The Black Isle Read online

  But Hunter couldn’t. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Sitting would just about do. So he sat there, his eyes shutting, his head nodding.

  Chantal grabbed his sleeve and tugged him back up. ‘Shaz, he shouldn’t be here. He’s probably got concussion.’

  ‘DS Jain, this was your operation.’ McNeill narrowed her eyes until they were tiny dots peering out behind the wreckage of her face. She reached onto her desk for a TV remote and jabbed the power button. A screen hanging from the wall lit up. ‘Watch this.’

  Hunter took one look at it and wanted to sit again. Even through the glue in front of his eyes, he could see Big Jim and Kate interviewing Megan Forsyth. Farrell’s fourth victim. Twenty-four, short, her long hair cut to a severe bob. The dank interview room wasn’t the place to learn that your rapist—your torturer—had escaped again. Megan stared at them, mouth hanging open, tears glistening in ultra-sharp HD, fearing for her life all over again.

  ‘See what your failure does to people?’ Sharon snapped the screen off. ‘I knew that keeping you two separate was the smart move, but you insisted you could make this work.’

  ‘Shaz, don’t you—’

  ‘It’s DI McNeill.’

  That shut Chantal up. She stood there, mouth hanging open. Her best friend became her boss in a snap.

  McNeill pressed a tentative finger against her nose and grimaced. ‘Derek Farrell has raped five women that we know of. And you let him go!’ Her voice echoed round the room.

  Hunter could swear the chattering outside stopped dead. He wanted to sit again, but he knew he shouldn’t. But he was swaying. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you were equally to—’

  ‘DC Hunter, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.’ McNeill’s glare made him follow her instruction.

  Chantal ignored it, though. ‘Shaz, this is bollocks. We can—’

  ‘DS Jain, I’ve warned you. Address me as DI McNeill.’

  ‘If that’s how you want to play it…’ Chantal folded her arms. ‘DI McNeill, this is complete bollocks.’ She paused. ‘We can find Farrell. We’ve been following him for—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? What—’

  ‘DS Jain, you’ve had six months to bring Derek Farrell to ground, during which time we received allegations of two additional rapes. I can’t give you any more time.’ McNeill opened her desk drawer and pulled out a document, the white paper glowing in the low light. ‘This has happened one too many times. After the screw-up in Dunfermline and the incident in Portugal, we’ve now—’

  ‘Come on!’ Chantal was staring at the document like it was a sniper rifle. ‘This is boll—’

  ‘Effective Monday, you’re both back in the Edinburgh MIT, reporting to DI Methven.’

  Hunter collapsed into his chair again. ‘Come on, ma’am.’

  ‘This has been pending for a while. I’ve tried and tried to push back, but…’ McNeill shook her head like a disappointed schoolteacher. ‘I just can’t do this anymore.’ Her voice was shrill and thin. ‘There is a significant staff shortfall after… well, what happened last year.’ She slapped the documents on the table. ‘They need bodies and I need people who can do their jobs. It’s a win-win.’

  Chantal stood there, hands quivering. ‘Can I have a private word?’

  Hunter looked up at her, frowning.

  McNeill gave a tight nod. ‘On you go, Craig.’ Didn’t even look at him.

  Hunter used the chair’s wooden arms to winch himself up to standing, then snatched the document with his name on it. ‘Ma’am.’ He walked out into the bright open-plan office.

  At this time of night on a Friday, the place was usually dead, but tonight it was rammed full of cops nominally documenting the operational clusterfuck, but actually wanting to listen in to the severe bollocking behind the boss’s door.

  He slumped in his chair and a deep groan escaped his body. The pile of case files was still the same height as it had been on day one. So little progress to show for two years of his life. Still, his drawer held only his box of notebooks, two pens and a blister pack of anti-PTSD meds that actually worked. Might need to up the dose after this shit show.

  ‘Looks like you fought a bus and lost, Craigy boy.’ Paul ‘Elvis’ Gordon perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like an idiot. His sideburns had been trimmed off at the bottom of his ears now and were thinned to a long strip, but he’d never shake that nickname. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Hunter reached for his leather messenger bag and tipped his crap in. A fresh wave of pain shot across his face, tearing into his skull.

