by Ed James
‘Aye, aye, keep telling yourself that.’ Elvis opened a silver laptop on his desk. ‘Look, I’ll no doubt get a good dunt of the blame.’
‘And you’ll deserve every inch of it.’ Hunter glanced over at McNeill’s office. The door was shut, raised voices booming through the tilted blinds. Poor Chantal. ‘Is there any good news?’
Elvis held up the laptop from Paisley’s house. ‘Got something else on this.’
THIRTEEN
Chantal
Chantal entered Sharon’s office and perched on the chair opposite her desk. The room was stuffed with enough paperwork to keep her in reading for years.
The mess isn’t exactly helping my anxiety about this case. Started out ordered and structured, then that swine of a man found out we’ve had the temerity to talk to his victims and . . .
With a sigh she finally made eye contact.
‘You lost him.’ Sharon ran a hand down her face. ‘Look, after you let him get on that plane, I—’
Chantal shot out of her chair. ‘We didn’t let—’
Sharon silenced her with a hand. ‘I’ve spoken to the Portuguese police. The Polícia de Segurança Pública, hope I’m saying that right.’
‘Whatever. Are they picking him up?’
‘Well, they’re not accepting my request to arrest Tulloch at Faro airport. Now, would you kindly retake your seat?’
‘What?’ Chantal’s shoulders slumped as she slid back down. ‘Why are the Portuguese not collaborating?’
‘Said I’ve got to go through proper channels.’ Sharon groaned. ‘Which means, we’ll have to get the PF to agree that we need a European Arrest Warrant. Then we both take it to the NCA, who’ll spend a few days going over it. Then they take it to the High Court. At which point, Tulloch’s lawyers have ten days to appeal.’ She looked up from her notepad. ‘In the meantime, there’ll be a load of glad-handing at the Foreign Office, our people liaising with the British Embassy in Lisbon and having the ambassador speak to someone there. And our channel to Interpol is the NCA.’ She sighed. ‘Upshot is it won’t be quick. Weeks.’
And then some.
Chantal slumped back in the chair. ‘That sounds like a diplomatic nightmare, but the real problem is, we’re nowhere with the evidence against Tulloch. The PF isn’t going to buy the whole case yet, is she?’
‘She doesn’t have to.’ Sharon rapped her fingers on the desktop. ‘We can do him for the assault. People have been extradited for lesser crimes, like stealing chickens in Romania. We have a case.’ Another thunk on the desk. ‘The way I see it, we need to fast-track the detailed statements from Paisley Sanderson and the two officers Tulloch assaulted. We’ve got CCTV evidence of him entering and exiting the property at the time.’
‘What about the phone?’
‘One text? I’m afraid that’s too tenuous to stand up in court. Don’t want to stake everything on him not being smart enough to claim he lost his phone and someone pranked his girlfriend.’
‘Right. Well, procuring further evidence is going to take time.’ Chantal got back up and started pacing the room. ‘Meanwhile, Tulloch’s in Portugal, doing God knows what. If he stops to think for a second, he’ll run. He’s in the Algarve. You can get a boat to Spain or Africa pretty easily.’ She stopped pacing. ‘We need to get out to Portugal and bring him in ourselves.’
Sharon wagged a finger at her. ‘This isn’t like when you took that statement in Southampton last month, okay? Arresting someone on foreign soil is a completely different beast.’
‘I’m not saying it’s the same.’ Chantal paused. ‘I know it’s not.’ Sharon didn’t seem convinced. Time to change tack. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, while all that legal stuff’s rumbling on, we need to get eyes and ears on Tulloch. Make sure he doesn’t flee the EU. If needs be, apprehend him.’
‘And you’re suggesting you and Craig head over there?’ Sharon’s eyes lost their humour pretty quickly. ‘This isn’t a chance for you pair to have a dirty weekend at the taxpayer’s expense, okay?’
Chantal laughed, her eyes rolling back in her head. ‘You’re still on about that?’
‘You’re still denying it?’
Chantal sat forward and smiled. ‘Shaz, we need to get someone on the ground over there. Send Elvis or Jimmy or whoever. Christ, you and Scott could go.’
