by Ed James
‘So, you’re telling us we’re on our own?’ Chantal stood up with a frustrated groan. ‘Fine.’
‘Not so simple.’ Quaresma wagged a finger at her. ‘This is not your country. I can not allow you play police woman and arrest people here, yes?’
‘Which is why I’m asking for support from you.’
‘Sergeant, please. My men are busy. Budget is not big. You are allowed to investigate because we want to help friendly colleagues. It is a favour, you understand? If you disrespect it, you get next plane to Glasgow.’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘Look at me. Do I look like I care?’
‘Inspector, if this was the other way round, we would give you a Superintendent to work with, plus a team under him or her. We would work tirelessly to bring your suspect to you.’
‘That is luxury of rich police force.’
‘Have you done anything?’
Quaresma stepped forward and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a paper file and dropped it on the desk. Not exactly thick enough to thump on the wood. ‘This.’ He nudged it across the table.
Chantal tipped the contents on the desk. Their faxed evidence stapled together. Aside from that, five sheets of A4. The sum total of the local police work amounted to five pages. Five. And one was a form, manually typed. Hard to follow the Portuguese, but she could pick out a few phrases. Hotel de Sousa. She flicked through the other pages. One was a photocopy of the guest list. She held it up. ‘So at least you have confirmed that he is staying there?’
‘Correct.’ Quaresma snatched the file back and locked it away in his desk drawer. ‘Now, that is all the assistance until we find Harry Jack. I will be clear — you will use my men to arrest this Sean Tulloch.’ He reached into another desk drawer, scribbled on a small white card and tossed it to Chantal. ‘Call this number when you need to make arrest.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That is it. And it is a favour.’ Quaresma smiled at her. ‘If you think not, you are welcome to get next flight home.’
Chantal put the card in her pocket. Let him have his petty little victory. ‘Can you at least give us a lift?’
TWENTY-TWO
Chantal
Chantal stomped across the car park, the rain soaking her hair. ‘What an arsehole.’ She stopped, scanning up and down the four lanes of cars. The press corps were still camped outside the front of the building, huddled together as they listened to someone speaking. She dumped her bag into a puddle. Water splashed up her bare legs. She groaned, closed her eyes, breathed through her nose. When she looked up again, Hunter was standing in front of her, a kind smile in his eyes. ‘Tell me this is okay, Craig.’
‘I wish I could.’
She paused for long enough to return the smile, then snapped back to professional focus. ‘Here’s where my thinking’s at. Sean Tulloch is here and we know very little about what he’s doing. In fact, all we know for certain is where he’s staying, and that he’s with some other squaddies on a boys weekend.’
‘Which is my worry.’
She frowned at him. ‘What is?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking that this delay in proceedings might not be that big a deal. He’s a serial abuser, which is a long game. You know the drill. He meets the women, charms them—’
‘—moves in and starts booting the living shit out of them.’ She glared at him. ‘I don’t get why you think that’s not a big deal.’
‘That’s not what I said. Look, he’s here for a few days. Getting drunk, maybe playing some golf, maybe just lying on the beach.’ He broke off. ‘Then again . . .’
‘What?’
Hunter swallowed. ‘He’s here with a load of lairy lads. Squaddies. You may not know what they’re like, but it’s a powderkeg of laddish bullshit. They’ll be arsing around, daring each other. This place has a big nightclub precinct. So—’
‘—his aggression might escalate?’
‘You’re finishing my sentences.’
Doing what she hated in others. This case was seriously messing with her head.
She huffed out a sigh. ‘But you’re worrying all this lairy chat will, what, push him over the edge? Make him go on a groping spree?’
‘Or worse.’
‘We can’t arrest him on strength of your suspicion alone, Craig.’ She shook her head and scowled over at the police building. Looked like Bruce was heading inside, inching his way past the reporters. ‘We need help here. We need Quaresma’s men to bring him in.’
Hunter stepped closer to her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re on our own. The only good thing is we work well together. We’ll catch him.’
