Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Oooh, yes. There. Her head collapsed forward. ‘I think it’ll just piss him off.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we want?’

  She tried to shrug, but it didn’t happen. ‘Maybe.’

  Hunter kissed her neck and slid her bra strap down from her left shoulder. His thumb dug into her muscles, almost too hard. ‘So, what do you want to do while we wait for Sharon to pull a few strings?’

  ‘A little lie down wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I’m with you there.’ Hunter slid the right bra strap down, too, and kissed her neck some more, still hitting the right spots on the massage. ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards we’ll get something to eat. I’m thinking we should head down the Strip.’

  ‘Nothing to stop us going for a walk, is there?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Chantal swung round and kissed him hard on the mouth, bashing against his teeth, her tongue wrestling against his. ‘Get one of those condoms, then.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hunter

  Chantal’s hand clamped round Hunter’s, warm and tight, as they walked down the street. The sun was low on the horizon, but the air still hot. His boozy haze was replaced with a mellow calm washing over like warm water. ‘This feels good.’

  Chantal pecked him on the cheek. ‘This must be what happiness feels like.’

  He frowned at her. ‘My hand feels like a penis?’

  She laughed. ‘Happiness. Not half a penis.’ She put her head to his shoulder and wrapped her arm around his torso. ‘I love you, Craig.’

  ‘You only say that after you’ve got your way with me.’

  Chantal pinched his side as they walked on. ‘Very funny.’

  The wide street joined a crossroads. Busy neon led to the right, a deep bass drum booming out. A couple of lapdancing clubs were across the other side, right next to some cash machines.

  She waved a hand over the road. ‘Think Tulloch might’ve gone in there?’

  Hunter glanced at the thinly veiled brothel. ‘Someone like Tulloch would rather not pay for it.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Chantal clenched her jaw. ‘You saw what he did to the four victims before he abused Paisley. Anna, Erica, Kylie and Jane. What they went through at his hands . . . Whatever horror he put them through, it was enough for each one of them to never want to talk to us about it. I don’t think it’s about whether he has to pay for it. He sees women as commodities, as instruments of satisfaction, his satisfaction. He takes what he wants and screw the consequences. I keep saying this, but we can’t afford to stand on formalities here, Craig. We need to do what we need to do to catch this predator before he can . . . before he can hurt anyone else.’

  ‘And we will.’ Hunter led her over to the crossroads, making sure his grip was tight enough. ‘Starting here. The Strip. Let’s start tightening the net.’

  A long avenue crawled down a gradual hill, kinking slightly to the right then twisting back to the left. Like the high street of any small Scottish town, but instead of butchers, bakers and Post Offices, every door led to a bar or club. Men and women outside handing out flyers. A steady stream of boozers traipsing down, grouped by gender, but all of them shouting or laughing. Flashing neon, hissing dry ice, thumping house music.

  Hunter looked at her. ‘You ready for this?’

  Chantal sucked in a deep breath then pointed to the right. A two-storey Irish pub that thought it was in the Wild West. A staircase led up the side to a steak restaurant. ‘Was that where Tulloch was going?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hunter scowled at her. ‘But. Steak?’

  ‘Oh dear, I didn’t think.’ She rubbed his arm through his shirt. ‘We can sit outside and watch the entrance.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He started up the steps. ‘I think Matty said first on the right.’

  ‘You told me left.’

  ‘Did I? Shite.’

  ‘Come on.’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed, hauling him across the road.

  A ground-floor eatery with an olive tree climbing up the stucco front for a touch of class. El Rancho Steak House.

  Hunter stopped and groaned. ‘Another steakhouse . . . ?’

  He took a look inside. No sign of Tulloch or the other two, Brownlee and Matty.

  Chantal chapped her knuckle off the placard outside. ‘Look, it’s mostly pizza and pasta.’

  ‘Now we’re talking.’ Hunter scanned down the menu. ‘You sure you’re okay about missing out on a steak?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Already had a big portion of meat.’

  Hunter groaned. ‘Hardly big . . .’ She tried to lead him in, but he held back. ‘What self-respecting pizza place doesn’t have a banana topping?’

