Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Chantal stopped by the bar, a two-deep queue around it, and smiled at Matty. ‘Sean here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nobody’s seen him, love.’

  She stared at Hunter. This isn’t the right move. Need to regroup and replan.

  ‘Here.’ Matty handed her a pint glass of dark-red liquid. Then another. ‘Get stuck in!’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ Hunter was in her ear. ‘We need to go.’

  She leaned back into him and muttered out of the side of her mouth. ‘This is your fault not mine.’ She took a drink. Really did taste like Vimto. She flashed a smile at Matty. ‘Cheers!’

  Hunter grudgingly took one as well and started sipping at it.

  ‘Chantal!’ Bekah wrapped her arms round her, vomit breath crawling up her nostrils. ‘Chantal!’

  She had to take a step back to stop her drink from spilling. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m on it like a comet! Whoo!’ Bekah jumped in the air, looked like she was floating on her very own high.

  Matty appeared, giving Bekah a good going over with his eyes. Only his eyes, for now. He took a sip from a pint glass. ‘Alright?’

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m Bekah!’

  ‘Matty.’ He offered her a drink from his glass. She slurped it down. ‘How’s my girl?’

  ‘Starving!’ Bekah leaned against Chantal, barely any weight at all. ‘Anywhere good to eat round here?’

  Matty stepped forward. ‘Me and Gogsy here just had a hot dog from that van. Lovely.’

  ‘You had a big sausage, did you?’ Bekah released Chantal and reached for Matty, resting one hand on his arm, the other on his stomach. She started running her hand around the edge of his shorts. ‘Bet there’s a big one in your pants, too.’

  ‘Fucking massive, love.’

  Bekah hauled his shorts down to his knees. Matty’s cock was half-erect, barely two inches long.

  A gasp from Bekah, a strangled bellow from Hunter.

  Matty was hunched over trying to pull his shorts back up. ‘Fuck off!’ The humiliated soldier pushed her over and stormed out of the bar.

  ‘Shite.’ Brownlee downed his Crazy Vimto. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  The crowd around them were laughing louder than the music. More than a few girls from Bekah’s hen party among them, all wagging their pinkies.

  Chantal leaned in to whisper in Hunter’s ear. ‘Craig, that was a normal-sized penis.’

  He scowled at her. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I doubt you’ve seen many cocks in your life, have you? Just goes to show how distorted your view of male anatomy is. Classic case of Scottish sex education. All you know about your equipment is what you’ve seen in pornos. Those aren’t real knobs, sweetheart.’ She grabbed his groin. ‘There’s nothing wrong with yours, okay? Now, let’s put that issue to bed.’

  FORTY

  Hunter

  Hunter trotted after Chantal, almost losing her in the throng of boozers marching down the strip. Couldn’t get the image of that tiny walloper out of his head. Couldn’t wallop anything with it. Just a little toffee hammer.

  Gangs of Germans dressed in Lederhosen, even more superheroes, wrestlers, and Star Wars characters alongside the odd cork-hatted Australian. A little apart, squads of Brits in jeans and shirts.

  The next-door bar had spilled out on the street, British stags necking bottles of Grolsch and eyeing up every. Single. Woman. But though the perverts seemed to be out in force, there was still no sign of Tulloch.

  Hunter stopped in the street and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is like Groundhog Day, you know that? I’ve no idea what time it is, other than night. That daytime boozing has twisted my melon.’

  ‘It’s messing with my head, as well.’ Chantal leaned it on his shoulder. ‘I can barely remember why we’re here, other than I keep seeing Paisley’s battered face when I close my eyes. Do you get that, too?’

  ‘Don’t I just. And the other four.’ He grabbed her hand and led her down the street, walking past a 5D cinema. Whatever that meant.

  A big lump of holiday apartments sat across the road, set back like they were keeping away from the bacchanalian excess.

  A blue light flashed down the side street by the apartments, too far away to be the neon of a bar or club, or was it?

  It wasn’t.

  Two armed police officers guarded a side entrance. Black polo shirts, maybe even navy, stamped with POLICIA. Baseball cap, black boots and black trousers with a hip holster each.