  ‘Sure you should be at work, mate?’

  ‘Paramedics cleared me for duty. I’m not concussed.’

  ‘Aye, bollocks you’re not. I’d ask if you fancied a pint, but the state of you.’ Elvis sniffed. ‘There’s a cracking new craft beer pub on Lothian Road I’ve been meaning to try.’

  ‘Some other time.’ Hunter looked back over at McNeill’s office door. Raised voices muted by thick wood and safety glass. No sign that they were getting anywhere close to a resolution, but at least they weren’t fighting. He folded his arms and tried to stop everything from swimming around. ‘What brings you back here, anyway?’

  ‘Usual shite, Craig.’ Elvis cracked his knuckles. ‘Methven lent me to Trouser Suit in there to do the old CCTV magic.’

  ‘Trouser Suit?’

  Elvis nodded at McNeill’s office. ‘That’s what a few lads in the MIT call her.’

  The door burst open and Chantal stormed out, her flat shoes thumping across the floor. She stopped by her desk and looked around. ‘What?’

  The rest of the Sexual Offences Unit went back to their documents.

  ‘Wankers.’ She grabbed her coat, then clicked her fingers at Hunter. ‘Let’s go.’

  Hunter sank into the sofa and dabbed at his eye socket. The co-codamol was kicking in now, making everything nice and fuzzy. Could barely feel his face, barely feel his fingers. He took a sip of wine and savoured the taste, the only sensation that wasn’t screaming misery. ‘I’ve tried. He just isn’t replying. Texts, calls, anything.’

  ‘Your bloody brother…’ Chantal stood by the cooker, stirring the pot. Smelled gorgeous, a gloopy red sauce bubbling away on the stovetop, tangy and sweet. She checked her watch again. ‘What if we’d actually caught Farrell? We would’ve been in all night processing his arrest. And Murray would’ve been standing outside, calling you instead.’

  ‘That’d serve him right.’ Hunter reached over to the other side of the sofa. Bubble lay flat on her back, wedged between two cushions, her cream belly exposed, her eyes shut. One opened to a slit with a clear message—tickle my belly, sunshine, and it’ll be the last thing you do.

  Muffin was perched on the arm next to her, looking like a big blonde-ginger dafty, his flat tail swishing around.

  Chantal tipped a pan of water into the sink and was engulfed in a cloud of steam, soon whizzed away by the extractor. ‘I’m cooking veggie bloody pasta for your brother and he’s not even bothered to turn up on time?’

  ‘He’s only an hour late.’

  ‘Only…’ She took a sip of wine and looked over at him. ‘Christ, Craig, you really don’t look good.’

  ‘Well, I feel ten times worse than I look.’

  Chantal took another slug of wine, the red almost matching her lipstick. ‘The only good thing that’s come out of this—the only good thing—is that Sharon got off worse than you.’

  ‘You going to tell me what happened in there?’

  She emptied her glass and splashed more in. ‘She said I was to stay and fix this mess. I pointed out to her that it was her fault Farrell got away. Or Kate from Edinburgh letting his cuffs go. She didn’t take it very well, so I told her I was done with her stupid team.’ She took a long sip without looking at him. ‘As of Monday, I’m reporting to Scott bloody Cullen.’

  ‘Wait, he’s a DI now?’

  ‘That’s the bit you’re focusing on?
’

  ‘No, it’s… It’s a shock, that’s all.’

  She held up the bottle for Hunter, but he couldn’t be arsed to move. ‘Suit yourself.’ She sank another couple of fingers of wine. ‘Can you imagine what he’ll be like as a DI? I mean, he’s only Acting, but still… Sharon’s my best friend and I’ve worked for her on and off for seven years. We’ve put bad people away, again and again, and in the SO unit, I’ve delivered for her. And this is how she treats me? All the years we worked together.’ She aimed her glass at Muffin, now licking himself on the sofa arm like he was playing the cello, and some wine splashed onto the wooden floor. ‘We even split up Muffin and his brother to re-home them.’

  ‘You said Cullen’s only an Acting DI, right?’

  ‘Craig, get over it. Jesus.’

