Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Typical Brits abroad. Must make the rest of the EU so proud of us. Maybe a vote to leave in next month’s referendum would spare the continent the worst of our behaviour.

  Looking around, he could see only British tourists. No Germans, no Swedes, no one to ask when we became so set on our differences. Maybe they keep us all separate? Looked like some Germans in the hotel next door, lying by the pool in knee-length lederhosen. No need to fight the Brits over sun loungers at dawn.

  Like that Oktoberfest a few years back. The ambulance drivers were total pricks about taking Cullen to hospital after splitting his head open. For that fortnight of citywide alcohol abuse, drunk antics weren’t covered by the health insurance.

  His trousers started vibrating. No aneurism, thank fuck, just my phone. Chantal. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Room’s still empty, Craig. Any sign of the cops?’

  ‘Not yet. Negative on Brownlee, too.’ Hunter looked up and down the street. No sign of any police cars, just the occasional taxi winding past the row of coaches. ‘Five minutes and Quaresma’s getting another call.’

  ‘Better go.’

  Click.

  Hunter pocketed his phone as a Mercedes taxi pulled up and a guy in jacket and jeans got out, his black shoes gleaming in the sunlight. Couldn’t have looked more out of place next to the sagging bodies at the bar. The driver got out a set of golf clubs and he trundled them inside, followed by the passenger.

  ‘Wa-haaaay!’

  Four topless men wobbled about the bar area, half muscle, half flab. They downed their drinks, then tossed plastic shot glasses in the air, raining down on a middle-aged couple tucking into a bottle of red. Too polite to say anything, their ears going the same colour as their fake Rioja.

  Then Gordon Brownlee left the bar area, laden with a tray of shots and blinking in the glare. He set the drinks down on the table and tried to get the topless idiots to calm down.

  Hunter took another look around. No cars approaching. Not much drone from the main road. He scanned through Brownlee’s mates — Tulloch and Matty weren’t there.

  But hadn’t there been a third guy trying to spike that girl’s drinks last night? Where was he? Not there, that’s where.

  He tapped out a text to Chantal.

  GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.

  Was that really such a good idea? Then he took a deep breath.

  Sod it, here goes. A last check of the road and he walked over to lean across the fence. ‘Hey, Gordon?’

  Brownlee gave a nod back and toasted him. ‘Alright, mate.’ Clearly didn’t recognise me. Matty and Tulloch hadn’t passed on anything useful. He downed the shot and strolled over, lugging his pint like a kettlebell. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Tried catching up with Sean last night, but I couldn’t find him.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seen him today?’

  Brownlee shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Not since first thing.’

  Hunter nodded slowly. ‘You’re rooming with him, right?’

  Brownlee squinted at him. ‘Aye.’ Could almost see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. He got up and leaned on the face, almost face-to-face with Hunter. ‘You seem in an awful hurry to see big Sean.’

  ‘Fly back home tomorrow and I’ve not seen the prick. Ages since I last sank a pint with him.’

  ‘Right. Aye, well, he crawled back into the room in the wee small hours, you know?’

  But where the hell was he now?

  Hunter flashed a grin. ‘Still a shagger, eh?’

  ‘Tell me about it. Not that I can talk.’ Brownlee laughed. ‘Out at the tits till the back of four.’

  Hunter gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Which one did you go to?’

  ‘First one at the crossing. Classy place.’ Brownlee gulped at his lager and bared his teeth. ‘Anyhoo, Sean’ll still be with Matty.’ He shook his head. ‘Dirty big bastard was up in my room at eight this morning, off his tits. Said he’d got back at six but couldn’t sleep. He’s got a bag of coke and some MDMA from somewhere. Course Sean couldn’t give that a miss. Perked right up and off they went.’

  ‘While you were sleeping?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Brownlee took another sip of his lager. ‘Those two pricks snorting coke and dancing to tartan techno on Sean’s phone. Then big Geordie Keith pitched up with a bottle of voddie. They went off to the pub at half eight, no sign of them since, likes.’ He checked his watch. ‘They’ll head back soon for a kip, I reckon.’

  Fuck! Chantal was up at the room, alone. Three huge squaddies on the way there . . .

