by Ed James
‘What, that you’re driving like an idiot?’
‘That I’m driving it at all on police business.’
‘Was there no pool car available?’
Cullen’s head shake betrayed his disappointment. ‘Fat Keith’s down to the last Vauxhall.’
‘What about the Volvo?’
‘Buxton wrote it off last month.’
‘The twat.’
Cullen laughed. ‘Anyway. You guys have a nice romantic break?’
Don’t rise to it . . .
Hunter looked over. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you and Chantal have a nice romantic break in the Algarve?’
‘Piss off, Scott. The Portuguese cop we were working with kept mugging us off and I got seven shades of shite kicked out of me by a raping squaddie.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘You’re welcome to.’ Hunter flicked up his phone and checked the display. ‘Why do you care anyway? Not got any work on to keep your filthy mind busy?’
‘Just finished a nightmare case. The worst sort. Too many heroes and not enough villains.’ Cullen shot him a wink. ‘You’ll find out someday, don’t you worry.’
‘Again, piss off, Scott.’
‘Piss off, Sergeant Cullen.’
‘You’re a vain idiot.’ Hunter shook his head at him. ‘You should’ve known about the MOD90.’
‘Maybe you should have told us?’
Dozy git.
Hunter’s phone blasted out the drill sound and he put it to his ear. ‘Elvis?’
‘Aye, local uniform have surrounded that house, Craig.’
‘You got the name of the owner?’
‘Not yet. The local Sergeant has the warrant, though.’
‘Noted. Tell them not to move in until we get there, okay? These guys are dangerous.’
‘Aye, aye.’ Sounded like Elvis was actually writing it down.
Hunter nodded to himself. ‘Have you found that taxi driver yet?’
‘Finished speaking to the local uniform up in Morpeth. Sounds like a straightforward street pick-up. You okay to let him go?’
‘Clear it with DI McNeill first.’ Hunter spotted the town lights in the valley below them. ‘We’re almost there. Can you let the local squad know?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
Hunter’s mouth went dry. ‘That’s not funny.’
* * *
Hunter looked up and down the street, concrete blocks of suburban misery lining both sides. So this is where middle-class ambition came to die. The windows were all dark except for one at the far end by the broken streetlights, death metal blaring out into the black night.
No time to shut that up just now.
Hunter scanned the warrant with his torch. Looks fine. He flashed the light twice and waited.
Seconds later, he got a flash from the two units halfway down.
Cullen spoke into his Airwave radio. ‘Serial bravo, this is serial alpha. We are moving in. Repeat, moving in. Maintain the perimeter.’
‘Roger.’
Cullen took the warrant and waved at Hunter to go first.
Hunter switched the torch to his left hand and snapped out a borrowed police baton. He crept forward, careful to keep his head below the edge of the breeze-block wall as the bitter north-east air cut at his neck.
The downstairs windows were misted up with condensation, a bare lightbulb burning in the living room. A large figure loomed in the dim glow, then disappeared again.
Hunter waved forward. ‘Let’s get in there.’ He vaulted over the wall and landed on cracked tarmac, taking the impact with his good knee. He clicked off his torch and left it on the wall, then moved towards the house, brandishing the baton.
The two Northumbria police uniforms flanked Elvis as they neared the house. He gestured for them to head round the back and waited. Elvis gave a nod like he knew what he was doing.
Cullen hunkered down next to him, unfolding the warrant. ‘You’re in charge here, okay?’
‘Fine.’ A short blast of static on the Airwave and Hunter darted over to the front door. He gave it the policeman’s knock.
Nothing.
Then louder. ‘Police! Open up!’
A light across the street flicked on, but the house door stayed shut.
Hunter leaned over to Cullen. ‘Have we got an Enforcer?’
‘No.’
Bolts behind the door clicked and rattled. Then it opened to a crack, a shaft of yellow light bleeding over the grey pavement. An eye peered out at them. ‘What?’
Cullen inched Hunter out of the way. ‘Mr Brannigan, police. We need a word with you.’
Could almost make out Big Keith’s face through the thin slit. ‘Go on.’
‘Can we do this inside, please, sir?’
‘No, you can’t.’