‘Eight months, I make it.’ Sharon’s gaze scanned around the ceiling. ‘Actually, nine, right?’
‘Sharon, this is unprofessional.’
‘I’m unprofessional?’ Sharon tilted her head to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re the one sneaking around with lover boy—’
‘Do you want me to get him in here so we can take this to HR?’
‘Come on, don’t get in a huff.’
Chantal planted herself against the chair back. She rubbed a hand along the rough pink fabric. ‘Look, DC Hunter and I are the ones with experience of Tulloch’s MO. We know how he thinks.’
‘So how did he manage to outfox you today?’
‘Because . . .’ Chantal clamped her teeth together. ‘Because I underestimated his tactical competence and because he got lucky at the airport. Won’t happen again. All I’m asking for is the chance to bring him in.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Sharon slumped back in her chair and folded her arms tight like a petulant teenager. Her blouse popped open near the bottom. ‘My hands are tied.’
Chantal started pacing around the room again, running her tongue across her teeth. ‘So, what, we’re just leaving this to the lawyers?’
‘There’s the MOD.’
Chantal stopped, hands on hips. ‘The army cops?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Sharon slouched back further in her chair, until the squeak of the wheels made her freeze. ‘They’ve got jurisdiction over there. We don’t.’
‘Have you spoken to Craig about it?’
‘About what?’
‘He used to be a soldier. He said something like, if we involve them, they’ll take Tulloch for court martial. You won’t get to prosecute him for years.’
‘Oh bloody hell.’ Sharon clenched her jaw. ‘Bring him in here.’
FOURTEEN
Hunter
‘Cop your whack round this, big boy.’ Elvis gave Hunter a sheet of paper. ‘Hotel de Sousa.’
Hunter smiled. First smile in what felt like a week. A chance to grab something positive out of this shambles.
Then he looked at the printout. A giant hotel complex, the dull white concrete not even glowing in the bright sun. Loungers in front of a turquoise pool, the sliver of sea a tourist-mottled coastline stretching all the way to the horizon. Well, all the way to the next bleached bunker. The sort of Mediterranean dump that looked like it belonged in Leith in its heroin days. Trainspotting in the sun.
Hunter’s smile faded.
‘Bet it’s even worse in person, man.’ Elvis handed him a wad of pages, filled with an email conversation. ‘Anyhoo, Tulloch’s away on a boys’ weekend.’
Hunter scanned through the names. None were familiar. Certainly nobody on the case log . . . ‘Wait a second. Keith Brannigan? He was on the train at Waverley.’
Elvis shut his eyes. ‘Shite on toast.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘We let him go when we saw he wasn’t Tulloch.’
Another failure . . .
Hunter took a closer look at the list. Nope. Nothing. No names he could put faces or arrest records to. He passed it back to Elvis. ‘You got anything on them?’
‘Had a wee look. They’re all squaddies. And they’re all on that flight manifest you sent through.’
‘Get me names and regiments, okay?’
‘Boss.’ Elvis saluted him. ‘Been going through their Schoolbook profiles.’ He tapped the laptop. ‘Tulloch got a few email notifications before the flight took off.’ He slid a sheet across the table.
Another set of photos showed Tulloch downing a pint in the departure lounge. A ruck of hulking brutes stood in the background, clutch
ing bottles of beer and laughing.
The police were out in force, hunting Tulloch for battering the shite out of Paisley, battering her so bad, she lost all sense of culpability to the point where she even apologised to her abuser, and he was partying?
Hunter composed himself with a sigh. ‘That’s good work, Elvis. Keep—’
McNeill’s office door grunted open and Chantal stomped out, beckoning him over.
‘Here we go.’ Hunter folded up the pages and set off. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, send in a search party.’ He wandered over and frowned into the room. ‘What’s up?’
‘That stuff you told me about the military cops? Tell Sharon.’
Hunter shut the door and sat down opposite McNeill. ‘What do you know?’
