by Ed James
‘I know that, but I also know what state Paisley’s in. That man beat her straight into a hospital bed.’
‘You didn’t do that to her, Chantal.’
‘But it’s my fault Tulloch was able to do it.’
‘Look, she’s bumped our statement twice in the last week.’ Hunter cracked his knuckles and settled back in the seat. ‘I hate to be a dick, but she’s got to take some responsibility for what’s happened.’
What? Did he really just say that? She shot him a glare. ‘Do you want to take that back?’
‘You know what I mean.’ Hunter looked away. ‘That guy is a craven bastard. I just wish girls like her would stop falling for his patter or whatever it is that attracts them in the first place. And then keeps them in abusive relationships. I’ve seen the evil men can do, I wish they could.’
Chantal nudged the accelerator again, nearly tailgated the bus before she swerved out. No obvious obstacle, but there was a turning up ahead.
Hunter folded his arms. His suit jacket puckered up around his biceps. Can barely look at him without thinking of those damned kettlebells. Swinging them and pressing them and going on about them whenever he wasn’t busy criticising her driving. He glanced over. ‘What’s with all the silence? Something I’ve done?’
‘Craig . . .’ She pulled out to overtake the bus and sailed past it.
‘Jeeeeesus, come on—’
Hunter’s Airwave chimed as she steered the car back into her lane. He checked the display. ‘Here we go. The BMW belongs to a Marcus Wearmouth of Harrogate. Reported stolen from a car park in Cupar.’
‘Anything from the Park and Ride?
He shook his head. ‘Still waiting on a response. Big security incident on Princes Street at lunchtime.’
‘Is Tulloch still there?’
‘No, that’s the end of the good news.’ Hunter put the Airwave away. ‘Elvis has lost him.’
* * *
Chantal kicked down to second and powered towards the flashing blue lights. Ingliston Park and Ride sprawled in front of them. Miles of damp tarmac rammed with what felt like half the cars in West Lothian. A glass box with an inward-sloping green roof obscured a tram stop.
The BMW lay diagonally across two electric car charging spaces. A pair of squad cars blocked it in.
She stopped next to it and got out.
A plane roared up into the sky half a mile away, another coming in over the Firth of Forth, banking left in a long, smooth curve to land at the airport west of the city.
Hunter jogged round to her side of the car. ‘Are we cool?’
‘We’re always cool, Craig. Stop being a fanny.’ Chantal stomped off, splashing rainwater up the legs of her trousers.
The doors of the first squad car opened. ‘Oh, look who it is.’ Six foot something of idiot got out, gurning away at Hunter.
‘Steve . . .’ Hunter crouched down to look inside the car. ‘You finally bothered your arse to show up, then?’
‘Afternoon, Detective Constable Hunter.’ Another uniform joined the first one leaning against the car, like a pair of grinning chimps. Might as well be brothers. ‘Got the stabilisers off your Chopper yet?’
Hunter winked at them. ‘The only chopper round here is the one you were playing with in that car. Steve’s, was it?’
Chantal peered inside the BMW while the boys had their fun. Pretty much empty. A black can sat in the middle, WakeyWakey stencilled in green on the side. Christ, that takes me back . . . She stood up straight and nodded at the simpering arseholes. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Five minutes, Sarge. Nobody’s been near it all that time.’
‘Right.’ Chantal tried the handle. Not even locked. She reached over to the glove box. Another can of WakeyWakey fell out, sounded full from the thud. Nothing in there that looked like it might lead them to Tulloch. ‘Well, at least Marcus Wearmouth will get his car back in one piece.’
The rain started thumping down again and the uniforms got back in their squad car.
Hunter drummed his fingers on the top of theirs. ‘So, where the hell is Tulloch?’
Chantal looked back over at the tram terminal. ‘I’m thinking he got on there.’ A tram ground its way towards them down the long straight from Edinburgh Park and the Gyle. The next and final stop the other way was the airport. ‘I hope he’s gone into town.’
Her gut churned. Victim number three. Kylie Davison. Lived in Pilton. Get off in the city centre and get a bus down.
