by Ed James
I flash him the smile that gets me in places like this. ‘Look, pal, I’m sure we can work—’
‘Listen to me.’ He steps forward, pinning me against the wall. ‘You are not supposed to be here. As much as I would like to kill you, I have a much better plan. We are going to have so much fun.’
2
DC Craig Hunter sat back in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel. He checked the pedals for the five millionth time, depressing the clutch and tapping the accelerator to get a nice grunt from the engine. Then he jabbed the brake. All fine. All working.
A bus trundled along the quiet street, glowing in the misty darkness, and pulled up a hundred metres away. A man hopped off at the stop, his breath clouding the air, and he looked around, over both shoulders, then set off towards Hunter.
‘Is that him?’ DI Sharon McNeill leaned between the seats. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear, but her cold expression never wavered. ‘Chantal?’
‘Not sure, Shaz.’ DS Chantal Jain leaned forward in the passenger seat, squinting. Hunter had to look round to focus on his girlfriend, her arms folded, T-shirt sleeves showing off toned coffee skin. ‘Could be, but…’
McNeill tutted, then let out a slow sigh. ‘Craig, can you confirm that’s your suspect, please?’
Hunter kept his gaze on the figure walking towards them and tried to compare the man against his memory. ‘Struggling here, ma’am. It’s too foggy.’
‘Bloody hell.’ McNeill slumped against the back seat. The white glow lit up her scowl as she checked her mobile, her thin lips twisting into a sneer. Then she was back between them, holding out her phone. ‘Is this him or not?’
Hunter compared the on-screen shot of Derek Farrell with the approaching figure passing between streetlights like a wraith, his breath hanging there. Same heavy coat, same business suit, same shiny designer glasses. But still, this was Edinburgh, most office drones dressed like that in winter. ‘Still too far to tell, ma’am.’
‘Christ’s sake.’ McNeill passed the phone to Chantal. ‘Come on, is it him or not?’
Hunter twisted round and gave McNeill a stern look, the kind he’d deliver to captives back in his army days, the kind that’d have them quaking in their boots. The kind that bounced right off her. ‘Are you trying to pin this on us?’
McNeill evaded his hard man act with a flick of her pencilled eyebrows. ‘I just want to—’
‘It’s him.’ Chantal pointed at the figure, lit up by another streetlight. ‘It’s Farrell.’
‘Finally. Come on, then.’ McNeill slid over the back seat and opened the street-side door. ‘Stay here, Craig. And call it in, okay?’
‘Ma’am.’ Hunter put his police radio to his mouth as they both got out. ‘Hunter to all units. Target spotted. Serial Alpha are go. Over.’
Chantal walked lockstep with McNeill, looking like a pair of Instagram-perfect friends, all shiny hair and giggles as they flitted between the streetlights. Under-dressed for the cold Edinburgh Friday night, saving that precious few quid on the cloakroom.
The radio clicked. ‘Serial Bravo receiving. Over.’
Hunter sat back, slumping low to watch the scene play out. He tapped the pedals again. All three still worked perfectly. He engaged the clutch and checked that the gearbox hadn’t broken in the last five minutes. Still stuck going into fifth, but he wouldn’t need anything above third.
Ahead, the second unmarked Volvo SUV pulled up just past the bus stop. Blink and you’d miss it, but another two officers slipped out of the back, leaving some other poor fool in the same situation as Hunter. Watching, waiting, the exhaust pumping out needless fumes in case he needed to shoot off in pursuit. McNeill could take Farrell down just with a glare.
Their suspect stopped and got out his phone. He swung around, talking into it. Laughing. Joking.
Scumbag.
Drug dealer. Rapist.
Hunter wanted to shoot off, slam the car into him. Pin the bastard to the wall of the converted bond warehouse. Reverse. Then drive into him again. And again and again.
But he just checked the pedals once more, then the handbrake, then the gearbox, all the time watching Chantal and McNeill home in on the prick.
Farrell wasn’t playing their game, though. Didn’t make friendly eye contact with McNeill or Chantal, wasn’t letting their lost tourist act play out as planned.
