by Ed James
A figure got out of the car, hooded by the glow of the squad car’s lights. ‘Evening, Craig.’ Sounded like Elvis. ‘Chantal.’
She got in the back seat without a word and sat, arms folded tight across her chest. Bruce got in next to her, grumbling about something or other.
Hunter joined Elvis, his face appearing through the glow. ‘What happened?’
Elvis opened the passenger door but stopped Hunter entering. ‘You could thank me.’
‘What for?’
‘I didn’t tell her nibs about you and Chantal.’ Elvis pushed his index finger through a hole made from his thumb and other index finger. ‘Alright?’
‘Get in the bloody car, you clown.’ Hunter barged past him and got in the back.
Bruce was manspreading, pushing his legs into the door.
A local officer was behind the wheel. He tore off across the tarmac before Hunter had his belt on.
He clicked it in. ‘What’s been going on here, Paul?’
Elvis was in the front, his seat pushed all the bloody way back. He twisted round and flashed his eyebrows. ‘First time in years you’ve called me Paul.’ He held out a hand to Bruce. ‘DC Paul Gordon. Pleasure to meet you, sir.’
Bruce fished out his mobile and stabbed at the screen with his thumbs.
Hunter almost laughed. ‘I asked if there’s been any progress?’
Elvis had huffed back round, like a surly teenager. ‘You know the drill. Usual amount of nothing.’
The car rattled to a halt just in front of the terminal. Chantal was out first, racing towards the security guards.
Hunter got out and nodded thanks at the uniformed officer. He scowled at Elvis. ‘How the hell did you lose Tulloch?’
Elvis led inside the building as a fresh gust of wind blew through them. He waved a hand at Chantal ahead of them as she caught up with DI McNeill. ‘Swear, mate, this lot take forever to do anything.’
‘They’ve got a different agenda.’
‘Maybe.’ Elvis scratched at his sideburns as he held the door open. ‘Mind in CID, we’d get a new case every week, always something to do. Got the blood pumping.’
‘Right. Sort of.’ Hunter’s gaze switched over to Chantal as McNeill shook her head in a fury. Much rather be over there.
Elvis gave him a sly look. ‘Take it you were banging, aye?’
‘Piss off.’
Elvis paced over towards them. ‘Nice wee romantic break on the expenses. Good effort.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ Hunter grabbed his shoulders. ‘How the hell did Tulloch get on that flight without you knowing?’
Elvis wriggled away from him. ‘Search me, mate.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve not been sacked.’
Elvis scowled at him. ‘Bullshit.’
Hunter gripped his shoulders. ‘You dropped a clanger, mate. Only monitoring Scottish airports.’
‘What?’ Elvis shrugged Hunter off and set off down the corridor. ‘That’s bollocks.’ He stopped a few metres from Chantal. ‘We had all UK and Irish airports hooked up to our laptops. And the bloody ports, even Rosyth. The north of France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, you name it, I can see the manifests. Newcastle United flew down to Southampton ahead of tomorrow’s match. Doubt they’ll stay up this season.’
‘I don’t give a shite about Newcastle United.’ Hunter got a glare off a passing security guard. ‘I want to know how a Geordie DI found Tulloch on a flight back to Newcastle and you didn’t?’
‘No idea, mate.’
Hunter frowned.
That DI with the eyebrows, the twat who was always doing triathlons, stood there, next to Scott bloody Cullen.
Hunter groaned. ‘That’s all I bloody need.’
Day 4
Sunday
15th May
89
CHANTAL
* * *
‘We’re nowhere, Chantal, and that’s the brutal truth.’ Sharon looked lost, her eyes blinking slow, her breath slower. ‘He’s got off that plane, then poof, he’s disappeared into thin air.’
Chantal looked around the area. Ten or more security guards lingered around, coupled with some uniformed cops. She felt her shoulders drop. ‘How did they let him go?’
‘One of those things, I suppose.’
Chantal wanted to grab hold of her and shake her. ‘Right, so what are you doing about it?’
