by Ed James
‘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 plate. 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 Fion
a 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.
He wrapped his arms around the American, just about interlocking his fingers around his obese waist. ‘Stay still!’
Randy was a wriggler. Kicking and elbowing.
‘Stay! Still!’ Hunter twisted round and pulled his arm up into a half nelson. Then he got the other one round to complete the move, pushing Randy flat against the stairs. ‘You going to stop trying to get away?’
A muffled, ‘Yes!’
‘I’ll let go and you can sit up but if you run I will take you down again, okay?’
‘Submit!’
Hunter let him go.
The big man eased himself into a sitting position. Looked like he had a few bruises coming. His coke mania seemed to have diminished slightly, though his rage was still boiling away.
‘It’s Randy, isn’t it?’
It seemed like a shrug. Hard to tell.
‘Need you to answer a few questions about those drugs.’
Randy just shook his head, breathing hard and heavy. ‘You can’t do this!’ A jab of the finger. ‘I know my rights!’
‘This isn’t about the drugs.’
‘You just said it was!’
‘It’s about who you got them from.’
‘No way, man. No way.’ Randy pulled a zip across his lips.
Hunter wasn’t getting any more out of him. Not here and not like this.
He grabbed his arm and pulled him to standing. ‘Right, you’re coming with me.’
Hunter sat Randy by the kitchen table, now spotless and glistening. ‘Sit there.’
Elvis was ringing out a cloth in the sink, shaking his head and scowling. The music had shifted to New Order, playing at a lower level. One of their dancier songs.
Cullen was standing behind the American’s partner, hands on hips. ‘Where did you get the coke?’
‘Like I’m telling you that.’ Randy shook his head. ‘Son of a bitch.’
Cullen gave Hunter a flash of the eyebrows as he sat.
‘This is fucking barbaric.’ The big man sat back, eyes swivelling in his head. The coke mania was still clinging to him. ‘I want you to speak to the goddamn embassy!’
‘The ambassador’s people are going to tell us to charge you with drug possession.’
‘This is goddamn outrageous.’ Randy slammed a meaty fist off the table, rage burning in his eyes. ‘You bust into our apartment and bring us in here?’
‘Sir, we witnessed you taking a controlled substance. Class A too. I don’t know what that’s like back in the USA, but—’
‘Goddamn make me sick, you limey fuckstick. We bailed your asses out in the Second World War and we’ve helped your sorry asses ever since. And this is how you repay us?’
‘Sir, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
Randy tried to flip the table. But the weight of Cullen and Hunter held it in place. He yelped—all he’d got was a sore wrist. ‘You motherfucker! This is outrageous! You can’t do this to Uncle Sam!’ The coke was talking. Shouting. Screaming.
Hunter gave him a smile. ‘You’re from Philly, right?’
That seemed to knock Randy off balance. ‘So?’
‘The next time you’ll see the city of brotherly love will be 2026. Class A possession with intent to supply carries a minimum seven-year sentence.’
‘Supply?’
Hunter held up a bag containing over a hundred pills. ‘That’s a lot of ecstasy. And I found a lot of cocaine in your—’
‘Goddamnit!’ Another pounding on the table. ‘I’m not a drug dealer!’
Cullen sat back, nodding and smiling. ‘It’s not for us to assess. We merely supply the facts to the procurator fiscal—that’s the district attorney in your language, Randy—and her team determines the charges. Given the mountain of evidence there, I suspect any jury will find you guilty.’
Randy slumped forward, head in hands. ‘Goddamnit.’
‘Of course, if you said you’d never take drugs again, we could be lenient.’
‘Fuck off.’ He didn’t look up at them.
‘And if you helped us track down who you got the drugs from, well...’
That got him. ‘Well what?’
‘Well, we can see what we can do about forgetting what we saw. Or we can wait for the forensics guys to—’
‘Forensics?’
‘They’re on their way here to tear this place apart.’ Cullen pointed a finger pistol at him. ‘But if you tell us what you know about the dealer you bought the drugs off…’
Randy took one look at his wife, then sighed. ‘Listen, we spoke to this guy in the pub one n
ight. Shug? Is that even a name?’
‘It’s Scots for Hugh. Like Dod for George.’ Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘Or Jock for John.’
Randy nodded like he followed it. Maybe the gravity of the situation was getting through to him. ‘Well, Shug said his guy had gone to ground and passed us to this dealer he’d just met. We bought a load of coke and ecstasy from this dude. Now we’re running low and—’
‘What?’ Hunter shook the bag. ‘This is running low?’
‘Sure. Not the X, but the coke is like one night left.’ Randy rubbed at his nostrils, his eyes darting around like he wanted to shove some more up there. ‘I really wanted some ketamine to take the edge off this high, but he’s gone to ground.’
Hunter walked over to the stereo and killed New Order. He stared hard at Randy, trying to keep him focused. ‘What was this guy’s name?’
Randy broke into a broad grin. ‘I am not saying shit, man.’
Cullen gave Hunter a long hard look, then flicked his head towards the doorway. ‘What a bloody mess.’
Elvis joined them, shaking his head. ‘Boy’s away with the bloody fairies.’
Cullen pinched his nose. ‘Does anyone know where the drugs squad are?’
‘Stuck.’ Elvis started picking at his teeth. ‘Heard there’s a big accident on the A9. Three-car pile-up just north of Dunkeld.’
‘So I need an Inverness cop who knows any drug dealers in Cromarty. Christ, saying that out loud makes it sound that bit more impossible.’
Elvis clapped his hands together. ‘Leave it with me.’ And he left the house.
Hunter stared at Cullen. ‘Let me nail him down.’
‘No violence.’
Randy leaned against the table, completely wasted, and not elegantly. The guy was barely hanging together, eyes rolling around.
Hunter crouched low, going to Randy’s eye level and slapped the fat guy on the back. ‘Randy, I need to speak to your dealer.’
‘He’s back in Philly, dude.’
‘Your one here. The one who gave you the ecstasy and the cocaine.’ Hunter leaned in close. ‘I’ll maybe get you some ketamine.’
Randy frowned. ‘That guy.’
‘You going to tell me his name?’
Randy shrugged. ‘Why should I?’
