Craig Hunter Books 1-3

by Ed James

  ‘I’ve got to change my knickers.’ Chantal winked at him. ‘Gordon’s getting a round in.’

  ‘I was going to get a kip, but…’ Keith leered at her. ‘Bugger it, I’ll see you over there, pet!’

  56

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Need to get away…

  Hunter nodded at Brownlee, sweat trickling down his forehead. Far too bloody hot, the sun felt Iraq strong. ‘What bar do you reckon they’re in?’

  Brownlee took another swig of lager. ‘Any. All.’

  ‘Cheers, dude.’ Hunter set off.

  He bumped into a big lump of gristle and rugby. Eyes like holes in the snow, if they were deep red. Stank of neat vodka. ‘Alreet, Gogs, how’s it gannin’, mate?’ Thick Geordie accent.

  ‘Keith, my man.’ Brownlee slapped his arm. Looked like it took a layer of sunburnt skin off. ‘You met Craig? He served with Sean in Kandahar.’

  Keith eyed Hunter, gave him an ocular pat-down. ‘Aye?’

  Shite.

  Tulloch’s other accomplice from the bar last night.

  Hunter nodded, struggling to keep his breath under control. ‘We did Operation Diablo Reach Back. Must be 2006?’

  ‘2006?’ Keith straightened up, twisting his head to the side. ‘You sure Sean was there?’

  Hunter’s guts churned. He grinned. ‘He was just a pup.’

  ‘Little virgin back then.’ Keith held out his hand. ‘Keith Brannigan.’ He burped vodka fumes.

  ‘Craig Hunter.’

  Brownlee sank the last of his pint. ‘Craig was asking after Sean.’

  ‘Keep clear of that wanker.’ Keith opened a chemist’s paper bag and took out some eye drops. He dropped some into his left eye and blinked hard and fast. ‘Had me contacts in two nights on a row. Feels like I’m going blind, man.’

  ‘You seen Sean?’

  ‘I tell you, I was seeing two of him after last night.’ Keith squirted into the other eye. Then another squirt. ‘Went up to that bar on the corner for breakfast. Cheap something or other. Matty bought a bottle of absinthe over the counter.’ He belched. ‘We finished it.’

  Brownlee reached back for another pint of lager. ‘After that voddie?’

  ‘You keeping a tab, Gogs?’

  ‘Not me.’

  Hunter thumbed behind them. ‘Sean still up there?’

  ‘Nah, mate.’ Keith scowled at Brownlee. ‘You know what Sean’s like. Fired into the waitress in there, chatting her up till her shift ended. Bought her a drink, then she started doing shots of absinthe with us.’

  Tulloch plus women plus alcohol means trouble.

  Hunter nodded slowly. ‘Did he get lucky?’

  ‘Bird was all over him, man.’ Keith put his eye drops back in the bag and blinked hard. ‘I’m fucked.’ He rubbed his thumbs deep into his eyes. ‘Either of you got any Valium?’

  ‘Clean out.’ Hunter did a fake pat-down and huffed out air. ‘I’ll maybe take a walk up there. Might surprise him.’

  Keith nodded, but his eyes were all over the tray of pints on the table behind.

  ‘Right, I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Not so bloody fast.’ Keith grabbed hold of Hunter’s T-shirt and glowered at him. He scowled at Brownlee. ‘Gogs, who is this prick?’

  Brownlee opened his eyes wide. ‘Said he’s a mate of Sean’s.’

  Keith stepped forward, looming over Hunter. ‘Who are you?’

  Take him down now? That’ll just make him clam up.

  Hunter caught a flash of white from the left, over Keith’s hulking shoulder. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll be on my way.’

  Keith took another handful of Hunter’s shirt. ‘Who the fuck are you, mate?’

  Hunter got in Keith’s face. ‘Where is he?’

  Booze breath swept across Hunter’s face. ‘Fuck off.’

  Hunter gripped his wrist and twisted through, pinning it to Keith’s back. ‘Where is he?’ He jerked it up. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Sir.’ A uniform tried to wrest Keith away. The lantern-jawed woman from the previous night. Didn’t seem to recognise any of them.

