by Ed James
Not a good sign. Hunter’s stomach started rumbling. A mix of hunger from the up-chucked porridge and sheer nerves.
He looked back down the street. No Range Rovers. No pedestrians either.
He tried the door and it nudged open. The butterflies did somersaults. A radio played out New Order somewhere inside, thin and distant.
‘Hello?’
No response.
The butterflies flapped their wings.
Hunter stepped into the house, straight into a living room-kitchen with an oven-hot temperature. The kind of heat he associated with assassins and torturers or, worse, stag weekends in the Algarve. Bright, the curtains open wide. Bottle-green futon, metal coffee table, beige designer armchair. Tasteful artworks. No sign of anyone, no sign anyone had been in for a few days.
The rank smell of rotten meat hit his nose, followed by a dessert of mould spores. The kitchen was small, barely enough units to put a week’s shopping in let alone hide a body.
He went through to the hallway. No staircase, so just a single floor. Two doors off. The first was a bedroom, a massive bed almost wall to wall. Made, though, sheets tucked in tight like a good squaddie. An iPhone charger on the bedside table, next to a blue pack of condoms and a tube of KY jelly.
Back in the hall, Hunter caught a fresh waft of the smell. He stepped into the bathroom. Sink and toilet, ice white, dry as a bone. The shower unit was off to the side.
Hunter opened the unit door.
A dead body lay in a pool of blood. Naked and male, eyes wide open and staring at Hunter. One gunshot wound in the forehead, two in the chest.
20
Hunter stood there in the roasting hot bathroom, trying to process it. As mangled as the body was, it matched Keith’s description and the photo on the phone’s lock screen.
The voice on the video echoed round Hunter’s head.
‘You are not supposed to be here. As much as I would like to kill you, I have a much better plan. We are going to have so much fun.’
He fought through the revulsion, trying to stop slipping into old habits.
Grandpa’s lying on the floor, gasping, clutching his chest. His face is pale like Skeletor and he’s staring right at me. ‘Please, son! Get your father!’
Centring himself. Taps, brushed chrome. Sink, ice white. Radox shower gel, the alpine scent lingering and mixing with the rancid stench of death.
Okay, back.
He looked at the body again. Glass bricks stacked at the side of the shower stall, distorting the light from outside. No other way to describe it but an assassination. Someone had done this deliberately. Meaning there was a clear reason for this guy’s death. Assuming it was Keith, then it had to relate to Murray’s trip to the oil rig. Right?
If they couldn’t kill Murray on the rig and leave his body, they felt they could do it to Keith here.
Two questions, then.
First, why did they kill Keith?
An assassination was easiest behind closed doors. Lure them in, strike, leave. Some forensic traces left behind, maybe, but the most efficient method by far. They banked on the body not being found for a while. Keith and Murray worked in a strange world, as likely to be breaking into derelict buildings in the Scottish Highlands as in Germany, California or Japan. So he had no close ties, nobody who’d check in on cats or dogs, not even hens like Murray. Just an empty shell of a house in the arse end of Inverness.
Second question—what the hell happened to Murray?
Hunter had drawn a fresh blank. A dead body closed off intelligence avenues.
A dead body was something he should call in. Call Cullen.
Now.
Do it.
Only option here.
Hunter got out his phone and called Chantal. Still voicemail. Then he tried Cullen, and got his voicemail again.
So, who now? Control?
Wait—Methven. The new boss. He still had his mobile number on there. The dial tone was harsh in his ear. Another call bounced to voicemail. But a delay, like it was a conscious decision rather than phones-off protocol
He could picture the scene. Chantal leading the interview, Cullen sitting next to her, opposite a suspect and their lawyer. Methven all puffed up like a senior investigating officer should be, standing in the obs suite, playing pocket billiards, sipping strong coffee and wanting to jump in and tell Chantal how to do it properly.
Hunter retried the number, but it bounced to voicemail even quicker.
Elvis!
Hunter hit dial and it rang and rang. Until: ‘Alright, Craigy boy, your prostate finally exploded?’ Sounded like he was in a car, driving. Slight distance meant he wasn’t behind the wheel.
