by Ed James
Chantal huffed out a sigh. ‘The trouble is getting the victims to confirm it, you know?’
‘Is problem we have here. Nobody will speak.’
A thud came from behind them.
Chantal tried to act like it was nothing. ‘Do you have any idea where Tulloch is?’
Elena shook her head. ‘He is vanished.’
Chantal ran a hand through her hair, still damp from her shower. How much bloody time did he need? She leaned back against the wall. ‘It’s nice here.’
‘Too much sun.’
‘Not a thing where I’m from.’
‘Where is?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘I know that city. Is lovely.’ Elena frowned. ‘Your skin is not Scottish, though. I mean—’ Her radio blasted out static and a wall of guttural Portuguese. She entered Tulloch’s room and answered it.
Chantal nodded at the two officers inside with her. Male, more interested in checking her out than stopping Hunter… doing whatever he was doing to Brownlee.
Elena burst out of the room, clutching her radio, and barged past Chantal. ‘I need to deal with this.’ She unholstered her pistol and kicked the door open. She aimed her gun at Hunter, then shifted it to point at Brownlee. ‘Gordon Brownlee, I’m arresting you for the murder of Finlay Sinclair.’
Brownlee raised his hands. ‘I’ve done nothing!’
Hunter got between Elena and Brownlee. ‘This is wrong. He didn’t push Finlay.’
She glanced at him. ‘I have my orders.’
‘But it was Matty Ibbetson.’
‘You need to take this up with Inspector Quaresma, my friend.’ Elena unfolded a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on Brownlee’s left wrist. ‘I need to read him his rights. If you get in my way one more time, I will—’
‘It wasn’t him!’ Hunter’s whole body clenched. His eyes flickered. ‘Wait, did you say murder?’ He swallowed hard. ‘You mean attempted murder, don’t you?’
Elena snapped the other cuff on and led Brownlee towards the door. ‘You need to speak to the Inspector.’
Hunter stormed out of the room, his eyes like tiny pinpricks. Chantal wanted to grab him, take him away and calm him down.
Quaresma stepped out, shaking his head at Rollo-Smith. ‘Here they are, indeed. Very clearly not at Faro airport.’
‘What’s happened to Finlay?’
Quaresma’s head slumped low. ‘I’m very sorry. Finlay Sinclair died.’
84
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter sucked in breath, bitter and acidic. Snot bubbled in his nose. ‘He’s… He…’
The bedsprings creaked as Chantal sat next to him. Her hand stroked down his back.
He wrapped an arm around her and held her there. The shitty hotel room spinning, Finlay Sinclair’s life dispersing around them, his last breath fizzing out into the air. Nothing of him left, just a pile of skin, flesh and bone. His personality, his annoying habits, his everything, all gone.
Jabroni.
Twat.
She kissed his cheek. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
Hunter grabbed her hand, clutching it between both of his. ‘Of course I want you to stay.’
‘You need to let it out.’
Hunter rubbed his cheeks, swiping the tears away like a windscreen wiper. ‘I’ll grieve for him later.’ He looked over at the door, his eyes narrowing to a thin strip. ‘Right now, I want to make sure we get Matty for this.’
A knock on the door.
Quaresma leaning in, pouting. ‘Mr Hunter, does Mr Sinclair have a next of kin?’
‘His parents are dead.’ Hunter brushed away fresh tears. ‘He got divorced a few years ago. No kids either.’ His forehead creased. ‘Do you know what happened?’
Quaresma nodded. ‘He cracked rib in his fall, tore something. Bad luck. Mr Sinclair bled out. The paramedics and the doctors tried everything they could, but…’
Hunter got up and paced around the room. The curtains weren’t fully shut, letting in light. ‘I was speaking to him. He didn’t have any blood in his mouth or…’
‘I understand. That’s what the doctor told me.’ Quaresma perched on the dressing table opposite Chantal. ‘She assures me there’s nothing anyone could have done.’
Hunter stopped next to him and leaned low. ‘Nothing we could’ve done?’ He gripped the edge of the table. ‘How about arresting Tulloch when we asked? Pick any of the times, go on. I can count at least four of them.’
