by Ed James
Brown spoke to the operator of the first scanner and opened the door. Hunter let Chantal go first, then followed them down the middle of the security hall. He bombed through the unused lane in the middle, past the two queues winding away from them, the travellers’ eyes wide, mouths hanging open.
Brown stopped to open the gate for them, his radio crackling out static. He darted off to the right into the wide departures area, restaurants and shops lining the way. ‘Gate fourteen!’ He swerved round a stag party already several sheets to the wind.
Hunter raced after him and checked back the way — Chantal was lagging behind. ‘Should I wait?’
She waved him on, sucking in air.
Hunter turned back and smacked straight into a tourist. Three pints of beer flew through the air. Hunter tumbled to the floor, landed on his arse with a crunch. He rolled over, lager sluicing down his new trousers.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ The red-faced drinker was on top of him, screaming in his face. ‘That cost fifteen quid!’
‘Police!’ Chantal hauled the man off him. ‘We need to move, sir.’
‘—bloody disgrace!’
Hunter pushed himself to his feet and something tore. Fresh air hit his thighs. He’d ripped the arse out of these trousers now.
Bloody, bloody hell. No time to worry.
He sprinted off.
Brown slowed by a huge glass window and barked out an order at the ground staff. The gate was quiet. ‘You were supposed to keep the sodding plane here!’
Hunter stopped beside him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘See that?’ Brown pointed at the window. A plane shot off down the runway, the RobertsAir logo on the side. It floated up into the air and banked to the south. ‘That’s your flight.’
11
CHANTAL
* * *
‘—because this shower can’t follow orders!’ Josh Brown jabbed a finger at the desk. ‘I told you to keep him here!’
Chantal caught up with Hunter, chest heaving, reading their disappointment. No. No, no, no. She tried to catch her breath. ‘He’s gone?’
‘Looks that way, sweetheart.’ Brown shook his head at the disappearing plane. ‘Tell you, if I had a rocket on me…’
Hunter was sucking in breath as he leaned against the security desk, his warrant card resting on the top. He reeked of stale beer. ‘Can you confirm if Sean Tulloch was on the flight?’
‘One second.’ The ground staff rep looked Filipino. Her smile betrayed her experience of dealing with angry brutes. ‘We relayed the request to the captain and the tower, but it was too late. I can only apologise.’
Brown scowled at her. ‘Check the bloody manifest, Deirdre.’
She smiled as she stared at the screen. ‘This is going to take a second, I’m afraid.’
Chantal checked her watch. ‘The only bloody time a plane takes off on time with me in the airport.’
Brown looked personally offended. ‘Happens more often than you’d think.’
‘How the hell did he get through security?’ Chantal nodded back the way. ‘We weren’t that far behind him.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Hunter grimaced. ‘His MOD90 card.’
‘His what?’
‘MOD90. Every serviceman and woman gets one. Lets you bypass passport control.’
Brown’s eyes misting over. ‘Aye, I remember the days…’
‘Excuse me?’ The ground rep raised a hand as she looked up. ‘I can confirm that Sean Tulloch was in seat 3C.’
Chantal slumped back against the desk. ‘Shite.’
Chantal slammed the car into the space. The bumper crunched against the police station’s wall, grinding hard. She snatched the keys out of the ignition and grabbed at the door handle. Missed it.
Bloody hell. She tore at it again and the door wobbled open.
Hunter reached over and held her arm lightly. ‘Slow down.’
She stared at his hand until he let go. ‘What are you playing at?’
Hunter’s eyes were narrow slits. ‘Slow down.’
She brushed him off and pulled the door shut again. ‘That filthy, abusive bastard has given us the slip. He’s…’ She let out a deep sigh, way deeper than she expected. Like the bottom of her guts had exhaled through her mouth. ‘We’ve dropped a bollock here, Craig. He’s in bloody Portugal now. He knows we’re after him. He’s…’
What? What’s he going to do?
Run away?
Ignore them and find some other women to abuse?
