Craig Hunter Books 1-3 Page 9

  ‘She’s got scars.’ Neil ran a shaking hand up his right forearm, then chopped at it like he was a TV chef slicing carrots. ‘Very slight cuts up and down the arm. Those things are usually a sign, right?’

  ‘But she never talked about suicide?’

  ‘I asked her about it, but she didn’t want to discuss it.’ Neil shrugged. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘She ever mention running away?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Jain took a look around the room and picked up a paperback from the windowsill. ‘Where is she, Mr Alexander?’

  ‘I’ve already told your colleague here, I don’t know where she is.’

  Jain stepped over to the bookshelf just past Neil, brushing his arm as she put the book back. ‘If you know anything about where she—’

  ‘You’ll what? You’ll abuse my civil rights?’ Neil leaned back and shook his head. ‘Forget it.’

  Here we go…

  Hunter stepped into the room and started narrowing the gap between them, fists clenched. ‘What did you think when she told you about Doug Ferguson?’

  Neil’s hands went up. ‘You’re getting nothing out of me.’

  ‘You never thought of battering him because of what he’d done to your girlfriend? Is still doing to her, if she’s telling the truth? Did you never want to sort the matter out yourself? Save your damsel in distress? Be her knight in shining armour? Maybe cut the old bastard’s cock off?’

  ‘Me?’ Neil flashed a grin at Hunter, his teeth little yellow fangs. ‘I’m a lover not a fighter.’

  Hunter raised his eyebrows and stopped his advance. ‘Thought you didn’t have sex—’

  ‘Shite, sorry. You’ve wound me up. I get really nervous about stuff like this.’ Neil huffed as he gestured at a clock on the wall, ticking away in the quiet flat. ‘Listen, I want to help. Sorry, I’ve just had a long day at work. Sitting in a hot bus all afternoon isn’t fun.’

  ‘Did you ever think of hurting Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘And you didn’t think of going to the police?’

  ‘Steph and I talked about it. She was coming round to it, maybe, but if I’d gone off on my own…’ Neil exhaled slowly, seemed to shiver a bit. ‘She would’ve stopped speaking to me. And she’d have blamed me if… If Doug had got away with it.’

  Hunter held his gaze until he looked away. ‘You’ve honestly no idea where she’d go?’

  ‘Cross my heart. I love her, you know, but I don’t know where she could’ve gone.’

  ‘If I find out you’ve been—’

  ‘What, lying? No chance. Her life’s too precious to me.’ Neil picked up an ancient mobile, a grey plastic thing that the Third World would turn down with a snarl. ‘Listen, how about I phone around her pals. The ones I know about. See if I can find out anything.’

  Hunter passed him a business card. ‘Call me the very second you hear anything, and I mean anything.’

  12

  ‘Just heading back to the station now, Shaz.’ Jain held her Airwave to her ear, making sure Hunter didn’t hear anything from the other end.

  He set off from King’s Road, weaving into the right-turn lane and stopping at the red light. Never could work out what they’d gained by switching from roundabout to traffic lights.

  He had to brake hard as a car decided it wanted to head right down Wakefield Avenue, pretty much the last rat run left in eastern Edinburgh.

  The old car showroom was still derelict, no sign of the threatened Lidl. In the rear-view, he caught a glimpse of King’s Road, with Neil Alexander’s flat just out of sight round the bend.

  What the hell was going on there?

  I’m a lover, not a fighter.

  Guy seemed to think he’s living in a Woody Allen film, a joke allowing him free rein to do what he wanted. Eleven years was a huge difference when the girl was sixteen.

  Meant she was, what, born in 1999?

  Christ… The year I enlisted.

  She’s a smart woman.

  She’s a child. A little girl who’s been abused by her stepfather…

  You’ll what? You’ll abuse my civil rights?

  You have no idea…

  ‘Aye, Shaz, we’ll be back soon.’ Jain killed the call and pocketed the Airwave.

  Hunter joined a column of cars trundling along the road for no apparent reason. He pulled out to check the oncoming lane, but a pair of buses bore down on them, a wake of commuters trailing behind. Bloody hell. He glanced over at Jain. ‘So now you’ve met Neil Alexander, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. And I certainly don’t believe him.’