‘Don’t play that card, Constable. I’m warning you.’
Hunter stood, blood curdling in his veins. ‘You let him go and…’
Quaresma looked down his long nose at Hunter then at Chantal. ‘Now, I will escort you to the airport.’
Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘You let him murder someone!’
Quaresma jolted upright and jabbed a finger in the air. ‘This is my country!’ His words rattled round the small room. He rubbed a gob of saliva from his lips. ‘You are leaving! Now!’
The door opened behind them. ‘I could hear you in France, João.’ Hunter didn’t even have to look round. Rollo-Smith’s syrupy tones. ‘Can I have a moment with them, please?’
Quaresma shook his head. ‘Anything you want to say, you can say in front of me.’
Rollo-Smith held the door open wide and smiled at Quaresma. ‘Two minutes, please.’
‘Very well.’ Quaresma huffed to his feet and trudged out, keeping a leery glare on Chantal. He slammed the door.
85
CHANTAL
* * *
Rollo-Smith cracked his knuckles, left then right. Sounded like he’d snapped the ligaments. ‘Now what the bloody hell is going on here, mm?’
Chantal ran a hand through her hair. Play it cool. And keep playing it cool. ‘We were obtaining intelligence on—’
‘Sergeant.’ Rollo-Smith shook his head slowly. ‘Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant. How about I give you a little bit of friendly advice, mm?’ He left a pause, but Chantal wasn’t going to fill it. ‘Your behaviour and that of your colleague is close to turning this into an international incident. You have to leave.’
Chantal hauled herself to her feet and stepped away from him. ‘We need to bring Tulloch and Matty in.’
‘Matty? Who?’
‘Ibbetson. Another one of your lot. He killed Finlay Sinclair.’
Rollo-Smith clenched his jaw. ‘Inspector Quaresma has Gordon Brownlee in custody.’
‘He’s got the wrong man.’
‘Need I remind you that you’re on foreign territory and you are expected to extend due courtesy to those officers guiding you, mm?’ Rollo-Smith let it rest for a few seconds. ‘João is an honest man, doing an honest job here.’
‘When did you get on first name terms with him?’
‘I’ll have your bloody badge, Sergeant. This is a disgrace.’
‘The only disgrace here is how your good friend João can aid and abet Sean Tulloch’s crimes in this country.’
Rollo-Smith stopped, his breath hissing out. He shut his eyes. ‘Do you have any evidence, Sergeant?’
Chantal looked away. ‘We’ve been here since early yesterday and, at every opportunity, he’s slowed us down. Or got in our way.’
Hunter pulled away from the window, looking like he was going to kick into some martial arts. ‘He—’
‘Lance Corporal Hunter, enough.’ Rollo-Smith held up a thick paper file. ‘João passed me this. Do you know what it pertains to?’
Chantal didn’t even have to look at it.
Rollo-Smith shook the file in the air. ‘It details the times you have assaulted someone in the very short time you’ve been here. Now, João is promising to rip this up if you clear off. But you don’t seem to want to—’
‘He’s got the wrong man in custody!’
‘Lance Corporal…’ Rollo-Smith walked over to Hunter and gripped him by the arm. ‘An ex-colleague of yours lies dead because you enlisted him in some illicit activities.’
Hunter frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘Don’t think you’re dealing with some civilian officer, Hunter. I know what you’ve been up to.’ Rollo-Smith took out a photo showing Hunter getting out of Finlay’s car outside the police station. ‘You honestly thought the local officers wouldn’t notice a red Fiesta in their car park, mm? You had Mr Sinclair tail Tulloch.’
Hunter looked up at him. ‘This isn’t my fault.’
‘It bloody is!’ Spittle flew from Rollo-Smith’s mouth, landing on Hunter’s cheek. ‘Believe you me, the MOD takes Private Tulloch’s actions very seriously. If there is a shred of evidence that he’s been up to anything illegal, then I will frogmarch him back to the UK for a court martial. But you…’ He shook his head. ‘You have undermined me at every step. You’ve muddied the waters sufficiently well that nobody knows what the bloody hell’s going on. And, because of your actions, Mr Tulloch is nowhere to be seen.’
