The Black Isle

by Ed James

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s got other benefits too. Like low blood sugar and what have you. Sure you’ll be getting all that with your hocus-pocus martial arts I saw you doing this morning.’

  ‘Tai chi.’

  ‘Whatever. You look like an idiot doing it on Cromarty beach at the crack of sparrow fart. In the dark.’

  ‘How did you see me, then?’

  Jock tapped his nose and looked around the room, smiling at the elderly couple.

  ‘When did you finish up last night?’

  Jock dropped his surveillance of the room and picked up his paper. ‘Chucking-out time.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘You started drinking at four and you were on the randan until the back of eleven?’

  ‘Midnight.’

  ‘We’re here to look for my brother.’

  Jock lowered his paper enough to scowl at Hunter. ‘While you were back in your room speaking to your Asian babe, I was chatting to—’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘You know, your bird.’

  ‘My bird?’

  ‘Calm down, Craig.’ Jock tossed his paper on the table. ‘No need to be such a snowflake.’

  Hunter gritted his teeth.

  Jock leaned in close, mischief twinkling in his eyes. ‘So I was chatting to these lassies who work in the solicitors. They didn’t see Murray, but they backed up that Fiona lassie’s take on things. Saw her chatting to some boy and twatting him one. She’s a feisty one, that’s for sure.’

  Hunter nodded slowly. He should’ve done that himself, canvassing locals for additional verification of the tale. But he didn’t, instead heading back to his room. And not even speaking to Chantal, only one text back from her: Busy

  The waiter came over with a tall cafetière, the plunger at full reach, the coffee darkening the water almost black. ‘Is this what you want?’

  ‘It’ll do, thanks.’ Jock smiled at him, giving a good measure of the famed Hunter charm that hadn’t been passed down to his oldest son. He shoogled the cafetière, round and round. ‘This country’s going to the dogs.’ Then he plunged it and poured some out into a mug. A waft of bitter steam spread across the table as he tipped in enough milk to turn the coffee muddy brown. ‘What happened to employing staff who could understand what you wanted, eh?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you want, so what chance has that poor lad got?’

  Jock muttered something under his breath as he slurped at his mug. ‘Decent coffee, though.’

  ‘You’re seriously fasting today?’

  ‘That a problem?’

  ‘When you don’t eat, you’re like a bear with a twelve-pint hangover.’ Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, wait…’

  ‘It wasn’t that much last night.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? You were throwing them down your neck.’

  Jock took another sip of coffee. ‘I think we should get on this Fiona lassie’s boat and see for ourselves.’

  ‘I’m not trespassing on a bloody oil rig.’

  Jock grinned. ‘Chicken?’

  ‘No, it’s illegal. And I’m not paying her two hundred quid until we know for sure Murray was there.’

  ‘How do we go about doing that, Sherlock?’

  Hunter picked up his phone and called Elvis.

  Unlike his bosses, Elvis still picked up. ‘What’s up, you fanny?’ Sounded like he was in a café. Probably with Chantal’s group eating a hotel breakfast.

  ‘Just wondering if you’d spoken to Cullen yet?’

  Elvis sighed down the line. ‘Right, well aye.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m doing some digging just now while I’m at my cornflakes.’ Elvis crunched and sooked. ‘Thing is, it’s not a simple story. You got a pen?’

  14

  Hunter let the automatic gearbox do the heavy lifting as he slid along the main road, lined with mature beech and oak, all seeming wild and natural to his untrained eye.

  The Crafty Butcher bled out of the speakers, the only thing that seemed to pacify Jock. How the roles were reversed…

  Bain: ‘So, if you were thinking about New World hops in a no-deal Brexit world, would you stock up now?’

  Elvis: ‘Of course, Bri— Billy. You don’t know how it’s going to go. Nobody does. And as a hardcore home brewer, I don’t want to run out of galaxy or citra hops in November as I’m putting together my Christmas IPA. Do you?’

  ‘See, I’m thinking I might try going back to traditional British hops, make some lovely real ales.’

  ‘Old-school. I like it. Very hard to source, though.’

