by Ed James
Hunter’s eyes narrowed at her. ‘Because he’s still at the station.’
‘How do you know that?’
Hunter shrugged and glanced away. Cheeky bastard was hiding something. With a sigh he looked back at her. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this. Come on.’
‘I’m staying here, Craig.’
‘Fine.’
* * *
Chantal stood in the doorway, glancing up and down the path outside their apartment. No movement in Tulloch’s flat. No sign of Hunter either. She got out her phone and dialled Quaresma’s number.
‘Sergeant.’ Sounded out of breath. ‘Why you phoning and not the UFC champ, ah?’
‘Someone’s broken into our room. You need to send someone right away.’ She leaned against the wall. ‘This is serious.’
Quaresma sighed down the line. ‘Sergeant, I think I say you leave my country?’
‘We’re trying to, but someone has burgled our room.’
His snort turned into laughter. ‘You think this is Mr Tulloch?’
‘Tell me it’s not.’
‘He only leave here just now.’
‘You’ve let him go?’
Another sigh. ‘If your paperwork—’
A voice from behind Chantal. ‘You!’
Chantal swung round. Nora O’Meara was powering towards her, face puckered tight. She stopped within touching distance, shaking with fury. ‘This is your fault!’
Chantal closed her eyes, then spoke into her phone. ‘I’ve got to go. Send some officers now.’ Chantal killed the call. ‘Nora, what’s—’
‘You bitch!’ Nora slapped her palm off Chantal’s shoulder. ‘It’s all your fault!’
Chantal jumped back, eyes wide with surprise. When the next slap came, she was ready and pushed it away with the hand holding the phone. A thud rocked through it, sending a dull shockwave down her arm. ‘Stop hitting me!’
Nora held up her hand for another go, but let it drop with a sigh. ‘Your bloody fault . . .’
‘What is?’
Nora pointed at their apartment across the way. ‘My cousin’s just got back from the police station. Do you know what they did to her?’
Some breach of conduct I can report, I hope.
‘I spoke to Kirsten when I was there.’ Chantal marshalled the last of her fake positivity, trying to disarm Nora with a smile. ‘She was giving evidence, wasn’t she?’
‘Not like you’d think.’ Nora squinted at her. ‘They don’t believe she was raped. Hauled her over the coals for it. Made her speak to that Sean boy.’
‘What?’ Chantal swiped her hair out of her face. Still feel half-pissed. But fully enraged. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’
‘Well, it did.’ Nora raised her hand again. ‘And it’s all your—’
‘I’m warning you.’ Chantal didn’t so much as flinch, but her glare stopped Nora as fast as any physical restraint. ‘How is Kirsten?’
‘How do you think? The poor girl’s after blaming herself for what happened.’
‘Christ.’ Chantal ran a hand across her forehead.
She’s right, that is my fault. We shouldn’t have gone running in there, trying to force everything through without understanding the ground rules. The caveman attitudes of the local cops. How hard it was to get anything done.
‘This isn’t Kirsten’s fault. It’s mine.’
‘What?’
‘I shouldn’t have forced her to go to the police here without priming them first. Shouldn’t have made her face her abuser all over again, either.’
‘Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself.’ Nora brushed her hair out of her face. ‘I’ve been in our apartment all afternoon, waiting for her. Then she called me and . . .’
‘How bad is it?’
‘I’m a psychiatric nurse back home. I’ve seen worse, but not much. Kirsten’s not in a good way. Near enough catatonic.’ Nora stepped forward. ‘What those cops did to Kirsten is shocking. Aren’t you going to do something about it?’
‘We’ll report it to our local liaison.’
‘I bet you will.’ Nora’s eyes widened as her eyes strayed over Chantal’s shoulder into the vandalised room. ‘What happened here?’
Chantal glanced behind her. ‘Someone’s raided it.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ She simpered, near enough fainted on the spot. ‘Sean?’
‘Probably his mates.’ Chantal stifled a yawn and pointed back down the lane. ‘Your room looks out on this bit. Did you see anyone near ours?’