‘No, mate. I’ve…’ Hunter took another look in the shower and got a wave of revulsion. ‘I’ve found a body.’
‘What?’
‘A dead one, Paul.’ Hunter sighed. ‘Look, is Cullen there?’
‘No, mate. You’re on speaker and I’m with Methv—’
‘Constable, what the sodding hell are you talking about? A body?’
‘I’m in Inverness, sir, and… I’ve found a dead body. He’s been murdered, sir.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Caledonian Road.’
The squeal of brakes and a roaring engine. ‘Two minutes.’
‘What?’
‘We’re in this infernal sodding city.’ And Methven was gone.
Okay. They’re on their way here. Only thing worse than waiting was—
Don’t think about that.
Hunter tried to occupy himself. Another search of the dingy flat, but nothing obvious jumped out at him. Outside, he stood in the doorway. Watching, waiting, guarding.
The street was quiet. A young mother pushed her baby along the street, reaching a wriggling finger in to pacify the child. At the corner, an old man stood while his dog peed against a tree.
Then sirens, blaring not too far away. A flash of blue as Methven’s Range Rover swung round the corner and hurtled towards him. The one Range Rover Hunter was glad to see. He ran down to the kerb, waving his arms.
Methven pulled up on the road, two-thirds in a space, the rest sticking out onto the street. Methven hopped out, flanked by Elvis and Bain.
Hunter couldn’t look at the house, his stomach churning. ‘I’ve secured the property, sir. Only one entrance.’
‘Excellent.’ Methven opened the boot and tossed a crime scene suit to Bain.
The numpty dropped it on the pavement and nodded at Elvis. ‘Pick it up, Constable.’
‘Sergeant!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Bain reached down for it himself, snarling at Elvis.
Methven tore on his suit like the inverse of him tearing off a wetsuit at the triathlon Hunter had competed against him in. ‘Have you got an ID for the victim?’
‘I think it’s probably Keith Wilson, the owner.’
‘Only probably?’
‘Need someone to ID him.’
‘Can I ask what you’re doing here, Constable?’
‘Working?’
‘DI Cullen said you were back in Edinburgh.’
Hunter looked around but couldn’t see Cullen. He hated winging it at the best of times. ‘Following a lead, sir.’
‘You were supposed to be in sodding Perth, but you’ve been keeping DI Cullen in the sodding dark, haven’t you?’
‘No, sir, I’ve—’
‘Purple sodding buggery, Hunter!’ Methven jabbed a finger at him, tapping the end of his nose. ‘You’ve gone rogue on me for the last time.’
‘Sir, I’ve operated under DI Cullen’s instructions. Check with him.’
‘I sodding will.’ Methven was suited up first. ‘Okay, I’m going in.’ He snapped on his mask, but it didn’t cover the glower he directed at Bain. ‘Sergeant, hurry up.’ Then he trained his ire on Elvis. ‘Constable, you’re on crime scene management.’
‘Gaffer.’
Methven gave a firm nod, then set off inside the house.
Bain was taking his
time suiting up, eyeing Hunter. Creepy little bastard was completely bald now, his ill-advised beard now trimmed away to a shiny smoothness. God knows where he’d stopped shaving, probably like a baby all over. ‘Could fuckin’ do without this shite.’
Hunter was barely aware of the sound of another car parking. A hand gripped Hunter’s arm and pulled him away.
‘Come on, Craig.’ Cullen, jaw clenched tight. ‘Need a word.’
Hunter stepped away from the bollocking. ‘I tried to cover for you with Crystal, but I think you better ’fess up.’
‘Shite.’ Cullen ran a hand through his hair, upsetting the pristine gelwork. ‘We could lie and—’
‘No, Scott, we can’t. You’re a DI. Tell him the truth. Besides, you’re allowed to manage a caseload. Just say this is part of it. It’s not a million miles from the truth. You got Buchan to log it.’
‘Fine. You’re not as daft as you look.’
‘Mate, I’m not in the mood for this.’ Hunter couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Why are you here, anyway? Where’s Chantal?’
‘She’s still in Perth.’ Cullen took his arm and led him away from the gate.