Cullen held up the sheet of paper. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search these premises.’
‘You’re not getting in.’
Hunter barged in front of Cullen. ‘Is Sean Tulloch here?’
The door slammed against Cullen’s toes. ‘Ah, shite!’
Hunter lurched forward and rammed his shoulder against the painted wood. Felt like a bull was pushing from the other side. Cullen joined in and the door jolted inwards, cracking off the wall as the resistance fell away.
Big Keith lay on his back, groaning. ‘You bastards . . .’ He pushed himself up to a sitting position, his hand shooting out to the side. Steel glinted in the low light.
Hunter smacked his baton off Keith’s wrist. Something clanged on the laminate, rattling as it rolled out of reach. He pounced, landing on Keith and digging the baton into his throat with both hands. ‘Where is Tulloch?’
‘Piss off, you . . .’ Coughing and snorting, Keith strained for the words to come out. ‘You pig bastard.’ He reached for the bread knife lying against the maroon skirting. ‘I’ll fucking gut you!’
‘Where. Is. Ibbetson?’
Keith wheezed as Hunter put more of his weight on the baton. Fingers grabbed at him from behind — Cullen.
Hunter shrugged him off and applied more weight. ‘Where are they?’
Keith sputtered out a string of guttural vowels.
Hunter let the pressure slacken off a touch. ‘What was that?’
‘Sean’s took my bloody car. Thought that was him coming back.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Not telling you that.’
More pressure. ‘Who else was with you?’
Keith scowled at him.
Hunter let him have a breath. ‘Three of you got into that taxi.’
‘Fuck off.’
Hunter’s gut lurched. It was Matty. Had to be him. ‘Was it Matty Ibbetson?’
‘Fuck. Off.’
‘You’ll tell us now or down the station.’
Keith held out his hands in a cuff gesture, or as close as he could get with a cop sitting on his chest. ‘Milk and two while we’re waiting for my lawyer.’
* * *
Big Keith’s shoulders slumped as a pair of uniforms led him over to the idling squad car, but a defiant smirk flashed across his lips as he was pushed inside.
Thumps and thuds came from inside the house. The least careful search in the history of modern policing. Not likely to turn up Sean Tulloch or Matty Ibbetson, though.
Hunter slumped back against Cullen’s car. Where the hell is Tulloch?
Elvis was standing on the other side, resting his laptop on the top. ‘Craig, your secret’s safe with me.’
‘I’m not bothered about that.’ Hunter’s sigh misted in the air. ‘Tell whoever you want.’
‘Right. Whatever. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, but I’m glad to get out. Been a bloody taxi service all day, ferrying that Presley bird back down to Gala.’
Hunter locked eyes with Elvis. ‘Paisley?’
‘Aye, her.’
‘She’s out of hospital?’
‘Doc didn’t recommend it but couldn’t keep her
in. Her injuries weren’t life threatening.’ Elvis coughed. ‘Still, double time to drive her home, happy days.’
Paisley was out of hospital.
And Tulloch knew she was blabbing to the cops about him.
His gut churned. Just a policeman’s hunch, but still . . .
He found Paisley’s mobile number and dialled it. It went straight to voicemail.
Terrific. The phone was in the evidence store in Bathgate, sent there on his own orders. He flicked through her contact details. No house number for her.
Ter-rif-ic.
Hunter got out his Airwave and called Control. ‘This is DC Craig Hunter, I need a unit to attend to an address in Galashiels.’
‘Aye, good one, son. You know there was an Old Firm match this afternoon, aye?’ Laughter cut through a mouthful of crisps. ‘First one in yonks. I’ve got twenty cars on tonight in that area, getting their arses handed to them by fans of both Glasgow teams.’
‘Can you get me her house number?’
‘I’ll text it to your Airwave.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter hung up and called Chantal.
Took her a few seconds to answer. Sounded like she was driving. ‘Hey, you got Tulloch?’
Hunter locked eyes with Cullen as he left the house. ‘Not yet.’
‘What does that mean?’ McNeill’s voice. On speakerphone. Better watch what I say . . .
