The Black Isle

by Ed James

  ‘Just milk, thanks.’

  A splash and Fiona walked over to hand him the mug. World’s Best Dad. ‘Slainte.’

  ‘Slainte.’ Hunter held up the mug. One look round the tired room, the tired life, and he didn’t want to press her on the mug’s story. ‘So, you were in the pub?’

  ‘Right.’ Fiona slouched back over to the kettle and her own tea. Her own territory. ‘I was chatting to an old pal in there when that boy on your phone ordered a beer, you know how it is.’ She paused, like Hunter’s knowledge of buying alcohol in a pub was in any way important.

  ‘I know.’ Hunter blew on the tea, knocking the scum and breaking it into much smaller dots. No way was he drinking that. ‘The ancient art of small talk, right?’

  ‘Damn right.’ Fiona drank some tea. ‘Anyway, this boy, whatever his name is, started saying how he’s up on a fishing trip.’

  Murray, fishing? But Hunter played along with it, resting his mug on a stack of bills on the windowsill. Outside, a car trundled down the lane, headlights picking out the rough path.

  ‘I’m a fisherman by trade. Fisherwoman. Been working on the water since I was yay high.’ Fiona held out her hand. ‘You have no idea how hard it is being a lassie on those boats.’

  ‘As hard as being a laddie?’

  She smiled at that. ‘Based in Fraserburgh the last ten years. Tell you, nothing like driving round the north coast on a freezing Sunday evening as you know you’re going to spend two weeks out at sea. Decent money, too. Not like the rigs, but decent.’ She stared into space. ‘Least it was. Not had any work for a while, though.’ She shook her head.

  ‘So what do you do for money now?’

  ‘I’ve got my old man’s boat. He raised me on his own after Mum died. Took me sailing all the time. Silly old bugger called it Dignity, like in that Deacon Blue song. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I can believe most things about fathers, aye.’

  Fiona laughed. ‘Not that it’s the season, but I take tourists out along the Cromarty Firth. Maybe up to Dornoch for the seals. Or maybe further out, whale watching. Or fishing, like these hipsters who were in the boozer.’ She took another glug of tea. ‘The ones you’re so interested in.’

  ‘You get their names?’

  Fiona shrugged. ‘This guy I was chatting to at the bar was called Murray, I remember that.’

  ‘Murray’s my brother.’

  ‘Shite, bud. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You catch his mate’s name?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Average height. Muscles. Good looking, except he had one of those beard things under his mouth.’

  ‘A soul patch.’

  ‘Right. Didn’t really speak to him.’ Fiona finished her tea and poured a fresh cup, like she was buying time to either weave a sufficient lie, or to figure out which bits to leave out. ‘They were looking for someone to take them out. Fishing, they said.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I was too busy. Taking this pair of Yanks out, this big guy and his wife. They’d set it up months ago, paid in advance. And I mean, overpaid in advance. Wanted to see the dolphins. Good money in that. Took them out, Monday morning, first thing. Decent weather, got a few sightings and a whale too.’

  ‘Anyone take Murray up on his offer?’

  Fiona tipped in the last of her milk and chucked the carton in the bin. ‘Like I told you, I didn’t take them. They were a bit cagey about the details. Didn’t seem like too far out, though. But I passed them to my mate Shug. Sat on the happy bus to Fraserburgh together. They kept him on a few months longer than me, but they still booted him. Less internet-savvy than me, so he’s got to take what he can get from punters in pubs.’

  ‘You know if Shug took them out?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Shug got a surname?’

  ‘Mowat.’

  Hunter almost grinned. ‘De Monte Alto, right?’

  ‘Take your word for it. Millions of them round here, though. Well, hundreds.’ A coy smile flashed across her lips. ‘Some old Mowat must’ve put it about a fair amount.’

  Hunter started to see a path through this. Murray and his mystery friend looking for a charter. ‘You any idea where Shug might be?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ She held up her phone. ‘Okay, so I was messaging him on WhatsApp the other day. He told me was abroad. Been there for a month.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, I saw him last Sunday night when your brother was in. That’s why I’ve been in there asking people until Dougie the barman went radge at me on Friday.’ Tears glistened in her eyes. ‘I’m worried some bampot’s nicked his phone, pretending he’s fine when really he’s dead.’

