Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘They had a veggie option.’

  Hunter took a sip of wine. ‘So, what do—’

  ‘There you are!’ Finlay Sinclair was marching across the tiles towards them. ‘Knew I’d find you here!’

  What the hell?

  Has Craig been texting him? Asking him to help out?

  Hunter got up and got in Finlay’s face. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘What? I’m meeting a pal for a drink.’ Finlay leaned back against an empty bench, still encrusted with second-hand food. The stag party had left with their air guitars.

  Finlay beamed at Chantal. ‘Evening.’

  She tried to smile, but the rage must’ve twisted into a snarl. ‘Evening.’

  Hunter was smiling, looked as forced as hers felt. ‘Mate, you’re not a cop anymore.’

  ‘I want to help.’ As Finlay stood, his back clicked like a seatbelt. ‘I know the area.’

  ‘You live the other side of Faro.’

  Finlay put on a puppy-dog face, his eyes sagging. ‘Look, let me—’

  ‘Finlay.’ Chantal got up and dusted off the shoulders of his polo shirt. ‘I appreciate it, but this is for Craig and me, okay?’

  Finlay did a petulant teenager stomp. ‘Come on…’

  Chantal pushed her plate away. ‘The local cop isn’t impressed with us and, well, I don’t want you getting caught up in this. Might get you in some trouble. And you have to live here.’ She flashed a grin at him. ‘Look, the local cops are supposed to be helping us tomorrow. Could maybe use your help making sure they’re not bullshitting us.’

  Finlay nodded. ‘Cool.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Cool. What time?’

  ‘Probably best that we phone you.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait for the call. Let’s do that.’

  Chantal smiled again and patted his back. ‘Now, we’ve got something to get on with, so…’ She tapped her nose. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye.’ Finlay beamed at them and strolled off out of the restaurant, his back ramrod straight.

  Hunter sat again and drained his glass. ‘Thanks for the save.’

  ‘Have you been goading him?’

  ‘I swear I haven’t.’

  Chantal waved over at the waiter and held up forty euros. She got a saucy wink in return. ‘Come on, lover boy.’ She left the rest of her glass of vinegar and set off out of the restaurant. ‘Before Finlay comes back.’

  Chantal gripped Hunter’s hand tight and led down the hill. The rubbery tang of hot dogs belched out of a small van parked at the side of the road. A queue wound back across the street, blocking the traffic.

  Hunter’s eyes were almost rolling back in his head.

  ‘Jesus, are you alright?’

  His lips twitched. ‘I’m… trying to centre myself.’

  ‘What, why?’

  ‘That van.’ Hunter ran a hand across his nose. ‘The smell. It’s… ’

  She tightened her grip. ‘Craig, it’s okay.’

  Hunter shut his eyes, clamped them tight, his forehead knotting. ‘I’m getting better at it.’

  She gave his hand a pulse. ‘Good.’

  He reopened them, smiling. ‘Thanks.’ Then he frowned.

  Matty and Gordon Brownlee leaned against a bar’s window, munching on hot dogs. Matty waved at Hunter. ‘Alright, mate. You seen Sean yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Hunter beamed at them. ‘Getting the spiders now.’

  Matty finished chewing some hot dog. ‘We’ll shove them right up his arse!’

  Brownlee bunched up his wrapper, shaking his head. He tapped on the glass. ‘Supposed to be meeting him in here, if you’re ready?’

  ‘See you inside, yeah?’ Matty followed Brownlee into the bar.

  Chantal scowled at him. ‘Craig, what are you up to?’

  ‘Finding Tulloch. Far as I’m aware, he doesn’t know anything about us. Who we are, that we’re cops.’

  ‘But he’ll start to smell a rat if you say you served with him.’

  ‘I’ll say it’s John Tulloch. The important thing is we’ll know where he is. Then I can call Quaresma and we can get out of this godforsaken place.’

  Chantal stared into the bar. Matty was shouting an order at the bar staff and waving euros around. ‘Come on, then.’

  Hunter led her inside. The bar was hot, sticky sweat trickling down the walls. Old-school house pumped out of giant speakers, genuine Detroit sounds not mid-nineties Balearic dross.

