by Ed James
‘Sergeant, I let Mr Tulloch go because he is not suspect of crime in my country.’
Hunter stomped up the steps towards the bar manager, shouting the odds at him.
Chantal grimaced. ‘Look, we need some support here. He’s gone back to Luisa Oliveira’s apartment.’
‘No problem. Sex was consensual.’
‘He’s going to rape her, again!’
‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma’s voice hissed down the line. ‘If you or Constable Hunter assault that man again, I arrest you.’
‘Two men, that’s all we need.’
‘Get on plane, Sergeant.’
Click.
Damn it.
Chantal pocketed her phone and shook her head at Hunter as he stomped back down the stairs. ‘No dice.’ She motioned behind him. ‘What were you doing up there?’
‘Having a go at our friend José the barman for not calling me when Tulloch showed up this morning.’
‘Great, that’s–
Chantal jumped clear of a red Fiesta as it barrelled towards her, the windows wound down.
Finlay. Finally.
Hunter crouched down next to the car. ‘Where did he go?’
Finlay waved over at the bar. ‘Down that alley.’
Chantal shot a glance down the lane. Tulloch was down there, doing God knows what to Luisa.
Sure, she said the sex was consensual, but the man had a history of bending women to his will, making them think they wanted him until he . . .
Chantal dug the heels of her hands into her eyes.
If we go in there, Quaresma will go apeshit.
But if we don’t . . .
Footsteps rattled nearby.
She opened her eyes again.
Finlay was staring at her, his eyes widening.
She turned, saw Tulloch running right at her. He stepped into a right hook and punched Chantal in the mouth before she could get a single word out. She tumbled backwards over the bonnet of Finlay’s car and cracked her head off the windscreen.
SEVENTY-ONE
Hunter
‘No!’ Hunter vaulted over the bonnet after Chantal, while she slumped to the ground on the far side.
Hunter checked her head injury, nothing serious, spun around to face Tulloch, caught him in a low dive and hauled him face-first on to the concrete. With a knee to the man’s kidney, he scrambled on to his back. ‘You don’t hit women!’
Tulloch twisted to the left and threw Hunter off, his hip crunching against the edge of the pavement. Tulloch lashed out with his feet, thudding his boots into Hunter’s fists, brought up just in time to guard his face.
Then it stopped.
Tulloch got up, took a step back and kicked Hunter in the balls. ‘That’s for earlier, you prick!’
White light burst in Hunter’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe. Just pain. Everywhere. His stomach. His arse. His balls felt like lava. He doubled over on the pavement and threw up. The smell of sour beer, warm concrete against his cheek.
Footsteps receding down the alley. Tulloch . . .
A hand rested on Hunter’s side. ‘Christ, jabroni.’
Hunter opened his eyes. ‘Where is he?’
Finlay helped Hunter up. ‘You okay?’
Hunter leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. Needles dug deep into his scrotum, felt like he’d burst both bollocks. ‘Have you got him?’
‘Sod that bastard! I’m making sure you’re okay, dude.’
Hunter cupped his balls. Couldn’t feel anything other than numb, paralysing pain. ‘Got get him!’
‘On my way!’ Finlay got back into his car and tore off down the street.
Hunter took a few tentative steps. Felt like his balls were in his stomach.
Chantal was sitting by the side of the road, staring into space, dabbing at the back of her head. Her face was puffing up already, both lips thick and blood smeared.
He stepped over to her and held out a shaking hand to help her up. ‘You okay?’
She stumbled back against the wall, blood trickling down the back of her neck, dyeing her shirt collar crimson. ‘Jesus.’
Behind them, the bar staff were all out on the veranda with a couple of punters, looking on in stunned silence.
Finlay’s car was stopped at traffic lights, Tulloch’s army boots clopping away towards the beach.
He’s getting away . . .
Hunter waved the barman over. ‘Stay with my girlfriend!’
* * *
Hunter thundered along the street, his feet skidding on the downward slope. His balls were still on fire, but Tulloch wasn’t getting away.
Not this time.
A long coach turning left blocked the junction up ahead.
