by Ed James
‘A bottle of spirits at that time?’
‘It’s not uncommon.’ Another shrug. ‘If they buy a whole bottle, it’s cheaper for them, but we get a lot of money upfront. And they’ll stay there, buy some food, some mixers, maybe some beers.’
‘And did they?’
She looked away. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘They must’ve drank about a quarter of the bottle by the time—’ She ran a hand through her hair. Clammed up.
Chantal tilted her head to the side. ‘By what time?’
Luisa nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘I was working, okay, but it’s quiet and it’s still sort of off-season. So the boss lets us . . . We’re allowed to, you know, consort with the customers.’
‘So you drank from Mr Tulloch’s bottle?’
‘He was generous like that. Really nice.’
‘Did he try and put anything in your drink?’
‘What?’
‘Like a drug?’
‘Hardly.’ Luisa shook her head. ‘He asked me if I lived nearby, so we went up to my apartment. It’s near the bar.’
Chantal frowned. ‘Just like that?’
‘Like what? I liked him. And . . .’ She ran a hand up her bare arm. ‘Well, he’s my type.’
A chill shot up Chantal’s spine. ‘You went of your own volition?’
‘Yeah?’ Luisa glanced at Quaresma. ‘He’s . . . I like guys like him. Big guys like him. We were kissing each other on the stairs.’ Her eyes went out of focus. ‘He was practically inside me by the time I opened the flat door.’
‘So you consented to the sex with Mr Tulloch?’
‘God, yeah.’ Her expression darkened and she waved a hand at Quaresma. ‘Then this joker came in and pulled him out of me.’
Quaresma levered himself up to standing and buttoned up his long coat. ‘Sergeant, we must talk. Outside.’
SIXTY
Hunter
Hunter leaned forward on the plastic desk. Ice cold, unlike the roasting air in the room. ‘Mr Brownlee, I need to go through your movements on Thursday night.’
‘We’ve been through this in detail.’ Brownlee scowled back at him. ‘What’s the point in her writing this down if you keep asking me to repeat it, eh?’
Elena was sitting opposite him, writing everything down. Nice to have someone working for you for once. Someone who wasn’t smearing icing sugar on the forms or ratting you out to your boss. Wonder if Elvis has already told Sharon about Chantal and me?
Brownlee burped and Hunter was back in the interview room. ‘You said you were drinking at a bar near the hotel, then down the strip.’ Hunter pressed his forearms against the cool table. ‘What was the name of the bar?’
Brownlee exhaled slowly through his nostrils, his focus locked on the desk. ‘Something like Cheap and Cheerful.’
‘And you were doing karaoke in there?’
‘Sean was. Same shite he always does . . .’ Brownlee smirked. ‘Hall and Oates.’
‘And you said you left early?’
Brownlee looked up. ‘Aye.’
‘You weren’t thrown out?’
‘Sean was.’ Brownlee scratched his neck, lobster-red around the T-shirt collar. ‘Like I told you, we went back to the hotel to meet up with some of the other boys. Then we headed down the strip.’
Hunter nodded slowly. ‘Where did you end up?’
‘Couldn’t tell you.’
‘Wouldn’t be Mambo, would it?’
Brownlee held up his hands. ‘Take your word for it.’
‘That’s where you . . .’ Hunter leaned over Elena’s shoulder to read her notes. Terrific. They were in Portuguese. He coughed. ‘Where you met the “Irish birds”.’
‘Well, aye, but I didn’t call them “birds”. It’s demeaning. Ladies, I think I said.’
Hunter almost laughed. Just about caught himself in time. ‘Did you chat to any of them?’
‘No.’
‘Did Sean?’
‘No.’
Hunter pulled out a photo of Kirsten Latimer. ‘What about her?’
Brownlee took it and glanced at it. He flapped it in the air, like he was weighing up the decision whether to tell the truth or not. ‘Never seen her in my life.’
‘Sure about that?’
Brownlee put the photo back on the table. ‘Don’t recognise her.’
Hunter held it up and gave Brownlee one last look. ‘So, what happened next?’
