by Ed James
8
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter glanced over at Chantal, his grip on the “oh shit” handle turning his knuckles white like he was on a rollercoaster. Or in a troop transport heading to Iraq.
Chantal’s eyes tracked the road ahead of them, narrow, her jaw clenched. She swerved into Paisley’s street, the brakes squealing as Hunter was thrown over the handbrake.
‘Slow down!’
She tore past the squad car and slammed on the brakes, parking between an Astra and a Fiesta. Then got out her mobile.
Bloody hell.
Hunter got out of the car first.
Across the street, PC Warner was trying to unroll a length of crime scene tape across the open front door to Paisley Sanderson’s house, while holding the back of his head. He swung around and clocked Hunter’s approach. ‘How’re ye?’
‘Any sign of him?’
‘Not likely.’ Warner snapped off the tape with a penknife and grinned. ‘But there was no sign of him when he battered me on the back of the head, either.’
‘I saw what Tulloch did to your partner.’
‘Fractured skull, according to my sergeant.’
Hunter pointed at the back of Warner’s head. ‘Should you be on duty?’
‘Ach, I’m not sure…’ Warner ran his thumb down the tape, looking for the end. ‘Prick came at me when I went out the back there.’ He flicked the end up with his thumbnail and stuck it to the door frame. ‘Tell you one thing, though, Tulloch’s a big guy. Huge.’
Chantal barged past them and ducked under the tape. The house was as quiet as a lawyered-up rapist in an interview room.
Hunter swallowed his sigh and followed her inside, straight into the living room.
Paisley’s armchair was on its back. Other than that, it was exactly as they’d left it that morning. Like someone hadn’t been almost murdered in there.
Elvis stood in the bedroom doorway, rasping at his sideburns. ‘Alright?’
Chantal scanned the room again. ‘You getting anywhere with finding Tulloch?’
Elvis rubbed his sideburns again. ‘Not yet, Sarge.’
‘What about the mobile he used to text that death threat?’
‘Switched off after he sent it. Not been on since.’
Chantal nodded slowly. ‘CCTV?’
‘Nowhere with it, Sarge.’
Chantal took a step closer, head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘Are you saying there’s none?’
Elvis shrugged. ‘Well…’
She pointed towards the street. ‘There’s a pair of bloody cameras over there!’
‘Right.’ Elvis finally looked away. ‘They won’t give me access.’
‘Paul, get access to it in the next five minutes or my toe is going right up your arsehole. Am I clear?’
Elvis nodded, eyes flickering. ‘Sarge.’ He bent down to pick up a laptop bag then made his way outside. Looked like he was about to burst into tears. He picked up one of the green patio chairs and shook off the rain. Then he sat hunched over, tearing at the catches on his bag.
Hunter beckoned Chantal into the bathroom. An all-white suite edged with nicotine-yellow silicone. ‘You might’ve been a bit hard on him there.’
‘He deserves a rocket up his hoop.’ Chantal leaned against the doorframe and grimaced. ‘This is a bloody disaster. He didn’t spot Tulloch getting off the train.’
‘Need to keep your pecker up, Sarge.’ Hunter winked at her, his knee throbbing. ‘But there’s something I don’t get.’
‘Here we go.’ Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘What is it, oh master detective?’
‘Tulloch’s a squaddie, right? Been on for a month, maybe more. He comes home for a week’s R&R and—’
‘—he’s had to make do with Madam Palm and her five sisters.’ Chantal made a wanker gesture. ‘I get it.’ She looked back inside the house. ‘You’re wondering why he didn’t rape her when he had the chance?’
‘Right.’ Hunter frowned. ‘Only problem is he had two unconscious cops here. I don’t know what he was planning, but…’ He stepped through to the living room and gestured for Warner to join them. ‘See when you woke up, did you call it in straight away?’
‘No, I lay on the ground for a bit.’ Warner patted at the back of his skull. ‘Not like I had a choice. Felt like my brains were—’
‘Yeah, okay. You didn’t hear anything?’
