by Ed James
Hunter shrugged. ‘So I’ll get some shorts.’
‘Craig, come on.’ Chantal led him to the end of the queue.
Hunter stabbed something into a text as he walked. Then he clunked his head on the underside of the staircase. ‘Ah, you bastard.’
Chantal rubbed at it. ‘You idiot.’
The queue ahead of them wound around the bend, then back again. A rope separated the strands as they forked to the three officers manning the passport control. Looked like they were double-checking every single word on the documents.
Hunter rolled his eyes at Chantal. ‘Maybe we’ll take that holiday somewhere else.’
‘Bloody shambles.’ She nodded, her fingers clutching her passport. Close to murdering someone.
Next to them, vodka and rum wafted off a stag party, all dressed in multi-colour suits. A man in green and yellow covered in question marks pointed at his wheeled suitcase and hugged a mate. ‘Keep an eye on that, Stevie, aye?’ Sounded like he was from deepest, darkest Glasgow.
Perfect planning — two planes full of pissed-up Scots heading to a tiny bottleneck.
A young woman stood between the stag party and them, a frown twitching all over her face. Another stag member gave her a theatrical wink. ‘Excuse me, sweetheart, will you marry me?’
The guy who’d sat next to them on the plane was level with them in the other queue, though he’d lost his Mail. He shot them a dirty leer.
Chantal thumbed over at him. ‘We’re in the wrong queue.’
‘So are they.’ Hunter kicked his bag forward an inch, though it seemed to be more in hope than actual purpose. ‘We’ve not moved for ages.’
She nodded over at them. ‘They have.’
‘Sure?’
Chantal shrugged out a huff. ‘It’s too bloody late, anyway.’
‘Wish I still had my MOD90.’
Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘You wish you were still a soldier?’
‘Being able to breeze through without all this malarkey.’
The girl in front brushed off the leering stag and swung round to them, panic on her face. ‘Excuse me, is this the flight to London?’ Polish accent, but with some surface cockney.
Chantal patted her on the arm. ‘No, sorry.’ She pointed to the passport control, grimacing. ‘That’s Portugal out there.’
‘Oh, not again.’ She clicked her suitcase handle and started barging her way against the queue. ‘Thank you.’
‘Poor girl.’ Chantal watched her shove her way through shouts of ‘Well, excuse me!’ towards the staircase back up to Departures. Their flight neighbour was six people ahead of them now. ‘Craig, that queue is moving.’
Hunter took another look. ‘Can we change?’
‘Too late.’
‘Bloody—’
‘Chantal Jain, as I live and breathe.’ A man stood in the other queue, hair slicked back over his head. Tall, broad-shouldered and as much eye contact as you could handle. Thick Newcastle accent and every inch the Geordie, he just needed to be topless in some second division away end. Instead, he wore a suit and carried a long overcoat.
What the hell is his name?
Chantal gave him one of her fake smiles. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Far too long, pet.’ He looked over at Hunter, beaming away. ‘This your boyfriend?’
Chantal coughed. ‘Partner.’
He frowned. ‘Police or personal?’
‘Police.’ Chantal’s polite smile returned as she lowered her voice. ‘He’s my DC. We’re on a case.’
‘Ah.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I see.’
She tried to get a look at his boarding pass. His passport. Anything.
Hunter raised his eyebrows at Chantal and held out his hand. ‘Craig Hunter. Nice to meet you.’
‘DI Jon Bruce.’ He returned the grip.
That was it. DI Bruce.
Brucie Bonus. Oh shit, Brucie Boner. Tried to pull Sharon once.
Bruce’s queue moved forward, and he stepped a foot away. ‘You’re coming with me, right?’
Chantal kicked her bag over towards him. ‘I forgot.’
‘You can’t do that!’ A red-faced man in jacket and jeans scowled at her. ‘There’s a bloody queue for a reason!’
‘Sorry.’ She gave a shrug and joined Bruce.
Hunter hefted up his bag and followed her. Got a smack on the arm. He gave him his policeman glare. ‘Sir, you need to back off.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Well, you’re on Portuguese soil now, so—’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Hunter nodded at Bruce. ‘So, how do you two know each other?’
