by Ed James
Was there?
Local cops were blocked.
Edinburgh cops were as far from Galashiels as they were now.
Shite.
Hunter tapped another number and let it ring.
‘How’re ye?’ Irish blarney boomed out of the phone. PC Lenny Warner, sounding like he was in a pub.
‘You on duty?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’ Shouting in the background. Rangers songs. ‘I’m attending a pitched battle in a Hawick pub. Jaysis!’ Glass smashed. ‘Shoite!’
‘I had a call from Paisley Sanderson. She thinks Tulloch’s at her house.’
‘She’s at home?’ Warner’s voice went all shrill.
‘Can you get round there and check?’
‘I doubt I’ll get away from—’ More smashing. ‘Ah, feck this. I’ll see what I can do.’
Cullen swerved into Paisley’s street.
Dark, just the street lights. No sign of any squad cars. Hunter hissed out a breath. ‘Where the hell is Warner?’
Not that that was a bad thing. Tulloch clocking the flashing blue lights wouldn’t be ideal.
‘Craig, we’re here.’ Cullen snapped on the handbrake. ‘Will you stop having kittens? Like dealing with Bain, I swear…’
‘I don’t think you under—’ Hunter caught himself. Don’t moan. Just get on with it. ‘Come on.’ He got out of the car.
Big Keith’s Subaru was wedged between two small Fiats, three car lengths from Paisley’s flat. A pyramid of sodium yellow bled it from off-white to mustard.
Hunter stared at the house. Pitch black, quiet as the grave. Curtains drawn. Was Tulloch still in there?
Headlights arced round the bend from the main drag. A squad Volvo parked next to the Subaru, shrouded in darkness. Lenny Warner got out of the passenger side and pulled his hat on. ‘Got here as fast as I could.’
‘Right.’ Hunter started off across the street. He pointed at Warner’s partner, a female officer with short hair and tired eyes. ‘You two take the back.’
‘Thanks would’ve been nice.’ Warner shot him a wink. ‘Come on.’ He led his partner towards the lane.
‘I don’t know where you find them, mate…’ Cullen marched up to the door. ‘We’ve not got a warrant, but we’ve got probable cause, right?’
‘Oh, hell yeah.’
Cullen thumped the door. ‘This is the police! Open up!’
Nothing.
Hunter stepped round the front to the living room window, sticking his ear to the glass.
Muffled screams, like someone’s mouth was taped. Could be TV, but not bloody likely.
Cullen thumped the door again. ‘Open up! This is the police!’
‘Who the fuck’s that, eh?’ A male voice. ‘You have been talking to the police, you stupid bitch!’
Tulloch. Shite.
Another muffled scream.
‘We need to get in there!’ Hunter ran back to the door and launched himself at it, shoulder-first. He bounced off it. Another go and it didn’t even budge. ‘Shite, there’s no way that’s opening.’
A louder scream bled out.
Cullen tried kicking the door. ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘He’s… Shite, I don’t know what he’s doing to her.’
Maybe better luck round the back.
Or…
Hunter snapped out his baton as he jogged back round to the front. He touched the baton against the centre of the window pane, then swung back. And lashed out.
A huge pattern of cracks splintered out from the corners. Glass hit the ground, tinkling. A pair of shards fell out onto the street.
Hunter swept the glass away from the frame and tugged the curtains open.
Tulloch was inside the window, his white T-shirt soaked through.
Paisley sat on a chair, arms behind her back. Silver tape covered her mouth, curling away at the edges. Her face was a black-and-blue mess, her eyes puffed up even worse than a few days ago.
Tulloch swivelled around, his face leering in the dim glow from the side lights. ‘Shite!’ He wrapped his left arm around Paisley’s throat, his right holding a spitting iron in front of her face. ‘Any movement from you and I’ll burn this bitch!’
‘Sean, it’s over.’ Hunter held his baton in a neutral position. ‘Drop the iron and let her go.’
‘Nae danger!’ Tulloch pressed the iron into Paisley’s cheek.
