Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Nora flinched. ‘All I know is, she was chatting to this Sean guy in the bar the other night.’ She put the glass down with a thud. ‘Then she’s in this state. I mean, come on. After what he tried to do to me last night and—’

  Her phone rattled on the counter. She picked it up. ‘I know where she is.’

  FIFTY

  Hunter

  Nora stood on the golden sand, her left hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘There she is!’ She started jogging towards a bridge leading to the sea. Metal handholds around wide wooden slats guided the path out to a pier. A woman sat halfway along, facing away from them, crouched down, rocking back and forth.

  Hunter set off after Nora, trudging across the dry sand, his stiff knee slowing him down to the point of embarrassment. He clambered over the walkway’s edge and slowed down as he approached.

  Nora stood over the woman, rubbing her shoulder. She smiled at Hunter. ‘Kirsten, these guys are cops.’

  Dark hair, like a nineteenth-century photo of a potato famine victim. Her lined face was blurred by smudged make-up. Below her short skirt her tights were rucked and torn. Her handbag lay next to those Ugg boots Chantal had stashed at his flat. She looked up at Hunter and scowled. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Nora flashed her a smile. ‘These guys are from Scotland. They’re looking for Sean.’

  Kirsten looked over at them, suspicion deepening the lines on her forehead.

  Hunter squatted down between the cousins, giving each a warm smile. ‘Kirsten, can I get you anything?’

  She looked up at him, her eyes hiding behind her fringe. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I know what’s happened to you.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Kirsten hauled herself up to standing. ‘How the fuck can you know what’s happened to me, eh?’

  ‘Your cousin told—’

  ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ Kirsten shoved Hunter, both hands planted on his chest, the force of her pent-up rage unleashed in a single frantic push.

  He stayed rock solid. The girl had no strength left in her, most likely hadn’t slept or eaten since the bar, probably cried herself dry after what that bastard . . . ‘It’s okay, we know how you feel. You need to express that anger.’

  ‘Get the fuck away from me!’

  ‘Look, I’m a police officer. We’re trying—’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘—to arrest Sean Tulloch.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Kirsten frowned at him. ‘You don’t say his name to me! Fuck off!’ She slapped him across the cheek.

  Stung hard, like she’d taken a couple of layers of skin off. He kept his hands at his side, tried to control his breathing. ‘Kirsten, we know you were drinking with Mr Tulloch on Thursday night.

  ‘Fuck off!’ She stepped forward, her arms raised to slap again. Nora grabbed her arm, pulling it down to her side.

  Hunter kept the smile in his eyes. ‘Did he buy you a drink?’

  Kirsten disappeared under her hands, hiding her face and her eyes from these strangers as much as from the memory of her indignity. ‘I’m not talking to any of you. Fuck off away from me!’ She reached down and grabbed her handbag. Only caught one of the handles. The contents spilled over the sandy boardwalk. ‘Now look what you’ve fucking made me do!’ She bent down and started stuffing tampons and paracetamol and her purse back in the bag.

  Nora’s jaw clenched as she crouched down next to her. ‘Sean spiked my drink last night.’

  Kirsten looked up, frowning. Half the contents of her bag still lay on the sand. ‘He what?’

  ‘That Sean spiked mine and Siobhan’s drink . . . After he raped you.’

  Kirsten collapsed back against the banisters. ‘Nora, will you keep your fucking mouth shut?’

  Hunter crouched between them. ‘Kirsten, my name—’

  ‘Leave me the fuck alone!’ Kirsten shifted away from him. ‘Just piss off!’

  ‘My name is DC Craig Hunter.’ He got his warrant card out and held it in front of her. She didn’t even look at it. ‘And this is DS Chantal Jain. We work for Police Scotland’s Sexual Offences Unit.’ He took his ID back. Looked like the mere presence of it had calmed her down enough to listen to for a moment. Then he showed his phone, the photo of Tulloch on the screen. ‘This is the man you were drinking with, isn’t it?’

  Nora snatched it off him and showed it to Kirsten. ‘This is him.’ She waved it in her cousin’s face. ‘This is Sean! He tried to rape me as well!’

  A wind blew across the sand towards them, spiralling as it hit the walkway.