* * *
‘So that’s how it’ll lie.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. The office stank of cheap perfume. At least it was masking his own fragrance of the week, eau du beer and pish. ‘Rollo-Smith will hop in, arrest Tulloch and take him away. Whether he’ll face any form of justice, well, your guess is as good as mine.’
McNeill dug her fingers deep into her eyes. ‘Well, I’ve spoken to Rollo-Smith. He said he doesn’t think we’ve got enough evidence to prosecute.’
Hunter frowned at her. ‘We don’t or they don’t?’
‘Both.’ McNeill picked up a notepad and ran her pen down it. ‘He said Tulloch’s got another thirteen days’ leave. He needs to be back on MOD property before they can go after him.’
Hunter nodded at Chantal. ‘You shouldn’t believe that.’
McNeill rested her pad down again. ‘What, then, should I do, Constable?’
Hunter passed her the first of his sheets of paper. ‘This is where Tulloch’s going.’
McNeill stared at it. ‘What a bonny place.’ She slid it over to Chantal. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘Not yet.’ Chantal gave him an icy glare, then redoubled her focus on McNeill. ‘You know the right move as well as I do. We should go after him.’
McNeill shook her head. ‘Chantal, I can’t sanction that kind of foreign trip.’
‘Surely we’ve got enough of a budget left in the pot for a blitz mission. Our team’s still two heads short and we’ve only just taken Elvis on.’
McNeill smirked, but didn’t say anything.
Chantal coughed. ‘Sorry, I mean DC Gordon.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
Hunter tossed the other pages on the table. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you’ve seen what he’s capable of. If he’s in the Algarve, that means there’ll be thirteen days of raping and pillaging. Literally.’
‘Then hopefully the Polícia de Segra—’ McNeill broke off with a sigh. ‘Hopefully the local cops will pick him up when he breaks the law. We’ll have options then, depending on the severity of the crime out there.’
‘This is a disaster.’ Chantal settled against a filing cabinet, shaking her head. ‘A complete disaster.’
McNeill glared at Chantal. ‘Sergeant . . .’
Chantal ignored the admonishing tone as well as the kind smile.
‘Tulloch knows how to play us, ma’am.’ Hunter waved a hand at the door. ‘Look, I’ve been to Portugal before. The local cops don’t care about anything. It’s like Mexico over there.’
‘Craig, my hands are tied.’
‘Two days.’ Chantal shot to her feet, the cabinet behind her rocking back. ‘That’s all we need. If we don’t bring him in, we’ll come back and you can pursue the MOD strategy.’
McNeill blew air up her face and stared at the ceiling. ‘Your shift’s over, Chantal.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Get home.’ McNeill sat up straight and adjusted her blouse. ‘But leave your phone on.’
Chantal’s face lit up. ‘Thanks.’
McNeill winked at her. ‘And have a wee think about telling me the truth, okay?’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Aye, right.’ McNeill did up an errant button at the bottom of her blouse. ‘And Hunter, change your trousers. I could charge you with a breach of the peace.’
FIFTEEN
Hunter
Hunter lay back, panting hard. He tied up the condom and stuffed it back in the wrapper as Chantal burrowed under his arm. Her feline sleekness made him twitch in all the places they’d just played. With a smug grin he pecked her on the forehead. ‘I love you.’
She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes cold. ‘You know you only ever say that when you’ve had your way with me, right?’
‘Oh, please.’ Hunter tossed the packet on the bedside table. That wasn’t true, was it? He frowned at her. ‘I tell you all the time.’
She slapped his chest, harder than she intended. Or not. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘Okay, well, I’m sorry. I do love you all the time, not just after I’ve shot my muck up you.’
She smirked and settled back into his embrace.
Over by the door, Bubble sneaked into the room, her eyes catching the light with an almost reptilian glint. As if to confirm his post-coital confusion, she snaked across the room towards the pizza box on the carpet.
Hunter shot her a look. ‘Bubble!’
‘Mieow?’ Another step closer.
‘No, Bubble.’
‘Mieow?’ She was patting the box with her paw.
Hunter hissed at her. ‘Get out!’
She hunkered down on all fours, her focus trained on the pizza like she was hunting a rat.
‘Bubble!’
