by Ed James
‘No, he hasn’t. He’s gone somewhere and you were too pissed when he told you to remember where.’
‘This isn’t—’
‘Let’s just find him, okay?’ Hunter drained his mug and picked up the bottom half of the pile of prints, the coffee taste still lingering. He started doing a fast sort. Junk. Conspiracy junk. Urbex junk. But all junk. Three urbex notes in a row. ‘You know urban exploration is illegal, right? It’s trespassing. He’s lucky he’s not had a visit from my colleagues. Especially as he’s posting videos on the internet all the time.’
‘Probably thinks you’ll help him get off.’
‘Like I’ve got any sway.’ Hunter looked at the next page, entitled ‘The Dangers of Urbexing’.
It read: ‘The biggest danger to urbexers is running into other urban explorers. And I mean criminal types using the same places you’re nosing around in for nefarious ends. These places are secluded, secret, hidden. Perfect for exploring, but—hoo boy—even better for stashing stuff. Drugs, guns, dead bodies. You name it.
‘Where I’m going next, well, let’s just say some past urbexers have suffered unfortunate accidents. You might think it’s conspiracy bullshit but it might, equally, be some real murky stuff. Shady guys doing greasy shit. I’m going to find out what’s happened. Then I’ll publish it.
‘And—holy moly—I don’t want to end up like this guy.’
A YouTube video link.
‘I’ll be streaming some of our trip live, so keep an eye on it.
‘Peace and love,
‘Murray.’
Another YouTube link.
Hunter got out his phone. The email was still open. He found the same note among pieces on Antarctic civilisation and UFOs in the Andes, and clicked the first video link.
A dark room. The camera was low down, looking diagonally up at a man sitting on a chair. Bound and gagged, the grey material bloody. His left eye was swollen, like he’d been hit. Nose bent, but his lips were worse, puffy and twice the normal size. He was looking at someone the camera didn’t pick up. ‘Please, Admir. Stop.’
A fist lashed out and the man’s head snapped back.
Then the video cut out.
Hunter’s heart was fluttering in his chest. It could’ve been a fake video, the injuries all prosthetics. Staged by dickheads to get clicks from innocents.
But it could’ve been real. Admir sounded like a name. He typed it into Google and got millions of names. Looked like a common male name in Bosnia, Albania, and a few other places in that part of the world.
With a shaking hand, Hunter clicked on the second video and it started playing with a timestamp reading “1 week and 18 hours ago”. Wind buffeted the microphone. A camera caught a steel-grey sky, then wheeled down to catch distant land then gloomy sea, foaming white and yellow. Then it rested on a concrete walkway. No idea where it was. Then a scream tore out, clear above the howling gale. A man’s scream.
Murray?
Then the video stopped.
That was it?
Hunter stared at the video again, trying to discern anything. Was it on a boat? Why would Murray urbex on a boat?
It didn’t give him anything new, but it did put the fear of god into him.
Hunter went through the rest of the pile, barely focusing on anything that didn’t mention the Highlands. What was Murray up to?
Wait. There. An Airbnb email. A booking confirmation for a cottage in the Highlands. He passed it over to Jock. ‘You heard of Cromarty?’
‘Town just north of Inverness, son. On the Black Isle. Course it’s not actually an island.’ Jock scowled at him. ‘Christ, Craig. Me and your mother took the pair of you every summer until…’ He trailed off. ‘Your, eh, your grandfather grew up there. Your mother’s old man.’
‘Did Murray go there?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Hunter passed the page over. ‘Does this ring any bells?’
Jock inspected it like it was a hefty gas bill he couldn’t pay. ‘I would’ve minded if he’d said Cromarty.’ He frowned at it, then at Hunter. ‘Think he’s still there?’
Hunter pushed himself to standing. ‘Only one way to find out.’
7
‘—next episode should drop on Friday. Look forward to you joining us then.’ The podcast’s closing theme tune burst out of the speakers, all serious and political. Jock’s ancient iPhone was connected up to the car stereo. One thing about Jock, despite the chaos in his private life, he was always on top of the political scene. Made sense he’d be switched on to podcasts, but the nonsense they’d been spouting made Hunter’s blood boil.