  One missing person had become three.

  12

  The Cromarty Arms was even busier and felt like a much earlier age, when people used to spend their evenings in the pub, rather than destroy a box of cheap supermarket lager in one sitting.

  Jock had a table over in the corner, three empty beer glasses with varying degrees of decaying foam on the insides, talking at the American couple they’d clearly interrupted earlier. The big guy got up and walked over to the bar, rubbing his thick beard but grinning like he was having the time of his life.

  Fiona leaned on the bar, keeping her voice low as Hunter joined her. ‘That’s the Americans.’

  The barman slapped his beer towel over his shoulder. ‘Told you, Fi, you shouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘Dougie, I’m sorry for getting into that state. Bar me if you like, but I’m just worried about Shug, that’s all.’

  Dougie the barman slowly licked his lips, then caught sight of the American. ‘Same again, son?’ He got a nod and started pouring.

  ‘Dougie, I’ve not seen or heard from him since a week past Sunday.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not seen him since, either.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s weird?’

  Dougie jabbed a finger at her. ‘Doesn’t excuse what you did.’

  Hunter got between them. ‘What did she do?’

  Fiona ran a hand across her face. Didn’t answer. Or couldn’t.

  ‘She started a fight on Friday night. I had to end it.’ Dougie passed three pints of beer to the American. ‘I’ll add it to the tab, son.’ He returned his focus on Hunter. ‘Got herself a bit rat-arsed, thought it’d be a good idea to punch Wee Ally, and his name’s ironic. Guy’s six five.’

  ‘He was lying.’

  ‘Fiona.’ Hunter raised his hands, trying to defuse the situation and steer it where he wanted it to go. ‘Who’s Ally?’

  Fiona looked over. ‘Ally shares the Pride of Cromarty with Shug Mowat. Said Shug hadn’t been here in ages, but I saw him with my own eyes with your brother. So what am I supposed to think, eh?’

  ‘Can I speak to Ally?’

  ‘McCoull lives down in the lowlands. Just up here at the weekend. Got a cottage. Shug gets more than his half-share of value out of that boat, I tell you.’

  Dougie looked up with a frown. ‘Again?’

  ‘Aye, another three.’ Jock clapped Hunter on the back, almost hard enough to wind him. ‘Tell you, my boy, these Americans don’t know how to drink!’

  Hunter took him to the side. ‘Have you forgotten why we’re here?’ He stared at him, hard like Jock used to before he cleared off, or on one of his infrequent returns when he wanted to instil some discipline in his unruly boys. ‘This isn’t a stag weekend. We’re looking for my brother. Your son.’

  ‘You found him?’

  Hunter had to look away.

  ‘Thought not.’ Jock stared at the barman. ‘Lovely ale that.’

  ‘Right.’ Dougie looked up from the beer, forehead creased. ‘Listen, I might’ve heard Shug talking to these hipster boys. Like she says, they were in a week past Sunday. Talking about osprey.’

  Jock scowled. ‘They were looking for a bird?’

  ‘Get a lot of them round here, as it happens.’ Dougie
rested the beer on the counter. ‘The Osprey Alpha is an oil rig sitting off Invergordon, four of them waiting for decommissioning.’

  Hunter groaned. All those files, all those videos. Not a boat. ‘Stupid bastards were urbexing in an oil rig.’ He nodded at Jock. ‘Any of the documents a match for that?’

  Jock frowned. ‘Well, there were a couple, aye.’

  ‘Then that’s as good a place as any to start.’

  Jock grabbed Fiona by the arm, tight. ‘Can you take us out there?’

  ‘At nine o’clock at night?’ She laughed. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘I meant tomorrow.’

  Fiona tugged at her hair. ‘Two hundred quid and I’ll take you anywhere.’

  ‘You cheeky cow.’

  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘Hey, hey, calm down.’ Dougie jabbed a finger at Fiona. ‘Remember that you’re waaaaay past your last warning.’

  ‘Keep the heid. I’m not the one calling people cows.’ Fiona stared at Hunter. ‘Two hundred and I’ll think about taking you out.’

  Jock shrugged. ‘First thing.’

