Hunted

by Ed James

  Chantal looked over at Hunter, brief hope mixing with bitter revulsion. ‘Did he rape you, Paisley?’

  She ran a finger along the palm of her hand. ‘First time he didn’t.’

  Jesus. The first time . . . How casually she talked about being violated. Like it was an everyday occurrence, like going to the shops.

  Chantal sat back with a sigh. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Someone knocked at the door.’ Paisley lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘That’s when Sean left.’ She made walking motions with two of her fingers. ‘Waltzed out the back door.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Eventually, that Irish cop opened the door. A dumpy cow and some boy with sidies had turned up.’

  Elvis saves the day . . .

  Chantal leaned forward and waited until she locked eyes with her again. ‘Is there anywhere else Mr Tulloch could’ve gone?’

  Paisley scowled at her. ‘His mum died five year ago. Never knew his old man, eh? Got army mates everywhere, but I was never allowed to meet them. Must’ve been ashamed of me.’

  Chantal gave her a stern look. ‘He’s got a lot of things to be ashamed of, Paisley, but you’re not one of them.’

  * * *

  ‘That’s not good enough.’ Sharon’s voice was distorted by the car’s speakers. Her verdict, however, was crystal clear. ‘I need him in custody like yesterday.’

  ‘If you’ll let me speak?’ Chantal scowled over at the stereo. ‘Shaz?’

  Sharon paused on the line, huffing out a blast of static. ‘Right. Go on.’

  ‘We’re on our way to her house right now.’ Chantal sped out into the oncoming lane to overtake a tractor. A Focus hurtled towards them, flashing its lights. She saw Hunter gripping the grab handle tight, eyes clamped shut. The car veered back as a horn blared. ‘If Tulloch is still in the area, we’ll catch him.’ She swept round a cream Mini, in and out just like that. Finally that advanced driving course aid off, even if Hunter wouldn’t qualify as an eye witness. Speaking of eye witnesses . . . ‘We’ve got units guarding his previous victims. He’s not getting away.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

  Chantal gripped the wheel until it hurt her thumbs. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Sorry. Just . . . Just catch him.’

  ‘Like it’s that easy.’ Chantal glanced over at Hunter. ‘Anything from Rollo-Smith?’

  Sharon left another long pause. ‘I’m keeping this latest development from Captain Flashpants for now.’

  ‘Sure that’s wise?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Your job’s on the line as much as mine. Speak later.’ Chantal killed the call and floored it, the needle dancing past ninety. ‘What a bloody shambles.’

  Hunter opened his eyes and let go of the handle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Chantal flicked the radio on.

  ‘— Alnwick where Detective Inspector Jonathan Bruce of Northumbria Police has been apprising the press of developments in the missing child case—’

  She snapped it off again and muttered, ‘That’s all I bloody need.’ She settled back in her seat and flashed him a smile. ‘Can’t believe Elvis saved the day . . .’

  EIGHT

  Hunter

  Hunter glanced over at Chantal, his grip on the “oh shit” handle turning his knuckles bone white like he was in a troop transport heading to Iraq. Or in a coffin wheeled into an incinerator. Same thing, really. And about time I started talking to someone again about these morbid thoughts.

  Chantal’s eyes tracked the road ahead of them, her jaw clenched. She swerved into Paisley’s street, the brakes squealing as Hunter was thrown over the handbrake.

  ‘Slow down!’

  She tore past the squad car and slammed on the brakes again, this time parking between an Astra and a Fiesta. Then she got out her mobile.

  Terrific. Multitasking when both of our lives were on the line.

  Hunter got out of the car fast.

  Across the street, PC Warner was trying to unroll a length of Crime Scene tape over the open front door to Paisley Sanderson’s house, while holding the back of his head. He swung round and clocked Hunter’s approach. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Any sign of him?’

  ‘No such luck.’ Warner snapped off the tape with a penknife and grinned. ‘But there was no sign of him when he battered me on the back of the head, either.’

  ‘I saw what Tulloch did to your partner.’

  ‘Fractured skull, according to my Sergeant.’

  Hunter pointed at the back of Warner’s head. ‘Sure you should be on duty?’