Metres separated them now. McNeill tried to wave him down. She looked so obvious to Hunter.
Farrell turned to face her, still listening to his phone call, but gave a slight nod, his lips moving, saying, ‘What’s up?’ Something like that. Even out of earshot, Hunter could hear his Dublin brogue.
McNeill got in front of Farrell, asking something else.
The other cops homed in from behind, boxing him in.
Hunter put the car in first gear. Not time to go yet, but time to be ready to move. He reached into the middle console and got out another piece of gum. The mint hit his mouth like a slap in the face. He tried to keep focus.
Way too hot in the car. Chantal always liked the heating at ‘Lanzarote in August’ level, whereas that kind of heat brought back unwanted memories to Hunter. Reykjavik in November was his preference. He wound the window down and rested his arm on the door. Anyone watching him would take him for a bored dad waiting for his over-sugared kids. Hopefully.
Idiot—it was freezing out there, nobody would make that mistake.
He started winding the window back up.
A rumble came from behind, and he caught another approaching 36 bus in the wing mirror.
Shite. Hunter tapped the horn and McNeill glanced round, but quickly went back to talking. He spoke into the radio: ‘This is DC Hunter. Bus encroaching on acquisition site. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.’
‘Received, over.’
But not by McNeill. She reached into her pocket and held out her warrant card.
Farrell jerked his head around, sussing out his options, then settled on one. He lurched forward, kicking McNeill in the knee, then pushed her into Chantal, both women collapsing in a heap, and he darted off, pounding the pavement towards Hunter. The other cops broke ranks and sprinted after him.
Hunter slipped off the handbrake and drove straight at Farrell, eating up the distance in seconds. Eyes bulging, Farrell noticed almost too late. But he jumped, skidding over the bonnet and landing on the road on all fours. Then he was off again, pushing away like an American football player—head low, thundering along Bonnington Road towards the bus stop and the crowd of gawpers getting off the 36.
Hunter was halfway through a three-pointer, bumping the pavement as he swerved round. He stuck it in first and shot off. The other two cops hammered along, keeping pace until he floored it.
Farrell ran in front of the bus. And stopped dead in his tracks.
And Hunter was going too fast. He hit the brakes, but the car slid on ice, out of control. The wheel locked, wouldn’t shift. He pumped the brakes, but it seemed to speed up if anything. Heading right at Derek Farrell.
Then Hunter regained control. He swung the wheel to the left, fishtailing the rear towards the bus, still going to hit the man.
A figure darted out in front of the car, pushing Farrell away.
The car crunched into the bus and bounced back, the engine screaming. The cabin lights came on.
And Farrell was running up the side street, leaving a woman on the pavement clutching her belly.
Hunter wrestled his seatbelt free and pawed at the billowing airbag until it wasn’t in his face. His door wouldn’t budge. He shifted over to the passenger side and clawed at the handle until it opened, then stumbled out into a run, his boots slapping the ground.
Farrell was way ahead, but looking back. Each step, the distance closed.
Hunter’s lungs burned as he powered after the other man, narrowing the distance to inches by the corner. He threw himself into a rugby tackle and caught Farrell’s arm. A scream tore out as they landed, something
soft squishing under Hunter’s knee.
‘Get off me!’ Farrell was all elbows and fists. ‘Get the fuck off me!’
Hunter jerked Farrell’s hand up his back and got a squeal. A really, really satisfying squeal. ‘Derek Douglas Farrell, I’m arresting you for the rape of Jennifer Harris.’ He snapped a cuff on, too tight. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’ Then the other cuff, way too tight, but no sound from Farrell. ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He sucked in a deep breath and hauled Farrell to his feet. ‘Do you understand?’
Farrell hung his head low, staring at his feet. No emotion on his face.
Hunter jerked him again. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Course I understand. Wasn’t me, though.’
‘That’s for a judge and jury to decide.’ Hunter grabbed Farrell by the sleeve and led him back to the chaos.
The bus stood in the middle of the road, a giant obelisk blocking the traffic. Bonnington Road was a rat run between central Edinburgh and Leith, and traffic was piling up in both directions.
