Hunted

by Ed James

  Rather them than me.

  He stretched out, touching his palms to the floor. His thighs ached, burning up the back. Dark bruises dotted his side. Even looking at it hurt.

  Hunter went over and took the coffeemaker off the hob. He got two mugs out of the cupboard and poured the thick syrupy liquid in. Beautiful. Dark and musty, smelled like truffle oil. He poured in the hot milk and tried to feather Chantal’s. Made a right mess of it.

  He grabbed the handles and walked through the flat towards the bedroom. Muffin shot out, scuttling along the laminate. Bubble followed him, managing to run on three legs at the same time as punching his arse.

  ‘That’s my girl.’ Hunter pushed the door open.

  Chantal lay in the darkness and let out a groan.

  Hunter put the coffees down on his side of the bed and flicked on the bedside light.

  She blinked with one eye, the other shut. ‘Fells asleep agained.’

  ‘When did you get in?’

  She stared right through him, like understanding speech was beyond her. ‘Half four.’ She lay back and yawned. ‘Sharon was still there when I left.’

  A thump came from the hall.

  Hunter pushed himself up. ‘That’ll be the paper.’

  ‘You’re such an old man.’

  Hunter padded through, indeed feeling like an old man. Muffin stood over The Sunday Argus, looking like he was going to piss on it. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’ He shooed him off and picked up the paper.

  HARRY’S HEROIC HOMECOMING: COPS FIND MISSING CHILD IN ALNWICK RAID!

  The photo below showed Chantal and Bruce leading the mother into a police station somewhere. Newcastle, probably.

  Jesus Christ.

  Hunter went back into the bedroom and threw the paper on the pillow next to her. ‘You’re famous.’

  ‘I’ll try not to let it go to my head.’ She raised her head and stared at it. ‘I look terrible.’

  ‘You wish you could look terrible.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the bed. ‘You didn’t tell me you found him.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t think of anything after you told me about Tulloch.’ She reached for her coffee and slurped at it. ‘Do you remember when Cullen was on the front of that paper?’

  ‘Almost cancelled it.’

  ‘Petty twat.’ She blew on the surface. ‘Brucie Boner mentioned something about holding cards against Quaresma.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter chuckled. ‘Seems a bit backwards there, but Bruce has CCTV footage of our friend José kneeling before Quaresma.’ He stuck his tongue in his cheek.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘The fear of being outed caused all that behaviour. We were sniffing around the wrong place. Us and Bruce.’

  ‘Just come out and be done with it. Christ.’ She took another drink. ‘This is good.’

  ‘I know.’ Hunter sipped his own coffee. ‘Smells like cigars.’

  She froze, the mug against her lip. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, it smells like cigars.’

  She put down her mug. ‘Last night, when we arrested Matty. Before I went . . . Before I went medieval on him. He was smoking a cigar. My uncle used to smoke cigars. Maybe the same brand, maybe not . . .’

  ‘Shite, I should’ve thought.’

  She grabbed his wrist. ‘Craig, I had a flashback to when I was playing rugby. I was twelve and he . . . He picked me up. Dad had to go somewhere. He took me down a country lane and . . . That was the first time.’

  Hunter sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm. ‘I didn’t know.’

  She stared into mid-distance, her eyes misting over. ‘That fat bastard and his cigars.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I don’t want to stop.’ Her jaw clenched tight. ‘I went ballistic on Ibbetson. Kicked his balls so hard they bled. I couldn’t stop. Just kept on kicking. All because . . .’ She broke off, shaking her head. ‘All because of what Ditinder did to me.’

  Hunter reached for her face, then pulled back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. It’s . . . It’s deep in the past. He can’t do what he did to me again.’

  Hunter smiled at her, pride in her strength replacing the old aggressive impulse to fantasies about what he would’ve done to the perpetrator had he only been there in time. Glad to let those feelings go. Glad and immensely relieved. ‘What did Sharon say about it?’

  ‘She’s going to cover it over. It’s all part of the arrest record now.’ She picked up her coffee again. ‘Matty tried to rape me.’

  Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. The old impulse burned at his guts. ‘He . . . He what?’

  ‘He tried to rape me.’ Chantal ran a hand through her hair. ‘But I stabbed him in the eye with his cigar. Then I beat the shit out of him.’

  Hunter tasted sick at the back of his throat. ‘Him and Tulloch, they won’t do it to anyone ever again.’ He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the taste. ‘When we caught Tulloch and he pressed the iron to her face, I had another flashback.’

  Chantal clamped her teeth tight. ‘Oh, Craig.’

  ‘It was like being back in Iraq, it was . . .’

  A lonely tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Pretty far from okay.’ Hunter wiped tears from his own eyes. ‘Only goes to show that scumbags are scumbags, no matter where they’re from. It’s how we treat other people that makes the difference.’

  * * *

  Hunter drove into the car park in Bathgate station, taking it as slowly as his battered hands would allow. He parked in the first of a row of four empty bays. ‘Wouldn’t get this on a Monday morning.’

  Chantal glanced over at him, frowning.

  Hunter opened his door, then sat there, silently gazing out of the window. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really.’ She stuffed her phone away and let her seatbelt flop to her lap. ‘I need about a year’s sleep. And I’m worried we’re going to mess this up.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Craig, we need hard evidence on Tulloch. We need to . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Hunter took her hand and held it tight. ‘Look, maybe you shouldn’t be working today.’

  ‘Tulloch has to . . . I’ve got to make sure he—’

  Something clunked off his window. DI McNeill stood there, her pencil-thin eyebrows standing to attention. She jabbed a finger at Chantal, then at Hunter.

  Chantal snatched her hand away from his. ‘Shite on a lamppost.’ She opened the door with a breezy smile. ‘Shaz, good morning. We—’

  ‘You lying cow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t see that.’ Sharon pointed at Hunter as he got out of the car. ‘You pair must think we’re all idiots.’ She turned and marched off. ‘Sergeant, my office, now.’

  Chantal ran after her.

  This is all we need . . .

  Cullen was leaning against his Golf a few yards from the door, yawning into a fist. ‘Morning, Craig.’

  ‘Morning.’ Hunter huffed out a sigh through the open door. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Other than you two getting here at the same time?’

  ‘There’s nothing—’

  ‘Save it, mate. Not my battle.’ Cullen plipped his car’s locks. ‘Look, Sharon wants you and me to interview Tulloch, okay? I’ll see you inside.’

  ‘Fine.’ Hunter watched him go, slumping back in his seat, arms folded.

  Bollocks . . .

  Playing with fire for far too long and—

  ‘Alright?’ Elvis was skulking around a couple of cars over. Didn’t look himself, his mouth hanging open, slack-jawed as ever.

  Hunter climbed out of the car and joined him. ‘You okay, mate?’

  Elvis blew out a sigh. ‘I feel emaciated.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Chantal and Sharon took out that Matty guy last night, they left me behind to look through a load of CCTV.’

  Hu
nter almost laughed. ‘You mean, you feel emasculated, right?’

  ‘Whatever, mate.’ Elvis hauled his laptop bag up his shoulder. ‘They were running a big dunt in Alnwick and they didn’t want me there. How’s that supposed to make me feel?’

  ‘Like you’ve got other uses?’

  ‘I can kick a door down with the best of them.’ Elvis started walking over to the back entrance. ‘Starting to wish I’d never come here.’

  * * *

  Tulloch sat back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. His face was bandaged up, broken red skin outlining the sunburnt white. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  Hunter still ached all over, but he couldn’t sit down. He paced around the interview room, eventually stopping behind Cullen’s chair. ‘Mr Tulloch, can you outline your movements on the night of Thursday the twelfth of May 2016?’

  Tulloch shrugged both shoulders. ‘When you tried to assault me at Waverley, you mean?’

  Hunter leaned forward. ‘How did you know we’d be there?’

  ‘Eyes and ears everywhere, my sweet prince.’

