by Ed James
Chantal exhaled like it was the first time she’d seen it. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘We see it a lot.’ Elena shook the bottle and popped it into an evidence bag. ‘Your men come here and make women have sex with them.’
‘I work in a sexual offences unit back home. They’re hardly my men. More like my problem.’
A smile flashed across Elena’s face. ‘That is good.’
‘When we can put someone away, aye.’ Chantal waved around the room. ‘The man who stays here, he’s wanted for—’
‘Hoy!’ The voice came from behind Chantal. A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back.
She stumbled over and landed on her side. Crunched her hip against the mosaic.
Gordon Brownlee stood over her. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my room?’
Chantal pushed herself up to a crab position, ready to kick out. ‘We’re searching your room.’
‘Oh, you are, are you? Have you got a warrant?’
Elena appeared in the doorway, unfolding a sheet of paper. ‘This.’
‘Fuck.’ Brownlee’s eyes darted around. Prick was going to make a run for it.
Chantal kicked out with her left leg and jabbed her heel into his shin.
Brownlee caved in and cracked his head off the wall. On the rebound, he landed on Chantal, squeezed all the air out of her lungs. Somehow one of his flailing arms landed a punch in her side. Then her stomach.
‘Enough!’ Elena lashed out with her baton and clattered it off Brownlee’s skull. He rolled off, knocked out.
Chantal pushed him off and scrambled to her feet with Elena’s help, winded and sore, again. ‘Thanks for the save.’
‘Is not a problem.’ She prodded Brownlee’s body with her baton, then looked back up at Chantal. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Maybe.’ Her gut felt like it was on fire. ‘I’ll heal in time.’
Elena held up the bag. ‘Drug is maybe his?’
Chantal looked at the bottle. ‘It was in Sean Tulloch’s jeans, wasn’t it?’
‘How did you know?’
Damn it. Quick, think of an excuse. ‘Because he’s used the stuff to rape someone before.’ Lame. Got a better idea . . . Chantal took Elena’s cuffs and wrapped them round Brownlee’s wrist. ‘He’s our witness.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Hunter
Hunter stepped into the room. ‘Stop!’
Tulloch swung round and clocked him, clocked the local cops too. ‘Shite!’ He pulled out of the girl and jumped off the bed. The condom barely went halfway up his penis.
Quaresma lunged and wrapped the naked man in a bear hug. ‘Mr Tulloch, you come with us.’
The girl hauled the duvet over her, curling into a tight ball. Luisa Oliveira, the barmaid they spoke to the previous afternoon.
Tulloch looked stunned, hardly struggled against Quaresma as the cop pulled his arm round his back. ‘You. Come. With. Me.’
Resigned, Tulloch rolled forward across the bed and let Quaresma cuff him, while the girl darted into the bathroom, the duvet fluttering behind her like a white flag of surrender.
Hunter stood over the bed. Want to rip Tulloch’s dirty cock off. Or at least smother him with the pillow. Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Sean Tulloch, once you’re back at the police station, I’m going to place you under arrest.’
Tulloch’s face was pressed against the mattress. He still managed to shoot a glare at Hunter. ‘You’re a fucking cop?’
‘You’re coming back to Scotland with me.’
‘What for?’ Quaresma flipped Tulloch over and helped him to his feet, his half-swollen manhood flapping around uselessly. ‘You want a few of my ten-inches, eh?’
‘You’re not my type.’
‘I’ve seen your type. Dirty little Paki bitch, eh?’
Hunter took one look around the room. If I kicked Tulloch in the balls, nobody would notice. Make him scream like a pig. Lash out again and again, keep kicking until he’s a eunuch. Spare God knows how many of his future victims . . .
Quaresma yanked Tulloch to his feet. ‘Enough!’
* * *
The car park was a lot quieter than the last time they’d had the doubtful pleasure of viewing the police premises. Hunter couldn’t spot a single reporter. Whether they’d gone home after none of the sightings could be confirmed or were just off drinking somewhere, he had no idea, but at least their presence wasn’t blighting the white building, radiant in the summer sunshine.
Chantal was standing by a squad car, scowling as a female officer helped Gordon Brownlee out of the back.
What the hell was he doing here?
Hunter opened the passenger door, but Quaresma grabbed his wrist before he could get out. ‘You must stay, Constable. Time to start listen to me.’