‘Mieow?’ She leapt forward and grabbed a discarded strip of green pepper, then spun around and raced out of the room.
‘Bloody cat.’
Chantal drilled a fingernail into his chest. ‘She’s as much of a freaky eater as you are.’
‘More so, if that’s possible.’
‘I like how you can have a conversation with her, though.’ More drilling, getting close to really hurting. ‘I bet you tell her you love her.’
Hunter reached down and tickled the rough stubble under Chantal’s arms.
She squealed out. ‘Stop it!’
Hunter let her go and raised his hands. ‘See in McNeill’s office . . . She knows. We can’t keep this a secret any longer.’
‘Craig . . .’ She sat back on her heels and bunched up her hair.
‘This is way past the point of being fuck-buddy cops. We’re lying to people. To your boss.’
‘Craig, come on . . .’
‘Although, maybe it is just about the sex for you. You’ve never said “I love you” to me, even after I’ve sho—’
‘Craig, you know why.’ Chantal clutched her face tight. ‘I’m . . .’ She slapped his chest, hard this time. ‘You prick.’
‘Hey, hey.’ He pulled her tight to him and stroked her back. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Craig. Jesus. It’s not okay.’ She pushed him back, her palms slapping off his flat belly. ‘You know the deal. This has to be on my terms.’
‘Sure, but tell me you’re not ashamed of me.’
‘Stop being a twat. This isn’t about you.’
‘Some of it is, though.’
‘Right.’ She nudged away from him. ‘I’m not ashamed of you and your little willy. Happy?’
Hunter stared at his wilting cock. Not exactly massive, but . . .
She snatched it and it slipped through her hands. ‘Relax, Craig, I’m just winding you up. It’s perfectly adequate.’
‘Adequate. Terrific.’ Hunter averted his eyes. ‘You’ve been quiet tonight.’
‘Aye, making a mess of an arrest is something you want to scream from the rooftops.’ She slapped his chest. Looked like she was still being playful, but the skin was gradually becoming as bruised as his ego. ‘Look, Craig, this case is important to me. Should be important to you as well. The reason we’re even in this unit and not chasing our careers in the MIT is that we want to bring pricks like Tulloch to justice. Or maybe I should just speak for myself.’
‘That’s
how I feel, too.’
‘Right. Well. For me, the frustrating things isn’t in the never-ending series of tedious interviews. And it’s certainly not about kissing the right arses to get a promotion. This is about stopping what’s happening to real people because of real sexual and emotional violence.’
‘I know that. You know that.’
‘Right.’ She snorted. ‘Well, if we come out to Sharon, then one of us will have to move. There’s not room for both of us in the unit. Could be you, could be me.’
She was right. Bloody hell. And the worst part of that wasn’t the prospect of being transferred to another department. Theirs was such a small team with nowhere near enough resources, so if one of them had to go, the team would cave under the case load. Who would suffer most? Not Chantal, not Hunter, but the victims they were supposed to serve and protect. If that didn’t sound too grandiose. Well, might as well find out . . .
‘It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done in my career.’ Hunter smiled at her. ‘But I love you and we can’t hide forever. And I’m not being sappy here. If we’re caught, there’d be sanctions and we might both be transferred. So what I’m saying is, when you’re ready, we’ll tell Sharon and I’ll volunteer to leave the unit.’
‘Back to uniform?’
Back to chasing cats around houses. Scraping smackheads off railway tracks. Dealing with Dave and Steve and their endless inane banter. Sergeant Lauren Reid and her constant griping about how cold it is. Inspector Buchan and his stupid chess bollocks.
Where I belong.
Hunter shut his eyes. ‘Back to uniform.’
Chantal picked her bra up from the floor. ‘The cat’s at your pizza again.’
‘Bubble!’
She flew off through the flat.
Chantal followed the cat out into the hall, shaking her head.
Well, Hunter, you are a cockblanket . . .
He reached down and tore off the crust Bubble had been licking. He dropped it on the box. Then the rest of the slice. No appetite for it.
What can I do? How can we keep this a secret? I feel like Lady Chatterly’s lover. Sergeant Jain’s lover.