Bain entered Keith Wilson’s home, leaving Elvis standing outside the house, arms folded, trying to look intimidating but… Looking like Paul ‘Elvis’ Gordon.
‘And why are you in Inverness?’
‘We’re investigating a murder.’
‘I know that. I’m on the case as well.’
‘Following a lead.’ Cullen sighed. ‘The victim has connections here.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Alistair McCoull.’
Hunter frowned. It rang a bell. So much noise in his head from the case and the still-rattling ribs and his missing brother and a dead fucking body. But that name… Wee Ally? ‘Wait, does he co-own the Pride of Cromarty.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a boat. Co-owns it with a guy called Shug.’
‘Hugh “Shug” Mowat, right.’ Elvis yawned into his fist. ‘A person of interest on our case. We’re heading up to Fortrose to pick him up, then you called.’
‘Good luck. He’s gone to ground.’
‘Let’s take a step back here.’ Cullen leaned back against his Golf. Newer model and a GTI this time, but the same manufacturer as ever. ‘How do you know Shug?’
‘He took Murray out to an oil rig.’ Hunter bit at his thumbnail, then pointed at the house. ‘Murray and the owner of that flat. Probably the body in the shower. Guy’s disappeared, but left behind a GoPro.’ He struggled for breath. Saying it out loud made it seem all the more real. ‘Scott, I think that’s my brother’s boyfriend in there.’
Cullen just nodded like he knew Murray was gay. ‘I don’t like your brother’s disappearance intersecting my case.’
‘Ally McCoull is only a tangent. Co-owned a boat. He was an assassination, right?’
‘Shot through the head, mouth and heart.’
Hunter frowned. ‘Same here.’
‘Seriously?’ Cullen swallowed. ‘Not so much an intersection, then. Christ.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Guy lives in Perth, worked at General Accident, then when it became Aviva or whatever. Retired five years back and bought a boat up here with Shug Mowat. Shug is our chief suspect.’
‘I don’t think he’s your guy, Scott.’ Hunter huffed out a breath and nodded at Keith Wilson’s house. ‘In there, that’s not a fisherman’s work.’
‘Right.’ Cullen stared over at the house, eyes twitching. Probably running the same calculations as Hunter, assessing the same probabilities and motives. And giving up in the same way. ‘What a mess.’
Fiona got out of Jock’s car onto the street and lit up a cigarette. She waved at Hunter but didn’t seem too curious. At least she hadn’t run off when she saw the cops.
‘Who’s that, Craig?’
‘Fisherwoman from Cromarty. She’s helping us.’
‘Us?’
‘Me and my old man.’
‘And where is your old man?’
‘Shit.’ Hunter left Cullen and crossed the road. He looked in the car. No sign of Jock. ‘Oh, Christ.’ He walked over to Fiona. ‘Where is he?’
‘He came back, took my phone, spoke to someone, then cleared off in a hurry.’
‘Didn’t say where he was going?’
‘Nope.’
Hunter just bloody knew it. The hangriness in the past always led to one thing—Jock storming off.
21
‘I’m supposed to believe this heap of shite?’ Bain was interviewing, sitting at a twisted angle opposite Hunter. Kept slapping a hand to his head and it was really getting on Hunter’s nerves. ‘You must think I came up the Clyde in a banana boat.’
‘It’s the truth.’ Hunter stayed in the same position. Arms folded across his chest, legs locked together at the ankles. ‘And I only care if DI Cullen here believes it.’
Bain bristled, his top lip twitching. Hunter never thought he’d miss the moustache, but there you go. ‘Let me get this straight, you just found the boy’s address, aye?’
‘No, PC David Robertson gave me it.’
‘So you went to this address and just happened to find him in the shower, dead?’
‘I know what you’re trying to do here. You went inside that house with DCI Methven, so you’ll know he looks like he’s been dead for days. I was with Chantal all weekend. Have you tracked my father’s phone?’
‘Could your old man be involved?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, he seems to have shat it and pissed off as soon as we showed up running blues and twos.’
‘He was staying at my brother’s home near Galashiels until yesterday morning.’
‘That right, aye?’
‘You got evidence that he wasn’t? Have you tracked his phone?’