  Hunter reached over and killed the stereo. ‘Nice car, have to say.’

  ‘Never scrimp on your motor, son.’ Jock yawned into his fist, all that caffeine still not beating its way through the hangover. ‘Where the hell are we?’

  Hunter floored it to climb a gradual hill, powering down the middle road through the wide Black Isle. According to Jock’s satnav, the Cromarty Firth was a couple of miles north, the Moray Firth five or so south. This definitely seemed the road less travelled.

  The road dipped down to an ancient gatehouse glowing in the morning gloom. Hunter slowed by the entrance and let a bus past, sitting there, the indicator ticking away. Down in the lowlands, the gatehouse would’ve been turned into a family home a long time ago, but this looked like it still guarded the stately home beyond from the hoi polloi. Shit, it did—a checkpoint blocked entry.

  Hunter slid across the road and waited by the barrier.

  ‘Sure this is the place, son?’

  Hunter scanned around, looking for any way through. ‘That’s what my source told me.’

  ‘Your source?’

  ‘A cop mate. He got me the registered address of the owner of that rig Murray went out to.’

  ‘This is all a bit too professional for you. I was expecting you to get that daft wee bugger to take us out there at first light.’

  A bright light clicked on and a man stepped out of the front door, brandishing a clipboard, his muscular frame barely contained by his dark-grey suit.

  Hunter wound down the window on Jock’s side and leaned across to hold out his warrant card. ‘Police. Looking for the Oswald Partnership.’

  The guard clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Okay, follow the road round through the trees. The receptionist will be waiting for you.’ His accent was southern English, big hints of Thames Estuary but some Midlands too. Way out of place up here.

  The barrier rumbled up.

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter doffed his imaginary cap and drove though. The road narrowed to a single track, twisting through banks of rhododendrons and Scots pine.

  A red squirrel darted across and Hunter hit the brakes, stalling the car. The squirrel skipped off up a tree. ‘Holy shit, I’ve never seen one of them before.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  Jock shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

  Hunter started the car again and drove off. The trees separated into a wide opening. A hulking country house was perched on top of a small hill overlooking a loch, and the road led into a half-full car park in front of a modern office building, ‘Oswald Partnership’ etched in bright orange on grey slate. A Victorian factory clock hung from the modern gable, reading 07:12.

  Hunter parked in a guest space and hit the power button. ‘Need you to stay here, okay? I’m a police officer. This is my job.’ He fixed him with his hard-cop stare but it didn’t seem to make any difference to Jock. ‘Besides, I’m “playing the daft laddie” here.’

  ‘Aye, well you’re shit hot at that.’

  ‘Stay here.’ Hunter jabbed his finger at Jock. ‘I mean it.’ He got out of the car and, wonder of wonders, Jock stayed, hidden behind his broadsheet newspaper. Hunter walked across the car park towards the office, already busy for this early on a Tuesday. From somewhere in the woods behind, came the deep rumble of machinery. Probably a tree-felling operation. He stopped by the entrance
to let a small Fiat past—two mid-twenties women singing along to a Beyoncé tune—then he stepped across the wet flagstones and pushed through the heavy metal door.

  The place felt way too busy for this early an hour.

  Inside, it was like an expensive restaurant. Granite flagstones lined at the edges with purple striplights, their glow running up the wooden reception desk and meeting at the Oswald Partnership logo.

  A slim Asian man in shirt and trousers stood up with a broad smile. ‘Hi, how can I help?’ Didn’t look like a security guard.

  Hunter stepped over to the desk. ‘Looking for an Iain Oswald.’

  ‘I’m afraid that Lord Oswald’s rather busy today. If you’d phoned ahead, we—’

  ‘It’s a police matter.’ Hunter held out his warrant card. ‘An urgent one.’

  ‘Edinburgh police? Interesting.’ The receptionist picked up a smartphone, tapped the screen and put it to his head, still with the same vacant smile. He turned away, speaking in a mutter, then back with the same smile. ‘He’ll see you now. Callum will show you through.’