‘Me? It’s not my—’
‘Sharon McNeill.’ Bruce barged in between them, like James Bond at a cocktail reception, eyes twinkling with mischief and a hint of menace. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Not long enough, Jon.’
‘Charming as ever.’ He winked at her. ‘You got a minute?’
‘Fine.’ Sharon followed him away.
Hunter appeared, scowling over at Scott Cullen, skulking around with a couple of DCs. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Chantal grimaced. ‘Sharon’s managed to get Colin Methven’s team on loan for this. We need help here.’
‘More chiefs. Great.’ Hunter nodded over at their huddle. ‘Have they got anything on Tulloch?’
‘That’s the thing. He got off the plane before they could lock it down. They think he’s still in the airport.’
‘Think?’
‘Well…’ Chantal put her hand on her hip. ‘I’m as pissed off as you, believe me. They’re interviewing the staff and security to find out what happened.’
‘That plane landed hours ago!’
‘I know, Craig.’
Cullen walked over, nodding at Hunter. ‘Evening.’
Hunter couldn’t even look at him. ‘How the hell have you let him off that plane?’
‘It’s not my fault, mate.’ Cullen put his hands up. ‘Besides, his passport didn’t get swiped at the controls.’
Hunter shut his eyes, rubbing his temple. ‘He doesn’t need to show a passport!’
90
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter raced down the corridor, shaking his head. ‘Schoolboy error, Scott.’
‘You need to call me sergeant if you’re going to be a twat like that.’ Cullen pushed open the door and let Hunter go first. ‘He’s in here.’
DC Simon Buxton sat at a laptop. Cockney wanker and Cullen’s right-hand man. He frowned at Hunter, recognition flickering over his forehead. ‘Alright, mate? Not seen you in donkeys.’
‘Have you got him?’
Buxton nodded at Cullen. ‘I’ve got that property search, Scott. Nothing on either Matty Ibbetson or Sean Tulloch.’
‘Neither own property. Right.’ Cullen leaned in close. ‘Have you got the CCTV of that flight’s passengers getting through?’
Buxton tapped on the monitor. ‘Here we go.’
Thing was on fast forward, quadruple speed at least. A queue of holidaymakers wound its way up to passport control, still wearing their shorts and summer dresses like they weren’t back in northern Britain and could keep the holiday going forever.
Hunter scanned through the crowd, eyes weaving through the faces. Barely anyone over six foot, let alone— Wait— A hulk stood near the gate.
‘Stop!’
Buxton hit the space bar on the laptop. ‘What?’
Hunter drew a circle on the monitor around a big guy, just a grainy collection of pixels. Squint hard enough and it was a squaddie type. Shorts and T-shirts, huge. ‘That’s him there.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s Tulloch.’
‘What?’ Buxton squinted at the screen. ‘Shit… You sure?’
‘Trust me, he’s kicked the shit out of me enough times for me to recognise him.’ Hunter tapped the display again. ‘That is Sean Tulloch.’
Buxton’s eyes pleaded with Cullen. ‘He didn’t show up on the passport database.’
‘He wouldn’t.’ Hunter leaned back in the seat and stared over at Cullen. ‘He’s used his MOD90.’ He reached past Buxton and hit play.
On the screen, Tulloch flashed his card at the guard and had a quick chat, then he headed through to Arriv
als.
‘See? He waltzed right through…’ Hunter looked at Buxton. ‘What other CCTV have you got on this?’
The screen flipped to show Tulloch marching through the place like he was on parade. He walked right to the front door and waited in the taxi queue. Another burly squaddie joined him outside, his face hidden by a comedy hat. A third figure appeared, even bigger, his identity lost in a grey hoodie.
Tenner says one of them is Matty Ibbetson.
A car pulled up next to them. The second one took off his hat and leaned in to speak to the driver. It was Big Keith, Tulloch’s mate. The one with the knife, the one who was going to gut Hunter. He got in the back of the car.
Hunter tapped the screen, his finger dulling the display over the silver Skoda. ‘Find that car!’