  Hunter pulled out again, but another bus powered towards them. ‘What about?’

  ‘Anything. Any of it.’ Jain reached up for the sun visor and pouted into the mirror, twisting her head like a teenager taking a selfie. Then snapped the visor back up. ‘Problem is, we’ve not got a smoking gun. He could just be a dirty bastard with a teenage girlfriend. Doesn’t mean he’s done anything to her. Doesn’t mean he knows where she is.’ She looked over. ‘That stuff back there, do you honestly think she might’ve killed herself?’

  ‘It’s the first thing I thought at the hospital when she didn’t answer the door. Got a flash…’ Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Thought we’d burst in there and she’d be swinging from a rope.’

  ‘And how would she get a rope in a hospital?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Pills, something like that.’

  ‘Maybe… Nobody’s stepped in front of a bus or a train today, anyway.’ Jain slumped back in her seat, almost disappeared into it. ‘If she doesn’t show up soon, I think we should bring Mr Alexander in for some proper questioning.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘There’s enough there, Craig. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hunter set off down Moira Terrace, giving it some welly as he overtook a slow-moving Mini. He tried not to look across the road but couldn’t help himself. Someone had stuck up a tall fence around the front garden of the house.

  Good luck with that in winter.

  Hunter pulled in, the engine grinding, and pointed at the house. ‘I used to live around the corner from there. Not in a nice villa like that, mind. A dirty council house.’ He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘A mate of mine, kid called Angus, he lived there. He was a good lad. Used to go out on our bikes and play on his N64.’ Hunter killed the engine, waiting for the death rattle to end. ‘Then Angus changed, started being quiet. Probably when we went to High School, around that time. Anyway… Angus’s cousin, Paul I think. Guy was twenty-five, something like that. Worked at a bank. Good job, owned a flat in Porty.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Well, it turned out this honest bank employee had been buggering Angus since he was nine. Supposed to have been babysitting him.’

  Jain’s breath hissed out, harsh as a winter gale across the promenade. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The cousin got arrested.’ Hunter stared over at the house again, a sunflower waving over the top of the fence in the breeze. ‘Four days before the trial, Angus jumped in front of a train.’

  ‘Did you know about it?’

  ‘None of us did.’ Hunter dragged a hand down his face, shutting his eyes like a funeral director. ‘Like I said, this was the start of High School. I drifted apart from a few other mates, you know, thought it was the same thing happening with Angus.’ He shook his head and punched the steering wheel. ‘Just felt so angry, you know? Still do to this day. What that kid went through. What that animal did to him.’

  Jain was looking away, staring at the eighties retirement flats opposite Angus’s old house, already lit up in the evening sunlight. ‘Did he get off with it?’

  ‘The cousin was on remand for ages, you know the drill. His lawyer, big posh guy from the West End, was trying to get the case thrown out. The day he was up in front of the judge, the cousin got stabbed inside. Never caught who did it. Only good thing about that whole thing.�
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  Jain was deathly still, her breathing deep and slow. She brushed her hair back and twisted round to face Hunter, holding her Airwave. ‘You know… never mind, Shaz wants us to check in with the house.’

  ‘Thought we had a unit stationed there?’

  ‘We do. Just wants us to have a look all the same.’

  Hunter indicated left at the Machine Mart and cruised past Scottie’s pub down Northfield Broadway, a long stretch past the graveyard he chased Doug Ferguson around. At the end, he took a left onto Mountcastle Green, the row of sagging trees now dappling in the mid-evening light. ‘Jesus Christ. Look at that pair of arseholes.’

  The squad car sat on the kerb, guarding the house as subtly as a seventies DJ in a playground.

  Jain didn’t wait for the car to do its dying spurt before she was out and chapping on the other car’s window.

  Hunter joined her and leaned back against Ferguson’s work van. Steve and Dave were double busy stuffing their phones into their pockets. ‘Tenner on Mourinho getting the sack first, was it?’

  ‘Piss off.’ A wall of BO wafted out of the car. Dave popped his cap on and smiled at her. ‘Not seen anything here, Sarge.’

