Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘The Harry Jack case is our priority. This is my superior’s position, I’m afraid.’ Quaresma flashed up his eyebrows, the overhead light catching the shards of white in the silver. ‘You saw what happened with Madeleine McCann a few years ago, yes?’

  ‘Our case has the potential to—’

  ‘My hands are tied.’ Quaresma put his hands together like they were cuffed. ‘This is the start of summer season. Busy time for us. Lots of northern Europeans come down here to party. Usually it all ends in tears and we have to pick up the pieces. Many rapes, many fights.’

  ‘So we’re on our own?’ Chantal shrugged then stood up herself. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Not so simple.’ Quaresma wagged a finger at her. ‘This isn’t your country. I can’t have you running around doing what you want, yes?’

  ‘Which is why I’m asking for support from you.’

  ‘Sergeant, I have very limited resources. You are being allowed to operate here by my professional courtesy. The very second I hear that you are abusing that, you are on the next plane to Glasgow.’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘I will send you to London if it gets you out of my country.’

  ‘Inspector, if this was the other way round, we would give you a superintendent to work with, plus a team under him or her. We would work tirelessly to bring your suspect to you.’

  ‘That is not a luxury I have.’

  ‘Have you done anything?’

  Quaresma stepped forward and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a paper file and dropped it on the desk. Not exactly thick enough to thump on the wood. ‘This is the work we did before our time was reprioritised.’ He nudged it across the table.

  Chantal tipped the contents onto the desk. Their faxed evidence stapled together. At the back, the sum total of the local police work was five sheets of A4. One was a form, manually typed. Hard to follow the Portuguese, but she could pick out a few phrases. Hotel de Sousa. She flicked through the other pages. One was a photocopy of the guest list. She held it up. ‘So, you have confirmed that he is staying there?’

  ‘That is correct.’ Quaresma snatched the file back and locked it away in the drawer. ‘Now, that is all the assistance you can have until we find Harry Jack. I will make myself clear — you will use my men to arrest this Sean Tulloch.’ He reached into a desk drawer and scribbled on a small white card. He tossed it over to Chantal’s side. ‘Call this number when you need to arrest someone.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  Quaresma smiled at her. ‘That is very generous.’

  Chantal put the card in her pocket. Let him have his petty little victory. ‘Can you at least give us a lift?’

  Chantal stomped across the car park, the rain soaking her hair. ‘What an arsehole.’ She stopped, hands on hips, scanning up and down the four lanes of cars. The press corps were outside the front of the building, huddled together as they listened to someone speaking. She dumped her bag into a puddle. Water splashed up her bare legs. Shite. Shite, shite, bloody shite. ‘Tell me this is okay, Craig.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Here’s where my thinking’s at. Sean Tulloch is here and we know very little about what he’s doing. We know where he’s staying. We know he’s with some other squaddies on a boys’ weekend.’

  ‘Which is my worry.’

  She frowned at him. ‘What is?’

  ‘Well I’ve been thinking, maybe, it’s not that big a deal. He’s a serial abuser, which is a long game. You know the drill. He meets the women, charms them—’

  ‘—moves in and starts booting the living shit out of them.’

  ‘Look, he’s here for a few days. Getting drunk, maybe playing some golf, maybe just lying on the beach.’ He broke off.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, he’s here with a load of lairy lads. Squaddies. You maybe don’t know what they’re like, but it’s a powder keg of laddish bollocks. They’ll be arsing around, daring each other. This place has a big nightclub precinct. What I’m thinking is—’

  ‘—his aggression might escalate?’

  ‘You’re finishing my sentences.’

  Shite. She huffed out a sigh. ‘But you’re worrying all this lairy chat will push him to, what, go on a groping spree here?’

  ‘Or worse.’

  ‘We’ve got to get him, Craig.’ She shook her head and scowled over at the building. Looked like Bruce was heading inside, inching his way past the reporters. ‘We need help here. We need Quaresma’s men to bring him in.’

  Hunter stepped closer to her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re on our own here. The good thing is we work well together. We’ll catch him.’

