Hunter's Revenge

by Val Penny

  Hunter drove quietly and calmly across the city. He was often amused how the driving habits of the good citizens of Edinburgh adjusted to the sight of a vehicle with POLICE emblazoned across it. He watched as each car reduced its speed to the legal limit; traffic lights were scrupulously obeyed, and Give Way signs afforded exaggerated attention. He smiled and indicated to turn right. He was waved across by another driver, although they had right of way. No big surprise. Hunter just raised his hand in thanks and drove across.

  “Do we even really need a valuation?” Tim asked.

  “Maybe not, directly, but you saw the security in George’s house. I want to know why he was so security-conscious. It may just have been as a protection for his valuable library, or it might have been much more personal.”

  Tim nodded. “Yes, I see. Rachael said the insurance company confirmed they had required a burglar alarm and five lever locks on the back and front doors, but not the level of security Bear identified in George’s home.”

  “That’s what I suspected,” Hunter said.

  They pulled up outside the new town property in Coates Crescent. Tim grabbed a box of books as Hunter went to ring the bell.

  “Nice place,” Tim said.

  “I told you, sound bookish investments. Some of these things can be worth a fortune,” Hunter replied.

  The door was opened by a man with a ram-rod-straight back and white hair. He looked exactly like an older version of Hunter Wilson.

  “Christian!” he said in surprise. “Either it’s your mother’s birthday, or you want something. Eileen, our elder son is here.”

  “Christian, my dear. How lovely, and you’ve brought a friend!” A chubby little woman with greying brown hair bustled towards them.

  “Hello, Mum.” Hunter smiled as he hugged her and introduced Tim.

  “I read about your father, Tim. Very sad. I’m so sorry,” she said.

  They followed Hunter’s parents to a neat room where the walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bookcases filled with obscure old tomes. The further up the wall they were, the dustier they got. Tim smiled and laid the box he was carrying on the table.

  “Shall I bring in the rest of the boxes, Boss?”

  “Yes please, Tim. You are right, Dad, I do want something. One of our own, the Crime Scene Investigation Manager, has been murdered. I hoped you could help me by valuing his collection of books.”

  “You know I will, lad, but I need something in return.”

  Hunter smiled but looked quizzical.

  “Stay and have a cup of tea with your mother.”

  “Has she made scones?”

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

  Tim enjoyed the visit with Hunter's parents and enjoyed the scones even more. They chatted about George and his importance to Hunter as a friend and colleague, they touched on Tim’s father and his incarceration in such a way that Tim knew they cared about both him and his father as people, and lastly they turned to the books Tim had brought up the stairs into their living room.

  “These are exquisite, Christian!” Reverend Wilson said, cradling the children’s book by Leyb Kvitko, Di Bobe Shlak un ir Kabak. “Is it inscribed to your friend? No! He would be too young.”

  “Possibly his grandfather?” Tim volunteered.

  “Yes, lad, you are right. That is much more likely,”

  The old minister laid the book down gently and accepted the recently-delivered copy of Winnie the Pooh from Hunter.

  “A first edition. Lovely. My goodness, it is signed by both A A Milne and E H Shepard. That is most unusual, and in such excellent condition. I will enjoy looking at these for you, Christian.” Hunter’s father smiled.

  Tim and Hunter did justice to the scones, fruitcake and cinnamon biscuits Mrs Wilson had made. She asked quietly after her grandson, Cameron.

  “He is getting on,” Hunter said. “I wish I could do more for him, but rehab is a very insular experience, I understand. I’ll keep you posted, Mum.”

  The hour they spent together went by very fast. When they got up to leave, Tim noticed that Hunter shook his father's hand, but hugged his mother tight.

  “Your mother is a fine baker, Sir,” Tim said, as the door closed behind them.

  “That she is, young Myerscough. That she is.”

  “How is Cameron really getting on in rehab?”

  “He’s on a twelve-week residential course. It’s costing his mum and me a fair whack, but when he’s through, the idea is he’ll go and stay with his sister for a while. My daughter, Alison, lives in Shetland. It will keep Cameron out of the way of his old associates, and then he’ll transfer to Edinburgh University next year and stay with his mother or me.”