  ‘Aye, nae danger, bud. Got an appointment with the mechanic at ten. Motor’s on the blink, hence me needing two hundred quid ASAP. If you can sub us a hundred now, I’ll—’

  ‘We’re not just going up an oil rig.’

  ‘Craig, we need to—’

  ‘No!’ Hunter glowered at Jock. ‘I need to call this in and get approval. I’ll find who owns this rig, then we can get up there. Okay?’ He patted Fiona on the arm. ‘You got a card?’

  ‘Not as such.’ She took a beermat and scribbled a number on it with a stubby bookie’s pen. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter pocketed it and pointed at Jock’s glass. ‘Make that the last one.’

  ‘Right, Dad.’ Jock bellowed with laughter. ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Got to speak to the boss.’ Hunter slipped out into the pissing rain and called Cullen. Voicemail.

  Great.

  13

  The hotel breakfast room looked across the bay, the first rays of the breaking dawn hitting the firth. A nice clear morning, the view stretching to some distant hills and to the thick grey cloud rolling in from the North Sea. If it still was the North Sea up here. Even down in the Borders where Murray lived, they didn’t have the scale of the mountains up here. So many trees.

  If it wasn’t for the fact he was searching for his potentially dead brother, Hunter could consider moving up here. Away from Edinburgh and its drugs and crime and people.

  Hunter checked his phone. Still nothing from Chantal or Cullen, just a missed call probably about ‘an accident that wasn’t your fault’. He hit dial and it went to Chantal’s voicemail again. He tried Cullen this time. Same result.

  He had a voicemail of his own, though, so he checked it.

  ‘Hunter? Davie Robertson. No progress on the case, but call me back, cheers.’

  Hunter hit dial, his heart thudding. Voicemail again. Bloody hell. ‘Hi, David, it’s Craig Hunter. Please give me a call.’

  Hunter blew on his porridge but it was still too hot to eat. No idea what it’d been cooked on—a volcano?

  A small boat slipped across the water, puffing up foam in its wake.

  He popped open his supplements case and swore. Just vitamin pills. He’d left his PTSD meds behind in their rush to leave Edinburgh. He needed to find a pharmacy and pray they’d let him get some. Either way, missing for a day should be fine. Shouldn’t it?

  His phone rang. Chantal. ‘Hey, have you been avoiding me?’

  She huffed out a long and weary sigh. ‘Just finishing up for the night.’

  ‘It’s half six?’

  She yawned. ‘Aye.’

  ‘You solve it?’

  ‘Hardly. Got a couple of suspects. Methven wanted me and Scott to interview them and…’ Another long yawn. ‘Neither’s our killer.’

  ‘You sound like you need your bed.’

  ‘I need our bed, Craig. With you in it.’

  Even with all the shite going on, he couldn’t help but grin. ‘I miss you too.’

  ‘Well, if you were here, you’d be able to share this hell. We’ve got nothing. Nothing. Guy was shot six times and nobody saw a thing. Nobody’s talking. And the guy was just an ex-insurance man, retired to do some fishing and potter around in his garden. It’s bizarre, and you know Brian Bain, right?’

  ‘Not in the biblical sense, but he’s my new sergeant.’

  ‘Shite, aye. Well, he’s running around shouting about Albanian gangs. Some deep insurance fraud or something.’

  ‘And let me guess, he’s got no evidence for that?’

  ‘Right.’ She laughed. ‘How’s your hunt going?’

  ‘Hard to say. I mean, I’m an experienced detective but… We’ve got a thin thread and I don’t want to tug it too hard in case we snap it.’ Hunter tried his porridge again. Goldilocks temperature. ‘And Jock’s getting on my tits. His son being missing plays second fiddle to getting shit-faced.’

  ‘Oh, Craig.’

  ‘I swear, he’s turning this into a stag weekend. After that trip to Portugal, that’s the last thing I need.’ Another mouthful of porridge. Too salty, but decent enough. ‘So, what’s Bain been up to?’

  ‘He’s off the leash here. He made a neighbour cry in an interview. Nasty little man.’ Another sigh, mixing with a yawn. ‘I mean, it’s hard enough to sympathise with Scott Cullen, but he’s managing Bain and me.’

  ‘Tough gig.’

  ‘Speaking of which.’ Muffled voices in the background.

  Hunter took another spoonful of porridge.

