The Black Isle

by Ed James

  ‘Keith didn’t bring anything back?’

  Shug snorted.

  ‘We know he found drugs up there.’ Cullen thumbed at the door. ‘I’ve got five drugs squad guys just arrived from Edinburgh. Specialists. If you tell us something useful about what Keith found, you can walk out of here a free man.’

  Hunter nodded along with Cullen’s words. ‘Just the truth, that’s all we want.’

  Shug took a few seconds to think it through, his finger tracing the line on his neck. Then he nodded. ‘So, this Keith lad found a load of smack on the oil rig. He grabbed a couple blocks when he ran off.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘I saw two. He might’ve had more. I don’t know.’ Shug scratched at his right arm. ‘I helped him test the purity. This stuff was like the pure driven snow, I tell you.’

  ‘You used it?’

  Shug looked away, calculating the odds. Same as every heavy user. His freedom to inject and shorten his lifespan versus admitting his habit and doing time, even if in rehab. ‘A spoonful of sugar, pal.’

  ‘So you’re an addict?’

  Another nod, much shorter and more subtle than the others.

  ‘It’s quite common among the fishing community, but you know that. We won’t report you to anyone.’

  ‘Okay, so I’m a smackhead.’ Shug seemed to deflate as he spoke, like he was at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. ‘I injected on shore leave, then popped methadone when I was out at sea. But that work’s dried up, so…’

  ‘So you’re just taking heroin all the time?’

  ‘Apart from when I take people out on the boat.’

  Hunter tapped a shoe off Cullen’s foot, indicating he was taking over again. This wasn’t a drugs bust, it was locating a person of interest in a double murder. Probably a triple. ‘So what happened to the rest of Keith’s heroin?’

  ‘Sold it.’ Shug had the thousand-yard stare of a wine or coffee connoisseur. ‘Well, I took a chunk of it, kept it for my own supply. Shit’s so pure it’ll keep me going for months. First lot I took, I was strung out on the floor, man. Total Kurt Cobain shot. Felt just like the first time I tried smack. It’s what we’re all chasing.’

  ‘And the rest of it?’

  ‘Keith wanted nothing to do with it. Said it was covered in blood.’

  ‘But you wanted everything to do with it, right?’

  ‘Right. Met this geezer in the pub one night. Kid was from Edinburgh but laying low in Cromarty. Daft cunt was giving it the chat, trying to impress people. Not sure how low you can lie when you’re telling complete strangers you’re a dealer, but he was. And he was keen to get hold of all that gear and had the money to hand, so…’

  ‘How much did you get?’

  ‘Twenty grand. Know it’s worth a lot more, but it’s nice to have the cash now. Pay off some debts, get some work done to the Pride of Crom. Maybe let me buy the other half off Wee Ally.’

  Hunter decided to keep the news of Ally’s death away from Shug just now. ‘And he just happened to have twenty grand on him?’

  ‘Well, it was in his caravan. Drove us down there. Boy had it in an Adidas sports bag. Dude like that, he’ll have an emergency slush fund, won’t he? Enough to keep him going long enough that the heat dies away.’

  ‘He give you his name?’

  ‘Nope. Just took his cash and fucked off.’

  ‘He say where he was taking the heroin?’

  ‘You fucking with me? I barely ask my punters where they want to go on my boat, let alone where a dealer’s taking a load of smack I don’t want to know anything about.’

  Hunter decided to hit him with it. ‘Any idea why someone would murder Alistair McCoull?’

  ‘What?’ Shug’s pale face lost a few more shades. ‘Ally?’ His gaze shot between them. ‘Ally’s dead?’

  ‘Murdered. At his home.’

  ‘Christ.’ Shug huffed out a sigh and started crying. ‘Man…’

  And they weren’t getting any more out of him.

  Hunter stood in the obs suite and sipped the machine coffee, black with three sugars. Felt his teeth lose a few layers of enamel. He looked over at Cullen, sipping his own coffee, but staring at Shug on the monitor. ‘So my brother’s dead?’

  Cullen clamped his shoulder. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I just want to find who did this.’

  ‘Well, that confirmed the drugs were real and now we know what happened to them.’ Cullen rested his cup on the table. ‘And we played well together in there. Just like old days, but more effective.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are our options here?’

