Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  Sharon was quiet for a few seconds. Office chatter boomed out loud as before. ‘I expect you on that plane.’

  Chantal let her head fall. ‘We’ll be on that flight.’

  ‘Good.’

  Click.

  ‘Bloody hell…’ Chantal tossed the phone onto the bed. Hunter was over by the window, staring out.

  She started stripping off her clothes, bloody and soaked with sweat. Her hair was matted solid. She padded through to the shower and turned on the water. It burst out, a tepid trickle. Within seconds, it heated up and shot out in a torrent. She stepped under the spray and worked the water into the wound on her head, cleaning it. Her feet were covered in red water, starting to fill the bathtub. The shampoo stung as she lathered it into the wound.

  All this pain and agony and we don’t have Tulloch.

  Finlay is lying in hospital, his life in the balance, and Tulloch is…

  What? Where the hell is he?

  80

  HUNTER

  * * *

  The shower’s white noise hissed through the apartment.

  Hunter sat on the balcony, scanning around for any movement outside. Like he was on an operation again, hunting insurgents. Looking for enemy combatants.

  Just…

  He checked his phone. No news on Finlay.

  Won’t even get a chance to visit him in hospital. Poor guy was alone, nobody to see him.

  Maybe calling Mary would be a good idea, let her know, at least. Maybe she’d come out here. And what? See her broken ex-husband? At least give her the choice.

  His phone flashed up. Elvis. He stabbed the screen. ‘Finally…’

  ‘Craig, I heard about Finlay.’

  How? Bloody Quaresma banging those jungle drums.

  ‘Right… He’ll pull through.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Hunter didn’t reply.

  Down the line, horse-racing commentary blared out of a TV speaker somewhere. Elvis was in the bookies, as per bloody usual. ‘You still in Portugal, mate?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, DI McNeill told me to pick you up from the airport, bring you straight back here.’

  Hunter stopped at the top of the stairs and shut his eyes. ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Tell me about it. Hell of a day I’ve had. Just getting my piece now, mate.’

  ‘In the bookies?’

  ‘That’s a problem?’

  Not the time to get into it.

  Hunter swapped his phone to the other hand. ‘Have you got anything on Tulloch?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Where he is?’

  ‘No, mate. We’re monitoring all the airports. Nothing’s pinged up. Fat Jimmy’s calling round on repeat. Nobody under that name has travelled.’

  ‘What about under another name?’

  ‘Very good. Got his photo and description with all the airlines. They’re checking that, too. Tulloch’s a pretty unique fella, hard to miss. Already stopped some giant psychopath from getting on a flight from Faro. Turned out the boy was Polish, lives in Edinburgh.’

  ‘What about the other end?’

  ‘Craig, he’s on a no-fly list. Drop it.’

  ‘Right. Keep me posted, okay?’ Hunter killed the call and pocketed his phone. He leaned back in the creaking chair and put his feet up, let the sun attack his skin.

  What to do, what to do…

  Get on that plane? Go home, tail between our legs?

  Stay and fight?

  81

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal twisted the handle to cold and let the freezing water blast her head, her shoulders, her back, her bruised arse. Her breath slipped out in a rapid pant. Then she twisted the shower off and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her hair.

  She snatched Hunter’s towel and started drying herself off.

  All that time preparing a case and it goes to shite so quickly. All that work, for nothing.

  She wrapped the towel round her body.

  Finlay lying in a hospital bed, dying because of her.

  She walked back through and fished out the only clean clothes that hadn’t been soaked. Black top, black skirt.

  Should just wear a white flag.

  She hauled on her underwear then tugged the skirt up.

  Hunter was out on the balcony, tapping his phone off his hands, usually a bad sign. All that thinking going on inside that skull. He’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, finally looking like the Scotsman abroad. Filthy sod hadn’t showered. ‘That call didn’t sound like it went well.’

  She hauled her top on and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We’re leaving.’

  He scowled at her. ‘So that’s it? We’re flying back?’

