by Ed James
CONTENTS
Dedication
Day 1 — Thursday 12th May, 2016
One - Hunter
Two - Chantal
Three - Hunter
Four - Chantal
Five - Hunter
Six - Hunter
Seven - Chantal
Eight - Hunter
Nine - Chantal
Ten - Hunter
Eleven - Chantal
Twelve - Hunter
Thirteen - Chantal
Fourteen - Hunter
Fifteen - Hunter
Sixteen - Chantal
Day 2 — Friday 13th May, 2016
Seventeen - Hunter
Eighteen - Hunter
Nineteen - Chantal
Twenty - Hunter
Twenty-One - Chantal
Twenty-Two - Chantal
Twenty-Three - Chantal
Twenty-Four - Hunter
Twenty-Five - Chantal
Twenty-Six - Hunter
Twenty-Seven - Chantal
Twenty-Eight - Hunter
Twenty-Nine - Chantal
Thirty - Hunter
Thirty-One - Chantal
Thirty-Two - Hunter
Thirty-Three - Chantal
Thirty-Four - Hunter
Thirty-Five - Chantal
Thirty-Six - Hunter
Thirty-Seven - Chantal
Thirty-Eight - Hunter
Thirty-Nine - Chantal
Forty - Hunter
Forty-One - Chantal
Forty-Two - Hunter
Forty-Three - Hunter
Forty-Four - Chantal
Forty-Five - Hunter
Forty-Six - Chantal
Forty-Seven - Hunter
Day 3 — Saturday 14th May, 2016
Forty-Eight - Hunter
Forty-Nine - Chantal
Fifty - Hunter
Fifty-One - Chantal
Fifty-Two - Hunter
Fifty-Three - Chantal
Fifty-Four - Hunter
Fifty-Five - Chantal
Fifty-Six - Hunter
Fifty-Seven - Chantal
Fifty-Eight - Hunter
Fifty-Nine - Chantal
Sixty - Hunter
Sixty-One - Chantal
Sixty-Two - Hunter
Sixty-Three - Chantal
Sixty-Four - Hunter
Sixty-Five - Chantal
Sixty-Six - Hunter
Sixty-Seven - Hunter
Sixty-Eight - Chantal
Sixty-Nine - Hunter
Seventy - Chantal
Seventy-One - Hunter
Seventy-Two - Chantal
Seventy-Three - Chantal
Seventy-Four - Hunter
Seventy-Five - Chantal
Seventy-Six - Hunter
Seventy-Seven - Chantal
Seventy-Eight - Hunter
Seventy-Nine - Chantal
Eighty - Hunter
Eighty-One - Hunter
Eighty-Two - Hunter
Eighty-Three - Chantal
Eighty-Four - Hunter
Eighty-Five - Chantal
Eighty-Six - Hunter
Eighty-Seven - Chantal
Day 4 — Sunday 15th May, 2016
Eighty-Eight - Hunter
Eighty-Nine - Chantal
Ninety - Hunter
Next Book
Afterword
Other Books by Ed James
Meet Scott Cullen
About Ed James
For Brian.
Day 1
Thursday, 12th May, 2016
ONE
Hunter
Thunk, thwip. Thunk, thwip.
The wipers cleared a hole in the rain splatter pattern on the windscreen, as DC Craig Hunter slowed the pool car at the roundabout. He got a clear view of the grey street for long enough to wonder if this could really be May. Then the hole refilled and Hunter’s head was awash with questions.
Thunk, thwip. Thunk, thwip.
Hunter blinked hard. Come on, focus on the job. Galashiels emerged through the hazy deluge. Typical small town Scotland. Could be anywhere — Elgin, Dalkeith, Forfar, Stranraer. Places that anyone with half a mind would escape at eighteen and never look back. The traffic crawled. Clearly, the people who stayed weren’t in a rush to get anywhere in this no-man’s-land between Scotia and Engerland. The rain wasn’t either. The weather made it look even worse, draining the life and colour out of the sky.
Fine mood I’m in this morning.