  Hunter took another sip. ‘Find the dealer, find the smack.’

  ‘And what does that give us?’

  Good question. Hunter needed to find Murray. Was chasing down a heroin deal likely to do that? ‘The pharmacology could be interesting, could tie it to a known dealer, someone we could shake down.’

  ‘That’s one for the drugs squad and it’ll take days.’ Cullen tossed his empty cup in the bin, leaving a trail of black dots on the inside. ‘You really think your brother’s caught up in this narcotics operation?’

  ‘Caught up, aye, but involved? No. All we’ve got is a smackhead fisherman’s word for what happened. That GoPro gives a part of the story, but who knows where it leads.’ Hunter rested the cup on the table. ‘We need to speak to this dealer. If we can tie the drugs to an ongoing operation, that might give us a lead.’

  ‘Let’s back up a bit here.’ Cullen picked up his cup and took a long slug. ‘What have you got so far?’

  ‘Well, my brother’s boyfriend’s dead, murdered in his flat in Inverness. Shug took them out to that rig, where they found a ton of heroin. Keith swiped a couple of blocks and escaped. Shug sold some to a mystery dealer and went to ground. We were really lucky to catch him.’

  ‘Two deaths in such a short space of time has to be linked, right?’

  ‘I’d say so. Shug was hiding out. We thought he was abroad, but he was somewhere local. Say whoever killed Murray identified Shug’s boat. They’ve got a name, so they murder the co-owner in Perth. I saw someone at Shug’s cottage in Fortrose looking for him.’

  Cullen focused on the screen again, on Shug scratching at his arms.

  The door swung open and Elvis stepped in, crowding an already full room. ‘Ah, Craig, there you are.’

  ‘Alright, Elvis. What’s up?’

  ‘See your old man? There’s a missing persons report on him.’

  26

  Jock was in the station canteen, chewing hard and noisily, his lips slapping together. A plate of six sausages sat in front of him, artfully drizzled with brown sauce. He looked up at Hunter and said something, but it was just meaty mush.

  Hunter took the seat opposite, leaving Elvis standing like an idiot. ‘Thought this was a fasting day.’

  ‘Aye, well. Laddie behind the counter said they had a load of sausages going off. Needs must, eh? Besides, I’ve acted like a bit of an arse today. Running from the cops and that.’ Jock frowned at Elvis. ‘You’re the boy from the Crafty Butcher podcast, right?’

  ‘Eh.’ Elvis frowned, his lips shifting between a smile at being recognised, and a scowl at being recognised. ‘Crafty what?’

  ‘You heard it, Craig, didn’t you?’ Jock stabbed a sausage-speared fork at Elvis. ‘I know it’s you, son. Recognise your voice a mile away. You really think Stone is the best brewery in the world?’

  ‘I never actually said that.’

  ‘Give us a minute.’ Hunter waved Elvis away, then focused on his dad. ‘Jock, why is there a missing persons report out on you?’

  Jock put another sausage into his mouth, whole, and took ages to chew it. ‘You tell me, son.’

  ‘According to this,’ Hunter unrolled a sheet of paper, ‘one Kirsten Turnbull of Wallyford has reported you missing.’

  ‘Wee place near Musselburgh. Used to be a mining—’

  ‘I know where it is.’ Hunter stabbed the paper. ‘
Who is she?’

  Jock went for another sausage.

  Hunter swatted the fork away and it spilled across the plate, then clattered to the floor. ‘I’m serious here. If there’s a missing persons report on you, then I’ve got to follow up with the investigating officer.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jock reached across to the dirty plate diagonally opposite and inspected the soiled fork. ‘I got kicked out by my girlfriend.’

  Hunter got a vision of Kirsten Turnbull as yet another middle-aged siren tempting Jock away from his mother, yet another woman with problems he was more than happy to exploit for free bed and board. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Women don’t understand me, son.’

  ‘I’ll say…’

  ‘That’s why I was staying with your brother. I mean, I was sleeping in my car before that, but at least I’ve got one boy who still cares about me.’

  Hunter narrowed his eyes.

  ‘But Murray said it was temporary, just while he was busy and away. And I knew Kirsten would understand in time.’

  ‘Or there’d be another Kirsten? Maybe a Borders one in Galashiels or Melrose or Hawick?’