  A door flew open and a burly security guard sashayed through, his fluid movements belying his size. Callum was yet another big guy in a sharp suit — shirt open to the neck, wiry sandpaper hair poking out. He gripped Hunter’s hand in an iron handshake and walked over to a wide doorway, where he swiped a card through a reader. The door clunked open and he led Hunter into a half-full open-plan office, the kind you’d see anywhere. Banter, chatting, phones ringing, coffee smells. And still Callum didn’t speak.

  ‘Bit taken aback by how many people you’ve got here.’

  Callum didn’t answer, instead marching over to the far side, where another office overlooked the loch. And he literally marched—the guy had definitely seen some time in the military. He opened the door and popped his head in, then came out with a thumbs up and let Hunter enter. Callum followed, though. Harder to play the daft laddie with an audience.

  A man reclined on an office chair, feet up on an ornate mahogany desk, talking on the phone. ‘Well, I’ll see what we can do about that.’ God knows where these guys were tailored, but he had the best-fitting suit of the lot of them. ‘Of course.’

  By the window, a middle-aged woman, looking Hunter up and down. Mustard-brown polo neck, checked skirt and knee-high boots. A small toy dog in her arms. She held out her hand, like she expected it to be kissed. ‘Lady Margaret Oswald. How do you do?’

  ‘DC Craig Hunter.’ He shook her hand softly. ‘I’m looking for Lord Oswald?’

  ‘My husband’s on a call with some clients from the Gulf. Terribly busy time.’

  ‘Right, I’ll phone you later. Thanks.’ Oswald hung up and stood, hand out. ‘DC Hunter?’

  Hunter took it, like shaking hands with a drunk puppy compared with Callum’s iron grip. ‘Should I call you Lord Oswald?’

  ‘Of course not! Lord Oswald was my father.’ Oswald slumped in his chair with a loud crunch and a happy smile. ‘Please, call me Iain.’

  ‘Okay, Iain.’ Hunter took one of the chairs in front of the desk. ‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice.’

  ‘Happy to help the police at any time.’ Oswald gave his wife a smile. ‘I’ll catch you over at the house, dear.’

  ‘Very well.’ She hugged her dog tight and left the room.

  Oswald gave Callum a nod, but it didn’t mean ‘leave us to it’. The big guard stayed by the door, hands clasped behind his back. ‘So, Detective Constable, what brings you here?’

  ‘I gather you’re the owner of Osprey Alpha?’

  ‘Well.’ Oswald nodded slowly. ‘Legally, it’s a complex arrangement involving—’ He smiled. ‘Let’s just say that yes, I am the legal owner. My father built up this business to refurbish the rigs back when the oil boom started, with my assistance of course. But I’m sure you’re aware the North Sea oil supply is dwindling?’

  ‘I’ve heard mention of it.’

  ‘It’ll hit the Scottish economy hard, particularly Aberdeen. We’ve almost run out of viable oilfields and there’s so much competition from fracking, and what have you, that the remaining ones are becoming uneconomical. And this climate crisis is pushing people towards electric cars, wind turbines and so on.’ He paused to lick his lips, possibly aware of some tendency to digress from the point. ‘Anyway, we now decommission the rigs as well as refurbishing them. As someone who’s proud of what this tiny nation has achieved, I find it profoundly heart-breaking when we do, but I’m glad to be able to assist the tidy-up operation and restore the region to nature.’

  ‘Very noble of you.’

  ‘Glad you agree.’ Oswald shuffled some papers into a pile and stuffed them into a drawer. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  ‘I’m working a missing persons investigation. A man from Edinburgh disappeared while he was up here.’

  ‘And why should I know anything about that?’

  ‘Because I believe he went aboard your oil rig.’

  ‘I see. Well, oil rigs are extremely dangerous sites, especially those in the process of decommissioning. People shouldn’t be snooping around them.’

  Hunter sat back in the chair, eyes narrowing. ‘Name of Murray Hunter.’

  ‘Ah.’ Oswald picked up a newspaper. ‘I saw the notice in this morning’s P&J. Murray Hunter, last seen in Cromarty. Says a PC David Robertson is investigating, though. Why is a DC Craig Hunter from Edinburgh showing up?’

