by Ed James
Hunter stepped across the boards, careful to avoid the tracks, and hefted himself up onto the platform. Took two goes to stand. Bloody knee was still aching.
Tulloch jumped to the next set of tracks and ran towards the main body of the station. His hood kept flapping back but never fell.
Chantal was scowling at Hunter, arms wide. ‘Craig, what the hell are you doing?’
He set off across the empty platform, trailing Tulloch along the edge. Tulloch’s stride was much longer than Hunter’s, but the stones were slowing him down. He reached the end and swung up like a cat.
Hunter grabbed Tulloch as he got up to a crouch and stuck his knee between his shoulder blades. He pulled him to his feet and jerked his right arm up. Something damp splashed on his trousers. Hopefully not Coke.
Tulloch’s mid-grey tracksuit bottoms darkened in a patch winding round his leg. A yellow puddle spread out at his feet.
He’d pissed himself. All over Hunter’s legs.
Chantal skidded to a halt next to them, frowning at him. ‘Craig, you—’
‘My name is DC Craig Hunter of Police Scotland.’ He tightened the grip on the arm. ‘Sean Tulloch, I’m arresting you for threatening and abusive behaviour, you don’t—’
‘I’m not Sean Tulloch!’ Thick Australian accent.
‘What?’ Hunter let his grip slacken off.
Chantal reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. She flipped it open and groaned. ‘James Maxwell?’
‘That’s me.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s hurting, mate!’
Hunter eased off the grip a touch and shrugged at Chantal. ‘Is it a fake ID?’
‘Not with a Brisbane accent.’ Chantal got in Maxwell’s face. ‘Do you know a Sean Tulloch?’
‘What? No!’
‘So who were you running from?’
‘You lot!’ Maxwell tried to glance round at Hunter but didn’t make it very far. ‘Look, I’ve got the new series of “Game of Thrones” on a memory stick. Thought you were after that.’
Bloody, bloody hell.
4
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal let Maxwell go and pushed him towards one of Davies’s Transport cops.
All that shite for a drive full of some stupid TV show.
She tried to snap herself together. ‘So where is Tulloch?’
Hunter frowned at her. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. He raised his shoulders.
‘The other big guy who got off the train is one Keith Brannigan.’ Chantal glowered at him. ‘Tulloch wasn’t on that train, Craig.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter stepped backwards with a squelch. ‘Jesus.’
‘And you stink.’
‘Craig, Craig, Craig.’ Elvis grinned wide. ‘You caught some rube with “Tits and Dragons” on a stick. Man…’ His nostrils twitched. ‘Did he piss all over you?’
Hunter couldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘You said he was on that train.’
‘Aye, he was.’ Elvis’s tongue flicked across his lips. ‘Must’ve got off somewhere between here and Inverness.’
Chantal got between them. ‘Paul, I need you and Jenny to get down to Galashiels now and take a statement from Paisley Sanderson.’
Elvis’s shoulders slumped. ‘Don’t you want me to help find him, Sarge?’
‘You can do both. If Jenny drives, you can muck about on your laptop.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I want to know everything Sean Tulloch’s done to her. Every little detail. And I want you to compare it to the other victims. Is she different? Is there something we’ve missed about the others that could get them to talk?’
‘But I’ve got to get away at—’
She put a finger to his lips. ‘Paul, her abuser is still at large. Every time Sean Tulloch’s back on leave, he knocks seven shades of shite out of her. Exactly like the other four victims. We’re going to stop him.’
‘Look, it’s—’
‘You’ve got three hours overtime tonight, you can go when the statement’s done.’
‘But, Sarge—’
‘But nothing.’ Chantal took a step forward, her eyes narrowing further. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know how to take a statement?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘You’re a DC, Paul. You take statements. And I’m your boss, so you take orders from me. Okay?’
Elvis looked away with a glower. ‘Right. Fine.’
Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You live in Dalkeith, Paul. Galashiels isn’t a million miles from home.’
Elvis’s nostrils twitched. ‘Have you got any of that piss on me?’
