Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Finlay reached back into the car and got a second bag out, this one stuffed with a chunky tortilla unadorned by anything except a drizzle of chilli oil. ‘You beauty.’ He bit into the burrito and chewed with his mouth open, his lips slapping together like he was giving the chef a round of applause.

  Hunter smiled. ‘I’ve been craving vegetables since we got here.’ He ate a forkful of salad, crunchy in a way you didn’t get in Scotland. ‘This is more fruit and veg than you eat in a month.’

  ‘Try a year.’

  You can take the boy out of Dalkeith . . .

  Finlay looked at Hunter’s food. ‘They didn’t have any banana or goat’s cheese, though. Still eat that poof food, you freak?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’

  Finlay laughed, his tortilla poised over his mouth. ‘Weirdo.’ He bit into it with a primal relish. ‘Ah, that’s the bambers.’

  ‘Remember that Met DI who was up for a bit a few years back, would only ever eat a burrito?’

  ‘God, aye.’ Finlay chomped with his mouth open. ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘Had a bit of a darkness behind his eyes, that one.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. One of those stations on a Monopoly board, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Finlay flashed up his eyebrows. ‘So, how’s the case, then?’

  ‘Like I said, mate, they’re sending us home.’

  ‘Meaning, you got the punk you were after?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘It’s never straightforward with you, is it?’ Finlay’s laugh sounded like a strangled scream for mercy from deep inside his gut. With a smelly belch he tried to regain control of his body, then hacked out a series of coughs that sounded like an old donkey’s death rattle.

  Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You okay, buddy?’

  ‘Aye, aye, just a wee cough. Anyway, why are we meeting in a police station car park?’

  ‘It’s a long story and . . .’ Hunter bit into his burrito. Felt like his tongue was on fire. ‘Christ, you barbarian, how can you eat this stuff?’ He got the bottle of water out of the bag and slurped it down. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Too hot for you, jabroni?’ Finlay wiped his chin and a dod of chicken fell back into the box. He picked it up with nimble fingers and swallowed it without chewing. ‘Saw some report on the news earlier. That kid from Geordieland was supposed to be in Vilamoura. Was that you guys?’

  ‘Not us, but I know about it. It’s gone to shite, mate. Like our case.’

  Finlay chuckled as he plucked a pepper out of his fajita and set it aside. ‘Usual story, then?’

  ‘Aye. Usual.’ Hunter took another drink of water. Wasn’t damping the heat any. ‘Thanks for blabbing to Elvis.’

  Finlay leered at him. ‘You are boning her, aren’t you?’

  Hunter put a finger to his lip. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’

  Finlay shrugged. ‘I can’t force you to talk to me, dude.’

  Hunter finished chewing a mouthful of burrito, mouth still on fire. ‘We’re an item, yes.’

  ‘And DI McNeill doesn’t know?’

  ‘She suspects, but we haven’t come clean . . . Until you mentioned it to our mutual friend Elvis.’

  Finlay’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Mate, I mused aloud to the boy, but only in the strictest confidence. You know me. But why are you keeping it a secret anyway?’

  ‘It’s not at my insistence.’

  Finlay shut his tray. ‘Do you want my advice?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you it anyway. Don’t lie. And don’t get caught in a lie.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s not at my insistence. It’s complicated.’ Hunter picked up some olives from the salad. ‘Look, about your back. I’m sor—’

  Finlay waved him away like an old lady trying to pay for tea and scones. ‘Forget it, dude. It’s old news.’

  ‘I mean it. It’s my fault you went upstairs in that house and . . .’ Hunter pointed at Finlay’s back, the olives in his hand glistening bright green in the light. ‘And he did that to you.’

  Finlay leaned forward with a sickening crunch. ‘It’s cool, dude. I’m fine.’ He waved at the sunshine, ignoring the clouds darkening the horizon. ‘I’m enjoying my life out here.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘But it did. I mean, if it hadn’t happened, I’d be stuck in a squad car with Dave or Steve, getting a shoeing off Lauren every five minutes. You want that to happen to me?’

