by Ed James
‘Nah, it’s a sea storm.’ Chantal pushed her empty glass away on the table.
Bruce handed her a fresh pint, foam dripping off the side, and tipped four bags of crisps on the table. ‘Time to forget about the case, okay?’
She hauled the beer over and snatched a pink bag of prawn cocktail. ‘You’re sure you can’t get a tail on Tulloch?’
Bruce’s chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. ‘No dice.’
‘Even if you get intel suggesting that he’s involved in the disappearance of Harry Jacks?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’ He waved a finger at her. ‘Anyway, my place isn’t too far from here, if you fancy a little wander?’
70
HUNTER
* * *
A red Fiesta van pulled up a few spaces away.
Hunter stretched out. His back was starting to ache from all that sitting. The section of wall he’d been on was covered in a damp patch from his sweaty arse. It evaporated in seconds.
The police station was still quiet. No sign of Tulloch getting out. No sign of Quaresma or Elena or any of the other cops.
Finlay Sinclair got out of the Fiesta and grabbed Hunter into a bear hug. ‘Amigo!’
‘Fin.’ Hunter patted him on the back and broke off. ‘Thanks for meeting up, mate.’
‘No worries, jabroni. No worries.’ Finlay took a look around the place, like he was assessing some Leith crime scene. ‘So what’s the deal?’
‘Chantal and I are heading home tonight.’
‘And…?’
‘What do you mean “and”?’
Finlay whistled through his teeth. ‘There’s always something with you, dude.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Aye, bollocks.’ Finlay raised a finger in the air. ‘Before I forget…’ He reached into the car and groaned, his hand going to his back. ‘Oh, you bastard.’ He straightened up and handed a paper bag to Hunter. ‘Got this for you.’
‘You okay?’
Finlay pushed at his spine until something clicked. ‘That’s it.’ He opened his watering eyes and waved a hand at the bag. ‘Open it, then.’
Hunter peered inside. A plastic container absolutely rammed with salad. A thin burrito lay on the top, almost an afterthought. ‘I don’t know what to say, that looks… Wow.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Finlay took greater care getting a second bag out. He leaned back against the car and pulled out a chunky tortilla unadorned by anything except a drizzle of chilli oil. ‘Enjoy it, dude.’ He bit into the fajita and chewed with his mouth open, his lips slapping together.
‘I’ve been craving vegetables since we got here.’ Hunter ate a forkful of salad, crunchy in a way you didn’t get in Scotland. ‘This is more fruit and veg than you eat in a month.’
‘Try a year.’
You can take the boy out of Dalkeith…
Finlay looked at Hunter’s food. ‘They didn’t have any banana or goat’s cheese, though, you freak. Still eat that poof food?’
‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’
Finlay laughed, his tortilla poised over his mouth. ‘Weirdo.’ He picked up his fajita and bit into it. ‘Ah, that’s the bambers.’
‘Remember that Met DI who was up for a bit a few years back, would only ever eat a burrito?’
‘God, aye.’ Finlay chomped with his mouth open. ‘What was his name again?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘Whatever. Had a bit of a darkness behind his eyes, that one.’ Finlay flashed up his eyebrows. ‘So, how’s the case, then?’
‘Like I said, mate, they’re sending us home.’
‘Meaning you got the punk you were after?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Always a grey area with you, right?’ Finlay’s lips slapped together as he laughed. ‘And another part is why we’re meeting in a police station car park.’
‘It’s a long story and…’ Hunter bit into the burrito. Felt like his tongue was on fire. ‘Christ. I need some asbestos for my mouth.’ He got the bottle of water out of the bag and slurped it down. ‘Ah.’
‘Too hot for you, jabroni?’ Finlay wiped his chin and a dod of chicken fell back in the box. He picked it up and ate it. ‘Saw some stuff on the news earlier. That kid from Geordieland was supposed to be in Vilamoura. Was that you guys?’
‘Not us, but I know about it. Like our case, it’s gone to shite, mate.’