Hunter tightened his grip on the “oh shit” handle above the door as Cullen threw them around another tight bend. ‘Your driving hasn’t improved any.’
‘You love it.’ Cullen glanced over, a maniacal grin on his face. ‘Have they surrounded the house yet?’
Hunter let go of the handle enough to stick his phone to his ear. ‘Elvis, have you got an update on—’ Another tight turn pushed him towards the door. Hard to believe they were on a main road. ‘—on that address in Otterburn?’
‘You okay, Craig?’
‘Give me an update.’
‘Aye, checking now.’ Sounded like Elvis cracked his knuckles. ‘Sorry, dude, I’ll need to get back to you.’
‘Right.’ Hunter put the phone back on his lap and snatched hold of the grab handle again. ‘Useless sod.’
‘Elvis?’ Cullen’s grin was lit up by his Golf’s dashboard. ‘I warned Sharon about taking him on.’
‘And still she took him on, eh?’
‘Cheeky bastard.’ Cullen gave the tightest shrug as he veered out to overtake a coach. Oncoming headlights blared at them, so he pulled in and hugged the back of it. ‘She wants someone who can do all that CCTV analysis in-house.’ A car blitzed past. ‘You’re not exactly great at it, are you?’
‘And you are?’ Hunter couldn’t help his eyebrows shooting up. ‘I remember having to show you how to log on more than once.’
‘I got there in the end but I’m a sergeant now, so I get you drones to do it for me.’
‘Drone, eh?’
‘You know what I mean.’ Cullen pulled out into the grey blankness of the oncoming carriageway and hurtled towards the front of the bus. Headlights flashed a few hundred metres ahead of them.
Hunter’s hands gripped tighter.
Cullen tugged the wheel back in with metres to spare. Worse driving than Chantal. He patted the dashboard. ‘The GTI’s worth the extra, believe me.’
‘Take your word for it.’
‘So how much further?’
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Hunter picked up his mobile. Still nothing from Elvis. The map app showed five miles. ‘Not far.’
‘Right, well I’ll overtake this lorry, then.’ Cullen swerved out and blasted past, straw flaring out both sides. ‘Need to keep this from the insurance company.’
‘What, that you’re driving like an idiot?’
‘That I’m driving it at all on police business.’
‘No pool cars?’
Cullen’s head shake betrayed his disappointment. ‘Fat Keith’s down to the last Vauxhall.’
‘What about the Volvo?’
‘Buxton wrote it off last month.’
‘Twat.’
Cullen laughed. ‘Anyway. You guys have a nice romantic break?’
Don’t rise to it…
Hunter looked over. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You and Chantal. Did you have a nice romantic break in the Algarve?’
‘Piss off, Scott. The Portuguese cop we were working with kept mugging us off and I got seven shades of shite kicked out of me by a dirty, raping bastard.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘You’re welcome to.’ Hunter flicked up his phone and checked the display. ‘So, you busy?’
‘Just finished a nightmare case. The worst sort. You know how it is. Too many heroes and not enough villains.’
‘I’d ask for more, but I can’t be arsed.’
‘You’ll find out someday, don’t you worry.’ Cullen shot him a wink. ‘When you get your stripes.’
‘Again, piss off, Scott.’
‘Piss off, Sergeant Cullen.’
‘You’re a vain idiot.’ Hunter shook his head at him. ‘You should’ve known about the MOD90.’
‘You should maybe have told us?’
Dozy git.
Hunter’s phone blasted out the drill sound and he put it to his ear. ‘Elvis?’
‘Aye, local uniform have surrounded that house, Craig.’
‘You got the name of the owner?’
‘Not yet. We’ve got the warrant, though. The local sergeant has it.’
‘Noted. Tell them not to move in until we get there, okay? These guys are dangerous.’
‘Aye, noted.’ Sounded like Elvis was actually writing it down.
‘Have you found that taxi driver yet?’
‘Finished speaking to the local uniform up in Morpeth. Sounds like a straight street pick-up. You okay to let him go?’
