by Ed James
Her mobile blasted out Taylor Swift again.
She rolled over the bed and grabbed it. Sharon. She stabbed the answer button with a sigh. ‘Hi, Shaz.’
‘Morning, Chantal. I take it you meant what you texted?’
‘Of course I meant it.’ She lay back and kicked off her sandals. Her feet started breathing again. ‘Wouldn’t have texted it if I didn’t.’
‘So, you and Craig in one room, eh? There’ll be a bolster you can put between you. Top and tail, aye?’
‘Piss off.’
Sharon laughed. ‘Have you really booked another room?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you joined the Mile High Club on the way over and, right now, he’s got his fingers right—’
‘I’m warning you.’
‘—you moan with delight?’
‘Stop it.’ Chantal lay back on the bed. Could fall asleep right this second. ‘Was there a reason for your call? Any progress at your end?’
‘Nothing much. I take it you’ve spoken to your contact?’
‘And what a pleasure that was . . . He didn’t even try to arrest Tulloch.’
Hunter’s phone blared out that drill noise. Chantal glanced down the bed at Hunter, fumbling about with his mobile. She scowled at him and pointed at the patio door.
TWENTY-FOUR
Hunter
Hunter grabbed his mobile and checked through his messages. A photo from Murray popped up, Bubble and Muffin sleeping in the same cat bed. He texted back ‘Cute’. Only other message was from Finlay, offering his help, yet again. He was about to type a reply when his phone erupted in his hands.
WhhrrrRRRRRRRR. The dentist’s drill. No missing that.
ELVIS CALLING . . .
Chantal shot him a glare and thumbed at the patio door.
He walked over and wrestled the door fully open, hitting answer. ‘Morning, Elvis.’
His lips slapped down the line, like he was chewing something. ‘How’s sunny Portugal, mate?’
Hunter sat on the patio chair in the shade. The sun was finally out, burning off the rain on the main tourist drag, but it was still missing their gloomy apartment. ‘Better than Bathgate. Just.’ He got up and leaned against the banister with his free hand. Damp and cold. A couple made their way down the path below, arm in arm. Sunglasses, flip-flops, shorts, sunburnt arms and necks. Brits abroad. Just missing the hankies over their heads. ‘What’s up?’
‘Eh, calling in a bet. Fat Jimmy says you’ll have him in custody. I’ve got a tenner on you not having a scooby where he is.’
Hunter let his breath out slowly. ‘We’re nowhere near anything.’
‘Ya dancer.’ Elvis’s hand covered the mouthpiece, but Hunter could still hear his shout of delight: ‘Wanker! That’s ten quid you owe me!’
Pair of arseholes.
Hunter took in the place as he waited for Elvis to deal with more pressing issues than this international call on a mobile.
Which room was Tulloch’s?
Any of them?
Was he even here?
And how the hell were they going to deal with him if they did come across him? Now that the Portuguese hadn’t apprehended him, they didn’t have a plan. Getting here was enough of an ordeal, finding the bastard . . .
Then again, someone like Tulloch would stick out like a sore thumb. The old couple passed below him now, each step looking like it might be their last. Should he bother making inquiries among the expat branch of Alcoholic Anonymous? They might’ve seen Tulloch and a troop of squaddies. They might even know where he is. Or not. Tulloch could be lying low with a drugged up tourist in—
‘Nice one, mate.’ Elvis’s lips slapped again. Like he could only eat when talking to Hunter. ‘Can always rely on you to make an arse of things.’
Hunter gripped the banister tighter, pictured it being Elvis’s neck . . . ‘Have you taken Paisley’s statement yet?’
‘She won’t let us.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m not messing about. Me and that Jenny bird were down at the hospital this morning. Jenny’s a piece of work, I tell you. Anyway, doctor wouldn’t let us in. “Paisley’s not up to answering questions, blah blah blah.” Stupid mare.’
‘And you took that for an answer?’
‘I’m not you, Robocop. I don’t go in there, guns blazing.’
Don’t rise to it . . .
Hunter rested back against the patio door, his T-shirt tight around his arms. ‘What about Tulloch’s laptop?’