  Hunter clasped Chantal’s hand and stopped her. ‘Something’s going on down there.’ He nodded at the officers and started off down the street. ‘What’s happened?’

  The street widened into a small square. Police officers leaned against their cars, arms folded, looking bored. Quaresma was marching around, shouting instructions in Portuguese.

  The first officer sniffed, taking his eyes off a hen party across the road. ‘Is your apartment here?’

  ‘I’m police.’ Hunter flashed his warrant card. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You cannot be here, sir.’

  ‘We need to speak to Inspector Quaresma.’

  Chantal slapped his hand away. ‘Craig, we should go.’

  The officer smiled at Hunter. ‘Listen to your little girlfriend.’

  Hunter glared at him, yet before he could put the smarmy prick in his place, he caught sight of DI Bruce and what looked like another couple of Northumbria’s finest hot on his heels. Didn’t look good, whatever it was.

  Hunter nodded over at him. ‘Is this about Harry Jack?’

  ‘Good bye, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Craig.’ Chantal tugged at Hunter’s hand and led him away.

  ‘Chantal!’ Bruce was jogging towards them, his coat flapping behind him. ‘Look, we’re two skulls down and this lot have given us intel on a sighting at the arse end of town. We need to run a raid. Can you help?’

  * * *

  Hunter sat back in the passenger seat, the booze gurgling in his stomach. Didn’t feel like the right thing to do, but it might curry favour with Quaresma, so . . .

  Bruce tore through night-time Albufeira, heading away from the clubs and pubs towards a residential area. Houses set back from the road, blocks of flats hugging it. The occasional shop or café. Street lighting was optional.

  Chantal was in the back seat, tapping away at her mobile. She pocketed it and leaned forward. ‘So, you’ve got a sighting of this kid?’

  ‘Yet another, my sweet.’ Bruce turned right at a roundabout, blasting down an empty road. The satnav on his dashboard pointed a blue line towards a street more than a mile away. ‘This whole thing started out because someone called us, saying they saw the kid. Recognised him from the Sun or Mirror or whatever. Trouble is, she spoke to the papers as well. So we’re out here chasing our tails while all hell breaks loose. Absolute nightmare.’

  Hunter glanced round at Chantal. Her eyes weren’t open at the same time. ‘Did she work at a bar?’

  Bruce craned his neck round to glare at Hunter. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘Right, well. Aye, she did.’ Bruce tugged at his collar and powered down the road. ‘We had a word with her earlier. Stupid cow should’ve kept her mouth shut. Couldn’t back it up, either. Kid might not even be in the country anymore.’

  Hunter waved ahead, the white lines dancing through his blurred vision. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Someone else called us tonight. We thought it was another one of those things, you know? A sighting that came to nothing. But we raided a flat near that hellhole where you were. Found this woman cowering in the bath. She said she’d seen Harry out this way. Then we got another call, right? Same story, saw the kid near this house. Could even describe him, wearing the same clothes as when he got taken. Gave us an address.’

  Chantal shot him a cheeky grin. Now she was half-pissed, was she flirting with him? Really? ‘Sure it’s not one of your guys calling it in so you can all have a j
olly in sunny Portugal?’

  ‘I’d much rather be home. My marriage is . . .’ Bruce cleared his throat. ‘Look, I asked you pair to help because it might earn you a few brownie points with our chum Quaresma.’ He reached into the middle console and tossed over a pack of gum. ‘But chew that, for crying out loud. Pair of you smell like a brewery.’

  * * *

  ‘Go, go, go!’

  Hunter burst into the house and clattered up the stairs. A pair of uniforms stormed into the living room. He grabbed hold of the wooden banister to keep him upright as he climbed. Booze swilled in his guts, not quite dulled by the food. He tripped and went flying, thumping his head against Chantal’s leg. Pushed her over on the landing, the carpet bunching up around her hands. ‘Watch it!’

  Bruce was standing over them, face red with fury. ‘What are you playing at?’

  Hunter helped Chantal up. ‘Caught my footing on the carpet there.’

  ‘Get up, you pair of amateurs!’

