by Ed James
Hunter flicked up his eyebrows. ‘I’ll get a load of plastic ones from one of those tat shops and we can throw them at him.’
‘Tell you what’d be hilarious!’ Matty fell about laughing. ‘Sticking them up his arse!’
Brownlee rolled his eyes. ‘Always the arse play with you, Matty.’
‘Funny as fuck, though, mate. Shove a plastic spider right up his hole.’ Matty downed the last of his beer. ‘Supposed to be going for dinner down the Strip tonight. Back of eight, I think. Same place we were in last night, if they’ll let us in. The biggest steak you’ve ever seen in your life, mate. And five euros!’
Hunter’s gut churned at the thought. ‘Sounds brilliant.’
‘First one on the left as you hit it from this end. Can’t remember the name.’
‘Cool.’ Hunter got to his feet and nodded. ‘See you later, aye?’ He offered a fist to bump.
‘Sure thing, mate.’ Matty obliged, cracking his knuckles much harder than he needed to. ‘Later.’
Brownlee gave him a salute. ‘Later.’
Hunter marched off to the bar. Bekah was getting served, though Christ knows how anyone could even think about giving her more booze, the state she was in. The poor girl could barely stand up.
He gripped Chantal’s arm. ‘Come on, I’ve got something.’
Chantal nodded at him, then patted Bekah’s shoulders. ‘Think it’s time you had a little siesta, miss.’
‘You two inviting me back to your room, are you?’ Bekah tried for a saucy wink, but couldn’t control either eye.
‘Hardly.’ Hunter flagged down a passing hen and whispered in her ear, ‘Think you should get this little chick tucked up in bed.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Chantal
Chantal opened the apartment door and stomped across the tiles. Struggling to not just collapse on the bed and fall asleep. She pulled the patio doors wide and sat on the chair, knees pointing inwards. No sooner had her bum touched the plastic had she torn open the lid and glugged down half the coffee. ‘I don’t see how this gets us anywhere.’
‘We’ve got a likely location.’ Hunter joined her outside and dumped his phone on the table. ‘The circle’s closing around him.’
‘Still feels like a very big one.’
‘Speaking of which . . .’
‘Craig, drop it.’ Chantal slurped down more coffee. Could barely taste it. ‘You’re a one-track record.’
‘Would you rather have a one trick-pony? Or a donkey. At least they come with massive—’
‘Just let it go.’
He didn’t look like it was settled. Coming up next, more of Craig Hunter’s perceived penile inadequacy. ‘That Bekah girl, think she’ll be okay?’
‘I hope so. She needs to get some sleep.’ Chantal finished the coffee, the black sludge finally hitting her tongue. ‘She’s desperate for a shag. I almost thought she wanted to try it on with y—’
Hunter’s mobile blasted out the drill again. Set Chantal’s teeth on edge. Finlay Sinclair’s ugly mug gurned out of a drunken photo taken on some club night best forgotten.
‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter turned it over and covered the speaker. ‘Finlay keeps pestering me. I forgot how clingy he is.’
‘Tell him to piss off.’
Hunter looked at her like he was wondering about her character transformation. All that swearing didn’t sound like her, at least not the her he knew. Then he held up the mobile and turned the ringer down a bit. ‘Wish I’d not got in touch with him now.’
She crumpled up the coffee cup. ‘Why not say you’ve got your martial arts thing?’
The corner of his mouth turned up. ‘He loves that excuse.’ The phone stopped ringing. ‘You really think I should text him?’
‘Whatever, as long as you get rid of him.’
Hunter seemed to pick up on her decisiveness as he hammered at the screen. ‘What were you saying about that Bekah girl?’
‘Nothing.’
He put his phone down again. ‘Come on, I know it’s not nothing.’
Chantal pushed out a sigh. ‘Okay, I thought she was—’
‘—YOU STUPID BITCH!’
Crash. Thump. Tinkle.
‘WHAT ARE YOU—’
Screech. ‘I HATE YOU!’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Chantal jolted to her feet and dashed over to the fence. ‘What’s going on?’ She squinted hard. Over the small lane, one of the ground-floor apartment doors hung open, the curtains flapping in the breeze.