  Keith didn’t budge.

  ‘Sir, step away from him.’

  Hunter tightened the grip.

  ‘He’s gone to a bird’s fucking flat!’

  The cop pushed Hunter back. ‘Get off him!’

  Hunter let go. ‘Which flat?’

  ‘Up at that bar! Cheap and something!’

  57

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  Chantal scanned around the area. Still no bloody cops. Still no sign of Tulloch or Matty. Or Brownlee. So many squaddies, all up to their necks in it.

  She fished out her phone. Nothing from Hunter since…

  That text. She checked the message again.

  GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.

  And she’d just sent Keith down there.

  She jogged off towards the bar. No sign of Hunter. A police car sat on the road, the blue lights flashing.

  A horn blared and a black Audi pulled up next to her. Quaresma got out, stretching out his long coat. ‘Sergeant.’

  A stark choice — preserve the evidence or help Craig?

  Chantal held up her hands. ‘We’ve got something.’ She started walking. ‘This way.’

  Quaresma followed her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We need you to secure the room.’ She stopped by the room and pointed into it. ‘We have some intel that he’s got some GHB in there. Date rape drugs.’

  Quaresma nibbled at his lips. ‘And you think this supports the accusation last night?’

  ‘It’ll add to the girls’ statements.’

  Quaresma looked away.

  She grabbed his coat. ‘You have taken statements?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Chantal sucked in a deep breath. ‘Tulloch has raped someone on your territory. Why aren’t you arresting him?’

  Quaresma’s eyes shifted in the sockets. ‘Sergeant, we are—’

  ‘Sir!’ Behind Quaresma, a female uniformed officer pulled Hunter down the pavement. Lantern-jawed and focused. ‘We have situation.’

  Quaresma marched over and grabbed Hunter by the lapels. ‘What do you think you are doing, Constable?’

  Hunter nodded at Chantal then pointed up at the main road. ‘I know where Tulloch is!’

  58

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter swung round, fists clenched.

  Tulloch isn’t getting away this time, no random assaults, no saved-by-the-bell bullshit. Just him in cuffs, heading back to Scotland.

  The bar’s veranda was rammed with early boozers. José the barman was clearing up a beer pitcher from the nearest table, frowning at a man in black jeans and a Slipknot hoodie holding a support column and vomiting into a heap in the corner.

  Hunter bounded up the steps and grabbed José. Sweat and stale lager mixed with the acidic sick stink. ‘Has Sean Tulloch been here?’

  José looked over at Quaresma’s Audi. Then gave a tight nod. ‘He was here.’

  ‘You didn’t think to call me, like we agreed?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Was he talking to a barmaid?’

  ‘Luisa.’ José nodded. ‘Get on like the house on fire.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  José pointed to the side. ‘Third one along, top floor.’

  An alleyway ran past the bar, lined with lock-up garages, a stone wall about thirty metres back.

  Quaresma joined them. ‘Do we have him?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Hunter stamped down the steps and beckoned for the uniforms to follow them down the lane. Tall blocks of flats loomed up past the garages. Third one along, top floor. Looked like holiday apartments.

  Hunter jogged down the street and climbed the steps to the front door. ‘This one here.’

  Quaresma joined him on the veranda and grabbed his wrist. ‘This is on your head, my friend.’ He nodded at him then tried the door handle. ‘Okay.
I lead, remember?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Hunter held up his hands and stepped back.

  The first uniform piled in, leaving the second on guard.

  Hunter followed Quaresma in and powered up the stairs to the third floor. Three doors.

  Bollocks.

  Quaresma scowled at him. ‘Which one?’

  Hunter put his ear to the first. Quiet as the grave. Then he moved over to the middle door. Muffled screams came from inside. ‘Here.’

  ‘Stand back.’ Quaresma waited for Hunter to comply and knocked on the door. ‘Esta é a polícia. Abrir!’

  No response.

  Another knock. ‘This is the police. Open up!’

  Again, nothing.

  ‘We enter now!’ Quaresma twirled his fingers at the uniform. ‘Quebre a porta!’

