Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Matty pressed his hand into her throat, felt like he was crushing her windpipe.

  The cigar lay discarded on the leather, smouldering away.

  She reached a finger over as something hard pressed into her thigh. Matty’s micropenis. Cigar breath lashed her face.

  ‘My little Chucka!’

  She touched the cigar, felt the heat in her fingers. She grabbed hold of it, then swung it over and jammed it into Matty’s eye, letting it sizzle even as the noise was drowned out by his screams.

  Flailing blindly he reached for his impaled eye.

  She let go of the cigar, got both hands flat on his chest and pushed him off her as she arched her back. Then pulled up her left knee and drove it hard into his naked balls.

  Matty rolled off her, one hand covering his burnt eye, the other cupping his crushed scrotum. His trousers were by this knees, his pathetic half-erect half-cock an acorn lost in a moss of pubic hair.

  Nothing to worry about. Something to laugh about. Something to kick.

  She lashed out and smashed the top of her foot into his balls, like she was converting a try.

  Matty squealed.

  Again. Trying with all her might to make the ball sail over the upright.

  Matty dropped to his knees, clutching his balls with both hands.

  Chantal grabbed his hair and kicked his balls again. Two points on top of the try. ‘Fuck you!’

  Matty rolled back on the floorboards, trying to curl into a ball. His pathetic little cock shrivelled away, lost inside his body.

  ‘Fuck you, Ditinder!’

  His shorts were turning red.

  ‘Fuck you, Ditinder! Fuck you, Di—’

  ‘Stop!’ An arm wrapped around Chantal’s shoulders and pulled her back. ‘Enough!’ Sharon.

  Chantal stopped, her chest heaving.

  Bitter cigar smell filled the air.

  ‘Fuck you, Ditinder . . .’ Chantal collapsed against the sofa, sucking in deep breaths, trying to ignore the cigar smoke. ‘Fuck you, Ditinder . . .’

  Matty lay on the floor, coiled up and screaming. Blood leaked between his fingers, desperately trying to hold together his smashed scrotum.

  Two uniformed officers burst in the back door, the first one instantly spotting Matty and squatting next to him to inspect his wounds.

  ‘Cuff him.’ Sharon’s fingers probed a cut on her temple. She waited until the handcuffs clicked before sitting beside Chantal and resting a hand on her knee. ‘Who’s Ditinder?’

  He put a hand on her thigh, warm against her frozen flesh. ‘You’re my favourite niece, Chucka.’

  Chantal rubbed her damp hair out of her face. ‘He’s nobody.’

  * * *

  Chantal lifted her head and let the paramedic get a look. ‘I told you I’m fine.’ Carefully she touched a hand to her throat.

  The paramedic pushed it away. ‘If you don’t stop, I’m going to sedate you.’

  Chantal clasped her hands and let the paramedic work. ‘I’m fine . . .’

  Fingers prodded at her throat. ‘Just a bit of bruising.’

  ‘Like I told you.’ Chantal stood up and pulled her coat on. ‘Can I go now?’

  The paramedic was already looking at the next patient. Sharon.

  Chantal hopped out of the ambulance, the street bright and alive with squad cars and a pair of ambulances.

  DI Bruce stood between two unmarked cars, smoking.

  Chantal walked over and smiled at him. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Bruce sucked on his cigarette. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Same.’ She rubbed her throat. ‘Just bruising.’

  ‘He tried to rape you.’

  ‘Did he?’ Chantal stuffed her hands deep in her coat pockets. ‘Half an inch at the most. Doesn’t really count, does it?’

  ‘You think you’re cool, but what he tried to do to you is not.’ Bruce exhaled slowly, sweet cigarette smoke seeping out the side of his mouth. ‘It’s serious.’

  ‘I know, Jon, it’s . . . This is how I cope.’

  ‘This being what exactly?’

  She shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

  He took another drag, eyeing her with suspicion. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You froze while that prick started battering us.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chantal rubbed the back of her head. Felt like the wound from where she hit Finlay’s windscreen had reopened. ‘I . . .’

  Had a flashback. To my uncle raping me.