‘Tulloch’s taken Big Keith’s car.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s a needle in a haystack job. And there’s Old Firm fighting on.’ Hunter watched a car rattle off down the road. ‘We’ll take Keith to Northumbria HQ, might get something out of him there.’
‘Well, I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed.’ Chantal huffed down the line. ‘We’re heading there now. It’s going to be a long night. I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait. Matty Ibbetson was with them. He was the third man at the airport.’
‘Okay, that’s useful. Speak soon.’ Click.
Hunter put the Airwave on the car’s roof and let out a long sigh. It turned into a yawn halfway. So bloody tired.
‘That good, eh?’ Cullen looked up from his own phone. ‘Elvis is heading back now.’
‘Fine.’ Hunter’s Airwave chimed. A text from Control with an 01896 number. He tapped on it and put the Airwave to his ear, waiting for an answer, his heart thudding in his chest.
The phone was answered without a voice, just room sound.
‘Paisley, it’s Craig Hunter. Are you okay?’
Her voice was a whisper. ‘He’s here.’
‘Sean?’
‘Aye.’ Harsh, distorted, desperate. ‘He’s—’
A man shouted, ‘What the fuck are—’
Click.
EIGHTY-THREE
Chantal
Chantal got out of the car and felt like she walked into a wall of wind.
Northumbria Police HQ was lit up in the night, rain streaking past the lights. Stuck between a B&Q and the A19 dual carriageway, heavy trucks spraying rainwater up as they roared north. Could be three storeys, could be five, it was all a muddle. Every inch the New Labour PFI school, all turquoise glass and breezeblocks.
A couple of journalists lurked by the entrance, huddling together, smoking. Rich McAlpine was there. How the hell did he know they were back? How did he get back? Was he on the flight?
Bruce got out of the other side and started jogging across the car park. ‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’
‘Wish I’d stayed in Portugal.’ Chantal huddled through the revolving door into the station’s foyer. Could be a bank or an insurance company office. Modern architecture was about as hard to identify as sexual predator, when he hid his deviance under as much charm as Sean Tulloch.
Bruce signed her in and nodded at the guard. ‘Are our guests here, yet?’
The guard’s sleeves were rolled up, his arms all tattoos and wiry grey hair. ‘DI McNeill’s in your office. And there’s a taxi driver waiting in interview room six.’
* * *
Chantal stopped in the corridor and took a styrofoam cup of what looked like tea but smelled like coffee. Probably soup. ‘Thanks for this.’
Sharon sipped her own drink. ‘What’s with the goggle eyes?’
‘Well, Craig and Scott have got Keith Brannigan, but they don’t know where Tulloch is.’ Chantal took a sip. Weak and sour, but warm. Still not sure whether it was meant to be drink or food, though. She locked eyes with Sharon. ‘All we’ve got is conjecture, but Craig reckons Matty was the third man at the airport.’
‘That’s . . . interesting.’ Sharon opened a door behind her. Looked like an Incident Room, crowded with about fifteen officers. ‘Britpop, have you got the taxi driver?’
DC Simon Buxton twisted round to look at them, his hair now shaved almost to the bone. His laptop showed CCTV footage of a deserted street. He frowned at Chantal, blushed, then nodded at Sharon. ‘Sorry, what taxi driver?’
‘The one at the bloody airport?’
‘Right, yeah, sorry.’ Buxton shook himself, then thumbed at the door. ‘He turned up about two minutes ago. DI Bruce took him into the interview room.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re most welcome, but Britpop? Really?’ Buxton looked disappointed in Sharon. ‘You sound like Bain.’
‘Thought you hated Budgie?’ She walked off down the corridor, sipping her tea.
Chantal smiled at Buxton. ‘Nice to see you, Simon.’
Buxton grimaced at her. ‘Yeah, and you.’ His accent was softening, bits of Scottish mixing with the Cockney. ‘You better hurry.’
Sharon was already halfway along the corridor.
Chantal dashed after her, the brackish liquid sloshing in her cup.
By the time she got there, Sharon was waiting outside the interview room, arms folded. ‘What is Brucie Boner doing on our case?’
Chantal finished her drink and tossed the cup into a bin. ‘Thought you okayed it?’