‘Clear it with DI McNeill first.’ Hunter spotted the town lights in the valley below them. ‘We’re almost there. Can you let the local squad know?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
Hunter’s mouth went dry. ‘That’s not very funny.’
Hunter looked up and down the street, concrete blocks of misery lining both sides. The windows were all dark except for one at the other end by the broken streetlights, death metal screaming and grinding blaring out.
Hunter scanned the warrant with his torch. Looked fine. He flashed it twice and waited.
Seconds later, he got a flash from the two units halfway down.
Cullen spoke into his Airwave radio. ‘Serial bravo, this is serial alpha. We are moving in. Repeat, moving in. Maintain the perimeter.’
‘Roger.’
Cullen took the warrant and waved at Hunter to go first.
He snapped out a borrowed police baton and crept forward, keeping to the height of the breeze-block wall. The bitter north-east air cut at his neck.
The downstairs windows were misted up with condensation, a bare light bulb burning in the living room. A large figure loomed in the dim glow then disappeared again.
Hunter waved forward. ‘Right. Let’s get in there.’ He jumped over the wall and landed on cracked tarmac. He clicked off his torch and left it on the wall then moved towards the house, brandishing the baton.
The two Northumbria police uniforms flanked Elvis as they neared the house. He gestured for them to head round the back. Elvis gave a nod like he knew what he was doing.
Cullen hunkered down next to him, unfolding the warrant. ‘You’re in charge here, okay?’
‘Fine.’ A short blast of static on the Airwave and Hunter darted over to the front door. He gave it the policeman’s knock.
Nothing.
Then louder. ‘Police! Open up!’
A light across the street flicked on. The house door stayed shut.
Hunter leaned over to Cullen. ‘Have we got an Enforcer?’
‘No.’
Bolts behind the door clicked and rattled. Then it opened to a crack, a shaft of yellow light bled over the grey pavement. An eye peered out at them. ‘What?’
Cullen inched Hunter out of the way. ‘Mr Brannigan, police. We need a word with you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Can we do this inside, please, sir?’
‘No, you can’t.’
Cullen held up the sheet of paper. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search these premises.’
‘You’re not getting in.’
Hunter barged in front of Cullen. ‘Is Sean Tulloch there?’
The door slammed against Cullen’s toes. ‘Ah, shite!’
/> Hunter lurched forward and rammed his shoulder against the painted wood. Felt like a bull was pushing the other side. Cullen joined in and the door jolted back the way, cracking off the wall.
Big Keith lay on his back, groaning. ‘You bastards…’ He pushed himself up to a sitting position and reached to the side for something. Steel glinted in the low light.
Hunter smacked his baton off Keith’s wrist. Something metallic clanged on the laminate, rattling as it rolled. He pounced, landing on Keith and digging the baton into his throat. ‘Where is Tulloch?’
‘Piss off, you pig bastard.’ Keith reached for the bread knife lying against the maroon skirting. ‘I’ll fucking gut you!’
‘Where. Is. Ibbetson?’
Keith coughed hard as Hunter put more of his weight on the baton. Fingers grabbed at him from behind — Cullen.
Hunter shrugged him off and applied more weight. ‘Where are they?’
Keith sputtered something out.
Hunter let the pressure slacken off a touch. ‘What was that?’
‘Sean’s took my bloody car. Thought that was him coming back.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Not telling you that.’
‘Who else was with you?’
Keith scowled at him. ‘What?’
‘Three of you got into that taxi.’
‘Fuck off.’
Hunter’s gut lurched. It was Matty. Had to be him. ‘Was it Matty Ibbetson?’
‘Fuck. Off.’
‘You’ll tell us now or down the station.’
Keith held out his hands in a cuff gesture, or as close as he could get with a cop sitting on his chest. ‘Milk and two while we’re waiting for my lawyer.’
Big Keith’s shoulders slumped as a pair of uniforms led him over to the idling squad car. A smirk flashed across his lips as he was pushed inside.
Thumps and thuds came from inside the house. The least careful search in the history of modern policing. Not likely to turn up Sean Tulloch or Matty Ibbetson, though.