  ‘Name your source.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Hunter returned to his chair and sat down. There was something there, something to push and prod. What, though? ‘Okay, so after Waverley?’

  ‘I went to the airport.’

  ‘Aye? How did you get there?’

  Tulloch sniffed. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘You didn’t steal a car, did you?’

  ‘How dare you suggest such a heinous act?’ Tulloch licked his lips. ‘Let’s remember, all I did was fly out to Portugal. There’s no law against that, far as I’m aware.’

  ‘And what did you do there?’

  ‘Met some boys from the squad and went for a few drinks.’

  ‘Go for a bit of karaoke, too?’

  Tulloch smirked. ‘A bit, aye.’

  ‘Did you speak to any women?’

  ‘Might’ve done.’

  ‘Before or after you raped Kirsten Latimer?’

  Tulloch didn’t even think about rising to the provocation. ‘Like I told that Portuguese wanker yesterday, that bird was so pissed I doubt she even remembered her own name, never mind mine.’

  ‘So how could she give her consent?’

  ‘Because she said she wanted my monster cock inside her.’ Tulloch grinned and grabbed his groin. ‘Here, do you fancy a portion yourself, stumpy?’

  Hunter held his gaze until he looked away. ‘What about Luisa Oliveira?’

  ‘Nice girl.’

  ‘Nice enough to rape her, too?’

  ‘Asked and answered, buddy. Consent given.’ Tulloch leaned over to whisper into Williams’s ear, loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. ‘See, Hamish, this boy burst in when I was balls deep inside that minx. And with my Python that’s a long way in. He’s after my cock, isn’t he? Big poof.’

  Williams gritted his teeth.

  Hunter waited for Tulloch to return his focus to him. ‘You raped Luisa, didn’t you?’

  Tulloch paused for a few seconds. ‘Move. On.’

  ‘Later on, you were trying to get back into Luisa’s flat. Why?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Worried she was going to tell us you had actually raped her?’

  ‘You find it hard to believe that a girl like that would be into a boy like me?’

  ‘Kind of. Aside from amusement about your overt penile pride, what’s her interest?’

  ‘Can’t it just be my humungous knob and my rugged charm?’

  Hunter stared at him. ‘And your date rape drugs?’

  ‘Piss off. You’ve no evidence of anything, have you?’

  ‘Matty introduced you to her, right?’

  Tulloch looked away. ‘It’s his bird’s sister.’ He shrugged, like it was a normal thing. ‘We had a few drinks. She stroked the Python and invited me back to hers.’

  Hunter’s gut burned, all the guilt and rage biting a hole into his gullet. He switched to another sheet of paper. ‘Next, you were complicit in the murder of Finlay Sinclair.’

  Tulloch shrugged his left shoulder. ‘Don’t recall it.’

  ‘He was pushed off a cliff yesterday afternoon. He punctured a lung and died later that day. You deny being there?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Hunter stopped. ‘We have evidence of you at the crime scene in Albufeira.’

  ‘Wasn’t there.’

  ‘So, who did it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Matty?’

  ‘No idea, mate. Move on.’

  ‘Gordon Brownlee?’

  ‘Hardly. Prick wasn’t even there.’ Tulloch clicked his finger a few times. ‘You’re screwing that Paki, aren’t you?’

  ‘You assisted Matthew Ibbetson in the murder of—’

  ‘You satisfy her, do you?’ Tulloch made a little hook with his pinky. ‘That how big you are, eh? Little maggot. When I get out of here, how about I give her a real portion of man cock?’

  ‘Keep thinking that you’re getting out.’ Hunter slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. Everything hurt that little bit worse. ‘Mr Tulloch, we’ve been running a case against you for over a year now.’ He hefted a paper file and dropped it on the desk, the thud echoing round the small room. ‘This is the evidence we’ve so far obtained.’

