Craig Hunter
Boxed Set
Ed James
Copyright © 2016-19 Ed James
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The right of Ed James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Cover design copyright © Ed James
Other Books By Ed James
SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
DEVIL IN THE DETAIL
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
STAB IN THE DARK
COPS & ROBBERS
LIARS & THIEVES
COWBOYS & INDIANS
HEROES & VILLAINS
CULLEN & BAIN SERIES
CITY OF THE DEAD
WORLD’S END
HELL’S KITCHEN
GORE GLEN (November 2020)
CRAIG HUNTER SERIES
MISSING
HUNTED
THE BLACK ISLE
DS VICKY DODDS
BLOOD & GUTS
TOOTH & CLAW
FLESH & BLOOD
SKIN & BONE
DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES
THE HOPE THAT KILLS
WORTH KILLING FOR
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU
IN FOR THE KILL
KILL WITH KINDNESS
KILL THE MESSENGER
DEAD MAN’S SHOES
CORCORAN & PALMER
SENSELESS
Contents
Missing
Dedication
Day 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Day 2
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Day 3
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Four weeks later
Chapter 45
Hunted
Day 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Day 2
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Day 3
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Day 4
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
The Black Isle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Next book
About the Author
Other Books By Ed James
Missing
For Len
Day 1
Tuesday
11th August
1
‘Come back here, you little bugger!’ Police Constable Craig Hunter darted left to follow his prey into a room at the back of the house, his heavy boots clumping off the stripped-wood flooring. He stopped dead, his footsteps echoing around the stark room. White walls, old floorboards
varnished mid-brown and a single bed in the corner.
No sign of him.
The sash window hung open. Chest heaving, Hunter ran over and leaned out to scan the sandstone walls of the old farmhouse. A towering oak tree blocked out most of the sunlight, the gnarled branches like fingers plucking at the sky.
Still no bloody sign of him. Where is he?
The summer breeze cooled his damp forehead, as he rubbed the sweat off with his forearm, soaking the thick hair.
Below, the walled garden was alive with colourful fruit trees pruned into perfect bowl shapes, all swaying in a ceilidh dance formation. Over the top of the wall, the Sphinx-like bulge of Arthur’s Seat loomed in the distance, casting judgment on Edinburgh and the surrounding Lothians. Nearer, a white car bombed down the road, screeching as it pulled into a side street, Shawfair sprawling around them. Some politician’s idea of a new town — the whole place was a building site and would only go downhill from there.
Hunter looked around the garden again. The front gate was hanging open, but no sign of Finlay there, either.
He can’t have got away, surely?
Crack. A tiny branch tumbled to the ground, landing on a mossed-over flagstone.
He was climbing down the far side of the tree.
Hunter pushed out, propping his hands against the ancient bark, and looked for any footholds on the tree.
Not enough time to go back through the house without losing him. Bugger it — just ignore the twenty-foot drop.
Hunter rested his weight on the sill and touched one big boot onto the branch. The tree gave a muted creak, but it stayed firm. Seemed steady enough. Just about.
Hunter wedged his palms into the window casing and stretched out his left foot, giving the branch a good dunt as his fingertips tightened around the pane. A shard of old paint jabbed under his left thumb nail.
Just what I bloody need…
The tree took all of his weight, sixteen stone of idiot. At least they were mostly muscle. He held tight, getting his bearings. Felt like the branch could take another couple of idiots. Thank God for all those burpees.
Hunter inched forward, his stab-proof vest rattling. The tree moaned again.
Christ…
Hunter kept his body low and kept moving, his fingers tracing the knots on the bark, ready to grip at any second. A gust of wind blew through him and his peaked cap fell to the ground, spinning like a wheeling bird as it went.
Bollocks…
Hunter reached the trunk and hugged it close, the stab-proof vest pressing into him and digging half a dozen bits of equipment into his ribs. He looked around the garden, sucking in deep breaths.
Where the hell—
There he was, not far from the ground. Christ.
Halfway down to a thicker branch than the one Hunter stood on, was a sawn-off stump. He eased himself down, supporting his weight on his hands like an old man getting into the bath, and reached his feet down.
