by Ed James
Heather stared at the phone for a few seconds. ‘It could be him, I suppose.’
Sean Tulloch’s twinkling eyes glared out of the screen, hiding the menace and evil.
I wish we’d arrested him back in Scotland. I wish he’d not been able to do what he’s done to these women.
‘I can only imagine how you feel right now. All the anger and rage and hate for yourself. It’s natural. But it’s not right. Sean Tulloch has a history of domestic violence against women. His latest victim is in hospital back in Edinburgh, fighting for her life.’
Heather leaned into Nora, shutting her eyes.
Chantal rested on the supports. ‘What happened, Heather?’
Heather looked at Nora for a few seconds, then shut her eyes again. ‘I don’t remember.’
Hunter let the cool sea breeze hit his skin. His stomach growled. ‘Heather, I know this is difficult, but it’d help us if you could tell us what you do remember.’ He left a pause, waiting for her nod. He smiled at her. ‘Nora said you’re here on a hen weekend. Is that right?’
Heather ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back. ‘Look, I don’t remember too much. We were down that Strip thing on Thursday night. Dancing and drinking, you know how it is.’ She pressed the heels of her palms deep into her eye sockets. ‘I feel so fucking stupid.’
‘Heather, this isn’t your fault.’ Hunter crouched down to eye level. ‘Okay? None of this is your fault.’
Heather nodded but it didn’t look like she believed it. ‘I got speaking to this fella in one of the bars.’ She scratched at her wrists, the flesh scored from her nails. ‘Look, I got divorced last year. Not had a lot of luck with men since.’ She stabbed a finger at the phone, still couldn’t look up. ‘This guy was charming. Lovely fella. Gorgeous eyes. Lovely smile. He asked if I wanted a drink. So I said, make it a double.’
Hunter got to his feet, leaving her some space but she wasn’t filling it. ‘Did he get you a drink?’
‘Bacardi and Diet Coke.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I can still taste it. I can still see it fizzing away when I close my fucking eyes.’ She scratched at her wrist again. ‘If only I’d not…’
‘Heather, it’s okay.’ Nora was trying to stop Heather from scratching herself. ‘You need to tell them what happened.’
‘What happened?’ Heather pushed herself up to her feet and got in Hunter’s face, covering him in sour vomit breath. ‘I woke up with him shagging me!’ Spit flecked in the air, covered his cheeks and dribbled down her chin. ‘And he was hurting me!’
Chantal smiled, looking like she was trying to act calm. ‘This was in his bed, right?’
‘Right.’ Heather started pacing along the planks. ‘Motherfucker had taken me to his room. Some fucking taxi bastard must have fucking let him do that! The state I was in!’ She wiped her bare arm across her nose. ‘Sean fell asleep and I left. I got back to our room early. Late, whatever. Like five, six. Can’t remember. It was still dark outside. I felt so disgusted with myself I just stayed in the room yesterday.’ She cracked her hand off the walkway support, the metal ringing. ‘And his cock… It hurt like… I’m so fucking sore. Had to take eight ibuprofen…’ She slumped back against the handrails. ‘I’ve been pissing blood. It’s like having me period.’
Hunter couldn’t speak.
‘Okay.’ Chantal nodded at Hunter. ‘We need to get you to the local police, Heather. Have you had a shower since the attack?’
‘I had a bath last night.’
Another chance to stop Tulloch slipped through our grasp. All their bloody fears about him, his blood lust escalated by the leery atmosphere of a bunch of squaddies out on the lash. Heather was the cost of that.
Not arresting him in Inverness when he went for the train.
Not catching him at the airport.
Quaresma not arresting him when he landed.
Ricky battering Hunter and letting Tulloch escape.
Heather’s anger turning in on herself because Tulloch wasn’t behind bars.
Chantal held her glare. ‘We’re going to catch him and prosecute him for what he’s done to you. Were there any witnesses?’
‘Of course there fucking wasn’t.’ Heather stared off towards the beach. Tears seeped out of the sides of her eyes, slicking down her cheekbones. ‘Wait. There was someone in the other bed.’
Shite, what?