Dark clouds loomed over the nearby hills, all covered in dark-green trees. Not yet into the Cairngorms where the bare mountainsides suck all life and hope out of you.
Another podcast image flashed on the car’s display, a foaming pint of craft beer in a too-tall glass. Fake pub noise bled out of the speaker. Tinkling of glass, genial chatter, laughter.
‘Welcome to the Crafty Butcher podcast with me, the King—’
‘—and me, the Billy Boy.’ A nasal whine, south Glasgow accent. ‘Coming up this week, we’ve been sampling some Nuclear Winter, a lovely APA from a new Edinburgh brewery called Slam and Deeliant, but boy is it strong!’ The voice was really familiar. ‘And a lovely porter called Overlapping Centre Halves from our favourite South Yorkshire brewery, the Rich Blades.’
‘And over in homebrew corner, I’ll tell you how my experiment with mixing New World hops and some old-school ones from Kent has been going.’ Christ, both voices were familiar.
Was the King… Elvis?
No, it couldn’t be.
The image flashed to a photo of two men in a pub.
Hunter grabbed Jock’s phone from the cradle and checked the screen. There they were, a photo of the pair of idiots—Elvis and DS Brian Bain, calling himself the Billy Boy. Doing a podcast about craft beer?
Hunter reached over and killed the sound.
Jock looked over, mouth wide open, taking his eyes off the A9 again. ‘I was listening to— SHIIIITE!’ He swerved back to their side of the single carriageway, narrowly missing clipping a navy Nissan.
Hunter shoved the paperwork back in the footwell and pointed to the right, at the sign for the House of Bruar. ‘You need a break. Stop here.’
‘I don’t need a bloody break!’
‘Tell that to the driver having palpitations back there.’
Jock let out a sigh, slowing as he slipped into the right-turn lane. A steady stream of traffic ploughed towards them, a bow wave of cars behind a slow-moving coach. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph…’
‘Just take your time.’
Of course he didn’t. Jock fired across the front of a Jaguar SUV, narrowly missing adding them to the long list of fatalities on this stretch of the notorious road. ‘There we go, safe and sound.’ He wound through the corkscrew surrounding the beige building, a round tower and perpendicular extensions pretending they were way older than they actually were, then slammed into a disabled bay. He popped his blue badge on the dashboard.
Hunter picked it up. ‘Where did you get that?’
Jock tapped his nose. ‘If anyone asks, my name is Eric Hunter.’
‘Uncle Eric gave you this? You know that’s a crime, right?’
Jock let his seatbelt whiz up. ‘He’s not using it, not since his latest heart attack.’
Hunter let his seatbelt go and put a foot down on the tarmac. ‘You’re just using it ’cos you’re too lazy to walk the extra hundred metres at Tesco for your yellow-item haul.’
‘Wheesht.’ And with that Jock got out. ‘Lunch is on me, son. Soup and a roll.’
‘We should just get a sandwich and drive.’
‘I need to stretch out and take my eyes off the road.’
Hunter followed him at a distance, checking his messages. Still nothing from PC Robertson in Inverness, still nothing on any Admirs in the system. Just a text from Chantal: Arrived in Perth
. Love you.
He replied: ‘At House of Bruar. Haven’t murdered him yet. And love you too.’
The ellipsis appeared on her side of the message chain. ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’
‘Long story. Short version. Murray might be in Highlands. Call you later. Love you x’
Over by the front door, Jock was chatting to a red-faced old guy wearing a tweed coat and garish crimson trousers. This section looked like a Victorian train station transplanted to the Perthshire countryside, ornate columns holding up a pitched glass roof over the walkway, the slate-roofed food hall behind it.
Jock thumbed at Hunter as he neared. ‘No clean undercrackers, can you credit it?’
‘All the same, that generation. Heids up their erses.’ The old timer cackled, then slipped off with a slap on Jock’s arm.
‘Catch you later, my man.’ Jock picked up a box of red grapes from the greengrocer stand. ‘See the price on these, Craig?’ He shook his head. ‘Right, I smell Scotch broth. You get yourself some clobber, I’ll get us some scran.’
