dispose of.’ He poured a cup of coffee into a mug adorned with ‘My Other Car’s A Bentley’. ‘Now, I’ll just be through in the shop.’ And he swaggered off, like he was doing something morally defensible.

  Hunter took his seat on the warm stool and peered into the box. Larger than he thought, the size to fit an old TV in before the days of lightweight flat panels. An Adidas sports bag looked like the best first place to check. He unzipped it—just clothes and toiletries, but they were packed in Murray fashion, all neat and tidy, strapped into the various compartments. Despite the general chaos in his life, he knew how
to travel. Shirts, trousers and towels all rolled rather than folded, designer underwear tucked into a box, socks balled up, all tips fresh from the latest Marie Kondo book. He set the bag aside and dug into another, bigger, and filled with enough pasta and tinned goods to get through the first few weeks of the apocalypse. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then Hunter spotted his brother’s designer leather satchel. Could even remember buying it for him, torn back to the shop in Edinburgh’s West End, one that shut down a few years later. Hunter just wanted a birthday beer with his brother but, flush with demob money, he’d promised Murray anything in the shop. The leather was a bit worn and creased now, showing that Murray appreciated it.

  ‘Lovers.’ Jock was standing by the open door, hands still in his pockets, an expression like sour milk. ‘The cheek of the woman.’

  Hunter went back to the satchel. ‘I’ve found Murray’s stuff.’

  ‘Right.’ Jock went over to the coffee machine and helped himself. ‘Can you believe her?’

  ‘What would be so wrong about him being gay?’

  Jock didn’t answer. Either he didn’t have one, or didn’t want to consider his son’s sexuality any further than his outrage would allow.

  Hunter popped the catch and opened the satchel. A MacBook was tied up like a hostage, the power supply neatly coiled up next to it. A couple of paperback books on the Highlands padded it out, but no notebooks or anything that could tell them what the hell Murray was up to here. He liberated the laptop and flipped the lid, hit a few keys and yep, got a password screen. He huffed another sigh. ‘Any idea what Murray’s password could be?’

  Jock slurped coffee. ‘Like I’m privy to any of his deepest secrets.’

  Hunter tried HIGHLANDER and got nothing. Then lower case, then a few of the combinations he’d try himself. 1 instead of I. 3 instead of E. Nothing worked. If only getting into a laptop was as easy as in the films. Maybe Cullen could get that Dundonian guy back in Edinburgh to have a look? What was his name? Charlie something…