The Black Isle

by Ed James

  ‘Anything else there?’

  Hunter looked it all over again. ‘Square root of bugger all.’ He tossed the clothes bag over. ‘Take this, I’ll grab the rest.’

  Jock looked inside the bag, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want to seem homophobic, Craig. It’s just…’ He put the bag over his shoulder, the strap pushing his man boobs apart. ‘Are you keeping any secrets from me?’

  ‘What?’ Hunter snarled. Then caught himself—that’d just feed the old sod’s paranoia. So he smiled. ‘No. Nothing big, anyway.’

  ‘It’s the…’ Jock sucked in a deep breath. ‘I don’t know, son.’

  ‘You really expect me or Murray to trust you?’

  ‘I just don’t like people keeping secrets, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re the expert.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Let’s speak to him.’ Hunter led Jock back through. The bag was heavy as hell.

  ‘Excuse me, but where do you think you’re going with that?’ The vulture shifted over to block the door, arms folded. ‘That’s my stuff!’

  ‘Correction, that’s my brother’s stuff. I’m claiming it back.’

  ‘Under whose authority?’

  Hunter dropped his bag and flipped out his warrant card. ‘Police Scotland.’

  ‘You should’ve told me when you came in, you know?’

  ‘And you shouldn’t be trying to sell my brother’s stuff.’

  ‘I’m an honest businessman.’

  ‘Selling dead men’s laptops.’

  ‘There’s a chap down in Inverness who can factory reset those Apple thingies. Can be quite lucrative.’ Tweed frowned. ‘Dead?’

  ‘That’s my working assumption, aye.’

  ‘You’re a murder detective?’

  Hunter gave him a truthful smile. ‘I am. Based in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  Jock handed him back the mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘I didn’t say you could have any.’

  ‘All the same, it’s lovely stuff. Where do you get your beans?’

  ‘Jock.’ Hunter shot a warning look as he held out his mobile showing a photo. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  A frown twitched across his forehead. ‘This is…?’

  ‘My brother. Murray.’

  ‘Good heavens. Well, he was here. Him and another chap. Spent a while looking at the maps. His friend was interested in the piano score. Didn’t buy anything, but such is the nature of the business.’

  ‘They say anything?’

  ‘To each other, yes. Constant jokes and comments and remarks about my shop. But I’m used to that.’

  ‘Listen to me, son.’ Jock got in the vulture’s face, towering over him. ‘That’s my boy’s stuff you’re hawking there.’

  ‘Please, I’m just trying to earn a living here!’

  ‘I should kick your arse for this.’

  And Hunter saw it. The telltale signs of Jock being hangry, seen so many times as small kid, then sporadically as a teenager, then never since. Low blood sugar plus discovery of a secret his son had been keeping from him could only ever equal a paternal explosion and smashed crockery, unless Hunter got some calories in him.

  10

  ‘This is good.’ Jock chomped his ciabatta, the brie and bacon mixing into a mush in his open mouth. He took a sip of cola before he’d finished and swallowed down the unholy mixture. ‘I hear that pizza place by the harbour is beautiful. Hard to get a table, mind. This’ll be our tea, aye?’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter picked at his salad, down to the last chunk of marinated squash. Still wasn’t that hungry. ‘You feeling any better?’

  ‘Not really.’ Jock snapped a crisp and swallowed it down. ‘It’s just… Do you think you can come to me about anything?’

  ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you left us when we were kids. A few returns over the years. How the hell can we trust you after that?’

  Jock frowned, his lips twitching like he was ready to start smashing shit up, but he leaned over his plate instead. ‘Woman at your five o’clock keeps looking at you.’

  Hunter nodded, then ate his last bit of salad. Kept it calm, chewing away. Then loud: ‘Where’s the waitress? Could do with another cup of tea.’ He looked left, right, then behind him.

  The café had clearly been a pub at some point. A big bar ran the length of the room, but the hardwood was now painted baby blue, with bunting running along the top and into the corners.

  And the woman sitting at the next table was peering over. Dark hair streaked with grey, hanging around a cherubic face. Jeans, green T-shirt, Doc Martens. She locked eyes with Hunter, then went back to her scone, slowly buttering the top half.