  Chantal stopped by the bar, a two-deep queue around it, and smiled at Matty. ‘Sean here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nobody’s seen him, love.’

  She stared at Hunter. This isn’t the right move. Need to regroup and replan.

  ‘Here.’ Matty handed her a pint glass of dark red liquid. Then another. ‘Get stuck in!’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ Hunter was in her ear. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘This is your fault not mine.’ She took a drink. Bloody did taste like Vimto. She flashed a smile at Matty. ‘Cheers!’

  Hunter took one and started sipping at it.

  ‘Chantal!’ Bekah wrapped her arms round her, vomit breath crawling over her skin. ‘Chantal!’

  Chantal had to stop her drink from spilling. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m on it! Whoo!’ Bekah jumped in the air, barely took any effort to lift off.

  Matty gave Bekah a good going over with his eyes. He took a gulp from a pint glass. ‘Alright?’

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m Bekah!’

  ‘Matty.’ He offered her a drink from his glass. She slurped it down. ‘How’s my girl?’

  ‘Starving!’ Bekah leaned against Chantal, barely any weight at all. ‘Anywhere good to eat round here?’

  ‘Me and Gogsy here just had a hot dog from that van. Lovely.’

  ‘You had a big sausage, did you?’ Bekah swapped Chantal for Matty, resting one hand on his arm, the other on his stomach. She started running her hand around the edge of his shorts. ‘Bet there’s a big one in your pants.’

  ‘Fucking massive, love.’

  Bekah hauled his shorts down to his knees. Matty’s cock was half-erect, barely two inches long.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Matty pushed her over and stormed off out of the bar.

  ‘Shite.’ Brownlee downed his Crazy Vimto. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  The crowd around them were laughing. More than a few girls from Bekah’s hen party, all wagging their pinkies.

  Chantal leaned in to whisper in Hunter’s ear. ‘Craig, that was a normal-sized cock.’

  He scowled at her. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I doubt you’ve seen many cocks in your life, have you? You’ve watched too much porn. Those aren’t real knobs.’ She grabbed his groin. ‘There’s nothing wrong with yours, okay?’

  38

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter trotted after Chantal, almost losing her in the throng of boozers marching down the Strip.

  Gangs dressed in uniforms — superheroes, wrestlers, Star Wars characters, Australians.

  Gangs in jeans and shirts.

  The next-door bar had spilled out onto the street, stags necking bottles of Grolsch and eyeing up the passing women. No sign of Tulloch in there, either.

  Hunter stopped in the street and rubbed at his eyes. ‘We’re stuck in bloody Groundhog Day here. I’ve no idea what time it is, other than night. That daytime boozing is messing with my head.’

  ‘It’s twisted my melon, as well.’ Chantal leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I can barely remember why we’re here, other than I keep seeing Paisley’s battered face when I close my eyes.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ He grabbed her hand and led her down the street, walking past a 5D cinema. Whatever that means.

  A big lump of holiday apartments sat across the road, set back like they were keeping away from the bacchanalian excess.

  A blue light flashed down the side street by the apartments, too far away to be the neon of a bar or club.

&nb
sp; Two armed police officers guarded a side entrance. Black polo shirts, maybe even navy. Baseball cap, black boots and trousers with a holster hanging off.

  Hunter clasped Chantal’s hand and stopped her. ‘Something’s going on down there.’ He nodded at the officers and started off down the street.

  The street widened out into a small square. Police officers leaned against their cars, arms folded, looking bored. Quaresma was marching around, shouting instructions in Portuguese.

  The first officer sniffed, taking his eyes off a hen party across the road. ‘Is your apartment down here?’

  ‘I’m police.’ Hunter flashed his warrant card. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I need you to move on, sir.’

  ‘We need to speak to Inspector Quaresma.’

  Chantal slapped his hand away. ‘Craig, we should go.’

  The officer smiled at Hunter. ‘You should listen to your girlfriend here.’

  DI Bruce followed him. Didn’t look good, whatever it was.