  ‘Suppose I’ve saved Lauren a lot of hassle.’ Hunter bit into his burrito. Couldn’t taste a thing. ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’ He swallowed it down. ‘How bad is your back?’

  ‘It’s fine, jabroni.’ Finlay finished his fajita, leaving a pile of green and red peppers in his box. ‘The only downside is I’m bored shitless out here.’

  ‘What about that retirement plan of yours? Weren’t you hoping to drink yourself to death?’

  ‘Oh, the dreams of a younger man. Alas, even they get old.’ Finlay closed the box and dumped it back in the bag. ‘I mean, drinking in the sun is fine and everything, but once you get over the novelty, it’s just another place, right? You see the same bams all year round, except when they go back home for a bit. Doctors’ appointments for their hearts, trying to see the kids that don’t speak to them anymore, that kind of thing. Getting more lively now the tourists are rocking up. Not that we get many of them in Olhão, mind.’

  ‘So you’re bored?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Didn’t you get that from my texts?’

  ‘Oh, I got it.’ Hunter bit into his burrito and chewed slowly. ‘How would you like to help me out?’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Hunter

  Hunter paced along the main street, the hordes of tourists making way for him like rowing boats for a barge. The frustration coming off me must be louder than a fog horn.

  He stopped outside the pub. No sign of Chantal or Bruce. Terrific. Brucie Boner.

  Inside the bar, a group of Scots stood near a telly playing the Celtic-Rangers match. Of course, they were shouting abuse at each other, rather than focusing on the football. And not very good-natured abuse at that. Knives were mentioned. A lot.

  ‘—Paula’s bloody wedding. Can you imagine?’ Chantal’s voice. Round the corner. He followed the trail. A parasol blocked the sun from her and Bruce. The table was full of empties, a load of crisp packets rammed into a glass.

  Chantal got up and wrapped Hunter in a drunk hug. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve only been gone for an hour and a half.’ Hunter pulled her tight. So pissed she didn’t care who saw them. Didn’t even care who Bruce knew in Scotland. He leaned down to her. ‘Who’s Paula?’

  She collapsed into a chair and clutched Hunter’s hand like it was the last thing she’d ever hold. ‘Never mind.’

  Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘It’s just . . .’

  Bruce licked his lips and raised his glass. ‘The old truth serum, mate. Chantal’s been talking to me. I know what’s going on.’

  ‘That’s more than I do.’

  She whacked him on the arm. ‘Hoy.’

  ‘That’s what I was telling her, mate.’ Bruce finished his pint. ‘Another round?’

  ‘Sure.’ Hunter took her hand in his again.

  ‘Nothing for me, though. Christ.’ Once Bruce had gone inside, she coughed into her hand. ‘God, lager makes me so bloated.’

  ‘Why are you drinking it, then?’

  She lifted a shoulder. ‘That sleazy bastard has been hitting on me.’

  ‘Bruce?’ Hunter got to his feet. ‘I’m going to smash that little weasel’s face in.’

  ‘Craig, drop it, okay?’ Chantal burped into her hand. ‘I told him about you and me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think he’s scared of you.’ She tried to clear her throat, but stopped short. ‘Cat’s out of the bag with bloo
dy Elvis anyway.’ She shrugged again. ‘How’s Finlay?’

  Hunter couldn’t stop his eyebrows shooting up. ‘How do you know it was him I was meeting?’

  She tapped her nose. ‘I just do.’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter pulled his seat closer to hers. ‘Well, you know how he is.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  ‘Food and the pleasure of my company.’ Hunter started shifting the empties to the next table. ‘This wedding. Whose is it?’

  ‘Paula Zabinski.’

  ‘Oh, I know her.’ Hunter drummed his thumbs on the metal table, the tiny circles all swooshing. ‘Not well enough to get invited to her wedding, dear.’

  Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘Dear?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Worked the beat with her.’ Hunter settled back in his seat, resting his hands behind his head. A strip of sunlight on his face, warm as a hot burrito. ‘Is this a new thing?’

  ‘Craig . . .’ She waved her hands around the air, didn’t seem to be aiming anywhere in particular. ‘Can’t we just enjoy this?’