Finlay chuckled as he plucked a pepper out of his fajita and set it aside. ‘Usual story, then?’
‘Aye. Usual.’
‘You are boning her, aren’t you?’
Hunter put a finger to his lip. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’
Finlay shrugged. ‘I can’t force you to talk to me, dude.’
Hunter finished chewing a mouthful of burrito. ‘We’re an item, yes.’
‘And DI McNeill doesn’t know?’
Hunter sighed. ‘She suspects, but we haven’t come clean.’
‘Very unprofessional.’ Finlay’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Not like you, Hunter.’
‘It’s not at my insistence.’
Finlay shut his tray. ‘Do you want my advice?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, I’ll give you it anyway. Don’t lie. And don’t get caught out in a lie.’
‘Like I said, it’s not at my insistence. It’s complicated.’ Hunter picked up some olives from the salad. ‘Look, mate, about your back. I’m sor—’
Finlay waved him away like an old lady trying to pay for tea and scones. ‘Forget it, dude. It’s old news.’
‘I mean it. It’s my fault you went upstairs in that house and…’ Hunter held up the olives, the green surface glistening in the light. ‘And he did that to you.’
Finlay leaned forward with a sickening crunch. ‘It’s cool, dude. I’m fine.’ He waved at the sunshine, away from the cloud. ‘I’m enjoying my life out here.’
‘It shouldn’t have happened.’
‘But it did. I mean, if it hadn’t, I’d be stuck in a squad car with Dave or Steve, getting a shoeing off Lauren every five minutes. You want that?’
‘Suppose I’ve saved Lauren a lot of hassle.’ Hunter bit into his burrito. Couldn’t taste a thing. ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’ He swallowed it down. ‘How bad is your back?’
‘It’s fine, jabroni.’ Finlay finished off his fajita, leaving a pile of green and red peppers in his box. ‘The only downside is I’m bored shitless out here.’
‘What about drinking yourself to death?’
‘Even that gets old.’ Finlay closed the box and dumped it back in the bag. ‘I mean it’s fine and everything, but once you get over the novelty, it’s just another place, right? You see the same bams all year round except when they go back home for a bit. Doctors appointments for their hearts, trying to see the kids that don’t speak to them anymore, that kind of thing. Getting more lively now the tourists are rocking up. Not that we get many of them in Olhão, mind.’
‘But you’re bored?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Didn’t you get that from my texts?’
‘Oh, I got it.’ Hunter bit into his burrito and chewed slowly. ‘How would you like to help me out?’
Hunter paced along the main street, the hordes of tourists making way for him. He had to swerve past an old man who stopped in front of him to inspect a menu, wiry hair coiling out of his flip flops.
‘—Paula’s bloody wedding. Can you imagine?’ Chantal was still outside the bar, though a parasol blocked the sun from her and Bruce. The table was full of empties, a load of crisp packets rammed into a glass.
Inside the bar, a group of Scots stood near a telly showing the Celtic-Rangers match, though they were shouting abuse at each other rather than focusing on the football. And not very good-natured abuse at that.
Chantal got up and wrapped a hug round Hunter. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve only been an hour and a half.’ Hunter pulled her tight. So piss
ed she didn’t care who saw them. Didn’t care who Bruce knew in Scotland. ‘Who’s Paula?’
She collapsed into a chair and clutched Hunter’s hand like it was the last thing she’d ever hold. ‘Never mind.’
Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘No. Who?’
‘It’s just…’
Bruce ran his tongue over his lips and raised his glass. ‘The old truth serum, mate. Chantal’s been talking to me. I know what’s going on.’
‘That’s more than I do.’
She whacked him on the arm. ‘Hoy.’
Bruce finished his pint then grinned. ‘Another round?’
‘I’ll have one.’ Hunter took her hand in his again.
She nodded. ‘Nothing for me, though. Christ.’ She coughed into her hand once Bruce had gone inside. ‘God, lager makes me so bloated.’
‘So why are you drinking it, then?’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘That sleazy bastard has been hitting on me.’
‘Bruce?’
‘Brucie bloody Boner.’