Hunter wiped at his cheek. ‘My actions?’
‘Your actions have destroyed any hope of securing a prosecution on Portuguese soil.’ Rollo-Smith grabbed his bicep. ‘Right, Lance Corporal, let’s process you.’
No you don’t, you monkey bastard.
‘You’ve no authority over me, here or back home.’ Hunter pushed him away. ‘I’m not the one you should be arresting.’
‘You’re not giving me any choice!’ Rollo-Smith pulled him outside. ‘Come on!’
Thump, thump, thump. Quaresma was ploughing across the quad from the other end. DI Bruce was following him, his face flushed with umpteen pints.
Hunter stopped dead. ‘What’s happened?’
Bruce swivelled round to him. ‘Your mate Tulloch is on a flight to Newcastle.’
86
HUNTER
* * *
Quaresma pulled out into the oncoming lane as they bombed out of Albufeira, blasting past a lorry, the low sun almost blinding.
Hunter sat back, his throat tight. Couldn’t feel anything.
Chantal sat next to him, phone clamped to her ear. ‘Right, Shaz, I’ll see you in Newcastle.’ She killed the call and put her mobile away, then gave Hunter a glance. ‘They’re holding up the plane for us.’
Quaresma swerved past another lorry, the speedo clearing a hundred and twenty. ‘You are very lucky.’
Hunter locked eyes with him in the rear-view and gave him a glare. ‘If you’d done your job, we’d be taking Tulloch back, not chasing him.’
‘Be thankful you have power of arrest in your own country.’
‘And what about Finlay Sinclair? Should I be thankful he’s dead?’
‘It is not my fault, Constable.’
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
Quaresma gave him a short look. ‘The wrong man?’
‘Gordon Brownlee didn’t kill Finlay. Matty Ibbetson did.’
Quaresma spoke Portuguese at his phone. It started ringing through the stereo and he had a loud conversation with someone in his native tongue.
Hunter slumped back in the seat, starting to rattle through the timeline. A couple of hours were missing, unaccounted for. ‘How the hell did Tulloch get on that flight?’
Chantal glowered at him. ‘Elvis was supposed to be monitoring flights to Scottish airports and he seems to have forgotten the rest of the UK.’
Quaresma swerved off the main road and pulled up in front of the airport. A local squad car was idling by a heavy-duty guard entrance. He swung round and grabbed Hunter’s arm. ‘These men will take you to the plane. Make sure you follow them.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter tried to shrug his grip off, but it wasn’t budging any. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Are you listening to me?’ Quaresma narrowed his eyes at them. ‘If I ever see you in my country again, I will arrest you. You understand?’
‘I won’t be back in a hurry.’ Hunter got himself free and hefted up his bag. He followed Chantal across the tarmac towards the squad car, her case squeaking as she dragged it behind her.
Another black Audi pulled up. Rollo-Smith eased himself out of the passenger seat and tapped the roof. He glowered at Hunter then shooed him off. ‘Hurry up! The plane is waiting for us!’
Bruce got out of the other side, head bowed as he traipsed off.
Hunter caught up with him. ‘You’re heading back, too?’
‘Orders from the top.’ Bruce shook his head, stinking of breath mints, his face ruddied with booze. ‘Absolute shambles, anyway. We’re pissing money away out here. Public money.’
Hunter stared through the tiny window, the pinging light on the wing the only illumination in the pitch black. In the distance, the yellow gridline of a city passed into view. Could be anywhere in western Spain, France or southern England.
Chantal’s head swung over and landed on his shoulder, a dribble catching on his shirt. She mouthed something quiet then her head dipped again, snoring.
Rollo-Smith was over in the other window, his head nodding as he slept, arms folded tight, head bowed, like he was concentrating hard.
Bruce was across the aisle from Chantal, scowling over the top of his Lee Child hardback. ‘You’ll get him.’
Hunter got a tingle of pins and needles in the arm Chantal was leaning on. He nudged her back into her seat. ‘You think?’