  You stupid bastard.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Chantal

  Chantal stood outside their room, eyes trained on Tulloch’s door, phone against her ear. ‘Still no sign of them, Shaz.’ She did another scan. Bloody nothing. ‘Craig went to wait by the bar. Not heard from him.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do, Chantal.’ Sharon sounded like she was out and about, wind rustling leaves. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘I’ve got better things to do on my day off than sort out this mess. Not that I’m getting any time off.’

  Chantal’s phone buzzed with a text. She didn’t check it. ‘Sorry, but—’

  A man approached Tulloch’s room, swaying with the fluid movements of a habitual drunk. Absolutely shit-faced. One swerving hand was clutching a chemist’s bag. Without slowing his pace, he walked right into the door. Suspended in the loud bang, he giggled, then slid down the wood a few inches, leaned his head against it and smiled, eyes closed. A moron in his happy place. After a few seconds of quiet snuffles, he knocked. ‘Gogs!’

  Gogs?

  Gordon?

  Not just a confused drunk, then. This guy was looking for Gordon Brownlee.

  Chantal turned away and hissed into her mobile. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She killed the call and pocketed her phone.

  ‘Gogs! Come on, mate! Party’s getting started!’ Sounded like a Newcastle accent. He swung around, his wet gaze landing on her like a gob of spit. It was the third guy from the bar last night. The third date raper. He tried to lock eyes with her, but looked right through. ‘Right, get your cock away, you big poof, I’m coming in!’

  The evidence! Can’t let him disturb the crime scene!

  Chantal darted across the quad towards him. ‘Here, mate.’

  His hand rested on the door. He gave her the up and down, stopping to linger on her boobs for a good three seconds. ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’

  ‘Gordon was looking for you.’

  ‘Aye?’ He reached behind him, missed the door, grabbed thin air but somehow managed to stay on his feet, swaying like a wilted flower in the breeze. ‘Thought he was here. Was this morning, anyway.’

  ‘I was supposed to be meeting him and Sean at the hotel bar.’

  He frowned. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Jane.’ She held out a hand, careful not to get too close.

  He lunged forward and reached out to kiss it. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Jane.’ He burped out vodka fumes. ‘I’m Keith.’

  ‘I’ve got to change my knickers.’ Chantal winked at him. ‘Gordon’s getting a round in at the bar.’

  ‘I was going to get a kip, but . . .’ Keith leered at her. ‘Bugger it, I’ll see you over there, pet!’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Hunter

  Need to get away . . .

  Hunter nodded at Brownlee, sweat trickling down his forehead. Heat or Stress? No time to waste. Chantal’s alone, needs my help. ‘What bar do you reckon they’re in?’

  Brownlee took another swig of lager. ‘Any. All.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Hunter gave him the thumbs up, turned and—

  Bumped into a big lump of gristle and rugby. Eyes like piss holes in the snow. He looked at Brownlee and burped. ‘Gogs, how’s it going, mate?’ Thick Geordie accent, impenetrable as the Northumberland coast in the fog.

  ‘Keith, my man.’ Brownlee slapped his arm. Crack. Left a
white handprint in the sunburnt skin. ‘You met Craig? He served with Sean in Kandahar.’

  Keith eyed Hunter, up and down. Full ocular patdown. ‘Aye?’

  Shite. It was the third lump of meat from the bar last night. The third raping bastard.

  Hunter nodded, his breath struggling to stay under control. ‘We did Operation Diablo Reach Back. Must’ve been 2006?’

  ‘2006?’ Keith straightened up, twisting his head to the side. ‘You sure Sean was there?’

  Hunter’s guts churned. He forced a grin. ‘Guy was just a pup.’

  ‘Little virgin back then.’ Keith held out his hand. ‘Keith Brannigan.’ He burped some more vodka fumes.

  ‘Craig Hunter.’

  ‘Craig was asking where Sean’s got to.’ Brownlee sank the last of his pint. ‘You seen him about?’

  ‘Keep clear of that wanker.’ Keith opened a chemist’s paper bag and took out some eyedrops. He squirted a few into his left eye and blinked hard and fast. ‘Had me contacts in two nights in a row, man. Feels like I’m going blind. And not from the wanking!’