  ‘Come on.’ Chantal pulled him by the hand to the front desk.

  The restaurant was bigger than it looked from outside, a tacky Tardis. A few tables for two ran along the windows, long benches stretching from front to back along each wall. Less likely to meet the Doctor in here than a mob of hungry school children. Or stag and hen parties, same thing really. Either way, it was selfie central. Twenty-odd blokes filled a bench at the far wall. Halfway up, some of them were turned to chat up the hen party behind them. The nearest men looked like they were still asleep, no doubt a result of a hardcore Thursday night. Evening meal of the living dead. Someone shouted out ‘Pintman!’, whatever that meant, whoever that was.

  Chantal folded her arms. ‘Definitely no sign of Tulloch or his mates.’

  ‘The night’s still young. And we need to eat.’

  A waiter flounced over to them and grinned at Chantal. ‘Table for two?’

  She nodded. ‘Could we get one away from everything?’

  ‘Sure thing, darling.’ The waiter led over to a series of tables on the side and pulled out a chair halfway along the benches.

  Chantal took the seat facing away from the teeming crowd. ‘Thanks.’

  The waiter brandished two menus. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? Wine? Beer? Perhaps a little cocktail?’

  Chantal sighed as she started studying the specials. ‘A bottle of the Rioja, please.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ The waiter sauntered off past the bedlam, rolling his eyes. One of the lads was dancing on a table, throwing Marty McFly air-guitar shapes to a Guns ’n Roses track pumping out of the stereo.

  Hunter reached a hand over the table. ‘A whole bottle?’

  ‘Sod it. We’ve got to blend in, right?’ Her phone rattled the tabletop and closed her tired eyes for her. ‘Work calling. It’s Sharon.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, answer it.’ Hunter pulled the menu close to him. At first glance it was all barbecued meat. Terrific. Can’t even find a single spaghetti in this sausage fest. Disgusted, he looked back up at Chantal, who was still staring at her phone, biting her lip rather than taking the call. ‘Come on, take it outside. You can’t do a speakerphone call in a place like this.’

  ‘Back in a sec.’ Chantal snatched up her mobile and headed outside.

  Hunter flipped the menu over. Pizza and pasta. Finally. Another ring put a sudden end to his relief. This time it came from his phone, though. More texts from Finlay. Give it up, mate.

  He rubbed at his throat. Still hurt from Ricky’s clawing, but the pain was back down to seven out of ten. Maybe.

  The menu, however, was a three at best. Places like this, it was usually best — and safest — to just go for the margarita. More delicious cheese and less unwanted bacteria. Fewer places to hide off food.

  Maybe worth asking for a banana?

  The waiter came back with a bottle of wine and a frown. ‘Has madam left, sir?’

  ‘Had to take a call.’ Hunter coughed. ‘Her mother.’

  ‘I see.’ The waiter twonked the bottle in front of Hunter and launched straight into an elaborate opening ceremony with a pen knife, tearing at the foil, instead of yanking it off like any self-respecting barbarian would. The corkscrew encore took the better part of a minute. Save the sexy stuff, pal, you’ve blown your chance of a dec
ent tip already. He looked at Hunter like he could read his mind. ‘Are you not in the mood for a little something, sir?’

  ‘Aye, sure, pour to your heart’s content. My cup overfloweth today.’ Hunter unlocked his phone and found the photos. He held it up to the waiter. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

  The man splashed wine into Hunter’s glass and frowned at the photos, as he slowly flicked through them.

  Hunter picked up the glass for a sniff and sip. Passable, though not a Rioja.

  The waiter’s eyes bulged at one photos and he shuddered. ‘How is the wine, sir?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Hunter slid the glass back and let him top it up. ‘So, do you recognise him?’

  The man in the picture was Tulloch.

  The waiter poured some wine into Chantal’s glass. ‘This man was in last night. Loud and drunk.’

  ‘I take it that’s not out of character for here?’

  The waiter rolled his eyes at the excess behind him. ‘You see what we have to contend with every night. All the summer.’ He tipped some more plonk into Hunter’s glass, filling it up almost all the way to the brim, then rested the bottle in the middle of the table. ‘I take it you are police.’

