Craig Hunter Books 1-3 Read online

  Doug collapsed back into his chair, his nostrils twitching.

  Hunter tasted blood in his throat. ‘So why didn’t you do all this to him?’

  ‘Because I’m a human being.’ Doug wiped the streak of saliva smearing his cheek. ‘Long as that beast keeps away from Pauline and Steph, he can live his life. Some animal will no doubt find out who he is and—’

  ‘Mr Ferguson…’ Williams had his hand over the microphone this time, only letting go when Doug sat back.

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at Doug. ‘Did you know about this history before you started going out with Stephanie’s mother?’

  Doug scowled at his lawyer, then at Jain. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘My understanding is you met Mrs Ferguson through a friend of a friend. A lot of repeat abusers get intelligence on vulnerable sons and daughters before they make a move on their mothers.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Doug was wide-eyed, snarling. ‘I’m innocent here! I’ve never even accidentally seen the girl naked. I’m really careful about all that shite.’

  ‘What was the name of this friend you met Mrs Ferguson through?’

  ‘Boy called Alec Wishart.’ Doug blinked hard a few times. ‘Done a few favours for me over the years…’

  ‘Got an address for him?’

  ‘Course I bloody have. Look, you need to—’

  ‘Was it Mr Wishart we saw at your house?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You didn’t ask him to try and find Stephanie to maybe keep her quiet, did you?’

  ‘First I knew about her running away was you telling us just now.’

  ‘That’s the truth?’

  ‘Course it bloody is.’ Doug scratched at the stubble on his head. ‘Look, how the hell am I supposed to get word out to Alec, eh?’

  ‘You could’ve used Mr Williams here.’

  ‘That is a baseless accusation which sullies my good nature.’ The lawyer puffed up his chest and stuck his chin out. ‘I request a formal apology. Immediately.’

  ‘You denying passing on any messages on behalf of your client?’

  ‘I don’t have to deny it. You’ve got nothing suggesting I acted accordingly, so you must recant your words or I shall be forced to seek an appointment with your superior officers.’

  Jain reached forward, her dimpling cheek the only trace of a smirk. ‘Interview terminated—’

  ‘—and I just don’t know whether to believe him or not.’ Hunter plonked down across from Lauren and let out a groan. ‘At least that’s us finished with the stepfather. For now. Racist bastard.’

  ‘Racist?’ Lauren stopped writing and started fiddling with her biro, the top half of the plastic casing cracked and falling apart. Christ knows how she could write with the thing. ‘What?’

  ‘We’ll never be able to prove it…’

  Lauren scribbled a note, the pen cracking up the seam. ‘You okay, Craig?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, you haven’t been trained to deal with this sort of thing, so you might not be okay.’

  ‘Thought I was RoboCop?’

  ‘Even RoboCop had a person inside all that metal.’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Hunter grimaced. ‘The lawyers always just as bad as the bloody paedos? Keeping those stoats on the street is a crime in my book.’

  ‘I hope you’re not prejudging here?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind, Sarge, don’t you worry. Just wish he’d gone for a lawyer who I don’t want to flush down the toilet.’ Hunter let his stab-proof hang free, getting a good thunk from the buckle as it hit the chair arm. ‘How’s it been going here?’

  ‘I’ve had better. My derrière’s somewhat tender.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Just Buchan…’ Lauren groaned and dumped her pen down, another bit breaking off. ‘Him and McNeill go way back. You’re lucky you’re not a Sergeant. And one that’s only been here a few months.’

  ‘Aye, tell that to my bank manager.’

  The door clattered open behind him and Jain stormed in, followed by McNeill clutching her Airwave close to her ear.

  Jain perched on the edge of the vacant desk and nodded at Lauren.

  ‘Chantal, I’m sorry about what happened in that interview. Craig told me that Mr Ferguson—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Jain narrowed her eyes at Hunter. ‘Are you getting anywhere with the address of this Robert Quarrie?’

  Hunter checked his Airwave — no new messages flashing. ‘Still looking for him. All they’ve been able to find out so far is that he doesn’t own any properties in Scotland. Control had a look at his record on the Violent and Sex Offenders Register. Said he’s been living in Stranraer. Supposed to be sending officers round to the address now.’

