Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘This is where we lost him, right?’

  Jain looked over with a sigh. ‘Where I lost him.’

  ‘We were both there.’ Hunter pulled in behind an idling squad car. He got out into the pissing rain and took another opportunity to try washing all the mud off, while keeping a beady eye on the building site for any trace of movement.

  Jain walked over and stared up at him. ‘Is this you punishing yourself? Out here in the rain?’

  ‘I just want to know where’s he gone? I almost had him.’ Hunter held his hands up and tried to wash the last streaks of mud from his palms. He nodded over at a dark old building. ‘See that farmhouse? That’s where I saved that cat the other morning.’

  She grinned at him. ‘I still think that’s sweet.’

  ‘Glad someone does.’ Hunter ran his hand through his hair and fired a slick of water through the air. ‘You didn’t reply to that text this morning.’

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘What’s going on with us?’

  Jain stared off into the distance, her petite nose in profile against the grey sky.

  ‘Come on, Chantal. I can’t seem to win here. One minute I’m flavour of the month, the next I’m praline and dog shit.’

  She looked back round, tears merging with the rain. ‘I’ve been a bitch to you.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I can only apologise.’

  Hunter took his turn looking her up and down. ‘Chantal, what’s your story?’

  ‘My story?’ She twisted her body round like a football hooligan reacting to an insult to his team, eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. ‘You think there’s a story?’

  ‘Going apeshit on Quarrie and Ferguson. Hunting for Stephanie. What’s driving you to do this?’

  ‘My job?’

  ‘That’s not it… I look at you and I look at DI McNeill. You’re like Ms Chalk and Miss Cheese. She’s all cold indifference, whereas you’re like a volcanic spring in Iceland, bubbling away in all that frozen wilderness.’

  A grin flickered on her lips. ‘I’m sure Shakespeare wishes he’d written that phrase.’

  ‘Bet you even get the flashbacks, right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Last night, on the phone, you said something like even non-Forces people get PTSD. Right?’

  ‘That rattling sound is all those straws you’re clutching at hitting the sides of the bottle.’

  ‘Chantal, what gave you PTSD?’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘Bullshit. I know the signs. Sat in enough group therapy sessions with civvies and squaddies.’ And had enough run-ins to know who to keep away from and who not to… ‘You’re quick to anger, bordering on violence. Clear signs of repression. You had a nightmare when we slept together.’

  She looked away, deep into the rain.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘I can help.’

  She turned back round, her gaze burning into him. ‘You think you can fix me? You think you can change what happened?’

  ‘I can help. Maybe. At least let me try.’

  ‘You shag me once and you think we’re together forever?’

  ‘Look, just let me in.’

  She stared at the bubbling puddle of mud between them. Raindrops exploded on the surface, the rings widening until they merged. Like Robert Quarrie’s blood on the floor, pooling under the sofa.

  She shut her eyes and snorted. ‘My uncle raped me when I was twelve.’

  ‘Shit.’ Hunter stared at her, paralysed by indecision. What to do? Hug? Keep his distance? ‘I’m sorry, Chantal...’

  ‘It’s the reason I joined the police. The reason I stayed in the SO Unit after Cullen shunted me there.’ She brushed a hand across her eye, smearing her mascara. ‘He got put away and someone stabbed him in prison. It gave me pretty big intimacy issues, I can tell you. Started using sex as a weapon. Thirty-one and I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. You know how many guys I’ve shagged and ran away from?’ She stared back at the puddle, now rippling with the hard rain. ‘I got a counsellor and I worked with her and overcame that whole thing.’ The other eye got smeared. ‘The problem is, I still can’t trust anyone.’

  He moved a step closer. ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘That’s sweet, Craig, but you hardly know me. Four weeks at Tulliallan is no basis for a relationship. I’m a bloody mess.’

  ‘And I’m not? Me with my PTSD? Thirty-two and I’m stuck in uniform.’ He reached over and pulled her close, fighting against her resistance. ‘Look, Chantal, I quite like you.’