‘Some of the boys were heading off to the ti—’ Brownlee coughed and cleared his throat. ‘They were heading to a lapdancing bar.’
‘And did you go?’
‘Not my scene, dude.’
‘You told me earlier that you were “at the tits till four”.’
Brownlee exhaled slowly through his nostrils. ‘Fine. I was in there. Had a few dances. Then I went back to my crib.’
‘Which you share with Sean Tulloch?’
‘Well, the room, aye.’
Hunter got out the bottle of pills. ‘Have you ever seen this?’
Brownlee raised his hands, palms out. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Elena put down her pen. ‘We found that in your hotel room, Mr Brownlee.’
‘Well, it’s not mine.’
Hunter rested it on the table. ‘So it’s Sean Tulloch’s?’
‘Never seen it in my puff, pal. Couldn’t say.’
Hunter passed the pills back to Elena. ‘So, you got back to your room and you went to sleep, right?’
Brownlee put his hands back down and stared at the slice of table between his forearms like he was anxiously looking for a reason to keep lying for his rapist of a roommate. ‘That’s . . . That’s what I told you.’
‘When did you wake up?’
‘In time for breakfast.’
‘Was Mr Tulloch in the room when you roused yourself?’
‘Might’ve been. Can’t remember. Had a stinking hangover. All I could think about was coffee and bacon.’
Hunter grimaced. ‘Was there any other company present?’
‘Look, pal, I can’t even remember if he was there, let alone whether he’d pulled.’
‘Kirsten Latimer wasn’t there, was she?’ Hunter tapped the photo.
Brownlee didn’t even look at it. ‘What is this?’ He threw it over his shoulder. ‘I never saw that girl.’
‘Ms Latimer says you were looking at her as Mr Tulloch raped her.’
‘Not me.’
‘Staring at her while he—’
‘Not me, pal. Must’ve confused the room number. Have you spoken to Matty?’
‘She identified you by means of a photograph. You’re rather distinct in your appearance, wouldn’t you agree?’
Brownlee scratched his droopy ear. Almost looked bashful, a bashful ogre.
Hunter snorted. ‘What sort of person gets off on watching someone being raped?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Sean raped that girl. You saw him do it. If you had an ounce of decency, you’d tell us what happened.’
Brownlee sat there and folded his arms. ‘You’re getting nothing more out of me.’
‘You let her be raped. Just lay there, playing with yourself. Would you like to add anything to that summary of events?’
‘You’ve got my statement.’ Brownlee pushed his chair back and got up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind? I’m supposed to be on holiday.’
SIXTY-ONE
Chantal
Quaresma led Chantal down a long corridor and opened a door at the end, holding it for her.
Classic ID parade room, a wide window running down the side, looking onto another, smaller room. Two women stood silhouetted against it. A local male uniformed officer, and Kirsten Latimer.
Chantal followed Quaresma into the room, but stopped at a respectful distance behind them.
Kirsten greeted her with a nod, her eyebrows squashed together, arms folded tight across her chest.
Five giants loomed behind the glass. Four looked Britis
h, one local. Tulloch was the fourth from the left, a wide smirk on his face. Not that the others were any better.
Oh. Matty was in there too, standing at the far end.
‘Ms Latimer, thank you for your help.’ Quaresma licked his lips. ‘Now. I know it is difficult. But please, try to identify your attacker.’
Kirsten shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘Take your time.’ Quaresma gave her his full smarmy charm in a single, quick smile. ‘You recognise one of the men?’
‘They all seem familiar.’ Kirsten blinked hard like she needed glasses. ‘It’s . . . I can’t remember. That stuff they put in my drink.’
Chantal let out a groan, regretting it instantly.
Kirsten turned round and frowned. ‘Sorry.’
Chantal tried a smile, but it wasn’t happening. ‘Do you recognise any of these men? Any at all?’