‘Aye, I think.’ Bruce clapped the novel shut and stowed it away in the seat pouch. ‘Guy like Tulloch can only be at large for so long.’
‘Maybe.’ Hunter sighed. ‘I used to be like him and his cronies. A stupid squaddie, taking orders, getting rat-arsed. It sickens me.’
‘You’re not like that now, though.’
‘Not for a long time.’
‘Chantal said you’re a good cop. Do you like it?’
‘I like what I’m doing now.’ Hunter shrugged again. ‘I liked what I was doing before, but then I got shunted down to uniform.’
‘Why was that?’
Hunter looked over at him, locking eye contact. ‘My face didn’t fit.’
‘I’ve seen that a few times.’ Bruce cracked his knuckles. ‘Sounds like you’re onto a good thing in this Sexual Offences Unit…’
‘We keep letting the offenders go.’ Hunter’s spine tingled like a horde of rats were climbing it. ‘There’s seven women, maybe eight, who’ve been abused by him in one form or another. He left one girl tied up on a bed while he pissed off to Blackpool. He’s got no emotions. I need to stop him doing this. I need to get justice for all his victims.’ He shook his head. ‘In the army, this guy in my unit… Turns out he’d raped this Iraqi girl, a teenager. Then he killed her. The powers-that-be covered it over. Let it slide. That’s what’s happening here.’
‘Hard to take, isn’t it?’ Bruce picked up his book again and flipped it open. That was it? That was all he was going to say? Stupid Geordie bastard. He dug his nail into the dustcover, making it click. ‘Listen, I tried having a word with Quaresma about him arresting the wrong suspect.’
‘He needs to find Matty Ibbetson.’
Bruce traced a finger down the page of his novel, frowning at the text. ‘I don’t disagree.’ He smiled. ‘Finlay Sinclair was your friend, wasn’t he?’
‘Ex-partner.’ Hunter ran his fingers over his palms, knobbly with calluses from the kettlebells. ‘I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to Finlay’s ex-wife.’
Bruce arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s very difficult.’
‘It’d be easier if I had a story to tell. Like some bent Portuguese officer let his killer go.’
Bruce leaned over the aisle. Chantal stirred in her sleep. ‘Do you have anything on Quaresma?’
‘Not as such.’
‘The old copper’s gut instinct, then?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Ah, Constable… Whatever will we do with you?’
‘Help me catch Sean Tulloch.’
87
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal was still blinking herself awake, gripping Hunter’s hand tight.
Newcast
le lay below them, yellow and white, like a chalk outline. Could just about make out the Metro Centre next to the shine of the A1 twisting through the series of rivers, other dual carriageways spiralling off from it. The plane swung round towards the runway and plunged down. The wheels hit the tarmac with a squeal and the plane rocked to the side, then pushed her forward.
Brucie Boner didn’t even look up from his Jack Reacher, just licked his finger and turned the page.
The plane jerked back, Hunter gasping as Chantal’s nails dug into his palm. They wheeled round on the runway and followed the row of lights towards the terminal building in the distance.
The stewardess at the front unbuckled her seatbelt and strolled up the aisle as the plane taxied. She leaned in to Chantal and whispered, ‘You can use your phone now.’
‘Thanks.’ Chantal let go of Hunter’s hand and fished out her mobile, stabbing at the screen. She hit dial and it was answered without ringing. ‘Shaz, that’s us landed.’
‘Good. I’ve sent a car over to get you.’
Out of the window, a squad car sat a few hundred metres away, the blue lights twinkling, a man standing in front of it.
‘Have you got Tulloch?’
Sharon paused. ‘Not yet.’ Then she sighed. ‘He got off the flight and we’ve bloody lost him.’
88
HUNTER
* * *
The cool evening breeze cut through Hunter. Home again. He stepped down the staircase. The tarmac felt solid beneath his feet. ‘Christ, you never forget that wind.’
Rollo-Smith was first down. He jogged towards a car and got in. It pulled off.
The squad car’s headlights flashed, and Hunter started over towards it. The plane set off again, taxiing to its gate.