One of the new trains was grinding its way back towards Edinburgh, water sluicing down the side windows as it gathered speed. The tracks hid behind a low brick wall; an older one was set into steep steps higher up the cliff face, the beige blocks darkened by the rain.
He switched into the right-hand lane, took the old bridge across the river Tweed and waited by a grand hotel opposite a Farmfoods, the indicator clicking.
Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.
DS Chantal Jain tutted at her mobile phone. He shot her a glance, was about to comment on the dreich weather, then thought better of it and just enjoyed the view. Her skin had the tone a barista could spend hours getting coffee to match. Cheekbones that could catch a glint of sunshine even on a dull day like this. Hunter’s boss, and didn’t she know it.
Weather like this, his mind had a habit of going to places he didn’t much care to revisit, so he was glad of the distraction.
She rattled the cable hanging out of her phone. ‘Bloody thing still isn’t charging.’ She waved a hand over the road, obscured by the wipers squeaking across the windscreen. ‘It’s that way.’
‘Terrific.’ Hunter flicked the indicator to the left and set off down a long street. Old buildings faced off against the sixties police station, three grim storeys of white harling. He turned into the busy car park and settled for the space in the furthest, darkest shadow. Not that there was much light.
Chantal was already out, snapping her brolly out like it was a baton and jogging across the tarmac towards the cop shop.
Hunter turned off the engine and got out into the rain. Even heavier than it looked. He darted through the stair rods and burst in through the front door. His jacket looked like he’d dived into the deep end of a swimming pool.
Chantal shook out her umbrella by the public desk, water spraying in the empty room. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Wish I was, doll.’ The Sergeant perched on a stool, eyes fixed on his computer screen. ‘All that way, and she can’t be arsed to turn up. Nightmare, eh?’
Hunter joined Chantal and rested his soaking hands on the desk. ‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s not showed up.’ Chantal stared at the desk Sergeant, like that’d do any good. ‘Have you misplaced her on the system?’
The Sergeant swivelled the monitor around to show four empty rooms. ‘Just the two here, hen. She’s not in either of them.’ He chinked the screen. ‘And these others are the only places she’s allowed. She’s not here.’
Hunter clamped his eyes shut. ‘Think she’s bumped us again?’
‘Three times in a week.’ Chantal whipped out her umbrella with a fresh mist of water. ‘You’d think she didn’t want that dirty raping bastard to go to prison.’
What if she’s not bumped us?
Hunter swallowed hard. ‘Tulloch can’t have got to her, can he?’ He checked his watch, sweat trickling down his back. ‘Supposed to still be at Fort George until about now.’
What if we’re wrong?
What if he’d left the barracks early and headed down here to . . .
Hunter dug out his phone.
Closed his eyes again.<
br />
Five missed calls from Paisley Sanderson.
* * *
Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.
Hunter took his chance and joined the snake of cars and vans winding down the High Street, a proud gallery of Scottish small-mindedness. Curry house, hairdresser, charity shop, hairdresser, Wetherspoons, hairdresser, pool hall, kiltmaker. He slowed the wipers a notch. ‘Is she answering?’
Chantal stared out of the window, a slight shake of her head. ‘Still nothing.’ She put the phone to her ear. ‘Tell me this isn’t another one.’
‘I’d love to.’ Hunter drove on, twisting his fingers against the rubbery steering wheel. Polish shop, another bloody hairdresser, taxi firm, corner pub in an old bank building. ‘Four victims pulled out, now it looks like another one’s refusing to testify. How’s this happening?’
The hills climbed up in a gentle sweep to engulf the town’s valley.
‘I don’t know, Craig.’ Chantal looked back at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Voicemail.’
‘Eight months.’ Hunter grunted as he twisted round another bend. ‘Twenty cops across half the bloody country, trying to get enough evidence to put one shitebag away.’ A financial advisor’s office hid amongst the old shopfronts, long since converted into cramped houses. ‘He’s not getting away with it.’
The McDonald’s arches loomed in the distance, the Californian yellow glowing in the bruised Scottish sky.
