Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Not without Craig making an arse of himself yet again.

  Sharon McNeill sighed down the line. ‘You had me worried.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Chantal dumped the first teabag into the grey compost bin on the counter and splashed in milk. ‘Shaz, we’ll get him, okay?’

  ‘Right, well, let me know if anything happens.’ Click.

  Chantal pocketed her phone and started going through the cupboards.

  Cheap sub-IKEA junk, like the rest of the kitchen.

  An animal sanctuary calendar hung off the side of the metallic fridge. May’s animal was Pumpkin, a squat donkey with its head stuck into a bucket of carrots. Nothing much filled in on the days. Except…

  Today’s date had two entries:

  11 — APPOINTMENT IN TOWN

  2 — SEAN BACK!!!

  Something to go on, at least.

  She picked up Hunter’s tea and her own and headed back through.

  Hunter was standing in the hallway, staring into space, his lips twitching. His cheek was scuffed red.

  What the hell?

  She waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Craig, are you okay?’

  Hunter blinked hard, then focused on her. He huffed out a breath. ‘Is that my tea?’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Pain management.’

  Chantal passed him his cup, milky liquid sloshing over the sides. ‘Because that big Irish guy beat you up?’

  ‘Right. Number of times I’ve had my arse handed to me over the years. Getting battered so often is messing with my head. I need to centre myself again. No big deal.’

  Chantal sat on the sofa, almost sending a pile of women’s magazines toppling over. She rested her tea on the coffee table and tried to make eye contact.

  Paisley Sanderson wasn’t having any of it. She cowered on an armchair, the wings slumping at almost the same angle as her shoulders. Her gaze shot around the living room, hazed with smoke, clouding out the thin shaft of light the Roman blinds let in. An ironing board sat face down behind her, an expensive-looking model. PC Warner leaned against the wall near the kitchen door, sipping his tea.

  Her focus finally settled on Hunter, standing in front of her. ‘You didn’t answer the phone!’

  Her navy dressing gown was frayed around the wrists, hanging open by the chest, her white top greyed. Pale skin lined her mouth. Her dark-ringed eyes struggling to focus on anyone in the room. She had the same look in her eyes as the other four victims. Felt like Sean Tulloch could home in on something about them, like they were a type. Pick out their weakness from miles away, like an owl would a mouse, swooping down to claim his prey.

  Vicious bastard left a trail of battered women, fractured shells, memories of abuse and torture their only souvenirs. Too frightened to speak.

  So they needed to keep her talking.

  Hunter stood and rubbed at his trousers again, covered in ash. Could smell the cigarette stink from here, as bad as the room. He gave Paisley a smile. ‘I was driving. I’m sorry. You did the right thing.’

  ‘Doubting that.’ Paisley’s shattered nails clawed at the gown, her purple polish cracked and frayed. ‘You said you’d protect me from him.’

  ‘And we will.’ Hunter stopped short of reaching out to touch her. ‘Can I see this text message?’

  ‘Here.’ Paisley reached over to the coffee table and picked up a giant Samsung, shiny and new. ‘Have a look.’ She held it out with a shaking hand.

  Hunter took the mobile and checked the display. His eyes shut as he handed the phone to Chantal.

  The texts app with that graph-paper background, her messages in yellow, Sean Tulloch’s in pale blue. All gushing and lovey-dovey until the last one from him:

  NO WHO U SPOKE 2. U R DEAD BITCH.

  Shite.

  Shite, shite, shite.

  Chantal took a sip of tea, trying to stop her hand shaking.

  How the hell did Tulloch know we’re speaking to her? Who’d blabbed?

  And what about the others? Has he only contacted Paisley?

  Chantal set her cup down on the coffee table. ‘Did you tell him you were talking to us?’

  Paisley slumped back in the chair and tugged her dressing gown tight. ‘I only spoke to you two because I’ve had enough of him.’

  ‘Okay, but did you mention us to him?’

  Paisley shook her head.

  ‘Anything at all that he could put two and two together over?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Paisley nibbled at a thumbnail, a fleck of polish jumping off. ‘Sure it’s not one of you lot, eh?’