  Hunter waved over at the waitress who was thumping the buttons on the till. She gave him a frustrated nod, but didn’t shift, just kept hitting the cash register. So he looked back at Jock. ‘She’s definitely watching us.’

  ‘Why, though?’ Jock finished chewing. ‘What’s she after? Not another lassie after my bloody body.’ He spoke like it was a constant battle.

  ‘I think it’s more likely that she’s wondering who the strangers in her café are. It’s not exactly tourist season.’ Hunter stared at his plate, smeared with dark dressing, dotted with green oil. ‘But we need to focus on the fact the trail’s gone cold.’ He looked up and locked eyes with Jock. ‘But that isn’t the end. First, we now know Murray was here in town. Second, we know he wasn’t alone.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whether he’s gay or not doesn’t matter. Third, we don’t know who he was with, but we know Murray and whoever he was with left in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s hardly a lot to go on.’ Jock scoffed his last crisp. ‘Anything else?’

  Hunter finished his tea, now lukewarm but still drinkable, and stared into space. ‘It was just Murray’s stuff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was just Murray’s clothes, right?’ Hunter nudged the bags on the floor with his foot. ‘The food might be shared, but it’s all Murray’s clothes and laptop and stuff. Agreed?’

  Jock reached down and had another look. ‘Take your point, aye.’ He sat back and ran a hand across his face. ‘One thing about your brother is, he always wore the same clothes. Those hiking trousers, that brand of T-shirts. The plain ones. American something.’

  ‘Glad you agree.’ Hunter looked over at the waitress, still battering the till. Their observer had cleared off, leaving the bottom half of her scone and a fiver on the table. He caught the waitress’s eye and raised his tea cup. Got a nod and roll of the eyes, then focused back on Jock. ‘When Murray’s mate or boyfriend or whoever he is left, he took his own stuff but Murray’s ended up in that vulture’s clutches.’

  ‘That prick. Selling my boy’s stuff. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Let it go. We know Murray was here. That’s something, right? We need to find whoever he was with.’

  The waitress sloped over with a fresh pot of tea for Hunter. ‘Need more milk?’

  ‘Please, but I need to ask you something.’ Hunter picked up his phone and showed her a photo of his brother, caught on a crisp Borders morning with blue skies and red hens swarming round him. ‘You recognise this guy?’

  The waitress’s eyes darted over to the door, then back at him, all narrow. ‘You police or something?’

  ‘If I said no, you wouldn’t believe me. Right?’ Hunter reached into his coat pocket for his warrant card and showed it. ‘It’s a missing person’s case, so if—’

  ‘He came in for breakfast a couple of times.’ Eyes back at the door. ‘Seemed very focused, working on laptops.’

  ‘Laptops plural?’

  ‘Yeah, pair of them. Two laddies. Get a lot of writers in here. Order a coffee and nurse it for hours.’ She walked off.

  Jock slid his plate to the side. ‘You think that’ll give us anything?’

  ‘Not sure.’r />
  A jug of milk snapped onto the table in front of Hunter. The waitress picked up Jock’s plate and frowned. ‘I did see them in the pub too.’

  Hunter stepped through the door and sucked in every detail of the pub. Just after seven and pretty busy. A pair of old-timers sat at the bar, staring into their beer, just like in the hotel bar. Hunter couldn’t tell if they were the same men. Next to them, two female office workers were trying to order. The nearest table had four women, mid-thirties, a bottle of white in a chiller between them. A red-haired woman in a suit gave Hunter the up-and-down, then went back to laughing. A man with short dark hair sat in the window, hammering his laptop’s keyboard like it’d insulted him.

  Jock sidled up the bar, an alpha male in his natural habitat, grabbing the barman’s full attention despite the strong competition. ‘Pint of the Rogue Wave, cheers.’ He turned to the side. ‘Craig?’

  Hunter followed him over and checked the pumps. He groaned as the barman poured Jock’s order. ‘Dad, that’s a bit strong.’