  ‘Craig.’ Cullen’s dulcet tones, sounding as tired as Chantal, his voice that bit slower and deeper, the consonants sliding together even more. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

  ‘Well…’ Hunter took another spoonful of porridge, giving himself time to think it through. ‘The good news is we’re picking up Murray’s trail, but you know my brother, right?’

  ‘Well, a bit.’ Cullen yawned. ‘I could really use you here, mate. How long’s it going to take?’

  ‘This is a piece of string case, Scott.’

  ‘Strings, threads. You and your metaphors.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Could be a month, could be over in an hour.’

  ‘What’s happening in an hour?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, I’ll call you back later today.’

  ‘Right.’ Another sigh-yawn. ‘Craig, if there’s anything you need, give me a shout, okay? The case is logged, and there’s a local Inverness cop assigned to it. Oh, he’s on leave today.’

  ‘Shows how high a priority this is, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Look, Craig, you’ve got a conflict of interest here, so don’t do anything stupid. You can use police resources if you need to, but don’t take the piss.’

  ‘Does that mean Methven doesn’t know?’

  ‘I told you not to take the piss.’

  Hunter dipped his spoon into his porridge. ‘Oh, and if I were you I’d check out the Crafty Butcher podcast.’

  ‘What? Have you finally cracked?’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s a craft beer podcast presented by the King and the Billy Boy. The King as in—’

  ‘Elvis?’ Cullen gasped down the line. ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Like I say, check it out.’

  Cullen laughed. ‘I’ll put you back on with your lover.’

  ‘Wait a sec. Can you run a check for me?’

  ‘Here we go. I already regret my hollow offer of help.’

  ‘Oil rig called the Osprey Alpha. It’s possible Murray visited it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get someone to have a look into it.’

  ‘Cheers, Scott. Is that going to be Elvis?’

  ‘Aye. Call him, not me. And good luck finding Murray. I mean it.’

  More muffled chat and Chantal was yawning down the line, like she’d not stopped during Cullen’s chat. ‘He’s grinning like he’s—C
raig, what did you tell him?’

  ‘I gave him a podcast recommendation, that’s all.’

  ‘Right. Do I want to know?’

  ‘Probably. Anyway, what’s on the docket today?’

  ‘Breakfast with a load of mouth-breathing arseholes, then as much sleep as I can manage, then back to taking statements and all the crap you usually get on these cases. Never rains, Craig. Never rains. And I don’t know Perth at all.’

  ‘You’ve surely been?’

  ‘Is there a reason to go to Perth?’

  If there was, Hunter couldn’t think of it. ‘Sounds like you’re getting on with it, though.’

  ‘One way of looking at it.’ A pregnant pause. ‘Good luck today. Hope you find him. Love you, bye.’

  ‘Love you too. Bye.’ Hunter ended the call and rested his phone next to his empty bowl. They were saying they loved each other so casually now. Almost like they’d stopped meaning it. Or maybe they’d gone from infatuation to true love.

  ‘What’s not to understand?’ Jock’s voice tore out across the quiet room. The elderly couple looked at Hunter then at the door as Jock stormed in, fists in pockets, shaking his head. ‘Drip, ideally from ground beans. Got it?’

  The Polish waiter stood next to him, frowning at his notepad. ‘Baked beans?’

  ‘Coffee beans.’ Jock pinched his nose. ‘Christ on the flaming cross. Filter coffee. Four mugs of it. Black, big jug of milk on the side.’ He stretched out his thumb and fingers, indicating a pint-sized vessel. ‘If it’s from beans, great. If you’ve just got pre-ground, that’ll do.’ He smiled at the waiter. ‘You got that?’

  The frown betrayed any certainty, but the waiter gave a nod and walked off.

  Jock sauntered over and sat, slapping that morning’s Press and Journal onto the white tablecloth. ‘Craig.’

  ‘Morning.’ Hunter poured himself another mug of tea before Jock got in there. ‘You not having breakfast?’

  ‘Just coffee.’

  ‘Sure that’s wise after last night?’

  ‘It’s my fasting day.’

  Hunter let out an involuntary groan. Fast train to hangry central.

  ‘Got to keep in shape, son.’ Jock patted his flat stomach. ‘Six hundred calories today.’