‘He’s supposed to be finding missing children, not perving at us again.’ Sharon shook her head and opened the door.
The room was even scabbier than the ones in Pilton. Bare concrete blocks, a winking strip light hanging lopsided from the ceiling, still stained with nicotine ten years after the ban. Northumbria Police clearly didn’t have the same budget as Police Scotland.
Bruce and one of his cops sat opposite a tired-looking thin man, prematurely aged by the streaks of grey at his temples.
Listen to yourself, you sound more and more like Craig. Late it may be, but focus on the job, Chantal.
The man was dressed in burgundy cardigan and navy Adidas trackies. Comfort wear.
‘DI McNeill . . .’ Bruce raised his eyebrows at Sharon. He coughed. ‘This is Lee Curtis, the taxi driver.’
‘I know who he is.’ Sharon took the free space next to Curtis, leaving Chantal to stand, since Brucie Boner was not man enough to get up.
Sharon got out a tattered notebook. ‘We understand you had a collection at the airport this evening.’
‘That’s right, pet.’ Curtis scowled at Elvis. ‘And I’ve spent the last five minutes telling this chump all about it.’
Sharon smiled at him. ‘Then it should still be fresh in your memory.’
Curtis sighed, deep as the night. ‘Right.’ He got out a mobile phone, the sort of flashy bling you’d expect from a teenager in their first full-time job, not a middle-aged cabbie. He stabbed at the screen with a stylus and squinted at it. ‘Aye.’ More stabbing at the display. ‘Dropped two lads in Otterburn, just up the A696. Pretty quiet for that time of—’
‘Was there another passenger?’
‘Took another lad on to Alnwick.’ Curtis rested his phone on the desk. ‘Otterburn to Alnwick’s a long stretch, like. Through Rothbury and up the back there. Bad road in the dark. Did it in less than forty minutes, mind.’
Chantal leaned forward, almost pushing Elvis out of the way. ‘Did you get the name of the passenger?’
>
‘Sorry, pet. Lad paid cash.’
Chantal reached into her pocket for her phone and showed him a grainy CCTV photo of Matty Ibbetson. ‘Was it him?’
* * *
‘Sharon . . . Gah.’ Chantal eased the pool car down the hill, the engine grumbling. ‘I wish you’d stop going on about it.’
Alnwick was lit up below them, half fairytale medieval town, half sixties housing disaster. Long rows of yellow streetlights paled to white. She turned down a side street, the sodium of an old lantern washing over a pair of cats in a stand-off. They hissed and separated.
Sharon smirked at her. ‘You need to stop denying that you’re a couple.’
‘You need to stop being a cow about it.’ Chantal’s headlights caught two squad cars at the end of a cul-de-sac, eight dark houses in a tight circle. She pulled up and hauled on the handbrake. ‘Think about what Craig’s going through right now.’
Sharon opened her door and let the bitter air in. ‘Sorry, I’m just winding you up.’
Chantal buttoned up her jacket. ‘This isn’t the time for joking.’
Sharon reached over and grabbed her hand. ‘Are you denying it?’
‘Drop it, okay?’ Chantal got out of the car and made her way to the first squad car.
Bruce gave her a wave. ‘Evening, ladies.’
Sharon smiled at him. ‘Have you got eyes on the suspect?’
‘I’ve got eyes only for you, my darling. But the local lads have him in the back room of the house.’ Bruce pointed at a sixties villa, the street lights showing up the mock Tudor grille on the front. Could just about make out that a light was glowing downstairs. ‘We’ve got a unit out in the lane at the back there. Two lads marking it. And another two cars. He’s not getting away.’ Bruce unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘And here’s the warrant, so we’re ready to go.’
‘Thank God for insomniac judges, eh?’ Chantal nodded, then sucked in a breath. ‘This guy is very dangerous, okay? Remember that.’
‘Murdered an ex-cop, I know.’ Bruce pocketed the warrant. ‘Howay then, ladies.’ He stomped off into the cul-de-sac, speaking into his Airwave.
Chantal followed close behind, Sharon next to her. A pair of burly uniformed lads escorted them. Maybe not quite big enough to pass as fully fledged Geordies, though, and you could almost understand their accent.