  ‘Saying I can’t handle a five point seven percent IPA?’

  More like Hunter couldn’t handle him when he was shit-faced. ‘It’s not the strength of one pint, it’s the strength over ten or twelve.’

  ‘Take a hold of yourself, son. It’s hardly Special Brew!’

  Hunter held his gaze. ‘Get me a Happy Chappy.’

  ‘You heard the man.’

  The barman gave the nod of a consummate professional, then poured from a separate tap as Jock’s wreck-the-hoose juice settled.

  Hunter eased his phone out of his pocket and showed it to the barman. ‘You recognise this guy?’

  The barman didn’t take much of a look, just stayed focused on the beer. ‘He was in with a mate. Last week.’ He started topping up Jock’s pint. ‘Oh aye.’ He slid the glass over and finally made eye contact. ‘Got a bit ripped one night. Started upsetting the natives.’

  Hope was surging in Hunter’s gut. ‘Which night?’

  ‘Be a week past Sunday. I almost had to turf them out but they left before I started threatening them with physical violence as opposed to ocular.’ As if to emphasise his point, he narrowed his eyes at them.

  Sunday would fit the timeline for the dead man’s switch. One week would be this morning, assuming Murray had checked in a week ago.

  ‘Who was he with?’

  ‘A man. Medium height, soul patch.’ He tickled just below his lips. ‘Pair of them were off their faces on that ale I’ve just poured for your old man there.’

  Hunter braced himself against the bar. ‘Were they speaking to anyone?’

  ‘Who weren’t they speaking to?’ The barman rolled his eyes. ‘Chatted to everyone. Absolute pish, too. Drunken nonsense. Pair of clowns.’ He passed Hunter his beer. ‘That’s a lovely ale, pal. Good choice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter took a sip. Tangy and hoppy as fuck. Perfect. ‘You speak to them?’

  ‘Weren’t interested in anything I had to say, other than how much their round cost. Tried to suggest they lay off the strong stuff, but they wouldn’t be told.’

  ‘Speak to anyone who’s in here just now?’

  The barman didn’t even look. ‘Nope.’

  Hunter handed over a tenner, not expecting any change. ‘What about anybody not currently here?’

  The barman went over to the till. ‘That bloody idiot Fiona was chatting to them.’

  ‘Who’s Fiona?’

  ‘Kid’s bad news, not that she’s a kid anymore.’ The barman returned, his nostrils flaring, and passed over two shiny pound coins. ‘No idea what they were talking about.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter took his beer over to an empty table, one with a good view of the door and the quiet street outside. He sat and caught the woman looking at him again, then she went back to her pals, tossing her hair like she knew someone was watching her. ‘Apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, did it?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘My brother sure liked a drink.’

  ‘Still does, hopefully.’ Jock sucked down a sip, covering his top lip with foam. ‘Oh, that’s gorgeous.’ He passed it to his son. ‘Try it.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Jock held it in his face. ‘Go on!’

  The door opened and the woman from the café stepped in. She ran a hand through her hair, her gaze shooting round the room, finally settling on Hunter.

  Hunter looked over at the barman and got a narrow-eyed nod. Fiona.

  ‘You’re barred! Get out!’

  ‘Aye, I’m fucking off.’ Fiona walked back out again.

  Hunter pushed up to standing and set off. ‘Stay here, Dad.’

  11

  Fiona was a hundred metres or so away, head low and walking with great purpose. She took a left down towards the shore.

  Hunter braced himself against the bitter wind, laden with tangy sea rain. The houses he passed were mostly dark and quiet. Probably holiday homes, or commuters from Inverness who hadn’t returned yet. The house on the corner glowed, a family crowded round a television like in some advert.

  Along the curve of the coast, the promenade’s lights swayed in the breeze. A squat wall separated the shingle beach from the road and its parked cars, the waves hissing over the pebbles. Across the firth, industry rumbled, bright lights and cranes arcing slowly.

  No sign of Fiona.

  Up ahead, someone passed under a streetlight.