‘We did, aye. Turned off first thing this morning.’
Hunter stared at him for a few seconds. ‘He’s a big fan of your work. Your podcast.’
Blushing hard, Bain twisted round to focus on Cullen. ‘What do you think, Sundance?’
‘It’s DI Cullen.’
‘Sorry there.’ Bain cackled out a laugh. ‘Force of habit.’
‘Right, Craig.’ Cullen leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘Your dad’s missing, for reasons, but we’ve got this Fiona. How does she fit into this?’
‘She… knows Shug and Ally McCoull. And she…’ Hunter assessed the risks, ‘came up with…’ Sod it, tell the truth. He leaned forward, clasping his hands just like Cullen. ‘Fiona took me and Jock out to an oil rig. The last place Murray was spotted.’
‘That where you found the video?’
‘No, that was Shug’s cottage in Fortrose.’
Cullen leaned over to Bain and whispered in his ear. Bain got up and left the room.
Hunter waited for him to go. ‘Scott, what the hell’s going on here?’
Cullen sat back and rested a foot on his thigh. ‘I can’t do you any favours here. Just because we go back a few years and you let me stay on your sofa in my hour of greatest need. Any of that.’
‘I wouldn’t ask you to.’ Hunter tried to swallow but his mouth was bone dry. ‘Have you watched the video?’
Cullen nodded. ‘You think your brother’s dead?’
‘I do.’ There, he’d said it at least. ‘But I need to find his body. My mum deserves a funeral.’
‘And your dad?’
‘Just his own.’
Cullen laughed.
Hunter locked eyes with him, showed how desperate he felt. ‘Scott, I’ve been phoning you and Chantal, but—’
‘Interviews, Craig. You know the drill. That’s what led us up here.’
‘What’s Fiona saying?’
‘Square root of fuckin’ bugger all. You sure she’s not involved?’
Hunter processed it. There were a few avenues that led to her being involved, but many more that didn’t. Still didn’t exonerate her. And nothing ex
plained that big lump being one step behind Hunter at all times. ‘I don’t know. If she’s quiet, I’d say it’s because she’s scared.’
‘Why would your dad run?’
‘Search me.’ Hunter felt a tingle up his spine, almost made him shiver. ‘In my youth, the problem wasn’t Jock leaving so much as him coming back.’
‘Come to think of it, you’ve never talked about him in all the time I’ve known you.’
‘There’s a good reason for that.’ Fire surged through Hunter’s veins. ‘I wish he was dead, Scott. He’s an arsehole.’
‘But is he involved in a double murder?’
‘It’s probably a triple.’ Hunter sat back and clamped his hands on his thighs. ‘He’s a dodgy git, Scott, but that’s it as far as I know.’
‘So why’s he run off?’
‘He hates cops. Even me.’ Hunter let go of his thighs. ‘Look, Scott. I got shot at when I was on the rig.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Cullen rolled his eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘That’s it. We were rooting around, this boat came over. Big foreign guy came up. Could be Russian, could be Israeli, could be Albanian.’
‘Albanian?’
‘I don’t know. Chantal told me you were interviewing someone but I don’t want to—’ Hunter sighed at Cullen’s sudden texting. ‘Yep, you’re jumping to conclusions.’
‘Worth checking out, Craig.’ Cullen looked up. ‘Any idea who this guy is?’
‘No idea. Jock thinks Oswald’s involved, but—’
‘Who’s Oswald.’
‘Lord Iain Oswald. Owns the rig. I want to speak to him.’
Hunter leaned forward. He was getting sidelined in his own case. Typical Cullen, always wanting to be front and centre of anything.
‘I can’t believe you went on an oil rig.’
‘Come on, mate. If Michelle went missing and you found out she’d been—’
‘I get it.’ Cullen walked over to the door and opened it. Bain was standing outside like he’d been eavesdropping. ‘Give me a minute.’ He left and shut the door.
Hunter sat on his own—time and space to think. Time and space he didn’t want to think in. He needed to be out doing something. Finding Jock, finding Murray’s body. Anything but sitting there, staring at his own reflection in an Inverness interview room that stank of boiled fish. Rancid boiled fish.