  ‘From Scotland, aye.’ Hunter took another sip of the sour wine. ‘Have they been in tonight?’

  ‘They would not be allowed back.’ He puckered his lips. ‘Shall I take your food orders when madam has returned?’

  ‘Please.’ Hunter stared at the menu again. ‘Hang on, I don’t see it on the menu, but can I get banana and mushroom on a pizza?’

  ‘Well, of course. Whatever sir desires.’ And off he flounced.

  Another two stags and three hens were up on the table, playing air guitar to that Bryan Adams song.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Chantal slumped down in her chair and gulped down some wine. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘That good?’

  She pinged a finger on her wine glass, the sound about as dull as the flavour. ‘Sharon didn’t get anywhere with Quaresma’s boss.’ Another sip. ‘We still have to give him a call if we need any assistance.’ She fanned her hair out. ‘And, of course, we’ve pissed them off now.’

  ‘I suppose the only good news is that they were in here last night.’

  ‘Tulloch?’

  ‘And company. They won’t get let back in, though.’

  ‘Another dead end.’

  The waiter reappeared with his hands clasped. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Chantal

  Chantal sipped at her wine. Tasted like diluted balsamic. Why the hell did Craig accept it?

  Hunter was still nibbling at the crust of his pizza. Looked disgusting. Tomato and cheese and banana and mushrooms. Hate mushrooms.

  He finished chewing and pushed his plate away. ‘That wasn’t bad at all.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Chantal dug into the last layer of her lasagne. Red meaty mush. Not even sure it’s beef. ‘This is minging.’

  ‘Looks okay to me. Apart from, you know, the meat.’

  ‘It’s vile. Should have taken the veggie option.’

  ‘We all need our carbs.’ Hunter took a sip of wine. ‘So, what do—’

  ‘There you are!’ Finlay Sinclair came marching across the tiles towards them. ‘Knew I’d find you here!’

  What?

  Has Craig been texting him?

  Asking him to help out?

  Hunter stood up and got in Finlay’s face. ‘Fin, you can’t be here.’

  ‘What? I’m meeting a pal for a drink.’ Finlay leaned back against an empty bench, the table behind it deserted. Where had the Bryan Adams fan club gone? Weren’t they dancing and singing on the tables a moment ago? Vanished, leaving only their air guitars.

  Finlay beamed at Chantal. ‘Evening.’

  She tried to return the smile. ‘Evening.’

  ‘Mate, you’re not a cop anymore.’ Hunter was smiling, looked as forced as hers felt. ‘You really can’t be here.’

  ‘I want to help.’ As Finlay stood, his back clicked like a seatbelt buckle. ‘I know the area.’

  ‘You said you live the other side of Faro.’

  Finlay put on a puppy-dog face, his eyes sagging. ‘Look, let me—’

  ‘Finlay.’ Chantal got up and dusted off the shoulders of his polo shirt, again feeling like a maiden aunt. Or like a spinster at a wedding, given how much she had on her plate. Still, Fin was the last person they needed in this mess. ‘I appreciate your offer of help, but this is for Craig and me, okay?’

  Finlay did a petulant teenager stomp. ‘Come on . . .’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Chantal gave him her best cop glare. ‘Our local liaison isn’t impressed with us and, well, I don’t want you getting caught up in this. Might get you in some trouble. And you have to live here . . .’

  ‘Come on . . .’ Finlay deflated like a stabbed beach ball. ‘I just want to help. That’s all.’

  ‘I get that.’ Chantal flashed a grin at him. ‘Look, the local cops are supposed to be helping us tomorrow. Could maybe use your help making sure they’re not bullshitting us.’

  Finlay nodded. ‘Cool.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Cool. What time?’

  ‘Probably best if we phone you.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait for the call. Let’s do that.’

  Chantal smiled again and patted his back. ‘Now, we’ve got something to get on with, so . . .’ She tapped her nose. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye.’ Finlay beamed at them and strolled out of the restaurant, his back ramrod straight.

  Hunter sat back down and drained his glass. ‘Thanks for the save.’

  ‘Have you been goading him?’