  Hunter followed Bruce over to the landing. Two doors led off. The first was a bathroom. One of Bruce’s plainclothes was hovering over the bathtub, shaking her head. ‘Not in here, guv.’

  ‘Right.’ Bruce stood to one side of the other door, holding up a finger. Then two. Then three. Nod at Hunter. ‘Go!’

  Hunter tried the door. Locked. He shouldered it and tumbled into a bedroom. The curtains twitched. He charged over and pulled them open. The window was locked from the inside, the key still in.

  ‘Out you come.’ Bruce was kneeling on the bed.

  Three pairs of hands appeared, including one child’s. A man raised himself up to standing. Looked English, judging by his weak chin. Maybe Welsh, but certainly not Portuguese.

  Then he helped up a woman, a local by the looks of her dark hair and olive skin. Shaking her head, shouting: ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘Out you come, Harry.’ Bruce reached and lifted up a small child, kicking and screaming.

  Pink pyjamas. Blonde hair in bunches, blue eyes.

  Not Harry Jack.

  FORTY-ONE

  Chantal

  Bruce pulled up down the street from the Strip and killed the engine. ‘Tell you, Chantal, I hoped that’d be my ticket out of here, but no.’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Jon.’ Chantal spat her gum into a tissue and stuck it in the bin under the stereo. The car reeked of cheap cigarettes and Bruce’s hideous musky aftershave. Seedy git. ‘Thought a seasoned DI like you wouldn’t have any hope left.’

  Bruce laughed. ‘Must be all the sun here, messing with my mind.’

  ‘Well, just make sure Quaresma hears about us helping.’

  ‘Almost breaking your necks on the stairs.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d better drop that part from my report.’

  ‘That wasn’t my—’

  CRACK.

  Behind Bruce, two faces beamed into the car. Rich McAlpine and his hipster mate. Pair of twats grinning away.

  Bruce wound down the window. ‘Evening, lads. Do you need someone to wipe your arses, again?’

  Rich nodded at Chantal. ‘Wonder if you wanted to answer some questions about that raid.’

  Bruce glanced at her. Gave himself away. ‘What raid?’

  ‘Don’t be a fanny, Jon. Me and Liam know what’s been going on. You found him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Get to fuck.’ They didn’t look they were getting anywhere. Bruce wound up the window and smiled at Chantal. ‘You fancy getting a drink later?’

  She yawned. ‘Going to get an early night. Maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll hold you to it.’ Bruce got out of the car and grabbed Rich and his mate by the arm. ‘Come on, lads, time for you to take me for a coffee and tell me what you know.’ He plipped the locks and led them off.

  Hunter appeared from the other side. ‘You’re going for a drink with him?’

  ‘You feel threatened?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Hunter chuckled, but it didn’t look like he meant it. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Once again, we’ve lost the scent of Tulloch and his mates.’ She started walking towards the thump and flash of the Strip, yawning into her fist. ‘Let’s see if we can pick it up.’

  * * *

  ‘So, where the bloody hell is he?’ Chantal stood at a crossroads.

  The Strip crawled up the hill ahead of them, but it looked more like accommodation than drinking dens. Some grimy old bars lined the side streets to the left and right. A golf tee-shaped building loomed up, for no apparent reason, lit up in blue from below. Certainly not the sort of place that would seem to attract a bunch of squaddies. Besides, the hordes were streaming the other way, right towards them.

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances up there, Craig.’ She swivelled round. Flashing blue lights burst out at the top of the hill behind them.

  Had DI Bruce got something out of them?

  Hunter shrugged at her. ‘I think we should retrace our steps.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘There are at least four clubs we only glanced into. They could’ve been on the dance floor or doing coke in the toilets.’

  ‘All at once? Come on, we can’t miss a group of twenty squaddies.’

  ‘Maybe Tulloch and his mates haven’t met up yet, or they’ve branched off into smaller groups.’

  Made sense.

  Made almost perfect sense.

  But Quaresma was right. Needle in a haystack. Running around, chasing their tails and for what? Convincing Craig that Matty’s tiny cock was the real deal?

  She glanced at her watch. After ten. Christ.