  Hunter nodded over at him. ‘Is this about Harry Jack?’

  ‘Move on, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Craig.’ Chantal pulsed Hunter’s hand and led him away.

  ‘Chantal!’ Bruce was jogging towards them, his coat flapping behind him. ‘Look, we’re two skulls down and this lot have given us intel on a sighting at the arse end of town. We need to run a raid. Can you help?’

  39

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal sat back in the passenger seat. Booze swilled in her guts and veins. Doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, but it might curry favour with Quaresma, so…

  Bruce tore through night-time Albufeira, heading away from the clubs and pubs towards a residential area. Houses set back from the road, blocks of flats hugging it. The occasional shop or café. Street lighting was optional, clearly.

  Hunter was in the back seat, tapping away at his mobile. Better not be texting Finlay. He pocketed it and leaned forward. ‘So, what, you’ve got a sighting of this kid?’

  ‘All we’ve got, mate.’ Bruce turned right at a roundabout, blasting down an empty road. The satnav on his dashboard pointed a blue line towards a street more than a mile away. ‘This whole thing started out because someone called us, saying they saw the kid. Recognised him from their Sun or Mirror or whatever. Trouble is, she spoke to the papers as well. So, we’re here chasing our tails while all hell breaks loose. Absolute nightmare.’

  ‘Does she work at a bar?’

  Bruce craned his neck round to glare at Hunter. ‘How the fuck did you know that?’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘Right, well. Aye, she does.’ Bruce tugged at his collar and powered down the road. ‘We had a word with her earlier. Stupid cow should’ve kept her mouth shut. Couldn’t back it up. Kid might not even bloody be in the country anymore.’

  Chantal waved ahead, the white lines dancing around in her vision. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Someone else called us up tonight. We thought it was another one of those things, you know? Sighting that came to nothing. But we raided a flat off that hellhole where you were. Found this woman hiding in the bath. She said she’d seen Harry out this way. Then we got another call, right? Same story, saw the kid near this house. Could even describe him, wearing the same clothes as when he got taken. Gave us an address.’

  ‘Which is where we’re heading?’

  ‘Right.’ Bruce sighed. ‘Aye.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I asked you pair to help because it might ingratiate you with our chum Quaresma.’ He tossed over a pack of gum. ‘But chew that, for fuck’s sake. Pair of you smell like a brewery.’

  40

  HUNTER

  * * *

  ‘Go, go, go!’

  Hunter burst into the house and clattered up the stairs. A pair of uniforms stormed into the living room. He grabbed hold of the wooden banister to keep him upright as he climbed. He tripped and went flying, cracking his head against Chantal’s leg. Pushed her over on the landing, the carpet bunching up around her hands. ‘Watch it!’

  Bruce was standing over them, face red with fury. ‘What are you playing at?’

  Hunter helped Chantal up. ‘Caught my footing on the carpet there.’

  ‘Get up, you pair of arseholes!’

  Hunter followed Bruce over. Two doors led off. The first was a bathroom. One of Bruce’s plainclothes was hovering over the bathtub, shaking her head. ‘Not in here, guv.’

  ‘Right.’ Bruce stood one side of the other door, holding up a finger. Then two, then three with a nod at Hunter. ‘Go!’

  Hunter tried the handle. Locked. He shouldered the door and tumbled into a bedroom. The curtains twitched. He charged over and pulled them open. The window was locked from the inside, the key still in.

  ‘Out you come.’ Bruce was kneeling on the bed.

  Three pairs of hands appeared, including one child’s. A man raised himself up to standing. Looked English from his weak chin. Maybe French or German, but certainly not Portuguese.

  Then he helped up a woman. Looked local, dark hair and olive skin. She shook her head. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Out you come, Harry.’ Bruce reached and lifted up a small child, kicking and screaming.

  Blonde hair, blue eyes. Wearing pink.

  Not Harry Jack.

  41

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Bruce pulled up down the street from the Strip. He killed the engine and sighed. ‘Tell you, Chantal, I thought that’d be my ticket out of here, but no.’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Jon.’ Chantal spat her gum into a tissue and stuck it in the ashtray. The car reeked of cheap cigarettes and that hideous aftershave Bruce wore. ‘A seasoned DI like you shouldn’t have any hope left.’