‘Assuming he’s still at the hotel.’ Her gaze shot up and down the road. Not that many cars, none looking like taxis. ‘Assuming he’s even still in the country.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked south. ‘Africa’s what, twenty miles that way?’
‘It’s that way, aye, but it’s a lot further than twenty. At least a hundred.’ A horn honked behind him and Hunter swung round.
Finlay Sinclair leaned against a red Fiesta, one arm in the window pressing the horn even as they stared straight at him. The man was a wreck, his muscle tone turned to flab, beer gut poking out of the bottom of his polo shirt. Looked like a full-sized keg now. He stood up tall, hand held out, and winced. ‘Ah, Jesus.’
Chantal frowned at Hunter as she hefted her bag and started across the road. As they approached Finlay, her smile was back in place. ‘How did you end up over here?’
‘Long story.’ He winked at Hunter. ‘I was thinking you’d get stuck getting through passport control, Craig.’ He opened the boot of his car. ‘Didn’t the pat down find that cucumber stuffed in your pants?’
Chantal burst out laughing. ‘Good to see you, Fin.’
‘And you. Let me take your bags, madam.’ Finlay crouched down and lifted up Chantal’s suitcase, the old back injury making him wince. ‘Ah, you bastard.’
Chantal raised the boot lid to the full extension. ‘Back still playing up?’
‘Most days, aye.’ Finlay dumped the case in next to a pile of work tools. ‘That said, I’m lucky I can even walk after what happened.’
Hunter rested his bag next to Chantal’s. ‘I’ve apologised, mate.’
‘It’s fine. We caught the stoat and the compo was more than enough to set up a life out here.’ Finlay clapped his hands together. ‘Now. Where can I take you two lovebirds?’
* * *
‘Well, I still don’t believe you.’ Finlay powered along the dual carriageway, completely empty save for an Aldi lorry ahead. ‘But that’s not my problem, I guess.’
The rain was back in full shower mode, the water sluicing into drains in the central reservation.
Chantal slumped back in the seat, a rogue spring poking into her back. ‘Like being back in Edinburgh.’
‘Almost.’ Hunter was in the back, still struggling to get his seatbelt to close. ‘It’s two degrees warmer at home.’
‘Crazy.’ Finlay laughed. ‘So, this motorway, right? They spent all that EU money on it and it’s a toll road. Loads of them here.’ He held the wheel casually, like back when he was Hunter’s partner, and swerved out into the fast lane. ‘I love it. Cuts the journey time in half for a Euro, because the locals are too tight to pay it. Spoke to this old geezer in the pub the other night. Ranting and raving about it, he was. He says it’s the EU’s fault. They built it for the Spanish coming here for the golf. Or something.’
Chantal craned her neck round to see what Hunter was up to. He’d tugged his seatbelt closer to the buckle, still not quite managing to connect.
‘Casual anti-EU ignorance . . .’ Finlay overtook the Aldi lorry, rain spraying up the sides of the car, his wipers going full pelt. ‘Not long till the referendum, is it?’
‘Christ knows what’ll happen if we vote to leave . . .’ Chantal looked over from the passenger seat. ‘All those racists who are just waiting for a democratic verdict to legitimise their knee-je
rk xenophobia will be trying to kick me out.’
Finlay chuckled. ‘Aye, where is India in the EU?’
‘Pakistan. Three generations ago. Four, if you count my baby nephew.’
Hunter leaned forward to wedge his head between them. ‘Take it you’re quite far down the road to drinking yourself to death, then?’
‘Getting there.’ Finlay pointed his thumb over his shoulder, grinning. ‘I live in Olhão, which is the other way from Faro. Quieter. Earthier. Like being in Elgin or Nairn or something, but with marginally less wind and rain. Feels like the real Portugal, not some cheap resort filled with drunk tourists.’
Chantal smirked at him. ‘Except for you.’
‘There is that, but I can’t escape myself. Trust me, I’ve tried.’ Finlay pulled off onto the slip road. Water pooled at the bottom, spraying out as they passed under the main carriageway. ‘On the upside, my flat only cost twenty grand. And there’s a working harbour, so all the fresh fish I can eat. Nice beer, too.’
