Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘Craig.’ Chantal tapped the lockbox under the TV. ‘What’s the code?’

  Hunter was still standing in the doorway. ‘1776.’

  She entered it and twisted the lock. Their passports were still inside. She let out a sigh of relief. ‘Some good news, at least.’

  Hunter snatched his off her and put it in his back pocket. ‘This can’t be Tulloch. He’s still at the station.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Hunter shrugged. Cheeky bastard is hiding something. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this. Come on.’

  ‘I’m staying here, Craig.’ Chantal got out her phone and dialled Quaresma’s number.

  72

  HUNTER

  * * *

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Hunter leaned across the reception desk and kept his voice low. ‘I’m a police officer.’ He slid his warrant card across. ‘Is there any way you can expedite this?’

  The receptionist scanned across the card, his eyes flaring. Same Welsh guy as when they checked in, the one who flirted with Chantal. He passed it back. ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘I need to access your CCTV footage to see who’s been in our room.’

  ‘Give me a second, sir.’ He tottered off behind the giant cheese plant.

  Hunter grabbed his phone and redialled Finlay for the sixteenth bloody time.

  ‘Yo.’ Sounded like Mansun playing in the background. “Wide Open Space.” Like it was 1997.

  ‘Finally.’ Hunter turned to scan the reception area. ‘Been calling for the last five minutes. Where have you been?’

  ‘Sat right outside the police station, amigo. Had my phone on mute. Only noticed the now.’

  A middle-aged American sidled up to the next desk and gave it the full, ‘Howdy, y’all?’

  Hunter leaned forward, trying to follow where the receptionist had gone. ‘Is Tulloch still there?’

  The background music twisted down a few notches. ‘He’s still inside.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Fifty million percent, dude. I can see both exits from here.’

  ‘You’ve not pissed off to get a sandwich or anything?’

  ‘After that monster fajita?’

  ‘What about going to the toilet?’

  ‘After that monster fajita?’

  Hunter frowned. Didn’t even make sense. ‘What about a drink or a paper?’

  ‘Got a load of bottled water in the boot for when I go on a long drive.’ Sounded like he took a swig, as if on cue. ‘Listen, I recognised a guy from the pub. Paolo, he’s a cop. He checked for me and Tulloch’s still inside.’

  ‘You could’ve opened with that.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  The receptionist wandered back round, followed by a knuckle-dragging brute who could’ve played rugby for Portugal.

  ‘Right, Fin, I’ll catch you later. Call me the second you hear.’

  ‘Will do, jab—’

  Hunter killed the call and pocketed the phone, giving the receptionist a wide grin.

  ‘Sir, Pepé here is the head of security.’ The receptionist ran a hand down the muscle ball’s arm, thicker than his waist. Looked like he spent all day with a pair of dumb bells in front of the mirror rather than looking at CCTV. ‘He’ll be able to help you.’

  ‘Come with me, sir.’ Pepé spoke in the most brutal English, all clipped vowels and hardened consonants. He pulled up the partition and guided Hunter through, past the cheese plant. ‘You are police?’

  ‘Based near Edinburgh in Scotland.’

  ‘Ah, Edinburgh.’ Pepé opened a door behind a photocopier machine. ‘Beautiful city. I play rugby there many year ago.’

  Hunter entered the office, plusher than the standard of the rooms, anyway. A glass desk ran along the far wall, with a laptop plugged into a giant TV mounted on top. ‘Did he tell you what happened?’

  ‘Is not uncommon.’

  ‘I need to see the CCTV for the area outside our room.’

  ‘Kevin told me.’ Pepé sat behind the desk, almost blocking the TV, and twisted his neck until it cracked. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Hunter, we do not have CCTV covering those rooms.’

  Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘None?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. That block is only two years old and we haven’t had approval to install the system. Very high cost.’

  Looked a lot older than two years. ‘What about the entrances?’

  Pepé waved a hand back towards the door. ‘There is one by the reception.’