  ‘No, I mean that, if he doesn’t get it permanently, then maybe you’ll get a turn.’

  ‘Been there before. It didn’t end well.’

  Hunter sipped at his wine, slowly, so he didn’t have to move to get a top-up any time soon. Still managed to spill some down his shirt. His mouth was numb, like he’d had a filling removed and the dentist had frozen his mouth. ‘Look, come Monday morning, this’ll all be a distant dream. You’ll have DCI Methven moaning at you for—’

  ‘Bloody Crystal bloody Methven…’

  ‘And maybe Sharon will have apologised.’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned, she can take her apology and ram it up her sorry arse.’

  Hunter rested his glass on the coffee table and walked over into the kitchen. He wrapped an arm around Chantal and pulled her close. ‘Come on. I’ll text Murray and tell him to forget it, okay?’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Serve that up and I’ll pour some of that Châteauneuf-du-Pape he got us for Christmas. Then we can go out and get sufficiently drunk that we don’t remember any of this.’

  4

  St Leonards police station basked in the harsh morning sun, three storeys of L-shaped brick misery lining the corner of the road. Or maybe J-shaped. Either way, it was exactly the same as it had been the last time Hunter worked there five years ago. Three stations crammed inside one, the best bits of Edinburgh’s CID units merged into one dysfunctional team. Stale, tired, jaded. And way too busy. Or was that just Hunter?

  He looked over to Chantal in the passenger seat. ‘Still nothing?’

  She shifted her focus from the make-up mirror to glance at her mobile. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Your message definitely sent?’

  ‘Checked it seven times, Craig.’ She clipped her bag shut and stuffed it in the glovebox. ‘Have to say, I didn’t expect this.’ She shook her head. ‘Years and years of friendship and this is how it ends?’

  ‘She’ll get over it. You’ll see.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She gave a shrug. ‘But I won’t.’

  Hunter opened his door and stepped out into the bitter morning, dark and buffeted by Edinburgh’s famous wind. He looked across the car roof to Chantal, trying to psych himself up. ‘You ready for this?’

  ‘No, but since when has that stopped me?’

  Their new office space was empty, just a loud voice booming out of an office to the side. DI Colin Methven shouting into a phone by the sounds of it. A laser printer spewed out pages and pages of some stupid report, the toner ozone smell mixing with burnt coffee from the filter machine.

  Hunter found his desk. At least, the triangular name badge resting on top of the monitor read Craig Hunter, but someone had scored it out and written ‘CUCK’. Charming. He picked it up and dropped it in the recycling. ‘This place never changes.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ Chantal found her desk behind a row of filing cabinets. She held up a handwritten sign earmarking the area for ‘The Dashing White Sergeants’. ‘Really?’

  ‘Think they’ll be happy with a foxy brown sergeant?’

  She actually laughed at that.

  Hunter joined in, but the searing pain in his head stopped him. Made his eyes water.

  ‘Craig?’ Acting DI Scott Cullen struggled through the stairwell door, clutching two coffee cups. Idiot had clearly never heard of the concept of drinks holders. New dark-grey suit, though, bright orange tie, designer stubble. Every inch the detective sergeant pretending he was a detective inspector. He rested a cup on Hunter’s new desk and held out a hand. Then his eyes bulged. ‘Christ, what happened to you?’

  ‘Should see the other guy.’ Chantal strolled over to join him and did the old cheek kiss dance. ‘I’d like to say it’s nice seeing you, Scott, but I can’t believe we’re back dealing with this shite again.’

  ‘This shite is my life.’

  ‘Well, if it smells of shite and tastes like shite…’

  Cullen sucked coffee through the lid. ‘I’d have got you one, but Crystal didn’t mention you were starting today.’

  ‘Figures.’ Chantal frowned over at the office, Methven’s drone still booming out. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘That’s not my story to tell.’ Cullen tapped Hunter on the arm. ‘Need a quick word, though.’

  Hunter flicked his eyebrows at Chantal and got a grin. ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, when I heard we were getting new recruits, I was surprised it was you two. I thought you were doing well over there.’ Cullen paused to take a drink. ‘Sharon up to her old tricks again, eh?’