  Hunter sped up and followed on the opposite side, using the parked cars as cover, but he soon lost Fiona as the street bent round. He came to a junction, the coast road merging with another that headed out of town, guided by a tall stone wall. The old brewery over the way was bright, the sounds of a ceilidh band inside—the solid thump of drums and bass accompanying a fiddle, clumping feet almost matching the rhythm. Another stone wall sat at the end of the street leading back to the heart of the town, opposite two old houses lurking in the darkness.

  A short woman stood, talking to someone just out of sight. Hunter could make some words out over the music. ‘You’re a good lassie, Fiona Shearer. I’ll see you later.’ She walked towards Hunter, crossed over and headed into the old brewery, letting the clatter of the ceilidh out. Didn’t look like she had her dancing trousers on, but then what was going on inside wasn’t exactly dancing.

  Up ahead, Fiona powered on, back towards the pub.

  Hunter walked faster now, narrowing the gap with each long stride. The street was barely wide enough to park cars and still let others past, not that it had stopped the locals. Fiona slipped down a narrow vennel, a row of small fishing cottages cast in pitch black, not quite catching the light from the promenade.

  And Hunter had lost her again.

  Movement, over on the left, by a gate leading to a back garden and a shed piled high up the windows with junk. Hunter set off towards it, slow and cautious.

  Something hard pressed in his back.

  Knife? Gun? Either way, Hunter stopped, hands up.

  A voice in his ear, ‘What do you want?’ Deep, but still definitely female.

  ‘I’m a police officer, Fiona.’

  The pressure on his back slackened off. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’

  ‘Check in my left pocket, you’ll find my warrant card.’ Hunter felt a hand slip inside his jacket, then caught another flash of reflected light. ‘That do you?’

  The knife went away with a sigh. ‘Can’t be too careful.’ The hiss was now a gentle Highland lilt and a lot less deep. ‘What do you want?’

  Hunter turned slowly, his foot almost giving way, and he reached into his pocket for his phone. ‘Looking for someone.’ He eased it out and unlocked it, then showed Fiona the photo of his brother.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you think I’d recognise him?’

  ‘Heard you were speaking to him in the pub.’

  Fiona looked around, eyes darting about like they were in Waverley station at rush hour and she couldn’t find his platform. ‘Can�
�t do this here.’ She set off across the road. ‘Come on.’

  The bay window looked onto the lane, now lit up from stray light. Fiona drew the curtains and let it return to darkness. ‘Coffee or tea?’

  Hunter stayed standing. ‘Tea’s fine.’

  Fiona shifted over to the tiny kitchen area, a dark alcove lined with units on three sides. The kettle hissed to the boil and she tipped water into a tired-looking grey teapot, which had probably been white at some point.

  Hunter walked over to the window and leaned against the wall. ‘Fiona Shearer, right? Like the footballer?’

  ‘Duncan or Alan? Take your pick.’

  ‘Who’s Duncan Shearer?’

  ‘Played for Aberdeen in the nineties.’ Fiona’s eyes glazed over. ‘It’s a fairly common Highland name, though.’

  ‘What were you talking to my brother about?’

  ‘Not sure I should be talking to you, bud.’

  ‘You want me to take you down to Inverness? Put you in a room, maybe get a lawyer in? You want to play that dance? Waste your time and mine?’

  ‘You’re the one coming into a single woman’s flat.’ Fiona stared at him, long and hard. ‘Who knows what happened in here?’

  ‘I’m recording this.’ Hunter held out his phone again. ‘You just threatened a police officer.’

  ‘Shite.’ She didn’t even look like she was going to go for it. ‘I’m thinking that if this was above board, you’d have already arrested me when I stuck a knife in your back.’

  ‘This is above board. Got a missing persons case on the go, allocated to some guy in Inverness who won’t return my calls. But the way you’re acting makes me think you know something about what happened to him. Maybe you’re involved.’

  Fiona reached into a countertop beer fridge for a squished carton of milk and sniffed it. ‘Look, I saw them in the pub. Pair of them were hammered. Get that fairly often in there, people heading up here for a weekend jolly.’ She poured tea into two battered mugs. ‘You take milk or sugar?’