  ‘He was my brother.’

  ‘And are you here officially or trying to railroad me, mm?’

  ‘This is an official investigation, sir. I’m assisting PC Robertson. You’re welcome to contact his sergeant.’

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to get off on the wrong foot, Constable, but, like I say, oil rigs are incredibly dangerous places. The wind alone… If your brother indeed went up there, it’s just possible he was whipped off to sea. And most of the equipment requires formal training.’

  ‘I want to get aboard Osprey Alpha and see for myself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oswald swallowed. ‘Well, I’d need to check.’ He looked over to the door. ‘Callum, can you…?’

  The goon finally left the room.

  Oswald seemed to relax, but only slightly. ‘It might be possible for you to have a wee look, but it’d have to be supervised, of course. Only thing is, my guys are working fourteen-hour days just to clear this backlog, so it might be a while.’

  ‘Why have you got an office full of people when you really need engineers to service oil rigs in the firth?’

  ‘Because…’ Oswald laughed. ‘Listen, the grunt work is done by third parties. Here, it’s all sales and relationship management. And there are relationships governing a lot of people to keep sweet. We’ve got three rigs sitting at Invergordon that are due in the Gulf urgently.’

  ‘Is Osprey Alpha one of those?’

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t, which is why it’s the most hazardous. There’s a lot of machinery that’s incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Sir, it’d really help my investigation if I could get up there. I just need half an hour to look around.’

  ‘Look, it’s strictly off limits until my guys can run a full inspection. And that’s where our priorities have to lie.’

  The door opened and Callum marched in, charging over to Oswald’s side of the desk. He whispered something, and not just a few words. Sentences, paragraphs.

  Oswald nodded and patted Callum’s arm. ‘Okay, thanks.’ He grimaced at Hunter. ‘Osprey Alpha is going to the dry dock at Invergordon for a full decommissioning next week. It was in the Buchan oilfield, which ceased production last year. One of the older fields out in the North Sea, a site where the operator used underbalanced drilling to allow them to keep extracting long after anyone else would bother to. As is common, that can result in extensive corrosion to the drilling equipment and to the platform itself.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that I can’t allow anyone up there.’

  ‘
Not even your own men?’

  ‘Well, I just don’t have the resources. Like I say…’ Oswald wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just too dangerous. I have three guys insured to go on a rig like that and they’re all needed on critical tasks.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ Hunter stood up with a smile and passed over a business card.

  Oswald inspected it, then gave Hunter a sympathetic look, his forehead creasing in all the right places. ‘I’m truly sorry, though. If your brother has been up there and has perished, then I’ll do everything I can to support your investigation.’ He pinched his brow. ‘Let me see what I can do. We might have some flex. Can I ring you?’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, sir. I’ll await your call.’

  Oswald uncapped a fountain pen and scratched a note. ‘And I’ll also double security on Osprey Alpha to make sure no further incursions happen.’

  Hunter smiled his thanks, but he knew that’d make his Plan B much less likely to succeed. And much more urgent.

  Hunter got in Jock’s car and eased the door shut, resisting the temptation to slam it. He knew they were being watched, so didn’t want to give anything away.

  ‘Well? Did the daft laddie get anything?’

  Hunter sat back and pressed his head against the rest, drumming his fingers on the wheel. ‘Not sure.’ He looked across the car park to the office. ‘He’d heard of Murray. It was like he was expecting me.’

  ‘That’ll help fuel your James Bond fantasies.’

  ‘Very good.’ Hunter looked over at Jock and tapped the Press and Journal’s front page. ‘He said there was an announcement in the paper.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Jock flicked through the pages. ‘Saw it myself. This your doing?’

  ‘It’s standard procedure. Once it’s on the system, the press office issue it.’

  Jock folded his paper up and dumped it in the door pocket. ‘So, can we go up onto the platform?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He refused the daft laddie?’

  ‘I felt so bloody stupid in there.’ Hunter rubbed his neck. ‘Either something’s fishy here and he’s buying time, or Murray died through misadventure up on that rig.’