Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘Nothing much. I take it you’ve spoken to your contact?’

  ‘Fat lot of good that was. He didn’t even try and arrest Tulloch.’

  Hunter’s phone blared out that drill noise. Chantal glanced down the bed at him, twatting about on his mobile. She scowled and pointed at the balcony.

  22

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter walked over and wrestled the door fully open, hitting answer. ‘Morning, Elvis.’

  His lips slapped down the line like he was chewing something. ‘How’s sunny Portugal, mate?’

  Hunter sat on the chair in the shade. The sun was finally out, boiling off the rain, but it missed their gloomy apartment. ‘Better than Bathgate. Just.’ He got up and leaned against the railing with his free hand. Damp and cold. A couple made their way down the path below, arm in arm. Sunglasses, flip-flops, shorts, sunburnt arms and necks. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Eh, calling in a bet. Fat Jimmy says you’ll have him in custody. I’ve got a tenner on you not having a scooby where he is.’

  Hunter let his breath out slowly. ‘We’re nowhere near anything.’

  ‘Ya dancer.’ Elvis’s hand covered the mouthpiece, but Hunter could still hear, ‘Wanker! That’s ten quid you owe me!’

  Pair of arseholes.

  Hunter took in the place as he waited for Elvis to deal with the pressing issues.

  Which room was Tulloch’s? Any of them? Was he even here?

  And how the hell were they going to catch him? Now we’re here, we don’t have a plan. Getting here was enough of an ordeal, finding the bastard… Another kettle of fish entirely. Barrel of beer. Stack of hay. Take your pick.

  Then again, someone like Tulloch will stick out like a sore thumb.

  The old couple passed below him now, each step looking like it took momentous effort.

  They might’ve seen Tulloch and a bunch of squaddies. They might know where he is. Then again, they might not. Tulloch could be hiding out he—

  ‘Nice one, mate.’ Elvis’s lips slapped again. Like he could only eat when talking to Hunter. ‘Can always rely on you to make an arse of things.’

  Hunter gripped the railing tighter. If that was Elvis’s neck… ‘Have you taken Paisley’s statement yet?’

  ‘Doc won’t let us.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’m not messing about. Me and that Jenny bird were down at the hospital this morning. Jenny’s a piece of work, I tell you. Anyway, doctor wouldn’t let us in. “Paisley’s not up to answering questions, blah blah blah”. Stupid mare.’

  ‘And you took that for an answer?’

  ‘I’m not you, Robocop. I don’t go in there all guns blazing.’

  Don’t rise to it…

  Hunter rested back against the door, his T-shirt bunching up around his arms. ‘What about Tulloch’s laptop?’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve got round to it now.’ Elvis yawned. ‘There’s a ton of emails between Tulloch and one Gordon Brownlee of Muirhouse in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Any form on him?’

  ‘Nothing major, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a dodgy bastard.’ Elvis clacked at keys in the background. Almost like the lazy sod was only running the PNC check now. ‘Ex-squaddie, by the looks of things.’

  Hunter sucked in the fresh air. ‘Send me a photo, would you?’

  ‘It’ll cost me a bloody fortune.’

  ‘So? Expense it.’

  Elvis paused on the line. ‘Right, aye. I’ll fire it through the now.’

  ‘Cheers. Catch you later.’ Hunter killed the call and waited for the message to arrive. He grabbed the railing and leaned forward until he was in the sun.

  The warm heated up his hair and neck. Not bad at all. Must be low twenties. Nothing like the baking heat in the Middle East. Tolerable. Maybe southern Spain would be good for a holiday. Málaga, Nerja, somewhere like—

  His mobile chirruped. He leaned back into the shade and checked it.

  Two photo messages.

  The first was Gordon Brownlee in full uniform. 3 Scots, for certain. Big lad, typical squaddie — trim, dead-eye stare like he could stab you in the guts without thinking. His left ear looked like it’d been sliced off and reattached by an amateur, hanging a couple of inches below the right.

  The other photo was Brownlee in Germany, holding up a full stein of foaming lager, wearing comedy lederhosen and plastic breasts. Classic Schoolbook shot. Wide grin, but the same dead eyes and wonky ears.