  ‘Like we have a choice.’ Chantal stared out of the window. Dark clouds billowed in off the sea, like a fortnight in Ullapool. Two rainbows arced through the sky, the sun still bright in the foreground. ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘We can stay here.’

  ‘And wait for Quaresma to arrest you.’ Chantal put her feet into her sandals and tightened the grips. ‘You saw what he was like at the crime scene.’ She paced over to him, resting her head on his shoulders. He flinched away, so she kissed it instead. Both of them, battered and bruised, for no benefit. ‘We don’t have a Plan B, do we?’

  ‘I’m all out of ideas.’ Hunter pushed away. ‘It’d be nice to stay here for a couple more nights. I’m so tired I could do with lying on the beach.’

  ‘Sipping wine and reading.’ She wrapped him in a hug. ‘A nice red from the—’

  Across the quad, Tulloch’s door burst open and Captain Brian Rollo-Smith stormed out, shaking his head.

  Chantal grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘That looks like a Plan B to me.’

  82

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter stomped across the paving towards Tulloch’s room, his knee cracking as he walked. ‘Captain!’

  Rollo-Smith stood outside, ramrod straight, chatting to a local uniformed officer. He spun round and frowned at them. ‘Lance Corporal Hunter.’ Then he rolled his eyes. ‘You’re still in the country, I see.’

  ‘Just leaving. Surprised to see you, though.’

  Rollo-Smith gestured for the uniform to leave them. ‘I need to visit the scene of Private Tulloch’s alleged crime.’ He paused as Chantal arrived. ‘The rape.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Rollo-Smith scowled at Chantal. ‘There has been more than one?’

  ‘Two that we know of. And he’s party to an attempted murder.’

  ‘Let’s take a step back, shall we?’ Rollo-Smith got out a small notebook and a black pen with brass fittings. ‘You’re suggesting Private Tulloch has been on some sort of crime spree in the Algarve?’

  ‘It’s not a suggestion.’ Hunter shoved his hands in his pockets, grabbing his keys and his wallet. ‘Speak to Inspector Quaresma.’

  Rollo-Smith nodded slowly. ‘I have an appointment with the good Inspector soon.’

  ‘He likes his appointments.’ Hunter glanced inside the room. Nothing much going on in there, just a uniformed officer looking bored. ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘Due diligence.’

  ‘And have you got anything?’

  Rollo-Smith shrugged. ‘This room has been cleared out.’

  Hunter pointed into the room. ‘Heather Latimer was raped in there. Her blood toxicology will show he laced her drinks with that GHB.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Again, ask Quaresma.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rollo-Smith rubbed his gleaming forehead. ‘Listen, do you know if anyone’s done a full forensic analysis of this room?’

  Hunter nodded at the uniform in the room. ‘Can’t you ask him?’

  ‘He’s my chaperone, Lance Corporal.’

  ‘What?’ Hunter’s gut lurched. ‘Hasn’t he been guarding?’

  ‘He met me at Faro half an hour ago and brought me straight here.
’

  ‘Shite.’ Hunter barged past him into the room, blood thudding in his ears. The stupid bastards had left the place unattended.

  Meaning Tulloch can get back in here and…

  Hunter raced over and picked up the pile of stuff by the kettle. The camera case was gone. ‘You stupid bastards.’

  Chantal stopped next to him. ‘What’s up?’

  Hunter grimaced. ‘Tulloch’s passport and MOD90 have gone.’ He scowled at Rollo-Smith. ‘You need to—’

  ‘I will not take orders from you.’

  ‘This is all your fault, you know that?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’ve dropped a bollock here.’ Hunter stepped forward. ‘If you’d been on the ball, we’d have Sean Tulloch in custody. Paisley Sanderson wouldn’t be in hospital. Heather Latimer wouldn’t have been raped. Finlay Sinclair wouldn’t be fighting for his life!’

  Rollo-Smith grabbed his wrists and locked his thumbs. ‘Listen, sonny, I’m a Captain. You were a Lance Corporal before your discharge.’