Hunter brushed him away. ‘Time for you to start letting us do our jobs.’
‘Your job is work with me.’ Quaresma waved at the squad car next to them. Two local cops helped Tulloch out of the back. Their black uniforms and hats absorbed the sunlight like a guilty conscience. Meanwhile, Tulloch’s shorts and T-shirt seemed to glow.
Quaresma sighed. ‘I see in your eyes what you want to do to him.’
‘Someone should’ve done that a long time ago.’ Hunter got out into the baking heat. Much worse this side of town, this far from the beach.
Another squad car pulled up. Looked like it had Tulloch’s latest victim in the back, though her dishevelled hair shrouded most of her face. Luisa, was that her name?
Chantal marched over and grabbed him in a hug. ‘You okay?’
Hunter held her tight. ‘Almost.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ Hunter pulled back and leaned against Quaresma’s car. Terrific. Like taking a baking tray out of the oven with your bare hands. ‘What’s the plan?’
Quaresma rested his hands on the car’s roof. Given his unflappable behaviour so far, it was hardly surprising the guy had asbestos fingers. He nodded at the squad car that had just pulled up. ‘I will interview Luisa. This supposed victim of Mr Tulloch.’
‘Supposed?’ Hunter scowled at him. ‘You saw him raping her.’
‘I saw sexual intercourse, Mr Hunter. You say it was rape. Let us hear what she say.’
‘It was rape.’ Hunter rubbed his cheek. Feels like it’s on fire. ‘May I interview Tulloch?’
Quaresma shrugged. ‘If you want. Go ahead.’
‘You don’t want to join me?’
‘We will record.’ Quaresma clapped Chantal’s shoulder. ‘Your Sergeant and I, we will have word with Luisa, yes? Let us see if we can solve mystery like your famous, what is his name? Sherlock Holmes.’
Hunter suppressed a smile. ‘Sure, you do that. I just want to take Tulloch back to Scotland. Now. The next flight out of Faro. I’ll even settle for Newcastle or Prestwick.’
Quaresma nodded slowly as he jabbed a finger at Hunter’s sternum. ‘When we get European Arrest Warrant. So long, Mr Tulloch stay here.’ He gave Chantal a wink. ‘Come on, Sergeant, please show my men how the masters from Scotland do it, yes?’ He marched off across the dusty mosaic.
Hunter glared after him. ‘Tell me there’s no point in arguing with that man.’
‘There’s none, Craig. Play the part he’s given you and see how the pieces fall. There’s still a chance we’ll checkmate this bastard.’
‘Chess? The heat and booze really have got to you, haven’t they?’ He frowned at Chantal. ‘Speaking of bastards, why’s Brownlee here?’
‘He assaulted me for starters.’ She switched her glare to Quaresma. ‘And he’s a witness to Tulloch raping Kirsten Latimer yesterday morning.’ She flapped a hand over at the building as Quaresma entered. ‘If this case falls apart like everything else has done since we landed here, we can at least fall back on that.’
‘Where is Kirsten anyway?’
‘I wasn’t allowed to accompany her in.’ Chantal huffed out a sigh. ‘Usual shit. No authority. The good news is I man
aged to track down Jon Bruce and he’s with her as we speak.’
* * *
The standard of police work in the Algarve wasn’t what Hunter was used to, that much had become glaringly obvious already. But the interview room was a new low. A battered table with two seats either side, the only recording equipment a CCTV camera looming overhead, its red light pulsing like a Terminator.
Another apocalyptic omen.
Elena was next to him in her full uniform, also somewhat reminiscent of the T-1000. Even weirder, though, was the fact that she didn’t look like she’d rather be anywhere else. She sat there, fully focused on the interview.
Tulloch was opposite them, leaning back in his chair to stretch out the maroon HARVARD shirt he wore. Yes, a likely candidate for entry. He gave Elena his usual twinkly-eyed attention. ‘So, do you fancy a drink? After this is over, we’ll go somewhere, I’ll get you a nice steak or something?’
She looked away.
Hunter couldn’t blame her. The very sight of that arsehole makes me feel hollow, draining my energy to the bone.
Tulloch was finally here, under lock and key. Secure. Unable to rape anyone else, and yet he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Something wasn’t right.