  The things we see on duty. Hunter caught sight of himself in the patio doors. His arms weren’t looking too bad. Nice shape to the shoulders. Still too much of a gut. Always the last thing to go.

  Inside, Chantal was sitting on the bed, staring at her phone. She looked up and smiled. ‘Bloody cow knew exactly what she was doing.’

  ‘Don’t rise to it.’ Hunter held up his phone. ‘Anyway, in other news, Elvis might’ve found our baccarat game.’ He walked back through and handed her his mobile. ‘This is Gordon Brownlee, looks like one of Tulloch’s mates.’

  ‘Good effort.’ Chantal stared at the screen, like she was sucking in his life story from the two photos. She rested it on the bed and lay back, her hair splaying across the pillow. ‘So what’s the plan then, Constable?’

  ‘Here’s what I’m thinking.’ Hunter picked up his phone and stared at Brownlee’s dead eyes. ‘This lot are boozers on a piss-up. They’ll start with a few here, check out if the hotel’s up to snuff. Mostly, it’ll be old duffers on their holidays, but sometimes it’s full of stag and hen parties, and it’s the cheapest for drinks. Total carnage, basically.’

  ‘Spoken from experience.’

  Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, given Mr Quaresma’s not playing ball, we’re going to have to do some undercover work.’ He stared at Brownlee’s photos again, then over at Chantal again. ‘That Keith Brannigan who got away at Waverley is supposed to be here. There are others, too.’ He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed. ‘So, we’re on our first holiday together. A young couple in love. Let’s hit the bar and see who knows anything about Gordon Brownlee or Sean Tulloch, shall we?’

  Hunter bit into the falafel burger and chewed slowly. He swallowed it down with a glug of Sagres, the lager bitter and cold. Lovely. He leaned back and soaked up the sun.

  The bar area was walled on three sides, but enough sun crawled in. Already felt like it was burning Hunter’s peely-wally skin. Need to rub some suntan lotion on. The wooden walls could do with a lick of paint.

  Hunter took another mouthful. ‘Didn’t know how hungry I was.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Chantal cut her hamburger open, the meat still a touch pink inside, hipster-style. She ate it, anyway. ‘That’s a good burger.’

  At least she hadn’t added the bacon. ‘Glad to hear it.’ Hunter’s stomach gargled around the food. Another bite, his eyes watering. ‘Don’t see any pissed squaddies, though.’

  She nodded behind him. ‘That lot might have.’

  A hen party sat at the far end. All ages from late teens to sixties, though mostly in their twenties. Screaming and shouting and dancing and downing shots. Sounded like an unholy mix of Scousers and Brummies. A waif of a girl appeared with a tray of shots, getting a roar of applause and laughter.

  ‘Christ, that takes me back.’ Chantal put her burger down in a pool of liquid fat, shaking her head at them. She finished her wine, the glass still frosted. ‘I was here on a hen weekend a few years ago.’

  ‘This hotel?’

  Chantal thumbed back up the hill. ‘Makes this place look five star.’ She scowled. ‘Me and Sharon and a load of our old mates from uniform. A few from Turnbull’s CID team. You know Angela Caldwell, don’t you?’

  Hunter shook his head.

  ‘Anyway, it was complete carnage.’ She took another bite of her burger then smirked. ‘The chief bridesmaid got knocked up by a barman.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Wish I was.’ Chantal dipped a chip in spilt ketchup.
‘Had to get an abortion. Poor Geraldine.’

  ‘Geraldine Fox?’ Hunter frowned, swallowing down another mouthful. ‘Seriously?’

  Chantal shut her eyes. ‘Shite, do you know her?’

  ‘Me and Cullen worked with her up in St Leonards, few years back.’

  ‘Aw, shite.’ Chantal’s cheeks flushed, not all from the wine. ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’

  Hunter zipped up his lips. ‘Secret’s safe with me.’

  She wrapped her fingers around her empty glass and squinted into the sun. ‘Back at the room, you said stuff about the bar tactics. Finding the best place to drink. Take it you’ve done this before?’

  ‘I’ve never knocked up a barmaid. Or DC Fox.’