The police over there are, well. They don’t know about him. His history. What he can do.
He locked eyes with her, jaw clenched. ‘We’ll get him when he comes back.’
‘If he comes back.’
He held her gaze like he’d held her arm, but she still shook him off. ‘Look, if he’s gone AWOL, the MOD will get him back. Trust me.’
‘I trust you, Craig, but do you trust the chimps or whatever you called them?’
‘Monkeys.’
‘Well, do you?’
‘About as far as you can throw me.’
‘I could throw you to Edinburgh about now.’
He laughed then shut his eyes. ‘Do I trust them?’ He reopened them and stared out of the passenger window. ‘No. It’s a gamble whether they prosecute him. The guy I know, they just moved him on. He killed a woman in Iraq, but he was with us in Afghanistan. The army’s not very popular. War isn’t. They’ll cover it up if they can.’
‘Even if we shout from the rooftops about him?’
Hunter looked down at the footwell. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘This cock-up’s on us, Craig.’ She pushed the door to its full width, clunking into the squad Volvo next to them. ‘We let him get away. We need to get him back.’
‘We didn’t, he—’
‘He’s been one bloody step ahead of us all the bloody time.’ Chantal punched the steering wheel. The horn blared. ‘He wasn’t at Waverley. Then he got to Paisley while we were chasing our tails. Now he’s on the way to Portugal.’ She crunched the keys in her hand into a tight ball. ‘Who says he’ll even come back?’
‘As long as he stays in NATO territory, he’ll—’
‘That’s not much consolation.’ She shut her eyes and gave a gentle nod. ‘Come on, let’s face the music.’ She opened her eyes again. ‘You stink, by the way.’
12
HUNTER
* * *
The slammed door thudded in Hunter’s ears. He sniffed the air. Sweat, second-hand piss, stale beer.
And the bitter tang of letting a raping bastard get away like that.
What a pair of amateurs. Pissing about at Waverley while he beats up our witness and two cops into the bargain. Poor Paisley. Turned to hamburger patty by—
Hunter’s gut lurched. He swallowed down saliva, tasted more like stomach bile.
Not now.
Not. Now.
Centre yourself. Focus on the here and now.
Bathgate.
2016. Twelfth of May.
Get that breathing under control.
One.
The drone of traffic far away.
Two.
Children shouting and singing a couple of blocks away.
Three.
Four.
An orange Focus next to a silver Astra, sandwiched between two SUVs.
Five.
High-rise towers in the distance, hills behind.
Bathgate.
Bloody Bathgate. Always Bathgate.
Another deep breath and he got out, back to normal. A gust of wind caught the rip in his trousers. Bloody hell.
Walk like the lion in his den, nobody will notice.
He marched across the car park and swiped into the side entrance. The corridor reeked of earthy coffee, stale like the giant drum of instant was nearing the end of its life. He pushed through to their office, still buzzing with activity at the back of six.
Elvis was working in the corner, a smirk on his face. ‘Y
ou’ve ruined two pairs of breeks in a day. I can almost see your arse from here.’
‘You shouldn’t be looking.’
‘Think there’s some standard-issue ones in the store cupboard.’
‘Great.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the desk, the wood cool against his buttocks. ‘Why aren’t—’
‘Craig!’ Elvis battered him with his notebook until he stood up. ‘Tell me you’re not going commando?’
‘Aye, and I didn’t wipe up after my last jobby.’ Hunter rested against a column. A mug of instant smouldered on the desk, the black surface dotted with undissolved granules. ‘Why aren’t you still in Galashiels?’
Elvis leaned back with a huff. ‘The SOCOs turned up and got us to leave.’ He waved his hands across his midden of a desk. ‘So here I am, working.’ He scratched at his sidies. ‘DI McNeill’s not impressed. Not one little bit.’
‘Your second week and you’ve pissed her off.’
‘It’s you and your bird she’s raging at, mate.’
‘She’s not—’
‘Aye, aye, keep telling yourself that.’ Elvis opened a silver laptop on his desk. ‘Look, I’ll no doubt get a good dunt of the blame.’