Hunter glanced up at the camera, no idea who was at the other end. He leaned into the recorder. ‘Can you state for the record that you do not wish to have a lawyer represent you?’
Tulloch kept his concentration on Elena, slowly and deliberately moistening his lips with a wet, long tongue. ‘Told you pal, I don’t need a lawyer. You’ve got hee-haw on me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Hunter sat back in his chair. ‘Mr Tulloch, I need you to outline your movements today, if you don’t mind?’
‘Need? I don’t need to speak to you, do I?’
Hunter rested on his elbows. ‘You know why you’re here, right?’
Tulloch smirked at him. ‘Because you fancy me?’
Keep calm. Keep calm.
Hunter leaned back and cracked his knuckles. ‘Why do you think we picked you up in that apartment?’
Another leer at Elena. ‘To see if the rumours are true? See if I really pack a bazooka in my pants?’
Hunter tore at the ligaments on his fingers, popping them in the sockets, trying to keep the tension from spreading to his face. ‘It was to stop you sexually assaulting a woman. Luisa Oliveira.’
‘Never done nothing to anyone in that flat except make sweet, sweet love to Luisa.’ Tulloch flashed Elena his wolfish grin, drilling his gaze deep into her guileless eyes. ‘Pretty sure he wants me to sit on his face, don’t you think?’
Elena jerked her chair back, scraping it across the floor. When she’d recovered her composure, she pointed at the door. ‘Mr Tulloch, you sexually assaulted Luisa Oliveira.’
Tulloch tilted his head to the side, giving her the full matinee idol look. ‘You don’t think that’s what happened, do you?’
‘You put GHB in her drink.’ Elena held up an evidence bag containing the tub of pills. ‘And then you raped her.’
Tulloch frowned at the bag. ‘That’s not mine.’
‘We found it in a pair of your jeans.’
‘You got a warrant for that, sweet cheeks?’
Elena sighed as she slid a sheet of paper over the table. ‘Here.’
‘You’ll have to bear with me, because I’m a bit thick, okay?’ Tulloch smacked his lips together. ‘See, if I spiked this lassie’s drinks, how come you’ve got the drugs, not me?’
‘Because you took some pills with you.’ Elena rested the bag down on the table and started smoothing out the plastic. ‘You’re stupid, but not so stupid you carry that bottle with you.’
‘Listen, this guy’s a lying bastard.’ Tulloch nodded slowly at her. ‘He’s trying to fit me up for God knows what reason. Tell you, though, I bet you’d be pretty hot in a bikini.’
Elena’s cheeks flushed. ‘You . . .’
Terrific. He’s getting under her skin. All I bloody need.
Hunter leaned forward, distracting Tulloch from his prey. ‘Did you use GHB on Luisa Oliveira?’
‘No.’ Tulloch slumped back in his chair, his hairy hands clasping his naked knees. ‘Never used it on anyone.’
‘We’ll give her a blood test, so I’d advise against lying.’
‘Would you, aye?’ Tulloch laughed. ‘You got a tiny one, is that what this is all about? You’re envious of my third leg.’
‘This is about your abuse of consent, Mr Tulloch.’
‘Two inches, is it?’ Tulloch chuckled. ‘Bet that little lady of yours told you that’s normal, right?’ Another peal of laughter burst out. ‘They tell all the trouser dwarves that two inches is average. I got news for you, little guy. She’ll never moan for you the way she would if I impaled her with my man sword.’
Hunter glanced away, then camouflaged his discomfort by setting out the photos of Tulloch and his mates in the bar. ‘On Friday morning, you raped one Kirsten Latimer.’
‘Here we go.’ Tulloch shuffled through the photos. ‘Take it you’ve kept the nude shots of me in that bar for your wank bank, aye?’
Hunter put another photo down on the table. ‘Her name is Kirsten Latimer.’
Tulloch shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’
‘This.’ Hunter prodded the photo. ‘She’s from Lurgan in Northern Ireland. You sexually assaulted her yesterday morning.’
