by Ed James
‘Had my arse chewed a few times since we worked together, mate.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Hunter took a step closer, got a good look in those blue eyes. ‘Neil Alexander’s abducted Doug Ferguson. He’s most likely got Stephanie or is torturing Ferguson to find out where she is. If he’s got her, then God knows what he’s doing to her.’
Cullen ran his tongue over his lips and almost snarled. ‘Prove. It.’
Hunter stomped across the road to the pool car, splashing rain water up his legs. His bottom half was caked in mud, like he’d been wrestling in it. He got in and slammed the door, sending a rainstorm of droplets out. The windows started misting up already.
Cullen was ordering some other arsehole about, pointing everywhere and sighing. Always bloody sighing, like the whole world was a disappointment to him.
Was he telling the truth about him and Yvonne? How could anyone not remember getting kicked down the stairs mid-coitus? Maybe it happened so often to Cullen that they all just merged into one, his skinny arse bouncing off half the tenements in Edinburgh.
And show a colleague up in front of the rest of the squad. Sowing seeds of doubt everywhere…
It’s Neil Alexander. Of course it is. Stupid lanky git standing by the burning car, watching his handiwork.
Need to play the game, though… Prove Cullen wrong.
He shut his eyes and tried to drown out the noise around them, focusing hard.
Pauline. ‘Not Neil. He’s a gentle laddie. Bit too soft, if you ask me.’
Olivia. ‘He didn’t exactly fit in.’
Doug. ‘He’s twenty-seven! Steph’s sixteen. How can he live with himself? Shagging a wee lassie like that.’
Neil. ‘What can I say? I love her.’
‘You think it’s funny a sixteen-year-old woman going to an arthouse cinema?’
‘We’re in a trusting relationship.’
‘I just wanted to love her and help her get over it.’
‘I’m a lover not a fighter.’
Hunter opened his eyes again. There was a tell in that line, like a poker player hiding a two to seven off suit.
‘Steph’s a beautiful thing. I want her to be happy.’
Jesus Christ. It just had to be him.
He hadn’t helped the case in the slightest, but had he hindered it? The only thing they had from him was the false sighting in Musselburgh. Everything else was vague, opaque or conflicting. Or, worse, Neil worming his way into the investigation.
Hunter reached into his soggy pocket for his notebook, still dry, and started flicking through it. He tore off a blank page and drew a timeline, starting on Monday night, the last alleged attack.
Stealing Dave Boyle’s car.
Assaulting Hunter and Finlay when he abducted Stephanie.
Killing Robert Quarrie.
Figuring out, like Hunter, where Doug Ferguson would be, striking when the opportunity arose.
Neil’s movements were sketchy at best, unverified at the worst. At work, then at his flat, then back at work. The only corroboration was when he was with Pauline Ferguson and that still left a mile-wide gap before it. Never in custody.
Why did he do it?
Why would he have done any of it?
‘I just want to help bring that scumbag to justice.’
Kidnap Stephanie and show her Doug Ferguson meeting medieval justice. And the same to Robert Quarrie…
Another look at the timeline. Neil had an alibi for killing Robert Quarrie. They’d just bloody checked it.
Hunter threw his notebook into the passenger seat, the card cover cracking off the door handle. He slumped back in the chair and pulled down the sun guard. In the mirror, he looked even worse than he felt. Cuts and bruises on his cheeks and jaw, dried blood tracing an intricate web of pain from the crown of his head down to his collarbone.
Hunter stabbed at his Airwave, direct-dialling Elvis’s badge number.
White noise crackled out of the handset. ‘The Night Hunter.’ Shouting and clinking in the background — sounded like Elvis was in a pub.
‘The what?’
‘You need a nickname.’
‘I’d prefer one that didn’t make me sound like an eighties cop show.’ Hunter spotted Jain dawdle over, Airwave to her ear. ‘Are you at the station?’
‘Why?’
‘Need a favour?’
‘Only if I get to call you the Night Hunter.’
‘Fine, whatever. I need a check on the CCTV at the Tesco at Corstorphine. Three o’clock yesterday afternoon.’