  ‘Discharge? You cheeky bastard.’ Hunter shook him off. ‘You’ve got no power over me. I don’t even have to call you “sir”.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Rollo-Smith leered at him, his big demon head feeling like it was looming over him. ‘Inspector Quaresma has made me aware of your behaviour out here. Kicking the snot out of anyone who looks down their nose at you.’

  ‘You better watch out, then.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rollo-Smith shook his head. ‘Lance Corporal, you need to leave or Inspector Quaresma shall have you on charges.’ He nodded at Chantal. ‘I suggest you follow orders for once’

  ‘We’re not letting you—’

  ‘Craig…’ Chantal seized Hunter’s elbow and led him away. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, he needs—’

  ‘Drop it.’ She tugged hard at his arm and he let her pull him away from Rollo-Smith.

  Hunter stopped outside their room. ‘This is a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Craig, we need to go.’ She grabbed his elbow again. ‘Come on.’

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘Craig, you’ve heard what everyone’s got to say. We need to get out of here.’

  Hunter brushed Chantal off and looked back the way. Rollo-Smith was outside Tulloch’s room, almost shouting into his phone. Prick.

  Going back to Scotland is giving up. Letting Tulloch get away with it.

  Leaving poor Anna Crichton tied up on a bed for three days, a bowl of stale water for company, while he went to Blackpool with his mates. Treating her like… That. No one deserved that.

  Battering the living shite out of Paisley. After all he’d put her through.

  But… What else could they do? There wasn’t anything, was there?

  I can’t give up, not yet.

  One last futile glare at Rollo-Smith and Hunter went inside. He started chucking his clothes back into his suitcase and looked over at Chantal. ‘Here’s the thing. Tulloch’s ID is gone. What does that mean to you?’

  She was mirroring him, throwing her possessions in the case. ‘Craig… Come on.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Hunter shoved his washbag into the pouch at the front. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That he’s left the country or is on his way out.’

  ‘Well, maybe. Maybe not.’ He shook his head at her. ‘What it means is he’s been in that room since attacking Finlay.’

  She frowned, looking like she wasn’t quite following his logic.

  ‘His MOD90 was in the room a couple of hours ago.’ Hunter checked his watch. ‘It’s half six now. Nearer eight hours, but most of that time he was in the police station. His MOD90’s gone now…’

  Chantal rammed her washbag in the case and stuffed it down. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’ Hunter scanned around the room. Be lucky to get back their deposit. ‘Look, Elvis said Quaresma’s stopping Tulloch flying out of the country. Which means he’s still in Portugal.’

  ‘He could’ve driven, though.’ She zipped up her case. ‘Could be in Spain.’ She kicked her case over towards the door. ‘Or he could’ve got a boat and be tucking into some Marrakech hash right now.’

  Hunter let his head dip. ‘I need to find him.’

  She tapped on her watch. ‘We need to get on that plane, Craig.’

  ‘He can’t…’

  ‘Come on.’ Chantal wrapped an arm around him. ‘It’s not our fight anymore. We’ve got to leave this to Quaresma and Rollo-Smith, okay?’

  Can’t leave it like this…

  Hunter fished out his phone and dialled Quaresma again.

  ‘Craig, what are you doing?’

  He went back out to the patio. ‘Give me a second.’

  Quaresma answered it quickly. ‘Constable.’ He sighed, clicking his tongue against his teeth. ‘Do you need a lift to the airport?’

  Hunter leaned back against the wall. ‘Have your forensics officers been through Tulloch’s room yet?’

  ‘We’ve not had the chance.’ Quaresma paused. Sounded like an engine firing up in the background. ‘It’s just been a monitoring operation so far.’

  ‘Not a very good one. Tulloch’s been in there and taken his ID with him.’

  ‘Shit.’ Quaresma hissed into the phone. ‘Shit.’ The engine noise got louder. ‘Why have you been in his room, Constable?’

  ‘I haven’t. But I take it you know Captain Rollo-Smith is there now?’