‘Not that I can think of.’ Nora shook her head, tears flooding her eyes. ‘Wait a second. I saw him, when I went out for a bottle of water. That guy. The big one from Leeds, I think.’
‘Matty?’
Nora clicked her fingers. ‘That’s him.’
Chantal glanced back at the room next door to Tulloch’s. Nobody there. When was the last time I saw him? Bloody hell, in the line-up. Craig had a run-in with Matty outside the station. Meaning he had enough time to get over here.
‘What was this guy doing?’
‘God, I wasn’t paying all that much attention. He was sort of sitting near your room. Reading a paper. I think.’
‘Anyone else with him?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Thanks.’ Chantal nodded at Nora. ‘I’ll speak to my boss and—’ Her phone blared out. Hunter.
SIXTY-NINE
Hunter
‘You don’t understand.’ Hunter leaned across the reception desk, keeping his voice low. ‘I’m a police officer.’ He slid his warrant card across. ‘You need to expedite this.’
The receptionist scanned the card, his eyes flaring. Same Welsh guy as when they checked in the previous day, the one who flirted with Chantal. He passed it back. ‘I see, sir.’
‘I need to access your CCTV footage to see who’s been in our room.’
‘One second please, sir.’ He tottered off behind the giant cheese plant.
Hunter grabbed his phone and redialled Finlay for the sixteenth bloody time.
‘Yo.’ Sounded like Mansun playing in the background, “Wide Open Space”. Like it was 1997. Probably still was in that idiot’s head . . .
‘Finally.’ Hunter turned round to search the reception area. ‘Been calling for the last five minutes. Where have you been?’
‘Sat right here, jabroni. Had my phone on mute. Only noticed the now.’
A middle-aged American sidled up to the next desk and gave it the full, ‘Howdy, y’all?’
Hunter leaned forward, trying to follow where the receptionist had gone. ‘Is Tulloch still there?’
The background music turned down a few notches. ‘He’s still in the station.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Fifty million percent, dude. I can see both exits from here.’
‘You’ve not pissed off to get a sandwich or anything?’
‘After that monster burrito?’
‘What about going to the toilet?’
‘After that monster burrito?’
Always a pleasure to share in another man’s constipation. ‘What about a drink or a paper?’
‘Got a load of bottles of water in the boot for when I go on a long drive.’ Sounded like he took a swig of water, as if on cue. ‘Listen, I had a word with a guy I recognised from the pub who works in there. Paolo. He checked and Tulloch’s still inside, getting a proper grilling.’
‘You could’ve opened with that useful titbit.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
The receptionist wandered back round, followed by a knuckle-dragging brute who could’ve played rugby for Portugal. If they played rugby in Portugal.
‘Right, Fin, I’ll catch you later. Call me the second you hear.’
‘Will do, jab—’
Hunter killed the call and pocketed the phone, giving the receptionist a wide grin.
‘Sir, Pepé here is the head of security.’ The receptionist ran a hand down the circus strongman’s arm, thicker than h
is own waist. Looked like he spent all day with a pair of cast-iron dumbbells in front of the mirror, rather than looking at CCTV. The receptionist caressed his bulging biceps. ‘He’ll be able to help you.’
‘Come with me, sir.’ Pepé spoke in the most brutal English, all clipped vowels and hardened consonants. Like some troglodyte from Musselburgh. He pulled up the partition and guided Hunter through. ‘You are police?’
‘Based near Edinburgh in Scotland.’
‘Ah, Edinburgh.’ Pepé opened a door behind a photocopier machine. ‘Beautiful city. I play rugby there many year ago.’
Hunter smiled at him and entered the office. More plush than the guest rooms, anyway. A glass desk ran along the far wall, with a laptop plugged into a giant TV mounted on top. ‘Did your colleague tell you what happened?’
‘Is not uncommon.’
‘I need to see the CCTV for the area outside our room, please.’
‘Kevin told me.’ Pepé sat behind the desk, almost blocking the TV, and twisted his neck until it cracked. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Hunter, we do not have CCTV for those rooms.’
Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Sorry, sir. That block only is two years old. We have no approval already from boss to install system. Is very expensive.’
Looked a lot older than two years . . . ‘What about the entrances?’
Pepé waved a hand towards the door. ‘There is one by reception, but it points at sea, not road.’
Hunter peered round to look at the TV. It showed the bar area from the roadside, with a thin sliver of beach and the hotel next door. Gordon Brownlee and a couple of the other squaddies were in as usual, but no sign of Sean Tulloch or Matty Ibbetson.
Hunter pointed at another camera, angled at what looked like their apartment block. ‘What about that one?’
‘Is not recording.’
Hunter shut his eyes, teeth clenched. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Fake camera. Sorry. Is standard practice.’
‘Do you have staff?’
Pepé frowned, the deep lines in his forehead looking like they’d been carved with a chisel. Judging by the confused expression on his face, he’d been lobotomised in the process. Eventually, though, he seemed to understand the question. ‘I have a bo staff, yes.’
‘Very nice, but I didn’t mean a literal staff. I meant people working for you.’
‘No, I am only security here.’ Pepé patted the side of the TV. ‘And this.’
‘And you’ve not seen anyone suspicious by our room?’
‘No.’ The big man looked at him with a sadness in his eyes that seemed to belong to a different time. A time when not being able to help a stranger was cause of genuine regret. When he helped victims because he was compelled to do so simply by their shared humanity. A time when he didn’t let his personal shit distract him from the real suffering of those he had taken a professional vow to help, those whose need for protection had first made him want to become a cop, those who were at the mercy of users and abusers if people like him were too caught up in their power games and relationship issues.
Pepé was still looking at him, waiting for another question, but Hunter didn’t know what to say to the man. Didn’t know what to say to anyone anymore. So he said a single word and left.
‘Sorry.’
* * *
Hunter stepped out into the blazing sunlight and swivelled his shades over his eyes.
Bloody amateurs.
Slow down. Think things through.
Hunter glanced over at the bar area. Gordon Brownlee and his mates were settling into a more leisurely pace of drinking, sipping their pints almost like civilised alcoholics. Almost.
Had to be one of them in our room.
He got a scowl from Brownlee as the big lump Keith joined him, his movements less erratic now. Must’ve finally found his Valium.
So, Brownlee had been released. How long till Tulloch was out?
Hunter called Chantal. ‘Hey, you got anything?’
‘I’m behind you.’ Voice like ice. ‘We’ve got something.’
* * *
Hunter ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Matty?’
‘Matty.’ Chantal was pouting at him. ‘We need to find him.’
‘I’ve got an idea.’ Hunter stomped off, his feet squelching on the damp mosaic tiles.
Big Keith’s eyes lit up as he caught sight of Hunter, striding straight towards him. The man was smoking a cigar, sucking deep on the brown leather. ‘Gogs, can you smell bacon?’
Terrific. Of all the cop insults, he had to pick the pig reference. Hunter stopped, still a few yards to go. Not another flashback. Not now.
He stared around them, tried to centre himself among all those lairy lads lying by the pool, drinking lager and sizzling in the sun like . . .
Stop.
Thinking.
About.
Bacon.
Focus on the sounds of the pool, splashing and giggling and roars of laughter. Distant traffic. The smell of cigarette smoke and diesel belching out of a coach.
‘Definitely some pork-based product.’ Gordon Brownlee took another sip of beer. ‘Maybe ham?’
Keith smirked. ‘Or spam?’
Wrong time to mess with me, fuckhead. Hunter took one look at sozzled Keith, reckoned he could take him out with a quick kick in the throat, then settle in on Brownlee before he even knew what was coming. His other two mates looked a bit handy, though.
He planted his feet on the tiles, shifted his weight on to the balls of his feet and spread his hands in front of him in a gesture that looked like surrender, yet left him ready to attack faster than those clowns could get out of their seats. With a meek smile he focused on Brownlee. ‘I need to speak to Matty Ibbetson, please.’
