by Ed James
‘You said you’d protect me from him.’
‘And we will.’ Hunter raised his hand but stopped short of patting her shoulder for comfort. ‘Can I see this text message?’
‘Here.’ Paisley reached over to her coffee table and picked up a giant Samsung, shiny and new. ‘Have a look.’ She held it out with a shaking hand.
Hunter took the mobile and checked the display. His eyes shut as he handed the phone to Chantal.
The texts app with that graph-paper background, her messages in yellow, Sean Tulloch’s in pale blue. All gushing and lovey-dovey until the last one from him.
NO WHO U SPOKE 2. U R DEAD BITCH.
The poor woman.
First he abuses her so badly she seeks help from the police, now he threatens to kill her.
Chantal took a sip of tea, trying to stop her hand shaking.
How the hell did Tulloch know they were speaking to her? Who’d blabbed?
And what about the others? Had the violence only escalated in Paisley’s case?
Chantal set her cup down on the coffee table. ‘Did you tell him you were talking to us?’
Paisley slumped back in the chair and tugged her dressing gown tight. ‘I only spoke to you two because I’ve had enough of him.’
‘Okay, but did you mention us to him?’
Paisley shook her head.
‘Anything at all that let him put two and two together?’
‘Nothing.’ Paisley nibbled at a thumbnail, a fleck of polish jumping off. ‘Sure it’s not one of you lot, eh?’
‘We have checks and balances in place to protect your identity.’ Chantal rested the phone on the unvarnished coffee table. ‘We will do everything in our power to make sure you’re okay.’
Paisley picked at her index finger with her teeth, a frown crawling over her pale forehead. ‘You don’t know what he’s going to do to me!’
‘We do. We’re—’
‘You don’t!’ Paisley’s hands shot out wide. ‘He’s going to kill me!’
‘Listen to me.’ Chantal settled into a crouch next to Hunter and took both of Paisley’s hands. Then she gave them a little squeeze and fixed her with a firm gaze. ‘You’re not the only one, okay? You’re the latest in a long line of women Mr Tulloch has been abusing across Scotland. There are victims in Livingston, Leslie, Edinburgh and Falkirk. There may be more.’
‘Shite.’ Paisley’s eyes clamped shut. ‘It’s not just me?’
‘Far from it.’ Chantal smiled, hoping for reassurance. ‘He’s got a pattern. He finds a fragile woman, charms her, moves in and it’s all flowers and chocolates. Then he starts abusing her, hitting her, tormenting her, frightening her until she’s so scared of him she won’t tell her family what he’s doing to her, let alone the police. Then he leaves her with a final warning and he’s on to someone new. Someone like you.’
Paisley patted her cheek, the heavy purple they’d seen a fortnight ago now yellowed.
‘Your statement will bring the story up to date and help secure a prosecution.’ Chantal released her hands and remembered the calendar . . . ‘Now, can you tell us where he is?’
‘He’s due back today.’ More nibbling at her nails. ‘He’s got two weeks’ leave.’ Paisley caressed her jaw, thumb and forefinger wrapping round. Then it clicked, sending spasms down Chantal’s spine. ‘He’s coming back from Fort George tonight, getting the train from Inverness to the Waverley. Then down to here.’ She clicked her jaw again. ‘I’m meeting him at the station this afternoon.’
‘When?’
‘About two. Said he’d call when he got on.’
‘Thanks.’ Chantal bounced to her feet. ‘We’ll try to intercept him in Edinburgh before he comes down here.’ She snatched up the phone from the table. ‘We’ll have to take this as evidence.’
‘But that’s my life—’
‘I know it’s difficult, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow, okay?’ Chantal flashed a smile as she dropped it into an evidence bag. ‘The good news is we can prosecute him for this threat right now. We won’t have to wait.’ She rattled the bag, smiling at Paisley. ‘Once we’ve confirmed the text came from him, this’ll be at least his third verifiable offence I can think of.’
Paisley nodded, still staring into space. ‘What if he comes here?’
Chantal pointed at Warner, grinning away by the kitchen door. ‘There’ll be uniform presence here as long as it’s needed.’