  Tulloch wasn’t here. One last sweep for conscience’s sake and that was it.

  ‘Come on, then.’ She grabbed his hand and paced up the street, swerving between two groups of Germans, one dressed in the old Italia 90 West Germany kit, the others as Native Americans, and not very tastefully at that.

  Hunter jogged round the side of them to keep up with her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m dehydrated.’ Chantal stopped by a bar and folded her arms.

  Bar Shooters. Classy. A middle-aged local stood outside, dressed as a pirate. That or Captain Morgan from the rum bottle. He was handing out vouchers to passing piss artists. Couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic when two English men in Fitch T-shirts pulled him in for a photo. Selling his soul for the tourist’s shilling and hating every moment. Same old story in these English holiday colonies.

  Outside the bar next door, a fat man in a polo shirt sucked on a cigarette then did a little twirl and vomited on a window.

  Chantal could see why Captain Morgan wasn’t impressed and took two vouchers by way of commiseration. ‘Did we try in here, Craig?’

  ‘It looked empty.’

  ‘That’s a no, then. In we go.’ Chantal entered the bar. It stretched deep into the building, longer than she expected. Two fat men strutted on the dance floor, gyrating to some two-step like they were kids in front of their bedroom mirrors. They weren’t. Not for at least forty years. And forty stone between them.

  A bar filled most of the front, decorated like a desert island with coconut trees and bamboo. A hen party stood by it, getting their free shooters. The barman poured out of an unmarked bottle. God knows what it was. Meths. Ethanol. Nobody seemed to care.

  Chantal handed over her vouchers to the barman.

  ‘Cheers.’ Essex boy, spiky blond hair and a vest with torn-off sleeves. Kill me now. ‘Coming right up, princess.’ He tipped the unlabelled spirit into two glasses.

  Chantal took them with a smile and gave one to Hunter. She sniffed the drink. Had a citrus tang to it. Toilet Duck, maybe? ‘Well?’

  Hunter stared into his glass. ‘I think it’s meths.’

  ‘No, is Tulloch here?’

  ‘Not now. He could’ve been, though.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘We’re not searching deep enough into these clubs.’

  Chantal downed her shot and grimaced. ‘That’s . . . Wow.’

  Hunter took a sip of his. ‘I’m not drinking that.’

  ‘Go
on, you big jessie.’ She raised her eyebrows, trying a bit of peer pressure. ‘Got to keep up the cover.’

  ‘Sod it.’ Hunter threw it back. ‘Holy arse fuck!’ He gagged, like Ricky was still grabbing his throat.

  A gaggle of women in pink piled in through the door, a middle-aged one waving her free shot voucher. ‘Woo!’

  The music turned up a notch, the off-kilter beat rattling her fillings. That dour dental heritage of her typical Scottish childhood diet, even though her parents were kids of immigrants. Too many sweets.

  Hunter leaned in closer. ‘When did music get shit?’

  Chantal started swaying to the beat. ‘I like two-step.’

  ‘This is just . . . Ugh.’

  ‘Wow!’ Bekah, the skinny girl from the hotel bar, wrapped her arms around Chantal. ‘Oh, this is so cool!’

  Here we go again.

  FORTY-TWO

  Hunter

  Hunter stepped away from Chantal and Bekah. The girl looked wasted. Someone needed to keep an eye on her before . . . The dance floor filled up with a group of lads. Too late.

  Terrific.

  The stag wore full Highland gear, a dangling foam cock hanging below the line of his kilt. So pissed he needed to be propped up.

  Hunter walked outside, his throat burning. Either from being strangled or because of the turps he’d necked.

  Captain Morgan was still handing out vouchers. People were taking, but nobody was buying.

  Hunter smiled at him and held up his phone, brandishing the photo of Tulloch. ‘Have you seen this man tonight?’

  A gang of Germans staggered towards him, yodelling some tuneless football hymn while dressed as Australians in outback gear, corks dangling from their hats. One took a voucher and tripped over. He hit the concrete at the pirate’s feet, scratching at the ground for his voucher.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  The pirate shrugged. ‘I have seen a lot of things, my friend, but I try to forget.’