  ‘Fine.’ Hunter sat back and pulled his sunglasses off his head. ‘Here comes lover boy.’

  Another thwack on the arm. ‘Wheesht.’

  Bruce dumped the beer on the table. ‘What did I miss?’

  Chantal smirked. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘My ears were burning. Come on, what did I miss?’

  Hunter took one of the pints and had a sip. He stared at his beer, the fizz in his gut tasting worse than the cheapest Portuguese lager. ‘There’s a serial sex offender in the police station and he’ll get let out soon. And we’ve no way to take him home with us. Not even locking him in a suitcase.’

  ‘You think that’s bad?’ Bruce thumped down in a seat and cracked his knee off a chair, almost knocking the pints over. ‘Ah, shitting hell.’ He picked up his glass and licked the spillage off his thumb. ‘We were working till four this morning, after that sighting on the Strip. Then the locals had another false sighting of the kid at seven, so I had to get out of my pit on three hours sleep.’ He tore into a bag of crisps. ‘Tell you, the bell ends here don’t know how to do subtle. Guns and dogs and God knows what else. Tanks and helicopters can’t have been far off.’ He crunched a crisp, swallowing it down. ‘Spent the rest of the morning interviewing the parents to prove they really were the kid’s parents and he really wasn’t Harry Jack.’ He sipped his beer again. ‘Tell you what, though, Quaresma was pissed off at your little Wrestlemania on that street last night. Almost put our obbo at risk.’

  Hunter reached over for another pull of beer. ‘That why he’s pissing on our chips?’

  ‘Who knows? Like most things out here, it’s all a waste of time in the end.’ Bruce reached into his pockets for some more bags of crisps and tossed them on the table. ‘You’ll be glad to know I don’t feel guilty about having a pint after the shifts I’ve put in on this case.’

  Chantal swirled her lager around her glass. ‘I’m with you there.’

  Bruce tore open a crisp bag along the seam and spilled it on the table. ‘We’ve got the Express, Mail, Sun all auditing what we’re up to. The London Post and Edinburgh Argus too, God knows why. On a bloody jolly, the lot of them.’

  ‘Think you’ll find the boy?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Bruce stared deep into Hunter’s eyes. ‘I think he’s long gone.’ He took another sip and rocked forward on his chair. ‘My lads are monitoring every flight out of this country and most out of Spain. We’ve got all the shipping manifests. Nada. I recommended to my Superintendent that we head back home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The cogs are still grinding in Newcastle.’ Bruce picked up another crisp. ‘Not that the locals help.’

  ‘You think they’re bent?’

  ‘Well, I find ineptitude hard to swallow at the best of times.’ Bruce yawned. ‘Christ, I need my bed.’ Another yawn threatened to suck in the whole table. ‘Better make this the last. I’d offer you a lift, but . . .’ He held up his glass.

  ‘We can walk.’ Chantal supped her beer. ‘We need to check out soon, anyway.’

  ‘You guys know the way to your hotel?’ Bruce pointed back down the street. ‘Follow the beach round the path, then follow the yellow brick road. Not the nicest, but hey, you’ll get the sand on your feet.’ He gave them a wink. ‘Couple of secluded spots if you want to—’

  ‘Thanks.’ Chantal rolled her eyes and got to her feet. ‘I get the idea.’

  * * *

  The damp sand stuck to Hunter’s feet as he walked, the drier stuff grinding against his soles. The sun burnt his neck, the sea breeze cooling it. Chantal’s hand was soft in his.

  Life is good.

  Except for the serial abuser not facing trial. Not in custody. Free to reoffend as soon as Senhor Quaresma was done asking a few polite questions.

  ‘You’re right, Craig.’ Chantal led them inland towards a craggy rock. ‘It’d be nice to go on a proper holiday.’

  ‘Not here, but aye. We should.’ Hunter dropped his trainers on the sand and stepped into them again. He took his T-shirt off and stuffed it into his shorts’ pocket. That’s better. ‘How about after this wedding?’

  Chantal let his hand go. ‘Craig . . .’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Look, it’s difficult. You know her, right?’