  ‘You seen Sean?’

  ‘I tell you, I was seeing two of him after we had a Hollywood line of Matty’s coke.’ Keith took care of his other eye. Then another squirt for good measure. ‘Went up to that bar on the corner for breakfast. Cheap something or other. Matty bought a bottle of absinthe over the counter.’ He belched. ‘We finished it.’

  Brownlee reached back for another pint of lager. ‘After that voddie?’

  ‘You keeping a tab, Gogs?’

  Brownlee held up his hands. ‘Not me.’

  Hunter thumbed behind them. ‘Sean still up there?’

  ‘Nah, mate.’ Keith scowled at Brownlee. ‘You know what Sean’s like. Fired into the waitress in there. Bought her a drink, then she started doing shots of absinthe with us.’

  Tulloch plus woman plus alcohol. Another date rape? Hunter nodded. ‘Did he get lucky?’

  ‘Bird was all over him, man.’ Keith put his eyedrops back in the bag and blinked like he was having an episode. ‘Jesus, I’m fucked.’ He rubbed his thumbs deep into his eyes. ‘Either of you got any Valium?’

  ‘Clean out.’ Hunter did a fake patdown and huffed out air. ‘I’ll maybe take a walk up there. Try to surprise him.’

  Keith nodded, but his eyes were all over the tray of pints on the table behind. ‘They were going to her flat.’

  No . . . Hunter set off. ‘Right, I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Not so bloody fast.’ Keith grabbed hold of Hunter’s T-shirt and glowered at him. ‘You going to join in with a spit roast, are you?’ He scowled at Brownlee. ‘Gogs, who is this prick?’

  Brownlee swallowed hard. ‘Said he’s a mate of Sean’s.’

  Keith stepped forward, looming over Hunter. ‘Who are you?’

  Take him down now? That’ll just make him clam up.

  Hunter caught a flash of white from the left, over Keith’s hulking shoulder. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll be on my way.’

  Keith took another handful of Hunter’s shirt. ‘Who the fuck are you, mate?’

  ‘Sir.’ A uniform tried to wrest Keith away. The lantern-jawed woman from the previous night. Didn’t seem to recognise any of them.

  Keith didn’t budge.

  ‘Sir, step away.’

  Hunter got in Keith’s face. ‘Where is he?’

  Booze breath swept across Hunter’s face. ‘Fuck off.’

  Hunter gripped his wrist and twisted through, pinning it to Keith’s back. ‘Where is he?’ He jerked it up. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Fuck, ow, fine, he’s gone to that bird’s flat!’

  The cop pushed Hunter back. ‘Get off him!’

  Hunter didn’t let go. ‘Which flat?’

  ‘Up at that bar! Cheap and something!’

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Chantal

  Chantal scanned around the area. Still no bloody cops. Still no sign of Tulloch or Matty. Or Brownlee. So many bloody squaddies, all up to their necks in it.

  She fished out her phone. Nothing from Hunter since . . .

  That text. She checked the message again.

  GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.

  And she’d just sent Keith down there.

  She jogged off towards the bar. No sign of Hunter. A police car sat on the road, the blue lights flashing. Cops nowhere to be seen.

  A horn blared and a black Audi pulled up next to her. Quaresma got out, stretching out his long coat. ‘Sergeant, we say two o’clock.’

  Chantal held up her hands. ‘We’ve got something.’

  ‘I hope it is good.’

  A stark choice — preserve the evidence or help Craig?

  He’s a big boy, and this evidence could put away a rapist. She started walking. ‘This way.’

  Quaresma jogged to catch up with her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve got some hard evidence against Tulloch. We need you to secure the room.’ She stopped by the door and pointed at it. ‘He’s got some GHB. Date rape drugs.’

  Quaresma nibbled at his lips. ‘This is proof that he raped the woman last night?’

  ‘It’ll add to the girls’ statements.’

  Quaresma looked away.

  She grabbed his coat. ‘You have taken statements?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Chantal sucked in a deep breath. ‘Tulloch has raped someone on your territory. Why aren’t you arresting him?’

