Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  There’s a time and place for standing your ground. This was neither.

  She sat at the desk, letting all her aches and pains go with a long sigh. If only. After a few deep breaths she looked back up at the cop. ‘Are those girls okay?’

  ‘They are on the way to a hospital.’

  ‘My partner, Craig Hunter. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Have you got him in custody?’

  ‘I cannot say.’ She shut the door and left Chantal alone.

  What a disaster. Where the hell was Craig?

  Tulloch was at large. Had Craig caught him? Had Tulloch hurt him?

  There was no sign of Matty or the other big lump. Three against one . . . Craig would’ve been heavily outgunned. Not that such a statistical detail would ever stop him.

  The only good thing was that they had managed to stop Tulloch raping someone. Focus on Nora and Siobhan. Watch what you drink, girls. Blind trust will cost you dear . . .

  She dialled Hunter’s phone. Still just voicemail. ‘Craig, I’m at the station. Call me when you hear this.’ She hung up and typed a message to Sharon.

  TROUBLE BREWING HERE. CALL ME.

  The door clicked open and she looked up. DI Jon Bruce walked in, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Evening.’

  Chantal slumped back. ‘Jon. What’s going on?’

  Bruce sat on the edge of the table, far too close to her. Brucie Boner, indeed. ‘I was in the area. Quaresma called me, told me I was needed here. So here I am. We were on the Strip, responding to another sighting.’

  ‘Do you know where Craig is?’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘I’ve only just arrived. God, those sightings are getting out of hand. Another false alarm.’ He adjusted his cufflinks, big spangly things that looked like he got them from a toy shop. ‘Starting to doubt the boy’s still here.’

  ‘Think you’ll find him?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I think. I do my job.’ Bruce shot her a wink and just like that his serious tone shifted to a pillow talk mutter. ‘Now, what trouble have you got yourself into, eh?’

  She huffed out breath and gave him a sobering look. ‘We found him, Jon. The guy we’re after. Date raping someone.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Well, I doubt she could consent to what Tulloch was going to do to her.’

  ‘One of those, eh?’ Bruce got up and started pacing the room. Just like he did when he gave a training course. Working up a flow, or whatever he called it. Looked as artificial as those shiny cufflinks he kept fingering. Be it unconsciously or by force of habit, the guy was a creep. ‘From what I gather, your boyfriend’s in the shit.’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Sure about that?’ Bruce twitched an eyebrow. The poor thing looked like it couldn’t wait to leave his face. ‘Sharing a room, aren’t you?’

  ‘Craig’s a gentleman. He’s on the sofa.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ Bruce scratched the rogue eyebrow, like that was the only control he had over it. ‘All I know is Craig got into a scuffle with someone.’

  ‘Tulloch?’

  ‘No idea, Chantal. Way Quaresma said it, he’ll get done for fighting. Affray or God knows what they call it here. Maybe Breach of the Peace.’

  ‘He was doing his job.’

  ‘Not sure our mutual friend sees it that way. Speaking of whom . . .’ Bruce moved over to the window and sat against the sill.

  The door opened and Quaresma stepped inside. Hunter followed him in, his head low.

  ‘Craig!’ Chantal shot out of her chair and wrapped a hug around him. ‘Are you okay?’

  Quaresma wedged them apart with his fingers. ‘Yes, he is okay.’

  Chantal stared at Quaresma’s hands. ‘That’s technically assault.’

  ‘Maybe in your country.’ Quaresma sat behind the desk and shrugged off his long jacket. ‘But this is my country and you two are making problems. A lot of problems.’

  Chantal didn’t want to take her eyes off Hunter, but did so just long enough to shoot a spiteful glare at Quaresma. ‘We had Tulloch.’

  ‘Ah, but you, how you say? Break protocol?’ Quaresma loosened his tie and lifted the loop over his head. ‘We had agreement.’ He pointed a bony finger at her. ‘We agree, you wait.’