  ‘Tallies with what Doug Ferguson told us.’ Jain shook her head, eyes shut and teeth clenched. ‘How the hell could the PNC not have what happened on file?’

  ‘Name changes, court orders, I don’t know.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Could be anything.’

  Lauren jotted down another note, her left hand cradling the pen to make sure none of the cracked plastic touched her fingers. ‘Do you believe this story?’

  ‘There’s something there, I think.’ Hunter thumbed at the door. ‘He seems to know a bit too much about Neil Alexander.’

  ‘You think they could be colluding?’

  ‘Nothing to support that. Yet.’

  ‘DS Jain?’

  ‘Like PC Hunter says, nothing to prove it either way.’ Jain nodded over at McNeill. ‘Sharon’s raising it with her boss to see if we can get the old case file.’

  ‘Needs more than raising.’ Hunter’s Airwave chimed. He was on his feet before the other two were even aware of it. ‘Receiving. Safe to speak.’

  ‘PC Hunter, it’s Mags. That request you had with the Dumfries and Galloway lot? Well, Mr Quarrie doesn’t live there anymore.’

  Hunter wheeled around. Lauren and Jain glanced at each other. McNeill stabbed a bony finger at her own Airwave. He held the handset up. ‘Any idea where he lives?’

  ‘Still looking for a new address.’

  ‘Mags, he’s a registered sex offender.’ Hunter could’ve crushed the little radio with his bare hands. ‘Whoever’s in charge of this damn search, they’d better pull their finger out or I’ll personally kick their sorry arse into the middle of next week.’

  ‘I’ll get the ViSOR team onto it.’

  ‘Issue a Be On the Lookout for him, aye?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Cheers, Mags.’ Hunter pressed the call button and collapsed against the burning radiator. You bugger… He stepped away from the furnace, the backs of his thighs feeling seared. ‘Take it you heard that?’

  McNeill unbuttoned her suit jacket and hauled it off. Flushed, like she was as hot as Hunter in that office. ‘Let’s get a press release out regarding this Quarrie character.’ She grinned. ‘Sorry, speak to the tigers.’ The smile was gone as fast as it had appeared. ‘If he’s back in the area, then it could explain Stephanie’s disappearance.’

  Hunter frowned at her. ‘More than her stepfather abusing her?’

  ‘As much.’ McNeill looked at him like he’d just shat in her kettle. Then smiled at Jain. ‘Chantal, can you and PC Hunter run this tale past Mrs Ferguson?’

  15

  Jain parked by the Ferguson house.

  Doug’s van still obscured part of the view, but there were some lights on downstairs, the rest of the street shifting from the fading daylight of a summer’s evening to the harsh lighting of fluorescent street lamps.

  The dying sun dowsed Edinburgh in an orange glow, casting long shadows from Arthur’s Seat and the crags.

  Jain gave Hunter the up and down, her gaze maybe lingering on his legs a bit too long. Again.

  ‘What’s with that?’

  She frowned. ‘With what?’

  ‘You looking at me. Is it the smell of shite?’

  ‘Must be that, Cra
ig.’ She coughed and twisted away to open her door. ‘Could murder a glass of wine.’

  ‘Give me a couple of bottles.’

  ‘Do you—?’ Jain’s Airwave chimed out. ‘Can never get too far from Sharon McNeill.’

  Hunter got out and rested against the car. Back the way, the graveyard was bleached yellow, the Royal High primary school peeking over the wall. Place looked like a prison. Fitting, given some of the kids he’d butted up against at High School. Just a couple hundred metres away and it could’ve been his fate, too.

  He walked over to the pool car, clocking Steve picking his nose and flicking the product at Dave. ‘Evening, boys.’

  ‘Mieaow.’ Steve couldn’t even be arsed to put his back into it. He stifled a yawn. ‘Still nothing here, Catman. Your pal hasn’t reappeared?’

  ‘Our pal, unless all that mutual masturbation has made you two blind.’

  ‘Nobody else saw him.’

  ‘DS Jain did.’

  ‘Mieaooooow.’

  ‘How come you didn’t even get close to catching him in that bloody graveyard?’

  Dave winked. ‘Assuming he was actually there and not just your cover story for falling into a jobbie, Hunter.’

  Could still smell it.

