Hunted

by Ed James

  * * *

  Hunter left Captain Morgan, his footsteps rattling up the hill. ‘We should call Quaresma.’ He tried to grab hold of her wrist.

  Chantal shook him off and stomped up the strip anyway.

  ‘Wait!’

  Terrific.

  She stopped, her eyes trailing a couple walking arm in arm on the other side of the road. ‘Jesus, can you see that?’

  Hunter frowned over. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Ricky and Kerry!’ She started across the road.

  ‘What the hell—’ Hunter grabbed her arm and stopped her. ‘Come on . . .’

  Kerry swung round and scowled at them. ‘Here you, you Paki bitch!’

  Chantal clenched her fists. ‘Say that again.’

  Ricky took one look at Hunter and patted his wife on the arm. ‘Come on, love. She’s not worth it.’

  ‘She’s a dirty bitch!’ Kerry spat at them. ‘Go back to your own country!’

  ‘You’re in Portugal, you daft cow.’ Hunter’s heart thudded.

  He could see the rage in Chantal’s face. All the stories she’d told him.

  All those pricks at school. Everyone who spat on her dad’s shop. Everyone who put shit through their letterbox.

  Like that lecturer at Uni who tried it on, got knocked back and attempted to recover his dignity with a slew of racial slurs.

  Like any scumbag she picked up as a cop, talked to in her Edinburgh accent and still got told to go back where she belonged.

  And yet . . .

  ‘Scotland is my country!’ She watched them go down the strip.

  Hunter grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug. Wasted energy, trying to talk diversity to the racist and ignorant. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s far from okay.’ She shrugged him off and barged round a group of Swedes guarding a girl vomiting on the street. ‘She said they’re over here.’

  Mambo rhythms danced out into the night, enough neon to light up the sky. A bar in the middle, ad hoc partying and drinking all around it. Just inside the door, a woman who looked about twelve danced with a guy who looked about forty.

  She was staring inside that bar.

  Tulloch wasn’t in there, was he? They’d checked it, even danced to that bloody Taylor Swift song. Zen and the art of relationship maintenance.

  He followed the line of her finger as she pointed.

  Over the other side of the bar, two of the guys from the hotel were drinking and chatting to two blonde women, both of them struggling to stand up. Matty and another beefcake, similarly big. Bigger than Brownlee, without the wonky ears.

  And between them, perched on a bar stool, Sean Tulloch.

  Finally.

  FORTY-THREE

  Hunter

  Tulloch looked bigger in the flesh, somehow. Easily six and a half foot of brawn and rage. Thick muscle padded his shoulders, a tight shirt showed off his marine physique. And what no photo could get across was how the light caught his eyes, almost sparkling. Mischief and danger hid in his grin. Seen it so many times in so many cheeky punks, but there was a darker aura to this model prick.

  ‘Come on.’ Hunter stomped off towards the entrance.

  ‘Wait!’ Chantal grabbed him back. ‘I’m calling Quaresma.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Tulloch was sitting between that Matty guy and another lump of gristle, chatting to an older woman, dark-haired. Another couple of girls lingered around.

  Tulloch’s target tried to stand up from the stood but fell over. Her eyes were rolling back in her head. Tulloch picked her up and plied her with another sip from a tall glass.

  ‘Shite.’ Hunter shut his eyes. ‘Do you see that?’

  ‘What, him date-raping her?’

  Chantal lowered her mobile. ‘He’s not answering.’

  ‘Let me try.’ Hunter went for his phone and dialled their local master.

  Didn’t even ring. Quaresma breathed hard into the receiver. ‘What, Constable?’

  ‘We’ve got sight of our target.’ Hunter locked eyes with Chantal. ‘We need two or three of your officers to secure him.’

  ‘You must wait.’ Quaresma was out of breath, panting into his phone. ‘We are in middle of operation. Tomorrow, like we say.’

  Click.

  Hunter pocketed his mobile. Tulloch’s hands were snaking all over the woman. ‘Looks like we’re on our own.’

  Chantal stared inside the bar, nostrils flaring. ‘He’s not getting away with this.’