  ‘We called you and—’

  ‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma gripped the edge of the desk, his eyebrow cocked like a Magnum. ‘You call and I say, do not make move. We agree tomorrow, yes?’ He left a pause, but she wasn’t going to fill it. ‘Next, you take our law in your hands, when we are in middle of operation. Is big risk for all.’ He licked his lips. ‘I know your country. People like you think they—’

  ‘People like me?’ Chantal tilted her head to the side. ‘You want to be careful where that sentence takes you.’ She nodded over at Bruce in the window. ‘You’ve got witnesses here.’

  ‘I do not mean your skin colour or where your parents from, Sergeant.’ Quaresma lowered his head, shrouding his eyes under that heavy brow of his. ‘I mean how you people think. You British think you can walk in here and do what you want, like you own our country.’ He thumped his chest like a footballer in the World Cup final.

  ‘You know what happened in that bar, right?’ Chantal let Hunter go and sat in her seat, arms folded. ‘Sean Tulloch had spiked that girl’s drinks. He was going to rape her.’

  ‘The girls are in hospital now. We have doctors here, too, you know? And my government pay for medicine. Is nice, no?’

  ‘If it were true, it would be very nice, but I think you’ll find that our government covers those expenses.’ Chantal scowled at him. ‘Either way, though, it would be better if you had someone in custody for that crime.’

  Quaresma held her gaze, rubbing his fingers together, then glanced over at Bruce. ‘We must let Richard Smith go.’

  Hunter frowned at him. ‘Who?’

  ‘You fight with him on street. No memory? At your hotel?’

  ‘Rick . . .’ Hunter raised his hands in the air. ‘Why are you letting him go?’

  ‘Because you assaulted him, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘He attacked me when I was—’

  ‘Mr Hunter!’

  ‘—to arrest a suspect in multiple—’

  ‘Mr Hunter!’

  ‘—which you don’t seem to be bothered to do anything—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Quaresma’s voice echoed around the small room. He pulled out a sheet of paper and jotted a note on it. ‘Why I must remind you again that you are in Portugal, not Britain? If I prosecute Mr Saunders, I prosecute you. You are happy with that, yes?’

  Chantal got between them, waving her hands to try and calm the situation. ‘Look, Craig and I prevented Tulloch from raping that girl.’

  Quaresma gave them a round of mock applause. ‘Very good. You like a medal now?’

  What was he playing at?

  Chantal’s nostrils flared. ‘You are going to arrest him, right?’

  ‘Sergeant, you must learn to mind own business. Especially in other country.’

  ‘He tried to rape one of those girls.’

  ‘I see it every night. What can I do?’

  ‘You can start by arresting him.’

  ‘This is my country!’ Quaresma thumped his desk, eyes drilling into Chantal. ‘I am in charge. Not you. Not him. I. We have other way for police here.’

  ‘Look, this is your chance to bring Tulloch in.’

  ‘We agree to meet tomorrow morning.’ Quaresma dropped his pen on the desk, the metal thunking off hard plastic. ‘If you cannot remember this agreement, perhaps I must keep you here tonight? Nice cell for two, ah?’

  Bruce cleared his throat and waited for Quaresma to look at him. ‘João, let them go.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We’ve got to get on with investigating that sighting of Harry.’ Bruce gave a slow sigh. ‘You agree with that, right?’

  Quaresma sat back in his chair and snorted. ‘Okay.’ He jabbed a fi
nger at Chantal, then Hunter. ‘We will be busy for rest of night. I meet you at two o’clock tomorrow. Here, okay?’

  Second-class citizens . . .

  ‘Okay, fine.’ Chantal scraped her chair across the tiles and got up. ‘Can we at least get a lift back to our hotel?’

  Quaresma shook his head, chuckling. ‘Is only a few kilometres walk.’

  Hunter glowered at him. ‘This is taking the piss a bit.’

  ‘Listen, my friend, you assault same man two times this evening. Richard. Ricky. Whatever he called, we order him to leave Portugal tomorrow. How you say? Eysapp? And I will do to you, too, if one more time you forget our agreement. Is last warning, so be happy you can go with no, how you say?’ He put his wrists together in what seemed to be his favourite gesture. ‘Hand locks?’

  * * *

  Chantal stomped along a narrow pavement at the side of the dual carriageway. ‘Are you sure it’s this way?’