Hunter hit dial and put his mobile on speaker. ‘Elvis, are you getting anywhere with the CCTV?’
‘Struggling, mate. The coverage around there is patchier than Big Jim’s hair. Like I said, I lost Tulloch as he drove in.’
Hunter stepped closer to Chantal and held up the phone. ‘We think he’s on the tram. Can you get access?’
‘Shite, no. Supposed to have access to the trams but I’m having loads of ballache with that, man. It’s not working.’
Chantal pulled the phone closer. ‘Are you telling me that’s another dead end?’
‘Aye. Soz.’
Chantal sighed. ‘What about that laptop?’
‘Not finding much, to be honest. Guy had signed Messi for Hearts on Football Manager, can you believe it?’
She rolled her eyes at Hunter. ‘Any emails?’
‘Doing that right— Oh, hang on.’ Elvis squealed like a little girl. ‘I’ve got something! He’s got a flight booked for today.’
So much for Tulloch heading back into town . . .
Chantal stared off in the direction of Edinburgh airport, an orange EasyJet plane swooping up. ‘Where to?’
‘Flight to Faro in Portugal at half five.’
Chantal checked her watch. Just after five. ‘Come on, Craig!’ She sprinted off towards the tram trundling into the station. ‘We can still make it!’
TEN
Hunter
The tram door screeched open. Hunter splooshed through the puddles at the back of the multi-storey car park. Barged an overweight businessman out of the way. ‘Police! Coming through!’
Chantal was lagging behind, waving him on.
Hunter stomped across the road and stuck his Airwave to his mouth as a ned blew cigarette smoke in his face. He swallowed it down, ignored the faint aftertaste of the butts from earlier in the day, and coughed into his radio, ‘Elvis, have you got hold of security yet?’
‘Aye, look for the big ex-forces knucklehead at the entrance.’ Elvis sniffed. ‘And I’m not talking about you.’
‘Very funny. Any update on Tulloch’s movements?’
‘Entered the airport at five past four.’
Hunter scanned the grey-metal doorway and clocked the security goon immediately. He swapped the Airwave for a flash of his warrant card. ‘DC Craig Hunter.’
‘Josh Brown, Airport Security.’ A lump in a suit, more muscle on his neck than on Hunter’s thigh. He undid the top button on his suit jacket. ‘You need to get to the RobertsAir flight to Faro, right?’
‘Is the plane still here?’
‘I’m checking. Follow me, sir.’ Brown darted off into the airport, his huge frame belying his nimble feet as he took the stairs three at a time.
Hunter swung a hard left at the top and followed in the barrel-shaped man’s slipstream towards the security desk, weaving around travellers dumping their water bottles and over-sized toiletries.
Brown called out to the first scanner operator and opened the door. Hunter let Chantal go first, then followed them down the middle of the security hall. He bombed through the unused lane in the middle, past the two queues winding away from them, their eyes wide, mouths hanging open.
Brown stopped to open the gate for them, his radio crackling out static. The gate had hardly swung shut behind them when he was off again, darting down the right into the wide departures area, restaurants and shops lining the way. ‘Gate fourteen!’ He swerved round a stag party already several sheets to the wind.
Hunter raced after hi
m and checked back the way — Chantal was lagging behind. ‘Should I wait?’
She waved him on, sucking in air.
Hunter spun round again and smacked straight into a tourist. Three pints of beer flew through the air. Hunter tumbled to the floor and rolled over, lager sluicing down his new trousers. He landed on his arse with a crunch.
Another pair of trousers ruined, another hard landing, another reason to have stayed in bed. Bloody terrific.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ The red-faced drinker was on top of him, screaming in his face. ‘That cost fifteen quid!’
‘Police!’ Chantal hauled the man off him. ‘We need to move, sir.’
‘— disgrace!’
Hunter pushed himself to his feet and something tore. Fresh air hit his thighs. Ripped the arse out of these trousers. And there were cameras everywhere. This was sure to make the rounds at the station. No way Elvis wouldn’t get access to that kind of precious footage. Like a bloody Benny Hill sketch.