‘Terrific.’ Hunter braked hard and the car skidded in the rain. He pulled a sharp left and overshot the turning, almost smacking into a Toyota SUV. He climbed up towards some orange flats overlooking the river valley. ‘Maybe you should’ve driven.’
‘You can’t navigate to save your life. Left, then left again.’
Hunter followed the road round. Victorian houses on both sides, all with dormer roofs, the left-hand side dotted with satellite dishes. He took another left onto a row of modern houses dripping in the rain. Brick first floors, covered in harling upstairs. He pulled in opposite and killed the engine. ‘He’s put four women in hospital and made each one too scared to talk. I’ll get some serious satisfaction when we lock this bastard away. Not that it’ll make his victims feel much better.’
Chantal looked at him, but before he could say another word, she got out of the car and darted across the road. Rain teemed down, soaking her black hair. She knocked on the first door and turned around, holding her jacket above her head.
Hunter joined her in the downpour, the lights flashing as he plipped the pool car. Already felt like his suit had just come out of the washing machine.
Chantal thumped the door. Nothing.
Hunter took a step back, rain seeping into his shirt collar. A tiny little house, only one window on both floors. Most of the interiors would be stairs. Next door was a mirror image.
No sounds from inside.
A lane ran down the back, steps leading up to a flat at the back of a tenement. Before he could figure out how to access the rear of the property, Chantal knocked again. ‘Miss Sanderson, it’s DS Jain.’ She waited for a few seconds, tapping her foot, then another knock. Still nothing.
Hunter checked his baton was in his belt, his teeth grinding into each other. ‘Stay here, I’ll check the back. Keep trying her phone.’ He marched over to the narrow path at the side of the house.
Yesterday’s curry fumes hung in the air. A small yard lay at the back of the house, a four-square patio which would never get any direct sun. Not that anywhere in the British Isles would today. Two green plastic chairs sat either side of a pile of bricks. Raindrops dotted the little bird bath. No, it was an ashtray, submerged with cigarette butts. No chance of telling if they’d been smoked ten minutes or ten years ago.
Hunter peered into the kitchen window. Lights off, gloomier than a funeral home. No immediate signs of life, but the glass had misted around the kettle.
Bingo. Someone was in.
Hunter stepped over and tried the back door.
The handle jolted down and the door flew back into the house. A boot lashed out, cracking into Hunter’s knee. Something thumped his chest and he tumbled backwards. He reached out, grabbing hold of one of the bricks as he fell.
His hip cracked off the concrete.
The ashtray toppled onto his face, covering his suit and trousers in grey water. Burnt ash powdered his face, covered his tongue. He swallowed dirty rainwater, thick lumps getting caught in his throat. He tried to cough it up, gagged.
A boot hit him in the side.
Hunter rolled away and swiped out with his leg.
Missed.
Another boot sparked off his thigh. A hand gripped his wrist and twisted his arm back. Pushing down, slowly, until his lips kissed the slabs. Hunter wriggled round. ‘Stop!’
A hand pressed Hunter’s face against the slabs, grit digging into his chin. ‘Sean Tulloch, you’re under arrest!’ Irish accent.
‘I’m not Tulloch!’ Hunter jerked his head round, getting a nice scratch on his cheek. ‘I’m a cop!’
The grip slackened off. ‘What?’
Hunter slapped the hand away and rolled over. ‘DC Craig Hunter, Sexual Offences Unit.’ He reached into his jacket pocket for his warrant card and flashed it at the loose-limbed cop above him, confusion pulsing his bushy eyebrows. He took off his cap, coiled-up curls springing free, the sides shaved to a step. Glamour biceps stretched his standard-issue T-shirt. ‘Terrific.’
Hunter pushed himself to standing. His kneecap felt like it had swivelled round to the inside. ‘What’s your name?’
‘PC Lenny Warner.’ Dirty Dublin accent. What on earth was he doing out in the Scottish borders?
Hunter spat out a cigarette butt. He almost vomited. ‘Jesus.’