  Bruce laughed. ‘Must be all the sun here, or something.’

  ‘Right, well, make sure Quaresma hears about us helping.’

  ‘Almost breaking your necks on the stairs.’ He shook his head. ‘I swear.’

  ‘That wasn’t my—’

  CRACK.

  Behind Bruce, two faces beamed in. Rich McAlpine and his hipster mate. Bruce wound down the window. ‘Evening, lads. Do you need someone to wipe your arses or something?’

  Rich nodded at Chantal. ‘Wonder if you wanted to answer some questions about that raid.’

  ‘What raid?’

  ‘Don’t be a fanny. Me and Liam know what’s been going on. You found him, didn’t you?’

  Bruce wound up the window. ‘Pair of fucking pricks.’ He smiled at Chantal. ‘You fancy getting a drink later?’

  She yawned. ‘Going to get an early night. Maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘Right. Tomorrow.’ Bruce got out of the car and grabbed Rich and his mate by the arm. ‘Come on, lads, let’s go for a coffee and you tell me what you know.’ He plipped the locks and led them off.

  Hunter appeared from the other side of the car. ‘You’re going for a drink with him?’

  ‘You feel threatened?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Hunter chuckled, but it didn’t look like he meant it. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We’ve lost the scent of Tulloch and his mates.’ She started walking towards the thump and flash of the Strip, yawning into her fist. ‘Let’s see if we can pick it up.’

  42

  ‘So, where the bloody hell is he?’ Chantal stood at a crossroads, hands on hips.

  More of the Strip crawled up the hill, but it looked more like accommodation than drinking dens. Grimy old bars lined the side streets to the left and right. A golf tee-shaped building loomed up, lit up in blue from below.

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances up there, Craig.’ She swivelled round. Flashing blue lights burst out at the top of the hill behind them.

  Hunter shrugged at her. ‘I think we should retrace our steps.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘There are at least four clubs we only glanced into. They could’ve been on the dance floor or doing coke in the toilets. Anything.’

 
‘We can’t miss a group of twenty squaddies.’

  ‘Maybe Tulloch and his mates haven’t met up yet, or they’ve branched off into smaller groups.’

  Made sense.

  Made almost perfect sense.

  She glanced at her watch. After ten. Christ.

  Tulloch isn’t here. One last sweep and that’s it.

  ‘Come on, then.’ She grabbed Hunter’s hand and paced off up the street, swerving between two groups, one dressed in old football kits, the others as Native Americans and not very tastefully at that.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I need a drink.’ Chantal stopped by a bar and folded her arms.

  Bar Shooters. Classy as hell. A middle-aged man stood outside, dressed as a pirate. That or Captain Morgan from the rum bottle. He was handing out vouchers to passing piss artists, his eyes empty, like each voucher was a little bit of his soul. Two men in Fitch T-shirts pulled him in for a photo.

  Outside the bar next door, a fat man in a polo shirt sucked on a cigarette then proceeded to vomit on a window.

  Chantal took two vouchers from the pirate. ‘Did we try in here, Craig?’

  ‘It looked empty earlier.’

  ‘That’s no, then. Come on.’ Chantal entered the bar, stretching deep into the building, longer than she expected. Two fat men strutted on the dance floor, gyrating to some two-step like they were kids.

  A bar filled most of the front, decorated like a desert island with coconut trees and bamboo, a hen party stood beside it, getting their free shooters. The barman poured out of an unmarked bottle. God knows what it was. Meths. Ethanol.

  Chantal handed over her vouchers to the barman.

  ‘Cheers, princess.’ Essex boy, spiky blond hair and a vest with torn-off sleeves. ‘Coming right up.’ He tipped the unlabelled spirit into glasses.

  Chantal took them with a smile and gave one to Hunter. She sniffed the drink. Had a citrus tang to it. Toilet Duck, maybe? She downed her shot and grimaced. ‘That’s… Wow.’