Right, ignore the monkey yapping on about his spilled pints.
Get back in the chase.
He sprinted off.
Ahead, Brown slowed by a huge glass window and barked out an order at the ground staff. The gate was quiet. He threw his radio to the floor, smashing it into pieces. ‘You were supposed to keep the sodding plane here!’
Hunter stopped beside him. ‘What’s happened?’
Brown pointed at the window. A plane shot off down the runway, the RobertsAir logo on the side. It floated up into the air and arced round to the south. ‘That’s your flight.’
ELEVEN
Chantal
‘—because this shower can’t follow orders!’ Josh Brown jabbed a finger at the desk. ‘I told you to keep him here!’
Chantal caught up with Hunter, chest heaving, but reading their disappointment from afar.
No.
No, no, no.
She tried to catch her breath. ‘He’s gone?’
‘Looks that way, sweetheart.’ Brown shook his head at the disappearing plane. ‘Tell you, if I had a rocket on me . . .’
Hunter was sucking in air as he leaned against the security desk, his warrant card resting on top. He reeked of beer. ‘Can you confirm if Sean Tulloch was on the flight?’
‘One second.’ The ground staff rep looked half-Filipino. Her smile betrayed her experience of dealing with angry brutes. ‘We relayed the request to the captain, but he didn’t comply. I can only apologise.’
Brown scowled at her. ‘Check the bloody manifest, Deirdre.’
She smiled as she stared at the screen. ‘This is going to take a second, I’m afraid.’
Chantal checked her watch. ‘This has to be the only time a plane has ever taken off on time with me in the airport . . .’
Brown looked personally offended. ‘Happens more often than you’d think.’
‘Well, then, if you’re so sharp on protocol, how did an identified fugitive get through your security?’ Chantal nodded back the way they’d come. ‘We weren’t that far behind him.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Hunter grimaced. ‘His MOD90 card.’
Chantal glowered at him. ‘His what?’
‘MOD90. Every serviceman and woman gets one. Lets you bypass passport control.’
Brown’s eyes misted over. ‘Aye, I remember the days . . .’
‘Excuse me?’ The ground rep raised a hand as she looked up. ‘I can confirm that Sean Tulloch was in seat 3C.’
Chantal slumped back against the desk. ‘End of the road . . .’
* * *
Chantal slammed the car into the space. The bumper crunched against the police station’s wall, grinding hard. She snatched the keys out of the ignition and grabbed at the door handle. Missed it.
Could hardly contain her frustration. Tore at it again and the door wobbled open.
Hunter reached over and held her arm lightly. ‘Slow down.’
She stared at his arm until he let go. ‘What are you playing at?’
‘You need to slow down, Chantal.’ Hunter’s eyes were narrow slits. ‘You’re in danger of slipping into unprofessionalism.’
She brushed his hand off but pulled the door shut again. ‘That filthy, abusive bastard has given us the slip. He’s . . .’ She let out a deep sigh, way deeper than she expected. Way deeper than Hunter expected, too, judging by the look of concern in his eyes. ‘We’ve dropped the ball, Craig. A known sex offender is at large in Portugal, as we speak, because we let him slip away. Plus, he knows we’re after him, so it’s only going to get harder to apprehend him, and with no jurisdiction . . .’
What’s his next move?
Run away?
Ignore them and find some other women to abuse?
The police over there are, well. They don’t know about him. His history. What he can do. And they’re not known for their professionalism.
Like I can talk.
Hunter huffed air out through his nose, his teeth gritted. ‘We’ll get him when he comes back.’
‘If he comes back.’
He held her gaze like he’d held her arm, but she still shook him off. ‘Look, if he’s gone AWOL, the MOD will get him back. Trust me.’
‘I trust you, Craig, but do you trust the chimps or whatever you called them?’
‘Monkeys. And about as far as you can throw me.’
‘I could throw you to Mars about now.’