  ‘We have checks and balances in place to protect your identity.’ Chantal rested the phone on the unvarnished coffee table. ‘We will do everything in our power to make sure you’re okay.’

  Paisley picked at her index finger with her teeth, a frown crawling over her pale forehead. ‘You don’t know what he’s going to do to me!’

  ‘We do. We’re—’

  ‘You don’t!’ Paisley’s hands shot out wide. ‘He’s going to kill me!’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Chantal settled into a crouch in front of her. ‘You’re not the only one, okay? You’re the latest in a long line of women Mr Tulloch has been abusing across Scotland. There are victims in Livingston, Leslie, Edinburgh and Falkirk. There may be more.’

  ‘Shite.’ Paisley’s eyes clamped shut. ‘It’s not just me?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Chantal smiled, hoping for reassurance. ‘He’s got a pattern. He finds a fragile woman, charms them, moves in and it’s all smashing. Then he starts abusing her, hitting her, tormenting her, frightening her until she’s so scared of him she won’t tell her family what he’s doing to her, let alone the police. Then he leaves her with a final warning and he’s on to someone new. Someone like you.’

  Paisley patted her cheek, the heavy purple they’d seen a fortnight ago now yellowed. ‘So he’s done this before?’

  ‘Your statement will bring the story up to date and help secure a prosecution.’ Chantal rested a hand on the floor. The calendar… ‘Now, do you know where he is?’

  ‘He’s due back today.’ More nibbling at her nails. ‘He’s got two weeks’ leave.’ Paisley caressed her jaw, thumb and forefinger wrapping around. Then it clicked, sending spasms of revulsion down Chantal’s spine. ‘He’s coming back from Fort George tonight, getting the train from Inverness to Waverley. Then down to here.’ She clicked her jaw again. ‘I was meant to be meeting him at the station this afternoon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About two. Said he’d call when he got on.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Chantal bounced to her feet. ‘We’ll try to intercept him in Edinburgh before he comes down here.’ She snatched up the phone from the table. ‘We’ll have to take this as evidence.’

  ‘But that’s my life—’

  ‘I know it’s difficult, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow, okay?’ Chantal flashed a smile as she dropped it into an evidence bag. ‘The good news is we can prosecute him for this threat right now. We won’t have to wait.’ She rattled the bag, smiling at Paisley. ‘At least three crimes I can think of, once we’ve confirmed this came from him.’

  Paisley nodded, staring into space. ‘Do you want me to meet him at the station?’

  ‘God no.’ Chantal shot a finger at Warner by the kitchen door. ‘There’ll be a uniform presence here as long as it’s needed.’

  ‘Right.’ Paisley scowled. ‘I need my phone back as soon as.’

  ‘Of course.’ Chantal walked over to the front door and opened it. ‘We’ll be back later, okay?’

  Paisley gave a tiny nod. ‘Okay.’

  Blue lights flashed in the street. A squad car purred outside, hopefully it’d add enough presence and keep Tulloch away.

  Chantal stepped out of the house and nodded at the female officer behind the wheel, then at Warner. ‘Under no circumstances are you to let Paisley out of your sight.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Warner put his cap back on. ‘See that s
tatement, can I do it for you?’

  Chantal looked him up and down. ‘We need a detective.’

  3

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter nudged the passenger seat down another notch. Still not right. He cleared his throat again, trying to shift the cigarette butt he wasn’t sure was still there or not. Close to vomiting.

  He tried calling again. ‘Pick up, you daft git.’

  Chantal turned left to get back on the A7, the wipers sweeping the heavy rain off the windscreen. She glanced over. ‘Elvis still not answering?’

  ‘Probably pulling his wire in the toilet.’

  Chantal laughed. ‘Charming.’

  He pocketed his phone. Bloody jacket was damp from the fight and never-ending Borders rain. Knee still aches.

  He cleared his throat. Definitely a fag stuck down there. Another cough and something shifted. ‘How did Tulloch find out we were speaking to Paisley?’

  She glanced over at him. ‘Been wondering that myself.’