‘Give me a second.’ Sounded like he was hitting a keyboard. Maybe not in the pub after all, or he’d taken a laptop into the Elm’s back room. ‘Right, it’s taking an age of man here.’
‘While you’re waiting, have you got an update on the ANPR search for our car? The Hyundai.’
‘Come on, man. What’s the priority here?’
Jain got in the driver side, rocking the car ever so slightly.
Hunter unclipped his Airwave and put it to his ear. ‘Both of them.’
‘Jeez. Right. Let me see.’
‘Also, I need you to check on any car ownership in the name of Neil Alexander.’
‘Hold your bloody horses, Conan.’
‘Thought you said I needed a nickname?’
‘Ah, shite.’ Hammering at the keyboard in the background. Then a mouse dropping from a great height. ‘Just checking that last one while the other two think about it… Aye, here we go. Looks like there’s nothing registered in his name.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Unless I’m misspelling Neil and Alexander.’ More clattering. ‘There’s certainly nothing on King’s Road, either.’
‘That’s not exactly conclusive.’ Hunter wiped rain from his forehead. ‘How’s the ANPR doing?’
‘Never bloody ends with you…’ Elvis huffed, a big blast of distortion spitting out of the speaker. ‘Still nothing. Oh, we’re rocking with the CCTV. I’ve got the front of the Tesco. Three this afternoon, you say? Here we go. Christ, look at the ti—’
‘Need it by the bus stop.’
‘Right. Jeez, don’t get many of them to the pound…’ Elvis mouth-breathed into his handset. ‘Can’t see anything, certainly not this big bloke.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Aye, there’s a big bus blocking everything.’
Hunter slumped back in his chair and stared up at the fabric on the roof interior. ‘That’s what I’m looking for.’
‘Cool beans. It’s a 12, heading to the Gyle by the looks of things.’ Elvis snorted down the line. ‘It’s not going anywhere, though.’
‘What?’ Hunter’s leg started jiggling. ‘Should just be in and out.’
‘It’s sat there. That’s ten minutes now.’
‘Wind it back till it arrives.’
‘Right-o.’ More keyboard abuse. ‘Aye. Pulls in and it doesn’t look in a good way. Big plume of black smoke out the back. Like Finlay after the curry club. Doesn’t even make the stop.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The passengers are getting off. She’d get it, I swear. Oh hang, on. The driver’s getting off. Looks like a bloke, though you can’t be too sure these days, right? Big greasy twat. Tall.’
‘That’s him. Where does he go? Into the shop?’
‘Nah, the boy’s getting into a car.’
‘What?’
‘Man alive.’ Elvis groaned down the line. ‘It’s a bloody Hyundai. Missing a wing mirror and all.’
Hunter glanced over at Jain — looked like she was wrapping up her call. Sounded like it was with Sharon McNeill, wherever the hell she was. He got out his personal mobile and tapped the Google Maps icon. It flew over to west Edinburgh. He pinched it and zoomed in.
Corstorphine to Cramond… Go by Maybury, then Drum Brae. Or… round by Davidson’s Mains… Maybe that little rat run through Barnton. Would have to hit the main road, though…
Hunter picked up the Airwave again.
‘Can you check for ANPR hits on the A90?’
‘Nothing on the A90.’
‘Eh? Have you looked?’
‘No, mate. There aren’t any cameras there. They’re at the Forth Road Bridge and Dean Bridge.’
‘Wouldn’t even need the rat run…’
‘What are you havering about?’
‘Never mind. Cheers, Elvis. Can you send that image through, please?’
‘I’d say don’t mention it, Conan, but then you never—’
Hunter ended the call and dialled another number.
‘Aye?’ The dead sound of a small office.
‘Mr Archibald, it’s Craig Hunter again.’
‘I’m kind of busy here, sir.’
‘Just got something I need to check with you.’ Hunter clocked Jain kill her call. ‘You said Mr Alexander was at Corstorphine Tesco.’
‘Aye?’
‘You didn’t tell us his bus broke down.’ Jain’s eyes shot out wide. ‘Did it get fixed?’
‘Slipped my mind. I swear.’
Lying bastard…
‘Did it get fixed?’