  ‘We should tail him. Keep an eye on him until—’

  Tulloch shoved the woman’s hand down the front of his shorts and stuck his tongue down her throat, all in one practiced move.

  ‘Sod this.’ Chantal barged into the bar, straight through the dancing child-woman and her sugar daddy, and made straight for Tulloch.

  Hunter followed her in, getting a grunt from sugar daddy.

  Tulloch towered over Chantal. ‘What’s up, princess?’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘You want a portion, too? Never had a Paki before—’

  Chantal scratched at her eyebrow. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘There’s enough of my knob to go around.’

  Chantal gritted her teeth. ‘Paisley Sanderson sends her—’

  Tulloch pushed the woman into Chantal, sent her tumbling across the dance floor.

  Next thing Hunter saw was the man mountain’s fist flying towards him. Landed on his left cheek. Snapped his head around before he even felt the sting. Wind-milling his arms, he staggered backwards, bumped into a stranger and hit the deck in a heap, face-first into stale beer and sticky cocktails. Somebody landed on him, squeezing the wind out of his lungs like an accordion.

  As he caught his bearings, Tulloch was already barging through the dance floor.

  Hunter freed himself from the man on top of him and pushed himself to his feet in one go.

  No sign of Matty or the other squaddie.

  Chantal lay prone under a pair of bar stools.

  Hunter grabbed her under the armpits and pulled her up. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded and rubbed at her chin. ‘I’ll look after the girl. Go get him!’

  Hunter chased through the furrow Tulloch had cut into the crowd. Outside, the Strip thronged with drinkers up and down the hill. Multi-coloured crowds swarming around him like tropical fish.

  There, across the road, Tulloch dashed down the lane where Quaresma had earlier parked his car. No sign of any police.

  Terrific.

  Hunter darted over the Strip, tried to pick up speed, a spearing pain digging into his side. Felt like he’d cracked a rib or something.

  Tulloch had slowed to a jog, his flip-flops shlup-shlup-shluping on the asphalt. Seemed to think he’d got away from them.

  Hunter hurtled into the back of his legs, classic rugby tackle, felled even the biggest men. But Tulloch twisted to the side as he rolled.

  Hunter landed on the marble floor, landed right on the point of his bad knee. Pain seared up his leg, up his left side, could’ve sworn he felt it all the way up in his left eye. When he opened it again a fraction of a second later, Tulloch was already back on his feet, scanning around the area. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ He moved back slightly and lifted his hands, one foot forward, getting into the Basic Stance.

  Hunter pulled himself up to a sitting position, then flipped up to standing. He mirrored Tulloch’s movements, stepped into the pose, and tried to ignore the burning pain in his knee. Quick glance around. No obvious danger. ‘I know what you were up to in there.’

  Tulloch was bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘You jealous or what, you big poof?’ He lurched forward and launched a right hook at Hunter’s head. Missed by miles. Maybe just a feint.

  Hunter got a punch to his gut as the guy followed through with a left body shot. Then Tulloch pushed him against the wall. Another missed punch, but this time Hunter deflected the second blow and smacked Tulloch on the chest. A sharp knee to Tulloch’s groin and he stepped back into the stan
ce.

  Tulloch hardly seemed to notice the groin shot as he jumped backwards into his pose. Then jolted forward again and lashed out with his left fist. Then feinted right and crunched a rising knee into Hunter’s side.

  Hunter parried it with his hands, but staggered back into a wall.

  Tulloch closed in, jabbing at Hunter three times, each blow rattling the bones in Hunter’s forearm. Fists darting towards his hands, blocking his face.

  Footsteps thundered from behind.

  Hunter blocked another blow and backed away from Tulloch.

  As he glanced behind him, Tulloch got a shot into his left knee.

  Hunter tumbled over, cracking his shoulder off the hard floor.

  Another boot hit his back.

  Shlup-shlup-shlup.

  Footsteps raced towards him.

  Another blow to his Hunter’s spine. Felt like it’d shifted his kidneys a few inches. Hunter lashed out with his feet and smacked his sole off something. Felt like a face. Something metallic clanged off the ground.

