Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘Your client has spent a night in hospital and the duty doctor has approved him for interview.’

  ‘Move on, Constable.’

  ‘You sent her a text threatening her, then you went round to her house and tried to follow through on the threat.’

  ‘That right, eh?’ Tulloch winked at his lawyer and nodded over at Hunter. ‘Tell you a tale, Hamish. This boy assaulted me on the Strip in Albufeira. Then he attacked me when I was slipping a bird a length. So, I’m thinking he wants a portion of my dong, eh?’

  Hunter jolted up to his feet again, leaning on his hands. ‘I arrested you when you were pressing an iron into—’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Tulloch almost snarled at him. ‘You assaulted me with an iron when I was speaking to Paisley.’ He pointed to a white bandage on his arm, red splotches leaking through. ‘You burnt my arm, you prick! Then you threw it at me!’ He rubbed at some stitches in his temple. ‘Do you know how much this fucking hurts?’

  You deserve everything you get.

  Hunter raised his eyebrows. ‘You were pressing the iron into Paisley’s flesh.’

  ‘Assaulted me, man. Police brutality.’

  ‘You were torturing her.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘So you deny torturing Ms Sanderson?’

  ‘Aren’t you listening to me? I’ve done nothing.’

  Williams sucked a deep breath through his nostrils. ‘My client wishes you to move on.’

  ‘What I don’t get is how you found out that Paisley was talking to us.’

  ‘When you pricks start talking to my squad mates about me, you honestly think they’re not going to tell me that someone’s been blabbing?’

  ‘What? Who spoke to them?’

  ‘You’re a stupid prick.’ Tulloch laughed, scratching his wounds. A stream of blood trickled down his forehead.

  Williams rubbed a finger on Tulloch’s temple, smearing it. ‘My client requires urgent medical assistance. This interview is terminated.’

  99

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal walked across the empty office, her heart thundering in her chest. She stopped short and…

  Shite. This is it. Caught.

  This is where she breaks us up and…

  She pushed at Sharon’s door and peered in. ‘Sharon.’

  She was on the phone, nodding her head. A Thornton’s chocolate box sat on the desk. ‘Okay, I’ll speak to you later. Bye.’ She put the phone down and fixed a glare on Chantal. ‘You going to start telling me the truth?’

  ‘Okay.’ Chantal glanced at the door behind her and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Me and Craig are an item.’

  ‘I know.’ A grin crept over Sharon’s face. ‘You lying cow.’

  ‘It’s not like you thought. We—’

  ‘Don’t even think about saying “oh, we got together in Portugal for reals”.’ Sharon reached into the chocolate box and took one out. ‘You’ve been shagging him for months, so don’t try it.’

  ‘It’s the—’

  ‘Chantal. Stop. Back in August, I popped round to your flat when I was passing. Your neighbour let me into the stairwell. I was going to knock on the door but I heard you. “Oh, Craig! Oh, Craig!” Sound familiar?’

  ‘Right.’ Chantal rubbed at her cheek, not all the heat from the tan top-up. ‘So, are you going to separate us?’

  ‘I’ve not got a choice.’ Sharon took another chocolate from the box, the paper rustling. ‘Look, Scott and I did that for a month when we started going out, remember? It’s not a good idea. We’ve got to be cleaner than clean.’

  ‘I know, it’s just…’

  ‘Look, I’ll cover it over, but I need you to stop lying to me, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ She took another chocolate. Didn’t look like she was going to offer any. She finished chewing and picked up another. ‘So, what’s going to happen is, once I’ve filled the new DS position I’ve got approval for—’ Her eyebrows flashed up. ‘Craig’s nowhere near ready.’ She took another chocolate, looked like a toffee from the way she chewed it. ‘Once this new DS is in, Craig will report to them, okay?’ She winked at Chantal. ‘Try not to shag them, aye?’