‘And you’ll deserve every inch of it.’
‘Charming bastard.’ Elvis held up the laptop from Paisley’s house. ‘Got something else on this.’
13
CHANTAL
* * *
Sharon ran a hand down her face. ‘Look, after you let him get on that plane, I—’
Chantal huffed out breath. ‘We didn’t let—’
Sharon silenced her with a hand. ‘I’ve spoken to the Portuguese police.’
‘Whatever. Are they picking him up?’
‘Well, they’re not accepting my request to arrest Tulloch at Faro airport.’
‘What?’ Chantal’s shoulders slumped. ‘Why?’
‘Said I’ve got to go through proper channels.’ Sharon let out a groan. ‘Which means we’ll have to get the PF to get a European Arrest Warrant.’ She looked up from her notepad. ‘The trouble is, we don’t know if he’s absconded or just away for a weekend.’
‘Elvis wasn’t getting anywhere with it.’ Chantal slumped back in the chair. ‘Problem is, we’re nowhere with the evidence against Tulloch. The PF isn’t going to buy the whole case yet, is she?’
‘She doesn’t have to.’ Sharon rapped her fingers on the desktop. ‘We can do him for the assault and the theft of the BMW. People have been extradited for stealing chickens in Romania.’ Another thunk on the desk. ‘The way I see it, we need to fast-track the detailed statements from Paisley Sanderson and the two officers Tulloch assaulted. We’ve got CCTV evidence of him entering and exiting the property at the time.’
‘What about the phone he used to send the threatening text?’
‘Tried it. It’s not sufficient.’
‘Right. Well, all that’s going to take time.’ Chantal shot to her feet and started pacing the room. ‘Meanwhile, Tulloch’s doing God knows what in Portugal. If he stops to think for a second, he could run. He’s in the Algarve. You can get a boat to Spain or Africa pretty easily.’ She stopped pacing. ‘We need to get out to Portugal and bring him in.’
Sharon wagged a finger at her. ‘This isn’t like when you went to Southampton last month to take a statement, okay? Arresting someone on foreign soil is a completely different beast.’
‘I’m not saying it’s the same.’ Chantal paused. ‘I know it’s not.’ Time to change tack. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, while all that legal stuff’s rumbling on, we need to get eyes and ears on Tulloch. Make sure he doesn’t flee the EU. Actually arrest him.’
‘And you’re suggesting you and Craig head over there?’ Sharon’s eyes lost their humour pretty quickly. ‘This isn’t a chance for you pair to have a dirty weekend at the taxpayer’s expense, okay?’
Chantal laughed, her eyes rolling back in her head. ‘You’re still on about that?’
‘You’re still denying it?’
Chantal sat forward and smiled. ‘Shaz, we need to get someone on the ground over there. Send Elvis or Jimmy or whoever. Christ, you and Scott could go.’
Sharon’s gaze scanned around the ceiling. ‘You’ve been seeing each for nine months, right?’
‘Sharon, this is unprofessional.’
‘I’m unprofessional?’ Sharon tilted her head to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re the one sneaking around with lover boy—’
‘Hypocrite. You and Scott were—’
‘Two weeks. And does that mean you’re not denying it?’
‘Of course I’m denying it.’ Chantal planted herself against the chair back. She rubbed a hand along the rough pink fabric. ‘Look, DC Hunter and I are the ones with experience of Tulloch’s MO. We know how he thinks.’
‘So how did he manage to outfox you today?’
‘Because…’ Chantal clamped her teeth together. ‘All I’m asking for is the chance to bring him in.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Sharon slumped back in her chair and folded her arms tight like a petulant teenager. Her blouse popped open near the bottom. ‘My hands are tied.’
Chantal got up to start pacing around the room again, running her tongue across her teeth. ‘So, what, we’re just leaving this to the lawyers?’
‘There’s the MOD.’
Chantal stopped, hands on hips. ‘The army cops?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Sharon slouched back further in her chair, the wheel squeaking. ‘They’ve got jurisdiction over there. We don’t.’