  Hunter leaned back in the chair and threw some ideas around. Nothing landed where he wanted it. His knee throbbed. ‘Maybe one of the other victims blabbed? He could’ve done this to the other four, as well. You know, scattergun approach.’ He stabbed the phone then redialled. ‘Either way, we’ve got a leak.’

  Two rings. ‘Hunter…’ DC Paul Gordon. Elvis. Yawning like he’d just woken up. As ever. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You in the office?’

  ‘Been speaking to DI—’

  ‘Right. I need you to speak to the British Transport Police for me.’

  Elvis groaned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Get them to check if Sean Tulloch was on the nine o’clock train from Inverness to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ Computer keys clattered in the background. ‘Aye, he’s on it.’

  Hunter frowned over at Chantal. ‘What, how have you done that?’

  ‘I wave my wand and magic happens, Craig my man.’ Elvis laughed down the line. ‘I’ve got access to the ScotRail CCTV feed, you dobber. Only reason you lot hired me, right?’

  ‘Knew there had to be one.’ Hunter swapped his phone to the other ear and shuffled his notebook out of his soggy suit jacket. He winced as something creaked in his chest. Then his knee throbbed again, giving him that old gag reflex. ‘It’s definitely him?’

  ‘Oh, aye. I see this Tulloch boy’s face when I close my eyes at night thanks to all the skivvy work you’ve had me doing.’ A sigh cut through the office chatter. ‘The big bugger got on at Inverness, just before the train pulled off I hasten to add. Chancing it a bit.’

  ‘Right.’ The pine-covered hills rolled past. ‘Can you get a call out to local uniform to check in with his other victims?’

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  ‘Stupid sideburns and a penchant for donuts.’ Hunter tried to ignore Chantal’s laughter. ‘One last thing — DS Jain requests that you meet us at Waverley.’

  ‘What, as in now?’

  ‘Well, as soon as.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, man. Jim’s been to Krispy Kreme’s.’

  ‘Sure you’ll be able to munch a couple on the way over.’

  ‘Wanker.’ Click.

  Hunter pocketed his phone, careful not to damage anything. ‘Take it you got the gist of that?’

  Chantal nodded. ‘You are a wanker.’

  Hunter got out of the car. Market Street, down in the depths of Edinburgh’s old town. Passengers spilled out of Waverley, a gang of Japanese tourists ran past in translucent raincoats, rain spattering their exposed heads. A coach hissed. Nearby, a pair of confused tourists struggled to get their message across to an idling taxi.

  DC Paul Gordon got out of the car in front, munching on something. He stepped in a puddle, oily rainwater splashing up the beige legs of his trousers. His fingers shot out to flash across the air. ‘In the name of the wee man.’

  Hunter unclicked Chantal’s brolly, unable to stop laughing. ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Like shite I am—’ Elvis nodded at Chantal as she dumped the “on official police business” sign on the dashboard, rubbing his triangular sideburns. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Paul.’ Chantal looked up and down the street. ‘You were supposed to get the Transport cops.’

  ‘Aye, the lad’s waiting downstairs.’ Elvis clicked his heels like he was a doorman at a nightclub. ‘Follow me.’ He set off into Waverley, dancing down the steps. ‘Oh, before I forget, I checked with those other victims.’

  Hunter kept pace with him. ‘And?’

  ‘Nobody else’s even heard from Tulloch in months. No death threats.’

  Hunter stopped and swung around to face Chantal. ‘So he’s only targeted Paisley?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Elvis smirked. ‘Who names their kid Paisley? It’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘Constable…’ Chantal rolled her eyes at him. ‘Can you try and escort us to the BTP office without making yourself look any worse?’

  ‘Aye, soz.’ Elvis started off again. Click, click. ‘Better name than Ardrossan or Saltcoats, I suppose.’

  PC Pete Davies paced around his grotto, a dark little room stinking of stale coffee from the mouldy dregs at the bottom of a mug. No natural light, just the greyscale glare of the computer monitors. He looked like he was born bored, sauntering out of the womb with a yawn. The British Transport Police officer slurped at his paper cup of tea and licked his lips. Again. He rubbed his moustache and tapped at the screens in front of them. Another lick of the lips for good measure. ‘So, like I was saying, pal, it’s a needle in a haystack.’