  Quaresma hissed again. ‘Stay there.’

  ‘I’ve got to leave the country, I’m afraid.’ Hunter killed the call and pocketed his phone.

  Chantal got in front of him and blocked him getting past, her nostrils flared. ‘Craig… What are you doing now?’

  ‘Causing some mischief.’

  ‘You need to grow up.’

  Rain started hammering down, thick stair rods drilling into his shoulders. Like a Tuesday afternoon in Stranraer.

  Over the quad, Elena and another two officers stood guard outside Tulloch’s apartment. He gave her a nod, got one back.

  Gordon Brownlee staggered past her, looking like he’d spent all day hard at it. He stopped by the apartment next to Tulloch’s and fumbled some keys out of his pocket.

  Hunter barged past Chantal. ‘Come on.’

  Through the window, Gordon Brownlee was sitting on a chair in full-on hangover slump, flicking through TV channels.

  Hunter tapped on the door and waited, out of view. He smiled at Elena, her eyes narrowing. ‘Meeting a friend.’

  Elena nodded and looked away.

  Chantal got up close and whispered, ‘Craig, what the hell are you up to?’

  Another knock on the door. ‘If this doesn’t work, we’re getting on that plane. Okay?’

  ‘Craig, come on…’

  The door slid open and Hunter wedged his foot in the gap.

  Gordon Brownlee stood there, giving him the up and down. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Where’s Tulloch?’

  ‘What?’ Brownlee pushed the door. It dunted off Hunter’s toes. ‘Piss off.’

  Hunter nodded at Chantal, his eyebrows up, then thumped again. ‘Where is he?’

  Brownlee looked away. ‘Not seen him for a while.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Piss off.’ Brownlee shoved the door. Hunter caught it with his foot and heaved it back, cracking off Brownlee’s nose. Hunter stepped forward and grabbed Brownlee’s throat, pushing him inside, pinning him against the wall. ‘Where is Tulloch?’

  ‘I’ve no idea!’

  ‘Tell me where he is.’

  ‘Help!’ Brownlee’s shout came out as a whisper.

  Hunter nodded at the wall. ‘Thought you were staying next door?’

  ‘Cops aren’t letting me in.’ Brownlee sucked in air. ‘Matty gave me his keycard.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No idea, man.’ Brownlee grabbed Hunter’s hands, trying to pry them away from his th
roat. ‘Not seen Sean since last night.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ Wriggling bastard was going to alert the cops next door. Hunter pushed him against the wall with a thud. Like that’s any better. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s not been here!’

  Hunter tightened his grip on Brownlee’s throat. ‘You and Keith were with him this afternoon, weren’t you?’

  ‘Stop that!’ Brownlee pushed Hunter away then rubbed at his throat. ‘Sitting, having a few beers. Sean called Matty. Matty ran off. Keith went with him. This was hours ago, man.’

  ‘About five o’clock?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Hunter glanced at the door. No sign of Chantal. ‘It was to attack me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ Brownlee pushed Hunter back. ‘That bird wouldn’t—’

  The door burst open.

  83

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal checked behind her. That female uniformed officer was looking their way. Hunter was about to go all Rambo on Brownlee. The last thing we bloody need.

  She walked towards her, smiling. ‘It’s Elena, isn’t it?’

  She got a narrow-eyed smile in response. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  ‘One of Craig’s friends from his army days.’

  Elena frowned. ‘He’s a soldier?’

  ‘Was.’ Chantal leaned against the wall outside the front door. ‘Weirdest coincidence, right?’

  Elena barked out a laugh. ‘I do not like coincidence.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Chantal gave her a sisterly grin. ‘Did you get to interview Sean Tulloch in the end?’

  Another nod, smaller and shorter, but noticeable. ‘He is a pig.’

  ‘And, still, your boss let him go?’

  ‘He is not my boss.’ Elena made a face like she wanted to spit. ‘Craig told me what that pig did to those women in your country. Is it true?’