Hunter walked through the busy restaurant, scanning the rows for any sign of Jock. All those strange faces, checking you out as you passed, like being in the old Leith Walk station canteen. He found Jock at a table looking out across the car park, talking at a young couple who looked as bored as Hunter would be in their situation.
‘Aye, here he is. Number one son.’
Hunter sat, dumping his bag at his feet and smiling at the couple. ‘Nice to meet you. Hope he hasn’t killed you of boredom.’
‘As if!’ Laughing, Jock slid a bowl of soup over the table. ‘Don’t say I’m not good to you.’
Hunter tore off a chunk of bread and dunked it in the thick, glistening broth. ‘Didn’t realise how hungry I was.’
‘You get yourself all clobbered up? Need to take out a second mortgage?’ Jock laughed and elbowed the young guy next to him, hitting hard like he was going up for a corner with him in a late-eighties Old Firm match. ‘’Cos it’s so bloody expensive here!’
A pair of polite nods from the couple. Their sportswear brands were all unfamiliar names, German by the looks of it. Not that something like them not speaking English could ever stop Jock’s banter.
Hunter took another mouthful of bread and soup. Thick meaty taste and not too many teeth-like lumps of pearl barley.
Looked like Jock had barely touched his. Too busy talking shite to random strangers while his son was missing, presumed dead.
The young couple got up and gave equally polite smiles to Jock. ‘Thank for hospital, sir.’
Jock’s frown was brief. He doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Slainte, my friend.’ He picked up his teacup like it was a whisky and his gaze followed them through the café, though at the height and direction of her rear end. A sharp intake of breath and he was back on Hunter. ‘I was going to say, you should just go commando.’
Hunter scowled at him. Mouth full of soup, so he couldn’t reply. He set up another spoonful as he finished chewing, then blew on it. He caught his teeth on the metal.
Jock finished his coffee and looked enviously at Hunter’s giant teapot. ‘Could do with another coffee.’ Without asking, he poured tea into his cup, splashing a lot on the table. ‘Not sure how we’re supposed to share your brother’s nonsense with the great unwashed if we can’t even understand it.’
Hunter poured himself some tea, bracing himself for the onslaught of milk-based chat, but Jock was still chewing. He splashed the smallest amount of milk possible into his cup, hoping Jock didn’t notice.
‘Have you watched any of his videos?’
Hunter shook his head.
‘Absolutely mystified why he’s able to afford that house from that. Still, it’s nice to see your brother finally being successful. Your mum must be proud.’
‘Like you’d care.’ Hunter put his spoon down on the bowl edge and held his father’s look until he won. ‘You saw his income statements in your printouts, though?’
‘Eye-watering.’ Jock refilled his cup, getting halfway before it ran out. ‘Ah, Christ, there’s hardly any left.’
‘You’ll be wanting to stop every five minutes with the amount you’ve had.’
‘Bladder like a tureen.’ Jock sank his tea and stared enviously at his son’s so-far untouched cup, hardly any milk or not. ‘He gets a lot of money, son. Every month. And just for videos?’ He shook his head.
‘It’s a global world now. Huge audience in the States and Japan.’ Hunter took a sip of tea. Stewed, undrinkable.
‘What do you think’s happened to him?’
Hunter finished his soup and pushed his bowl away, fighting against the image of the bloodied face getting punched. ‘Until we find out, there’s no point in speculating.’
‘Fat lot of use you are.’
‘Thought I was getting a sandwich too?’
‘These’ll do.’ Jock held up a carrier bag. ‘Heading up into the arse end of nowhere, so I want us to be prepared.’
8
The fading sun lit up the road spinning off into the distance, crawling all over the Black Isle, old beech trees lining the way on both sides. Lush, and not at all what Hunter expected, especially after the brutal scenery of the drive up. Some horses roamed in a big field on the right, two cheeky-looking ponies hanging around by the gate midway along. Four or five oil rigs dotted the Cromarty Firth, Hunter couldn’t quite decide the number. This was as far north as he’d been in his life, and quite what they were doing there was anyone’s guess.
‘It’s beautiful.’
