Hunter's Chase

  Hunter’s Chase

  The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #1

  Val Penny

  “A gripping debut novel about power, politics and the importance –

  and danger – of family ties. Hunter Wilson is a compelling

  new detective and Val Penny is an author to watch.”

  Erin Kelly – author of psychological thrillers including

  Broadchurch' and 'The Poison Tree'

  “A cracking read featuring the unforgettable DI Hunter Wilson.”

  Stuart Gibbon – Former Murder Squad DCI & co-author

  of 'The Crime Writer's Casebook'

  “An exciting debut – a police procedural that is refreshing, gripping and witty.

  I really enjoyed it and can't wait for the next one.”

  Kate Bendelow – author of 'The Real CSI: A Forensic

  Handbook for Crime Writers'

  “This tartan noire book is a real coffee-cooler. I had three cups of coffee

  that went cold, forgotten while reading. Val Penny created a cast

  of characters I want to see in another book as soon as possible.

  This is a truly astonishing debut from a writer to watch for the future.

  Believable characters, gut-wrenching scenes, and a plot that sizzles along.

  A taut police procedural that is up there with

  Ian Rankin, Alex Gray and Quintin Jardine.”

  Michael Jecks – author of unmissable historical mysteries including the

  'Jack Blackjack' crime series including 'Rebellion's Message' and the

  'Knights Templar' mysteries including 'The Last Templar' and the

  contemporary spy novel 'Act of Vengeance'

  Copyright © 2018 by Val Penny

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock © dennisvdwater

  Design: soqoqo

  Editor: Sue Barnard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018

  Discover us online:

  www.crookedcatbooks.com

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  and something nice will happen.

  To Mum.

  With love and thanks

  for everything.

  Acknowledgements

  It is a well known fact that writing is regarded as a solitary occupation. However, I have discovered that, although written by one individual, a novel is not the achievement of just one person.

  My most sincere thanks go to all the incredible people at Crooked Cat, particularly Laurence and Steph Patterson and to my editor, Sue Barnard, whose persistence, patience and valuable suggestions made the story and the characters in this thriller come alive.

  Thanks also to my initial editor, Liz Hurst of EMH Editorial Services for all her work and attention to detail with the early manuscript. To Anna McDonald, David McLaughlan, Stewart Penny, Ian McSeveny, and those at Swanwick Writers' Summer School, I give my thanks for their help.

  I am eternally grateful to Dave, Lizzie, Vicky, Dean and Jo for their belief in me and unswerving support.

  Most of all, thank you to all the readers and everyone who has encouraged me with this novel from the start. Without you, I would not be writing.

  About the Author

  Val Penny is an American author living in SW Scotland. She has two adult daughters of whom she is justly proud and lives with her husband and two cats. She has a Law degree from Edinburgh University and her MSc from Napier University. She has had many jobs including hairdresser, waitress, lawyer, banker, azalea farmer and lecturer. However she has not yet achieved either of her childhood dreams of being a ballet dancer or owning a candy store. Until those dreams come true, she has turned her hand to writing poetry, short stories and novels.

  Hunter’s Chase

  The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #1

  Prologue

  Edinburgh, November 2012

  DI Hunter Wilson took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  There had to be an answer. How did it stay under the radar? The new supply of cocaine into the city made the drug little more expensive than tobacco. Fury mixed with exasperation to sting his pride. He was damned if any low-life was going to offload this junk on his watch. Bastards!

  Hunter sighed and stared at the spreadsheets on his desk. The investigation wouldn't start tonight, so maybe he should get down to the pub to unwind and think about the darts match. If he left now, he might not be late.

  As he grabbed his coat, there was a knock on the door. Hunter was surprised to see DC Winston Zewedu, better known as “Bear”, stick his head round the door.

  “Boss, I know you want to get away tonight, but we've just had a call from Sir Peter Myerscough. He's had his house broken into.”

  “Of course he has!” Hunter snarled. “That arse just has to get his stuff nicked on my darts night. Come on, Bear, let's go.”

  Chapter One

  Jamie Thomson swaggered along one of the tree-lined streets in the wealthy Edinburgh suburb of Morningside. To him, the capital of Scotland was really just a big village. Everybody knew everybody else, and tonight, everybody would know Jamie Thomson. He felt it as he moved quietly along the dark street. Excitement. Pop was away, but, although he had just turned twenty, Jamie would show folk it was business as usual. Pop would be so proud.

  Jamie's uniform was clean: black trousers, black jacket with a hood - other folk might call it a hoodie - black silk gloves, and cheap, new black shoes. So much more difficult to trace, especially as he chose to wear them a size smaller than was comfortable. If he left a footprint they police would be looking for the wrong size of shoe. Genius!

  He was glad of the hood. The rain was not heavy, but there was a lot of it. The wind blew it into his face and almost took his breath away. His Granny called this wet rain. Jamie missed her. A lot. Silly old sausage! Who ever heard of dry rain? He was glad the road was quiet. But then nobody with any sense would go out in this unless they had to, and Jamie had to.