  Quaresma’s eyes shifted. ‘Sergeant, we are—’

  ‘Sir!’ Behind Quaresma, a female uniformed officer pulled Hunter down the pavement. Lantern-jawed and focused. ‘We have a problem.’

  Quaresma marched over and grabbed Hunter by the lapels. ‘What you think you are doing, Constable?’

  Hunter pointed towards the main road. ‘Tulloch’s raping someone else!’

  FIFTY-SIX

  Hunter

  Hunter got out of the squad car first and swung round, fists clenched.

  Tulloch isn’t getting away this time, no random assaults, no saved by the bell bullshit. Just him in cuffs, heading back to Scotland.

  The bar’s veranda was rammed with early boozers. José the barman was clearing up a beer pitcher from the nearest table, frowning at a man in black jeans and a Slipknot hoodie holding on to a beam for dear life while vomiting into the corner.

  Hunter bounded up the steps and grabbed José. The smells of fresh sweat and stale lager mixed with the acidic sick stink. ‘He’s been here, hasn’t he?’

  Jose looked over at Quaresma’s Audi. Then gave a tight nod. ‘He was here.’

  ‘You didn’t think to call me, like we agreed?’

  ‘Sorry. I . . . Luisa told me not to.’

  Terrific . . .

  Hunter let his grip slacken. ‘Did Luisa talk to him?’

  José nodded. ‘And left with him.’ He pointed down the side of the bar. ‘Third house, top floor.’

  An alleyway ran up the side of the bar, lined with lock-up garages, a stone wall about thirty metres back.

  Quaresma joined them. ‘Do we have him?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Hunter stamped down the stairs and beckoned for the uniforms to follow them down the lane. Tall blocks of flats loomed up beyond the garages.

  Third one along, top floor. Looked like some apartments.

  Hunter jogged down the street and climbed the steps to the front door. ‘This one here.’

  Quaresma joined him on the veranda and grabbed his wrist. ‘This is last time I trust you, my friend.’ He nodded at him, then tried the door handle. ‘Okay. My command, remember?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Hunter held up his hands and stepped back.

  The first uniform piled in past him, leaving the second on guard.

  Next in was Quaresma. Hunter followed and powered up the stairs. Both the Portuguese men were fitter than the average Scottish cop, neither out of breath by the third floor.

  Once scan of the landing, three doors. Terrific.

  Quaresma sco
wled at him. ‘Which one?’

  Hunter put his ear to the first one. Quiet as a grave. He moved over to the middle door. Muffled screams from inside. ‘Here. This one.’

  ‘Out of my way.’ Quaresma waited for Hunter to comply and knocked on the door. ‘Esta é a polícia. Abrir!’

  No response.

  Another knock. ‘This is the police. Open!’

  Again, nothing.

  ‘We are coming in!’ Quaresma twirled a finger at the uniform. ‘Quebre a porta!’

  The local cop stepped back, then launched himself at the door shoulder-first. It toppled into the flat, the uniform taking a tumble before he rolled out of the way.

  Quaresma was in first, Hunter right behind him.

  Sunlight streamed into the hallway from a kitchen-lounge area, a thick mist blocking visibility. Smelled like skunk.

  The muffled screaming was getting louder, came from a closed door to the right.

  Quaresma nudged it open.

  Tulloch was kneeling on the bed, naked except for his white tennis socks. The woman in front of him looked like a rag doll, forced down on all fours, one of his hands hooked under her waist, the other clamped firmly on her mouth, his hips thrusting hard and fast. ‘Oh, you dirty bitch, you like that, don’t you?’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chantal

  ‘What’s your name?’ Chantal looked at the lantern-jawed woman working her way around Tulloch’s hotel room, her blue gloves almost strobing in the sunlight.

  ‘Elena.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Elena.’ Chantal looked back out into the quad. Two men in jeans ran towards the stairs, carrying a giant inflatable dolphin. Were all the men here arrested in their development, somewhere around the stage of pubescent hedonism? Arrested? If only. She looked back into the room. ‘You find anything?’

  ‘This.’ Elena held up the bottle of GHB. Her male partner noted it on a clipboard. She bared her teeth. ‘Dirty man who stay here.’