He laughed, then shut his eyes. ‘Do I trust them?’ He reopened them and stared out of the passenger window. ‘No. It’s a gamble over whether they prosecute him. The guy I knew, they just moved him on. He’d killed a woman in Iraq, but he was back with us in Afghanistan. The army’s not very popular. Soldiers always are, but war rarely is. So they have a habit of guarding their already tarnished reputation at all cost. They’ll cover it up if they can.’
‘Even if we shout from the rooftops about him?’
Hunter looked down at the footwell. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘This is on us, Craig.’ She pushed the door to its full width, clunking into the squad Volvo next to them. ‘We let him get away. So we need to get him back.’
‘We didn’t just let him saunter on to that plane. He—’
‘He’s been one step ahead of us the entire time.’ Chantal punched the steering wheel. The horn peeped. A dust of God knows what burst out, clouding the air in front of her. She settled back in her seat and looked at Hunter. ‘He wasn’t at Waverley. Then he got to Paisley while we were chasing our tails. Now he’s on the way to Portugal.’ She crunched the keys in her hand into a tight ball. ‘Who says he’ll even come back?’
‘As long as he stays in NATO territory, he’ll—’
‘That’s not much consolation . . .’ She shut her eyes and gave a gentle nod. ‘Come on, let’s face the music.’ When her eyes opened again, there were slight twinkles of moisture in the corners. Her nostrils twitched. ‘You stink, by the way.’
TWELVE
Hunter
Chantal left Hunter with a slammed door thudding in his ears. He sniffed the air. Sweat, second-hand piss, stale beer.
Terrific.
And the bitter tang of letting a rapist get away.
What a pair of amateurs they were. Messing about at Waverley while he beat up their witness and two cops into the bargain. Poor Paisley. Turned to hamburger patty by—
Hunter’s gut lurched. He swallowed down saliva, tasted more like stomach bile.
Not now.
Not. Now.
Centre yourself. Focus on the here and now, not the there and then.
Bathgate.
2016. Twelfth of May.
Get that breathing under control. One.
The drone of traffic far away.
Two.
Children shouting and singing a couple of blocks away.
Three.
The soft tinkling of his car keys in the ignition.
Four.
An Orange Focus next to a silver Astra, sandwiched by two Jeeps.<
br />
Five.
High-rise towers in the distance, hills behind.
Bathgate.
Bloody Bathgate. Always bloody Bathgate.
Another deep breath and he got out, back to normal. A gust of wind caught the rip in his trousers. Forgotten about that latest humiliation. Some wore their hearts on their sleeve, I wear my defeat on my arse.
But not today. Walk like the lion in his den and nobody will notice.
He marched across the car park and swiped into the side entrance. The corridor smelled of coffee, earthy and stale like the giant drum of instant was nearing the end of its life. He pushed through to the SO Unit’s office, still buzzing with activity at the back of six.
Elvis was working in the corner, a smirk on his face as soon as Hunter cleared the doorway. ‘Craig, my man, this must be some kind of record. You’ve ruined two pairs of breeks in one day. I can almost see your arse from here.’
Hunter felt the heat creep up his neck. ‘You shouldn’t be looking.’
‘Think there’s some standard-issue flannels in the store cupboard.’
‘Great.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the desk, the wood cool against this buttocks. ‘Why aren’t—’
‘Craig!’ Elvis battered him with his notebook until he stood up. ‘Tell me you’re not going commando?’
‘Aye, and I didn’t wipe up after my last jobby. Waste of time if I can just sit on your keyboard instead.’
‘Get off!’
Hunter stood up and rested against a column. A mug of instant smouldered on the desk, the black surface dotted with undissolved granules. ‘Why aren’t you still in Galashiels?’
Elvis leaned back with a huff. ‘The SOCOs turned up and told us to leave.’ He waved his hands across his midden of a desk. ‘So here I am, working when I should be at home.’ He scratched at his sidies. ‘DI McNeill’s not impressed, by the way. Not one little bit.’
‘Speaking of records, this is only your second week and you’ve already pissed her off.’
‘It’s you and your bird she’s raging at, mate.’
‘She’s not—’
