by Ed James
Hunter sighed. ‘Getting a kicking for it, as well.’
‘Typical. This place is a shambles, I swear.’ Bruce shook his head at the building. ‘So, are you two an item?’
Hunter gave him a long look. ‘Surprised to see you here, what with that sighting of Harry Jack.’
Bruce’s head twisted to the side, a vein in his temple pulsing to some unheard rhythm. ‘What did you say?’
‘Quaresma mentioned they had a sighting of him in Villa something.’
‘Vilamoura?’
Hunter shrugged again. Felt like it was becoming a habit. ‘Maybe.’
‘That cheeky bastard!’ Bruce stormed off towards the police station, kicking up clouds of sand from the mosaic pebbles.
Not a happy man.
Hunter glanced back at his phone as another text from Finlay popped up.
Maybe it is time . . .
SIXTY-THREE
Chantal
Chantal stomped across the car park, her phone tight to her ear. What an absolute joke. ‘What’s up, Shaz?’
‘It’s a nightmare here.’ Sharon’s voice hissed out of the speaker. ‘The PF keeps battering down the door, asking why Tulloch isn’t in custody yet. She’s threatening to go to the press with it. Fletcher’s been on the bloody phone every hour, talking about coming back off holiday and taking over.’
‘That’s the last thing we need.’
‘Aye. Over a year’s work on this bloody case so that scumbag can walk?’ Her voice kept getting shriller. ‘And to top it all off, I’ve had Inspector Quaresma’s superior on the phone.’
‘Already?’
‘Already.’ A deep sigh scratched the speaker. ‘I don’t know what you two have been up to, but you’re kindly requested to get the next flight home.’
Chantal scowled over at Hunter. Bruce was talking to him. ‘We’ve got Tulloch in custody. We—’
‘Chantal, no.’ Sharon was breathing hard, rattling the microphone with every frustrated exhale. Chantal felt a pang of guilt. Sharon cares just as much about getting this bastard behind bars. She’s placed her faith in Craig and me and now . . . ‘The Portuguese are giving us no quarter here, Chantal. I need you and Craig out of the country.’
Silence on the line.
At Sharon’s end, a door clunked shut. ‘Chantal, if you try and pick Tulloch up from the station or anywhere else, they will arrest you. A certain someone doing a Bruce Lee impression hasn’t impressed them. Barging in on the suspect having consensual sex, unfortunately that also didn’t impress them.’
‘Craig acted with due diligence in both cases. Look, all I’m saying is that we desperately need that Arrest Warrant.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t make that happen this week.’
‘Are we giving up, then?’
‘We’re never going to give up on taking that predator off the streets. This is one of our highest priority cases, okay?’ Sharon paused again. ‘But I’m going to have to go cap in hand to Rollo-Smith . . .’ She let her defeat hang there, hissing in the sun. ‘The MOD can bring Tulloch back to this country, even if that keeps him beyond our reach. At least he’ll face charges of some sort, hopefully enough to keep him away from vulnerable women for the rest of forever.’
‘Still sounds like giving up to me.’
‘Do you think I’m pissing about back here? I’ve been in meetings all weekend while you’ve been drinking and shagging your brains out. The PF’s not playing ball until we’ve got enough evidence.’
Chantal’s fingers were sore from gripping the phone like a hammer, ready to bash that rapist’s head in before she let him disappear in the army’s judicial system. ‘If Rollo-Smith gets him, you better wave goodbye to any prosecution from us.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ve got SOCOs searching Paisley’s flat. Meanwhile, Elvis and Jenny have been taking a statement from her all day.’
‘Finally.’ Chantal felt the blood returning to her hand as she relaxed her grip a little. ‘Speaking of Elvis, what did he want yesterday?’
Sharon huffed. ‘His son’s birthday. I told him all leave’s cancelled.’
‘I don’t see how keeping Elvis at work up in Edinburgh helps us down here.’
‘We’re close to a full statement on Tulloch. In two days we should have a complete story to take to the Procurator Fiscal. The noose is tightening. Okay?’