‘Wait, I heard water running, maybe?’ Warner rubbed at his forehead and stared out of the front door. ‘But then I blacked out again. And then I called out, you know? I came in and Sally was on the floor in the kitchen, by the cooker. Guy had gone to town on her.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Yer woman was next to her. Taken her clothes off, you know?’ He pointed at the living room carpet. ‘Lying right there, moaning.’
‘No sign of Tulloch?’
‘Not that I saw. That guy with the sidies was knocking at the door.’ Warner stepped forward. ‘You know he’s crying in the garden?’
‘Elvis? Doesn’t surprise me.’ Hunter clicked his tongue a few times. ‘So, if he spooked him, that means Tulloch’s scarpered. Made sure he got away.’
Warner frowned. ‘Not following you.’
‘Come with me.’ Hunter paced through to the bedroom.
Built-in wardrobes surrounded a small double bed, the stained sheets crumpled up.
Bingo.
A giant holdall lay on the other side. Standard military issue.
Hunter snapped on some gloves and opened it slowly. ‘Elvis should’ve been through this.’ He peered inside. Full of dirty washing — underpants and socks, jeans and T-shirts, not the uniform stuff the military support staff would clean.
‘I’m Batman!’ Elvis stood in the doorway, holding his laptop up like a trophy. His glee hid his red eyes — he had been crying. ‘Got the CCTV from the street.’
Elvis rested the laptop on the coffee table like it was a sleeping baby. A dongle hung out of the side of the machine, its blue light pulsing. He thumped the space bar and the video started playing.
The camera caught Paisley Sanderson’s house square on, including the side lane and the neighbour. A car pulled up outside, wheeling back to park. BMW 1-series, looked new. A tall, bulky man got out and grabbed a big bag from the passenger seat. He lugged it over to Paisley’s house, dropping it and staring down the street. Then he stood there for a few seconds, apparently thinking. Maybe his military training, assessing threats and opportunities.
Hunter tapped the display. ‘So he’s seen PC Smith’s car.’
Elvis frowned. ‘Who’s PC Smith?’
‘The female officer you found with her head caved in.’
Then, on the laptop screen, Tulloch cut down the side lane.
Elvis set it playing at high speed. A couple of cars shot past. Eighteen minutes later, a grey Vauxhall pulled up outside the house, double-parking and blocking the street. Elvis got out and sauntered over, laughing and joking on his mobile. He rattled the front door and waved at the car. The driver got out — DC Jenny Diamond, shuffling over, her gammy leg giving her hassle. Elvis shrugged his shoulders and knocked on the door again.
Tulloch slipped out of the lane and hid behind the wall, waiting. The front door opened a crack. DC Diamond started tapping at her Airwave. Elvis helped Warner to his feet. Then they entered the house.
The BMW’s lights flashed. Seconds later, Tulloch dashed over and got in. The car revved off down the street, the camera catching Tulloch putting on his seatbelt.
Chantal snatched the laptop from Elvis and wound the footage back. The grainy figure wrapping the seatbelt around his bulk. She stabbed a finger on the BMW. ‘Elvis, your job is to find this car. Now. And don’t mess it up.’
‘Right, Sarge.’ Elvis took the laptop back and perched on the edge of the sofa, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Hunter walked back through to the bedroom. ‘What do you think?’
Chantal leaned against the doorframe. ‘I think Elvis
and Jenny are lucky Tulloch didn’t brain them as well.
‘You’re telling me.’ Hunter sat on the bed and dug deep into the open kit bag, wading his gloved hands through dirty pants. Something clattered near the bottom. He piled up the grey jockey shorts on one side and shifted the T-shirts until he found it. Hard plastic wrapped in a pair of pants. He eased it out. A small laptop, shiny and silver. ‘Jackpot?’
Chantal flashed her eyebrows. ‘See if it’s any use.’
Hunter opened the lid and it whirred to life, straight into a football management game. Chelsea versus Heart of Midlothian in the Champions League. ‘Didn’t even need a password.’ He marched back through to the living room and held it in front of Elvis. ‘Need you to go through this, Paul.’
Elvis didn’t look up from his own machine. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Not been forensics trained.’