  Hunter looked around the street. An old CID pool Vectra was parked around the corner, a pair of local detectives manning the fort. ‘So you’ve not seen anything suspicious?’

  ‘Just you.’ Dave’s turn to yawn. ‘Mum and her pal are inside. We had a word with her, but you’d need a nuclear warhead to get past her, I tell you.’

  Hunter looked at Jain as she ended her Airwave call and wandered over to the house. Then he stuck his back into the car. ‘You been through the girl’s room?’

  ‘Aye, Dave was sniffing her knickers—’

  Ailsa stood in front of the living room door, blocking their entrance. ‘Is there any news about Steph?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s still missing, Mrs Crichton. We have issued a press release, though.’ Hunter tried a smile to see if that was the key to a less belligerent attitude from her. ‘We’re doing the full News Conference tomorrow, which will hopefully get on national TV.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here? To get Pauline to go along with you?’

  ‘Not our department. We just want to keep her updated and ask her a few questions. Now if you’ll—’

  ‘That prick with the rubbish patter says he’s supposed to do that.’ She scowled over to the kitchen. ‘Makes a shite cup of tea, too.’

  ‘The Family Liaison Officer will become more helpful over time, Mrs Crichton. Especially as we progress into prosecution.’

  ‘Aye, well, get the boy to mash the teabag before he puts the milk in is all I can say.’ Ailsa twisted round and yanked the door open. ‘The cops are back.’

  Pauline was standing in the hallway, arms wrapped around her torso. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Hunter nodded at the FLO, a couple of pimples away from finishing puberty by the looks of things. He mouthed: ‘Milk, no sugar.’ He watched the kid traipse over to get Jain’s order and took a wingback chair in the window. About as comfortable as a gravestone. ‘Pauline, we’ve been given some information regarding Stephanie’s father.’

  Pauline scowled at him. ‘Doug?’

  Hunter waited for Jain to take a seat next to her on the sofa. ‘No, Robert Quarrie.’

  Pauline collapsed back onto the settee, deflating like a stabbed beachball. ‘Christ.’

  ‘This isn’t the first time she’s been abused, is it?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Pauline settled into Ailsa’s hug and started picking at the tissue in her hands, tearing the plies apart as though she was hoping to find the answer buried there.

  Hunter shifted forward on his chair. Thing almost tipped over. ‘Can you start by telling us what happ—?’

  ‘Her own father. Jesus Christ.’

  ‘There, there.’ Ailsa rubbed Pauline’s arms. ‘It’s not your fault, hen.’

  ‘It bloody is my fault!’ The old fire was back in Pauline’s eyes, a snarl contorting her face. ‘What’s that saying? “Fool me once, shame on you? Fool me twice, won’t get fooled again?” That’s no’ right, is it?’

  ‘It’s “Fool me twice, shame on me”.’ Ailsa stroked down a lock of Pauline’s hair. ‘And it’s not your fault.’

  ‘Of course it bloody is!’ Pauline pushed away from Ailsa and stood up. She paced over to the mantelpiece and ran her finger along the top of an old carriage clock, looked like some old relative’s retirement gift. Sod the pension, here’s a shitty time piece to remind you it’s running out. She blew dust into the air. ‘Stephanie was eight when I caught him. Eight years of age.’

  The room was as silent as a morgue, just the clock ticking and the kettle thrumming through the door.

  ‘I changed jobs so I could be at home at lunch and after school for her. She was off school for a year after that happened. Didn’t settle until I told her he’d died. The girl was a complete mess, and it’s all my fault.’

  Hunter sat back in the armchair, still uncomfortable, but it was hardly the chair’s fault now. ‘And Mr Quarrie was definitely her natural father?’

  ‘Unnatural father.’

  Hunter caught the same look from Jain. ‘So who was?’

  ‘No, I just mean he’s a lying paedo scumbag.’ Pauline let out a deep sigh, which seemed to deflate her almost as much as her self-loathing. ‘Robert’s a nasty piece of work. Still is, I bet. Used to drink a lot. I didn’t know what he was doing or where he was half the time.’

  ‘What happened with Stephanie?’