A suitcase sconed off the French doors and rolled across the patio, shirts and pants tumbling out. Ricky appeared in the doorway. ‘LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE NOW, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ He bent down and started scooping up his clothes, an aggressive tension in his every movement.
Chantal pushed away from the barrier. ‘We need to stop this before one of them gets killed!’
THIRTY-SIX
Hunter
Hunter used the plant pots to vault over the picket fence. He landed on the lane with a soft thud and jogged towards the apartment, his knee unaware of the kicking it was sure to be delivering any moment. That Ricky had looked like a bruiser the minute he laid eyes on him, and now he was laying his hands on a woman . . .
Take it slowly, man. You’re half-cut. No jumping to conclusions. Not every macho squaddie is also an abusive wifebeat—
‘STOP CALLING ME A BITCH!’ Kerry booted Ricky on the arse and he tumbled forwards. ‘YOU FAT PRICK! CAN’T EVEN GET A HARD-ON ANY MORE, YOU PISS ARTIST!’
‘SHUT YOUR MOUTH!’
‘NO, YOU SHUT— AH!’ Kerry fell backwards, cracking her head off the door. ‘YOU BASTARD!’
‘Stop!’ Hunter stopped on the other side of the fence, arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’
Ricky was on all fours, rubbing at a gash on his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘What’s your problem, mate?’
‘Calm down.’
Ricky pushed himself up to his feet. ‘You want to make something of this, do you?’
Hunter clambered over the fence and landed on their patio. ‘I don’t want this to turn nasty.’
‘You want to stick that big Scotch beak in, though, don’t you?’ Ricky spat at him, thick gobbets splattering Hunter’s cheek. ‘You think you’re something, do you? Big hard master of the kettle bell, eh?’
Kerry appeared in the doorway again. ‘I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!’
‘PISS OFF, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ Ricky sneered at her, his head butting the air. Then back at Hunter. ‘You want to take me on, mate, you’ll regret it.’
‘It’s okay.’ Hunter stood slightly back, his fists clenched and in position. ‘Calm down and it’ll all be cool.’
‘You hear what that bitch said to me? See what she did?’ Ricky picked up his suitcase and hurled it at Kerry, cracking it off her head. ‘Did you?’
Chantal scrambled over the fence and stopped dead.
‘You can piss off, too, you Paki bitch!’ Ricky lunged for Chantal.
Hunter stepped forward to block him. Ricky darted left and clawed a hand at Hunter’s throat. He pushed hard, pinning him to the side wall.
‘Get off him!’ Chantal scratched at Ricky’s hands. ‘Stop it!’
‘Back off or I’ll hurt you next!’ Ricky batted at her with his free hand, just missing her.
Hunter dug his chin down into his chest, piling pressure on Ricky’s thumb. He gripped his right hand around Ricky’s wrist and jerked it downwards. Then smashed Ricky’s nose with his left. ‘You don’t hit women!’ He swivelled his hips to the right and thrust out with his left hand again, this time cracking Ricky’s chin. ‘You don’t hit women!’ With a high knee he cracked Ricky’s groin, sending him tumbling to the ground. ‘You don’t hit women!’
‘STOP!’ Kerry stood in the doorway, cradling a bread knife. ‘Get away from my husband!’
‘Craig . . .’ Chantal tugged at his hand, pulling him away. ‘Come on.’
Hunter sucked in a deep breath. ‘You need to think about divorcing
this idiot.’
‘You can piss off, you Scotch twat!’ Kerry slashed the knife through the air, nowhere near hurting anyone but herself. ‘I love me husband!’
Hunter shook his head and helped Chantal over the fence, eyes trained on Ricky as he groaned on the lawn. Hunter, too, could barely breathe. Felt like his throat was half the usual size.
‘Stop!’ A male voice came from the direction of the bar.
Hunter swung round, wary of putting his back to Ricky. ‘Aw, shite.’
Inspector João Quaresma marched towards them, flanked by a pair of brutish uniformed officers. ‘Stop right there!’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Chantal
Fantastic timing . . .
‘He’s all yours, officer.’ Chantal pointed back the way, then put her hands up. Act innocent, don’t give them a chance to find fault. ‘He was going to kill her.’ She leaned in close to whisper, ‘Keep our cover. No one knows we’re police.’
Quaresma peered over at Ricky.
Kerry was crouching by her husband, still brandishing her knife. ‘Keep the hell away from us!’