‘We were on a course down in London together. Few years back, now.’ Bruce leered at her. ‘Had cracking fun, didn’t we?’
Brucie Bonus, indeed. Play your cards right.
Chantal looked him up and down. ‘What brings you out here in your fighting suit?’
Bruce looked away, scratching at his chin. ‘Running this bloody Harry Jack case.’
‘Heard about that on the radio.’ Chantal frowned. ‘The abduction, right?’
‘Yeah. Kid got lifted in Alnwick on Wednesday. Coming home from school.’ Bruce draped his jacket over the other arm. ‘As you can imagine, it’s got a bit of press interest. Had a couple of sightings of the lad in the Algarve yesterday. Given the Daily Express can still cover their front page with Madeleine McCann and the fact the kid’s mother is Portuguese…’ He raised his hands. ‘Voila. The Chief Constable is going apeshit. Half of Northumbria Police are on their way out. Omnishambles.’
Chantal stepped forward. Their previous queue still hadn’t moved, not that the stag parties seemed to care. Or notice. ‘At least they’ve got you, Jon.’
Bruce chuckled. ‘Tell you, the Chief’s brought in three psychics to help. Can you believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘And we’ve got sniffer dogs from one of the Yorkshire forces out.’
‘Good luck with it.’
‘Think we’ll need it.’ Bruce stepped forward in the queue. ‘What are you here for?’
‘A serial sex offender has slipped out of the country.’
‘Oh, you bastard.’ Bruce grimaced. ‘Still, not a bad gig here. It’s been pissing down in Newcastle all week. Suspect it’s the same up in Edinburgh.’ He peered back through the terminal building. ‘Not that it’s much better here.’
‘It’s worse than in Edinburgh.’
Bruce nodded. ‘We should grab a drink sometime, given we’re both over here.’
Chantal smiled at him. ‘Sounds like a good idea.’
Hunter frowned at her.
Shit, am I doing it again? Playing the single girl too well?
Probably thinks I’ve been pissing him about until a DI came along.
He cleared his throat. ‘Actually—’
Bruce patted Chantal on the arm and nodded at the passport desk. ‘You go first, princess.’
19
HUNTER
* * *
The officer stared at Hunter’s passport, eyes slowly blinking. Felt like he’d been looking at it for five bloody minutes. He spoke into his phone and turned away. Grumbling voices came from the queue behind.
Hunter couldn’t see Chantal or that Geordie guy. Bruce or whatever it was. Seedy-looking git. He smiled at the officer. ‘Is there a problem?’
He got a raised finger for his trouble.
Hunter picked up his bag again with a sigh. Don’t speak, don’t give them any reason to push back.
‘Okay.’ The officer put the phone down and handed the passport back with a sniff and a sneer. ‘Through you go, sir.’
Hunter closed his passport and sauntered through to the arrivals area.
Bruce was walking away, Chantal ahead of him, talking on her mobile. The smell of cooking meat hung around from the various food stalls.
Hunter clenched his teeth, his fingers starting to dance.
Not now.
Bruce pushed thro
ugh the door to outside, his case trundling behind him. More than a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. Slight tanning around his ring finger, a pale band cutting across the rough hairs.
A gang of pissed-up stags queued by a row of taxis, a couple of them holding coffees.
Roofed walkways outside the airport hid them from the worst of the deluge but left them exposed to the occasional cross blast of tropical wind. To the west, a shaft of sunlight crept out of the grey gloom, lighting up the towers in Faro town centre.
Hunter sighed, his breathing slowing.
‘You okay, mate?’
Hunter cleared his throat. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay…’ Bruce grinned at Hunter. ‘Well, I’m heading into town, so I’ll catch you later, aye?’
Hunter glanced at Chantal again, clenching his fingers into a fist. ‘I take it Cha— DS Jain’s got your number?’
‘Sure has.’ Bruce hoisted his jacket over his shoulder. ‘You pair supposed to be meeting anyone?’
‘Inspector João Quaresma?’