McNeill stood next to the bus, mouth hanging open, shaking her head at the battered pool Volvo sticking out of the wreck. She looked over at Hunter, eyes full of fire and fury. Then she clocked Farrell and the glare softened, but not much. She walked right up to Hunter.
He took a deep breath, knowing he’d pay a price for the carnage, but collaring a serial rapist who’d been on the run for months and months was a huge tick in the plus column.
The two cops from the other car finally showed up, as usual after all the fun was over. Big Jim stood back, hands splayed like he was fighting Bruce Lee. Kate grabbed Farrell’s jacket. ‘Come on, then.’ She looked down at his wrists. ‘Christ, are you trying to stop the circulation in his hands?’ She got out her key and stepped behind him.
Farrell snapped his forehead forward into McNeill’s nose. She stumbled back against the bus and thumped to the ground.
He swung out with his left hand, the flailing cuffs slicing through Big Jim’s ninja posture and sending him flying against the wall. Kate went down on top of him. Farrell’s elbow lashed backwards and cracked into Hunter’s eye socket. Pain exploded through his head. All he could do was try to keep a grip on him.
Metal flashed as Farrell swung the cuffs, cracking the steel off Hunter’s teeth. He had to let go and dropped to his knees. A boot to the side pushed him over.
The sound of receding footsteps and everything went black.
3
McNeill’s face was a mush of dried blood and bandages. Even sitting behind her desk looked like it hurt. ‘This is a royal fuck up.’
In the darkened room, Chantal was illuminated from behind by the full-blast lights from the open-plan office outside.
The glow made Hunter’s eye sting again, all over the puffy flesh, so he looked back at McNeill in the darkness. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ He touched the chair arm and lowered himself down. ‘I take resp—’
‘STAY STANDING!’ McNeill’s voice drilled into his skull. ‘Get to your feet, Constable!’
But Hunter couldn’t. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Sitting would just about do. So he sat there, his eyes shutting, his head nodding.
Chantal grabbed his sleeve and tugged him back up. ‘Shaz, he shouldn’t be here. He’s probably got concussion.’
‘DS Jain, this was your operation.’ McNeill narrowed her eyes until they were tiny dots peering out behind the wreckage of her face. She reached onto her desk for a TV remote and jabbed the power button. A screen hanging from the wall lit up. ‘Watch this.’
Hunter took one look at it and wanted to sit again. Even through the glue in front of his eyes, he could see Big Jim and Kate interviewing Megan Forsyth. Farrell’s fourth victim. Twenty-four, short, her long hair cut to a severe bob. The dank interview room wasn’t the place to learn that your rapist—your torturer—had escaped again. Megan stared at them, mouth hanging open, tears glistening in ultra-sharp HD, fearing for her life all over again.
‘See what your failure does to people?’ Sharon snapped the screen off. ‘I knew that keeping you two separate was the smart move, but you insisted you could make this work.’
‘Shaz, don’t you—’
‘It’s DI McNeill.’
That shut Chantal up. She stood there, mouth hanging open. Her best friend became her boss in a snap.
McNeill pressed a tentative finger against her nose and grimaced. ‘Derek Farrell has raped five women that we know of. And you let him go!’ Her voice echoed round the room.
Hunter could swear the chattering outside stopped dead. He wanted to sit again, but he knew he shouldn’t. But he was swaying. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you were equally to—’
‘DC Hunter, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.’ McNeill’s glare made him follow her instruction.
Chantal ignored it, though. ‘Shaz, this is bollocks. We can—’
‘DS Jain, I’ve warned you. Address me as DI McNeill.’
‘If that’s how you want to play it…’ Chantal folded her arms. ‘DI McNeill, this is complete bollocks.’ She paused. ‘We can find Farrell. We’ve been following him for—’
‘No.’
‘No? What—’
‘DS Jain, you’ve had six months to bring Derek Farrell to ground, during which time we received allegations of two additional rapes. I can’t give you any more time.’ McNeill opened her desk drawer and pulled out a document, the white paper glowing in the low light. ‘This has happened one too many times. After the screw-up in Dunfermline and the incident in Portugal, we’ve now—’
‘Come on!’ Chantal was staring at the document like it was a sniper rifle. ‘This is boll—’
‘Effective Monday, you’re both back in the Edinburgh MIT, reporting to DI Methven.’