For once, Jock didn’t have anything to say. Just head down, white knuckles on the steering wheel, a man pushed on by a goal.
‘You okay?’
‘Bursting for a pish, son.’ Jock’s knee was jiggling, his foot resting on the clutch. ‘Shouldn’t have made me finish that second pot of tea.’
Downhill now, almost to the level of the firth, wild bushes climbing the easy hill across the road. Round another bend and a ‘Welcome to Cromarty’ sign whizzed past.
‘Christ, it’s almost up to my eyes, son.’
The town eased into view, mostly white houses. The peninsula snaked out into the middle of the river to meet yet another dead oil rig. On the far side, tall buildings climbed up, looking like a shipyard or something. In the Highlands.
Jock didn’t slow much as they hit the ‘30’ signs.
A beach appeared, the tide far out. And the first homes of Cromarty, bungalows and post-war ex-council houses, the kind you’d see anywhere north of Berwick or Gretna.
Jock took the left fork to follow the coast into the town, heading for the harbour. The Royal, a grand old Victorian hotel, sat on the right looking out to sea. The car had barely stopped before Jock shot out, flying through a door underneath the Belhaven Best sign.
Hunter got out on the pavement and stretched out, his spine cracking in a particularly satisfying way. A Porsche rumbled past, low-slung, one of those eighties ones that did about an inch to the gallon.
And the car started rolling.
Shite!
He dived back in and yanked at the handbrake, crunching as it snapped back on.
Bloody hell.
He grabbed his bag from the back seat and followed Jock inside the hotel.
No sign of him, but tuneless whistling came from a door at the side.
Panelled walls, dotted with old brewery mirrors. A long bar, with several pumps of real ale, still reeking of smoke, years after anyone could legally light up inside. Then again, with police cuts the way they were, who was to stop them up here?
Three drinkers sat along the bar, enjoying their own company. One of them read a paperback, but the others just stared into their beer, self-medicating. The first looked round at him, did the old up-and-down, then went back to his fizzing lager.
Jock reappeared, grinning from ear to ear as he did up his flies. ‘That’s got it.’ He paced over to the bar and grinned at the bear of a barman. ‘Two reservations, name of
Hunter.’
The barman looked even older than Jock, his wild beard climbed up to just below his eyes. He reached below the bar for a clipboard. ‘Hunter, eh?’ He looked at Jock, then his son, then back, like they were an unlikely couple.
‘Two rooms.’
‘Ah. that explains it.’ He rested the form on the scarred wood.
Jock signed the form and pushed it back, and got a pair of keys in return. ‘Set us up a pint of the blonde, my good man. I’ll be back in a flash.’
‘We’re here to find my brother, not get banjaxed.’
‘I’m gasping, son.’ Jock’s eyes were wild like he really needed a drink. ‘And I am actually shiting myself about what’s happened to your brother. You go shit, shower, shag, shave, and back here. Let me deal with it in my own way, okay?’ He smiled at the barman. ‘Thanks.’
The barman reached for a glass.
‘Beautiful pint that, Craig. Beautiful.’ Jock was powering along the pavement through Cromarty. ‘Swear I could go another twenty.’
Going to be hard keeping the old rascal sober. The beer glass had been empty by the time Hunter returned to the bar. He followed a few paces behind, the dull ache in his skull returning with a vengeance. The kind of vengeance that you got from downing painkillers on an empty stomach.
He struggled to tell where Cromarty’s centre was. It seemed to be a collection of fishing cottages with the occasional grand old mansion. An antiques shop with green signage sat opposite a café, both open, but no sign of a high street.
Jock stopped and sucked in the air. ‘Beautiful.’ He set off down a backstreet, if anything, faster than before. ‘Just up ahead, son.’
This road turned out to be the main street. A Day-Glo turquoise café was still open. A few doors down was the Cromarty Arms, a red Tennent’s T hanging above the door.
Hunter stopped. ‘I’ve not come all this way to go to the bloody pub.’
‘Keep your wig on.’ Jock walked past the pub, then a wild garden overgrown with weeds already, before disappearing off down a side street which the stone wall marked ‘Big Vennel’, marching down towards the water.