‘Aye, took a while to get the van out there at that time. Bloody rain plays merry hell with my schedule, I tell you. Buses breaking—’
‘When did the van get there?’
‘The laddie got out there at the back of five, if my memory serves.’
‘And was Neil there?’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘Thanks for your time.’ Hunter killed the call, his gaze settling on Jain. ‘We’ve just got ourselves a two-hour window round Robert Quarrie’s death…’
‘See?’ Hunter held up the Airwave and showed it to Cullen and Jain. ‘This is him getting into the Hyundai at Tesco.’
Cullen grabbed the Airwave and stared at it. ‘Go through your logic from the start.’
‘Okay. Wind back to Tuesday.’ Hunter tried to keep his words and thoughts in the same country. ‘He stole Dave Boyle’s Hyundai from outside his house. Then, yesterday morning, he’s abducted Stephanie from outside Gaynor Tait’s house. Fast forward to the afternoon and he’s driving the bus, and he’s knackered it at the big Tesco in Corstorphine. Then he gets—’
‘Wait, back up. What?’
‘The bus broke down by the Tesco.’ Hunter jabbed a finger at the Airwave. ‘Elvis has him driving to Cramond after getting into the Hyundai, which he’d dumped there after my scrape with him in the morning.’
‘What, so he killed Robert Quarrie and drove back to the bus?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. He’s next seen at Mountcastle last night, where he’s waiting in the car outside Alec Wishart’s house so he can keep an eye on Doug Ferguson.’
‘How did he know that Ferguson would go there?’
Hunter shrugged. It’s ‘doable. I worked it out by myself.’
‘You did, all right.’ Cullen twirled his umbrella around, flicking raindrops off. ‘I don’t get why he’s taken Stephanie, though.’
‘Neil’s torturing the men who abused Stephanie. He killed her father and now he’s got Doug Ferguson.’
‘He’s killed the girl’s father, the guy who abused her as a child, and now he’s got her stepfather.’ Jain was frowning, her eyebrows rising far enough to line her forehead. ‘Is he trying to impress her or something?’
‘Could be.’ Hunter glared at Cullen. ‘You’ve met the guy, right? He’s not right in the head.’
Cullen stared off into the middle distance. Looked like the fire was just about out as he stood there, letting the officers get close to hear his analysis. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, that’s good enough for me.’
39
Hunter took a step back onto King’s Road. A pipe had burst high up, sending a shower of water down that was merging with the rain at street level and gushing down to the seafront.
‘Aye, Mags, I know I’ve still got four units out trying to find those skinheads.’ Cullen held the Airwave to his head as he hit the buzzer. ‘I know you’re stretched. It was clear when we drove down… Look, can you shove two of them onto finding Neil Alexander?’
Hunter nodded at Jain, but she looked away just as quickly.
‘Well, tell Finlay Sinclair to get his arse out. I don’t care. He works for me on this case.’ Cullen hit the buzzer again and swept the rain out of his hair. ‘Get him to speak to Lauren Reid. Cheers.’ He glared at the intercom. ‘Why does everything take ten times as long as it should?’
Jain pulled her collar up high. ‘Any chance you could get us inside this week?’
Cullen pressed the buzzer for the flat next to Neil’s.
The buzzer crackled. ‘Aye?’ Male voice.
‘Police.’
‘It’s a bit early for this shite, isn’t it?’
‘It’s an emergency, sir.’ Cullen put his mouth next to the mic. ‘We’re looking for Neil Alexander.’
‘Not seen him for a few days, like.’
‘That usual?’
‘Not unusual.’
‘Right. Have you seen or heard from him either this morning or last night?’
‘Heard someone on the stairs about half an hour ago. Not sure it was Neil, mind.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Cullen stood up tall and spoke close to the microphone, like he was trying to get it louder. ‘Can you let us inside, please?’
‘What are youse planning on doing, likes?’
‘Nothing other than trying to speak to him.’
The intercom just crackled, maybe gave the slight sound of mouth-breathing. ‘Aye, come on up, then.’
The door buzzed open and Cullen barged in.
Hunter followed him up the stairs. Someone had been using too much Persil, judging by the stink that wafted down from a flat on the middle floor.