  Why is everything so bloody difficult with that lot? Hunter rested against a seat back, clawing at the ripped fabric. ‘I need to know if Sean Tulloch is still on that train or not.’

  ‘Still?’ Davies frowned at Elvis. ‘How do you know he’s on it in the first place?’

  Elvis cleared his throat. ‘Got a mate with access to the CCTV feeds.’

  ‘You’ve got a mate, have you? Lying bastard.’ Davies huffed as he waved his hands at the monitors. ‘Right, the only problem is, I can’t access the on-train feed from here.’

  Each screen showed live footage of Waverley station at lunchtime. A few people milled around by the announcements board, clutching coffees and pastries.

  Davies licked his lips again. ‘We usually use these things to back up assaults. Drunk wankers from Prestonpans missing the last train on a Friday night. That kind of thing. Dreading the Cup Final next week.’

  Chantal looked ready to launch herself across the room at him. ‘Is this you saying you can’t help?’

  Davies glanced round at Elvis. ‘Maybe DC Gordon’s mate can help.’

  Chantal hauled open the door. ‘Right, come on.’

  Davies held up his hands. ‘I’m not being a dick here.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘We’ll need to hurry, though.’ Davies tapped at another screen. ‘That train’s just left Haymarket.’

  Hunter jogged up the stairs then followed Chantal down the narrow corridor. Behind, Davies and a couple of Transport Police officers jog-walked, their red faces indicating they’d fail a fitness test at the warm-up. He frowned at Elvis. ‘Elv—’ Cough. ‘Paul, are our lot still in position?’

  ‘Should be, aye.’

  ‘Can you bloody phone them?’

  ‘Keep your hair on.’ Elvis reached into his pocket and almost tripped over.

  ‘Sod this.’ Hunter darted down the concourse past the WH Smith. He sprinted through the turnstile, getting a polite nod from the waiting guard.

  A squad of local uniform spread out along the platform to the right, stretching off to the tunnels leading to Haymarket. Across the tracks, the other platforms were mostly empty.

  Big Jim was strutting around like he was in charge. His shaved head caught the worst of the rain. His suit looked like it was wearing him. He nodded at Elvis.

  Hunter spun round. ‘Which carriage was Tulloch in?’

  Elvis
rubbed at his left sideburn as he slowed. He was sucking in breath. ‘Erm, the second.’

  ‘Counting from which end?’

  ‘Oh, eh. This end.’ Elvis frowned. ‘I think.’

  A train spluttered out of the tunnel, the dirty yellow front hissing towards them, rain flashing in the headlights.

  Hunter jogged partway up the track, trying to gauge the train’s braking as it screeched to a halt, the front metres away from him.

  ‘Shite.’ Hunter raced down the platform.

  The bulk of the uniforms stepped towards the train, blocking the exits. A door further down bleeped open and a guard stepped out. He reached in to fiddle with the controls, but a cop stopped him.

  Hunter peered through the second carriage’s windows. Two queues merged at the doors. A couple were facing the wrong way, lost in an argument. Empty cans of lager filled some of the tables. An old man stood, letting his walking stick take the strain as he joined the queue.

  A pair of hulking giants, both matching Tulloch’s description. Which one is he? Hard to tell when you’ve never seen the guy in person.

  Hunter locked eyes with Chantal, getting a nod.

  The doors hissed open. A small woman with a buggy and two toddlers was first out. Passengers flooded past as she did up her coat in the pissing rain.

  The first of the giants stooped below the doorway and stepped onto the platform. A uniform grabbed him and pulled him through the crowd. Chantal headed over towards him.

  The second giant slipped out, his hooded head twitching around. He clocked the nearest uniforms and disappeared, lost in the crowd.

  Oh, shite.

  Hunter took one look at the wheezing Transport cops and made a decision. ‘Stop, police!’

  Tulloch was on the tracks. He ignored Hunter and bounded across the planks.

  Hunter bombed off and followed him into the pit between platforms, easing himself onto the pebbles. The air fizzed with electricity. Bloody thing’s live.

  Tulloch hauled himself up the other side with military ease.