  Sharon stepped down from the ambulance and grabbed a hold of Chantal’s shoulder. ‘I don’t feel so good.’

  Chantal gave her a hug. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Bruce tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it. ‘You going to be okay getting back to Edinburgh?’ He reached into his jacket pocket for a packet of B&H. ‘You’re welcome to stay at mine.’

  ‘We’ve got to find Tulloch first.’ Sharon stared at him for a few seconds, then waved over at the house. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  A squad of cops thundered through the broken down front door of Matty’s house and up the stairs.

  ‘We’ve got a warrant.’ Bruce sparked his lighter at the fresh cigarette. ‘Might as well use it.’

  A uniform jogged out of the front door and waved at them. ‘Sir, you want to see this!’

  * * *

  Chantal followed the uniform up the stairs, their steps heavy on the tired carpet.

  At the top, two uniforms stood in a hallway, arms folded. The first officer banged his fist off a door. ‘Open up!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bruce looked around, his bushy eyebrows jerking up and down, the bewilderment almost comical in the tense atmosphere. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can’t get in that room, sir.’

  Bruce nudged him out of the way and kicked the door. The panel splintered.

  An eye looked out of the crack, switching between them.

  ‘What the hell?’ Bruce knelt low and grabbed at the wood. ‘Open the door!’

  ‘No!’

  With another well-aimed kick, Bruce hacked a big chunk off and reached his arm inside. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Go away! Matty will be back!’

  ‘Matty isn’t here.’

  The door clicked and Bruce yanked it open.

  Chantal barged past him into the room. She had to vault over a bed propped sideways against the door.

  A woman stood by the bed, almost skeletally thin. Deep bags under her eyes, fading bruises on her forearms. Dark hair, olive skin. Tiny, barely five foot. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Bruce stopped dead next to her. ‘Petra?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Have you found my boy?’

  Bruce just stood there, frozen. No reaction. Nothing. Then he shook himself, grabbed the woman’s hand and ushered her out of the door towards of one of the uniformed officers. ‘Take her down to the nick.’ Could barely contain his anger.

  Petra lashed out at him, clawing her nails into his hand. ‘Get out!’

  Bruce picked her up like the heaviest thing about her was her feline fury. With disgust curling his lips, he thrust her towards the uniform. ‘Get her out of my sight!’

  Chantal hauled him back. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s Petra Jack.’ Bruce snorted at her. ‘Harry’s mother.’

  ‘What?’ Chantal turned and watched as Petra was carried away. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He pointed across the room. ‘Look!’

  Chantal stepped to the wall and flicked on the light. A long, narrow space, the shape and feel of a coffin. A blacked-out window that must have faced the back yard.

  A small boy lay on a bed at the far side, his face twisted as he blinked against the light. ‘Mummy?’

  Harry Jack.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Hunter

  Tulloch’s fingers tightened on Hunter’s throat
, pushed him to the ground until he was flat on his back, the weight of the big man bearing down on his neck.

  Can’t breathe . . .

  Hunter punched his fists into the man’s outstretched arms, right in the elbow joints, collapsing his balance and bringing his head rushing down towards his own. He dived to the side, clasped both hands behind the back of his attacker’s neck and pulled, smacking his forehead into the ground over his own shoulder. Crunch. He took a deep breath, wrapping his arms tight around Tulloch’s torso, squashing the guy’s loose hands between their chests. He rolled sideways with him, then straddled the big man’s stomach as he came out on top and dropped his elbow down on the bastard’s windpipe.

  Tulloch seized up, groaning, grabbing feebly at his neck.

  Hunter sucked in breath, deep gulps like he was downing pints of water in Iraq.

  Cullen was out cold, lying on his side, mouth hanging open like a panting dog.

  Tulloch stirred, his head twitching.

  Hunter pushed himself off the prone body, got to his feet, swung out with his boot and caught Tulloch square in the bollocks.

  Tulloch pulled into a ball and screamed.

  Hunter rubbed his throat, trying to get some feeling back. ‘Sco—’ He coughed, blood welling up in his throat. ‘Scott, are you—’

  Tulloch’s boot swept out and caught the back of Hunter’s left knee. The leg caved in and he toppled to the floor. A boot hit him in the side. Then another one.