  ‘Think so.’ Hunter checked his phone again. ‘Still looks like the right way. Should end up at the Strip. Might be able to get a cab from there.’

  ‘The Strip?’ Chantal stopped and stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Jesus, Craig.’

  ‘All roads seem to lead there.’ Hunter pocketed his mobile. ‘I could call Finlay . . .’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ She leaned against the wall of a house. ‘I’m tired just thinking about this case, and now our supposed liaison is making us walk back to our house arrest. Every effort we’ve made her feels utterly futile and then you fight this abuser and . . . ’

  Hunter was still checking up and down the road. Like that’d do anything. He looked over at her. ‘You want to talk about this?’

  She let her shoulders slump. ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  A taxi whizzed towards them. Hunter held out a hand and got a shrug in response.

  Chantal sat on the kerb, her feet pressing down on the asphalt. ‘I lost you. I’d no idea what happened to you.’

  ‘I got seven shades of shite kicked out of me.’

  ‘You could’ve died, Craig.’

  ‘Takes a lot more—’

  ‘Shut up.’ She shook her head at him. ‘You can’t fight people all the time, you know? Especially three of them.’

  ‘It was only Tulloch. Ricky must’ve seen me and—’

  ‘Craig, Tulloch’s bigger than you. Is there anyone you wouldn’t fight?’

  Hunter looked her straight in the eye. ‘You.’

  Another taxi flew past. Don’t know what to say to that.

  Hunter averted his face. ‘I don’t get what Quaresma’s playing at here.’

  ‘Craig.’

  ‘Look, sorry. But we did save those girls from getting raped.’

  ‘As harsh as this sounds, I don’t give a shit about those girls if you’re lying dead somewhere.’

  He grinned. ‘So you do love me?’

  She looked away. ‘Piss off . . .’

  ‘Sorry. I . . . Look, I’ll try and keep the head, okay?’

  ‘No, you will keep the head.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘If you want me to commit to you, it cuts both ways. I almost had a breakdown in that office, worrying what might have happened to you.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked lost. Another glance at a passing car, then he looked back at her. ‘So, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Wait for Quaresma.’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t get him.’

  ‘He’s in a bad situation. No resources, trying to maintain law and order in Europe’s Wild West. Then the world’s press descends on the very place that generates most of their tourism revenue and makes them look like another British kid’s gone lost under their noses.’

  ‘Fair enough. Quaresma’s up against it. Maybe our agenda isn’t quite meshing with his.’

  Chantal leaned forward. ‘But where does that leave us? Do we just go back to Scotland with our tails between our legs?’

  Hunter stared at her, then turned away. ‘I’m trying to be positive.’

  ‘I understand. It’s . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Craig, we’re . . . nowhere.’

  ‘Well, that’s great, because I’ve had the living shit kicked out of me and I’m glad my efforts have been so successful.’

  ‘Stop being such a drama queen.’

  ‘Look, I’m black and blue all over.’ Hunter stood over her. ‘I narrowly avoided getting twonked with a steel pipe.’

  She looked up at him again. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Hunter held out a hand and winched her up. She let him. ‘Look, Quaresma’s not going to help us, is he?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘We only have one option, then. We need to track down Tulloch and bring him in when Quaresma’s ready. I’ll try to keep the martial arts to a minimum.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be a start.’ She almost laughed. Almost. ‘But, we’re back to square one. We’ve no idea where Tulloch is.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘He’s staying at our hotel complex, right?’

  A taxi swung round the bend, and this one had its yellow light on.

  Hunter stepped out and flagged it down. ‘Someone’s got to have seen him.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Hunter

  There was a light on in Ricky and Kerry’s apartment. Hunter could see it from the lawn outside. No sound of any shouting or screaming, though. Not for now.

  If that pipe had connected . . .

  Can’t believe Quaresma let the bastard go.

  Chantal was over by a set of French doors. She whisper-shouted at him. ‘I can hear something.’

  Hunter listened closely. Deadly quiet, except for a TV booming out from the far side of the quad. Traffic droned past. Could almost hear the bass-drum din of the Strip from here. But there was something weird. A sort of moaning sound.