‘I can only like see snatches, but I think…’ Heather brushed away some tears. ‘I think his mate was there. While this fucking bastard raped me. He was there the whole fucking time!’
Hunter reached into his pocket for his phone and a photo of Matty. ‘Was it him?’
Heather shook her head. ‘Smaller.’
Hunter found one from the CCTV, Gordon Brownlee lurking at the bar. ‘Him?’
‘Maybe. I remember him from the bar. He had these funny ears. They weren’t the same height on his head.’
‘Did he have sex with you as well?’
Heather shook her head again. ‘He… was there. Watching. Fucking bastard might’ve been wanking.’
‘Okay.’ Hunter pocketed his phone. ‘We’re going to find him, okay? We’ll arrest Sean and he’ll do time for what he’s done to you.’
‘Look, I don’t want any trouble.’ Heather ran a finger across the marks she’d made on her arms. Dark bruises circled her wrists like watch straps. ‘He… He’s a big man. I don’t…’
Hunter clenched his fists and scanned the area. ‘Heather, we’re going to make sure he can never do this again. We’ll make sure he’s punished for what he’s done to you.’ The beach was getting busy, though the cool breeze was picking up. He frowned at her. ‘You said it happened in his room?’
Hunter stopped dead and groaned. Could bloody see his and Chantal’s apartment from Tulloch’s, not even twenty metres away. He leaned back against the wall and dialled Quaresma’s number, listening to it ring and ring. No answer. So he redialled.
Quaresma moaned into his phone. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Craig Hunter. I need you—’
‘I can see it’s you, Hunter.’ Quaresma sighed. ‘Two o’clock.’
‘I need you to get some officers out here to enter a property.’
A pause on the line. ‘And I told you, two o’clock.’
Hunter looked over at Chantal, her left arm wheeling as she spoke to McNeill on the phone. ‘Tulloch has raped a woman.’
Quaresma gasped. ‘What?’
‘A Northern Irish woman. Look, we need your men to enter the premises and collect evidence.’
‘Two o’clock.’
Click.
What the hell?
Hunter stared at his mobile. He bloody hung up on me!
53
CHANTAL
* * *
‘Look, Sharon, we’ll dig into it.’ Chantal wheeled away from Tulloch’s room, leaving Hunter to guard it. What happened in there, what Heather went through at Tulloch’s hands. Using his physical bulk to make sure he got his way, using his penis as a weapon. ‘It’s likely he’s raped this woman. It’s on Portuguese territory, so our chum’ll have to—’
Hunter scowled at her.
Chantal covered her mouthpiece. ‘What?’
‘He hung up on me.’
‘Is he sending anyone?’
‘Don’t think so. Just said “two o’clock”.’
Chantal stared at him, her jaw clenched tight, and put her phone to her ear. ‘Right, Shaz, we need to escalate this. He’s still dicking Craig about.’
‘Well, I’m not promising anything.’ Sharon sounded worn out. ‘But leave it with me.’
‘We need approval now.’
‘Chantal, I said leave it with me, okay. Look, Elvis wants to speak to me. I’ve got to go.’
Don’t need a million guesses to work out what that’s about. Not the right time to tell her.
‘Right.’ Chantal pocketed her phone and stared at the door for a second. ‘Craig, we can’t. Any defence team worth their salt will—’<
br />
‘I know. We’ll have a little peek.’ Hunter twisted the handle. ‘Bloody thing’s unlocked.’
Chantal snorted. ‘You make Scott Cullen look professional.’
‘Tell me to stop, then.’ Hunter wiped his T-shirt on the handle and nudged the door open wide with his trainer. ‘Can you hear that? Sounds like there’s someone in there.’
‘Go on.’ She nodded and Hunter stepped into the room. She kept an eye on the door then entered it herself.
Gordon Brownlee was Tulloch’s roommate. No sign of either of them, or anyone.
The bathroom door was ajar. Smelled like an open sewer mixed with mint shower gel. Didn’t look like the toilet was working. Dirty bastards were just shitting on shit and paper.
In the main room, Hunter was over by the kettle, rummaging through a pile of stuff. ‘Bloody nothing here.’