‘That’s one of our contacts. But I’ve got to meet the local chief of police first.’ Bruce’s eyes misted over. ‘A mate in the West Mercia force was out here a few years back hunting a fugitive, said the locals are useless.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
Bruce leaned in close, his minty breath mixing with his aftershave. ‘What’s the story with you and Chantal?’
Hunter clocked the hunger in his eyes, a little twinkle in the baby blue. ‘She’s my DS.’
‘Riiiight.’ Bruce’s head tilted almost halfway round. ‘Tell you, mate, the things I’d bloody do to her…’
Hunter swallowed an exasperated laugh. Prick. ‘See you around, sir.’
‘Right. Yeah.’ Bruce looked him up and down then saluted Chantal as he walked off, his jacket hanging from his shoulder.
Chantal hung up her call. ‘Thank God he’s gone.’
‘Old flame?’
‘Craig…’ She raised her eyebrows and sucked in her cheeks. ‘No, he’s not.’ She glanced back after Bruce, eyes narrowed. ‘Not for want of trying on his part. He was more interested in Sharon.’ She yawned. ‘We did a week-long course in Advanced Interview Techniques. Sharon’s DI at the time wanted us to mingle, so a week in Hendon with him and a load of London cops. He was trying it on with all the girls there.’
‘Sounds like hell.’
‘And then some.’ Chantal waved at someone behind Hunter and put on her fake smile again. ‘There we go.’
By the taxis, a middle-aged man held up a card with “DS Jane” on it.
Chantal stopped beside him and showed her warrant card. ‘DS Chantal Jain.’ She thumbed at Hunter. ‘This is —’
‘I am just taxi!’ He held up his hands. ‘I’ll take you there now.’
20
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal leaned forward, the seatbelt straining and digging into her chest. ‘How much longer?’
The driver’s head crept around and stale coffee breath swept over her. ‘Not long.’
Chantal slumped back in her seat, letting the belt slap back.
I don’t even have a number for this Quaresma guy. What an idiot.
The countryside slid past them. Steep hills metres away from the edge of the dual carriageway. Even the rain couldn’t dampen the dry soil too much. The road ahead was almost empty, a camper van lurching between the lanes.
Albufeira came into view around a tight bend, a long sprawl down by the twinkling blue sea, caught under the dark grey clouds. No buildings taller than three or four storeys by the looks of it, certainly nothing like back home.
They swept up to a roundabout and the driver hammered the horn, swearing in Portuguese.
Hunter put his phone away. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Grab some of his officers, find Tulloch, arrest him, take him back to dear old Blighty.’
‘Sounds so easy.’
The driver slowed to a halt and hit the horn again. ‘You see your press, why do they have to come to my country, eh?’
The road was mobbed with journalists, typical Brits abroad too, all holding their mobiles out like Dictaphones. A couple of TV crews swung around, aiming their cameras at the taxi. Gradually, the driver inched through the crowds and pulled into a car park. ‘This is what we have to deal with.’
Chantal tried her door but it was locked. The driver got out and opened Hunter’s door first. She squeezed out after him.
A man stood waiting on the tarmac. ‘Inspector João Quaresma.’ He smouldered away, close to burning out. Grey hair heading towards silver, tanned skin fading to yellow, eyes deep in sockets. He wore a three-piece suit and a long jacket. ‘Come on. This way.’ He had their cases out already. ‘Sergeant, do not speak to the press, okay?’
She shrugged. ‘Off you go, then.’
Quaresma marched off across the damp concrete mosaic, a shaft of sunlight breaking through the granite clouds and lighting up the station. Concrete pillars held up a brutal rendition of a Greek temple in pale stucco. All hard angles, the top floor about twenty metres wider on each side than the ground. The windows were narrow, designed to block the sun.
Chantal stopped by the front door. Keep the head, girl. Don’t overreact to anything he says.
Someone grabbed her by the arm. She swung around. A scrawny man with a skinhead, a haunted look, pale flesh hanging off him. Rich McAlpine. ‘Hey, Chantal, you got a minute?’
‘Been told not to speak to the press, Rich.’
