by Ed James
Hunter slumped back against Cullen’s car. Where the hell is Tulloch?
Elvis rested his laptop on the car roof. ‘Craig, your secret’s safe with me.’
‘I’m not bothered about that.’ Hunter’s sigh misted in the air. ‘Tell whoever you want.’
‘Right. Whatever. Tell you, I’m glad to get out. Been a bloody taxi service all day, ferrying that Presley bird back down to Gala.’
Hunter locked eyes with Elvis. ‘Paisley?’
‘Aye, her.’
‘She’s out of hospital?’
‘Doc didn’t recommend it but couldn’t keep her in. Her injuries weren’t life threatening.’ Elvis coughed. ‘Still, double time to drive her home, happy days.’
Paisley was out of hospital.
And Tulloch knew she was blabbering to the cops about him. Because of them. Because…
It can’t be…
His gut churned at the thought. Policeman’s hunch. Not good. But, even so…
He found Paisley’s mobile number and dialled it. It went straight to voicemail.
Ah, you stupid bastard. It’s in the evidence store in Bathgate. He flicked through her contact details. No house number for her. Shite.
Hunter got out his Airwave and called Control. ‘This is DC Craig Hunter, I need a unit to attend Paisley Sanderson’s address in Galashiels.’
Laughter cut through a mouthful of crisps. ‘Aye, good one, son. You know there was an Old Firm match this afternoon, aye? First one in yonks. I’ve got ten cars on tonight in that area, getting their arses handed to them by fans of bloody Glasgow teams.’
‘Right. Can you get me her house number?’
‘I’ll text it to your Airwave.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter killed the call and called Chantal.
She answered slowly. Sounded like she was driving. ‘Hey, you got him?’
Hunter locked eyes with Cullen as he left the house. ‘Not yet.’
‘What does that mean?’ McNeill’s voice. On speakerphone. Better watch what I say.
‘Tulloch’s taken Big Keith’s car.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s a needle in a haystack job. And there’s Old Firm fighting on.’ Hunter watched the car rattle off down the road. ‘We’ll take Keith to Northumbria HQ, might get something out of him there.’
‘Well, I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed.’ Chantal huffed down the line. ‘We’re heading there now. It’s going to be a long night.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait. Matty Ibbetson was with them. He was the third man at the airport.’
‘Right, that’s useful. Speak soon.’ Click.
Cullen looked up from his phone. ‘Elvis is heading back now.’
‘Fine.’ Hunter’s Airwave chimed. A text from Control. He tapped on it and put the Airwave to his ear, waiting for an answer, his heart thudding in his chest.
The phone was answered without a voice, just room sound.
‘Paisley, it’s Craig Hunter. Are you okay?’
Her voice was a whisper. ‘He’s here.’
‘Sean?’
‘Aye.’ Harsh, distorted, desperate. ‘He’s—’
A man shouted, ‘What the fuck is—’
Click.
91
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal got out of the car into the biting wind blasting almost horizontal.
Northumbria Police HQ was lit up in the night, rain streaking past the lights. Stuck between a B&Q and the A19 dual carriageway, heavy trucks spraying rainwater as they headed north. Could be three storeys, could be five, it was all a muddle. Every inch the New Labour PFI, all turquoise glass and breezeblocks.
Bruce got out of the other side and started jogging across the car park. ‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’
‘Wish I’d stayed in Portugal.’ Chantal huddled through the revolving door into the station’s foyer. Could be a bank or insurance company office.
Bruce signed her in and nodded at the guard. ‘Are our guests here yet?’
The guard’s sleeves were rolled up, his arms all tattoos and spirally grey hair. ‘DI McNeill’s in your office. And there’s a taxi driver waiting in interview room six.’
Chantal stopped in the corridor and took a polystyrene cup of what looked like tea but smelled like coffee. ‘Thanks for this.’
Sharon sipped her own drink. ‘What’s with the goggle eyes?’
‘Well, Craig and Scott have got Keith Brannigan. They don’t know where Tulloch is.’ Chantal took a sip. Weak and sour, but warm. She locked eyes with Sharon. ‘And Craig reckons Matty was the third man at the airport.’