‘Right.’ Paisley scowled. ‘But I need my phone back as soon as.’
‘Of course.’ Chantal walked over to the front door and opened it. ‘We’ll be back later today, okay?’
Paisley gave a tiny nod. ‘Okay.’
Blue lights flashed in the street. A squad car purred outside, hopefully enough of a deterrent to keep Tulloch away.
Chantal stepped out of the house and nodded at the female officer behind the wheel, then at Warner. ‘Under no circumstances are you to let Paisley out of your sight.’
‘I won’t.’ Warner put his cap back on. ‘See that statement, could I be doing that for you?’
Chantal looked him up and down. ‘I’m afraid we need a detective for that kind of responsibility.’
THREE
Hunter
Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.
Hunter nudged the passenger seat down another notch. Still not right. He cleared his throat again, trying to shift the cigarette butt he could’ve sworn was still tickling his tonsils. The thought alone made him want to vomit.
He tried calling again. ‘Pick up, you daft git.’
Chantal turned left to get back on the A7, the wipers sweeping the heavy rain off the windscreen. She glanced over. ‘Elvis still not answering?’
‘Probably pulling his wire in the toilet.’
‘Please don’t make me picture that.’
He pocketed his phone. Bloody jacket was still damp from the fight. He cleared his throat. Tasted like nicotine. Another cough and something shifted. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. ‘How did Tulloch find out we were speaking to Paisley?’
She glanced over at him. ‘Been wondering that myself.’
Hunter leaned back in the chair and threw some ideas around his head. Nothing landed where he wanted it. To make things worse, his knee throbbed in tune with the windscreen wipers. He stretched the leg out as far as the cramped space allowed. ‘Maybe one of the other victims blabbed? He could’ve done this to the other four, as well. You know, scattergun approach.’ He stabbed the phone, then redialled. ‘Either way, we’ve got a leak.’
Two rings. ‘Hello?’ DC Paul Gordon. Elvis. Yawning like he’d just woken up. As ever. ‘What’s up, Hunter?’
‘You in the office?’
‘Been speaking to DI—’
‘Need you to speak to the British Transport Police for me.’
Elvis groaned. ‘Why?’
‘Get them to check if Sean Tulloch was on the nine o’clock train from Inverness to Edinburgh.’
‘Hold on a minute.’ Computer keys clattered in the background. ‘Aye, he’s on it.’
Hunter frowned at Chantal. ‘What, how have you done that?’
‘I wave my wand and magic happens, Craig my man.’ Elvis laughed down the line. ‘I’ve got access to the Scotrail CCTV feed, you dobber. Only reason you lot hired me, right?’
‘Knew there had to be one.’ Hunter swapped his phone to the other ear and shuffled his notebook out of his soggy suit jacket. He winced as something creaked in his chest. ‘It’s definitely him?’
‘Oh, aye. I see this Tulloch boy’s face when I close my eyes at night thanks to all the skivvy work you’ve had me doing.’ A sigh cut through the office chatter. ‘The big bugger got on at Inverness, just before the train pulled off, I hasten to add. Chancing it a bit.’
‘Right.’ The pine-covered hills rolled past. ‘Can you get a call out to local uniform to check in with his other victims?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Stupid sideburns and an insatiable appetite for donuts.’ Hunter could feel a blush heat his cheeks at the sound of Chantal’s laughter. ‘Oh, one more thing — DS Jain requests that you meet us at Waverley.’
‘What, as in now?’
‘Well, as soon as.’
‘Christ’s sake, man. Jim’s been to Krispy Kreme’s.’
‘Sure you’ll be able to munch a couple on the way over.’
‘Wanker.’
Click.
Hunter pocketed his phone, careful not to damage anything. ‘Take it you got the gist of that?’
Chantal grinned. ‘It’s not every day I see a man make you blush.’
* * *
Hunter got out of the car. Market Street, down in the depths of Edinburgh’s old town. Passengers spilled out of Waverley, a gang of Japanese tourists ran past in translucent raincoats, rain spattering their exposed heads. A coach hissed.
Nearby, a confused couple in matching outdoor gear, the uniform of the German abroad, the man gesturing at a huge street map held between them like a two-man tent, while a bemused taxi driver could only nod.