  ‘Not sure at all, but what can you do?’ Warner ran his thumb down the tape, looking for the end. ‘Prick came at me when I went out the back there.’ He flicked the end up with his thumbnail and stuck the tape to the doorframe. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though, Tulloch’s a big guy. Huge. I’d say he’s on a fair bit of gear now. You don’t get to that size by training clean, know what I mean?’

  Know exactly what you mean.

  Chantal barged past them and ducked under the tape.

  Hunter smiled at Warner, swallowed his sigh and followed her inside, straight into the living room.

  Paisley’s armchair was ripped open and the stuffing thrown around the place. Other than that, it was exactly as they’d left it that morning, the silence as oppressive as the memory of that broken woman in the hospital bed.

  Then Elvis stepped through in the bedroom doorway, rasping at his sideburns. ‘Alright?’

  Chantal scanned around the room again. ‘Have you found Tulloch yet?’

  Elvis couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Not yet, Sarge.’

  ‘What about the mobile he used to text that death threat?’

  ‘Switched off after he sent it. Not been on since.’

  Chantal nodded slowly. ‘And the CCTV?’

  ‘Getting nowhere with that, Sarge.’

  Chantal took a step closer, head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘Are you saying there’s no footage?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Her arm shot out and pointed towards the street. ‘There’s a pair of cameras over there!’

  Elvis finally looked at her. ‘They won’t give me access.’

  ‘Let me be clear. Your access to public surveillance footage is why you’re on this unit, okay? You better get it in the next five minutes or I’m putting in a request to transfer you to the traffic department. Good chance to reacquaint yourself with the basics of speeding violations and parking permits. Is that clear?’

  Elvis nodded, eyes flickering. ‘Sarge.’ He bent down to pick up a laptop bag, then made his way outside. Looked like he was about to burst into tears. Out in the back yard, he picked up one of the green patio chairs and shook off the rain. Then he sat hunched over, tearing at the catches on his bag.

  Hunter beckoned Chantal into the bathroom. Shower, sink, toilet. An all-white suite edged with nicotine-yellow silicone. ‘You might’ve been a bit hard on him there.’

  ‘He deserves a lot worse for his casual indifference to protocol and any form of professionalism in the line of duty. What he doesn’t deserve is a place on this unit, not unless he starts pulling his considerable weight.’ Chantal leaned against the doorjamb and grimaced. ‘This is a bloody disaster. He didn’t spot Tulloch getting off the train. Now he’s responsible for this.’

  ‘Need to keep your pecker up, Sarge.’ Hunter winked at her as he put a hand to a turquoise towel. Still damp. ‘Well, Tulloch used this to dry himself.’ He touched the base of the shower unit. Still wet, too. ‘Paisley’s story is checking out.’ He eased himself up to full height, his calves aching from the chase at Waverley, but at least his knee wasn’t throbbing any more. Thank God for small mercies. ‘But there’s something I don’t get.’

  ‘Here we go.’ Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘What is it, oh master detective?’

  ‘Tulloch’s a squaddie, ri
ght? Been on for a month, maybe more. He comes home for a week’s R&R and he’s had to make do with Madam Palm and her five sisters.’ Hunter locked eyes with Chantal. When she didn’t react, he offered a slow rendition of the wanker gesture, hand moving across her field of vision in long, fluid strokes.

  Eventually, Chantal’s composure broke and she looked at his hand. ‘I get it.’ She looked back inside the house. ‘It’s a disgusting image, especially after you gave me a hard time for my “uterus” comment earlier on, but I know what you mean. You’re wondering why he didn’t take advantage of her when he had the chance?’

  ‘Right.’ Hunter frowned. ‘Admittedly, he had two unconscious cops here, which might well explain it. I don’t know what he was planning, but . . .’ He stepped through to the living room and gestured for Warner to join them. ‘See when you woke up, did you call it in straight away?’

  ‘No, I took a while coming around.’ Warner patted the back of his skull. ‘Not for lack of trying, mind. But after that shitehawk banjaxed my head, I felt like my brains were—’

  ‘No details, please. I’m still a bit lightheaded myself. You didn’t hear anything while you were lying on the floor, did you?’