  Hunter peered round to look at the TV. It showed the bar area from the roadside, with a thin sliver of beach and the next hotel. Gordon Brownlee and a couple of the other squaddies were there, but no sign of Tulloch or Matty.

  Hunter tapped at another camera, pointing to what looked like their apartment block. ‘What about that one?’

  ‘Is not recording.’

  Hunter shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Dummy camera. Sorry. Is standard practice.’

  ‘Do you have staff?’

  Pepé’s thick forehead creased. ‘I have a bo staff, yes.’

  ‘I meant people working for you.’

  ‘There’s me.’ Pepé patted the side of the TV. ‘This replaces my men.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen anyone suspicious by our room?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  73

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  ‘You need to send someone right away.’ Chantal stood in the doorway, scanning up and down the path outside their apartment. No movement in Tulloch’s flat. She leaned against the wall instead. ‘This is serious.’

  Quaresma sighed down the line. ‘Sergeant, I thought you were leaving?’

  ‘We’re trying to, but someone has turned over our room.’

  His snort turned into laughter. ‘And you think it is Mr Tulloch?’

  ‘Tell me it’s not.’

  ‘He has only just been released.’

  ‘You’ve let him go?’

  Another sigh. ‘If your paperwork was—’

  ‘You!’

  Chantal swung round to look behind her.

  Nora O’Meara was powering towards her, face puckered tight. She stopped and looked her up and down. ‘This is your fault!’

  ‘I’ve got to go. Send some officers now.’ Chantal killed the call. ‘Nora, what’s—’

  ‘You bitch!’ Nora slapped her palm off Chantal’s shoulder. ‘I believed you!’

  Chantal pushed the next slap away, a thud rocking though her phone, sending a dull shockwave down her arm. ‘Stop hitting me!’

  Nora held up her hand for another go then let it drop. She pointed over at their apartment. ‘My cousin’s just got back from the police station. Do you know what they did to her?’

  Something I can bloody report, I hope.

  ‘I spoke to Heather when I was there.’ Chantal smiled, trying to disarm Nora. ‘She was giving evidence, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Not like you’d think.’ Nora squinted at her. ‘They don’t believe she was raped. Hauled her over the coals for it. Made her speak to that Sean boy.’

  ‘What?’ Chantal rubbed her hair out of her face. Still felt half pissed. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Well it did.’ Nora raised her hand again. ‘And it’s all you—’

  ‘I’m warning you.’ Chantal gave Nora her fierce police officer stare, waiting for her arm to flop back again. ‘How is Heather?’

  ‘How do you bloody think? She’s blaming herself for what happened.’

  ‘Christ.’ Chantal ran a hand across her forehead.

  Running in there, trying to force everything through without understanding the ground rules. The caveman attitudes of the local cops. How hard it is to get anything done.

  ‘I hope you’re happy with yourself.’ Nora brushed her hair away from her face. ‘I’ve been in our apartment all afternoon, waiting for her. Then she called me and…’

  ‘How bad is it?’<
br />
  ‘I’m a psychiatric nurse. I’ve seen worse, but not much. Heather’s not in a good way. Catatonic.’ Nora stepped forward. ‘Aren’t you going to do something about it?’

  ‘We’ll report it to our local liaison.’

  ‘I bet you bloody will.’ Nora’s eyes widened as she looked into their room. ‘What happened here?’

  Chantal glanced behind her. ‘Someone’s raided it.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ She simpered at Chantal. ‘Sean?’

  Chantal rubbed the back of her hand along her mouth. She pointed back down the lane. ‘Your room looks out on this bit. Did you see anything near ours?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’ Nora shook her head, tears flooding her eyes. ‘Wait a second. I saw him, when I went out for a bottle of water. That guy. The big one from Leeds, I think.’

  ‘Matty?’

  Nora clicked her fingers. ‘That’s him.’

  Chantal glanced back at the room next door to Tulloch’s. Nobody there.

  When was the last time I saw him? Craig had a run-in with some of them, but not Matty.