  ‘Fine.’ Chantal yawned into her fist. ‘Sorry. Look, I’ve acted like a cow about this. You don’t deserve it, and—’

  ‘That was the Procurator Fiscal on the phone.’ Sharon stretched out. ‘She thinks we’ve got more than enough to prosecute and we’ve barely done any detailed interviews.’ She pulled out a notepad and started flicking through. ‘Of course, you’ll be working with Elvis on it. I’ll have to pair Hunter up with Jenny or Jim. He might be able to show them how it’s done?’

  The door rattled open and Rollo-Smith stormed in. ‘Inspector.’ He glowered at Chantal. ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘How can we help, Brian?’

  Rollo-Smith bristled, probably at being addressed by his first name for the first time since boarding school. ‘I have spoken to my superiors.’

  ‘And are you going to try and help us?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’ve been a hindrance to us all throughout this case.’

  ‘And yet you still don’t have solid evidence against Private Tulloch, do you?’

  ‘The Procurator Fiscal’s pressed the button on the prosecution. We’ll be charging Tulloch as soon as DC Hunter and DS Cullen are finished with him.’

  ‘This might help.’ Rollo-Smith extended a mobile phone like it was a bugle.

  Chantal frowned at it. ‘What’s that?’

  Rollo-Smith fiddled with the screen. ‘This is gold dust, Sergeant.’ He showed her the display, a video playing.

  Paisley Sanderson, tied up on a bed, screaming while Tulloch thrust away at her. She looked into the camera, terror in her eyes. ‘You fucking love my cock, don’t you?’

  Rollo-Smith paused it, tears streaming down Paisley’s cheek. ‘It would appear that Mr Tulloch sent videos of him torturing the women to a few friends.’

  Chantal reached for the phone.

  Rollo-Smith pulled it away. ‘Not so fast.’

  ‘We need that locked up in evidence. Where did you get it?’

  ‘DI Bruce obtained it from Matty Ibbetson. I spoke to him this morning.’ Rollo-Smith cleared his throat. ‘I shall hold onto this. But, the evidence we have obtained will be at your disposal.’

  Chantal put a hand on her hip. ‘Give.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s our case.’ She nodded at the handset. ‘Give me the mobile. Now.’

  ‘I won’t take orders from a Sergeant.’

  She snatched it from his hand. ‘This is going in our evidence store.’

  ‘Detective Inspector McNeill, I refuse to be subjected to insubordination like this. I demand that.’

  Sharon smiled at him. ‘Get out of here.’

  Rollo-Smith barked out a laugh. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rollo-Smith put his left hand into his blazer pocket and walked over to the door. ‘I shall be in touch with DCI Fletcher.’ He left them to it.

  ‘First name terms.’ Chantal slumped into the chair opposite Sharon. ‘You’re getting on like a house on fire.’

  ‘He’s an idiot.’ Sharon reached into her box of Thornton’s chocolates. ‘Brucie Boner sent these through. There’s flowers in the kitchen and three bottles of Prosecco in the fridge.’

  ‘That’s good of him.’

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ Shouting came from out in the office. ‘You could’ve got her killed!’

  Chantal rushed out, Sharon following her.

  Hunter had Rollo-Smith by the lapels, pushed up against the wall. ‘It’s your bloody fault!’

  Rollo-Smith wriggled against him. ‘Let me go!’

  Chantal raced over and pulled Hunter back. ‘Craig, what the hell are you doing?’

  Hunter let Rollo-Smith go with a final smack. ‘This craven little worm leaked it to
Tulloch’s mates. Told them we were speaking to Paisley.’

  Chantal stared at Rollo-Smith. ‘Is this true?’

  He brushed the shoulders of his jacket. ‘My officers have been interviewing Tulloch’s cohort off the record.’

  ‘Wait, your officers have interviewed him?’

  Rollo-Smith nodded. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Did you speak to Tulloch?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Chantal glared at Rollo-Smith. ‘You did leak it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You told a bunch of his mates that we were speaking to Paisley.’ Her turn to grab Rollo-Smith and pull him close. ‘Tulloch tried to kill Paisley because of what you did!’

  ‘This isn’t my fault!’ Rollo-Smith pushed away from her. ‘We were carrying out an investigation in support of yours!’

  ‘Her injuries are a direct consequence of you blabbing. I’ll see what I can charge you with.’