Hunter chimed in with the fake cheer. ‘So that’s how you’re medicating?’
‘The old back’s shite most days.’
So much for cheer.
Finlay started off down a straight road lined with Mediterranean-style houses in a range of pastel colours. ‘It was horrible back in Scotland over the winter, but give me enough heat and Sagres and it’s almost bearable.’
Hunter rattled around in the back still. ‘As if there’s ever enough for you.’
‘Ha.’ Finlay stopped at some traffic lights. The Fiesta thudded to a stall. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Lovely motor, by the way.’
‘Aye, piece of shit I bought off a bloke in the boozer.’ Finlay got the engine started again on the third go. ‘Gets me to the Lidl for my messages and that’s about it.’
‘Fair to say that it rattles like a Glaswegian fishing trip afterwards?’
‘Nah. The whisky’s crap here.’ Finlay trundled over the road as the lights changed back to red. ‘You two involved in this missing kid case, then?’
Chantal tutted. ‘You get another guess.’
Finlay grinned at her. ‘So you’re over here shagging each other’s brains out, or what?’
‘I’ll pretend you never said that.’ Chantal got her phone out of her pocket. ‘We’re here to pick up a suspect, if you must know.’
‘Oh aye? Need any help?’
‘Aye, from the local police.’ No interesting texts. Family noise in WhatsApp, two from Sharon and a boatload of emails that could wait. She looked up from her mobile. ‘You know any local cops?’
‘Not had many dealings with them.’ Finlay tapped his temple. ‘Touch wood. Only come across the odd cop in the local bar, you know how it is.’
‘Don’t I just.’
‘Bloody Wild West here, Chantal.’ Finlay hurtled towards a red light. ‘It’s a tough game for them, you know? The pay’s crap and they’re under a heap of pressure. Way I hear it, they cut a big chunk of the budget a couple of years ago, let a load of cops go. The ones left are all pissed off and exhausted from doing three people’s jobs each. And most of them are still barely scraping by on the meagre wages.’
‘How bent are they?’
‘Not sure. Seems like most of them have long since given up on the rules. Fighting a losing battle. Economy’s in the toilet. Their focus isn’t on controlling the natives.’
Chantal waved at the passing apartment buildings. ‘Even here?’
‘Even here.’ Finlay pulled down a long street.
The mid-blue sea glistened in the distance, dark rainclouds swimming halfway to the horizon. A pale sun shone down on the buildings, lighting them up from their gloom. Two sprawling hotel complexes sat in a hollow on the left, one marked with purple signage, the other red. A big fence separated them, so oddly enough only one had access to the beach.
Finlay took a left and pulled up alongside the first hotel. A few tourists mingled about — one old guy had his top off, showing off his mirror muscles. ‘Here you go.’
Hunter let his seatbelt flop down. ‘Cheers, mate. I appreciate it.’
‘I’m serious. You guys need a hand?’
Chantal opened her door. ‘I can manage my bag, Finlay. It’s fine.’
‘I mean, with this case, whatever you’re up to. I’m here if you need me, aye?’
‘We’ll think about it.’ Chantal pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, then waved up at the sky. ‘Sun’s out. Go and work on that Leith tan.’
TWENTY-THREE
Chantal
Chantal fanned her face with both hands as they stood in the queue. ‘Could do with air conditioning in here.’
‘It’s a bargain hotel, my dear.’ Hunter grabbed her hand. ‘The sort of place a bunch of squaddies will go for a weekend on the piss. Or all a young couple like us could afford.’
‘Or all Police Scotland’s budget will stretch to.’
A mobility scooter whizzed past them, the obese driver looking like he’d melted in the sun. He stopped next to a group by the counter, a guy in a Manchester United shirt, ROONEY and 10 on the back, his voice about as loud as you would expect in a football stadium as he shouted at the receptionist. ‘But they’ve stolen money from my boy!’