Chantal smirked at Hunter’s trousers. ‘You’ll need to get to Markies for a new fighting suit, Craig.’ She started off towards Davies. ‘I’ll see what I can do about you trespassing on the tracks.’
Chantal overtook a lorry on the inside lane. The wipers struggled to cope as the pool car thundered along the M8, dirty rain spraying across the windscreen.
What a disaster. What an absolute disaster.
Tulloch gave us the slip. He’s out there, somewhere. Meaning he knows we’re after him. Doesn’t it?
She reached over and flicked on the radio.
‘—while, Newcastle detectives investigating the disappearance of three-year-old Harry Jack from his home in Alnwick last night believe he might have been taken to Portugal. DI Jonathan Bruce of Northumbria Police had this—’
Chantal snapped it off and glanced over. ‘You can thank me, you know?’
‘Right.’ Hunter rubbed at his new trousers. She could still smell the vague whiff of second-hand piss from him. ‘These are far too bloody tight. You can see my balls, can’t you?’
‘Might stop you chasing the wrong guy next time.’ Chantal flicked the indicator left and pulled off onto the slip road for Bathgate. ‘I meant that you can thank me for getting you off a charge for trespassing on the tracks.’
Hunter ran a hand over his skinhead, dark dots on his pale Scottish bonce. ‘Those Transport cops would have to catch me first.’ Another tug at his trousers let out a fresh blast of pee smell. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’
Hunter scowled over at her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’
‘That sounds a bit laboured.’
She groaned. ‘Come on, Craig. That’s shocking.’
‘Well, that wasn’t in particularly good taste, given what we’re investigating.’
‘What?’ She sighed. ‘Right. Sorry. Force of bloody habit. Something we used to say…’ She barged through the roundabout, ignoring the honking Mercedes on the right, and powered up the road at the far side. ‘What’s your take on Elvis?’
‘Worked with him for years, on and off.’ Hunter stretched out his trousers, hulking thighs squeezing the fabric. The swell of his bollocks. Too many bloody squats, the vain twat. ‘You know he’s got his uses when it comes to CCTV.’
Chantal overtook a dawdling bus on the way into town and shivered. ‘So, I’m now thinking that Sean Tulloch has definitely got wind of our investigation.’
‘What, you think he was leading us a merry dance at Waverley?’
‘That’s what it looks like to me.’ Chantal exhaled as she slowed to the thirty limit. ‘And I’m worried about Paisley. You’ve seen what he’s done to the others.’
‘And I’ve seen that sort of sick shite before on the beat. And in the army. This isn’t my first rodeo, but I’m fed up of it. What men do to these women, treating them like punchbags. I’ve seen the fallout, I’ve seen the scars.’
‘Craig, we don’t know where he is. He could be—’
‘Relax. Tulloch can’t get at her. That unit are still at Paisley’s house and Elvis is taking the statement. Once that’s in the bag, we’ll prosecute him. He isn’t getting away.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism.’ Chantal pulled into the station car park and parked next to a bottle-green Golf. The rain wa
sn’t making much inroads in the dirt clarted to the back. She let her seatbelt go. ‘Right, I’m starving. Do you want anything from the shop before I get a shoeing?’
5
HUNTER
* * *
‘I’ve got my piece with me.’ Hunter grabbed his bag from the back seat, his sandwich box rattling around inside. Hopefully the contents were still intact.
His mouth watered at the prospect. Goat’s cheese and beetroot, with that lovely new rocket he’d been growing in the kitchen.
Chantal checked her handbag’s clip. ‘Not even a cup of tea?’
Hunter blew air up his face. ‘That would be nice. Thanks.’
‘Won’t be long.’ Chantal got out and wandered off into the rain, mobile in hand.
Hunter clunked open his door and got out of the pool car, hit by the sort of west-coast downpour that felt like half of the Atlantic was coming down at once.
A damp figure trudged out of the station’s front door, tall and athletic, marching off towards the Golf. Baby’s-arse face twisted into a bitter scowl. DS Scott Cullen. He clocked Hunter and the glower deepened.
Hunter smirked. ‘You look like someone’s caught you shagging their girlfriend.’