  He frowned over at her, not that she could see him in the darkness. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s over there.’ Chantal pointed into the pitch black, right in the middle of the hotel grounds, where the lights failed to cover. ‘Come on.’

  Hunter flashed on his phone’s torch. What the hell was it? A victim of Tulloch’s, moaning as she regained consciousness? Hotel security after Tulloch had assaulted them?

  He shone it over a patch of ground. Something moved on it, something fast. He stepped closer. Something jumped towards him. He ran away from it. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Chantal squinted into the light, then let out a groan of her own. ‘Frogs.’

  ‘Frogs?’

  ‘Yes, Craig. Frogs.’ She held her torch low. Looked like a spring, water pouring out of the top. Dark green foliage surrounded a tree. Tiny little frogs jumped up and down in a pool, making a hell of a racket this close up. ‘Well, that’s a result, I suppose. We’ve solved the mystery of the moaner in the night.’

  Hunter switched off his torch. ‘What are we going to do, then?’

  Chantal shrugged. ‘Start again tomorrow.’ She looked over at the bar area. ‘Night cap?’

  ‘Night cap.’

  * * *

  Hunter stared into the fizzing lager, half of it sitting there like a silent indictment of his inability to finish anything in his life. Even beer.

  ‘You okay?’ Chantal’s fingers were cupped around her glass, just a splodge of red at the bottom.

  Hunter took a swig of lager. Still tasted like shite. Horrible stuff. ‘I saw that Ricky twat. Well, a light on in their room.’

  She took his hands, her fingers warm and soft. ‘You stopped him murdering his wife.’

  ‘I merely delayed it.’ He broke free of her grip. ‘It’s his fault that Tulloch got away. He went after me with a pipe. If he’d cracked me over the head . . .’

  ‘Shite.’ Chantal shut her eyes and sighed. ‘Craig, you need to stop getting into those situations.’

  ‘You told me to go after Tulloch.’

  ‘Did I?’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Look, you almost got him.’

 
‘Almost got done in by him, you mean.’ Hunter finished the beer in one long gulp. ‘I met my match. Tulloch does Krav Maga, too. I thought he’d be another thick-skulled wife beater. But he’s got the skills to harness all that . . . evil. We need to watch what we’re doing with him.’

  ‘What, so we let Quaresma deal with him?’

  ‘We’ve seen what happens if we don’t.’ Hunter grabbed their glasses and got to his feet. ‘Right, one last drink before bed?’

  She gave a tiny nod.

  Hunter walked over to the bar. The place was quiet, just a crowd of older people winding down. He smiled at the barman. ‘Pint of Sagres and another glass of whatever the red is.’

  ‘Rioja, my friend.’ The barman unscrewed a bottle and poured some wine into a waiting glass.

  ‘Actually, get me one as well.’

  ‘Hold the lager?’

  Hunter nodded and leaned in close. ‘Has our friend been back?’

  The barman tipped the last of the wine in and reached behind him for a fresh bottle. He twisted the cap off and topped up Chantal’s glass. ‘Not tonight.’ He started pouring into Hunter’s. ‘A couple of his friends were in earlier. Chaos.’

  ‘What sort of chaos?’

  ‘Same as before. Dancing on the tables. Taking their shirts off. The security man talked to them and that was the end of the matter.’

  ‘Did you see where they went?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ He pushed the glasses over the bartop. ‘Seven euro.’

  Hunter gave him a ten. ‘Keep an eye out for them, okay?’

  The barman answered with a nod.

  Hunter collected the glasses and headed back to the table. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She sniffed at her drink, frowning. ‘Look, I was thinking . . . about us being in the closet. How much does it mean to you?’

  ‘Why the sudden interest?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know. Back a few years ago, when Scott Cullen caught that serial killer. Well, he wasn’t really a serial killer, but the press said he was.’ She nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘Anyway, Scott and Sharon got together then. He ended up in hospital or something, but my point is that they started seeing each other. Two weeks later, they told their boss. Brian bloody Bain. Cullen got shifted to this total prick DS, I got shifted to Sharon.’