He slipped between two idling cars and waited for a gap to open up in the oncoming traffic, then weaved round the back of the coach.
The street down to the beach bent round at the end, where they’d walked back from the old town that afternoon. Tourists strolled hand in hand, pausing to frown at the commotion.
Twenty yards down, Finlay’s Fiesta was pulled in by a back-street strip bar, the neon sign dull in the daylight.
A couple were peering inside.
Hunter bombed over to the car and barged them out of the way. ‘Police!’ He glanced inside. Couldn’t see Tulloch or Finlay.
Terrific.
He got out, raised himself on his toes, shaded his eyes with his hands and searched the area. No sign of them. No sign of anyone except bloody tourists.
No, wait. There.
Finlay’s straight-backed run round the bend at the bottom of the street, weaving through a group of tourists towards the beach.
‘Finlay! Wait!’ Hunter dropped his hands and started sprinting after him. ‘WAIT!’
Crack.
Hunter stumbled to the ground, his shoulder feeling like it had taken a bullet. Pain flowered in his skull. He almost hit the parked cars on the other side.
What the—?
‘Alright, mate?’ Matty Ibbetson stood over him, swinging a pair of brass knuckles round his pinkie. He took a dirty suck on a cigar, then tossed it into the gutter with another twirl of the brass.
Hunter touched his shoulder. Jesus motherfucking Christ that hurt!
Matty put the knucks back on and lashed out. Hunter ducked, blocking the blow with his left forearm, feeling the metal dig into his flesh and burst the skin in a screaming gash, red hot pain shooting up the arm deep into his ear.
Matty followed up with a boot to the side. Right where Tulloch had caught him earlier. Another boot in the ribs. ‘Keep him here!’ Then he was off, sprinting towards the beach.
Hunter opened his eyes again, tears blurring his vision, his lungs on fire. He tried to exhale the pain, tried to scramble to his knees, but a meaty paw landed on his back and forced his face into the rough asphalt.
Hunter twisted his neck, caught bright sunlight in his eyes, blinked until a silhouette came into focus.
Looked like a bear.
‘Up you get, wanker.’ Big Keith stood over him, brandishing a knife, the blade glinting in the sunlight.
‘I’m a police officer.’ Hunter pushed himself up to all fours, then slowly rose to his feet, hands raised, teeth clenched, breathing through the pain. ‘You . . . You won’t get away with this.’
‘I don’t give a fuck.’ Keith lashed the knife towards him, half-arsed, teasing him. ‘I’m going to gut you like a fucking pig!’
Hunter braced, then lunged and clapped both fists into Keith’s wrist, gripped the knife hand with his left and swung his right fist round, punching through Keith’s jaw, aiming at a target a foot behind the guy’s head.
Caught a tooth right in the open wound. Another burst of pain shot up his arm. Hunter hissed, shuffled back two steps to get his bearings, but kept hold of Keith’s knife hand and pulled him off balance on the retreat, then lunged again and landed an open-handed smack on the guy’s nose. Disoriented him enough to twist the knife out of his fingers, then headb
utted him and shoved him back against Finlay’s car. Caught him on the rebound, grabbed him by the ears and rammed his head against the bonnet. Twice, three times.
The giant tumbled over. Out cold.
Hunter stood there, panting, his hands, sides, ribs, balls pulsing with pain. His face slick with blood.
‘No!’ A shout boomed out from the beach.
Hunter whipped around and sped off towards the sound, blood seeping like rain into his eyes. He wiped it away and tried to sprint on, but his legs weren’t shifting fast enough.
The path twisted across the rocks, Hunter racing along, driven by nothing more than adrenalin and panic. No sign of anyone, as he reached the churned up sand, just the shine off a pair of brass knuckles lying in a rock pool.
Hunter slowed to a walk.
The tide was pushing out, leaving a stretch of damp beach exposed to the sun.
‘No!’ The shout battered around the walls of rock around him.
Hunter sped up, but had to skid to a halt at a wide plateau a few steps down.
Tulloch and Finlay were squaring up at the edge of the rocks, Tulloch jerking forward and backward, throwing fake punches and laughing. Toying with him.