A little camera case sat to the side. Chantal opened it and pulled out the contents. Then held something up to show Hunter. ‘Is this Tulloch’s MOD90?’
He took a glance and nodded. ‘He should be a bit more careful.’ He got out his mobile and snapped a photo. ‘Must think he’s invincible.’
Chantal squatted down near a plastic shopping bag. A pair of jeans, some shorts and T-shirts. ‘Looks like he’s bought this lot here.’ She padded over to Gordon Brownlee’s side of the room. Neat piles of clothes, a trolley suitcase, coins ordered by denomination. Much less chaotic.
‘Shite.’
She swung round.
Hunter held up the jeans, gripping them with a towel. A brown pill bottle poked out of the back pocket. He shook it out and Chantal picked it up between a pair of teaspoons, her tongue sticking out with the effort. A silhouetted image of a man, side on, standing up and penetrating a woman bending forward in front of him.
“HEAVEN”
(THE ORIGINAL U.S.A.)
GHB
PURE ECSTACY
Blood boiled in Chantal’s veins. A smoking gun against Tulloch.
But… Jesus. That’s how the guy thought.
Didn’t explain how someone like Paisley could fall for his charms without chemical assistance.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the logo. A bloody typo on the bottle, too. Ecstasy, you raping arseholes. ‘How the hell did he get that into the country?’
‘Maybe bought it here.’ Hunter shrugged the pills back into the jeans, then dropped them back on the bag. ‘Come on, we can’t be here.’
Chantal followed him back out into the courtyard. ‘Did you find anything that points to where he is?’
‘Sweet FA.’
She hit dial and put her phone to her ear.
‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma gave a massive sigh. ‘I told your partner, two o’clock.’
‘Listen, we’ve reason to believe there is direct evidence supporting the rape allegation.’
Quaresma’s sigh was even bigger this time. ‘What?’
‘We believe Tulloch had some Rohypnol.’
‘Wait there.’ Click.
Chantal pocketed her phone. ‘He’s sending someone over.’
‘Finally.’ Hunter huffed out a breath. ‘So we’re guarding it until they get here?’
‘You got a better plan?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Brownlee isn’t here.’
‘So?’
‘So, assume he comes back and sees us here. He must know we’re cops by now. He’ll tell Tulloch and he’ll piss off out of here.’
‘Assuming he’s not gone already.’
‘You want to take that chance?’
She grabbed his shoulder. ‘Right, go over to the bar and see if they’re there, okay? Then wait out front, while I guard here. There’s only one way up. If you see him, warn me, okay?’
54
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter leaned against the front wall of the hotel and put his phone to his ear, listening to it ring. The bar was heaving now, not even noon and the shots were out.
Typical Brits abroad. Must make the rest of the EU so proud of us. Maybe a vote to leave in next month’s referendum would spare the continent the worst of our behaviour. Doubt it. Probably make it worse.
Chantal answered the phone. He couldn’t see her from there. ‘Room’s still empty, Craig. Any sign of the cops?’
‘Not yet. Negative on Brownlee, too.’ Hunter looked up and down the street. No police cars, just the occasional taxi winding past the row of coaches. ‘Five minutes and Quaresma’s getting another call.’
‘Better go.’ Click.
Hunter pocketed his phone. Bloody Quaresma.
A Mercedes taxi pulled up and a man stepped out, jacket and jeans, his black shoes gleaming in the sunlight. Looked totally out of place with the sagging bodies tucking in at the bar. The driver lugged out a set of golf clubs and he trundled them inside, the passenger strolling ahead of him.
‘Wa-haaaay!’
Four topless men wobbled about the bar area, half muscle, half flab. They downed drinks then tossed plastic shot glasses in the air, raining down on a middle-aged couple tucking into a bottle of red.
Too polite to say anything, their ears going the same colour as their Rioja.
Gordon Brownlee left the bar, carrying another tray of shots, blinking in the glare as he set the drinks down on the table.
Hunter took another look around. No cars approaching. Not much drone from the main road. He scanned through Brownlee’s mates — Tulloch and Matty weren’t there.