  Jain was looking around, hand shielding her eyes from the low sun. ‘You’re telling me nobody’s been here at all?’

  ‘A DPD van pulled up about half an hour ago. Dropped something round the corner and pissed off sharpish.’ Dave frowned. ‘Oh aye, and that boy from Forensics pitched up not long before. One with the ponytail? Took the felly’s computer.’ He ran his finger down the length of his nose. ‘Reckon they’ll find kiddie porn on it?’

  ‘As you were.’ Jain looked at him long and hard for a few seconds. ‘And I’d be sticking my money on Advocaat at Sunderland.’

  ‘Sarge.’ Dave slumped back in the seat and reached for the Evening News. The front page was filled with a mock-up of the new hotel going in next to Alba Bank.

  Jain tapped Hunter’s arm and waved towards the drive. ‘Let’s have a look around the back.’

  ‘Pair of bloody chancers…’ Hunter led her over the monoblock pathway to the boxy porch, a mid-nineties addition by the looks of things. He peered inside the house.

  No sign of Stephanie, or anyone else.

  Wait. A flash of movement at the back door, distorted in the glass. Something clattered behind the fence.

  ‘You see that?’ Hunter twisted the handle around and opened the gate with a loud thunk. He pushed it hard and the bottom scraped over the grey slabs, dotted with moss and bird crap.

  A man in a black T-shirt and grey Adidas trackies was running across the back lawn. He looked around, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. Then he was off again.

  Hunter sprinted after him, his gimpy knee letting him shift for once.

  The man vaulted up onto a trampoline and launched himself over the slatted fence. His shins cracked into the faded wood slats and he tumbled over into the next garden. The trampoline collapsed in on itself.

  Hunter jumped over a smashed plant pot and stopped, trying to prise the fence panels apart. Must be set with bloody concrete.

  ‘Keep on him!’ Jain darted back towards the street, her voice echoing as she shouted over at Dave and Steve: ‘Get your arses in gear! Suspect spotted in garden!’

  Hunter swung around and searched the space. There — a plastic seat. He shoved it against the fence and bounded up, heavy boots clumping against the wood.

  In the neighbour’s garden, the man was trying to get through the next door’s hedge.

  ‘Hunter to Jain. Suspect is entering next garden. Over.’

  ‘Received.’

  ‘Am pursuing.’ Hunter launched himself over, landing feet first on a wilted patch of tattie plants. His knee gave way and he took a hard, graceless fall.

  This one’s not getting away…

  He got up, charged across the garden, neatly segmented by slats of wood, and tore into the rustling hedge. Leylandii scraped against his cheek, drawing blood on his ear as he powered out into a paved driveway.

  The suspect crunched over a bed of pebbles surrounding a weeping pear tree, heading towards an eight-foot wall. He hopped onto a bench and clambered up onto a greenhouse roof.

  ‘Get back!’

  The man glanced round at Hunter’s approach. Guy looked forties, had a lived-in face. Full of lines.

  Hunter grabbed his ankle. Got a kick in the face for his trouble. He skidded backwards, trying to right himself, then slid in something and tumbled over. ‘Ah, Jesus!’

  When he looked back up, the suspect was stepping onto the wall. The top was covered in anti-cat glass, broken bottles glued into concrete. He kicked out with a heavy work boot and smashed the top of the greenhouse. Shards of glass snowed on the green tomatoes and red peppers, frosting the bare cement floor.

  Hunter got to his feet and a jolt of pain seared through his knee. Bloody hell. He put a hand to his face, felt like that kick had split his lip wide open. He sniffed something rotten and twisted round. Dog shite smeared his trousers right up to his arse. Smelled freshly laid. ‘Hunter to Jain. Suspect is now in third garden. Unable to pursue from here.’

  ‘Receiving. Meet us out the front.’

  ‘Will do. Over.’ Hunter set off along the wall onto a path down the side of the semi-detached house. He barged past a Land Rover onto the street, surrounded by lock-up garages and lanes leading off in all directions.

  Hunter jogged behind the next pair of semis, more squat boxes decorated by dull planks of wood on the front. Instead of a side garden, a narrow drive led into a car park, empty except for an ancient Ford Cortina.