‘That’s… interesting.’ Sharon opened a door behind her. Looked like an Incident Room, crowded with fifteen or so officers. ‘Britpop, have you got the taxi driver?’
DC Simon Buxton twisted round to look at them, his hair shaved almost to the bone. His laptop showed CCTV footage of a deserted street. He frowned at Chantal, blushed, then nodded at Sharon. ‘Sorry, what taxi driver?’
‘The one at the bloody airport?’
‘Right, yeah, sorry.’ Buxton shook himself, then thumbed at the door. ‘He turned up about two minutes ago. DI Bruce took him into the interview room.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Britpop? Really?’ Buxton looked disappointed in Sharon. ‘You sound like Bain.’
She walked off down the corridor, sipping tea.
Chantal smiled at Buxton. ‘Nice to see you, Simon.’
Buxton grimaced at her. ‘Yeah, and you.’ His accent was softening, bits of Scottish in amongst the Cockney. ‘You better hurry.’
Sharon was at the end of the corridor now.
Chantal dashed after her, coffee sloshing in her cup.
Sharon was waiting outside, arms folded. ‘What is Brucie Boner doing on our case?’
Chantal finished her coffee and tossed the cup into a bin. ‘Thought you okayed it?’
‘He’s supposed to be finding missing children not leering at us again.’ Sharon shook her head and opened the door.
Northumbria Police clearly didn’t have the same budget as Police Scotland. The room was scabbier than even the ones in Pilton. Bare concrete blocks, a winking strip light hanging lopsided from the ceiling, still stained with nicotine ten years after the ban.
Bruce and one of his cops sat opposite a thin man, streaks of grey at his temples almost like wings. Burgundy cardigan and navy Adidas trackies. Comfort wear.
‘DI McNeill…’ Bruce raised his eyebrows at Sharon. He coughed. ‘This is Lee Curtis, the taxi driver.’
‘I know who he is.’ Sharon took the free space next to Curtis, leaving Chantal to stand. Not that Bruce was gentlemanly enough to get up.
Sharon got out a tattered notebook. ‘We understand you had a collection at the airport this evening.’
‘That’s right, pet.’ Curtis scowled at Elvis. ‘Though I’ve spent the last five minutes telling this chump all about it.’
Sharon smiled at him. ‘Then it should still be fresh in your memory.’
Curtis sighed, deep as the ocean. ‘Right.’ He got out a mobile phone, the sort of flashy bling you’d expect from a teenager in their first full-time job, not a middle-aged cabbie. He stabbed at the screen with a stylus and squinted at it. ‘Aye, I did.’ More stabbing at the display. ‘Dropped two lads in Otterburn, just up the A696. Pretty quiet for that time of—’
‘Was there another passenger?’
‘Aye, took another lad on to Alnwick.’ Curtis rested his phone on the desk. ‘Otterburn to Alnwick’s a long stretch, like. Through Rothbury and up the back there. Bad road in the dark. Did it in less than forty minutes, mind.’
Chantal leaned forward, almost pushing Elvis out of the way. ‘Did you get the name of the passenger?’
‘Sorry, pet. Lad paid cash.’
Chantal reached into her pocket for her phone and showed him a grainy CCTV photo of Matty Ibbetson. ‘Was it him?’
&
nbsp; ‘Sharon… Gah.’ Chantal eased the pool car down the hill, the engine grumbling. ‘I wish you’d stop going on about it.’
Alnwick was lit up below them, half fairy-tale medieval town, half sixties housing disaster. Long rows of yellow street lights bled into white. She turned down a side street, sodium catching a pair of cats in a stand-off. They hissed and separated.
Sharon smirked at her. ‘You need to stop denying you’re a couple.’
‘You need to stop being a cow about it.’ Chantal’s headlights caught two squad cars at the end of a cul-de-sac, eight dark houses in a tight circle. She pulled up and hauled on the handbrake. ‘Think what Craig’s going through right now.’
‘Right.’ Sharon opened her door and let the bitter air in. ‘Sorry, I’m just winding you up.’
Chantal buttoned up her jacket. ‘This isn’t the time for joking.’
Sharon reached over and grabbed her hand. ‘Are you denying it?’