‘Come on.’ Rich’s phone was almost in her face. Twat was recording this. ‘Have Police Scotland been called in to assist with the hunt for Harry Jack?’
‘No comment.’
‘That cos you are?’
‘I said, no comment.’
‘Come on, Chantal. We’re getting soaked here. A little titbit?’
Another reporter joined Rich, the sort of hipster you only used to see in London but were now everywhere. Big beard with twirly handlebar moustache. Shirt buttoned up to his throat.
She smiled at him. ‘Rich, I’ve got nothing to say.’
Rich’s mate piped up. ‘So what is it, then?’ Northern accent. Maybe Manchester.
‘No comment.’ Chantal grabbed her case and pushed into the station.
Quaresma was standing inside, hands on hips, lips pursed. ‘Sergeant, I told you not to speak.’
‘They were local to me and DC Hunter. I gave them a no comment.’
‘I see.’ Quaresma started off towards a set of doors.
Hunter followed her in. ‘That wasn’t Rich McAlpine, was it?’
‘You know him?’
‘Aye, shared a flat with Scott Cullen, didn’t he?’
‘Well, not anymore. But it was him.’
‘You didn’t say anything?’
She winked at Hunter. ‘Not yet.’
João Quaresma sat behind a cheap-looking desk and leaned back, resting his leather boots on the white plastic surface. The room stank of boot polish. No natural light in there, just a bright desk lamp facing them. ‘So, you’ve travelled all this way for Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill.’
‘And it looks like a very long way to travel for nothing.’ Chantal perched on the chair opposite Quaresma. She trusted it as much as him. She glanced over to Hunter, standing by the door. ‘So, have you got Tulloch in custody?’
‘You know we haven’t.’
Chantal lurched forward, arms flailing wide. ‘He’s been here since last night.’
Quaresma flashed a grin at her. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got other priorities.’
‘A serial domestic abuser running around on your territory isn’t a priority?’
‘Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant. As much as I would love to help you and Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill. And Mr Farmer here.’
‘Hunter.’
Quaresma nodded slowly, his teeth bared. ‘You are here to hunt this man, yes?’
Hunter shrugged at
him. ‘We’re here to bring him back to our country. That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’ Quaresma reached forward and flicked his left trouser leg back down over his boot. ‘You’re only here to escort this man?’
‘I’m sure DI McNeill passed that on?’
‘DI McNeill did.’
Chantal butted in. ‘And yet you’ve let him go.’
‘Sergeant, if this was the other way round and I was in Scotland looking to bring home a Portuguese national, would you just let me do it?’ Quaresma huffed as he flicked the right trouser leg over the boot. ‘You would let me take this man or woman back to Portugal?’
‘I’d spend a while looking at the evidence you’d sent.’ Chantal looked across the empty desk. ‘I don’t really see you doing that.’
‘I have my hands full, I’m afraid. This sort of case requires professional courtesy.’
‘Listen, we shared evidence with you yesterday, by fax and email, of Sean Tulloch viciously assaulting a woman and two police officers in Scotland. He stole a car, too.’
Quaresma held her gaze for a few seconds, then ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Then you shouldn’t have let him leave your country, should you?’ His grin was helped along by his twinkling eyes. ‘You’ve heard of Harry Jack, yes?’
Chantal’s gut plummeted through the soles of her sandals. Here we go — Brucie Boner strikes back. She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Of course I’ve heard about him.’
‘He is our priority, I’m afraid.’ Quaresma’s grin lost its spark. ‘We had two sightings of this child yesterday. Another three this morning. Is not a coincidence.’
Chantal looked over at Hunter, teeth clenched, and leaned forward. ‘Inspector, we’re requesting you divert a couple of resources to support our investigation.’
‘Sergeant…’ Quaresma chuckled as he got to his feet and strolled over to the tiny window, soaked in Scottish-style rain. He leaned back against the frame. ‘We have the weight of the news world pressing down on us right now. This morning, six crews from your country landed. This story is even popular in America.’
Chantal folded her arms tight. ‘I still don’t get why you can’t give us an officer or two.’