Kirsten took another look. Long, slow, one by one. Focusing hard, her fingers twitching. She settled on Tulloch, flinched when he stared back at her, but somehow found the strength to lock eyes with him. He snorted, a smirk on his face. Then she shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Take your time, if you need it.’ Chantal wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her point at Tulloch. ‘Take one more look at—’
‘Ms Latimer, you can leave now.’ Quaresma smiled at the cop next to her. ‘My colleague will go with you.’
Kirsten followed the uniform out of the room, her head bowed.
‘This isn’t the way to do it.’ Chantal glowered at Quaresma. ‘We use a system called VIPER at home. It’s proven to give better results by not letting the suspect see—’
‘You are not in UK, Sergeant.’ Quaresma got in her face, blowing coffee breath over her. ‘I say for last time. This is how we do police work here. You do not like, you go home.’
SIXTY-TWO
Hunter
Quaresma held the door for them as Hunter followed Chantal into the room.
Hunter slumped in the corner. Sounds like her interview had gone as badly as his. Yet judging by Quaresma’s grin, he didn’t seem to care about their progress. Didn’t seem to care about Bruce’s progress in finding Harry Jack, either. Didn’t seem to care about anything.
The Observation Suite was a broom cupboard so small it seemed crowded by the big computer monitor someone had picked up in Aldi or Lidl. The screen was split in four, the bottom half empty. Tulloch was in the top-left, Luisa in the screen next to him.
‘Now we have no choice.’ Quaresma hauled himself up to standing. ‘Elena, please let Mr Tulloch go.’
‘What?’ Hunter’s gaze darted around the room, his heart thudding. ‘You can’t!’
Quaresma folded his arms and lowered his eyes behind that granite wall of his forehead. ‘Constable, we have no legal reason for keep this man, no witness testimony. So, we let him go.’ He waved a hand at Elena. ‘Now.’
She left the room.
‘This is complete bullshit!’
‘I cannot change law, Constable. He do not commit crime in this country. Or the girl cannot remember. But no testimony, no arrest.’
Hunter held his gaze for a few seconds until Quaresma looked away. ‘He raped someone.’
‘Evidence, Constable. Ms Latimer say she cannot remember, and we have no proof for that the GHB from Mr Tulloch’s room was used. Not any time. And not this time for rape of this woman. Or the other lady.’
‘That’s your fault.’ Hunter’s voice felt hoarse, sounded like it was a million miles away. ‘If you’d—’
‘Constable, we had agreement to talk at two o’clock today. Now, is not even one o’clock.’ Quaresma held up his watch, the gold glinting in the light like an Aztec pyramid. ‘I wanted to give you two of my officers, but not now. You do not disrespect me like this. If you make move anyway, I will arrest you.’
‘What’s your problem?’ Hunter locked eyes with him. ‘Are you getting a backhander from someone?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Every step of the way, you’ve blocked us. Our suspect landed here, what, forty hours ago? You could’ve arrested him on countless occasions by now, could have sent him back to Scotland before Kirsten fell victim to him in your jurisdiction. Or you could’ve kept him in a holding cell until we got here yesterday morning. But no, you’ve let him run wild, raping just about anyone that he can buy a drink.’
‘Constable, I know your country. I have travel. It is a degenerate land full with people of no moral. Men like this Sean Tulloch, they are everywhere in UK.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Hunter started pacing the small room. ‘Is this your official position? That these women should’ve known what they were getting into, because the man is British? That they deserved their abuse?’
‘Listen, Constable. My boss decide my priority. Not you. He decide the Harry Jack case is more important. An innocent child, my friend, he was kidnapped, he had no choice. Your Mr Tulloch, well, these women, they are complicit in the crimes, no? They come here, they drink alcohol until they fall down, they do not say no to pigs like that man. It is their lifestyle. Then they want arrest? This is not justice, Constable. This is joke.’
Chantal stepped forward, almost going head to head with him. One long, silent stare later she walked over to the door. ‘I need to speak to your superiors.’
Quaresma tried his toothy smile on Hunter. ‘Your DI McNeill already do it. Look where you are. My superiors are not happy with your actions.’ He licked his bottom lip. ‘You should think, maybe better idea if we go home, yes?’