Hunter got to his feet. ‘I’m going to smash his face in.’
‘Craig, drop it, okay?’ Chantal burped into her hand. ‘He’s scared of you.’ She tried to clear her throat but stopped short. ‘Cat’s out of the bag with bloody Elvis anyway.’ She shrugged again. ‘How’s Finlay?’
Hunter couldn’t stop his eyebrows shooting up. ‘How do you know it was him I was meeting?’
She tapped her nose. ‘I just do.’
‘Right.’ Hunter pulled his seat closer to her. ‘You know how he is.’
‘What was he after?’
‘Food and the pleasure of my company.’ Hunter started shifting the empties to the next table. ‘This wedding. Whose is it?’
‘Paula Zabinski.’
‘Oh, I know her.’ Hunter nodded. ‘Not well enough to get invited to her wedding, dear.’
Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘Dear?’
‘You know what I mean. Worked on the beat with her.’ Hunter drummed his thumbs on the metal table. ‘Is this a new thing?’
‘Craig…’ She waved her hands around the air, didn’t seem to be aiming anywhere in particular. ‘Can’t we just enjoy this?’
‘Fine.’ Hunter sat back and pulled his sunglasses off his head. ‘Here comes lover boy.’
Another thwack on the arm. ‘Piss off.’
Bruce dumped the beer on the table. ‘What did I miss?’
Chantal smirked. ‘Nothing.’
‘My ears were burning. Come on, what’s going on?’
Hunter took one of the pints and had a sip. He stared at his beer, the fizz in his gut tasting worse than the cheapest Portuguese lager. ‘There’s a serial sex offender in the police station and he’ll get out soon.’
‘You think that’s bad?’ Bruce thumped down in a seat and cracked his knee off a chair, almost knocking the pints over. ‘We were working till four this morning. The locals had another false sighting of the kid at seven, so I had to get out of my pit on three hours sleep.’
‘Like being back on shift.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Bruce tore into a bag of crisps. ‘The bellends here don’t know how to do subtle. Guns and dogs and God knows what else.’ He crunched a crisp, swallowing it down. ‘Spent the rest of the morning interviewing mum and dad, proving they were the kid’s parents.’ He sipped his beer again. ‘Tell you what, though, Quaresma was pissed off at your little Wrestlemania on that street last night. Almost put our obbo at risk.’
‘Thought you were long gone by then?’
‘We were still waiting on a warrant. The courts are a bit slower than back home. Like most things out here, it was all a waste of time.’ Bruce reached into his pockets for some more bags of crisps and tossed them on the table. ‘I don’t feel so guilty about having a pint after the shifts I’ve put in on this case.’
Chantal swirled her lager around her glass, the beer fizzing up to the top. ‘I’m with you there.’
Bruce tore open a crisp bag along the seam and splayed it on the table. ‘We’ve got the Express, the Mail, the Sun all auditing what we’re up to. The London Post and the Edinburgh Argus too, God knows why. On a bloody jolly, the lot of them.’
‘Think you’ll find him?’
‘I don’t.’ Bruce stared deep into Hunter’s eyes, almost into his soul. ‘I think he’s long gone.’ He took another sip and rocked forward on his chair. ‘My lads are monitoring every flight out of this country and most out of Spain. We’ve got all the shipping manifests. I recommended to my superintendent that we head back home.’
‘And?’
‘The cogs are still grinding in Newcastle.’ Bruce picked up a crisp and ate it carefully, his forehead knotting. ‘Not that the locals help.’
‘You think they’re bent?’
‘Well, I find ineptitude hard to swallow at the best of times.’ Bruce yawned. ‘Christ, I need my bed.’ Another yawn, threatening to engulf him. ‘Better make this the last. I’d offer you a lift, but…’ He held up his glass.
‘We can walk.’ Chantal supped her beer. ‘We need to check out soon, anyway.’
‘You guys know the way to your hotel?’ Bruce pointed back down the street. ‘Follow the beach round to the path, then follow the yellow brick road.’ He gave them a wink. ‘Couple of secluded spots if you want to—’
‘Right.’ Chantal rolled her eyes and got to her feet. ‘I get the idea.’