‘I’ll get your dry cleaning as well, aye?’ Elvis snapped on a pair of blue gloves. ‘Nice trousers, by the way.’
Hunter tugged at the thighs and sighed. ‘Reckon you can find anything?’
Elvis tapped the screen. ‘He’s a dirty Jambo bastard. Hearts playing in the Champions League? Bloody science fiction.’ His laptop chimed. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ He squinted at it then swivelled it round. ‘Here you go. Got a sighting of that car on the ANPR system.’
A grey image showed the city bypass at Sheriffhall, the BMW on the turning from the A7.
Elvis clicked the space bar and the car followed the road west.
Hunter nodded at him. ‘Will this take us to him?’
‘Let’s see.’ Elvis hammered the screen until it went to a map. ‘Right, he comes off at the far end of the bypass, then he goes along the A8.’ He hit another key and the display filled with the car turning off the road towards a roundabout. ‘And he takes the airport exit.’
Hunter stared at the shot of the car, a few pine trees in grey. ‘Is that it?’
‘Just a sec.’ Elvis clattered the keys again. ‘Shite.’
‘What?’
‘Well, the bad news is I’ve lost it.’
‘And the good?’
‘I lose him going into the Ingliston Park and Ride and he doesn’t come back out.’
9
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal overtook another lorry, hitting eighty as she cleared it. The evening rush hour traffic was piling towards them beneath a bright blue sky.
Guts churning. Teeth grinding.
Where the hell is Tulloch? Who is he battering now? Making us look like idiots while he flies around the countryside, silencing his victims.
She hugged the rear of a coach, banking out into the right lane to chance another overtake.
Hunter grabbed the wheel. ‘Do you want to calm down?’
Chantal shot him a glare and held it for a few seconds, then looked away, back on the road. She pulled in, sticking to the bus’s fifty-five. ‘Sorry.’
‘This whole thing isn’t your fault, you know?’
She clicked her tongue a few times, then swept her hair behind her left ear. ‘We should’ve had more units stationed at her house.’
‘We had two uniforms there. And a squad car. Elvis and Jenny Diamond were on their way there, too.’
‘Fat lot of good that was.’
‘Warner beat the snot out of me. Tulloch destroyed him.’
‘I know that. It’s my fault Tulloch was able to do that.’
‘Look, she’s bumped our statement twice in the last week.’ Hunter cracked his knuckles and settled back in the seat. ‘I hate to be a dick, but she’s got to take some responsibility for what’s happened.’
Felt like her eyebrows almost hit the sunroof. Did he really say that? She shot him a glare. ‘Do you want to take that back?’
‘You know what I mean.’ Hunter looked away. ‘That guy is a craven bastard. I just wish girls like her would stop falling for his patter or whatever it is. I’ve seen the evil men can do, I wish they could.’
Chantal got right up the bus’s arse again, swerving out. There was a turning up ahead so she pulled in.
Hunter folded his arms. His suit jacket puckered up around his over-developed biceps. What was it about men and working out? Him and those bloody kettlebells. Swinging them and pressing them and going on about them all the bloody time. He glanced over. ‘What’s with all the silence? Something I’ve done?’
‘Craig…’ She sailed past the bus.
‘I mean, come on—’
Hunter’s Airwave chimed and he checked the display. ‘Here we go. The BMW belongs to a Marcus Wearmouth of Harrogate. Reported stolen from a car park in Cupar.’
‘So we can do him for that?’ Chantal let out a breath. Small mercies. ‘Anything from the Park and Ride?’
He shook his head. ‘Still waiting on a response. Big security incident on Princes Street at lunchtime.’
‘Is Tulloch still there?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Elvis has lost him.’
Chantal kicked down to second and powered towards the flashing blue lights. Ingliston Park and Ride sprawled in front of them. Miles of damp tarmac rammed with what looked like half the cars in West Lothian. A glass box with an inward-sloping green roof obscured a tram stop.
The BMW lay diagonally across two electric car charging spaces. A pair of squad cars blocked it in.
She stopped next to it and got out.
A plane roared up into the sky half a mile away, another coming in to land.
Hunter jogged around to her side of the car. ‘Are we cool?’