Fat sizzled in her face, steam hissing. She screamed against the tape.
The smoked-bacon stink of burning human flesh hit Hunter’s nose…
‘And yet here we are again.’ Captain Morecambe’s office looked the same in Iraq as it did in Afghanistan, but the giant desk and filing cabinets were squashed into a room less than half the size. The plate on his desk had two rolls, flabby slices of bacon poking out of the sides. He picked a roll up and bit into it, tomato ketchup splattering the plate like blood patterns from a knife frenzy. ‘The good news, Lance Corporal, is that Corporal Terence Saunders wasn’t under investigation by the RMP.’
Hunter couldn’t prise his eyes off the bacon roll. The smell coiled around him, forcing itself up his nostrils. Could almost taste it.
Like when Terry—
He tried to slow his breathing, keep his eyes shut.
‘Lance Corporal, are you okay?’
Hunter opened his eyes again. Morecambe’s roll was resting against the plate. Fat slid out the side, into a pool in the middle. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, Corporal Saunders wasn’t—’
‘I plan to tender my resignation.’
Morecambe dropped the roll onto the plate. ‘I see.’ He rubbed his hands together then wiped his thumb across his pathetic moustache. ‘Well, Lance Corporal, we are actively investigating you.’
‘Well, fill your boots, because I’m leaving.’
‘We don't want you to leave.’
‘But you don't want me to stay, either. You just want to do me because a bunch of cretins with stripes dropped a massive bollock over that operation and you’re looking for a patsy.’
Morecambe picked up the roll and narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘We've been over your medical record and you're not fit to serve, are you?’
‘Fine, invalid me out. I don’t care.’
Morecambe opened the lid on his roll and let the reek seep out. ‘Very well.’
Sean Tulloch swung the iron around.
Heat seared the air in front of Hunter’s face. He braced himself against the smashed window, catching his palm on the broken glass. Pain burnt up his arm as he tumbled backwards.
Paisley screamed, loud enough to hear outside the flat, despite her mouth being taped. Then nothing.
Cullen hopped over the windowsill into the house. He thumped into the curtains and collapsed off to the side.
Hunter pushed himself up to standing and peered inside.
Tulloch lurched towards Cullen, brandishing the iron. ‘I am going to kill you, you pig fucker!’
Cullen jumped forward and lashed out with his baton.
Tulloch stepped aside and punched with the iron. He missed. Cullen slapped Tulloch in the face. He laughed then cracked his fist into Cullen’s cheek. He tumbled onto the coffee table, two legs snapping off as it collapsed under his weight.
Hunter still had his baton in his right hand. Blood dripped down his wrist.
Tulloch held the iron over Cullen’s face. ‘Now, you little cu—’
Hunter jumped through the window and snapped his baton at Tulloch’s right arm.
The iron thudded to the floor.
Hunter swung out again.
And caught thin air.
Tulloch danced around the blow and kicked out, his army boot cracking off Hunter’s right wrist.
He dropped the baton with a yelp.
Tulloch reached out and pinched Hunter’s shoulders, squeezing like a vice. Hunter squealed as the pain bit into his shoulder.
He couldn’t block, tried to push his arms wide. Just�
�� couldn’t.
Tulloch grabbed his throat, curling his fingers around his flesh, and squeezed tight.
Hunter’s throat closed up. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Kuh, kuh, kuh.’
Tulloch squeezed and squeezed, wrapping his meaty fingers tight. ‘How do you like that, you faggot?’
93
CHANTAL
* * *
Dirty fingers scratched at Chantal’s legs as she kicked and screamed, tearing and fumbling at her.
Her focus darted around the room, switching to anything she could find.
Matty pressed his hand into her throat, crushing her windpipe.
The cigar lay on the leather, smouldering away.
She reached a finger over as something hard pressed into her thigh. Matty’s micropenis. Cigar breath lashed her face.
‘My little Chucka!’
She touched the cigar, grabbed hold of it, felt the heat in her fingers. Then swung it over and jammed it into Matty’s eye, letting it sizzle the flesh.