  The local cop stepped back and launched himself at the door shoulder first. It toppled into the flat and the uniform tumbled in after it. He rolled out of the way.

  Quaresma was in first, Hunter following.

  Sunlight streamed into the hallway from a kitchen lounge area, misted by something that smelled a lot like skunk.

  The scream was louder, came from a closed door to the right.

  Quaresma tugged it open.

  Tulloch was on the bed, naked. He held his hand over a woman’s mouth, thrusting hard and fast. ‘You like that, don’t you?’

  59

  CHANTAL

  * * *

  ‘What’s your name?’ Chantal stood by Tulloch’s apartment door, guarding entry.

  Hope that Craig’s getting somewhere with whatever bullshit he’s up to.

  The lantern-jawed uniform worked her way around the room, her blue gloves almost strobing in the sunlight. ‘Elena.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Elena.’ Chantal looked back out into the quad. A pair of lads in jeans ran towards the stairs carrying a giant inflatable dolphin. Pair of wankers. ‘You find anything?’

  ‘This.’ Elena held up the bottle of GHB. Her male partner noted it down on a clipboard. She bared her teeth. ‘Dirty man who is sleeping here.’

  Chantal exhaled like it was the first time she’d seen it. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘We see this a lot.’ Elena shook the bottle and popped it into an evidence bag. ‘Your men come here and make women have sex with them.’

  ‘I work in a sexual offences unit back home.’

  A smile flashed across Elena’s face. ‘That is good.’

  ‘When we can put someone away, aye.’ Chantal waved around the room. ‘The man who stays here, he’s wanted for—’

  ‘Hoy!’ The voice came from behind Chantal. A hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back.

  She stumbled over and landed on her side. Crunched her hip against the mosaic.

  Gordon Brownlee stood over her. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my room?’

  Chantal pushed herself up to a crab position, ready to kick out. ‘We’re searching it.’

  ‘Aye, have you got a warrant?’

  Elena appeared in the doorway. ‘I don’t need one.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Brownlee’s eyes darted around. Prick’s going to make a run for it.

  Chantal swept out with her left leg and jabbed her heel into his shin.

  Brownlee fell backwards and cracked his head off the wall. He landed on Chantal, squeezed all the air out of her lungs. Somehow, he got a punch into her side. Then her stomach.

  ‘Enough!’ Elena lashed out with her baton and clattered it off Brownlee’s skull. He slumped down, knocked out.

  Chantal pushed him off and eased herself up with Elena’s hand. ‘Thanks for the save.’

  ‘Is not a problem.’ She prodded Brownlee with her baton. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Chantal caught her breath. Her gut felt like it was on fire. ‘I’ll heal in time.’

  Elena held up the bag. ‘Drug is maybe his?’

  Chantal ran the logic through and got a better idea. She took Elena’s cuffs and wrapped them round Brownlee’s wrist. ‘He’s a witness to a rape.’

  60

  HUNTER

  * * *

  Hunter stepped into the room. ‘Stop!’

  Tulloch swung round and clocked him, clocked the local cops too. ‘Shite!’ He pulled out of the girl and darted off to the side. The condom barely went halfway up his penis. ‘Fuck off!’

  Quaresma jumped forward and grabbed Tulloch by the throat. ‘Mr Tulloch, come with me.’

  The girl hauled the duvet over her, curling into a tight ball. Luisa Oliveira, the barmaid they spoke to the previous afternoon.

  Tulloch struggled back against Quaresma, wriggling around.

  Quaresma pulled Tulloch’s arm round his back. ‘You. Are. Coming. With. Me!’

  Tulloch rolled forward across the bed and let Quaresma cuff him. ‘This is bullshit.’

  The girl darted out of the bedroom, heading for the bathroom.

  Hunter stood over the bed, wanting to crack Tulloch in the back of the head, smother him in the pillow. Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Sean Tulloch, once you’re back at the police station, I’m going to place you under arrest.’

  Tulloch’s face was pressed against the duvet. He still managed to shoot a glare at Hunter. ‘You’re a fucking cop?’

  ‘You’re coming back to Scotland with me.’