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Well, he was sort of sitting near your room. Reading a paper.’

  ‘Anyone else with him?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Chantal nodded at Nora. ‘I’ll speak to my boss and—’ Her phone blared out. Hunter.

  74

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter stepped out into the blazing sunlight and swivelled his shades over his eyes.

  Bloody amateurs.

  Slow down. Think things through.

  Hunter glanced over at the bar area. Gordon Brownlee and his mates were settling into a more leisurely pace of drinking, sipping their pints slowly.

  What do they know? Was one of them in the room?

  He got a scowl from Brownlee as the big lump Keith joined him, looking like he’d found his Valium.

  So Brownlee had been released. How long till Tulloch was out?

  Hunter ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Matty?’

  ‘Matty.’ Chantal was pouting at him. ‘We need to find him.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’ Hunter stomped off away from her, his feet squelching on the damp mosaic tiles, and sidled up to the bar area.

  Big Keith’s eyes lit up as he caught sight of Hunter, his nostrils twitching. He was smoking a cigar, sucking deep on the brown leather. ‘Gogs, can you smell bacon?’

  Don’t mention bacon…

  Hunter stopped, the partition separating them. Not now.

  He stared around them, the bar filled with lairy lads lying in the sun, drinking lager. The sounds of the pool, splashing and giggling and roars of laughter. Distant traffic. The smell of cigarette smoke and diesel belching out of a coach.

  ‘Definitely some pork-based product.’ Gordon Brownlee took another sip of beer. ‘Maybe ham?’

  Keith smirked. ‘Or spam?’

  ‘This isn’t the time for this sort of shit.’ Hunter checked the wall. Easy enough to jump over. Get high enough and crack Keith in the face as he landed, then settle in on Brownlee. His other two mates looked a bit handy, though.

  He rested against the partition. ‘I need to speak to Matty Ibbetson.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Brownlee nodded slowly. ‘Oink don’t know where he is.’ He frowned at Keith. ‘Have you seen ham?’

  Keith took another suck on his cigar. ‘Might be in a pigpen.’

  ‘I don’t have time for—’

  ‘Piss off, you pig bastard.’ Brownlee shook his head as he got up. ‘You can’t come over here and expect us to help you.’ He jabbed a finger at him, inches away from Hunter’s nose. ‘You arrested Sean, took me into the cop shop and now you’re after Matty. When’s it Big Keith’s turn?’

  Hunter stood up tall. Felt like he needed a few more feet to intimidate this lot. Not just a bunch of neds in Newhaven. ‘Someone’s raided our room and I’d—’

  Brownlee stuck out his bottom lip and ran his finger over it. ‘Aw, diddums.’

  I could batter you into next—

  Hunter’s phone blasted out. He narrowed his eyes at Brownlee, then at Keith. ‘This is serious. Where is he?’

  Brownlee flicked him the Vs. ‘Piss off, pig.’

  Hunter glared at Keith then started smiling. ‘I’ll piss off, alright. But when I get home, I’ll get in touch with the cops where you live. A little bit of stop and search every day. Maybe some accidental police violence when you resist arrest on some false charge. Every day.’

  Keith scowled at him. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘You live in Muirhouse, don’t you?’ Hunter nodded at Brownlee. ‘Much easier to call in favours for you.’

  Brownlee collapsed back into a chair, his face white.

  ‘See you around.’ Hunter walked off, checking his phone. Missed call from Finlay.

  Shite.

  He stuck it to his ear and scanned around, looking for a red Fiesta. ‘What’s up?’

  Finlay’s engine roared in the background. ‘Been trying to call you, dude!’

  ‘Sorry, something’s come up.’

  ‘Aye, well, I need a bit of a hand, jabroni.’ The engine’s roar turned to a squeal. ‘Tulloch got out two minutes ago and a car picked him up. I’m following them right now.’

  Hunter spun around. No signs of any new arrivals since the last scan. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘They’re not far from where you’re— Shite.’ A squeal of brakes. ‘They’ve stopped outside a bar. Just up from your hotel.’