  ‘I’d been going to Telford to do a night class, get some secretarial qualifications, ken? Left school with nothing but a wiggle and a perky pair of tits.’ She hoisted her bra up from the shoulder strap. ‘Kept me good for a bit, working in bars and that, but then I got pregnant with Steph and my tits sagged and my arse… Well.’

  Jain shifted forward on the sofa. ‘And Mr Quarrie was abusing Stephanie when you were at these classes?’

  ‘Didn’t even wait till I was out the door a couple of times.’ She shook her head and tossed the tissue into a bucket next to her. ‘The time I caught him, I’d forgot my bus fare.’

  Hunter looked around the room. ‘Was this here?’

  ‘This is my— Doug’s house. At the time, we lived in a flat on Moira Terrace.’ She went over to the coffee table and snatched another tissue from the box. ‘He denied it, said he was just comforting the lassie, said she was upset at me going out all the time. He had his fucking cock out!’

  Hunter gave her some space to settle. Then again, maybe he was giving himself some space. Nothing seemed to fit together. Like doing a jigsaw in the dark. Wearing gloves. And too many missing pieces to even count.

  ‘I grabbed Steph and drove to Porty. We reported it to the police and they did all that shite at the hospital. Then they locked him up. Took longer than forever, I swear.’ She tore off another hankie and dabbed at her nose. ‘Eight-year sentence wasn’t anywhere near enough for what he did to that girl. Let him out after five bloody minutes, from what I heard.’

  Hunter dug his pen into his notebook. ‘I take it you’ve not had any contact at all from him?’

  ‘The cheeky bastard still sends Steph a Christmas card every year. And a birthday card. Won’t let me forget he fucked the both of us. Sorry, that was crude…’ Pauline tore another tissue from the box, then another, bunching them all up. ‘I bin the cards before Steph sees them. Every bloody year. It’s so stressful, you know? Just waiting for the postie to appear with an envelope for her with that bloody Stranraer postage on it.’

  ‘This is going to be a difficult question, Pauline, so can you take your time thinking it through?’ Jain was smiling at her, like Mother Theresa comforting a small child. ‘After your history with Mr Quarrie, I assume you trusted Mr Ferguson completely?’

  ‘No way. Took a long time before I could. Had a private detectiv
e go through his past. His tax returns, his bins, his previous girlfriends, everything. Couldn’t find anything dodgy, but…’ Pauline burst into tears, hands clawing at a fresh Kleenex. ‘How could I miss this?’

  Ailsa decided it was time to cradle her neighbour again. ‘There, there, hen.’

  Hunter cleared his throat and nodded at Jain. ‘Any chance I could use your bathroom? Too much tea.’

  Jain gave him a slight nod back. Blink and you’d miss it.

  ‘That’s fine.’ Ailsa thumbed upstairs. ‘First on your left at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Hunter headed out into the hallway and started up the wooden staircase, which gave way to cream carpet at the top. Looked like it’d seen much better days.

  The first door on the left had a comedy picture of a garden gnome peeing into a bucket. Next to it, a white door was stencilled with “Steph’s Den!” Pink letters in that comic font that those arseholes in HR always used to show how zany they were.

  Hunter nudged it open. The room stank of fresh paint, couldn’t have been redecorated more than a few days ago, if that. Rock band posters covered two of the walls. The classics of despair — Joy Division, Portishead, Nirvana — among some newer bands. The XX, Electrum and the Twilight Sad. Weren’t they from Edinburgh?

  The Manic Street Preachers’ “Holy Bible” album cover screamed out from a third wall, a triptych of a morbidly obese woman in her underwear.

  Hunter swallowed — his brother Murray had that on CD. Used to listen to it with Angus while they beat each other up on that N64 game…

  The open window let in a breeze, flapping the red gingham curtains and cooling Hunter’s neck.

  Didn’t look like Steve or Dave had even been in there. Didn’t look like anyone had — the place was spotless. Piles of paperwork on the desk next to a sleeping MacBook, the sort that cost a couple of grand. Thing was brand new. A high-end silver stereo sat next to it, an iPod Touch plugged in. Rows of DVDs filled a cupboard.

  Her wardrobe didn’t have a door. A stack of jumpers teetered at the back, school shirts hung among designer jeans and T-shirts. Nothing even slightly suspicious. Just a hell of an expensive image crisis.