Hunter almost put his hand through the screen to strangle the still-grinning Tulloch. After a deep breath he took his eyes off him and looked straight at Quaresma. ‘This man is coming back to Scotland with us.’
Quaresma tucked his thumbs through his belt loops. Hunter focused on his breathing. Three steps and I could break that pencil pusher’s fingers. ‘Mr Hunter, I can already arrest you for assault.’
Chantal stomped back over, her fists clenched. ‘Look, we’ve got Tulloch for five serious long-term sexual abuse cases back home, plus assault and battery. If you let him go, it’s on your head.’
‘I say again because reason is same. I have no spare officers. We have new sighting of Harry Jack in Vilamoura.’
Hunter looked into his eyes, searching deep for the lie. ‘Is that the truth?’
‘You call me liar now, Constable?’ Quaresma laughed. ‘We do not get your European Arrest Warrant. So, even if I bend rules and arrest the man, I cannot pass him to you.’
Chantal shook her head at him. ‘Why are you being as obstructive as possible?’
‘Listen to me, I must manage my resources. Very careful. When you are Inspector, maybe you understand.’
‘Look, if you won’t release him to us, then you need to at least keep him in custody until we can come to an agreement through official channels.’
Quaresma puckered his lips. ‘In this country, I cannot detain suspects with no charge.’
Tulloch was slipping through their fingers, again. How the hell do I get him on the onside? Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Can you at least take a full statement of Tulloch’s movement over the last few days?’
‘How full?’
‘Down to the second. Keep him talking for a few hours.’
Quaresma looked like he was going to put up even more of a fight. Then he scratched his head and gave a slight shrug. ‘Fine. I do it for you.’
‘And can you put a tail on him when he leaves?’
Quaresma’s laugh expressed his frustrated disbelief more than anything he’d said all day. When Hunter kept staring at him, he shrugged again. ‘No, Constable. I know this is surprise for you, but this here is not American gangster movie.’
* * *
Hunter leaned back against DI Bruce’s car and let the sun burn his skin. ‘How come we don’t get a hire car?’
‘Because we’re not special, Craig. Were you not paying attention to Senhor Quaresma?’ Chan
tal stuffed her hands in her pockets.
Ready to slap the guy’s grin off his fat face, then raid the police station and kill Tulloch with my bare hands.
Chantal just stood there, an ice queen in the baking heat. When she finally unfroze, she reached for her phone. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better call Sharon and let her know the great news.’ Bracing herself for the shit-storm from Scotland, she strode off towards the shade.
Hunter looked after her for a few steps, then got out his own mobile. A text from Finlay, that was it.
I GET IT, MATE. I’M NOT WANTED. BUT CALL ME ANY TIME YOU NEED ME.
What were the odds of that ever happening? Low before he’d ratted us out to Elvis. Since then, nil.
‘You filthy bastard!’ Matty was tearing across the car park towards Hunter, fists clenched, fury in his eyes. ‘You fucking pig!’
Hunter dropped his shoulders and got into the Basic Stance, ready to fight. ‘Unless you want to tell us all about Sean Tulloch, I suggest—’
‘Fuck off!’ Matty stopped a yard in front of Hunter and stabbed a finger at the police station. ‘They’ve just hauled me inside to do a fucking ID parade! You stupid prick!’
‘Go on, then. Take your shot or piss off, but get on with it. I’m a busy man.’
Matty moved his head close, almost touching. ‘You’re not fucking worth it.’ He stormed off, heading away from the crowd of reporters by the station’s entrance.
Where had they suddenly come from? Oh, yeah, Quaresma mentioned another sighting.
Terrific.
Hunter settled back against the car and folded his arms, blood thudding in his ears. Should I go after the bastard? Batter his head in for aiding and abetting his rapist of a friend? Not in front of the world’s press.
Bide your time, Hunter.
Think of his tiny cock.
And try not to laugh.
‘The joys of rank.’ DI Bruce tutted as he approached, then thumbed over at Chantal, who was still wheeling around at the other side of the car park. ‘Updating the boss, is she?’
Hunter sighed. ‘Getting a kicking for it, as well.’