  She pushed back and tilted her head down. ‘Quite like me?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He reached over and kissed her forehead. ‘I want to—’

  Hunter’s Airwave blasted out. ‘Finlay Sinclair to all units! We’ve got him!’

  Hunter pulled up by the parked squad car and jumped out. Jain was a few steps ahead of him, running across the road.

  ‘Over here!’ Finlay stood outside a new-build house, close to being a show home. Looked pretty much finished.

  Hunter sprinted over, almost tripping twice. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Went inside.’ Finlay touched his baton to the door. ‘Joanne’s securing the back door.’

  A female uniformed officer appeared from the back, the same one who had manned the crime scene in Cramond. Still looked like she should be at school. ‘Back door’s locked, Fin.’

  Finlay waved his hand around the side of the building. ‘Get back round there!’

  She darted off.

  Hunter snapped his baton out and nodded at Jain. ‘You’re the ranking officer here. What do we do?’

  She looked back down the street. A complete lack of any flashing lights. ‘Are Stephanie or Doug in there?’

  ‘Just him.’ Finlay tapped his baton on the windowsill. ‘Think he’s running from me and wee Joanne.’

  ‘Right, I’ll guard here, okay?’ Jain got out her Airwave. ‘You two get in there and apprehend him.’

  ‘Sarge.’ Finlay put his hand to the door and winked at Hunter. ‘The dream team are back together, eh?’

  ‘Lead on, Napalm.’

  Finlay opened the door and stepped inside.

  Hunter followed him in, clocking four doors off the open-plan hall, part living room, part kitchen. One of them was the back door, Joanne’s silhouette visible through the glass. No sign of movement.

  Finlay thumbed upstairs. ‘I’m going up there, okay? You check down here.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘You saying I can’t handle him?’

  ‘Just don’t think it’s a great idea.’

  ‘Need to get back in the Princess’s good books somehow, jabroni…’ Finlay started up the stairs, tapping his baton off the unvarnished wood as he climbed.

  Hunter unlocked the back door and let the female officer in. ‘Joanne, right?’

  ‘Smith. What’s up?’

  ‘Help me check these doors.’

  She pursed her lips and frowned. ‘Sure I should leave this door?’

  ‘We need to hurry. You take the two nearest here.’ Hunter headed over to the furthest one, getting a stink of paint and sawdust. It opened onto a utility room, four washing machine-like things stacked two-by-two against the wall. What the hell were—

  CRASH.

  Hunter ran back into the main room.

  ‘Need some help up here!’

  CRASH.

  ‘Stay here!’ He waved his baton at Joanne and raced upstairs into a long hall, a strong breeze blowing in his face.

  Neil had a knife on Finlay, edging him closer to an open space where a window should be. He swung round and clocked Hunter. ‘Stay there!’

  Finlay swung out with his baton. Neil dodged the blow, letting it glance off his shoulder, and stuck the head on Finlay.

  Hunter raced over, baton raised, ready to lash out with it.

  Neil pushed Finlay. Made him tumble backwards. Arms windmilling as he fell out of the gap.
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br />   Neil rushed Hunter and shoved him against the wall, his crown cracking off the partition board.

  ‘Stay there!’ Hunter froze. Trapped between an impossible choice.

  Neil was already running down the stairs.

  Hunter got up and stepped over to the open window. He stared down, his breath squeezing itself out of his lungs.

  ‘No, no, no…’

  Finlay lay on his back, screaming, his torso twisted round like a pretzel.

  40

  The air felt like it could burn your skin, even though the tall buildings hid the sun. The smell of roasting goat was everywhere, like they were all at it.

  ‘Down here, Jock.’ Terry led the way into a narrow lane, lined above with drying washing, though it was far from clean. Other lanes reeled off every few metres. ‘Can almost taste the little bastard, can’t you?’

  Hunter followed him, his kit bag digging into his aching shoulders, his L85 rifle rattling as they jogged. ‘It’s definitely him?’

  ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, mate.’

  Terry’s radio crackled. ‘Permission to engage. Use lethal force if necessary. Over.’

  ‘Roger.’ Terry grinned like the devil, then set off down a corridor, distant footsteps clacking off marble. ‘Got him, there.’