  “If money is an issue, Sir…”

  “Take your hand out of your pocket, son. We’ll manage without your money. Anyway, you don’t want to look slovenly on duty. Now, back to the ranch for us,” Hunter replied firmly.

  Curiosity overtook Tim on the drive back to the station.

  “Christian, Boss?”

  “Christian Cyril Hunter Wilson. What would you call yourself? One word of this to anybody and I’ll have your balls for doorstops.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Tim grinned. They drove the rest of the way back to the station at Fettes in silence.

  When they got there, Tim jumped out of the van and into his large, comfortable BMW. It had been his treat to himself when he took full control of the multi-million-pound trust fund his mum had left him when she died. He did love this car, large enough for him to be comfortable; hybrid to be green enough for his conscience. He drove across the city to HMP Edinburgh in the west of the city. The prison, popularly known as Saughton Prison (after the area in which it stood), was one of Tim’s least favourite places on earth, but he would never miss a chance to visit his dad. Tim knew how much the time meant to his dad too.

  He went through the usual security checks with everybody else and sat down in the waiting room. The room was covered in tiny marks and graffiti, but always smelled and looked clean. Tim’s guess was that the prisoners cleaning this room always took longer doing it, as they hoped to see something or somebody out with their usual routine.

  “You again?” Tim’s reverie was disturbed as a familiar voice wafted across.

  “Hi, Jamie,” Tim smiled. “You here to see your old man too?”

  “I’m not here for your company, fuckin’ polis.”

  Tim blushed, but ignored the jibe. “What happened to your arm?”

  “That fellow looking for the blue Volvo, the one who came in when you and DC Grant were with me and Frankie, well he came back with his friend, Lenny The Lizard Pratt. Broke my arm on the reception desk when they found we’d lost the car, didn’t he?”

  Tim was puzzled. “A ten-year-old-Volvo wouldn’t seem to merit that kind of punishment. And I thought The Lizard was dating your mum?”

  Jamie shrugged. “What can I say? I’m all sorts of lucky. I’ll have to go back when the swelling’s down a bit. The docs have to put a pin in here, ‘cos’ it’s a bad break, hospital said.” He pointed to his forearm and grimaced.

  “You need to report it, Jamie. That’s a nasty assault.”

  “Yeh, big man, like I’m going to tell you lot? I really want a stooky on my other arm as well.”

  It was Tim’s turn to shrug as they realised the doors were unlocked for the start of the visiting hour.

  As Tim strode towards his dad, he noticed that Jamie was not the only person who had recently suffered injury. Sir Peter’s nose was strapped to repair a break, and his left eye was surrounded by a rainbow-coloured ring with a dark purple centre and yellow edges. The knuckles on both of his hands were grazed.

  “Dad, what the hell happened to you?”

  “Sit down and don’t make a fuss. Former Chief Constables are only marginally more popular than child sex offenders. I’ve had to take a couple of beatings, but I’m not in bad shape, and if it’s one-to-one I can pretty well hold my own. I’d look a whole lot wors
e if Ian Thomson hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Thomson? Surely he doesn’t owe you any favours?”

  “True, but you got rid of Mansoor and the drug dealing out of his showrooms. By his beliefs, you did good by him, so he’s paying you back by looking out for me.”

  “Does he have a cork eye?”

  “He can’t shadow me, son! Anyway, if I catch them, I can give as good as I get.” He nodded towards an angry black-haired guy who looked as if he ate raw chickens whole. “Apparently I framed his brother.”

  “Did you?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. No, I did not. Now stop your nonsense and get us a coffee and some chocolate out of the machines.”

  ***

  Visiting time always seemed to go too quickly. It was not long until it was time for visitors to clear the room and for the prisoners to be searched for contraband before returning to their cells. Ian Thomson raised his head as Tim walked passed him on his way out. He saw Tim acknowledge him with a nod.