  Chantal folded her arms. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well there’s no easy way to say this, but I need to lay down the law about you two working together. It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘You say that like we—’

  ‘Chantal, you need to remember that you report to me, okay? You and Craig can only be in the same room on the same case with my express permission.’

  ‘You sound more and more like Methven every day.’

  ‘Enough backchat. Please.’ Cullen smiled at her. ‘Now, do we have an understanding?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Craig?’ But Cullen kept his gaze on her.

  ‘Who am I reporting to?’

  Now Cullen looked over, but he struggled to maintain eye contact. ‘DS Bain.’

  ‘Oh for…’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Right.’

  ‘Craig, know you’ve had your difficulties—’

  ‘Aye, and you haven’t?’

  ‘Look, I can only play the cards I’m dealt.’ Cullen gave a firm nod. ‘Come on.’ He led them over to the office.

  DCI Colin Methven stood behind his desk, his ultra-marathon runner physique leaning forward like he was stretching. His wild eyebrows sprouted everywhere. A phone headset was clamped to his scalp and he was shouting down the line, like he didn’t trust the copper wires to transmit his signal. ‘We’ll be up there as soon as I can manage, Carolyn. Please use DCs Gordon and Buxton as an advance party until I can get my A-team up the A90 to Perth.’ He laughed. ‘No, it was an accident. It’s actually the M90 after the bridge, isn’t it?’ He pointed at them to sit at his table and chairs, laughing away.

  Cullen sat facing away from Methven, shaking his head as he drank coffee.

  ‘Okay, later.’ Methven tore off his headset and tossed it on his desk. ‘I swear, at least half this job is sending smoke signals up to their radar.’

  Hunter stifled a laugh as he sat next to Chantal. Still got a good medium-sized kick in the shins.

  ‘Thanks, Inspector.’ Methven eased off his coffee lid and sipped at the milky froth, covering his top lip, and cast his gaze over his two new recruits. ‘Thanks for coming in.’ He wiped it clear. ‘Normally we’d have a briefing where you could introduce yourselves to the wider team, who you probably already know, but I’m afraid that we’ve caught a case up in Perth. The Dundee MIT are swamped with a series of murders on the Angus coast, so we’ve been instructed by the high-heid yins to take this on with some uniform support to provide local colour. Hence my team being in a convoy up the M90.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘Actually, some of them are on the train.’

  Hunter looked over at Chant
al, then Cullen. ‘What’s the case, sir?’

  ‘One Alistair McCoull.’ Methven tossed a set of crime scene photos onto his desk. The kind you didn’t really want to look at for any longer than you had to. ‘Shot six times, gangland-style. An execution, we believe. Something very out of the ordinary for Perth.’

  Chantal nodded slowly. ‘What do you want us to do, sir?’

  ‘First, I need you to head home and get packed, Sergeant. Enough for a week. But,’ Methven held up a finger as he slurped more coffee, ‘I need to clear the air with you first.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I’ve had a word with DI McNeill vis-a-vis the Farrell case.’

  Chantal’s nostrils twitched, but she kept her peace.

  ‘Just so we’re abundantly clear, I will keep the pair of you separate. And I don’t like liars.’

  Chantal sat back, expression unreadable. ‘Is that supposed to mean something, sir?’

  ‘Just that I need you to be upfront about your relationship, okay?’

  ‘Do you want me to list our favourite positions? I’m into the wheelbarrow, whereas Craig’s all about Violet’s Train Trip.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Come on, sir.’ Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘Craig and I are banging each other’s brains out and so long as he doesn’t report to me, everything’s cool. Right?’

  Methven stared hard at her for a few seconds. ‘I’ve spoken with DI McNeill and I know she wanted to keep you over there, sergeant, but you decided not to accept that offer? Well, as much as splitting you two up would be an apt punishment in her book, I have no choice. I’m desperate for resources and you’re both excellent officers. But you will not be working together, am I clear? On this case, you’ll be assigned very different roles and any discussions pertaining to it must occur in the presence of DI Cullen or myself. Am I clear?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘Very well. Obey the rules and everything will be fan dabi dozi.’ He finished his coffee and crumpled the cup as he stood. ‘Now, please pack and I shall see you both up in Perth.’