  ‘What?’ Hunter started jogging up the slope away from the bar area. ‘It’s definitely Tulloch?’

  ‘Aye, he’s just got out of the car. And what the—?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Shite, he’s gone down a lane at the side.’

  Hunter sped up, his gut lurching. ‘Is it the Cheap and Cheerful?’

  ‘Aye, it is. Why?’

  ‘That means he’s going back to Luisa’s apartment to finish the job.’

  75

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal caught up with Hunter by the main road as a bus thundered towards them. Could almost feel the ground rumbling through her sandals. ‘You got him?’

  He had his phone clamped to his ear. ‘Going to voicemail, as per bloody usual.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ She jogged along the road then darted through a gap in traffic. ‘Are you leaving a message?’

  ‘That’s the fifth one.’ Hunter followed her over the road as cars hissed past behind. ‘What’s the plan?’

  Chantal stopped to look around. The lane at the side of Cheap and Cheerful was empty and quiet, but that didn’t prove anything. ‘We need to wait for Quaresma, Craig.’

  ‘He let Tulloch go.’

  ‘We still need to play by the rules.’ Her phone blasted out. Quaresma. ‘Here we go.’ She answered it. ‘We need—’

  ‘Whatever you’re about to say, Sergeant, save it.’ Quaresma paused. Sounded like he was driving. ‘Leave my country or I will arrest you and Constable Hunter. If he calls me one more time, I will—’

  ‘You’ve let Tulloch go.’ She stopped, hand on hip. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sergeant, I let Mr Tulloch go because he’s not a suspect of any crimes in my country.’

  Hunter stomped up the steps towards the bar manager, shouting the odds at him.

  Chantal grimaced. Not the time to argue the toss. ‘Look, we need some support here. He’s gone back to Luisa Oliveira’s apartment.’

  ‘Their sex had consent.’ Quaresma’s voice hissed down the line. ‘If you or Mr Hunter assault him again, I will arrest you.’

  ‘Two men.’

  ‘Get on the plane, Sergeant.’

  Click.

  Shite.

  Chantal pocketed her phone and shook her head at Hunter as he stomped back down to her level. ‘No dice.’ She motioned behind him. ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘Having a go at
our friend José the barman for not calling me when Tulloch showed up this morning.’

  ‘Great, that’s all we need.’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’

  Chantal got out of the way of a red Fiesta as it barrelled towards her, the windows wound down. ‘That’s pretty much the size of it.’

  ‘Size of what?’ Finlay poked his tanned head out. ‘Your wanger, Hunter?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’ Hunter crouched down next to the car. ‘Where did he go?’

  Finlay waved over at the bar. ‘Down that alley.’

  Chantal stared down the lane again. Tulloch was down there, doing God knows what to Luisa.

  Chantal dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.

  If we go in there, Quaresma will go apeshit.

  But if we don’t…

  Footsteps rattled nearby.

  ‘Shite!’

  She opened her eyes again.

  Finlay was staring at her, his eyes widening.

  Tulloch was running right at her. He stepped into a right hook and punched Chantal on the cheek. She tumbled backwards over the bonnet of Finlay’s car and cracked her head off the windscreen.

  76

  HUNTER

  * * *

  ‘No!’ Hunter raced down the steps towards Finlay’s car.

  Chantal rolled back over the car, her head crunching off the windscreen in a sickening thud. She toppled off the far side.

  Hunter vaulted at Tulloch, hauling him face first onto the concrete. He dropped his knee on Tulloch’s back. ‘You don’t hit women!’

  Tulloch twisted to the left and threw Hunter off, his hip crunching against the edge of the pavement. Tulloch lashed out with his feet, thudding his boots into Hunter’s fists.

  Tulloch was up and driving both feet at Hunter’s thighs, pushing him back against the car. Tulloch kicked Hunter in the balls. ‘That’s for earlier, you prick!’