‘Aye, well, I’ve finally got round to it now.’ Elvis yawned. ‘There’s a ton of emails between Tulloch and one Gordon Brownlee of Muirhouse in, wait for it, Edinburgh.’
‘Any form on him?’
‘Nothing major, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a dodgy bastard.’ Elvis clacked at keys in the background. Almost like the lazy sod was only running the PNC check now. ‘Ex-squaddie, by the looks of things.’
Hunter sucked in the fresh air. ‘Send me a photo, would you?’
‘It’ll cost me a bloody fortune . . .’
‘So? Expense it.’
Elvis paused on the line. ‘Right, aye. I’ll fire it through the now.’
‘Cheers. Catch you later.’ Hunter killed the call and waited for the message to arrive. He grabbed the banister and leaned forward until he was in the sun. The rays heated up his hair and neck.
Not bad at all. Must be low twenties. Nothing like the baking heat in the Middle East. Rather nice, in fact. Maybe southern Spain would be good for a holiday. Málaga, Nerja, somewhere like—
His mobile chirruped. He leaned back into the shade and checked it.
Two photo messages.
The first was Gordon Brownlee in full uniform. 3 Scots, for certain. Big lad, typical squaddie — trim, tight muscles, dead stare like he could stab you in the guts with his eyes, or at least without thinking. His left ear looked like it’d been sliced off and reattached by an amateur, hanging a couple of centimetres below the right.
The other photo was of Brownlee in Germany, holding up a full stein of foaming lager, wearing comedy lederhosen and plastic breasts. Classic Schoolbook shot. Wide grin, but the same dead eyes and wonky ears.
The things we see on duty. Hunter caught sight of himself in the patio doors. His arms were getting stronger. Nice shape to the shoulders. Still too much of a gut. Always the last thing to go, but the kettlebells were kicking its arse.
Inside, Chantal was sitting on the bed, staring at her phone. When he entered, she looked up and smiled. ‘That cow knew exactly what she was doing.’
‘Don’t rise to it.’ Hunter held up his phone. ‘In other news, Elvis might’ve found our baccarat game.’ He walked over to the bed and handed her his mobile. ‘This is Gordon Brownlee, looks like one of Tulloch’s mates.’
‘Good effort.’ Chantal stared at the screen, like she was sucking in his life story from the two photos. She rested it on the bed and lay back, her hair splaying across the pillow. ‘So, what’s the plan, then, Constable?’
‘Here’s what I’m thinking.’ Hunter picked up his phone and stared at Brownlee’s dead eyes. ‘This lot are boozers on a piss-up. They’ll start with a few here, check out if the hotel’s up to snuff. Mostly, it’ll be old duffers on their holidays, but sometimes it’s full of stag and hen parties, and it’s the cheapest for drinks. Total carnage.’
‘The voice of experience.’
Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The voice of informed conjecture. Anyway, given Mr Quaresma’s not doing his job, we’re going to have to do it for him. Time for some undercover work.’ He stared at Brownlee’s photos again, then at Chantal. ‘That Keith Brannigan who got away at Waverley is supposed to be here. There are others, too.’ He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed. ‘So, here’s the plan: we’re on our first holiday together. A young couple in love. Let’s hit the bar and see who knows anything about Gordon Brownlee or Sean Tulloch, shall we?’
* * *
&n
bsp; Hunter bit into the falafel burger and chewed slowly. Swallowed it down with a glug of Sagres, the lager bitter and cold. Lovely. He leaned back and soaked up the sun. The bar area was walled off on three sides, but somehow enough sun crawled in to give the beer that special summer flavour.
Another hour of this and it was sure to burn my peely-wally skin. Need to rub some suntan lotion on.
Hunter took another mouthful. ‘Didn’t know how hungry I was.’
‘Me neither.’ Chantal cut her hamburger open, the meat still a touch pink on the inside, hipster-style. She ate it, anyway. ‘That’s a good burger.’
At least she hadn’t added the bacon. ‘Glad to hear it. Don’t see any pissed squaddies, though.’
She nodded behind him. ‘That lot might have.’