  ‘Assuming he’s still at the hotel.’ She looked up and down the road. Not that many cars, none looking like taxis. ‘Assuming he’s even still in the bloody country.’ She looked south. ‘Africa’s what, twenty miles that way?’

  ‘It’s that way, aye, but it’s a lot further than twenty. At least a hundred.’ A horn honked behind them and Hunter swung around.

  Finlay Sinclair leaned against a red Fiesta, the car as battered as he now looked. Arms folded across his chest, his muscle tone turned to flab, the beer gut poking out of the bottom of his polo shirt now upgraded to a keg. He stood up tall, hand held out, and winced.

  Chantal frowned at Hunter as she hefted up her bag and started across the road. ‘You didn’t tell me we were meeting him here.’

  Hunter shrugged.

  Chantal focused on Finlay. ‘How did you end up over here?’

  ‘Long story.’ Finlay opened the boot of the car and made to pat down Hunter. ‘The metal detector find that cucumber wrapped in tinfoil stuffed down your trouser legs, Craig?’

  Chantal burst out laughing, like an explosion. ‘Good to see you, Fin.’

  ‘And you. Let me take your bags, madam.’ Finlay crouched down and lifted up Chantal’s suitcase, struggling with it like he was lifting the moon. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

  Chantal opened the boot to the full extension. ‘Back still playing up?’

  ‘Most days, aye.’ Finlay dumped the case in next to some work tools. ‘Then again, I’m lucky I can even walk after what happened.’

  Hunter rested his bag next to Chantal’s. ‘I’ve apologised, mate.’

  ‘It’s fine. We caught him, and the compo was more than enough to set up a life out here.’ Finlay clapped his hands together. ‘Now. Where can I take you two lovebirds?’

  ‘Well, I still don’t believe you.’ Finlay powered along the dual carriageway, completely empty save for an Aldi lorry ahead. ‘But that’s not my problem, I guess.’

  The rain was back in full shower mode, the water sluicing into drains in the central reservation.

  Chantal slumped back in the seat. A rogue spring poked into her back. ‘Like being back in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Almost.’ Hunter was in the back, still struggling to get his seatbelt to close. ‘It’s two degrees warmer at home.’

  ‘Crazy.’ Finlay laughed. ‘So, this motorway, right? They spent all that EU money on it and it’s a toll road. Loads of them here.’ He held the wheel casually, like when he was Hunter’s partner, and swerved out into the fast lane. ‘I love it. Cuts the journey time in half for a euro. The locals are too tight to pay it. Spoke to this old geezer in the pub the other night ranting and raving about it. He says it’s the EU’s fault. They built it for the Spanish coming here for the golf. Or something.’

  Chantal craned her neck around to see what Hunter was up to. He’d tugged his seatbelt closer to the buckle, still not quite connecting.

  ‘Casual anti-EU ignorance.’ Finlay overtook the Aldi lorry, rain spraying up the sides of the car, his wipers going full pelt. ‘Not long till the referendum, is it?’

  ‘Christ knows what’ll happen if we vote to leave.’ Chantal looked over from the passenger seat. ‘All the racists will be trying to kick me out.’

  Finlay chuckled. ‘Aye, daft bastards probably think India is in t
he EU.’

  ‘Pakistan. Three generations ago. Four, if you count my baby nephew.’

  Hunter leaned forward to wedge his head between them. ‘Take it you’re quite far down the road to drinking yourself to death, then?’

  ‘Getting there.’ Finlay waved behind them, grinning. ‘I live in Olhão, which is the other way from Faro. Quieter. Earthier. Like being in Elgin or Nairn or something, but with marginally less wind and rain. Feels alive, not just filled with drunk tourists.’

  Chantal smirked at him. ‘Except you.’

  ‘There is that.’ Finlay pulled off onto the slip road. Water sprayed out as they passed under the main carriageway. ‘My flat cost twenty grand. And there’s a working harbour, so all the fresh fish I can eat. Nice beer, too.’

  ‘So that’s how you’re medicating?’

  ‘The old back’s shite most days.’ Finlay started off down a long straight road lined with Mediterranean-style houses in a range of pastel colours. ‘It was horrible back in Scotland over the winter there but give me enough heat and Sagres and it’s almost bearable.’