  Kirsten stared at the phone for a few seconds. ‘It could be him, I suppose.’

  ‘His name is Sean Tulloch and we’re here to arrest him.’ The man’s twinkling eyes glared out of the screen, innocent as a choir boy. ‘Believe me, I wish we’d arrested him back in Scotland. I wish he’d not been able to do what he’s done to you. And I can only imagine how you feel right now. All the anger and rage and hate, some of it probably even directed at yourself. It’s natural. But it’s not right. Mr Tulloch has a history of domestic violence against women. His latest victim is in hospital back in Edinburgh, fighting for her life.’

  Kirsten leaned into Nora, shutting her eyes.

  Chantal rested on the supports, her voice soft and quiet. ‘What happened, Kirsten?’

  She looked at Nora for a few seconds, then shut her eyes again. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

  Hunter let the cool sea breeze hit his skin. His stomach growled. ‘Kirsten, I know this is difficult, but it would help us if you could tell us what you do remember.’ He left a pause, waiting for her nod. He smiled at her. ‘Nora said you’re here on a hen weekend. Is that right?’

  Kirsten ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back. ‘Look, I don’t remember too much. We were on that party mile on Thursday night. Dancing and drinking, you know how it is.’ She pressed the heels of her palms hard into her eyes. ‘I feel so fucking stupid.’

  ‘Kirsten, this isn’t your fault.’ Hunter crouched down to eye level. ‘Okay? None of this is your fault.’

  Kirsten nodded. Didn’t seem to believe a word of his consolation, though. ‘I got speaking to this fella in one of the bars.’ She scratched her wrist, opening up a barely scabbed over wound. ‘Look, I got divorced last year. Not had a lot of luck with men since.’ She stabbed a finger at the phone, still couldn’t look up. ‘This guy was charming. Lovely fella. Gorgeous eyes. Kind smile. He asked if I wanted a drink. So I said, make it a double.’

  Hunter left her some space but she’d retreated too far into herself to even notice, let alone fill it with any information they could use to finally put this scumbag in the dock. ‘Can you remember whether he got you that drink?’

  ‘Bacardi and Diet Coke.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I can still taste it. Can still see it fizzing away when I close my eyes.’ She scratched her wrist again. ‘If only I’d not . . .’

  ‘Kirsten, it’s okay.’ Nora was trying to stop her cousin from scratching that wrist of hers and drawing fresh blood. ‘You need to tell them what happened.’

  ‘What happened?’ Kirsten pushed herself up to her feet and got in Hunter’s face, covering him in sour vomit breath. ‘I woke up with him shagging me!’ Spit flecked his cheeks and dribbled down her chin. ‘And he was hurting me!’

  Chantal sat back, looking like she was trying to act calm. ‘This was in his bed?’

  ‘Where do you fucking think? Of course it was!’ Kirsten started pacing along the planks. ‘Motherfucker had taken me home to his room. Some taxi bastard had let him do that! The state I was in!’ She wiped her bare arm across her nose. ‘When that swine was done fucking me, he fell asleep and I left. I got back to our room early. Late, whatever. Like five, six. Can’t remember. It was still dark outside. I felt so disgusted with myself I just stayed in the room yesterday.’ She cracked her hand off the walkway support, the metal ringing. ‘And his cock . . . It hurt like . . . I’m so fucking sore. Had to take eight ibuprofen .
. .’ She slumped back against the handrails. ‘I’ve been pissing blood. It’s like having me period.’

  Chantal reached out and lay her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Okay. I hear you. And I’ll try to help you. Let’s get you to the local police, Kirsten. Have you had a shower since the attack?’

  ‘I had a bath last night.’

  Another chance to stop Tulloch had slipped through their grasp. All their fears about him, his lust escalated by the leery atmosphere of a bunch of squaddies out on the lash. Kirsten was the cost of that.

  Not arresting him in Inverness when he went for the train.

  Him giving the slip at Waverley.

  Not catching him at the airport.

  Quaresma not arresting him when he landed.

  Ricky battering Hunter and letting Tulloch escape.

  Chantal crouched in front of Kirsten. ‘We’re going to catch him and prosecute him for what he’s done to you. Were there any witnesses?’