‘We’re always cool, Craig. Stop being a fanny.’ Chantal stomped off, splashing rainwater up the legs of her trousers.
The doors of the first squad car opened. ‘Oh, look who it is.’ Six foot something of idiot got out, gurning away at Hunter.
‘Steve…’ Hunter crouched down to look inside the car.
‘Oh, it’s Detective Constable Hunter.’ Another uniform joined the first, leaning against the car, like a pair of grinning chimps. Could even be brothers. ‘Got the stabilisers off your Chopper yet?’
Hunter winked at them. ‘The only chopper round here is the one you were playing with in that car. Steve’s, was it?’
Chantal peered inside the BMW while the boys had their fun. Pretty much empty. A black can sat in the middle, WakeyWakey stencilled in green on the side. Christ, that takes me back.
She stood up straight and nodded at the simpering arseholes. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Five minutes, Sarge. Nobody’s been near it.’
‘Right.’ Chantal opened the handle and reached over to the glove box. Another can of WakeyWakey fell out, sounded full from the thud. Nothing in there that looked like it’d lead them to Tulloch. She shrugged. ‘Well, at least Marcus Wearmouth will get his car back in one piece.’
The rain started thumping down again and the uniforms got back in their squad car.
Hunter drummed his fingers on the top of their pool car. ‘So where the hell is Tulloch?’
Chantal looked back over at the tram terminal. ‘I’m thinking he’s got on there.’ A tram made its way towards them down the long straight from Edinburgh Park and the Gyle. The next stop was the airport, the last one. ‘I hope he’s gone into town.’
Hunter hit dial and put his mobile on speaker. ‘Elvis, are you getting anywhere with the CCTV?’
‘Struggling, mate. The coverage around there is patchier than Big Jim’s hair. Like I said, I lost Tulloch as he drove in.’
Hunter stepped closer to Chantal and held up the phone. ‘We think he’s on the tram. Can you get access?’
‘Shite. It’s not working.’
Chantal pulled the phone closer. ‘So that’s a dead end?’
‘Aye. Soz.’
Chantal sighed. ‘What about that laptop?’
Elvis groaned. ‘Not finding much, to be honest. Guy had signed Messi for Hearts on Football Manager, can you believe it?’
She rolled her eyes at
Hunter. ‘Any emails?’
‘Doing that right— Oh, hang on.’ Elvis squealed like a little girl. ‘I’ve got something! He’s got a flight booked for today.’
Shite.
Chantal stared off in the direction of Edinburgh airport, an orange EasyJet plane swooping up. ‘Where to?’
‘Flight to Faro in Portugal at half five.’
Chantal checked her watch. Just after five. ‘Come on, Craig!’ She sprinted off towards the tram trundling into the station. ‘We can make it!’
10
HUNTER
* * *
The tram door opened and Hunter sploshed through the puddles at the back of the multi-storey car park. He barged an overweight businessman out of the way. ‘Police! Coming through!’
Chantal was lagging behind, waving him on.
Hunter stomped across the road and stuck his Airwave to his mouth as a ned blew cigarette smoke in his face. He swallowed it down like the butts and coughed into his radio, ‘Elvis, have you got hold of security yet?’
‘Aye, look for the big ex-forces knucklehead at the entrance.’ Elvis sniffed. ‘That’s not you, by the way.’
‘Very funny. Any update on Tulloch’s movements?’
‘Aye, entered the airport at five past four.’
Hunter scanned the grey metal doorway and clocked the security goon immediately. ‘DC Craig Hunter.’ He swapped the Airwave for a flash of his warrant card.
A lump in a suit stood by the entrance, more muscle on his neck than Hunter’s thighs. ‘Josh Brown, Airport Security.’ He buttoned up his suit jacket. ‘You need to get to the RobertsAir flight to Faro, right?’
‘Is the plane still here?’
‘I’m checking. Follow me, sir.’ Brown darted off into the airport, his speed belying his huge frame, and took the stairs three at a time.
Hunter swung a hard left at the top and followed him towards the security desk. He weaved around travellers dumping their water bottles and oversize toiletries.