‘Typical British. . .’ Quaresma waved for the two uniforms next to him to take over. ‘Leve-os de volta para a estação.’
The bigger of the two nodded, then smiled at Kerry. ‘Madam, give me knife.’
Kerry dropped it on the patio and hugged her husband tight. ‘I love you, Ricky.’
‘I will deal with these two.’ Quaresma started off down the lane back towards reception. ‘We got a call to this hotel and I was driving past. On my way to importance business, so I am not happy.’ His eyes confirmed the statement. ‘This call, I wonder if you two are up to no good. No good with no permission of Portuguese police. Now I think, I was right.’
‘It’s a coincidence.’ Chantal rubbed at her arm, a rash puckering the flesh halfway up. ‘We intervened to stop him killing her. Ended up the other way round.’
Quaresma rolled his tongue over his lips. ‘Mr Hunter, it looks like to me, you assaulted a foreign national on my territory.’
Hunter’s turn to raise his hands. ‘Only in self-defence.’ He rubbed a hand across his throat, the bruise already turning purple. ‘He went for me. Grabbed me. I disarmed him.’
Quaresma narrowed his eyes at Chantal. ‘Sergeant, we have agreement, no? You call me when things get, how you say? Operational?’
‘This wasn’t an—’
‘No question, no exception.’ Quaresma stopped by a squad car next to an Audi. ‘Must I ask Mr Hunter to come with me to station, or do you give me your word?’
Hunter bowed his head. ‘You’ve got my word.’
‘And you, Ms Jain?’
‘We’ll call you next time.’
‘Then we have deal.’ Quaresma grinned at Hunter, his face lighting up like a little kid’s at Christmas. ‘Was that Krav Maga?’
Hunter lifted a shoulder. ‘I know a bit.’
‘A bit?’ Quaresma laughed. ‘You should be in UFC!’
‘Hardly.’
Quaresma’s face darkened again. That man’s moods changed like the wind. He waved at the two uniforms as they led Ricky and Kerry towards the car. ‘We will put fear of God in these two.’
Ricky snarled at them as the cops forced him into the back. ‘You pair of wankers!’
Chantal caught Quaresma’s door as he opened it. ‘Look, we’ve got some intel on Tulloch’s whereabouts.’
Quaresma stood up tall with a huff, his eyes tracing the car’s route up to the main road. The glint was gone from his eyes. ‘I am listening.’
‘We believe he’s down the Strip.’
‘You look for needle in haystack, yes?’ Quaresma chuckled and waved his hand around the area. ‘Stay here, please. Is much safer for you and your partner.’
‘But Tulloch’s not here.’
Quaresma licked his lips again. ‘Listen to me. You must act like tourists, okay? Tomorrow, I will give you some men to help.’
‘Tomorrow’s not good enough.’
‘Tomorrow is good enough, my friend.’ Quaresma put his fists up in the air and grinned at Hunter. ‘You want fight me, eh?’ He bobbed and weaved then held his hands up. ‘Please no!’
‘We need to get him tonight.’ Hunter folded his arms, conscious of his bulging biceps. ‘He might be gone by tomorrow.’
‘Listen to me.’ Quaresma rested a hand on Hunter’s back and one on Chantal’s. ‘My friends, we have big case from your country already. That is my priority. Not my decision, but my responsibility. First we must find the boy, so long my hands are locked.’
Chantal shrugged off his rather free hand. ‘So what you’re saying is, if I go to the press with our case, make sure it’s just as big as the missing person’s case, you’ll give us some support?’
Quaresma held her gaze, his eyes frozen over despite the summer sun. Then he burst into laughter. ‘You are very funny.’ He opened the car door wide. ‘You stay in this area, we have no problem, okay?’ He got into the black Audi and gunned the engine. A final wave and the car tore up the hill to the main road.
Chantal folded her arms, her right hand playing with the rash. ‘What a disaster.’
‘We saved her life.’ Hunter wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the head. ‘They’ll prosecute him for that. One wife-beating arsehole off the street is a result, and the day isn’t even over yet.’
‘Sounded like she gave as good as she got.’ She collapsed into Hunter’s embrace, her back warm against his stomach, and let out a deep, long sigh. ‘Jesus, I’m so pissed.’