  ‘Hawick? Christ, I’ve got standards.’ Jock scowled. ‘Women love me, son. Not much I can do about that.’

  ‘Same deal as with Mum? She feeds you, lets you sleep in her bed until you piss her off and she kicks you out? Same every time. Right?’

  ‘It’s love, son.’

  ‘Love. Right.’

  ‘I mean it.’ Jock grabbed Hunter’s wrist and looked at him with the frenzied eyes of the born-again. ‘Kirsten’s one of those exotic dancers.’

  A groan escaped Hunter’s lips. ‘You’re in love with a stripper?’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘But she takes her clothes off for money?’

  ‘Well, aye.’

  ‘Christ.’ Hunter couldn’t help but shake his head. Usually it was parents disappointed with their children. ‘How old is Kirsten?’

  Dad looked away. ‘Twenty.’

  ‘You’re sleeping with a twenty-year-old?’

  Jock speared another sausage with a dirty fork he’d taken from someone else’s place. Manky bastard. ‘Knew you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Jock, she’s sixteen years younger than me!’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Jesus, she’s young enough to be my daughter let alone yours.’

  ‘Come on, Craig, that’s—’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘Wonderland in Edinburgh. Over on Lothian Road.’

  Someone behind Hunter laughed. ‘That’s Cullen’s favourite place.’ Elvis.

  Hunter shot him a glare that would read ‘fuck off’ to most people. ‘Are you still here?’

  Elvis shrugged. ‘Place is under new management. Last owner was murdered. Some London boy owns it now. Much classier than it used to be.’

  ‘The lassie’s in love with me, son. I mean, she’s got really bad daddy issues.’

  ‘Grandaddy issues, more like.’ Elvis laughed again.

  Jock rocked forward, chuckling as he chewed his latest sausage.

  ‘Elvis, when I told you to give us a minute? Fuck off.’

  ‘Keep your wig on, jeez.’ Elvis walked over to the coffee machine and started jangling coins in his pocket.

  Hunter leaned in close to Jock again. ‘So why did Kirsten report you missing?’

  ‘Because she’s so much younger than me and doesn’t know what to do.’ He belched into his fist. ‘Back there, I grabbed that wee lassie’s phone and called Kirsten, but she knew it was me and begged me to come home, so I hung up. Then I decided to find Murray myself, so I called Shug, got him to agree to meet.’

  ‘So you ran away because of a combination of commitment phobia and hanger?’

  ‘I’m not—’ Jock pushed the plate away. ‘You had the car keys and I’d forgotten about the spares I keep in the glovebox until you locked me in.’

  ‘Well, you’ve made a right mess of this.’

  ‘Son, I’m sixty-four, like in that Beatles song. Well, your mother and me, we don’t meet or greet each other anymore. But Kirsten, it’s freaky as hell. I mean, she’s paid to strip for all sorts. Businessmen, boys from the rigs, joiners, milkmen. Tinkers, tailors, soldiers and maybe not sailors.’ Jock bellowed at his own joke. ‘But that sort of girl’s usually really cynical and clued up, right? Knows her onions, knows how to exploit the rubes in there. Been doing it since she was sixteen and knows how to do it, but she’s crazy about me. Will do anything for me. And I mean anything.’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Cooking and cleaning, not just the sexy bedroom stuff. Or kitchen worktop. Or Cramond Isle.’

  ‘Jesus! Stop!’

  Jock brushed a hand across his lips. ‘Look, son, I couldn’t handle her. I panicked and ran. I’m forty-four years older than her. It’s not right. So I was sleeping in my car, then I met up with your brother for a beer a few weeks back and he let me stay in the flat above his garage if I looked after his chickens.’ He put his fork down and pushed his plate away. ‘Look, I don’t know if I love her. I mean, I loved your mother and I made a cat’s arsehole of that. I fuck everything up. I fucked your mother up. I’ve fucked up you and your brother.’ He brushed something out of his eye. ‘Now I’m worried about fucking up Kirsten.’

  ‘Oh, shite, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?’

  ‘Sorry, son. It’s not my finest hour.’ Jock slumped back in his chair. ‘Shug know anything?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. He’s a smackhead. Kept going on about Keith selling that block of heroin to his dealer.’

  Jock frowned. ‘He say who the dealer is?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘What did he say about him?’