  He tried to spring to his feet. His knee wasn’t having it. Turning on his back, he did a quick scan of the area.

  Tulloch was gone.

  ‘You nosy bastard!’ Ricky was staggering towards Hunter, holding a length of metal pipe over his head. ‘That was between me and me fucking wife!’ He swung it down, aiming for Hunter’s skull.

  Hunter leaned back on his shoulders, popped his hips and kicked up with both feet, straight at Ricky’s hands. The pipe clattered to the ground and rolled away.

  Now!

  Hunter rolled, pushed up to his knees and charged low at Ricky. He caught his legs behind the knees and pulled them out from underneath him, landing his entire bodyweight on the soldier as he bulldozed him over.

  Hunter arched up as he lashed a fist into Ricky’s gut, then dropped his elbow on the guy’s jaw, buried his face under his chest and wrapped his arms around his throat in a mounting choke hold. He looked around, heart pounding. His breathing sounded distant, like someone else’s. Blood pumped in his ears, poured into his mouth from somewhere.

  The pipe crawled down the lane. A man stopped at the end and looked their way, then walked off.

  No sign of Tulloch.

  No sign of anyone else.

  He tightened the grip around Ricky’s throat. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Pare!’ A voice roared from the right. ‘Stop!’

  Hunter spun back towards the Strip.

  A local cop stood a few metres in from the main drag, his pistol trained on Hunter. ‘Get off him.’

  Hunter raised his hands. ‘You need to arrest this guy.’ He pointed at the pipe. ‘He threw that at my head!’

  Quaresma appeared alongside the cop, shaking his head. ‘Constable, Constable, Constable.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Chantal

  Chantal gasped. Feels like a cracked rib. She tried to sit up, but her chest screamed out at the mere attempt.

  Hunter hauled her to her feet like she was weightless. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded, rubbing her chin. ‘I’ll look after this lot. Get him!’

  Hunter shot off through the crowd, chasing Tulloch.

  Chantal sucked in a breath, trying to gain control, if not of the situation then at least of her pain. Probably hadn’t cracked the rib, but it still hurt. The dance floor had pretty much emptied, the sight of two big lads fighting clearly enough to make everyone look for safer entertainment elsewhere.

  The two girls swayed around next to her, nowhere near controlling their movements. One blonde, one dark-haired. Both as skinny as anorexia itself.

  The blonde girl opened her left eye and tried to focus. ‘Where’s Sean?’

  A tall woman wandered over, head tilted to the side. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m a police officer.’ Chantal couldn’t find her warrant card. ‘These women have been date raped.’

  ‘I’m the bar manager here.’ West Country accent, like her tongue was trying to reap hay instead of speaking some intelligible form of English. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Please call the local police.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ The manager disappeared through the crowd of rubberneckers.

  Chantal hefted the stools upright and rested them against the wall. Much heavier than they looked. ‘Sit here.’ She helped the first girl onto the seat, about as co-ordinated as a small child. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I love him.’ Both eyes clamped shut. ‘I looooove him.’

  Chantal rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder to stabilise her. ‘What are your names?’

  Dark-hair burped, eyes shut. ‘I’m Nora.’ A melodic rasp, Belfast by the sounds of it. ‘This is me cousin, Siobhan.’ She patted blondie on the back.

  Siobhan wobbled around on the stool. ‘Where’s Matty? He’s lovely . . .’

  ‘Nora, I need you to focus, okay?’ Chantal looked around the place for the drinks Tulloch had been forcing on them. Some crumpled plastic cups and a big puddle. A cleaner swept his bucket through the liquid. There goes the evidence.

  And still no sign of the local police. The bar crowd were all outside, ogling back in from a safe distance. The manager waved over, her hand in a telephone shape, then gave a thumbs up.

  ‘Where’s Sean?’ Nora opened her eyes, but her pupils couldn’t agree what to focus on, if anything. ‘He’s got a massive langer.’

  At least her mind’s eye was enjoying the view.

  Time to get serious now. Chantal held her shoulders. ‘Can you understand me? Sean spiked your drinks.’