He screamed and his hands reached for his eyes.
She pushed him back and pressed the cigar onto his arm. Then lashed out with her left foot, cracking him on the chest.
Matty staggered backwards, one hand against his eye. His trousers were by his knees, his pathetic half-erect half-cock an acorn lost in a moss of pubic hair.
Nothing to worry about at all. Something to laugh about. Something to kick.
She lashed out and smashed the top of her foot into his balls, like she was converting a try.
Matty squealed.
Again. Trying to get the ball to sail over the upright.
Matty sank to his knees, clutching his balls.
Chantal grabbed his hair and kicked his balls again. Two points on top of the try. ‘Fuck you!’
Matty rolled back on the floorboards, trying to curl into a ball. His pathetic little cock shrivelled away, lost inside his body.
‘Fuck you, Ditinder!’
His shorts were turning red.
‘Fuck you, Ditinder!’
Crunch. Squeal.
Crunch. Squeal. ‘No!’
An arm wrapped around Chantal’s shoulders and pulled her back. ‘Stop!’ Sharon.
Chantal stopped, her chest heaving.
Bitter cigar smell filled the air.
‘Fuck you, Ditinder…’ Chantal collapsed against the sofa, sucking in deep breaths, trying to ignore the cigar smoke. ‘Fuck you, Ditinder…’
Matty lay on the floor, coiled up and screaming. Blood poured from his scrotum.
Two uniformed officers burst in the back door. The first one spotted Matty and squatted next to him, trying to inspect his wounds.
‘Cuff him.’ Sharon was standing over the sofa, rubbing at a cut on her temple. She waited until the handcuffs clicked before sitting beside Chantal. She rested a hand on her knee. ‘Who’s Ditinder?’
He put a hand on her thigh, warm against her frozen flesh. ‘You’re my favourite niece, Chucka.’
Chantal rubbed her damp hair out of her face. ‘He’s nobody.’
Chantal lifted up her head and let the paramedic get a look. ‘I told you I’m fine.’ She covered a hand over her throat.
The paramedic pushed the hand away. ‘If you don’t stop, I’m going to sedate you.’
Chantal clasped her hands and let the paramedic work. ‘I’m fine…’
Fingers prodded at her throat. ‘Just a bit of bruising.’
‘Like I told you.’ Chantal stood up and pulled her coat on. ‘So can I go?’
The paramedic was already looking at the next patient. Sharon.
Chantal hopped out of the ambulance, the street now filled with squad cars and two ambulances.
DI Bruce stood between two unmarked cars, smoking.
Chantal walked over and smiled at him. ‘You okay?’
‘I’ll live.’ Bruce sucked on his cigarette. ‘What about you?’
‘Same.’ She rubbed her throat. ‘Just bruising.’
‘He tried raping you.’
‘Did he?’ Chantal stuffed her hands deep in her coat pockets. ‘Half an inch at the most. Doesn’t really count, does it?’
‘You think you’re cool, but what he tried to do to you?’ Bruce exhaled slowly, sweet cigarette smoke spraying out of the side. ‘It’s serious.’
‘I know, Jon, it’s… This is how I cope.’
‘With what?’
She shrugged. ‘Never mind.’
He took another drag, eyeing her with suspicion. ‘What happened to you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You froze while that prick started battering us.’
‘Don’t know what happened.’ Chantal rubbed at the back of her head. Felt like the wound from the car had reopened. ‘I…’
Had a flashback. To my uncle raping me.
Sharon stepped down from the ambulance and grabbed a hold of Chantal’s shoulder. ‘I don’t feel so good.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Can’t remember.’
Bruce tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it. ‘You going to get back to Edinburgh, okay?’
Sharon frowned. ‘We’ve got to find Tulloch.’
Bruce reached into his jacket pocket for a packet of B&H. ‘You’re welcome to stay at mine.’
Sharon stared at him for a few seconds then waved over at the house. ‘What’s going on over there?’
A squad of cops thundered in the front door of Matty’s house, thudding up the stairs.
‘We’ve got a warrant.’ Bruce shrugged. ‘Might as well use it.’