  ‘Whilst I certainly do appreciate early sight of this . . .’ Williams looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Perhaps we are jumping the gun here, slightly?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hunter pushed the file across to the other side of the desk, just in front of Cullen. ‘We’ve only got started with this. We’ll fill a few more files by the time this goes to trial, but first I want to ask you a quick question about Paisley Sanderson.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Williams jostled Tulloch’s arm. ‘My client denies any involvement.’

  Hunter looked up from the file. ‘You deny assaulting her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You deny pressing a hot iron against her face?’

  ‘Move on.’

  ‘No, I won’t move on.’ Hunter leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. ‘You tortured her. Pressed an iron to her face, tried to kill her. Are you denying that?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Of course, you’d already threatened to kill her, hadn’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘This is a text message you sent on Wednesday night.’ Hunter held up a print-out. ‘Do you want me to read it out?’ He waited for a reply. Didn’t get one. ‘It says, “Know who you spoke to. You are dead, bitch.”’ He put the sheet down in front of the lawyer. ‘I am, of course, translating your illiterate textspeak.’

  Tulloch snorted. ‘I didn’t send that.’

  ‘It came from your phone.’

  ‘Must be one of the lads in my mess.’ Tulloch folded his massive arms tight around his torso. ‘Must’ve left it on the table when I went for a slash.’

  ‘You didn’t lock it?’

  Tulloch’s lips curled up at the sides. ‘Quaint foible of mine.’

  ‘None of your ex-partners received similar messages.’ Hunter tapped the file. ‘I should say victims, of course. You only threatened Paisley. Why is that?’

  ‘Like I said, pal. Can’t help you.’ Tulloch smiled at him, then winced and touched a hand to his bandaged head. ‘Someone messed about with my phone. Gogs Brownlee, I’d say.’

  ‘So you deny sending these messages?’

  ‘Have you got any proof that my client typed them and then sent them? No. So kindly do as he asks and move on.’ Williams flourished a limp hand up and down Tulloch’s body. ‘As you can see, my client is still in need of medical attention, so time is of the essence.’

  ‘Your client has spent a night in hospital and the duty doctor has approved him for interview.’

  ‘Move on, Constable.’

  Hunter sighed and looked at Tulloch. ‘You sent her a text threatening her, then you went round to her house and tried to f
ollow through on the threat.’

  ‘That right, eh?’ Tulloch winked at his lawyer and thumbed at Hunter. ‘Tell you a tale, Hamish. This boy assaulted me on the Strip in Albufeira. Then he attacked me when I was slipping a bird a length. So, I’m thinking he wants a bang with my dong, eh?’

  Hunter jolted to his feet and leaned his hands on the table. ‘I arrested you when you were pressing an iron into—’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Tulloch almost snarled. ‘You assaulted me with an iron when I was speaking to Paisley.’ He pointed to a white bandage on his arm, red splotches leaking through. ‘You burnt my arm, you pig bastard! Then you threw it at me!’ He scratched at some stitches in his temple. ‘Do you know how much this fucking hurts?’

  You deserve it all. And more.

  Hunter raised his eyebrows. ‘You were pressing the iron into Paisley’s flesh.’

  ‘Assaulted me, man. Police brutality.’

  ‘You were torturing her.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You deny torturing Ms Sanderson?’

  ‘Aren’t you listening to me? I’ve done nothing.’

  Williams sucked a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring like he was about to race at the Grand National. ‘My client wishes you to move on.’

  Hunter sat back and folded his hands in his lap. ‘What I don’t get is how you found out that Paisley was talking to us.’

  ‘When you pricks start talking to my squadmates about me, you honestly think they’re not going to tell me that someone’s been blabbing?’

  ‘What? Who spoke to them?’

  ‘You’re a stupid prick.’ Tulloch laughed, scratching his wounds. A trickle of blood leaked from the bandage on his forehead.

  Williams touched Tulloch’s temple, his finger coming away with a smudge of bright red blood. ‘My client requires urgent medical assistance. This interview is terminated.’

  EIGHTY-NINE

  Chantal

  Chantal walked across the empty office, her heart thundering in her chest. She stopped short and . . .