  Round the corner, a shadowy figure raced away from them, spindly legs partially concealed by a long cloak.

  ‘Standard tactics these days, Jock. Young lads pretending to be old women in full-on Burqa get-up.’ Terry stopped at the corner and raised his weapon, safety catch off. ‘On three.’

  Hunter got on the other side. ‘Three.’ He kicked the door open with one go and entered, his rifle pointing into all corners of the room. Another opening led deep into the building, its door swinging on a squeaky hinge.

  Terry went for it, tugging the door open.

  ‘Craig!’

  Hunter followed him up a staircase and stopped outside another door.

  ‘Craig!’

  Terry kicked the door down and entered, L85 pointing dead ahead. ‘Come on, sunshine, hands in the air.’

  ‘Craig!’

  Their prey stood in the middle of the room, hands up. No other doors, nowhere to go.

  His thumb on a dead man’s switch.

  It flicked off, pointing upright.

  BOOM!

  Hunter was blown backwards, like a hurricane in his face, infinitely hotter than the air outside. He cracked his back against the staircase, metal digging into his skull, his pack catching against something and ripping wide open. Gear clattered all over the marble.

  ‘Craig!’

  Hunter sat up, blood pouring down his face. Screaming white noise in his ears. Dizzy. His L85 was skipping down the stairs, like a child taking his first trip down a helter-skelter.

  ‘Craig!’

  In the room, Terry’s boots were still standing. No sign of the rest of him.

  All he could smell was bacon.

  ‘Craig!’ Down below, Jain was kneeling beside Finlay. ‘Are you okay?’

  Hunter braced himself against the window. He caught sight of Finlay, face contorted and in so much pain he couldn’t make a sound.

  No sign of Neil.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Shite.’ Jain was on her feet, looking around.

  Hunter punched the bare partition board, then stabbed at his Airwave. ‘Officer down! Need immediate medical assistance to… Shawfair.’

  Shit.

  ‘Where in Shawfair?’

  ‘Last location of PC Sinclair, Mags.’

  ‘Got you. On its way.’

  Hunter looked out of the window. Still no sign of flashing blues. He darted back the way and took the stairs four at a time, stumbling halfway down. He braced himself against the wall.

  Heat burned his skin. Choked on that awful bacon smell. Terry’s boots, smoking in the blasted room.

  Not again…

  Hunter stabbed at his Airwave. ‘Mags, where the hell is that back-up?’

  ‘There’s another smash on the A1, Craig. This bloody rain. Both carriageways are out.’

  Hunter set off down the stairs, fists clenched, and burst into the living room.

  Joanne was on her side near the back door, groaning. She blinked hard as she got up, rubbing at her temples. Two police batons lay next to her. Must be Finlay’s. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Who?’

  Bugger…

  The back door was wide open. Hunter raced over and burst out onto the bare lawn. Finlay lay a few metres to the side, screaming now.

  Jain was on her knees, unsure what to do. ‘Fin, can you feel your legs?’

  The screaming got louder.

  ‘We’ve bloody lost him.’ Hunter wheeled around, scanning the buildings. ‘He can’t have got far.’

  A flash of movement over the road, just by one of the houses without slates. The front door clicked shut.

  Hunter pointed across the street. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  Hunter took a few steps, clutching his baton tight, keeping it slow and quiet. A blue flash down the far end of the road. ‘Follow me.’ He crept up the mud garden of the house next door and got down on his hands and knees. He crab-walked the last stretch on fingers and tiptoes, sinking into the mud up to his wrists and ankles, and stayed there, rain battering off his back, his knee groaning with renewed frustration.

  He listened closely. Nothing.

  Then: ‘Is he still here?’ Sounded like Neil Alexander, but the glass muffled it.

  Hunter peered into the window, obscured by swathes of whitewash. A small light lit up the far corner, like a phone flashlight app, picking out some figures. Couldn’t make them out.

  Hunter crawled over to the front door and stood up tall. His arms were crying out in pain from the burpees, the rest of him too sore to worry about at this stage — his head, his knee, his… Carefully, ever so carefully, he extended his baton, muting the crack with his hand.