A uniform jogged out of the front door and waved at them. ‘Sir, you want to see this!’
Chantal followed the uniform up the stairs, clomping against tired carpet.
At the top, two uniforms stood in a hallway, arms folded, looking bemused. Thumps came from the other doors.
The first officer banged his fist off a door. ‘Open up!’
‘What’s going on?’ Bruce looked around, eyebrows pushed high on his head. ‘Eh?’
‘Can’t get in that room, sir.’
Bruce barged him out of the way and kicked the door. The panel splintered.
An eye looked out of the crack, switching between them.
‘What the hell?’ Bruce knelt low and grabbed at the wood. ‘Open the door!’
‘No!’
Bruce hacked a big chunk off and reached his arm inside. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Go away! Matty will be back!’
‘Matty isn’t here.’
The door clicked and Bruce yanked it open.
Chantal barged past him into the room. She had to vault over a bed propped against the door. A door on the far wall.
A woman stood by the bed, almost skeletally thin. Deep bags under her eyes, fading bruises on her forearm. ‘Get out!’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Bruce stopped dead next to her. ‘Petra?’
She frowned at him. ‘Have you found my boy?’
Bruce pushed past her and waved a hand behind him. ‘Take her down to the nick, please.’
She lashed out at him, clawing her nails into his arm. ‘Get out!’
Bruce picked her up like she didn’t weigh anything and passed her to the nearest uniform. ‘Get her out of my sight!’
Chantal hauled him back. ‘What’s going on?’
‘That’s Petra Oliveira.’ Bruce snorted at her. ‘Harry Jack’s mother.’
‘What?’ Chantal turned and watched as Petra was carried away. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘That’s what I want to know.’
Chantal walked over and opened the door. She flicked on the light. A small room, barely a box room, but with a window looking out across the back yard.
A small boy lay on a bed, his face twisted as he blinked against the light. ‘Mummy?’
Harry Jack.
94
HUNTER
* * *
Tulloch’s grip tightened on Hunter’s throat. ‘I’m go
ing to kill you!’
Hunter punched his fists into Tulloch’s elbows, bending his arms down. Crunch. He pushed into Tulloch, side-on, and smacked his right fist off his windpipe.
Tulloch hit the deck, groaning, grabbing at his neck.
Hunter sucked in breath, deep gulps like he was downing pints of water in Iraq.
Cullen was out cold, lying on his side, mouth hanging open like a panting dog.
Tulloch stirred, his head twitching.
Hunter swung out with his boot and caught Tulloch square in the bollocks.
Tulloch pulled into a ball and screamed.
Hunter rubbed at his throat, trying to get some feeling back. ‘Sco—’ He coughed, blood welling up in his throat. ‘Scott, are you—’
Tulloch’s boot swept out and caught the back of Hunter’s left knee. He rocked forward and toppled to the floor. A boot hit him on the side. Then another one.
Pause. And another.
Tulloch lashed out and Hunter rolled away, making Tulloch swing at air. He stumbled and righted himself against the wall.
Tulloch’s boot smacked Hunter in the side again.
Then it stopped.
The muffled screaming started up again.
Hunter opened his eyes.
Tulloch stood over Paisley, fists clamped to her throat. Her skin was turning blue.
Hunter hauled himself to his feet and charged over.
Tulloch let go of Paisley and pushed forward with his left fist, smashing into Hunter’s temple. He toppled over, landing on Cullen.
Tulloch booted him in the side again. ‘Fucking stay down till I’ve finished, eh?’
Hunter rolled over onto his side. Pain speared up from his ribs. He blinked hard as he tried to open his eyes again.
Tulloch was strangling her, his face twisted with effort, her hands clawing at his, not making any difference.
Smoke smells came from behind Hunter. The iron sizzled against the carpet, face down, dark clouds pluming up. He grabbed the handle then pushed himself up to standing.
Tulloch’s eyes shut as he squeezed his hands around Paisley’s throat. She was half in the air, kicking against the ground, eyes bulging.