Hunter kneaded her shoulders. ‘You’ve done very well, Mrs Bond.’
‘Miss Bond, thank you very much.’ Chantal stared at the road. Quaresma’s Audi droned away into the distance, the deep throttle engine noise louder than any other car in the road. ‘That macho idiot just loves being in charge, doesn’t he?’ She waved up at the main street, the car stopping outside the karaoke bar. ‘Meanwhile, Tulloch’s running wild in this town, up to his usual behaviour, no doubt. We need to get him before anyone else comes to harm.’
‘You heard what Quaresma said.’
She turned round to wink at him. ‘Oh, I heard what he said. I also heard what he said between the lines. He likes you. We should use that.’
‘Not sure how.’ Hunter gripped her shoulder where it hurt the most. Heaven . . . ‘What were you saying before that happened? Something about Bekah?’
‘Forget about it.’ Chantal smoothed down her hair. ‘Look, this is above our pay grades. I think it’s time we spoke to Sharon.’
* * *
Chantal stabbed a finger at her screen to stick it on speaker. Then she laid it on the bed between her and Hunter, and took a deep breath. Here we go . . .
The light outside was dimming to an early evening glow. Way earlier than in Scotland, but the heat was still there, still hotter than home at any time of the day.
‘Afternoon, Chantal.’ Could almost hear Sharon’s grin down the line. ‘Just left the beach, have you?’
‘Hardly.’ Chantal yawned into her fist and blinked hard a few times. How many more coffees can I drink? Another yawn hit her in the face, sinking its claws into her cheeks. ‘We’ve been working hard.’
‘You’re slurring your speech, you daft mare.’ Sharon sighed down the line. ‘Tell me you’ve not been drinking since you got there?’
‘All part of our cover story, Shaz.’ Chantal picked up the phone and scowled at it. ‘Did you not get my text?’
‘Aye, something about a possible location on Tulloch blah blah blah. And a cock block? What?’
‘Quaresma, our liaison, is blocking any progress. We know where Tulloch’s going to be tonight, and yet he won’t give us any officers. Any suggestions?’
Sharon sighed, then left a pause. Sounded like someone shouted ‘She was over eighteen!’ in the background. ‘Like we discussed, we have to progress this through the official channels. That means heeding the council of the local cops, much as th
at may frustrate you.’
‘Here’s the thing.’ Chantal rubbed her hands together. ‘Quaresma isn’t playing ball. This missing kid’s taking up all their time and we . . . had an incident.’
A deeper sigh crackled the speaker. ‘Christ on a moped, what have you done now?’
‘Some knuckle-dragging squaddie was battering his wife. We stopped him.’ She flashed Hunter a wink. ‘We should try and claim credit for it.’
‘You’ve not got jurisdiction over there, Chantal.’
‘We stopped one of them dying.’
‘I said no messing about. And you’ve been messing about.’
‘Come on, Shaz.’ Chantal stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Quaresma isn’t helping us at all. In fact, he’s told us to stick to the hotel area. We’re basically under house arrest.’
‘Sounds to me like you got what you want. Isn’t that where Tulloch is?’
‘He’s a mile away, tops.’
The line went silent again. The same voice shouted ‘Eighteen!’
Hunter got up and started pacing the room.
‘Right, I’ll speak to his superiors, see if I can chivvy things along.’ Another Sharon sigh. ‘But you need to listen to what Quaresma says, okay? I don’t want you jeopardising this investigation by pissing off someone we need — do you hear me? — neeeeeed to liaise with.’
Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘Like I would ever bend the rules.’
‘Did you say this guy was a squaddie?’
‘From Manchester or something.’ Chantal tried to fend off another yawn. ‘We’ve met quite a few soldiers here. Seems to be armed forces week off.’
‘Right. Well, it’s been all quiet on the Rollo-Smith front. Not sure that’s a good thing, mind.’
‘How do you want us to progress, then?’
‘Double bed comfy?’
‘Aye, very funny.’ Chantal shook her head at the phone. ‘Make sure you sort out Quaresma for us, okay?’ She ended the call and tossed her mobile on the bed. ‘Christ’s sake.’
The bed squeaked as Hunter kneeled on it behind her and started rubbing her shoulders again. ‘Think she’ll get anywhere with Quaresma’s bosses?’