  “Mansoor’s men have targeted the showroom and my Jamie,” Ian Thomson growled. “I don’t want fucking drugs around my business again, and I don’t want them playing fast and loose with my boy. Mansoor’s got Lenny The Lizard Pratt and Big Brian Squires involved. You sort that out. I’ll keep your old man safe, otherwise the former Chief Constable will find prison a very dangerous place, believe me.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Janey, you must be getting excited, too?” Rachael asked.

  “Nervous more than excited. It’s all right for you – you have a family to help take the strain. I just have me.”

  “My family is your family, Janey.”

  “That thought makes me even more nervous,” Jane laughed.

  Jane had been brought up in the care system and had passed through several children’s homes and foster carers. That beginning had been brutal. She never knew what she had done to deserve it. Jane knew she had family. She just didn’t know who or where they were. Joining Rachael’s large, close group of relatives – her parents, her sister, aunts, uncles and cousins – felt foreign and exciting to Jane. It was good to be accepted as one of them, just as she was.

  “I don’t blame you. Imagine how I feel! Anyway, Dad insists he’s walking us both down the aisle,” Rachael said.

  “There won’t be an aisle, we’re getting having a blessing of our civil partnership at the hotel. We’re not really getting married,” Jane smiled.

  “As good as. You want to contradict him?”

  “Not much.”

  “To me this is our wedding.” Rachael hugged herself.

  “Darling Rachael! When are we due at the dress shop?”

  “Our appointment is 12.30 so that my sister can join us during her lunch break,” Rachael smiled.

  “Sarah works quite close to the shop, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, and Mel has the day off, so she’ll be there too, but Colin’s wee girl Rosie will be at school, so Maggie and Colin will take her to get her flower girl dress at the weekend.”

  “And will our best men, Bear and Tim, be wearing their kilts?” Jane asked.

  “The famous Zewedu and Myerscough tartans! Otherwise known as Scottish tourist. They’ll be there in style. Those men are far too pleased with their own legs, if you ask me,” Rachael joked.

  “Sounds good. Let’s go, shall we?”

  “Yes, and we can stop at the car-hire company to pay the balance we owe on the way home.”“Do you think it’s silly to have cars just to drive around the block, Rache?”

  “Very! But as this is our special day and it's what we want – so it’s what we're going to do.”

  “I’m glad you said that. I agree.” Jane smiled.

  “It was good that Sarah and Mel were there to comment on our dresses. It is so difficult when we can’t see each other,” said Rachael as they drove past Edinburgh Airport on their way to pay the car-hire company.

  “Outfits.”

  “What?”

  “Outfits,” repeated Jane. “Who said we’re wearing dresses?”

  “Aren’t you? Oh shit!”

  “Does it matter that much?”

  “Janey, look!”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Just. Stop!” Rachael shouted.

  Jane did an emergency stop, as the cars behind her sat on their horns, shook their fists and swore. She ignored them all. Now she had seen what Rachael had seen. Jane grabbed her phone and rang the station while Rachael got out.

  They stood and stared at the burnt-out car. The front of it was completely destroyed. Only the back of the car displayed anything recognisable.

  “What do you bet it’s the car taken from Thomson’s Top Cars?” Rachael said.

  “It’s certainly been a blue Volvo. Let’s wait till the crime scene investigators get here.”

  “That’s all we need – an extra shift when we’re meant to be using our day off to arrange our wedding.”

  “You take the car and drive over and pay for our wedding cars. I’ll wait here till the uniforms and CSIs get here,” Jane suggested.

  Rachael took the car keys from Jane and glared at her. “Do you always have to let work get in the way, Janey?” she said angrily as she flounced off.

  ***

  Traffic always moves fast on the roads around Edinburgh Airport, but today cars were reducing their speed to a crawl. Drivers craned their necks to try to see what had resulted in all the police activity. Jane instructed some uniformed officers to take their places and move the cars along.

  A young PC approached Jane, looking nervous. “Sarge? I think there’s something you ought to see.”

  Jane frowned and approached the rear of the burnt-out car. It did not take long before she detected a familiar but noxious odour. Once you have smelled burnt human flesh, it is not a smell you ever forget.