DC Paul Gordon got out of the car in front, munching on something. He stepped in a puddle, oily rainwater splashing up the beige legs of his trousers. His fingers shot out to flash across the air. ‘In the name of the wee man.’
Hunter unclicked Chantal’s brolly, unable to stop laughing. ‘You okay, mate?’
‘Like shite I am—’ Elvis nodded at Chantal as she dumped the “On Official Police Business” sign on the dashboard. ‘Sarge.’
‘Constable.’ Chantal looked up and down the street. ‘You were supposed to get the Transport cops.’
‘Lad’s waiting downstairs.’ Elvis clicked his heels like he was a doorman at a nightclub, then he smirked at the obvious pain and rubbed his triangular sideburns. ‘Follow me.’ He set off into Waverley, gingerly taking one step at a time, his every move part of a campaign for early retirement. ‘Oh, before I forget, I checked with those other victims?’
Hunter kept pace with him. ‘And?’
‘Nobody else’s even heard from Tulloch in months. Certainly no death threats.’
Hunter stopped and swung round to face Chantal. ‘So he’s only targeted Paisley?’
‘Looks like it.’ Elvis grinned. ‘Who names their kid Paisley anyway? It’s asking for trouble.’
‘Constable . . .’ Chantal rolled her eyes at him. ‘Can you try and escort us to the BTP office without making yourself look any worse?’
‘Aye, soz.’ Elvis started off again. Click, click. ‘Better name than Ardrossan or Saltcoats, I suppose.’
* * *
PC Pete Davies paced around his grotto, a dark little room stinking of stale coffee from the mouldy dregs at the bottom of a mug. No natural light, just the greyscale glare of the computer monitors. He looked like he’d been born bored, sauntering out of the womb with a yawn. The British Transport Police officer slurped at his paper cup of tea and licked his lips. Again. He rubbed his moustache and tapped at the screens in front of them. Another lick of the lips for good measure. ‘So, like I was saying, pal, it’s a needle in a haystack.’
Why is everything so bloody difficult with this lot?
Hunter looked at the spare office chair with the ripped fabric. Seemed about as rough as he was feeling, so he stayed on his feet. ‘I need to know if Sean Tulloch is still on that train or not.’
‘Still?’ Davies frowned at Elvis. ‘How do you know he’s on it in the first place?’
Elvis cleared his throat. ‘Got a mate with access to the CCTV feeds.’
‘You’ve got a mate, have you? Congratulations.’ Davies huffed as he waved his hands at the monitors. ‘Right, the only problem is, I can’t access the on-train feed from here.’
Each screen showed live footage of Waverley station at lunchtime. A few people milled around by the announcements board, clutching coffees and pastries. The rest was like an ant colony, a mass of little creatures carrying bags from shops to trains to other people to more people to the point that Hunter’s head started spinning.
Davies licked his lips again. ‘We usually use these things to back up assaults. Drunk wankers from Prestonpans not getting on the last train on a Friday night. That kind of thing. I’m dreading the Cup Final next weekend.’
Chantal looked ready to launch herself across the room at him. ‘Is this an evasive way of saying you can’t help?’
Davies glanced round at Elvis. ‘Maybe DC Gordon’s mate can.’
Chantal hauled open the door. ‘Right, incompetence noted. Off we go.’
Davies held up his hands. ‘I’m not being a dick here.’
‘If you say so.’
‘We’ll need to hurry.’ Davies tapped at another screen. ‘That train’s just left Haymarket.’
* * *
Hunter jogged up the stairs then followed Chantal down the narrow corridor. Behind, Davies and a couple of Transport Police officers jog-walked, their red faces indicating they’d fail a fitness test at the warm-up. He frowned at Elvis. When the frown didn’t make him speed up, he coughed at him. ‘Elv—’ Another cough. ‘Paul, are our lot still in position?’
‘Should be, aye.’
‘Can you not phone them?’
‘Keep your hair on.’ Elvis reached into his pocket and almost tripped over.
‘Sod this.’ Hunter darted down the concourse past the WH Smith. He got a polite nod from the waiting guard as he sprinted through the turnstile.