  ‘Aye, very good.’ Another bite of burger, twirling her finger at the hen party. ‘But you have been here?’

  ‘Came to Portugal in my army days.’ Hunter sipped some lager, barely tasting it. ‘That’s early on, like. We were based up at Fort George near Inverness. Got a fortnight’s leave so a group of us booked cheap flights from Edinburgh.’ He swallowed, his nostrils twitching. ‘Like what Tulloch and his mates are doing.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him, holding the burger in mid-air. A big dod of fat dribbled onto the plate.

  ‘Anyway, we turn up at a place like this, all tanked up from a couple of litres of Captain Morgan’s someone bought in duty-free.’ Hunter pushed his burger away, smearing minty yoghurt over the plate. ‘Worse luck. Turned out a bunch of officers were staying down the corridor from us. Out here on a stag. And one of them knew two of our lads, so they ordered us to join in their session. Trust me, you’ve not lived until you’ve seen an army captain invite everyone to his room for— Well. I’ll leave it there.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Chantal’s burger fell onto her plate. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’ Hunter picked out a lump of falafel and popped it into his mouth. ‘Made myself sick. My mate Terry took me back to our room. Win, win.’

  ‘Terry’s the one—’

  ‘Aye.’ Hunter pressed the burger into his plate, bits of chickpea tumbling out. ‘Him.’

  ‘Is that why you’re getting all these flashbacks?’

  Hunter took another drink, his pint glass below halfway now, and wiped his lips. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You should’ve said.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what it’s like with your PTSD, but mine doesn’t say to me “Oh, hey Craig, I’m going to do your head in every time someone eats a bacon roll,” or something like that. It’s all random shit until I figure out the trigger.’

  ‘I’ve not had that many flashbacks.’

  Hunter nodded slowly. ‘Then you’re lucky.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’ She grabbed her glass and got to her feet. ‘Finish that pint, we’ve got a cover to maintain. We’re supposed to be getting arseholed in the sun then shagging each other’s brains out.’ She gave him a dirty wink then walked over to the bar.

  23

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal stopped by the door and let the skinny girl go first.

  ‘Cheers, chuck.’ Her Black Country accent cut through the afternoon sunshine.

  ‘My little Chucka!’

  Chantal froze, clenching her jaw. She stared around the hotel bar. A gang of wild women at the far side were singing along to someone’s mobile, that slushy One Direction song. A coach pulled up by the entrance. Two men with their tops off wandered past, T-shirts on their shoulders, burnt skin close to blistering.

  The girl was carrying a tray of shot glasses filled with pale blue liquid. ‘You okay, chuck?’

  Chantal swallowed bile. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I’m Bekah, by the way.’

  ‘Chantal.’

  ‘Listen, do you want to do a shot with us?’

  Chantal had another scan of the bar area. Still no likely suspects in the hunt for Tulloch. Maybe Bekah or her mates had spoken to Tulloch or his crew. She nodded without a backwards glance at Hunter. ‘Aye, go on.’

  Bekah led over and set the tray down. ‘Here we go, girls!’ She took a glass and handed Chantal another. Pale blue shit, way more than a standard measure. Probably stronger. ‘Here you go, chuck!’

  Chucka… Jesus.

  Chantal tried to cover her grimace with a smile. ‘Cheers.’

  The group folded around them, pushing Chantal and Bekah to the back. One climbed onto a table and raised her glass. ‘Here’s for Amy!’

  ‘Wahey!’ Bekah necked her shot.

  Chantal waited until she shut her eyes in recoil then tossed hers over her shoulder. She stuck her tongue out and gagged. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Bekah leaned in close and burped out citrusy breath. ‘I asked the barman for the strongest stuff they had.’

  ‘Nice one!’ Chantal gritted her teeth. This is hell. Hell, hell, hell. ‘So how well do you know the hen?’

  ‘She’s my cousin.’ Bekah’s accent sucked the genuine emotion out. ‘We’re from near Stoke.’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘Is that Scotland?’ Bekah waited for a nod. ‘You don’t look local.’

  Chantal laughed. ‘Born and bred there.’

  ‘Get lots of your lot round our way. My best mate Mina, her parents are from Pakistan. Do you know her?’