Finlay locked eyes with Hunter. He was heavily outgunned and he knew it.
Out of nowhere, Matty roared towards them. Finlay saw it too late, twisting round as Matty barged into him. Finlay’s arms windmilled as he took the impact full on and went crashing across the rocks. He tripped and skidded. Then he disappeared off the side.
Matty stumbled and fell to his knees, panting between barked laughter. ‘That’s how you deal with pigs, mate!’
Tulloch raced across the path towards the beach, Matty following him down, Hunter not far behind them as he sprinted to the edge.
What he saw on the other side made him stop in his tracks. Finlay on his back, moaning, the sand below his head a wet shade of maroon.
SEVENTY-TWO
Chantal
Chantal leaned against the red Fiesta and carefully, very carefully touched her head. Black blood flakes flecked off her fingers as she rubbed them clean. She dialled Hunter’s number again. Still no answer.
Where the hell were they?
A few tourists gawped at her, trying but failing to hide behind their hands. Some didn’t even try, just stared down from their balconies, shielding their eyes from the sun.
‘NOOOOOO!’
The scream came from round the bend. The beach.
Chantal jogged across the path towards the sound as fast as her dizzy head would let her. No sign of Hunter. ‘Craig!’ She skittered over the paving stones until they gave way to rocks. ‘Craig!’
Two men jogged along the wet sand, chased by a small dog. A game of football was kicking off back towards the old town.
Hunter was over by the edge of the cliffs, in a daze.
‘Craig!’ She bounced forward and grabbed hold of him, pulling him into a tight hug, pulling him away from the edge. ‘Come here!’
Hunter settled into the hug. ‘He’s . . . Finlay . . .’
‘What?’ She let go and pushed back. ‘What did you say?’
‘Finlay! He killed him!’ Hunter swallowed hard. ‘He killed Finlay.’
‘What? Who did?’
‘Matty!’ Hunter looked around, confusion creasing his forehead. ‘Where’s Matty?’
Chantal grabbed his shoulders and tried to get him to lock eyes with her. Had to shake him. ‘Where’s Finlay?’
Hunter pointed down, off the rocks.
She stepped over to the edge. Finlay lay on the rocks below, coughing and huffing, his back contorted at an impossible angle.
‘He’s still alive! Go!’ Chantal put her phone to her ear and followed Hunter down the path. It rang and rang.
Then some gritty Portuguese erupted from the speaker. ‘Boa tarde.’
‘I need urgent medical attention to the Praia da Oura beach.’ Chantal dropped down the path to the sands. ‘We’re at the road leading from the street by the Hotel de Sousa to . . .’
Hunter was kneeling next to Finlay.
He coughed, spitting blood down his chin, sickly red pooling on his wet chest. He looked up at Hunter, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘Did we get him?’
* * *
The paramedic nudged Hunter back, but couldn’t sever the hand hold. ‘Sir, you must let go.’
Chantal tried to pull him back but Hunter held on even tighter. The stubborn bastard.
Finlay’s eyes were still open, swivelling around in his head until they closed.
Hunter slapped his face, made his eyes jerk wide open again. ‘We need to keep him awake.’
The paramedic took a handful of Hunter’s T-shirt. ‘Sir . . .’ A sharp tug at his sleeve. ‘Sir, let go.’
‘Keep him alive!’
‘I try, sir.’ The paramedic pushed the gurney towards the ambulance and started winching it up.
Chantal wrapped her arms around Hunter, half in affection, half in a desperate attempt to control him. ‘He’s going to be okay . . .’
‘He needs to stay alive.’
‘They’ll try, okay?’ She worked her way round to cuddle him from the front, blocking his way to the ambulance. ‘This isn’t our battle anymore.’
Hunter’s nostrils flared. ‘He’s got to stay awake.’
The ambulance’s back door slammed and the engine sparked to life.
Chantal placed her head on his chest. ‘We’ll get Matty for this.’
‘It’s not enough.’ Hunter collapsed into her embrace. ‘It’s nowhere near enough. If we’d had Ibbetson and Tulloch, Finlay would still be . . . would still . . .’ He cradled her, resting his chin on her head. He frowned, then touched the coppery smell at the back of her head. ‘Shite. He got you as well, didn’t he?’