Chantal huffed. ‘Given the way he’s drugging them over here, we’ll be lucky if any of the victims even remember their testimony when Tulloch goes up for trial.’
‘Come on, Chantal . . .’ Sharon’s resilient optimism sounded battered and bruised. ‘I’m trying my hardest here.’
‘That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? Statistics . . .’ Chantal lowered her phone, squeezed it as hard as before, couldn’t help herself. Smash it to pieces on the marble floor of this legal wasteland. Instead, she put it back to her ear, determined to make her case one last time. ‘We’re letting a rapist out of our sight. Do you know what—’
‘Chantal, enough!’ Sharon’s shout echoed off her office walls, the reverb sending shockwaves into Chantal’s ear. ‘You’re booked on the half eight from Faro to Edinburgh. Your passes are with the airline. Make sure you’re at the airport by seven.’
Click.
SIXTY-FOUR
Hunter
‘So, that’s us knackered.’ Chantal rested her head on Hunter’s shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. She blew air over her face, giving Hunter a backdraft of sweet suntan lotion. ‘Tell me there’s something we can do.’
Was there? Hunter couldn’t even think. They had Tulloch in custody, had witnesses against fresh crimes and . . .
And yet it had all fallen away to shite.
Hunter pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. ‘The only thing I can think is Rollo-Smith will be days getting out here.’
‘I wanted good news.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Rollo-Smith will be on the next flight out, won’t he?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Feel like I don’t know anything. ‘The military can be bloody slow. Then again, if they’ve got wind of him putting their reputation at risk, then maybe. The blowback on them could be pretty bad if he rapes and kills someone.’
‘Maybe, maybe, maybe. That’s not good enough.’ She pushed away from him and pointed at a grid of thin windows overlooking the car park. ‘Meanwhile, Quaresma will let that scumbag out and he’ll go on raping other women. Or he’ll disappear into thin air.’ She folded her arms and leaned back against Bruce’s hire car with a thud. ‘There are times when I hate this bloody job.’
‘I was on a course with a twat from Dundee a few years back. He called his car the python.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘When I was interviewing Tulloch, he kept calling his cock the Python . . .’
‘Sick bastard.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Hunter drummed his hands on the top of the car. ‘At least we’ve got Tulloch pinned down.’
‘For now.’
‘Aye, for now. Just a matter of minutes until that bureaucrat Quaresma lets him out.’ Hunter stopped drumming and rasped a hand across his stubble. ‘What we need to do is keep an eye on him ourselves.’
‘What, you’re saying we ignore Sharon and stay here? If we do that, Quaresma will arrest you.’
‘Should I look around for a drill and screws to try and tighten up the shoogly peg my coat’s on?’
Her laugh didn’t spread to her eyes. ‘So, what then?’
‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘I’m—’
Clatter.
DI Bruce stomped out of the front door, charging across the car park like a man on a mission, straight towards them.
Hunter nodded over at Bruce, still out of earshot, and dropped his voice to a mutter. ‘Can you persuade him to get one of his lot to keep a tail on Tulloch?’
‘That’s your idea?’
‘He’s got resource and nothing to do with it. Tell him he’s in
volved in Harry Jack’s disappearance?’
‘Craig, I can’t lie . . .’
Hunter marched across the car park to meet him halfway. ‘How did it go?’
Bruce stopped a few metres away, shaking his head, jaw clenched tight. ‘Have you pair got anything on Quaresma? Any dodgy behaviour. Vague suspicions that he’s up to something. Anything?’
‘He’s pissed off with us for trying to do his job for him.’
‘But he’s not done anything wrong?’
‘No, why?’
Bruce’s jaw clenched tighter, a rogue muscle twitching as he swung round to glare at the police station. ‘You were right, he did have a sighting of Harry in Vilamoura.’ Blink and you’d miss it, but it looked like Quaresma was standing at an upstairs window, speaking on a phone. Bruce took a deep breath. ‘It’s not far from here, but he’s kept us out of the loop anyway. Not a word to me or my team.’
‘Was it Harry?’
‘That’s not the point.’ Bruce unlocked his car and pulled his hand away from the hot door. ‘Came to nothing, like everything around here.’