‘Oh aye?’ Brownlee nodded slowly. ‘Oink don’t know where he is.’ He frowned at Keith. ‘Have you seen ham?’
Keith took another suck on his cigar. ‘Might be in a pigpen.’
Hunter joined in the round of guffaws. ‘Terrific fun, gentlemen. Just terrific. Now, while I have your esteemed attention, I’m looking for a rapist, so I’d be mighty grateful if you could point me in the right di—’
‘Piss off, you pig bastard.’ Brownlee shook his head as he got up. ‘You can’t come over here and expect us to help you.’ He jabbed a finger at him, inches away from Hunter’s nose. ‘You arrested Sean, took me into the cop shop and now you’re after Matty. When’s it Big Keith’s turn?’
Hunter dropped his shoulders, ready to make the guy sit back on his arse if he so much as thought another insult. ‘Listen, someone’s raided our room and I’d—’
Brownlee stuck out his bottom lip and strummed it with his index finger. ‘Aw, diddums.’
I could batter you into next—
Hunter’s phone blasted out. He sighed. ‘Come on lads, this is serious. Where is he?’
Brownlee flicked him the Vs. ‘Piss off, pig.’
Hunter held his stare for a moment, then started smiling. ‘I’ll piss off, alright. But when I get home, I’ll get in touch with the cops in your area. Request a daily stop-and-search routine specifically for you upstanding members of the community. Maybe some accidental police violence when you resist arrest on some false charge. Every day.’
Keith scowled at him. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Can’t I?’ Hunter nodded at Brownlee. ‘You live in Muirhouse, right? Even easier to call in favours for you.’
Brownlee collapsed back into a chair, his face white.
Let them stew on that for a while.
‘See you around.’ Hunter walked off, checking his phone. Missed call from Finlay.
Terrific. That gratification lasted about as long as Matty’s two-inch baby cock.
He raised his phone to his ear and scanned the streets, looking for a red Fiesta. ‘What’s up?’
Finlay’s engine roared in the background. ‘Been trying to call you!’
‘Sorry, something’s c
ome up.’
‘Aye, well, I need a bit of a hand, jabroni.’ The engine’s roar turned to a squeal. ‘Tulloch got out two minutes ago and a car picked him up. I’m following them right now.’
Hunter spun around, scanning the area again. No signs of any new arrivals. ‘Where are you?’
‘They’re not far from— Shite.’ A squeal of brakes. ‘They’ve stopped outside a bar. Just up from your hotel.’
‘What?’ Hunter started running up the slope away from the bar area. ‘It’s definitely Tulloch?’
‘Aye, he’s just got out of the car. And what the—?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Shite, he’s gone down a lane at the side.’
Hunter sped up, his gut lurching. ‘Is it the Cheap and Cheerful?’
‘Aye, it is. Why?’
‘That means he’s gone back to Luisa’s apartment to finish the job.’
SEVENTY
Chantal
Chantal caught up with Hunter by the main road as a bus thundered towards them. Could almost feel the ground rumbling through her sandals. ‘You got him yet?’
Hunter had his mobile clamped to his ear. ‘Fin’s phone is going to voicemail, as per bloody usual.’
She jogged alongside him, then sped up as he darted through a gap in traffic.
Hunter slowed by another bar, punters spilling out onto the pavement as cars hissed past them. ‘What’s the plan?’
The lane they ducked into was empty and quiet, Chantal’s voice breathless with urgency. ‘We need to wait for Quaresma, Craig.’
‘He let Tulloch go.’
‘We still need to play by the rules.’ As if on cue, her phone blasted out. She showed Hunter the screen. Incoming call from one Senhor Quaresma. ‘Here we go.’ She answered it. ‘We need—’
‘Sergeant, I not listen anymore.’ Quaresma paused. Sounded like he was driving. ‘You leave my country or I arrest you and Constable Hunter. He call me one more time, I put him in cell until next aeropl—’
‘Why have you let Tulloch go?’
‘Sergeant, I let Mr Tulloch go because he is not suspect of crime in my country.’
Hunter stomped up the steps towards the bar manager, shouting the odds at him.