A hen party sat at the far end of the bar. All ages from late teens to sixties, though most of them were in their twenties. Screaming and shouting and dancing and downing shots and battling tomorrow’s hangover with all the desperate bravado they’d been able to fit in their luggage. Sounded like an unholy mix of Scousers and Brummies, all of them glad not to be home, glad to escape the depressing reality of austerity Britain for a few days of make-believe celebration.
Just then a waif of a girl appeared with a tray of shots, getting a roar of applause and laughter for her balancing act.
‘Christ, that takes me back.’ Chantal put her burger down in a pool of liquid fat, shaking her head at them as she sucked her fingers. After a long, nostalgic gaze, she finished her wine, the glass still frosted from the cool white. ‘I was here on a hen weekend a few years ago.’
‘This hotel?’
Chantal thumbed back up the hill Finlay had driven them down. ‘Up there. Makes this place look five star.’ She scowled. ‘Me and Sharon and a load of our old mates from uniform days. A few from Turnbull’s CID team. You know Angela Caldwell, don’t you?’
Hunter shook his head.
‘Her hen weekend. Anyway, it was complete carnage.’ She took another bite of her burger, then smirked. ‘The chief bridesmaid got knocked up by a barman.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Wish I was.’ Chantal dipped a chip in spilt ketchup. ‘Had to get an abortion when she got back. Poor Geraldine.’
‘Geraldine Fox?’ Hunter frowned, swallowing down another mouthful. ‘Seriously?’
Chantal shut her eyes. ‘You know her?’
‘Me and Cullen worked with her up in St Leonards, few years back.’
‘Of course you did. My luck has been horrible ever since we’ve been working this case.’ Chantal’s cheeks flushed, not all from the wine. ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’
‘Secret’s safe with me.’ Hunter zipped up his lips.
She wrapped her fingers around her empty glass and squinted into the sun. ‘Back at the room, you said stuff about the bar tactics. Finding the best place to drink. Take it you’ve done this before?’
‘I’ve never knocked up a barmaid, or DC Fox, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Aye, very good.’ Another bite of burger, as she twirled her finger at the hen party. ‘But you have been here?’
‘Came to Portugal back in my army days.’ Hunter sipped some lager, barely tasting it. ‘That’s early on, like. We were based up at Fort George near Inverness. Got a fortnight’s leave, so a group of us booked cheap flights from Edinburgh.’ He swallowed, gazed off at the memory of his former unit like it might come marching in through the door any second. ‘A trip not unlike what Tulloch and his mates are doing. Only we didn’t bring a sex pest along.’
She narrowed her eyes at him, holding the burger in mid-air, a big dod of fat dribbled on the plate.
‘Anyway, we turn up at a place like this, all tanked up from a couple of litres of Captain Morgan’s someone bought in Duty Free.’ Hunter pushed his burger away, smearing minty yoghurt over the plate. ‘Worst luck. Turned out a bunch of officers were staying down the corridor form us. Out here on a stag. And one of them knew two of our lads, so they ordered us to join in their session. Trust me, you’ve not lived until you’ve seen an army captain neck four Es then invite everyone to his room for— Well. I’ll leave it there.’
‘Eww.’ Chantal’s burger dropped on her plate. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ Hunter picked out a lump of falafel and popped it into his mouth. ‘Made myself sick. My mate Terry helped me back to our room. Gave him a good excuse to leave as well. Win, win.’
‘Terry’s the one—’
‘Aye.’ Hunter pressed the burger into his plate, bits of chickpea tumbling out. ‘Him.’
‘Is that why you’re getting all these flashbacks?’
Hunter took another drink, his pint glass below halfway now, and wiped his lips. ‘Maybe.’
‘You should’ve said.’
‘Look, my PTSD doesn’t say to me “Oh, hey Craig, I’m going to do your head in every time someone eats a bacon roll.” It’s all random shit until I figure out the root cause. The smell of bacon is just the trigger.’
‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’ She grabbed her glass and got to her feet. ‘Finish that pint, we’ve got a cover to maintain. We’re supposed to be getting blootered in the sun, then shagging each other’s brains out.’ She gave him a dirty wink and walked over to the bar.
TWENTY-FIVE
Chantal
Chantal stopped by the door and let the skinny girl go first.