  ‘What for?’ Quaresma flipped Tulloch over and helped him to his feet, his half-swollen penis flapping around. ‘You want a portion of my ten-inch cock, eh?’

  ‘You’re not my type.’

  ‘I’ve seen your type. Dirty little Paki bitch, eh?’

  Hunter took one look around the room. Kick Tulloch in the balls. Make him scream like a pig. Lash out again and again, keep kicking until Tulloch was a eunuch. Until he couldn’t get an erection. Until he didn’t have a cock.

  Quaresma yanked Tulloch to his feet. ‘Enough!’

  61

  The car park was a lot quieter than the last time, barely recognisable. Hunter couldn’t spot any of the reporters. They’d either gone home after no news or were just off drinking somewhere. The white building was blinding in the sunshine. Two uniformed cops stood by the entrance, arguing with angry tourists.

  Chantal was standing by a squad car, scowling as a female officer helped Gordon Brownlee out of the back.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Hunter opened the door and tried to get out.

  Quaresma grabbed his wrist. ‘You’re not playing ball, Constable.’

  Hunter brushed him away. ‘You need to start letting us do our jobs.’

  ‘Your job is working with me.’ Quaresma waved at the squad car next to them. Two local cops helped Tulloch out of the back. Their black uniforms and hats sucked in the sunlight. Tulloch’s shorts and T-shirt seemed to glow. ‘I saw in your eyes what you wanted to do to him.’

  ‘Someone should’ve done that a long time ago.’ Hunter got out into the baking heat. Much worse this side of town, this far from the beach.

  Another squad car pulled up. Looked like it had Tulloch’s latest victim in the back, though her hair shrouded her face. Luisa, is that her name?

  Chantal stood there and nodded. ‘You okay?’

  Hunter wanted to rush over and grab her, then hold her tight. But stayed at a distance. ‘Almost.’

  She frowned at him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Hunter folded his arms and leaned back against Quaresma’s car. ‘What’s the plan?’

  Quaresma rested his hands on top of the Audi. Bloody asbestos fingers. He nodded over at the car next to them. ‘I am going to interview Luisa. This supposed victim of Mr Tulloch.’

  ‘Supposed?’ Hunter scowled at him. ‘You saw him raping her.’

  ‘I saw sexual intercourse, Mr Hunter. Whether it was consensual, we shall identify.’

  ‘It was rape.’ Hunter rubbed at his cheek. Felt like it was on bloody fire. ‘Look, I want to interview Tulloch.’

  ‘If I let, you will leave?
’

  ‘Of course.’

  Quaresma shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘You want to join me?’

  ‘It will be recorded.’ Quaresma clapped Chantal’s shoulder. ‘Your sergeant and I will have a word with Luisa, yes? See if we can get the truth from her.’

  I wanted to take him back to Scotland. Now. The next flight out of Faro. I’d settle for Newcastle, Glasgow, Prestwick.

  But he’s committed a crime here. He should go away for that.

  Quaresma nodded slowly as he jabbed a finger at Hunter’s sternum. ‘When we get the European Arrest Warrant through. Until then, Mr Tulloch will stay here.’ He gave Chantal a wink. ‘Come on, Sergeant, let’s see how the masters in Scotland do it, yes?’ He marched off across the dusty mosaic.

  Hunter glared at him as he went. ‘Tell me there’s no point in arguing with him.’

  ‘There’s none, Craig. Play it through and see how it all looks at the end.’

  ‘Right.’ He frowned at Chantal. ‘Why’s Brownlee here?’

  ‘Well, he assaulted me for starters.’ She switched her glare to Quaresma. ‘And he’s a witness to Tulloch raping Heather Latimer yesterday morning.’ She flapped a hand over at the building as Quaresma entered. ‘If this goes tits up, we can fall back on that.’

  ‘Where is Heather?’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to accompany her in.’ Chantal huffed out a sigh. ‘No authority. Usual shit.’ She sighed again. ‘The good news is that Jon Bruce seems to have authority and he’s giving her a lift here.’

  The standard of interview room in the Algarve wasn’t what Hunter was used to. A battered table, four seats. The only recording equipment was a CCTV camera looming overhead, its red light pulsing like a Terminator.