  ‘God no.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Should’ve just got a taxi from the police station, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t disagree.’ Chantal waved over at the waiter and held up forty euros. Got a saucy wink in return and quickly turned back to Hunter. ‘Come on, lover boy.’ She left the rest of her glass of vinegar and headed for the door, dragging Hunter after her like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. ‘Before Finlay comes back.’

  * * *

  Chantal stood outside a pulsing nightclub.

  Hunter caught up with her and grabbed her hand. Felt like he was pulling away, but she held strong. ‘Were you serious about using Finlay?’

  Hardly.

  She looked inside the bar. Strobe lighting jerked across an empty dance floor. Sky Sports played on the screen above the bar, English football for English punters. CHE-MNU. Goalless draw. Yawn. ‘Guy seems bored.’

  ‘I told you that he moved out here to drink himself to death, didn’t I?’

  ‘That’s his choice.’ She scanned around. Nobody over six foot, let alone an abusive squaddie. ‘No sign of Tulloch in here, either.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Come on.’ Hunter left the bar.

  She watched Pedro tumble in the box, arms outstretched before he hit the grass, then joined Hunter in an island of tranquillity in the centre of the Strip, crowds streaming around a lamppost in the middle.

  Over the other side was Bar Mambo. Packed out with drinkers, a rudimentary dance floor stuffed between the bar and the glass doors with a view of a side street.

  ‘What’s that?’ She cupped a hand round her ear. ‘It sounds a hell of a lot like “Shake It Off” to me!’

  Hunter stared at the club. Could almost hear him groan. ‘Come on, we were just in there. And Tulloch wasn’t.’

  ‘But Taylor Swift is.’ Chantal grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd into the bar. She twisted round as they got to the dance floor, arms in the air, singing along with the music.

  Hunter’s deaf feet couldn’t find the rhythm, so he just stood there, stepping to every other beat.

  * * *

  Chantal gripped Hunter’s hand tight as she led him off the dance floor, out of the doors and down the hill. The poor guy seemed totally out of it. Too much booze or another flashback, or
both? The rubbery tang of hot dogs belched out of a small van parked at the side of the road. A queue wound back across the street, blocking the traffic.

  She frowned at Hunter, his eyes almost rolling back in his head. ‘Jesus, are you alright?’

  His lips twitched. ‘I’m . . . trying to centre myself.’

  ‘What, why?’

  ‘That van.’ Hunter ran a hand across his nose. ‘The smell. It’s . . . ’

  She tightened her grip. ‘Craig, it’s okay.’

  Hunter shut his eyes, clamped them tight, his forehead knotting. ‘I’m getting better at it.’

  She gave his hand a pulse. ‘Good.’

  He reopened them, smiling. ‘Thanks.’ Then he frowned over to the side. ‘Terrific.’ And started walking across the street.

  Matty and Gordon Brownlee leaned against a bar window, munching on hot dogs. Matty laughed as Hunter approached. ‘Alright, mate. You seen Sean yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Hunter beamed at them. ‘Getting the spiders now.’

  Matty finished chewing some hot dog. ‘We’ll shove them right up his arse!’

  Brownlee bunched up his wrapper, shaking his head. He tapped on the glass. ‘Supposed to be meeting him in here, if you’re ready?’

  Chantal caught up with Hunter. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘See you inside, yeah?’ Matty followed Brownlee into the bar.

  Chantal scowled at him. ‘Craig, what are you up to?’

  ‘Finding Tulloch. Far as I’m aware, he doesn’t know anything about us. Who we are, least of all that we’re cops.’

  ‘He’ll start to smell a rat if you say you served with him.’

  ‘I’ll say it’s John Pollock. The important thing is we’ll know where he is. Then I can call Quaresma and we can get out of this godforsaken place.’

  Chantal stared into the bar. Matty was shouting an order at the bar staff and waving euros around. ‘Come on, then.’

  Hunter led the way inside. The bar was hot, liquid that looked suspiciously like sticky sweat trickling down the walls. Old-school house pumped out of giant speakers, genuine Detroit and Chicago sounds, not mid-nineties Balearic dross.