  Pause.

  And another.

  Tulloch lashed out and Hunter rolled away, making Tulloch swing at air. He stumbled and righted himself against the wall.

  Another kick in the side.

  Then it stopped.

  The muffled screaming started up again.

  Hunter opened his eyes.

  Tulloch stood over Paisley, fists clamped around her throat. Her skin was turning blue.

  Hunter hauled himself to his feet and charged over in a low rugby tackle.

  Tulloch let go of Paisley, sidestepped the attack and hammered his knee into Hunter’s temple. He toppled over, landing on Cullen.

  Again Tulloch booted him in the side. ‘Fucking stay down till I’ve finished, eh?’

  Hunter rolled over on his side. Pain speared through his ribs. He blinked hard, tried to open his eyes.

  Tulloch was strangling her, his face twisted with effort, her hands clawing at his, not making any difference.

  Smoke.

  Smoke smells came from behind Hunter. The iron sizzled against the carpet, face down, dark clouds pluming up. He scrambled towards it, grabbed the handle, then pushed himself up to standing.

  Tulloch’s eyes squeezed shut as he strangled the life out of Paisley. She was half in the air, back arched in thrusting spasms, legs kicking against the ground, eyes bulging.

  Hunter swung the iron into Tulloch’s bare arm and leaned against him with his entire weight. Hair singed, skin burned. Bacon stink filled the room.

  Fight it!

  Come on, fight through it!

  The man’s scream tore through his dizziness. Paisley dropped back down on the seat and tumbled off the side.

  Tulloch yanked his arm back and stared at the angry red burn.

  Hunter snatched the cord and swung the iron around like a mace. He let go and it thudded into Tulloch’s temple, digging deep into his skull. He staggered backward, fighting against his failing footing, until he hit the wall and slid to the ground.

  Hunter grabbed him under the chin and pinned him down. He seized a fistful of Tulloch’s hair and smacked his head against the floor, smearing the carpet with fresh blood. Another go and something cracked.

  Arms grabbed Hunter from behind. ‘Woah, woah, he’s had enough.’

  Cullen, pulling him back from the abyss.

  Hunter let go and Tulloch flopped into a puddle of his own blood.

  * * *

  Hunter slumped forward in the passenger seat of Cullen’s Golf.

  The interior swam around in front of his eyes, the rear-view looking like it was attached to the gearstick. His head was heavy, nausea weighing him down, felt like flu symptoms on top of a concussion. Ribs stabbing his lungs with every breath. Kneecap screaming with pain when his knee accidentally touched the dashboard. A gasp, another stab in the lungs.

  What I wouldn’t give for the healing powers of Hollywood heroes. Punching the living daylights out of each other, then bang, into the next scene with a magically healed body.

  The truth was a lot less fun, as my martial arts sensei once put it. When two lions fight, they both get hurt. And they stay hurt for a long time.

  Blue lights from the ambulance and other police cars bounced off the buildings. Most windows had rubbernecking faces pressed up to the glass.

  The side door of Paisley’s house opened and the paramedics pulled a gurney out between them. The face of the figure on the bed was swaddled in bandages, difficult to make out if they were male or female, dead or alive.

  Hunter tried to get out of the car, but managed no more than a wobble. He blinked hard as his searing lungs knocked the air out of him and made him jack-knife in the car seat.

  Cullen walked back from the house and leaned into the window, mobile to his ear. ‘Might want to rest for a bit, He-Man.’ He stabbed a finger on his phone and pocketed it. ‘Sharon’s got Matty, by the sounds of things.’ He clapped Hunter’s shoulder in the only part that didn’t ache. ‘And Paisley’s heading back to hospital.’

  ‘How is she?’ Just talking felt like it could his knock teeth out.

  ‘She’ll live.’ Cullen let out a sigh. As deep as he used to do, back in the day. ‘Tulloch went to town on her, though.’

  Hunter eased himself into the back rest. Felt like a rib was poking through his heart.