At the top, the door across from Neil’s flat was open, a beady eye peering out. The guy with the runaway dog from the other day. The door clicked shut.
Cullen waved at Neil’s door. ‘Craig, do the honours.’
Hunter took a step back and launched his foot against the wood. Didn’t budge.
Cullen shook his head. ‘I meant knock?’
‘Right, well, it’s stuck.’ Hunter rubbed at a smooth patch underneath the handle. ‘He must have some drug-dealer security shite in there. No way we’re getting in there without an Enforcer.’
‘You didn’t see this, right?’ Jain got a credit card out of her wallet and slid it behind the Yale. The lock popped and she did a magician’s wave at it. ‘Open sesame!’
That’s me shown…
Cullen twisted his neck to look back down the staircase. ‘Craig, you first?’
‘Sarge…’ Hunter snapped out his baton and entered the flat, careful to not creak the floorboards.
The flat was dark, just a faint glow from the two doors on the right, the side facing the sun. All the other doors in the flat were open.
Hunter paced along the hall and checked the first. Empty box room. Then the second. Empty bathroom.
He swung round and waved for Cullen to approach.
Across the hall, he opened the bedroom door. Nobody there. The bed was made, tucked in tight like in a hotel. Or in the army. The pile of books by the bed had been halved and—
Wait.
He shot over to the other side of the bed. There was a bin bag on the floor. He snapped on a glove and sifted through it. A grey T-shirt with “Pinker is left right!”, completely smeared with blood. ‘Shite.’ He held it up to Cullen. ‘Need any more proof?’
Hunter swung into the Asda car park at the Jewel. It was pretty empty. A couple of shady pimped Corsas were parked door to door over at the far side, doing something they shouldn’t. The morning shoppers hadn’t turned up yet, just a couple of van drivers stocking up on Coke and Lucozade for the day.
He parked by the bus stop and looked around, trying to ease more caked-on mud from his trousers. The foot rest was splattered with the stuff.
‘Aye, Scott. I know. I know. He does, doesn’t he?’ Jai
n looked over and rolled her eyes. ‘You’d think so, aye. No, we’re just doing a tour of the car parks round here to see if he’s gone anywhere. At the Asda now and we’ve done the Fort.’
Hunter turned the heating up full blast and the fan up to eleven. It drowned out her call but didn’t seem to make much difference to his caked trousers. He pulled off and swung out in a U-turn, taking it slow as he scanned the area around the supermarket.
At least five shopping trolleys were taking a dip in the Niddrie burn. Rain battered the trees on both sides. A jogger in Day-Glo running gear swerved past a ned and his grunting Staffy.
Hunter sped up and cut across the roundabout past the idling cars bound for Edinburgh. The B&M car park was completely empty, not even a stray tramp out in the rain.
He pulled back onto the A1, driving against the swelling tide of traffic heading into the city. Looked like a brutal accident halfway along by the new Queen Margaret’s campus. He tapped his Airwave. ‘Control, can you give me an update on Neil Alexander’s location?’
‘I beg your pardon? Can’t hear you, Craig.’
Hunter turned the heating down. ‘Have you found Neil Alexander?’
‘Had nothing since you last asked. Two minutes ago.’
‘Right, cheers.’ Hunter ended the call and indicated left to descend down to the Old Craighall roundabout, a pair of cheeky Audis trying to nip round and cut out the logjam on the A1.
‘Aye, bye.’ Jain stabbed at her Airwave and stuck it in the door pocket. ‘This car stinks of smoke.’
‘It’s actually you and me that stink.’ Hunter swung past the services for the Millerhill turning. ‘How’s Cullen?’
‘Pissed off. He’s got to brief three Inspectors on Operation Spanner.’
‘We’ll get our man.’
‘Sure about that?’
Hunter shrugged as they passed the Jewson, the car park out front filled up with lorries and work vans, then a row of old cottages. ‘Maybe.’ He took a right, then another one, and they were back on the road to Shawfair.
Abandoned work equipment lurked behind steel fences, guarding the timber-framed shells of future houses. The workers huddled under a tarpaulin in one, sipping on bottles of Coke and beakers of coffee.