‘Just another lassie who wanted to ride a proper stallion for a change, not some knobbly-dicked Shetland pony.’ Tulloch started drumming on his knees, his stare as firm as his belief in his unrivalled virility. ‘Oh, I see right through you, pal. This isn’t about me. This is about you and your childish insecurities. Was I being too generous with that two-inch estimate? Is that why you’re blushing? Have you ever made a woman come?’ He leered at Elena. ‘What’s the biggest cock you’ve ever had up you, darling? Six inches, maybe seven?’
Hunter banged the table. ‘You doped her drink and raped her.’
‘It’s not just about length.’ Tulloch held both hands out, fingertips touching, like he was forming a big tube. ‘It’s the girth too, eh? Like a fucking Coke can.’ He grinned at Hunter. ‘Your pal here’s seen the Python in full flow. He’ll testify to its majesty.’
‘As well as Kirsten Latimer, you raped Luisa Oliveira, didn’t you?’
Tulloch was still ignoring Hunter, eyes glued to Elena. ‘Tell you what, I come like a fucking race horse. Gallons of the stuff. Thick as treacle. I’m told it tastes like it, too. You’ll want to suck me dry, sweetheart.’
Hunter leaned back in the chair. Need to turn the tables somehow, anyhow. Fight fire with fire. Just . . . how?
Tulloch rested his arms on the table edge. ‘So, I’m thinking that as soon as you let me out of here, we go get a drink?’
Elena smiled at him. ‘You are staying here.’
‘Listen, gorgeous.’ Tulloch thumbed at Hunter, his eyes twinkling in the spotlights. ‘Whatever he’s telling you, it’s bullshit, okay? I’ve not raped anyone. He might think he’s all smart, but he’s just a jealous little boy, not that I blame him.’
Elena tapped her page, still trying to resist Tulloch’s magnetism but clearly developing doubts. Already her voice was quieter, her tone less adamant. ‘You raped Luisa Oliveira.’
‘This again . . .’ Tulloch shook his head at her. ‘Believe me, Luisa consented to everything we did. Kept begging me for more. Like a bitch in heat, I swear.’
Hunter waved at Elena to stop. ‘That’s not what it looked like to me.’
‘Aye?’ Tulloch shuffled his chair to the side and ran his hand up the inner seam of his shorts. A thick bulge ran halfway down the left side. ‘The lassie was drinking with us. She saw the Python through my shorts and just wanted it. Asked to stroke it through the material. You know how girls are, when they see a length of pipe, they want to touch it. Especially if it’s the size of mine.’
‘You raped her.’
‘No, mate. She asked fo
r it. Gagging for it, so she was. You know how the song goes.’ Tulloch ran his fingers down the bulge in his shorts again. ‘She wanted every inch of my love. Not both inches of yours.’
‘You raped her.’
‘I never. Now, why don’t you fuck off out of here? Leave me and Elena here to get better acquainted while you see what Luisa has to say for herself, eh?’
FIFTY-NINE
Chantal
Luisa rubbed her bare arms, gooseflesh puckering the skin all the way down to her elbows. Her ponytail was gone, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
Chantal shuddered as well. The interview room was freezing, the air conditioning on full throttle. She tried to rub some warmth into her arms. Didn’t make a difference. She got up and started walking around, passing behind Quaresma, who was sitting there with a stupid look on his face like this was all such a laugh. ‘Luisa, let’s go back to the start, okay? You were working at the bar . . .’
‘That’s right.’ Her Essex accent still jarred with her Portuguese appearance. ‘We had some people in for breakfast, but they left.’ She chewed a fingernail. ‘Then John walked in with his pals.’
‘John?’
‘John.’ Luisa frowned, then cradled her head in her hands. ‘I mean Sean.’
‘Sean Tulloch?’ Chantal leaned across Quaresma to reach into an evidence pouch on the desk. She got out a photo of Tulloch. ‘Is this the man we’re talking about?’
‘That’s him.’ Luisa snatched the photo and ran a finger across Tulloch’s face. ‘That’s him.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘He was with Matty.’
Chantal frowned at her. ‘You know Matty?’
Luisa cleared her throat and stroked the photo again. ‘He’s been in before.’ She cleared her throat. ‘On Thursday night, like I told you.’ She rested the picture on the table, like it was the Turin shroud. ‘There was someone else. Keith, maybe? But he left. Said his eyes were stinging.’
‘How did the men seem to you?’
‘Typical tourists. Drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. And not just starting, if you know what I mean.’