Careful… Keep it nice and steady… Not like your usual—
The wood creaked and the rough bark dug into his palms. Definitely a cut there.
He lowered himself, inches at a time, his upper arms and hands burning as he let the half-branch take his weight. He blinked as the sun disappeared behind the clouds, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Another blast of Scottish summer wind hit him, carrying a fug of distant cigarette smoke mixed with second-hand diesel and the deep mud stink of a building site.
Where the hell is the little chancer?
There. Standing near the edge of the branch, staring back at him, looking ready to jump.
Hunter lurched forwards and grasped with both hands.
‘Mraowr!’ The fat tabby cat squirmed in his grasp. It swung its hind legs up, scratching with its sharp talons and drawing blood. ‘Hchhhhh!’
‘You little shite!’ Hunter pinched the scruff of the cat’s neck.
It stopped raking with its claws and went limp, all four legs hanging loose. Rebuking eyes struggled to look at him.
Got you.
Hunter supported the cat’s legs and looked around the garden. Still no sign of—
A sash window clattered open. ‘Officer! Over here!’ Mrs Carstairs was reaching out to him, the loose skin on her hands speckled with liver spots. ‘Is my wee boy okay?’
‘He’s fine.’ Hunter kept a firm grip on the cat’s neck as he leaned forward, a gentle shove encouraging the little guy to move towards his distressed owner. The tree creaked. ‘Here, can you take him?’
‘Of course I can.’ She took the squirming cat and hugged him close. ‘Oh, Pickle, my poor wee angel.’
‘I wouldn’t let him out again, Mrs Carstairs.’ Hunter tried to stand up, but near enough lost his footing. He crouched low and pulled himself tight to the branch.
That was close.
Hunter thumbed over the tall stone walls. ‘It’s a busy road there. Lots of construction traffic and he could get—’
‘Of course.’ Lost in the world of Pickle, she slammed the window with a rattle.
A “thank you” wouldn’t have gone amiss…
Hunter inspected his hands. A red gash ran across one, like a new life line or whatever palm readers went on about. Blood dripped from his thumbnail. A latticework of smaller cuts ran over his wrist and up his forearm.
Little bugger.
Hunter sucked at the deepest wound as he crept back to the trunk. He looked down, trying to—
You’re bloody kidding me…
A series of handholds was dug into the tree, running all the way to the ground, some worn and rusty, others overgrown and set deep into the trunk. Looked like more than enough to get down, though. He gripped the first one and lowered his left foot until it connected with something solid, dull metal ringing out into the warm afternoon. Then he started climbing down, accompanied by slow handclaps.
‘The mighty detective at work.’
Hunter dropped the last few feet to the ground and stayed focused on the tree bark, sucking the fresh blood from his wounds. ‘That cat was a vicious little bugger.’ He swung round and rubbed at his thumb.
‘Well, it certainly met its match.’ PC Finlay Sinclair folded his arms across his chest, his standard-issue Police Scotland T-shirt turned up at the cuffs to show off his biceps. Disco muscles let down by the beer gut poking out of the bottom. ‘Oh, and you lost this.’ He tossed something over.
Hunter caught it — his cap. Dust motes leapt off it and briefly danced in a flash of sunlight, before quickly dispersing in the breeze. He put the cap back on, pulling it tight. ‘You cleared off sharpish.’
‘Saw it was just a cat, mate. No point wasting our time. Can we get onto some more important police work now, please?’
Hunter nodded over at the sprawling Victorian mansion and the steading conversion going on behind it. ‘She thinks this is important.’
‘Aye, well, not important enough to thank you.’
Hunter started back down the path towards their squad Focus. Shards of light bounced off the white paint, the blue-and-yellow regalia streaked with pigeon crap. The lower half looked like it’d been through a carwash that sprayed mud. ‘You going to call it in?’
Finlay winked at him as he caressed his Airwave radio’s screen. ‘Got that interview, have you?’
Hunter plipped the car’s lock and hauled the door open. ‘That’s just a rumour.’