  ‘Used to. Kind of lost touch.’

  ‘Well. She’s a mate.’ Chantal tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘The problem is, she’s worked for Scott Cullen for a year or something and I know that he’s definitely going.’

  Everything clicks into place.

  Hunter nodded. ‘So Sharon will be there?’

  ‘Mhm.’

  Hunter put his hand on his hips. ‘You know the right thing to do. We should come out.’

  ‘Craig, it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Come on. Either I am your boyfriend or I’m not. None of this grey area shite anymore.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him, hurt and hesitation fighting a silent battle he wished he could end for her. But before he could reach out, she looked away. ‘You accepted this when you started shagging me.’

  ‘Chantal . . . Please, don’t be like that. We need to move on.’ Hunter grabbed her shoulders, his fingers tightening around them. ‘Maybe it’s time we move in together.’

  She brushed his hands away. ‘You think you know me well enough?’

  ‘I trust you. I love you.’

  ‘It’s . . .’

  ‘Come on.’ He put his hands back. ‘What’s stopping you committing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He tried a smile, but she still wasn’t looking at him. ‘Is it because we’ve been lying to people for months now?’

  ‘Part of it.’

  ‘Well, we can say we got together out here. One thing led to another and . . .’

  She grabbed his hands, finally met his eyes. ‘Look, I know this is difficult for you, too, but . . . let me think about it, okay?’

  ‘I’m serious, Chantal. We should—’

  ‘I’ll bloody think about it!’ She stomped off towards the rocky path, sand clouding up behind her.

  Terrific.

  He walked after her, finally catching up with her by some back-street lapdancing bar in a residential area. ‘Look, this has got to stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. You’re acting like a bloody teenager. I’ve been making allowances for months. This is . . .’ Hunter threw his hands up in the air. ‘Sod it, I don’t need this drama. I don’t deserve to feel like an embarrassment . . .’

  ‘You’re not an embarrassment.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Well, you’re making me feel like one. You owe it to our relationship to stand up and say we’re in love with each other.’

  ‘Craig . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, it’s just—’

  ‘Just what? Fuck it, I’ll go back to uniform. I just want you to be bloody honest about us for once.’

&nbs
p; She kicked a stone along the road. An elderly couple crossed the street to avoid them. ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep thanking you for deigning to kiss me when no one’s watching?’

  ‘You idiot!’

  ‘You’re right, Chantal. I have been an idiot. I should never have agreed to this charade.’

  She stormed off down the road, head low, fists clenched.

  Bloody hell. He jogged off after her.

  And then the clouds burst like some cosmic comment on their petty problems, thick drops of rain hammering Hunter’s flash of resentment into oblivion faster than Chantal could run off.

  He sprinted after her, catching her by their apartment.

  Chantal had her hand to her head. I know that look. She got out her card, almost dropping her wallet in the process. ‘Look, I said I’ll think about it, that doesn’t mean on the walk home, okay?’

  ‘Fine, whatever.’

  ‘Fine.’ Didn’t look it. Chantal swiped through the door and stopped dead. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Hunter joined her in the doorway. No . . .

  The place was a mess. Clothes strewn across the floor. The bed pulled apart. The two mattresses they’d pushed together now bunched up against two of the walls.

  And no sign of the squaddies responsible.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Chantal

  ‘This isn’t happening . . .’ Chantal scanned around the carnage. Their clothes were jumbled in multi-coloured piles, the toiletries emptied into the kitchen sink, the washbags turned inside out.

  Her case was on the kitchen floor, filled with water. Just a bra floating inside.

  Hunter’s bag was next to it, soaked through. Empty.

  ‘Craig.’ Chantal tapped the lockbox under the TV. ‘What’s the code?’

  Hunter was standing in the doorway, fists clenched like the burglars were still in the room and he might yet stop them from wreaking all this havoc. ‘1776.’

  She entered it and twisted the lock. Their Passports were still inside. She let out a sigh of relief. ‘Some good news, at least.’

  Hunter snatched his out off her hand and put it in his back pocket. ‘This can’t have been Tulloch, so who was it?’