  He stopped by a silver Vauxhall and peered into the gardens. Looked like both semis were owned by elderly couples — they were all outside, the men barbecuing in isolation, the women yakking over the dividing fence. ‘Excuse me!’

  The nearest man looked over. Did a double-take at Hunter’s uniform. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Looking for a man in a black T-shirt. Would’ve come this way through the gardens?’

  The man took a pull from a bottle of supermarket lager. ‘Not seen anyone, son. Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter stomped back into the road just as another pair of squad cars pulled up, local uniform getting out onto the baking tarmac.

  Jain jogged back from an empty lane, Steve and Dave wading into a garden behind her. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Lost him.’ Hunter stormed back over to the house with the Land Rover. The wall led to a tall garage, backing onto the graveyard. ‘He’s in the cemetery.’

  Jain waved at a pair of uniform. ‘Get in there and track him down.’ Then at the others. ‘You two, back round to Moira Terrace and flush him out from there.’

  The nearest glowered at her. ‘But, Sarge, there’s a million—’

  ‘Just do it.’ Jain slumped against the first squad car and got out her Airwave. She sniffed the air and scowled at Hunter. ‘What the hell is that smell?’

  Hunter was scanning around the houses, trying to spot the suspect. ‘Had a bit of an accident, Sarge.’

  ‘You shat yourself?’

  ‘No, I fell in dog muck.’

  She shook her head, eyes shut. ‘Right. I want you with me.’

  ‘But, Sarge, I can—’

  ‘But nothing. We’ve got another four units heading here. Whoever it is, they’ll catch him.’ She held the Airwave up to her head. ‘Sharon says she needs your brains at the station.’

  13

  ‘I’m just not sure you should put the phrase “stoat” into your report.’ Jain smirked at Hunter, then her face twisted into a scowl. ‘You know you really stink.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter eased himself out of the car and looked down the back of his trousers. Like a map of Africa in dog crap. He took the taped-together patchwork quilt of carrier bags he’d been sitting on and dumped them in another one. ‘I’ll just head upstairs and clean this off.’

  ‘After you’ve burned those trousers.’

  Hunter started
taking off his stab-proof, making sure it was jobbie-free. A wodge of crap slopped down on the concrete. ‘Aw, Christ.’

  ‘Get them off.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘You’ll cover half the station in dog shite, you arse.’ Jain placed the bag blanket on the floor, then reached round and unbuttoned his trousers. With one motion, she’d got them down to his ankles. ‘Step out of them.’

  Hunter stepped forward, too surprised to say anything. Her shoes trapped the bottom and he stumbled away, his bare legs ending in clumpy boots. ‘Do I need a shower?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Jain’s nose puckered up. ‘Some of that shite must’ve seeped through.’

  ‘Just what I needed to round off another shite day in uniform.’ Hunter glanced around the garage — nobody there, least of all Fat Keith. ‘I’ll see you up at the office.’

  She looked him up and down, shaking her head. ‘That’s a very fetching look.’

  Was she checking him out?

  Hunter’s skin prickled all the way up his spine. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her eyebrows wriggled up, then her gaze shifted down. ‘Bet it takes a lot of squats to get thighs like that.’

  Hunter stuck his left toes into his right boot and kicked it off. ‘Ass to the grass, baby.’

  Hunter held up the bag with the dirty clothes and dumped it in the bin. He sat down on the bench, his wet thighs damp against the cold wood, and rested his head against the metal behind him. His knee was throbbing like a Perthshire rave, the max-strength ibuprofen still not cutting through.

  No more squats until that was healed up.

  The locker room still stank of shite. Not the only thing that did.

  Sick to the stomach.

  Hunter looked down and sucked his gut in. Surprised no stomach bile had leaked out.

  What had made Stephanie run away like that? Where the hell was she? Was she safe?

  Poor Angus never had that idea, never had that hope, however false it might turn out to be. Far too young.

  But Stephanie wasn’t even that much older. Still a child. And he still couldn’t shake the feeling she was in a ditch somewhere, a knife in her stomach or a few empty packets of painkillers next to her.