‘Have you spoken to Craig about it?’
‘About what?’
‘He used to be a soldier. He said something like, if we involve them, they’ll take Tulloch for court martial. You won’t get to prosecute him for years.’
14
HUNTER
* * *
‘Cop your whack round this, big boy.’ Elvis gave Hunter a sheet of paper. ‘Hotel de Sousa.’
Hunter’s heart fluttered. A chance to grab something positive out of this shambles.
A giant hotel complex, the dull white concrete not even glowing in the bright sun. Loungers in front of a turquoise pool, the sea and coastline stretching behind it. The sort of Mediterranean dump that looked like it belonged in Leith in the heroin days.
‘Bet it’s even worse in person, man.’ Elvis handed him a wad of pages, filled with an email conversation. ‘Anyhoo, still haven’t found that return ticket.’
‘So he’s run off?’
‘Shite on toast.’ Elvis shut his eyes. ‘Aye, he could’ve run away.’
McNeill’s office door grunted open and Chantal stomped out, beckoning him over.
‘Here we go.’ Hunter folded up the pages and set off. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, send in a search party.’ He wandered over and frowned into the room. ‘What’s up?’
‘So that’s how it’ll lie.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. The office stank of cheap perfume, at least masking his own acquired beer and pish musk. ‘Rollo-Smith will hop in, arrest Tulloch and take him away. Whether he’ll face any form of justice, well your guess is as good as mine.’
McNeill dug her fingers deep into her eyes. ‘I’ve spoken to Rollo-Smith. He said he doesn’t think we’ve got enough evidence to prosecute.’
Hunter frowned at her. ‘We don’t or they don’t?’
‘Both.’ McNeill picked up a notepad and ran her pen down it. ‘He said Tulloch’s on fourteen days’ leave. He needs to be back on MOD property before they can go after him.’
Hunter nodded at Chantal. ‘The problem is that all we’ve got is a one-way ticket. He might’ve gone AWOL and the MOD won’t know until he doesn’t turn up in a fortnight.’
McNeill rested her pad down again. ‘So what should I do then, Constable?’
Hunter passed her the first of his sheets of paper. ‘This is where Tulloch’s going. Five nights booked there.’
McNeill stared at it. ‘What a bonny place.’ She slid it ove
r to Chantal. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘Not yet.’ Chantal gave him an icy glare. ‘We should get over there.’
McNeill shook her head. ‘Chantal, I can’t sanction you travelling there.’
‘We’ve surely got budget left in the pot for an operation, though. Our team’s still two heads short and we’ve only just taken Elvis on.’
McNeill smirked but didn’t say anything.
Chantal coughed. ‘Sorry, DC Gordon.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
Hunter tossed the other pages onto the table. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you’ve seen what he’s capable of. He’s in the Algarve, literally raping and pillaging.’
‘Hopefully the local cops will pick him up.’
‘This is a shit show.’ Chantal settled against a filing cabinet, shaking her head. ‘A complete disaster.’
‘Sergeant…’ McNeill glared at Chantal.
‘Tulloch knows how to play us, ma’am.’ Hunter waved a hand at the door. ‘Look, I’ve been to Portugal before. The local cops don’t care about anything. It’s like Mexico.’
‘Craig, my hands are tied.’
‘Two days.’ Chantal shot to her feet, the cabinet behind her rocking back. ‘That’s all we need. Two days over there. We’ll work with the local cops and bring him back. If we don’t, you can kick our arses.’
McNeill blew air up her face and stared at the ceiling. ‘Your shift’s over, Chantal.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Get home.’ McNeill sat up straight and adjusted her blouse. ‘But leave your phone on.’
Chantal’s face lit up. ‘Thanks.’
McNeill winked at her. ‘And bloody think about telling me the truth, okay?’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Aye, right.’ McNeill did up an errant button at the bottom of her blouse. ‘And Hunter, change your trousers. You’re committing an obscene act.’