  Splash.

  Jain was at the next house, holding a hand in the air. Wait!

  Hunter held up his fingers, then counted down. Three, two, one. He opened the front door and stepped inside. Stood there, listening hard.

  ‘Right, my friend…’ The rest was muffled.

  Hunter crept along the fresh laminate flooring, still tasting of the salt-and-vinegar tang of silicone. He nudged the living room door open and stepped through, baton raised.

  Doug Ferguson sat on a chair, battered and bruised, his mouth stuffed with white socks, half dyed red. He lolled around, his left eye swollen to twice the normal size.

  Standing in front of him was Stephanie, aiming a knife at his gut. Not so much a hostage as—

  She swung round and her eyes widened. ‘Neil!’

  ‘Stop.’ Neil stepped out of the shadows by the door and held out another long knife, pressing the cutting edge into Hunter’s throat. ‘Move and he gets it now.’

  41

  Hunter’s hand tightened around the baton’s grip. Just one flick and—

  ‘Drop it.’ Neil nudged the door shut and scraped Hunter’s Adam’s apple with the sharp blade. The man’s hand was shaking, sweat or rain dripped from the bottom of his fist. ‘Now.’

  The knife Stephanie was holding in front of her stepfather... was it within his extended reach if he swung for it with the baton? ‘Don’t do it.’

  ‘I said drop the baton.’ Neil’s knife dug into Hunter’s throat. Didn’t feel like he’d broken the skin. Definitely in the post, though. ‘You want to be next, cop?’

  ‘Stephanie, don’t do it.’

  ‘She’s going to do it, Constable.’ The blade nibbled at the stubble on Hunter’s neck. ‘It’s her turn.’

  ‘We know you killed Robert Quarrie, Neil. Had us going, but we know.’

  ‘Whatever. The job’s only half-finished.’ Neil glanced over at Stephanie, then back at Hunter. ‘Now, I’m telling you to drop the truncheon.’

/>   Stephanie’s hand wobbled in the air, not far from Doug’s stained vest, yellowed with sweat, bloodied like Robert Quarrie’s floor.

  Too big a risk…

  Hunter let his grip go and the baton toppled onto the laminate. ‘Stephanie, it’s your turn to drop the weapon.’

  She shifted the blade to Doug’s gut, almost touching the cotton. Her shoulders were tight, arms shaking, knife hand trembling.

  ‘Steph, listen to me.’ Neil’s acid breath hissed in Hunter’s ears as the blade notched into his damp skin. ‘That bastard has abused you since you were fifteen. This is what he deserves.’ He looked over at her again. ‘Go on, Steph. Now.’

  Stephanie looked around at Hunter, tears streaming down her face, the knife shaking in her grip. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’ve got to, Steph. We agreed.’

  Stephanie dropped the blade onto the floor. ‘I can’t.’

  Neil pulled the knife back from Hunter’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down his neck, thinning out in his damp clothes. Time to move—

  Neil kicked at the back of his right knee.

  Hunter toppled forward and landed on his baton, the metal crunching against his cheekbone. He grabbed it, rolled to the left and swung out.

  Slashed through clean air.

  Neil was already over by Doug, blade raised high.

  The door clattered open. ‘Drop it!’ Jain held out her own baton.

  Neil plunged the knife into Doug’s chest and pulled him forward. Doug landed on the floor, the knife buried to the hilt. Blood poured out onto the laminate.

  ‘No!’ Jain jumped forward and lashed out with her baton. Just missed Neil as he skipped to the side. He grabbed Stephanie by the arms and pushed her at Jain, hard enough to make both of them stumble backwards. She landed on Hunter, squeezing the air out of his lungs like an accordion. Jain’s baton rattled like a child’s toy as it skidded across the floor.

  Footsteps raced through the house.

  Hunter got out from under the two and tried to stand up. His knee lurched, wobbling like a jelly peanut. Another go and he was up.

  Stephanie crawled off into the corner, freaking out. Fingers fanning out her hair, rocking back and forward.