  ‘Whaaaat?’ Nora’s head lolled forward. ‘He’s lovely. He bought us cocktails! They’re lovely!’

  This was going nowhere.

  Someone grabbed Chantal’s arm. ‘Step away, miss.’

  She swung round.

  Two uniformed police officers stood in front of her, one male, one female, both armed. The female officer stepped forward. Lantern jaw, hair in a top knot. ‘What’s going on?’

  Chantal caught Nora before she could slip off the chair again. ‘They’ve been date-raped.’

  The uniform swallowed hard and stared at her partner. ‘In here?’

  ‘Their drinks have been spiked.’ Chantal looked at the two girls. Barely in their twenties. ‘I don’t mean they’ve been raped yet, but it’s on the cards. A certain Sean Tulloch spiked their drinks. He’s known to Scottish police as a sexual predator.’

  ‘One second.’ The uniform stepped away and spoke into her radio.

  Chantal smiled at the girls, though only one of their four eyes was open. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  Keep telling yourself that . . .

  ‘Okay, madam.’ The uniform was back, her jaw set even squarer. ‘My partner will take them to hospital.’

  ‘I’m going with them.’

  The uniform shook her head. ‘No. DS Jain, I have order to take you to the station.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Hunter

  Quaresma thundered down the single carriageway, the patchy street lighting not exactly giving a clear view of their route. Palm trees lined the road, blocking out a brilliant white monstrosity hulking on the left. It looked like it’d been built upside down.

  Hunter was in the back, cracking his knuckles. He stretched out his knee and got a different timbre of crack. Felt about twice the size of the other one. His arms were peppered with bruises where Tulloch had punched him.

  Feel like I need a new back.

  Speaking of new, the car smelled like it had just rolled off the production line, the leather seats fresh from the tannery. Almost too clean. Local radio droned out at a low volume, just about loud enough to make out that it was people speaking, but not which language.

  Hunter got a click from somewhere in his ribs. He pressed a throbbing hand to it, red welts rising on his forearm. ‘I said, where’s DS Jain?’

  ‘I hear you.’ Quaresma swung right through a tight gap into a car park next to the white building. He slammed into a s
pace by a bare brick wall and killed the engine. Then he sat there, drumming his thumbs off the steering wheel. ‘Get out.’

  Hunter tried the door and it clicked open. He stepped out onto the marble surface, the pale mosaic glinting in the street lighting. The shiny stuff was everywhere, hurting his bruised brain. He leaned against the Audi’s roof. ‘I can’t see her.’

  ‘Constable, come with me.’ Quaresma waited for Hunter to shut his door before plipping the locks, then he marched over to the station. He held the front door, breathing slowly like a parent whose kid had just been expelled. ‘Inside.’

  Hunter shook his head and stood his ground. ‘What happens if I go in there?’

  Quaresma flicked his tongue across his teeth. ‘Inside, Constable.’

  ‘You’ve not arrested me or anything, so . . .’

  A squad car trundled to a halt nearby. The officer with the pistol got out and opened the back door. Ricky seemed to take a week getting out. When he did, he scowled over at Hunter, then burped into his hand.

  ‘Come with me.’ Quaresma marched inside.

  Hunter followed him in. Couldn’t even be bothered to shrug anymore.

  The station was quiet, a bored Desk Sergeant in full uniform sticking his nose into a local newspaper. Harry Jack’s cherubic face stared out from the front, haunted and lost, like the kid was already missing when the photo was taken.

  Quaresma nodded at him as they passed, then opened a metal door handle. Looked gloomy inside, but not a cell. ‘Inside.’

  Hunter stopped a few metres away from the door. ‘This isn’t a cell, is it?’

  ‘Inside.’ Quaresma bared his teeth, his patience wearing as thin as his lips. He grabbed Hunter’s arm and pulled him into the room.

  FORTY-SIX

  Chantal

  Lantern jaw held a door open. ‘You wait in here.’

  Chantal stepped into the room, Spartan at best. Bare white walls, functional desks, hard chairs. Only one window in the room, six vertical slices of glass lit up sodium yellow from outside. No noise, but for the hum of the strip lighting and the occasional drone of a passing car.