  ‘I know a Mina but not one from Stoke.’ This is a mistake. ‘When did you come out here?’

  ‘Since Wednesday night. We fly back on Sunday. Having a great time. I don’t want to leave!’

  Chantal nodded slowly. She caught a glimpse of Hunter on his own, fiddling with his mobile. The hotel bar was busy, full of people who might’ve seen Tulloch, and he was texting someone. She smiled at Bekah. ‘So, what’s the chat like round the bar here?’

  ‘The chat?’ Bekah bellowed with laughter. Poor girl was way more pissed than she should be at half twelve. ‘I love your accent!’

  ‘I mean, is this a good place for a laugh?’

  ‘Yeah. Totally. Yesterday, we got chatting to these—’

  ‘Come on!’ Someone came back from the bar, carrying yet another tray of shots, her mouth stretched out way beyond a grin. ‘Here we go, ladies!’

  Bekah raced over and grabbed two glasses. She bounced back like a spring deer and handed one to Chantal.

  She took it, her heart sinking deep into her chest.

  Bekah threw her shot down her throat. ‘Come on, Chantal. Let’s get some more in!’ Then she hopped off to the bar.

  24

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter sipped at the pint, now flat and tasteless, and huffed out a breath. A quarter of it left. Just as well I didn’t down it when Chantal asked me to.

  Across the other side of the hotel bar area, Chantal was laughing at some no-doubt dirty joke. Looked like she’d been caning it with them all morning, rather than only joining in twenty minutes ago.

  The waif next to her handed her a glass. Blink and you’d miss it, but it looked like the shot went right over Chantal’s shoulder.

  That’s my girl.

  No new messages on his phone. Heat burnt his neck as the sun crawled around to inflict its worst. The rainwater was half-dried now, could almost see it hissing away, the ozone tang was real, though. Like doing a paper round first thing in the morning, before everyone was up.

  Early lunchtime boozers. How many of them would merge into all-day session boozers?

  At the next table, a guy in his forties lay back in his chair soaking up the fresh sun. Tattoos, shaved head, tat-shop Ray-Ban clones. Maroon T-shirt with a little fish logo. Wiry hair poking out of his pale blue shorts. A red rose climbed up his arm from the wrist.

  A squaddie of some sort.

  Hmm…

  Hunter finished the dregs of his pint and got up to stretch, bright light bouncing off the glasses. ‘Excuse me, mate?’

  He lifted up
his shades, his eyes barely open. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Could you watch these seats for me?’

  ‘No worry, mate.’ Northern accent. Manchester. Maybe Liverpool or anywhere between.

  ‘Cheers.’ Hunter padded inside the bar, avoiding checking out another roar of laughter from the hen party. Even though the doors to the outside were open, it was cool inside. Not just the shade, industrial air conditioning. Took a while for his eyes to adjust to the light. Long marble bar, a tattooed guy sitting at the far end, lost in his mobile.

  Hunter nodded at the barman. ‘Two pints of Sagres, please.’

  ‘Coming up, sir.’ The barman flipped on the taps over two glasses. Short dark hair, designer stubble but sulking like a teenager walking around a supermarket with his mum. He stared at the glasses as they slowly filled with lager.

  Hunter reached into his pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. He placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recog— Sorry, do you know this man?’

  The barman huffed out a sigh as he flipped off both taps. ‘Listen, my friend, we’ve already had police officers asking about Harry Jack.’

  Hunter gave a warm smile. ‘This isn’t about Harry.’ He tapped the photo again. ‘Have a look.’

  The barman gave the tiniest glance at the photograph and shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Big guy.’ Hunter put his hand a few inches above his head. ‘Accent like mine.’

  ‘You see so many people here, my friend.’ The barman dumped both glasses on the bar, the handles facing out. ‘Six euro.’ A little nod at another customer.

  ‘Cheers.’ Hunter’s mobile rattled in his pocket. A text from Finlay:

  SERIOUSLY MATE! NEED ANY HELP?

  Hunter pocketed his phone and handed over a ten euro note. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ A smile sparked on the barman’s face. ‘I’ll watch for that man.’