  ‘Just that he was from Edinburgh and was hiding out in Cromarty for a while.’

  Jock nodded slowly. ‘I’ve got an idea who might know.’

  27

  Hunter gripped the wheel tight, keeping the Passat on its lead, taking it nice and slow, crawling along Cromarty’s high street. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Course I’m bloody awake.’ Jock burped and let out a sausagey mist.

  ‘So where is it, then?’

  ‘Left there.’

  Hunter knew the vennel. ‘This is where Murray was staying, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Jock folded his arms. ‘It’s the American couple I was talking to in the pub.’

  ‘You could’ve told me this back in Inverness.’

  ‘Aye, and you’d have come here without me. We’re looking for my son as well as your brother.’

  Hunter tore his door open and stepped into the dim lane. He headed round to Jock’s side, the seaweed reek hitting his nostrils, soon buried under his father’s overpowering aftershave, even at this hour. ‘Why them?’

  ‘When you were out trying to find that Fiona lassie, I was drinking with them. They told me they were much more into substances, if I caught their drift, but they were running low. Asked if I knew anyone who could help out. Said they’d been speaking to a lad they met in the boozer. Said he was from Edinburgh.’ He shook his head. ‘The way those Yanks say Edinburgh, I swear…’

  Cullen’s Golf slid along the lane, quiet as a fox, and parked behind them. Elvis got out, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

  Cullen got out next. ‘Do you know the dealer?’

  ‘A drug dealer? Come on. Hardly.’

  Hunter focused on Elvis. ‘Keep Jock in the car.’

  ‘Craig, you’re not my boss.’

  ‘This isn’t a professional thing. If he goes walkabout, I will break your fucking legs.’

  Elvis swallowed hard. ‘Christ.’ His eyes pleaded with Cullen.

  ‘Stay here, okay?’

  ‘Right…’

  Jock winked at Hunter then beamed at Elvis. ‘You tried that blonde in the hotel down the front? It’s a gorgeous pint.’

  And just like that, Elvis got in the driver’s seat. ‘Oh? Do tell.’

  Cullen walked
over to Hunter, shaking his head. ‘This the place?’

  ‘Aye, assuming they’re in.’ Hunter followed him over to the house and knocked on the door. Just like the previous night. Felt like months ago.

  No answer. Lights on, though, and music playing. The Cure. Chiming bass guitar, pounding drums and guitars floating in the ether.

  ‘What’s the play here, Scott?’

  Cullen tried the door. It was open. ‘Nothing ventured.’ With a shrug, he sneaked in, drawing his baton.

  Hunter realised he was flying blind. No cuffs, no baton.

  In the kitchen, the music switched to a Depeche Mode song.

  The American couple were at the kitchen table, Randy hunkering low to snort a monster line of coke off the woodwork. ‘Oh my fucking Christ! This is good shit!’

  The woman rested her glass of red wine and took the rolled-up banknote off her husband, her hungry eyes sparking at her own line. Then she looked right at them. ‘Holy shit!’

  Cullen had his warrant card out. ‘Police!’

  Wine splashed everywhere, sluicing the cocaine down the lines cut around the table edge.

  ‘FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ Randy ran off.

  ‘Got him!’ Hunter followed, taking it slow.

  The big guy was halfway up the stairs, staring back, face red, eyes wild. Looked like he was going to have a heart attack. ‘GET BACK!’

  Hunter stepped onto the first step. ‘Just need a word, sir.’

  ‘FUCK OFF!’

  ‘Come on, sir, it’s all right. We’ll turn a blind eye to the drugs.’

  ‘NO!’ And he turned and clattered up the steps.

  Nowhere near as fast as Hunter, though. He closed the gap to two steps then reached out and grabbed the big guy’s T-shirt, right in the middle. He held him there.

  Randy slipped and fell backwards, his bulk crashing through Hunter and sending them rolling down. As they went, Hunter tried to keep hold of him. A knee caught his gut, but he didn’t let go, instead wrapping his forearm around Randy’s throat.

  Then he lost the grip as he ended up on top, then another revolution and he was on the bottom and couldn’t see anything. He gripped hold of fabric and a ripping sound cut the air, then a big hairy arse filled his face, Hunter’s cheeks touching sweaty bum.