  The house was dark. Jamie smiled. Good. He liked it quiet and peaceful when he was working. He could concentrate, get on with it and get the job done quickly. Very satisfying. The old boy was usually out late on a Thursday, Jamie knew. Jamie watched. The old boy would come home with a babe, back of eleven o'clock, usually. Jamie had no idea what the hotties saw in the old geezer, but good luck to him.

  Jamie sauntered up the path as if he belonged, although it was not easy to saunter with shoes so tight. Still, the pain was worth it. He quietly slipped the lock and the door creaked as it swung open. Then he sighed wearily as the burglar alarm sounded. He found the control panel behind the door (they always put it behind the door) and hit in a code. Silence.

  Jamie nodded. He could not believe how many folk left their alarms on the factory settings, but he was very glad they did. Idiots. They deserved whatever they got, or whatever he got, more like it. He chuckled at his own wit.

  Jamie pushed the door open and paused as it creaked. He breathed in deeply. Cigar smoke. Expensive. Didn't the old boy know smoking was bad for your health? But the carpet was lovely! Thick. Far more expensive than that stuff Mam and Pop got on sale from Carpet Worth. Jamie flexed his knees and felt the thick, soft pile give beneath him. Class. He switched on his torch to check the soles of his shoes. No wet, no dirt. Good. Torch off. He didn't want to leave muck on this carpet; that would be crimin
al.

  Shit! He jumped. A mirror on the cupboard door gave him a fright! He thought it was a burglar dodging against him. Jamie didn't like to fight. Violence wasn't his game. He felt all hot and sweaty. He stood still for a moment, holding his chest while his heartbeat returned to normal. Then he looked around. Two doors to the left, two doors to the right, and in front of him a staircase and a door. He opened the first door on the left and slipped into the room. He was pleased; this was the room with the French windows. Jamie unlocked them, just in case he needed an escape route. As Pop always said, you couldn't be too careful.

  He kept the torch on low beam and swept the light around the room. He started at the mantelpiece and shoved the silver and ornaments into his Asda bag. Shocking having to pay 5p for a plastic bag now. Daylight robbery. As opposed to nighttime robbery.

  Moving over to the desk, he found a thick roll of cash. Lucky. And a cheque book. Did anybody still use these? Very old-fashioned. He stuck it in his pocket anyway. Bingo! Boxes: jewellery boxes; watch boxes. Nice. Lots of gold, bracelets, necklaces, and rings with big sparkly stones. The watches were impressive: a Rolex, and this one: a Breitling Transocean thingy. Well over £20k. Sweet.

  Jamie was clearing the contents of the boxes into his pockets and congratulating himself on his cleverness when he heard a creak. He stopped. Listened. Shit! The front door. Lucky it needed oil, really. Who was it? Piss.

  Jamie heaved his stash into his pockets and his bag, and shoved the cash down his trousers. Didn't even have time to examine his haul.

  ***

  Sir Peter Myerscough came back early. He came back alone. That day he had had to brief the First Minister on the action taken to contain the suspected terrorist threat in Broughty Ferry, then he had taken his parliamentary researcher for dinner. It did not take long to get through the three courses and coffee at the New Club. He had tipped off the staff to keep the meal coming.

  He was both saddened and furious that the girl was leaving, because she was lovely. He would have been proud to have her as a daughter: he would have been more proud to have her on his arm. What eye candy! He was disappointed he had never got into her pants. It was such a pity she had never been up for it with him.

  Her leaving now was bloody inconvenient because her salary was cheap, while she was efficient and easy on the eye. She was also damn good at her job. This was a most unusual combination, and Sir Peter had no doubt that his assistant would be all but impossible to replace on those terms.

  He chose not to express his irritation. After all, she was moving to that dreadful tabloid The Nation's Voice. As the Justice Minister, Sir Peter suspected that sooner, rather than later, it would be useful to have a little goodwill at that reactionary rag. So he swallowed his pride, paid for dinner and made polite chit-chat with the young woman this evening. He wanted to make sure that she could not think too badly of him in the end.

  Arriving home, Sir Peter staggered slightly as he got out of the taxi and handed the driver £20 for the £10 journey. He felt obliged to keep up appearances. He stared at the door, wondering why it was open. He walked sideways up the path. Can't be too careful. As he reached the door he pushed it a bit harder than he had intended. It creaked painfully then bounced back. He shoved it again, more gently. It stayed a little further open. He knew he had locked it and put on the alarm. At least, he thought he had put on the alarm. So why was the front door open? He hadn't even put his key in the lock, but the door offered no resistance at all and the alarm was off. Monika was visiting her aunt in Switzerland. She would not be back until later in the month. He did not like to admit it, but he missed her. Ever since Louise had died, he had never got used to coming back to an empty house.

  Since being widowed seventeen years ago, he avoided serious commitment to the fairer sex but always ensured a string of attractive young women with uncomplicated agendas vied to fill the void in his life. Monika was the latest, and had lasted the longest. He did rather like her; although she was not intelligent, she was tall, absolutely stunning, and attentive in the bedroom. The shoulder massage she gave was beyond compare. Still, she did have expensive tastes. In her absence, he would call the agency for some company. His mind wandered as he smiled and thought about which one to choose. Who would offer him most?