A squad of local uniform spread out along the platform to the right, from where the tunnels lead to Haymarket. Across the tracks, the other platforms were mostly empty.
Big Jim was strutting around like he was in charge, though his suit had other notions. Must’ve bought it when he was even bigger, because the baggy atrocity looked like it was wearing him. He nodded at Elvis.
Hunter spun round. ‘Which carriage was Tulloch in?’
Elvis rubbed at his left sideburn as he slowed to a halt. He was sucking in breath. ‘Erm, the second.’
‘Counting from which end?’
‘Oh, eh. This end.’ Elvis frowned. ‘I think.’
A train spluttered out of the tunnel, the dirty yellow front hissing towards them, rain flashing in the headlights.
Hunter jogged partway up the track, trying to gauge the train’s braking. Metal screeched on metal, time slowed, the ground seemed to vibrate as the colossal machine shuddered to a stop, just metres from Hunter.
‘Terrific.’ Hunter let out a deep breath, only now realising he’d held it. Then he raced down the platform.
The bulk of the uniforms stepped towards the train, blocking the exits. A door further down bleeped open and a guard stepped out. He reached in to fiddle with the controls, but a cop stopped him before he could release all the other doors.
Hunter peered through the second carriage’s windows. Two queues merged at the exits. A couple were facing the wrong way, lost in an argument. Empty cans of lager filled a few of the tables. An old man stood, letting his walking stick take the strain as he joined the queue.
There, a pair of hulking giants both matched Tulloch’s description. But which one was him? Hard to tell when you’ve never seen the guy in person.
Hunter locked eyes with Chantal, got a curt nod.
The doors hissed open. A small woman with a buggy and two toddlers was first out. Passengers flooded past as she did up her coat in the driving rain.
The first of the giants stooped below the doorway. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, a uniform grabbed him and pulled him through the crowd. Chantal headed over towards him, turning her back on the second brute. The man slipped out, his hooded head twitching around. He clocked the nearest uniforms and disappeared, lost in the crowd.
Hunter took one look at the wheezing Transport cops and bolted after the fugitive. ‘Stop, police!’ His voice thundered above the crowd noise.
Tulloch was on the tracks. Didn’t as much as flinch at the command, just
bounded across the planks.
Hunter bombed after him into the pit between platforms, landing on the pebbles with a quiet crunch. The air fizzed with electricity. Bloody thing’s live . . .
Tulloch hauled himself up the other side with military ease.
Hunter stepped across the boards, careful to avoid the tracks, and hefted himself up onto the rough concrete platform. Took two goes to get up. Bloody knee was still throbbing with every hard impact.
Tulloch jumped down to the next set of tracks and ran down towards the main body of the station. His hood kept flapping back but never fell.
Chantal was scowling at Hunter, arms wide. ‘Craig, what the hell are you doing?’
He set off across the empty platform, trailing Tulloch along the edge. Tulloch’s stride was much longer than his, but the stones were slowing him down. He reached the end and swung up like a cat.
Hunter gained ground on the upper level with every stride. He grabbed Tulloch as he got up to a crouch and stuck his knee between his shoulder blades. He pulled him to his feet and jerked his right arm up. Something damp splashed on his trousers. Hopefully not Coke . . .
Tulloch’s mid-grey tracksuit bottoms darkened in a patch winding round his leg. A yellow puddle spread out at his feet.
He’d pissed himself. All over Hunter’s legs.
Chantal skidded to a halt next to them, frowning at him. ‘Craig, you—’
‘My name is DC Craig Hunter of Police Scotland.’ He tightened the grip on the arm. ‘Sean Tulloch, I’m arresting you for Threatening and Abusing Behaviour, you don’t—’
‘I’m not Sean Tulloch!’ Thick Australian accent.
‘What?’ Hunter relaxed his grip.
Chantal reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. She flipped it open and groaned. ‘James Maxwell?’
‘That’s me.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s hurting, mate!’
Hunter released his arm and shrugged at Chantal. ‘Is it a fake ID?’
‘Unlikely. Unless he’s also faking the Brisbane accent.’ Chantal got in Maxwell’s face. ‘Do you know a Sean Tulloch?’