  ‘Of course there fucking wasn’t.’ The girl stared off towards the beach. Tears seeped out of the sides of her eyes, slicking down her cheekbones. ‘Wait. There was someone in the other bed.’

  What?

  Kirsten wiped away her tears. ‘His mate was there. While this fucking bastard raped me. He was there the whole fucking time!’

  Hunter reached into his pocket for his phone and brought up a photo of Matty Ibbetson. ‘Was it him?’

  Kirsten shook her head. ‘Smaller.’

  Hunter found one from the CCTV, Gordon Brownlee lurking at the bar. ‘Him?’

  ‘That’s the one. He had these funny ears. They weren’t the same height on his head.’

  ‘Did he . . . Did he also abuse you?’

  Kirsten shook her head again. ‘He . . . was there. Watching. Fucking bastard might’ve been wanking himself off for all I know. Jesus, I was so out of it.’

  Hunter pocketed his phone. ‘We’re going to find him, okay? We’re going to get a statement from him. We’re going to arrest Sean and he’s going to do time for what he’s done to you.’

  ‘Look, Craig, is it? I don’t want any trouble, please.’ Kirsten pulled back her sleeves. Dark bruises circled her lower arms like watch straps. ‘He . . . He’s a big man. I don’t . . .’

  Hunter clenched his fists and scanned the area. ‘Kirsten, we’re going to make sure he can never do this again. Not to you and not to anyone else. And we’re going to make sure he’s punished for what he’s done to you.’ The beach was getting busy, despite the cool breeze. Or maybe only he could feel that. Him and the women looking at him, hoping against better knowledge that his promise would come true by the sheer force of his conviction. Then he frowned. ‘You said it happened in his room?’

  * * *

  Hunter stopped dead and groaned, as Kirsten pointed up at Tulloch’s apartment. His and Chantal’s wasn’t even twenty metres away. He leaned back against the wall and dialled Quaresma’s number, listening to it ring and ring. And ring. So he redialled.

  After eight more rings, Quaresma finally moaned into his phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Craig Hunter. I—’

  ‘I have caller ID, Constable.’ Quaresma sighed. ‘I say we meet at two o’clock. What now?’

  ‘I need you to get some officers out here to enter a property.’

  Silence on the line. ‘Two o’clock.’

  Hunter looked over at Chantal, ten yards off, her left arm wheeling as she spoke to McNeill on the phone. With a sigh he refocused his attention on his own call. ‘Tulloch has raped a woman.’

  Quaresma gasped. ‘What?’

  ‘A Northern Irish woman. Look, we need your men to enter the premises and collect evidence.’

  ‘Now? And when I am there, you say again false alarm? Or fight more UFC? No thank you, Constable.’

  Click.

  What the hell?

  Hunter stared at his mobile. He’d bloody hung up on him.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Chantal

  ‘I know, Sharon, but he’s escalating.’ Chantal wheeled away from Tulloch’s room, leaving Hunter to guard it. The place was a crime scene. What had happened in there, what Kirsten had gone through at Tulloch’s hands, it had to be fixed, and if that wasn’t possible, it at least had to be prevented from happening to anyone else. The bastard had used his physical bulk to get his way, had used his penis as a weapon. ‘It’s likely he’s raped this woman. It’s on Portuguese territory, so your chum will have to—’

  Hunter scowled at her.

  Chantal covered her mouthpiece. ‘What?’

  ‘He hung up on me.’

  ‘Is he sending anyone?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  Chantal stared at him, her jaw clenched tight. After an intense stare, she shifted her focus back to her phone. ‘Right, Shaz, we need to make a move. Quaresma is still not co-operating.’

  ‘Well, I can’t promise it’ll lead to anything if I go over his head.’ Sharon sounded worn out. ‘But I’ll do it anyway.’

  ‘We need approval now.’

  ‘Chantal, leave it with me, okay. Look, Elvis wants a word. I’ve got to go.’

  Click.

  Don’t need a million guesses to work out what that’s about. And what a time to tell her.

  Chantal pocketed her phone and stared at the door for a second. ‘Craig, we can’t . . . Any defence team worth their salt will—’

  ‘I know. We’ll just have a little peek.’ Hunter twisted the handle. ‘Would you look at that? It’s unlocked.’