‘Cheers, chuck.’ Her Black Country accent cut through the afternoon sunshine.
‘My little Chucka!’
Chantal froze, clenching her jaw at the memory. She stared around the hotel bar, nostrils flaring. Was somebody smoking in here? A gang of wild women at the far side were singing along to someone’s mobile, that slushy One Direction song. Wide range of ages, late teens to forties, at least. A coach pulled up by the entrance. Two men with their tops off wandered past, T-shirts wrapped around their waists, burnt skin close to cracking.
The girl was carrying a tray of shot glasses filled with pale-blue liquid. ‘You okay, chuck?’
Chantal swallowed bile. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘I’m Bekah, by the way.’
‘Chantal.’
‘Nice to meet you. Do you want to do a shot with us?’
Chantal had another scan of the bar area. Still no likely suspects in the hunt for Tulloch, but a tray of shots meant a group of women. Maybe they’d seen something, maybe spoken to Tulloch or his crew. She nodded without a backwards glance at Hunter. ‘Aye, go on.’
Bekah led over and set the tray down. ‘Here we go, girls!’ She took a glass and handed Chantal another drink. Pale blue liquid, way more than a standard measure. Probably way stronger, too. ‘Here you go, chuck!’
Chucka . . .
Jesus.
Chantal tried to cover her grimace with a smile. ‘Cheers.’
The group crowded around the drinks tray, pushing Chantal and Bekah to the back. The one who seemed like the chief bridesmaid climbed onto a table and raised her glass. ‘Here’s for Amy!’
‘Wahey!’ Bekah necked her shot.
Chantal waited until she shut her eyes in recoil, then tossed hers over her shoulder. She stuck her tongue out and gagged. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Bekah leaned in close and burped out citrusy breath. ‘I asked the barman for the strongest stuff they had.’
‘Nice one!’ Chantal gritted her teeth. ‘So how well do you know the hen?’
‘She’s my cousin.’ Bekah’s accent was even stronger than the drink. ‘We’re from near Stoke.’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘Is that Scotland?’ Bekah waited for a nod. ‘You don’t look local.’
Chantal laughed. ‘Born and bred there.’
‘We get lots of your kind round our way. My best mate Mina, her parents are from Pakistan. Do you know her?’
‘I do know
a Mina but not one from Stoke.’ This was a mistake . . . ‘When did you come out here?’
‘Wednesday night. We fly back on Sunday. Having a great time. I don’t want to leave!’
Chantal nodded slowly. She caught a glimpse of Hunter, sitting on his own, eyes fixed on his mobile. The hotel bar was busy, full of people who might’ve seen Tulloch, and he was texting someone. I’m doing all the bloody work here. She smiled at Bekah. ‘So what’s the chat like round the bar here?’
‘The chat?’ Bekah bellowed with laughter. Poor girl was way more pissed than anyone should be at half twelve. ‘I love your accent!’
‘I mean, is this a good place for a laugh?’
‘Yeah. Totally. Yesterday, we got talking to these—’
‘Come on!’ A bridesmaid came back from the bar, carrying yet another tray of shots, her mouth stretched out way beyond a smile. ‘Here we go, ladies!’
Bekah raced over and grabbed two glasses. She bounced back like a spring deer and handed one to Chantal.
The glass weighed less than a paper weight and yet enough to make her heart sink deep into her chest.
Bekah threw a shot down her throat. ‘Come on, Chantal. Let’s get some more in!’ Then she hopped off to the bar.
TWENTY-SIX
Hunter
Hunter sipped at the pint, now flat and tasteless, and huffed out a breath. A quarter of it left. Just as well I didn’t down it when Chantal asked me to.
Across the other side of the hotel bar area, she was in with a hen party, laughing at some no-doubt dirty joke. Looked like she’d been caning it with them all morning.
The waif next to her handed her a glass. Blink and you’d miss it, but it looked like the shot went right over Chantal’s shoulder.
That’s my girl.
No new messages on his phone. Heat burned his neck as the sun crawled round to inflict its worst on the bar area. The rainwater was half-dried now, could almost see it hissing away, the ozone tang was real, though. Like doing a paper round, first thing in the morning, before everyone was up.