The damp sand stuck to Hunter’s feet as he walked, the drier stuff grinding against his soles. The sun burnt his neck, the sea breeze cooling it. Chantal’s hand was soft in his. Life was good.
Except for the serial abuser not facing trial. Not in custody. Free to reoffend whenever he got out.
‘You’re right, Craig.’ Chantal led them inland towards a craggy rock, following the path. ‘It’d be nice to go on a proper holiday.’
‘Not here, but aye. We should.’ Hunter dropped his trainers on the sand and stepped into them again. He took his T-shirt off and stuffed it into his shorts’ pocket. That’s better. ‘How about after this wedding?’
Chantal let his hand go. ‘Craig…’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Look, it’s difficult. You know her, right?’
‘Used to. Kind of lost touch.’
‘Well. She’s a mate.’ Chantal tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘The problem is she’s worked for Scott Cullen for a year or something and he’s going.’
Everything clicked into place.
Hunter nodded. ‘So Sharon will be there?’
‘Right.’
Hunter put his hand on his hips. ‘So we should come out.’
‘Craig, it’s not that simple.’
‘Come on. Either I am your boyfriend or I’m not. None of this grey area shite.’
She narrowed her eyes at him, her steely glare cutting through to his marrow. ‘You accepted this when you started shagging me.’
‘I know but… Chantal, we need to move on.’ Hunter grabbed her shoulders, his fingers tightening around them. ‘Maybe it’s time we move in together.’
She brushed his hands away. ‘You think you know me well enough?’
‘I trust you. I love you. What else is there?’
‘It’s…’
‘Come on.’ He put his hands back. ‘What’s stopping you committing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it because we’ve been lying to people for months now?’
‘Part of it.’
‘Well, we can say we got together out here. One thing led to another and…’
She grabbed his hands. ‘I’ll think about it, okay?’
‘I’m serious, Chantal. You know I’m crazy about you, it’s too difficult for us to keep this a secret. And I don’t even know why we are.’
‘I’ll bloody think about it!’ She stomped off towards the rocky path, sand clouding up behind her.
Bloody child.
He jogged after her. ‘Look, this has got to stop. You’re acti
ng like a teenager. I’ve been making allowances for months. This is…’ He threw his hands up in the air. ‘Sod it, I don’t need this drama. I don’t deserve to feel like an embarrassment.’
‘You’re not an embarrassment.’
‘Right, well you’re making me feel like one. You owe it to our relationship to stand up and say we’re in love with each other.’
‘Craig…’
‘What?’
‘Look, it’s just—’
‘Just what? Fuck it, I’ll go back to uniform. I just want you to be honest about us.’
She kicked a stone along the road. An elderly couple crossed the street to avoid them. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘I should never have agreed to this charade.’
She stormed off down the road, head low, fists clenched.
‘Chantal, wait!’
She wasn’t slowing down. Speeding up if anything.
Bloody hell. He jogged off after her.
Rain started hammering down on them, splashing off his bare torso.
71
CHANTAL
* * *
‘Craig, just shut up.’ Chantal stopped outside their apartment and put her hand to her head.
Why can’t he stop? For once?
She got out her card, almost dropping her wallet in the process. ‘Look, I said I’ll think about it, that doesn’t mean on the walk home, okay?’
‘Fine, whatever.’ Didn’t look it. He was sulking, his bottom lip sticking out.
Chantal swiped through the door and stopped dead. ‘Shite.’
The place was a mess. Clothes lay all over the floor. The bed was pulled apart, the two mattresses they’d pushed together were now bunched up against two of the walls, the bases upturned.
‘This isn’t happening…’ Chantal scanned around the carnage. Their clothes were all mixed together, the toiletries stuffed into the kitchen sink, the washbags turned inside out.
Her case was on the kitchen floor, filled with water. Just a bra left inside.
Hunter’s was next to it, soaked through. Empty.