Chantal joined them with a huff. ‘Sounds like you’re as deep in the shit as us.’ Another huff. ‘He’s grassed to teacher.’
Bruce frowned at her. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve been doing to him?’
‘Maybe.’ Chantal shrugged at him. ‘I don’t like it happening to us, though. We were only trying to make him arrest a known rapist, and now we’ve been ordered to head back to Scotland, tonight.’
Bruce opened his car door. ‘In that case, do you guys fancy a crafty lunchtime pint?’
Chantal nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
Hunter smiled at the two of them. ‘I’ll leave you to catch up, if it’s all the same.’
SIXTY-FIVE
Chantal
Chantal sat outside a bar on the main drag through Albufeira’s old town, close enough to the sea for the bitter salt tang to flavour her wine with the memory of happier holidays, but far enough to avoid the many smoking Brits getting tanked up and aggressive to ruin yet another one. The town stretched out ahead of them, white stucco buildings climbing the hill, harsh cliffs edging the sea. Behind, a wide beach was squeezed back by the high tide, hardly any sunbathers, despite the heat. Still too early in the season for that.
Bruce was at the bar, paying. I could still just walk away.
She picked up her phone. Still nothing from Craig.
A British pub sat opposite, advertising “real beer!” and “Proper English fry-ups!” The sunburnt skinheads drinking inside seemed to enjoy it anyway. And her legs. Couldn’t keep their eyes off her.
Bruce came outside and dumped two full pints on the table, the lager’s head fizzing away.
This is the right strategy. Chantal sat back in her chair and sipped the cold beer. ‘Nice place this.’
‘Not bad.’ Bruce gulped down his lager like he hadn’t drunk anything all day. ‘Much better over here than where you’re staying, Chantal, let me tell you that.’ He swallowed more beer, his eyes misting over. ‘Used to bring the kids here in the summer for a fortnight. Every year. Sometimes get a week at half term in October.’ He smirked. ‘Plus golfing trips with the boys.’
Chantal clutched the handle of her glass, ready to drink. ‘You any good?’
‘That’s not the point.’ Bruce tore open a bag of crisps. One of those continental brands that looked like the British ones, but with a different name. ‘Help yourself.’
Chantal grabbed a handful and shovelled them down. ‘Haven’t eaten all day.’ She nodded as she chewed, the vinegar tang biting into her tongue. ‘Been hard at it since we got up.’
‘You caught him, though, that’s a good thing.’ Bruce ate a crisp, dainty like someone’s gran. ‘Just because the wheels of justice don’t turn as quickly as you, doesn’t mean you haven’t done great.’
‘Doesn’t mean I feel great, though.’ Chantal looked over at the bar’s door, fiddling with the tie on her shorts. A couple of knuckle-dragging Cockneys kept leering at her. ‘To feel great I’d need to be sitting at the airport, escorting that raping bastard home.’
‘Just saying. You caught him. That’s no mean feat.’ Bruce’s gaze stayed on her hand as she munched through the crisps. ‘You’ve done well, pet.’
‘He’s going to slip through our grasp, though.’ Chantal took a gulp of lager, giving herself a beer moustache. ‘God, I needed that.’ She wiped at her top lip.
Bruce reached over and wiped the foam off. ‘You missed a bit.’
She pushed his hand away with a glare. ‘I’m not happy about getting kicked back to Scotland.’
Bruce shuffled the crisp bag round to her. ‘Two-bit operation here, Chantal. Calling them cowboys would be an insult to cowboys.’
She took another crisp and chewed slowly, her forehead creasing. ‘Any chance you can get a tail on him?’
‘With our resources?’ Bruce laughed. ‘No chance. If we get caught doing that, we’ll have the next media meltdown on our hands.’
‘That might not be a bad thing.’ Chantal took another sip of beer. ‘Your case isn’t short of profile in the media, which means it’s all Quaresma seems to bother about.’
‘Aye, to the detriment of my work. That prick wants all the glory for himself.’
‘We could play to that.’
‘Chantal . . .’ Bruce bellowed out a laugh, then downed the rest of his pint. ‘Right, after the morning I’ve had, I’m having another refreshment. What about you?’