  Chantal snorted. ‘You make Scott Cullen look professional.’

  ‘Tell me to stop, then.’ Hunter wiped the handle with the hem of his T-shirt and nudged the door open wide with his trainer. ‘Can you hear that? Sounds like there’s someone in there. Sounds like they’re in distress. Sounds like there might be a crime in—’

  ‘Go on.’ She nodded and Hunter stepped through the door. She kept an eye on the hallway, then entered the room herself.

  No sign of anyone, not Tulloch, not even his roommate Gordon Brownlee.

  The bathroom door was ajar. Smelled like someone had poured a bottle of mint shower gel down an open sewer. By the looks of it, the toilet wasn’t working. Dirty bastards were just shitting on more shit.

  Back in the main room, Hunter was over by the kettle, rummaging through a pile of papers and holiday debris. ‘Nothing here.’

  A little camera case sat to the side. Chantal opened it and pulled out the contents, then held something up to show Hunter. ‘Is this Tulloch’s MOD90?’

  He took a glance and nodded at it. ‘Ought to be a bit more careful with it, but yeah, that’s his ticket through airport security.’ He got out his mobile and snapped a photo of it. ‘Must’ve made him think he’s invincible.’

  Chantal squatted down near a plastic shopping bag. A pair of jeans, some shorts, a bunch of T-shirts. ‘Looks like he’s bought this lot here.’ She crossed over to Gordon Brownlee’s side of the room. Neat piles of clothes, a trolley suitcase, coins ordered by denomination. Much less chaotic.

  ‘Shite.’

  She swung round.

  Hunter held up the jeans, gripping them with a towel. A brown pill bottle poked out of the back pocket. He shook it out and Chantal picked it up between a pair of teaspoons. A silhouetted image of a man, side on, standing up and penetrating a woman bending at the waist in front of him.

  “HEAVEN”

  (THE ORIGINAL U.S.A.)

  GHB

  PURE ECSTACY

  Blood boiled in Chantal’s veins. A smoking gun against Tulloch.

  But . . . Jesus. That’s how the guy thought. Who cares if a girl didn’t want to have sex with him. Slip some of those into her drinks and she’s anyone’s for the taking.

  Didn’t explain how someone like Paisley could fall for his charms without chemical assistance, but clearly he didn’t rely on his natural charm alone when he wanted a woman to bend to his will.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the logo. A
bloody typo on the bottle, too. EcstaSy, you raping arseholes.

  ‘How the hell did he get that into the country?’

  ‘Maybe bought it here.’ Hunter shrugged the pills back into the jeans, then dropped them back on the bag. ‘Come on, we can’t be here.’

  Chantal followed him back out into the courtyard. ‘Did you find anything that points to where he is?’

  ‘Sweet FA.’

  She hit dial and put her phone to her ear.

  ‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma gave a massive sigh. ‘I say to your partner, two o’clock.’

  ‘Listen, we’ve reason to believe there is direct evidence in that apartment supporting the rape allegation.’

  Quaresma’s sigh was even bigger this time. ‘What?’

  ‘We spoke to a drug dealer who sold Tulloch some rohypnol.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  Click.

  Chantal pocketed her phone. ‘Sounds like he’s finally sending someone over.’

  ‘Finally, indeed.’ Hunter huffed out a breath. ‘So, we’re meant to guard it until they get here?’

  ‘You got a better plan?’

  Hunter stared away from them. ‘Brownlee isn’t here.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Assume he comes back and sees us here. He must know we’re cops by now. He’ll tell Tulloch and he’ll piss off out of here.’

  ‘That’s if he’s not gone already.’

  ‘You want to take that chance?’

  She grabbed his shoulder. ‘Right, go over to the bar and see if you can find them there, okay? Then wait out front, while I guard this room. There’s only one way up here. If you see him, warn me, okay?’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Hunter

  Hunter leaned against the front wall of the hotel and put his phone to his ear, listening to it ring. The bar was heaving now, not even noon and the shots were out. Grown men were playing cowboys, running round with their fingers and thumbs thrust out like pistols, shouting ‘pew, pew’.