She brushed his hand away, wincing. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He got lucky.’
The blue lights of the ambulance pulsed ahead of them as it rushed off to hospital. Hunter sighed and looked down at the fine sand, already covered in dirty footprints. ‘We should’ve stopped this.’
She grabbed his hand tight. ‘Craig, this is not your fault.’
‘How isn’t it? Lightning striking twice . . . Of course this is my bloody fault.’
She tightened her grip, trying to say with her hands what she couldn’t with words. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m the ranking officer at the crime scene. If anyone should’ve stopped what happened to Finlay, it’s me. Okay?’
Hunter huffed. ‘I brought him into this, got him doing that PI shit. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be okay. He’d be sitting in some pub . . . not lying in an ambulance with his back snapped and . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘It should’ve been me.’
She pushed back to look up at him. ‘What?’
‘It should’ve been me fighting them, not Finlay. I’m trained in this kind of stuff. Fin wasn’t.’
‘They’re both big guys, Craig.’
Hunter shrugged. ‘So am I.’
‘Craig, it was two on one and—’
Hunter’s head darted around. ‘Where’s Keith?’
‘What?’
‘Keith attacked me. He had a knife. He was out cold.’
Chantal followed his gaze. The tourists were giving statements to some local uniform. No sign of Tulloch’s crew. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it again. ‘They’ll catch Tulloch and Ibbetson and Keith. Quaresma will do them for this.’
He locked eyes with her, the intensity in his stare scaring her more than the unaccounted knife attacker. ‘We need to get Tulloch.’
‘Craig . . .’
Damn it, he’s right.
But how?
A lone figure stood in the blinding sunshine by a black Audi. Quaresma. As he caught her looking at him, he smiled, smoothing down a stray spike of grey hair.
Chantal looked back at Hunter. ‘Come on.’
Quaresma raised his eyebrows at their approa
ch. ‘Sergeant, this is not good.’
Chantal jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘You should’ve kept Sean Tulloch in custody.’
Quaresma brushed her finger off and swallowed a sigh. ‘Must we discuss again?’
‘Tulloch was heading back to Luisa’s apartment.’ Chantal pointed up the beach road. ‘What do you think he was going to do there?’
Quaresma leaned back against his car and clicked his tongue. ‘This Finlay Sinclair who follow him, this is your idea, yes?’
‘I’m not answering that.’ Chantal folded her arms. ‘I suggest you find Tulloch.’
Quaresma ran his tongue over his teeth, his eyes flicking between Chantal and Hunter. ‘Because of you and your cowboy games, I now have murder case as well as—’
‘Murder?’ Hunter’s eyes bulged.
‘Well, you see injuries of Mr Sinclair. Maybe doctor is wizard, but I think his chance is bad.’ Quaresma pursed his lips. ‘Priority now is find Mr Sinclair’s attacker.’
‘The man you’re looking for is one Matthew Ibbetson.’
Quaresma looked away. ‘My officers already search for him.’
‘And Tulloch?’
‘Constable, believe me, I make sure this Mr Ibbetson or what is his name get his punishment. If Mr Sinclair not recover, this man will die in jail.’
Chantal shook her head. ‘Glad you’re finally taking something seriously.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing.’ She shrugged, the last of her defiance seeping out of her body. ‘Just tell me you’ve got Keith, please?’
‘Keith?’ Quaresma frowned into space, then nodded slowly. He thumbed behind him. ‘We have record of Mr Keith Brannigan, he say someone assault him.’
‘Someone assaulted him?’ Hunter got between them. ‘He attacked me. With a knife!’
Chantal cleared her throat. ‘Keith attacked Craig after Sean Tulloch assaulted me. Matty Ibbetson attacked Craig then . . . then pushed Finlay off the edge. You need to prosecute him for that, at least.’
Quaresma let out a deep sigh. ‘Sergeant, you need to leave my country. Fast, before more people die.’
SEVENTY-THREE
Chantal