Chantal’s glass was below halfway. ‘Aye, go on.’
‘I’ll get more crisps, too.’ Bruce got up and went inside, leaving the door hanging open.
Chantal picked up her phone and dialled Hunter. Took him an age to answer.
‘Hey, lover, how are you doing?’ Sounded like he’d taken four MDMA . . .
‘I’m okay. Wallowing in my grief here. What about you?’
‘Still waiting. Tulloch’s still inside.’ Hunter sighed down the line. ‘Do you want to get some food?’
‘Too pissed off to eat properly, Craig.’ Chantal took another angry drink of beer, her teeth chapping off the glass. ‘Right now, I want to get so drunk they don’t let me on the plane. Then I can stay here and catch that bastard, if I can still walk.’
‘You want to face Quaresma’s wrath again?’
‘You know we should be tailing him.’
‘Have you got Bruce to bite yet?’
‘No resource. Press profile. You name it.’
Hunter’s sigh burst in her ear as a hiss of static. ‘Well, what’s to stop me just happening to walk back to the apartments the same way as Tulloch?’
‘Nothing?’ Chantal took another drink of beer. ‘But what if he gets driven by your friend Elena?’
‘She’s hardly my frie— Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’
‘Is Tulloch—’
Click.
Damn it! Should never have left him up there by himself.
Chantal finished her beer in one gulp. That superhero carry-on was going to get him killed.
Felt like a spider crawled up her spine. She hit it when it reached her shoulder. Only problem was it went both ways at the top and snaked down both arms.
The stress is getting to me.
‘Think that rain will get us?’ Bruce was clattering through the small door.
The spiders scurried off. ‘What rain?’
‘That rain?’
A giant storm cloud hovered over the sea, dirtying the turquoise a dark grey.
‘Nah, it’s a sea storm.’ Chantal pushed her empty glass to the middle of the table.
Bruce handed her a fresh pint, foam dripping off the side, and tipped four bags of crisps on the table. ‘Time to forget about the case, okay?’
She hauled the beer over and snatched a pink bag of prawn cocktail. ‘You’re sure you can’t get a tail on Tulloch?’
Bruce’s chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. ‘No dice.’
‘Even if you get intel suggesting that he’s involved in the disappearance of Harry Jacks?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He waved a finger at her, then capped the creepy uncle routine off with a perfectly timed wink. ‘Now, my place isn’t too far from here, if you fancy a little wander?’
SIXTY-SIX
Hunter
The police station was still quiet. No sign of Tulloch getting out yet. In fact, no sign of any progress, as per usual.
A red Fiesta van pulled up a few spaces away.
‘Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’ Hunter killed the call and stretched out. His back was starting to ache from all that sitting. The section of wall he’d been leaning on was covered in a damp patch from his sweaty arse. It shrunk away to nothing in seconds.
The red Fiesta’s door swung open and Finlay Sinclair stepped out in all his hobbling glory. After a few slow steps, he lunged and grabbed Hunter into a bearhug. ‘Jabroni!’
‘Fin.’ Hunter patted him on the back and broke off. ‘Thanks for meeting up, mate.’
‘No worries, no worries.’ Finlay took a look around the place, like he was assessing some Leith crime scene. ‘So, what’s the deal?’
‘Chantal and I are heading home tonight.’
‘And . . .?’
‘What do you mean “and”?’
Finlay whistled through his teeth. ‘There’s always something with you, my man.’
‘Nope, that’s it, just going to get on the plane and—’
‘Aye, bollocks.’ Finlay raised a finger in the air. ‘Before I forget . . .’ He reached into the car and groaned, his hand going to his back. ‘Oh, you bastard.’ He straightened up and handed a paper bag to Hunter. ‘Got this for you.’
‘You okay?’
Finlay pushed at his spine until something clicked. ‘That’s it.’ He opened his watering eyes and waved a hand at the bag. ‘Open it, then.’
Hunter peered inside. A plastic container, absolutely rammed with salad. A thin burrito lay on top, almost an afterthought. ‘I don’t know what to say, that looks . . . Wow.’