Hunter collapsed into his chair again. ‘Come on, ma’am.’
‘This has been pending for a while. I’ve tried and tried to push back, but…’ McNeill shook her head like a disappointed schoolteacher. ‘I just can’t do this anymore.’ Her voice was shrill and thin. ‘There is a significant staff shortfall after… well, what happened last year.’ She slapped the documents on the table. ‘They need bodies and I need people who can do their jobs. It’s a win-win.’
Chantal stood there, hands quivering. ‘Can I have a private word?’
Hunter looked up at her, frowning.
McNeill gave a tight nod. ‘On you go, Craig.’ Didn’t even look at him.
Hunter used the chair’s wooden arms to winch himself up to standing, then snatched the document with his name on it. ‘Ma’am.’ He walked out into the bright open-plan office.
At this time of night on a Friday, the place was usually dead, but tonight it was rammed full of cops nominally documenting the operational clusterfuck, but actually wanting to listen in to the severe bollocking behind the boss’s door.
He slumped in his chair and a deep groan escaped his body. The pile of case files was still the same height as it had been on day one. So little progress to show for two years of his life. Still, his drawer held only his box of notebooks, two pens and a blister pack of anti-PTSD meds that actually worked. Might need to up the dose after this shit show.
‘Looks like you fought a bus and lost, Craigy boy.’ Paul ‘Elvis’ Gordon perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like an idiot. His sideburns had been trimmed off at the bottom of his ears now and were thinned to a long strip, but he’d never shake that nickname. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you think happened?’ Hunter reached for his leather messenger bag and tipped his crap in. A fresh wave of pain shot across his face, tearing into his skull.
‘Sure you should be at work, mate?’
‘Paramedics cleared me for duty. I’m not concussed.’
‘Aye, bollocks you’re not. I’d ask if you fancied a pint, but the state of you.’ Elvis sniffed. ‘There�
��s a cracking new craft beer pub on Lothian Road I’ve been meaning to try.’
‘Some other time.’ Hunter looked back over at McNeill’s office door. Raised voices muted by thick wood and safety glass. No sign that they were getting anywhere close to a resolution, but at least they weren’t fighting. He folded his arms and tried to stop everything from swimming around. ‘What brings you back here, anyway?’
‘Usual shite, Craig.’ Elvis cracked his knuckles. ‘Methven lent me to Trouser Suit in there to do the old CCTV magic.’
‘Trouser Suit?’
Elvis nodded at McNeill’s office. ‘That’s what a few lads in the MIT call her.’
The door burst open and Chantal stormed out, her flat shoes thumping across the floor. She stopped by her desk and looked around. ‘What?’
The rest of the Sexual Offences Unit went back to their documents.
‘Wankers.’ She grabbed her coat, then clicked her fingers at Hunter. ‘Let’s go.’
Hunter sank into the sofa and dabbed at his eye socket. The co-codamol was kicking in now, making everything nice and fuzzy. Could barely feel his face, barely feel his fingers. He took a sip of wine and savoured the taste, the only sensation that wasn’t screaming misery. ‘I’ve tried. He just isn’t replying. Texts, calls, anything.’
‘Your bloody brother…’ Chantal stood by the cooker, stirring the pot. Smelled gorgeous, a gloopy red sauce bubbling away on the stovetop, tangy and sweet. She checked her watch again. ‘What if we’d actually caught Farrell? We would’ve been in all night processing his arrest. And Murray would’ve been standing outside, calling you instead.’
‘That’d serve him right.’ Hunter reached over to the other side of the sofa. Bubble lay flat on her back, wedged between two cushions, her cream belly exposed, her eyes shut. One opened to a slit with a clear message—tickle my belly, sunshine, and it’ll be the last thing you do.
Muffin was perched on the arm next to her, looking like a big blonde-ginger dafty, his flat tail swishing around.