  Hunter rattled around in the back still. ‘As if there’s ever enough with you?’

  ‘Ha.’ Finlay stopped at some traffic lights, the Fiesta thudding to a stall. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Lovely motor, by the way.’

  ‘Aye, piece of shit I bought off a bloke in the boozer.’ Finlay got the engine started again on the third go. ‘Gets me to the Lidl for my messages and that’s about it.’

  ‘I take it this car rattles like a Glaswegian fishing trip afterwards?’

  ‘Nah. The whisky’s crap here.’ Finlay trundled over the road as the lights changed back to red. ‘You two involved in this missing kid case, then?’

  ‘You get another guess.’

  Finlay grinned at her. ‘So you’re over here shagging each other’s brains out, or what?’

  ‘What.’ Chantal got her phone out of her pocket. ‘We’re here to pick up a suspect, if you must know.’

  ‘Oh aye? Need any help?’

  ‘Aye, from the local police.’ No interesting texts. Family noise in WhatsApp, two from Sharon and a boatload of emails that could wait. She looked up from her mobile. ‘You know any local cops?’

  ‘Not had many dealings with them.’ Finlay tapped the dashboard. ‘Touch wood. Bar chat, you know how it is.’

  ‘Don’t I just.’ Chantal sighed. ‘If this was the other way round, they’d have a superintendent managing them, and a football team under him. Or her.’

  ‘Bloody Wild West here, Chantal.’ Finlay hurtled towards a red light. ‘It’s a tough game for them, you know? The pay’s crap and they’re under a heap of pressure. Way I hear it, they cut a big chunk of the budget a couple of years ago, let a load of cops go. The ones left are all pissed off.’

  ‘How bent are they?’

  ‘Not sure. Think they just don’t give a shite. Fighting a losing battle. Economy’s in the toilet. Their focus isn’t on controlling the natives.’

  Chantal waved at the passing apartment buildings. ‘Even here?’

  ‘Even here.’ Finlay pulled down a long street.

  The mid-blue sea glistened in the distance, dark rain clouds swimming halfway to the horizon. Sun shone down on the buildings, lighting them up from their gloom. Two sprawling hotel complexes sat in a hollow on the left, one marked with purple signage, the other red. A big fence separated them, though only one had access to the beach.

  Finlay took a left and pulled up alongside the first hotel. A few tourists mingled about, one old guy had his top off, showing off his disco muscles. ‘Here you go.’

  Hunter let his seatbelt flop down. ‘Cheers, mate. I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’m serious. You guys need a hand?’

  Chantal opened her door. ‘I can manage my bag, Finlay. It’s fine.’

  ‘I mean with this case, whatever you’re up to. I’m here if you need me, aye?’

  ‘We’ll think about it.’ Chantal pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, then waved up at the sky. ‘Sun’s out. Go and work on that Leith tan.’

  Chantal fanned her face with her hands as they stood in the queue. ‘Could do with air conditioning in here.’

  ‘It’s a bargain hotel, my dear.’ Hunter grabbed her hand. ‘The sort of place a bunch of squaddies will go for a weekend on the piss. Or all a young couple like us could afford.’

  ‘Or the sort of place Police Scotland’s budget will stretch to.’

  A mobility scooter whizzed past them, the obese driver looking like he’d melted in the sun. He stopped next to a group by the counter, a man in a Man Utd shirt shouting at the receptionist, ROONEY and 10 on the back. ‘But they’ve stolen money from my boy!’

  ‘Definitely not holidaying here…’ Chantal kicked her bag along the floor as the queue shifted up. ‘Feels like all we’ve done since this morning is stand in queues.’

  ‘And get belittled by foreign cops.’

  She nodded at the scooter. ‘Nice seeing Finlay, though. Thought he’d be in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Aye, good old compo. Six-figure payout plus full pension.’

  ‘This is a disgrace.’ Rooney stormed off, the mobility scooter whizzing along behind. ‘An absolute pigging disgrace! You can keep the EU, see if I care!’