  Rollo-Smith laughed. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole.’ Chantal narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Tell me. Inspector Quaresma. Your mate João. Was he really inept or had you two come to an understanding? Cover over what one of your officers was up to?’

  ‘This isn’t the end of the matter.’ Rollo-Smith turned on his heels and marched off, pressing a mobile to his ear.

  ‘Right, well, that’s the end of that, then.’ Sharon snatched the phone from Chantal. ‘Time you two were out of here.’

  100

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter held the door open for Chantal. The hospital corridor stank of cleaning chemicals and boiled cabbage. ‘So we’re out of the closet, then?’

  ‘We are. You’ve got what you wanted.’

  ‘So, where does that leave us?’

  ‘You tell me, Craig.’

  ‘I meant about us at work.’

  ‘Wait and see. Shaz’s got approval for another DS.’

  ‘So no more uniform?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘It’s for the best. You know that, right?’

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I know.’ Then she sped off down the corridor towards the ward.

  Hunter followed Chantal. His new trousers were far too tight.

  Dr Yule was chatting to PC Lenny Warner. She nodded at Hunter. ‘Well, I might as well tell you both…’ She left a long enough pause that made Hunter think that Paisley was dead. ‘She’s not in a critical condition. Ms Sanderson will, however, require skin grafts. She’s suffered some very serious injuries.’ She narrowed her eyes at Hunter. ‘I wish you’d caught the barbarian who did this to her.’

  Chantal nodded. ‘We have.’

  ‘I meant in time. Before he did this.’

  ‘So do I. So do I.’

  Warner beamed at Yule, his grin seeming to dilute the bile pouring out of the doctor. ‘I think they need a few moments with her, is that alright?’

  Hunter folded his arms. Bloody shirt was too tight as well. ‘A couple of minutes, at the very most.’

  ‘Very well.’ Yule paced over and opened a door.

  Paisley lay on the bed, the left half of her face covered in a bandage. She made eye contact with Hunter and looked away.

  Hunter stood over her, keeping a decent distance. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fucked. Thanks to you. My skin’s burnt. I need grafts. Who’s going to want me after that, eh?’

  ‘Paisley, we’ve charged Mr Tulloch with both assaults on you, as well as a series of domestic abuse charges.’

  ‘So I’ve got to go through it all again in court? With him standing there? His mates will kill me!’

  ‘It’s all going to be taken care of, Paisley.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. You’re going to mess it up and let him go!’

  ‘I know it’s difficult to process and you’re thinking of all the bad things that can happen, but once he’s away, the army will court martial him. Then he’ll face charges in Portugal relating to a rape he committed there.’

  ‘A rape?’

  ‘He’s not going to get out of prison for a very long time, if ever.’

  ‘What did he do over there? He raped someone?’

  ‘A Northern Irish woman. He spiked her drink and raped her in his hotel room.’

  ‘That’s not what he did with me.’

  ‘Or with his victims. He changed his MO and…’ Chantal broke off. ‘Look, he’s going away for a long time. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll have to take detailed statements over the next few weeks from you. When you’re better.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what this feels like? Having my life torn apart like this?’

  Chantal nodded slowly. ‘I do.’ She fiddled with her blouse collar. ‘I was abused when I was a girl. By my uncle. It took me a long time, but I spoke out about it. I remember the police coming around to our house. I spoke to them, told them everything. My uncle died in prison. I don’t regret it.’

  Paisley started crying. Didn’t look like she was going to stop any time soon.

  The Black Isle

  1

  ‘This place is amazing.’ Keith looks round at me, grinning like a child, his hair blowing in the wind cutting across the oil rig platform. ‘There’s enough here for, like, ten shows.’ He winks, hauls open the door, then sticks his head inside. ‘Hello?’ He waits a few seconds, shrugs and slips through.