‘Ah now, did I hurt you?’
‘Not really.’ Another butt came out. Still tasted like . . . like a bloody ashtray. ‘This is horrible.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were your man, Tulloch.’ Warner was a good few inches taller than Hunter. He looked young, his designer stubble a thinly veiled attempt at adding maturity. ‘Were you trying to get a jump on him round the back or what?’
‘We’re supposed to be interviewing Paisley Sanderson.’ Hunter tried to dust off his crotch. Looked like he’d had an accident in a baker’s. ‘She’s one of many long-term domestic abuse cases relating to a Sean William—’
‘—Tulloch.’ Warner groaned as he put his cap back on. He thumbed inside the house. ‘Your woman there called us. Said she’s got a nasty text from her boyfriend, one Sean Tulloch. Tried calling some cops, but they never answered.’
‘That’s us.’ Hunter hadn’t seen a squad car. ‘You here alone?’
‘For now.’ Warner pulled the back door open. ‘So, can I get you a cup of tea?’
TWO
Chantal
Chantal tipped the boiling water into the pastel-coloured teacups, her phone clamped between her ear and her shoulder. She mashed Hunter’s teabag. Just how the picky little princess liked it. ‘Aye, we’ve got hold of her now.’
Her boss didn’t need to know that Craig had somehow managed to get into another fight in the process.
Sharon McNeill sighed down the line anyway. ‘You had me worried.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Chantal dumped the first teabag into the grey compost bin on the counter and splashed in milk. ‘Shaz, we’ll get him, okay?’
‘Right, well, let me know if anything happens.’ Click.
Chantal pocketed her phone and started going through the cupboards.
Cheap sub-Ikea junk, like the rest of the kitchen. The stuff that doesn’t cost much when you had to replace it.
An animal sanctuary calendar hung off the side of the metallic fridge. May’s animal was Pumpkin, a squat donkey with its head stuck into a bucket of carrots. Nothing much filled in on the days. Except . . .
Today’s date had two entries.
11 — APPOINTMENT IN TOWN
2 — SEAN BACK!!!
Something to go
on, at last.
She picked up Hunter’s tea cup along with her own and headed back through.
Hunter was standing in the hallway, staring into space, his mouth twitching, his cheek scuffed red.
She waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Craig, are you okay?’
Hunter blinked hard, then focused on her. He huffed out a breath. ‘Is that my tea?’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Pain management.’
Chantal passed him his cup, milky liquid sloshing over the sides. ‘Because that big Irish guy beat you up?’
‘After the number of times I had my arse handed to me in my other career, I had to learn how to deal with it. At least with the physical consequences. Getting battered so often messes with your head. I need to centre myself. No big deal.’
* * *
Chantal cautiously lowered herself on to the sofa. Still almost sent a pile of women’s magazines toppling over. The room was a mess, the owner obviously too stressed to care about her surroundings. She’d hardly taken notice of her visitors. Chantal rested her tea on the coffee table and tried to make eye contact with Paisley Sanderson.
The woman cowered on an armchair, the wings slumping at almost the same angle as her shoulders. Her gaze shot around the living room, hazed with smoke. An ironing board sat behind her, an expensive-looking model sitting face down. PC Warner leaned against the wall near the kitchen door, sipping at his tea. Her gaze finally settled on Hunter, crouching right in front of her. ‘You didn’t answer the phone!’
Hunter stood and rubbed at his trousers again. They were still covered in ash. Chantal could smell the cigarette stink from here. It was even worse than the room. He gave her a smile, then looked back at the victim. ‘I was driving, Paisley. I’m sorry. You did the right thing.’
‘Doubting that.’ Paisley’s shattered nails clawed at the navy fabric, her purple polish cracked. Her dressing gown was frayed around the wrists, hanging open by the chest, her white top greyed. Pale skin lined her mouth. Her dark-ringed eyes couldn’t stay in focus. Signs of trauma. She had the same look in her eyes as the other four victims. More evidence that Sean Tulloch had a type, a victim profile when he selected his so-called romantic partners.