  ‘Here we go.’ Chantal sighed as she grabbed her bag and marched up to the desk. ‘Got a reservation in the name Jain. That’s J-A-I-N.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ The receptionist had a South Wales accent, seedier than a valley choirboy. The sort of pretty boy who spent his good-looks years twatting about in holiday resorts, shagging anything he could, while he still could. ‘I see you’re staying for three nights.’ He typed, eyes focused on the inset monitor.

  Chantal leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Do you have a Sean Tulloch staying here?’

  Eyes still on the screen. ‘Is he a friend?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s cousin.’ Chantal laughed and grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘Sorry, my darling. I can’t give out that information.’ He hit the keys hard. ‘You can leave a message for next time he comes to the desk, though?’

  So he is here.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Element of surprise and all that.’

  ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll need your passports and then we’ll be all set.’

  Chantal passed them both over and watched him mince to the photocopier. ‘What a charmer.’

  ‘As long as it has no effect on you…’

  ‘Like water off a duck’s arse.’ She leaned forward and twisted the computer screen round. ‘Balls, he’s locked it.’ She shifted it back again.

  The receptionist reappeared with their passports. ‘There, that’s you checked in.’ He made a fish-like motion with his hand. ‘Your room is through to the right, then up the stairs and again on your right.’

  Chantal frowned at him. ‘Did you say room?’

  21

  Chantal

  ‘Cheeky cow.’ Chantal dumped her bag on the double bed in the middle of the room.

  A small kitchen lay to the left, a couple of tatty cabinets above a cooker ring and a counter fridge. The balcony door was open, the curtains flapping in the gentle breeze. Across a narrow lane, other apartments looked in, claustrophobically close.

  Calling it chintzy would be doing it a favour. Just… horrible.

  She collapsed back on the bed and groaned. ‘This is Sharon’s idea of a joke, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, booking one room?’ Hunter dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed. He pulled her close, burying his head in her stomach. ‘It fits our cover story.’

  She looked down at him. ‘What cover story?’

  ‘Us being a young couple on holiday.’ He lifted up her top and kissed her belly. ‘Doesn’t that sound good?’

  She hauled her top back down. ‘I’m not in the mood, Craig.’

  ‘Fine.’ Hunter held up his hands. ‘Sorry.’<
br />
  ‘Shite.’ Chantal wrapped her arms around him. ‘Sorry, I’m being a cow. It’s… I want to text Sharon a load of abuse.’

  ‘So do it.’

  She reached over for her phone and started tapping at the screen. ‘Thanks for arranging our room. Having to pay for the other one out of my own money. You cow.’

  ‘Think she’ll check with the hotel?’

  Chantal dumped her mobile on the bed. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Our carefully laid plans thrown apart because of one little slip up?’ She silenced him with a glare. ‘So we’re pretending we’re not a couple who are pretending to be a couple?’

  Chantal couldn’t even begin to follow it. ‘Whatever, Craig.’ She hopped off his knee and hauled her top over her head, a pastel purple shade soaked in sweat. Bloody thing stank now. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’ She grabbed her bag and rummaged deep until she found the right top. ‘We’ve not got any leads, have we?’ She pulled it on. Feels a bit better. ‘It’s not like Tulloch’s playing baccarat at the local casino and all we need to do is—’

  Her mobile blasted out Taylor Swift again. Bollocks.

  She rolled over the bed and grabbed it. Sharon. Even more bollocks. She stabbed the answer button with a sigh. ‘Hi, Shaz.’

  ‘Morning, Chantal. I take it you meant what you typed?’

  ‘Of course I meant it.’ She lay back and kicked off her sandals. Her feet started breathing again. ‘Wouldn’t have texted it if I didn’t.’

  ‘So, you and Craig in one room, eh? There’ll be a bolster you can put between you. Top and tail, aye?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Sharon laughed. ‘Have you really booked another room?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you joined the mile high club on the way over and, right now, he’s got his fingers right—’

  ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘—king you moan with delight?’

  ‘No, stop it.’ Chantal lay back on the bed. Could fall asleep here. ‘Was there a reason for the call? Like, any progress at your end?’