  I don’t follow him immediately. A fresh blast of ice-cold rain hits my face, with it a salty taste and tangy smell, and it tears the paper out of my grip, sending it flying across the platform and out into the Cromarty Firth. I train the camera on the open water, getting that perfect line of golden sun hitting the waves where it breaks the clouds in the distance, aiming right towards us. In the distance, the Black Isle looms up out of the grey, lush and green. Like something from a King Arthur story. Beyond the Moray Firth, the land rises up to meet the Cairngorms, just about visible on the horizon.

  Being up this high is the perfect vantage point. Not that there is anyone about. The whole platform is dead, all signs of occupancy removed, save the living quarters Keith is peering inside. I keep the camera focused on the clouds, just as the sun slips behind.

  ‘Hot shit.’ Keith slips through the door to the living quarters and his voice is muffled by the wood. ‘There’s at least…’ And he’s gone, more noise than signal, just a tone.

  I hit the stop button on the camera but leave my head-mounted GoPro running. Never know what you might catch—always good for a swift cut, or that bit of point-of-view veracity as we give our viewers a cheap thrill. I open the door and peer inside.

  And I feel the metal on my neck. A faint smell of machine oil. Shit. It’s a gun.

  ‘Stay still.’ Slight accent—foreign, eastern European or Russian. The weak metallic scent of his aftershave washes over me.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I slowly raise my hands. ‘Take it easy, pal.’ I start to swivel round. ‘We’ll leave and—’

  ‘Shut. Up.’ He presses the gun close, digging into my skin now. ‘I—said—don’t—move.’ He punctuates the final word with a jab, making my skull rattle and my eyes lose focus.

  Think fast here.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You think you’re in a position to ask that?’ I see the muzzle of the gun wave at the door Keith went through, now shut again. ‘Are you alone?’

  I hope Keith heard enough of this to find a way back to safety. ‘Of course. Who else in their right mind would come here?’

  Something cracks my spine and knocks the breath out of my lungs. I stumble forward, gasping for air, and my knees thump off the steel floor.

  ‘This is the last time I’ll ask you, and I expect the truth.’ The gun rasps the skin on my neck—that exact spot where the spine connects to the brain. The brain stem or something. Seen so many YouTube documentaries on it, the perfect place to kill someone. This guy’s a pro. I’m fucked. ‘Are. You. Alone?’

  ‘I am,
I swear!’

  ‘I heard you speak to someone.’

  ‘I was on the phone.’ I wave north-ish towards Invergordon and its phone masts. ‘Got some reception up here.’ I’m reaching, hoping to hell that he buys it. ‘I was speaking to the guy who brought me on the boat. He left, but he was just checking in. I had the phone on speaker. Said he’ll be back in two hours. But I lost reception.’

  ‘Then we have two hours to get you away, my friend. But I don’t believe you.’ He grabs my arm and snatches at my phone. ‘Who is—’

  I dig my elbow into his gut and he groans. I wrestle free of his grip and hurl my mobile at the open sea. But it drops a few metres shy of the edge.

  Shit.

  Then the phone starts sliding in the wind towards the water.

  ‘No!’ He lurches after it, but it’s gone, slipping off into the deep. He turns to face me, training the gun on me. His face is riddled with scars, a diagonal knife wound cutting from the top of his right ear through his lips to his neck. Hardcore. ‘Stupid.’ He pushes me, then frogmarches me over to the closed door.

  And all I can do is go along with it, his arm locked around my shoulder, the gun back in its place against my neck.

  ‘Open it.’

  I reach out with my left foot—he doesn’t give me much choice—and nudge the door, pushing hard against the wind. A long corridor, with countless doors peeling off in both directions. He pushes me forward again and we pass a large bedroom, two bunk beds. Metallic, stripped, bolted to the wall. Adult-sized, though. The window is open a crack. No sign of Keith. My captor pushes me again and we keep walking.

  Halfway down the corridor he grabs my arms to stop me. ‘Stay there.’ He walks into a room that’s identical except for the window being half open and rattling in the gusty breeze. He checks everything with military precision, just like my bloody brother searching my flat for dope. And I get another good look at my captor. A big lump. Bald and muscular, and kitted out in professional hiking gear. Outdoor wear. He stares right at me, a proper soldier’s glare. Definitely ex-military.