‘Definitely not holidaying here . . .’ Chantal kicked her bag along the floor as the queue shifted up. ‘Feels like all we’ve done since this morning is stand in queues.’ The scooter reminded her of her uncle in his wheelchair, his broken kidneys packing in. ‘Nice seeing Finlay, though. Thought he’d be in a wheelchair.’
‘Aye, good old Compo. Six-figure pay-out plus full pension . . .’
‘This is a disgrace!’ Rooney stormed off, the mobility scooter whizzing along behind. ‘An absolute pigging disgrace! You can keep the EU, see if I care!’
‘Here we go.’ Chantal sighed as she grabbed her bag and marched up to the desk. ‘Got a reservation in the name Jain. That’s J-A-I-N.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ The receptionist had a South Wales accent, seedier than the valley choirboy. The sort of pretty boy who spent his best years working minimum wage jobs in holiday resorts, shagging anything he could, while he still could. ‘I see you’re staying for three nights.’ He stared at Hunter, his lips twisting into a pout. ‘And it’s Craig Farmer, is it?’
‘Hunter.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ He typed, eyes focused on the inset monitor.
Chantal leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Do you have a Sean Tulloch staying here?’
Eyes still on the screen. ‘Is he a friend?’
‘My boyfriend’s cousin.’ Chantal laughed and grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
‘Sorry, darling. I can’t give out that information.’ He hit the keys hard. ‘I can pass on a message next time he comes to the desk, though?’
‘No, it’s fine. Element of surprise and all that.’
‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll need your passports and then we’ll be all set.’
Chantal passed them both over and watched him mince over to the photocopier. ‘What a charmer.’
‘As long as it has no effect on you . . .’
‘Craig, you really want to tone down the jealousy. It’s getting boring.’ She leaned forward and twisted the computer screen round. ‘Too bad, he’s locked it . . .’ She shifted it back round.
The receptionist reappeared with their passports. ‘There, that’s you checked in.’ He made a fish-like motion with his hand. ‘Your room is through to the right, then up the stairs and again on your right.’
Chantal frowned at him. ‘Did you say room?’
* * *
‘Cheeky cow.’ Chantal dumped her bag on the double bed in the middle of the room.
A small kitchen lay to the left, a couple of tatty cabinets above a stove-top ring and a counter fridge. The patio door was open, the curtains flapping in the gentle breeze. Across a narrow lane, other apartments looked in, claustrophobically close.
Calling it c
hintzy would be doing it a favour. Just . . . horrible. Two weeks of misery in this hellhole. Typical Sharon, thinking she’s funny.
She collapsed back on the bed and groaned. ‘This is Sharon’s idea of a joke, isn’t it?’
‘What, booking one room?’ Hunter dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed on the bed. He pulled her close, burying his head in her stomach. ‘It fits our cover story.’
She looked down at him. ‘What cover story?’
‘Us being a young couple on holiday.’ He lifted up her top and kissed her belly. ‘Doesn’t that sound good?’
She hauled her top back down. ‘I’m not in the mood, Craig.’
‘Fine.’ Hunter held up his hands. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, would you look at yourself, you big girl’s blouse.’ Chantal sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Sorry, I’m being a cow. It’s . . . I want to text Sharon a load of abuse.’
‘So do it.’
She reached over for her phone and started tapping at the screen. ‘Thanks for arranging our one room. Having to pay for the other one out of my own money. You cow.’
‘Think she’ll check with the hotel?’
Chantal dumped her mobile on the bed. ‘Maybe.’
‘Our carefully laid plans thrown apart because of one little slip up?’ Her glare silenced him. ‘So we’re pretending we’re not a couple who are pretending to be a couple?’
Chantal couldn’t even begin to follow it. ‘Whatever, Craig.’ She hopped off his knee and hauled the top over her head, a pastel-purple shade, soaked in sweat. Bloody thing stank now. Just the kind of detail that would turn the big brute on. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’ She grabbed her bag and rummaged deep until she found the right top. ‘We’ve not got any leads, have we?’ She pulled the top on. Felt better. ‘It’s not like Tulloch’s playing baccarat at the local casino and all we need to do is—’