‘Craig.’ Cullen zapped his car and leaned against it. He exhaled, his breath catching in the nervous laughter. ‘Bit close to the bone that, isn’t it?’
‘If you can’t laugh about something…’ Hunter shrugged. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Supposed to be having lunch with Sharon, but she’s too busy. Driven all the bloody way out.’
‘Hope she’s in a better mood than you are.’
‘Worse, if anything.’ Cullen opened his door and nodded over at Chantal, phone to her ear, waving back at them. ‘Cosy little morning with your lover, aye?’
‘We’re not an item, Scott.’
‘Aye, bollocks. I remember when me and your boss started seeing each other. Sneaking around like schoolkids.’ He shook his head. ‘We should get that pint sometime, Craig. I’ll give you some tips.’
Hunter gave him another shrug. ‘Name the date.’
Cullen got in the car and the engine roared. He rattled out onto the street, the left brake light knackered.
What a day. You start off thinking you’re taking a statement, next thing you know someone’s pissing on you.
A black Audi pulled into the car park and stopped by Chantal. An A7 or A8, one of the posh ones. Looked official, too.
The back door clunked open and an army Captain got out. Number two uniform, service dress, olive-green khaki. Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. MP stamped on a black armband, showing off. Medium height, medium build, though his gut pushed his trousers up a size. Cheeky bastard didn’t have to wear uniform. Trying to intimidate the civvies.
His simpering gaze settled on Hunter. ‘Captain Brian Rollo-Smith.’ The sort of accent a braying father would’ve spent a hundred grand on acquiring at public schools.
Hunter had to fight the urge to salute. ‘How can I help, sir?’
‘I’m with the Special Investigation Branch. I’m looking for a DI McNeill?’
Hunter stopped by the entry system and swiped. ‘Follow me.’ Then he marched down the corridor. Felt like being on bloody parade again.
Rollo-Smith frowned at him. ‘You’re ex-services, aren’t you?’
Like it’s stamped on my forehead…
‘3 Scots, sir.’
‘Third Battalion, eh?’ Rollo-Smith gave a military nod, short and precise. ‘Lance Corporal Craig Hunter, isn’t it?’
How did that twat get my name?
Hunter returned the nod with interest. ‘That’s Detective Constable Craig Hunter now.’
‘I see.’ A brief flick of the eyebrows ended the chat. Rollo-Smith couldn’t bring himself to speak to a lowly Lance Corporal.
Hunter led across the busy office. A box of donuts was half stuffed into the bin, the card and plastic twisted into a knot. He held open a door at the far side. ‘DI McNeill’s in here, sir.’
Rollo-Smith stuffed his cap under his arm, frowning at Hunter, nostrils twitching. ‘Can you smell something?’
For once, the room didn’t stink of Pot Noodles and Gregg’s sausage rolls. Just donuts. Sickly sweet donuts. And his pissy socks.
Rollo-Smith’s aftershave hung in the air. Surprised he could smell pissy socks over it.
Hunter shook his head. ‘Nothing unusual, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Rollo-Smith entered the office without another word.
DI Sharon McNeill sat behind her desk, glaring at her laptop with an expression that could freeze fire. She brushed her dark hair over her pale forehead and folded her arms across her blouse. ‘Captain Rollo-Smith, I presume?’
‘Inspector.’ Rollo-Smith took the seat opposite and rested his cap on the desk. He shifted his sneer towards McNeill and tilted his head at the door. ‘I’d prefer we did this alone?’
‘I’d rather DC Hunter stayed.’ McNeill smiled, though her eyes had missed the memo. She beckoned Hunter in and he sat next to Rollo-Smith. ‘I’m honoured by your presence here in sunny Bathgate.’
‘Yes well, I was passing, as it were.’ Rollo-Smith cleared his throat, trying to maintain the high level of syrup in his voice. ‘I must say that I’m used to dealing with a DCI in such matters. However, given your superior is on leave, you will have to suffice in his absence.’ He unzipped a document holder and pulled out a notepad. ‘Let’s start with your failed attempt to apprehend a member of the Armed Forces, mm?’