There was a third guy while Tulloch was spiking that girl’s drinks… Where was he?
He tapped out a text to Chantal:
GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.
Then he thought about whether to actually go through with it.
Sod it, here goes. Another check of the road and he walked over to lean across the fence. ‘Hey, Gordon?’
Brownlee gave a nod back and toasted him. ‘Alright, mate.’ Clearly didn’t recognise him. Matty and Tulloch hadn’t passed on anything about them. He downed the shot and strolled over, lugging a pint. ‘What’s up?’
‘Tried catching up with Sean last night, but I couldn’t find him.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seen him today?’
Brownlee shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Not since first thing.’
Hunter nodded slowly. ‘You’re rooming with him, right?’
Brownlee squinted at him. ‘Aye.’ Could almost see the cogs whirring through his eyes. He got up and leaned on the fence, almost face-to-face with Hunter. ‘You seem in an awful big hurry to see big Sean.’
‘Fly back home tomorrow and I’ve not seen the prick. Not seen him in ages.’
‘Right. Aye, well, he crawled back into the room in the wee small hours, you know?’
So where the hell is he?
Hunter flashed a grin. ‘Still a shagger, eh?’
‘Tell me about it. Not that I can talk.’ Brownlee laughed. ‘Out at the tits till the back of four.’
Hunter gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Which one did you go to?’
‘First one at the crossing. Classy place.’ Brownlee gulped at his lager and bared his teeth. ‘Anyhoo, Sean’ll still be with Matty.’ He shook his head. ‘Dirty big bastard was up in my room at eight this morning, off his tits. Said he’d got back at six but couldn’t sleep. Got hold of some sniff, probably. Sean perked up and they started tucking into it.’
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
‘I was pretending I was asleep. Those two pricks snorting coke and dancing to tartan techno on Sean’s phone. Then big Geordie Keith pitched up with a bottle of voddie.’ He took a swig of lager. Looked like it wasn’t settling very easily. ‘They went off to the pub at half eight, no sign of them since, likes.’ He checked his watch. ‘They’ll head back soon for a kip, I reckon.’
A spear of pain stung Hunter’s gut.
Chantal was up at the room. Three huge squaddies against her.
You stupid bastard.
55
CHANTAL<
br />
* * *
Chantal stood outside their room, eyes trained on Tulloch’s door, phone against her ear. ‘Still no sign of them, Shaz.’ She did another scan. Bloody nothing. ‘Craig went to wait by the bar. Not heard from him.’
‘Well, there’s nothing I can do, Chantal.’ Sharon sounded like she was out and about, wind rustling leaves. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thought you’d like to know.’
‘I’ve got better things to do on my day off than this shite. Not that I’m getting any time off.’
Chantal’s phone buzzed with a text. She didn’t check it. ‘Sorry, but— Shite.’
A man was approaching Tulloch’s room, swaying about as he staggered. Absolutely shit-faced. Carrying a chemist’s bag. Christ knows what was in it. He leaned his head against the door frame and knocked. ‘Gogs!’
Gogs?
Gordon?
Shite, he was looking for Gordon Brownlee.
‘I’ve got to go.’ She killed the call and pocketed her phone.
‘Gogs! Come on, mate! Party’s getting started!’ Sounded like a Newcastle accent. He swung back round and faced her. Shite. It was the third guy from the bar last night. The third drink spiker. He locked eyes with her but looked right through. ‘Right, get your cock away, you big poof, I’m coming in!’
The evidence! Shite!
Chantal darted across the quad towards him. ‘Here, mate.’
His hand rested on the door. He gave her the up and down, stopping to linger on her boobs. ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
‘Gordon was looking for you?’
‘Aye?’ He pawed at the door, swaying. ‘Thought he was here. Was this morning, anyway.’
‘I was supposed to be meeting him and Sean at the hotel bar.’
He frowned. ‘Who’re you?’
‘Jane.’ She stood far enough away and held out a hand.
He lunged forward and reached out to kiss her hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Jane.’ He burped out vodka fumes. ‘I’m Keith.’