  He was brought back to the present abruptly as he heard a floorboard squeak in the ground-floor living room that he used as an office. Sir Peter flicked on the lights. He frowned and entered the room swiftly. He was appalled by the space on his mantelpiece and the mess around his desk, on the floor. What was going on?

  Then he caught sight of the thief. The bastard was right there, red-handed, rooting about. For the love of God: the violation! That desk was private. It held his late wife's jewellery, his watches, his valuables, his emergency cash, and his stuff – even his expenses receipts. Sir Peter let rip a blood-curdling yell that echoed around the house.

  ***

  Oh fuck! Jamie looked up in horror, but luckily his hood hid his face. He grabbed as much extra as he could, stuffing his pockets with sparkles, watches and gold, then he was off, disappearing through the French windows. Glad he had had the foresight to unlock them, but then, Pop had taught him well. He ran.

  Bugger those tight shoes. Great for avoiding detection; not so great for ensuring escape.

  Chapter Two

  “Fucking thief! Stop thief! Fuck! Fucking stop!” Sir Peter bellowed into the darkness.

  “Yeah, that'll work,” thought Jamie, as he jumped the wall and tore round the corner. He kept on running, but soon heard puffing behind him and realised his victim was giving chase. He was quick for an old one, Jamie thought, but no real match for Jamie, even in his tight shoes. But Sir Peter was clearly one angry man and wasn’t going to give up that easily. That was bad luck.

  Jamie vaulted another fence and legged it across the street. He heard some of his haul hit the ground, but didn't stop for it. He would still have enough; the bag was heavy. He hoped he hadn't dropped the Breitling; he fancied that. He leapt over a wall and headed into the rough beside the golf course.

  Jamie worked at that golf club courtesy of Sir Peter Myerscough; the irony was not lost on Jamie. He figured he knew the land well enough to make a clean getaway. He had not counted on his victim being home so early. He also had no idea Sir Peter could give chase so well. Unlucky. Oh shit, that old guy was gaining on him! How could he do that? Jamie had to move.

  It was more difficult to cross the wooded area around the course in the damp and dark than he had thought it would be with his tight shoes. This damn bag didn't help; it kept getting caught on branches. He dodged amongst the bushes and behind the trees to avoid his victim, but the old boy just kept coming. He would not give up, but the ground was wet and the leaves on the ground were slippery.

  Fuck! Jamie tripped.

  His ankle gave a deafening crack that was only drowned out by Jamie's screams. Must be the root of a tree that tripped him. He could not get up. His ankle would not take his weight; it was buggered. He tried to crawl into the undergrowth. It bloody hurt, and he could not get away. Sir Peter would find him soon now. Jamie could not move but he thought fast. He threw his bag as far as he could, just to get it away from himself. His silk gloves meant there would be no prints. He tried to bury the stuff from his pockets. His ankle was agony. Jamie felt something strange where he dug into the ground, but he had too many other things on his mind to worry too much about that.

  The old boy reached him and leaned towards Jamie. Sir Peter, cursing and panting, doubled over balancing on his knees. He yanked back Jamie's hood and shone his torch into the thief's eyes. Recognition.

  “Jamie Thomson, it's you! Scum! You broke into my house? Fucking ingrate! You are a thieving rodent. Do you know how hard I argued to get you that job at the golf club? And this is the thanks I get? You pissing rat. I spoke up for you, for rehabilitation; I really fought for you. There are half a dozen decent houses in my street. Why mine?”

  “Oh no.
Not you, Sir Peter!” Jamie tried to sound surprised. Then his curiosity set in. “So whose house would you have suggested I go to instead? Which one would you rather I'd tried?”

  Jamie groaned as a combination of confusion and conscience washed over him. He felt Sir Peter's fury burning down on him and realised that not just his ankle was buggered. He cradled the injured joint gingerly and rocked backwards and forwards moaning, partly in genuine pain but also to entice sympathy. He soon realised that hell was going to freeze over before that came through from his victim, so he tried to smile. It came out as a grimace.

  ***

  They both saw it at once. The young man had not tripped over a root; it was a leg. Not fresh, but not there that long either. To Mysercough’s trained eye, it did not look as though it had been covered by accident. It had been buried. A shallow grave, but buried nevertheless.

  ***

  Jamie squirmed and screamed again. This time, in horror. He tried to wriggle away, but his broken limb was taking him nowhere.

  “Fuck, Sir Peter, Mr Myerscough, whatever. Help! Help me up, help me get away, man. That leg, it's touching me! It's giving me the grew, and, bugger it, my leg, it's so bloody sore.” Jamie retched. ”Help! This is gross. It's the worst day of my life.”

  The boy felt his mouth hot, then he dry-heaved. When he tried to stand, he collapsed back onto the partly-buried leg. The corpse shifted slightly.

  “Ah fuck! I touched the toe. It's all bugs and worms. God's sake, help! I can't stand. Can you not give me a hand up, Sir Peter? Your stuff's over there an' in this wee hole.”