McNeill held his gaze and exhaled slowly. ‘We discussed this on the phone.’ She looked away, eyes almost connecting with Hunter’s. ‘Tulloch wasn’t at Waverley.’
‘I’m curious as to why you thought your remit, at this juncture, extended to arresting him.’ Rollo-Smith scribbled on his pad with a silver ballpoint. ‘Have you got additional evidence or intelligence, mm?’
‘This operation was purely preventative.’ McNeill cracked her knuckles and leaned forward. ‘As you well know, these crimes are all civilian in nature and don’t relate to any time when Mr Tulloch was—’
‘Private Tulloch.’
‘—when Mr Tulloch was on Ministry of Defence business.’ McNeill let it hang in the air like the sweet tang of the donuts. ‘As per your agreement with DCI Fletcher, the MoD won’t prosecute Mr Tulloch until we’ve had a fair chance to obtain evidence. Then, when he is at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, you’ll have all the time in the world to conduct your court martial, assuming you get approval from the Home Secretary.’
‘I could rip up that agreement, you know?’ Rollo-Smith stopped writing and carefully placed his pen down on the pad. ‘You haven’t produced any concrete evidence to me or my officers.’
‘You know full well that we’re still collating it.’ McNeill waved a hand over at Hunter. ‘My DC here was about to obtain a statement from Mr Tulloch’s current victim when he was diverted to preventing your officer from—’
‘A private isn’t an officer.’
‘He was trying to murder her.’
‘Ah, the threat.’ Rollo-Smith swiped at his pad like a grandmaster at a canvas. ‘And you have evidence of this, yes?’
‘We’ve taken the mobile into evidence.’ McNeill rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Now, given what’s transpired this morning, do you honestly expect me to sit on my hands while you pontificate?’
Rollo-Smith sat back, forcing a creak from the wood. He rubbed at his moustache for a few seconds. ‘What additional assistance do you need from my officers?’
‘We’re fine.’
‘Fine? Well.’ Rollo-Smith picked up his ballpoint and clicked it. ‘You say you’re fine and yet you don’t appear to have Private Tulloch in custody, do you?’
‘You should’ve kept him at Fort George this morning.’
‘That is outwith my remit.’ Rollo-Smith clapped his document holder shut. ‘As you insist on repeatedly telling me, these crimes do not fall within my jurisdiction. Therefore, we
are reliant on you capturing him on civilian territory.’
Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
Rollo-Smith looked at him like he was assessing how best to squash a fly. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I asked, have you spoken to Private Tulloch?’
‘Inspector, keep me apprised of any movement on the case.’ Rollo-Smith got to his feet with a clicked heel and nodded at McNeill. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He left them with a slammed door.
McNeill collapsed back into her chair. ‘Christ under a patio.’ She waved a hand at the door. ‘Are all military cops like that?’
‘He’s typical for the Royal Military Police. Barging in, expecting everyone to take orders. I’ve never been investigated, ma’am, but I know people who have.’
He couldn’t get that look out of his mind. Rollo-Smith sneering at a lowly DC like a drill sergeant would. Thinking he’s a bug, so far below him. His fingers started twitching.
He cleared his throat. ‘But I gather they’re all as bad as that.’
‘Great.’ McNeill huffed out a breath. ‘Well, my afternoon is going to be spent covering up that incident at Waverley.’
Hunter clenched his fists tight. ‘I’ll accept full responsibility, ma’am. We should’ve done better diligence on Tulloch. I should’ve triple-checked he was still on the train.’
‘And maybe not trespassed on the rails?’
Hunter looked away. His heart felt like it would jump out of his chest and start attacking McNeill. ‘Sorry about that.’
She smiled at him. ‘Craig, I know—’
The door burst open and Chantal waltzed in, clutching a brown paper bag. ‘Sorry, Shaz, they were out of chicken. Has to be a BLT, I’m afraid.’
Hunter stared down at his hands. His fingers were twitching like he was playing the banjo. He tried to stop them but he just couldn’t.
Bloody Rollo-Smith. Twat ignoring me like that. Treating me like an ant.
McNeill tore open her sandwich and bit into it. The hot bacon smell wafted out.