‘Drop it, okay?’ Chantal got out and made her way to the first squad car.
Bruce gave her a wave. ‘Evening, ladies.’
Sharon smiled at him. ‘Have you got eyes on the suspect?’
‘Local lads have him in the back room.’ Bruce pointed at a sixties villa, the street lights showing up the mock Tudor features on the front. Could just about make out a light on downstairs. ‘We’ve got a unit out in the lane at the back there. Two lads marking it. And another two cars. He’s not getting away.’ He unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘And here’s the warrant, so we’re ready to go.’
‘Thank God for insomniac judges, eh?’ Chantal nodded, then sucked in a breath. ‘This guy is very dangerous, okay? Remember that.’
‘Murdered an ex-cop, I know.’ Bruce pocketed the warrant. ‘Howay then, ladies.’ He stomped off into the cul-de-sac and headed for the house, speaking into his Airwave.
Chantal followed, Sharon next to her. A pair of burly uniformed lads flanked them. Maybe not quite big enough to pass as fully-fledged Geordies, though, and you could almost understand their accent.
Chantal stopped behind Bruce and blew out a breath into the cold air. ‘Let’s do this.’
Bruce rapped on the door. ‘Mr Ibbetson, this is DI Jon Bruce of Northumbria Police. We have a warrant to enter and search these premises.’
No sign of life. No sounds.
Bruce held up the Airwave. ‘Any movement out back?’
Crackle. ‘Negative.’
Bruce put his hands round his mouth. ‘Mr Ibbetson, this is the police. We are entering your property.’ He waited a few seconds then nodded at the uniform to his left. ‘Open it up, Doug.’
Doug cracked his knuckles then launched his shoulder at the door.
Then again.
Nothing.
‘Right, if at first…’ Doug stepped back and kicked the door. The top hinge burst off and Doug wrestled the whole door to the floor.
‘Stay here.’ Bruce nodded at him then motioned for the other uniform to lead them inside.
Looked like an old person lived there — heavy wallpaper, dark pictures, plastic runners on the green carpet. A navy blue bathroom suite to the left.
Something caught Chantal’s nose as she followed Bruce into a living room. The walls were painted white, the floors stripped. Like someone was modernising, room-by-room.
Her nostrils twitched again. Dark and bitter. Like…
No.
Bruce opened a sliding door at the far end. The bitter smell got worse.
Matty Ibbetson stood in the doorway, eyes wide, smoking a cigar.
Chantal stood shivering in the rain, wiping her hair from out of her eyes. The rugby ground was shut, all the other kids gone home with their parents. Cars streamed past, their headlights burning, but none stopped for her. The wind battered her bare legs, already cut and bruised from the tournament. Touch rugby, my arse.
She hugged her arms tight. Bloody top was soaked and scratchy and—
Hoooonk!
A silver Mercedes pulled in next to her, the indicator pulsing orange into the twilight. Just a red dot inside. An arm reached across and opened the door. Uncle Ditinder looked out, puffing on a cigar, the bitter smoke leaking out, coiling around her. ‘Sorry, I’m late, Chucka.’
Chantal let out a sigh. ‘Is Dad busy again?’
‘He had to go to the cash and carry. Asked me to pick you up.’
Chantal blew air up her face. Didn’t shift the soggy fringe covering her eyes. ‘It better be an emergency…’ She got in the passenger seat and tugged her belt on.
‘How was the game?’ Uncle Ditinder pulled out into the traffic, sucking on the cigar. The whole car stank of it. Horrible, horrible smell. ‘You score any goals?’
‘They’re called tries?’
‘Tries, eh?’ Ditinder looked at her thighs. Her skin was almost white. He puffed on the cigar, spilling ash onto the tray. ‘I’m a cricket man, myself. A much more noble sport.’
‘Right.’
Dirty old pervert couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. Why didn’t Dad just get her the trackies? They weren’t expensive, even had them at—
‘How old are you now, Chucka?’
‘Don’t call me that.’ She tried to move away from him. ‘I’m twelve. Chucka’s a little girl’s name.’
‘You’ve grown, my little princess.’
‘I’m nobody’s princess.’