  Cullen gave him a pally wink. ‘You’ll be back to your grumpy old self in no time, mate.’ He got out his car keys, then seemed to have second thoughts. ‘Craig, when you were hitting Tulloch, were you . . . Are you all right?’

  ‘I just wanted him to stop. He deserved it.’

  ‘Not saying he didn’t.’ Cullen shook his head. ‘I’ve just never seen anything like that. You brutalised him.’

  ‘You can thank me, you know?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He was going to press the iron on your face. I know you’re a cowboy, but having half your face covered in scar tissue wouldn’t even suit you.’

  ‘Shite.’ Cullen swallowed. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Hunter brushed away some dried blood from his forehead. ‘I got lucky when I twonked him with that iron.’

  Cullen glanced away. After another deep sigh, he walked around to the driver’s side and got in the car. ‘Well, the paramedics are in there. They reckon they can patch Tulloch up enough to get the okay from the duty doctor at Leith Walk.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘As long as he can speak . . . Either way, his lawyer’s on the way there.’

  * * *

  Cullen’s car was the last in a long motorcade through the streets of sleeping Edinburgh, the flashing blue lights of the ambulance and its pair of squad cars cutting a neon swathe through the silent darkness ahead of them.

  Funny how they can rustle them up after the fact . . .

  They hit Portobello Road, filled with taxis and Ubers ferrying tanked-up clubbers into town and wasted boozers back home.

  Hunter looked at his trembling hands. Going to have to lay off the kettlebells for at least a week. Could still feel the iron’s cord between his fingers, slipping away as he sconed it off Tulloch’s head.

  They ploughed along London Road and Hunter’s phone lit up. A text from Chantal:

  HEARD WHAT HAPPENED. WELL DONE. X

  He stabbed out a reply:

  FEEL PRETTY BROKEN. HOW YOU?

  A young couple staggered underneath a speed camera, both as pissed as each other. His phone flashed up again:

  EVEN BROKER. I’LL KISS U BETTER LATER. X

  WHAT H
APPENED? X

  He stared at the string of messages, going back months. Xs on most lines. Work stuff in among their chat. Christ, some of it was rancid. And God knows what McNeill would think if she saw any of it.

  Cullen was more interested in Hunter’s phone than the road. ‘What’s that?’

  Hunter pocketed the mobile. ‘Just checking in with the boss.’

  ‘Boss, my arse.’ Cullen set off across the London Road traffic lights, guided through by uniformed officers, then turned right onto Leith Walk. ‘You’re seeing her, aren’t you?’

  ‘No comment, Sergeant.’

  Cullen grinned at him. ‘Wanker.’

  Hunter couldn’t help but share the grin. ‘Please stop including me in your sexual fantasies, Sergeant. I’ll have to talk to DI McNeill about it.’

  Cullen barked out a laugh as he followed the ambulance down into the bowels of the police station. ‘Sharon knows you’re not my type. But Chantal worked for me, remember?’ He pulled up in one of the free spaces, next to a purple Jag. ‘Moving her on was for the best.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’ Hunter tried to get out, but his knees were locked. Bruises and lactic acid burned up the back of his thighs.

  Cullen got out of the car and helped Hunter out his side. ‘You old bastard.’

  ‘Might need to apply for early retirement while I’m talking to Sharon about your sexual harassment. In all seriousness, though, are we getting to interrogate Tulloch tonight?’

  A car door thunked open behind them, echoing round the car park.

  Cullen shrugged. ‘Depends on which scum-sucking lawyer Tulloch’s got.’

  ‘The scum-sucking lawyer representing Mr Tulloch is here.’ Dead eyes stared at them through rimless specs. Brylcreemed white hair swept back to hide a good chunk of baldness. The sort of Morningside accent you only heard in jokes. Hamish Williams of McLintock, Williams & Partners.

  ‘My deepest condolences, by the way.’ Cullen did up his suit jacket and helped Hunter to his feet. ‘Bit odd for a big-shot like you to represent a raping scumbag like Tulloch.’ Then he frowned. ‘Oh, hang on, it’s what you do every day.’