  Jane glanced at the young officer, who nodded. She looked into the boot of the car and saw the body of a young woman bundled into the cramped space. Her hair was singed as a result of the fire, and the synthetic fibres on her clothing stuck to her charred flesh, but her features were visible. She had been bound and gagged. Jane realised she must have been terrified.

  “What a bloody awful way to go. I have a horrible feeling I know who that is, or was,” she sighed. Then she peered into the boot of the car. “What’s that?” She pointed to a packet under the spare wheel. It was protected by charred wrappers that had clearly withstood the worst of the heat when the car was burning.

  “I don’t know, Sarge. The whole car needs to be moved and examined, but after the lassie’s been taken away, I s’pose.”

  “Yes, you suppose correctly, officer. Has anybody phoned the pathologist?”

  “They have indeed, Jane.” Dr Meera Sharma walked up behind them, dressed head to foot in her protective clothing.

  Chapter Ten

  Hunter and Tim pulled the car up in Gorgie, outside the tall, grey tenement where Jenny’s mum lived. They noticed that none of the neighbours seemed curious when the police car stopped. The small homes built over one hundred and fifty years ago had originally had no bathrooms or toilets, but had been modernised with the benefit of substantial grants from the local authorities in the mid-twentieth century. Now, the three or four homes on each of the four floors of the building boasted internal bathrooms, kitchens and one or two bedrooms. They would make excellent starter homes, if the prices hadn’t risen so fast.

  “Such a lot of homes in this area,” Tim commented. “It’s always busy, isn’t it? I remember going to the Gorgie City Farm once as a little boy.” He pushed open the tenement door and jogged easily up the stairs without waiting for Hunter’s reply. He was waiting at the door when Hunter finished climbing the four floors to Miss Kozlowski’s door.

  “Young Myerscough, nobody likes a show-off,” Hunter said.

  “No, Sir” Tim rang the bell.

  Jenny’s mum answered the door. She was wearing a loose-fitting shirt and jogging bottoms, and was towelli
ng her dark hair dry.

  “You?” she said. “You must have news that is either very, very good or bloody awful.”

  Hunter made to show the woman his identification.

  “Don't bother with that. I know you both from the cop-shop.”

  “May we come in, Miss Kozlowski?” Hunter asked.

  “Shit. It’s bad. How bad?”

  “Perhaps we could talk inside?” Tim said softly.

  Ishbel Kozlowski began to cry as she led them along the narrow corridor to her living room. She collapsed on to the worn floral sofa and looked at them hopefully. The room smelt of stale cigarette smoke and furniture polish. A heady mix. Hunter sat down on the chair opposite her and told Tim to find the kitchen and make some tea.

  “Where is the kitchen?” Tim asked.

  “Through the wall, son. There’s no’ that much choice in these wee flats.” Ishbel Kozlowski blew her nose on the towel round her neck and looked back at Hunter. She picked up her cigarette from the overflowing ash tray and took a long drag.

  Hunter could have done with a drag himself, even if he had given up the weed ten years ago. He could see the hope and desperation in her eyes. He knew this was her only child. Hunter’s stomach churned. Giving news this bad never got any easier.

  “Miss Kozlowski, I am sorry to have to tell you that we have found the body of a young woman. We believe it may be Jenny, but I will need you to come down to the morgue to identify her. I am so very sorry.” The end of Hunter’s sentence was drowned by the screams of the distraught woman.

  “No. No. You must be wrong, she’s only eighteen. She’s just a wee lassie. She’s a good girl.” The woman was distraught. She got up and wandered across the room. She picked up a photo of Jenny and held it tightly to her chest. Her tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

  When Tim re-entered the room, he guided her back to the chair.

  “Have a seat Miss Kozlowski. I don't want you to burn yourself.”

  “I've more important things to worry about than that, lad.”

  But she sat and accepted the mug of tea Tim handed her without even looking at him. She stared fiercely into Hunter’s eyes before her own welled up with tears again.