‘Right, right.’ Ditinder turned left off the road and pulled on his cigar. ‘Need to do a wee favour for your father.’ He drove down a lane, away from all the traffic, the car rocking with potholes.
Twisted trees on both sides. No streetlights, just the flicker of cars in the distance.
She gripped her seatbelt tight. ‘Where are we going?’
Ditinder pulled in and stopped the engine. He sucked on his cigar and flicked more ash into the bucket. Kept looking at her legs. ‘You really have grown, Chucka.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
He put a hand on her thigh, warm against her frozen flesh. ‘You’re my favourite niece.’
‘Don’t—’
Ditinder grabbed her mouth and covered it with his stinking hands. He pushed her head back into the seat, his other hand tearing at her shorts, pulling them down. Her seatbelt tightened around her shoulders, pinning her down. His fingers were up her soaking top, inside her bra, cupping what little breast there was, tugging at her nipple.
She tried biting his fingers, but he let go.
She screamed, but he covered her mouth again.
She kicked, but he pushed her back against the seat.
‘This is our secret, Chucka.’ His trousers were down, his tiny cock erect and brushing against her knee. He tore her knickers to the side, his knees pushing her legs apart. ‘Tell anyone and I will kill you.’
She slapped his back, but he yanked her sports bra over her throat, choking her, silencing her. ‘My little Chucka!’
The dirty smell of cigar in her face. Bitter, dark. Holding her down, his pathetic little cock inside her.
Chantal blinked hard. Where the hell am I?
A living room, leather couches. White walls. Dirty cigar smoke.
DI Bruce staggered backwards. Matty Ibbetson stepped into the room and cracked him on the chin. Bruce tumbled over one of the sofas and fell onto the floor.
Sharon McNeill was slumped in the corner, a hand covering her head. Barely awake. A uniform lay behind her, groaning in a pool of blood.
Matty spotted her. Murdering bastard. He took another suck on a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Look who the cat dragged in.’
Chantal snapped out her baton and hefted it in her right hand. Ready to strike. Ready to batter the fuck out of him.
He blew a puff of smoke at her. The bitter air went up her nose.
‘My little Chucka!’
Clatter. Something struck her feet. She looked down. Her baton.
‘My little Chucka!’
Matty grabbed her by the throat and lifted her clean o
ff her feet. He threw her onto the sofa. ‘Never had a Paki before.’ He straddled her, grabbing her throat again, tight enough to stop her breathing. ‘I’m almost salivating at the prospect.’ His other hand tore at her skirt, pulling it down to her knees, while he covered her mouth.
She tried biting his fingers, but he let go. His fist wrapped around her throat again.
She screamed, but his fingers filled her mouth.
She kicked, but he pushed her back against the sofa. His weight on her, pushing her down.
Zip. ‘Going to take my time enjoying this, I swear.’ A hand ran up her thigh, dirty fingers tugging at her knickers, pulling them aside.
92
HUNTER
* * *
‘Come on, come on, come on.’ Hunter held his phone to his ear and listened to the ringing. Where the hell is she? ‘She’s still not answering.’ He redialled Control. ‘It’s DC Craig Hunter. Can I get an update on the units sent to Murchison Grove in Galashiels?’
A cough filled with catarrh rattled the speaker. ‘Still blocked on that, son.’
‘I just need one squad car to get—’
‘Listen, I’ve got two squad cars in the Borders the night. That’s it.’ Another cough, sounding like her lungs were going to flow down the phone line. ‘You’re no’ the Chief Constable so you can get off the line and let me do my job.’
Click and she was gone.
‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter punched the glove box. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Watch the car!’ Cullen blared past a slow-moving SUV and pulled back into their lane. ‘You need to calm down, mate.’
‘Calm down?’ Hunter shot him a glare. ‘How the hell can you expect me to calm down? I’ve let that psychopath go I don’t know how many bloody times now. And he’s going to kill her!’
Cullen’s face glowed in the pale light from the dashboard lights. ‘We don’t know it’s him.’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ Hunter hit redial. Same result. ‘Shite.’
Cullen descended into a valley, the speedo clearing ninety. ‘Is there anyone else you can try?’