  ‘Wait, I’d heard water running, maybe?’ Warner rubbed at his forehead and stared out of the front door. ‘But then I blacked out again. Next thing I know, I’m on my feet, wobbling into the house like a dwarf on stilts. Nearly fell over again when I saw Sally lying on the floor in the kitchen, by the cooker. Guy had gone to town on her. Vicious bastard.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Your woman was next to her. The pervert had taken her clothes off, you know?’ He pointed at the living room carpet. ‘Lying right there, moaning like she was wondering whether to call an ambulance or go straight for the hearse.’

  ‘No sign of Tulloch?’

  ‘Not that I saw, no. Your man with the sideburns was knocking at the door.’

  ‘We know.’ Hunter waved into the bathroom. ‘He spooked Tulloch before he could finish whatever he was planning to do to the poor girl.’

  Warner stepped forward. ‘You know he’s crying in the garden?’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Hunter clicked his tongue a few times. ‘The boss had a harsh word with him, but it’s for his own good. Anyway, if he spooked Tulloch, that means the guy’s scarpered. He won’t be coming back here any time soon.’

  Warner frowned. ‘Sure you’re not jumping to conclusions there, bud?’

  ‘Come with me.’ Hunter paced through to the bedroom.

  Built-in wardrobes surrounded a small double bed, the stained sheets crumpled up.

  Bingo.

  A giant holdall lay on the other side. Standard military issue.

  Hunter snapped on a pair of gloves and opened the bag slowly. ‘Elvis should’ve been through this.’ He peered inside. Full of dirty washing — underpants and socks, jeans and T-shirts, not the uniform apparel that the military support staff would clean.

  ‘I’m Batman!’ Elvis stood in the doorway, holding his laptop up like a trophy. ‘Got the CCTV from the street.’ He shuffled over and rested the laptop on the coffee table like it was a sleeping baby. A dongle hung out of the side of the machine, its blue light pulsing. He hit the space bar and it started playing.

  The camera caught Paisley Sanderson’s house square on, including the side lane and the neighbour’s property. As the recording played, a car pulled up outside, wheeling back to park in the same space they had used just now. Only this car was a BMW 1-series, and it looked factory new. Which it probably wasn’t, not on a squaddie’s salary, so the gleaming paint job reflected nothing as much as the owner’s glowing pride. A tall, bulky man got out and grabbed a big bag from the passenger seat.

  Sean Tulloch. This time.

  He lugged it over to Paisley’s house, dropping it at the front door and staring down the street. Spent a good few seconds there, motionless.

  Hunter tapped the screen. ‘So he’s seen PC Smith’s car.’

  Elvis frowned. ‘Who’s PC Smith?’

  ‘The female officer you found with her head caved in.’

  On the laptop screen, Tulloch was moving again, cutting down the side lane. The house sat silent.

  ‘Give.’ Elvis grabbed the laptop and set it playing at high speed. A couple of cars shot past like they were on their way to the Moon. ‘Now watch. Eighteen minutes later, this happened.’

  A grey Vauxhall pulled up outside the house, double-parking and blocking the street. Elvis got out and sauntered over to the house, laughing away to himself or whomever he was regaling with one of his marvellous jokes on the mobile pressed to his ear. He rattled the front door and waved at the car. The driver got out in slow-motion — DC Jenny Diamond, struggling out of the narrow confines with her gammy leg. Elvis shrugged his shoulders and knocked on the door again.

  Out of his sight, Tulloch crept from the lane and hid behind the wall. The front door opened to a crack and Elvis dropped his laptop case. Warner was visible, lying in the doorway. DC Diamond flinched and started tapping at her Airwave. Elvis helped him to his feet. Then they entered the house.

  The BMW’s lights flashed. Seconds later, Tulloch dashed over to it and got in. The car revved off down the street, the camera catching Tulloch putting on his seatbelt.

  Chantal cleared her throat and the three men turned in unison. She acknowledged the good find with a smile at Elvis. Then she snatched the laptop off him and wound the footage back. She paused it and tapped at the car as it sped off. ‘Is this Tulloch?’

  Hunter squinted at the grainy figure wrapping the seatbelt around his bulk. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘For definite, this time?’

  ‘For definite.’

  ‘Right.’ Chantal stabbed a finger on the BMW and glowered at Elvis. ‘Next job is to find this car. Now. Try to keep up the good work.’

  ‘Right, Sarge.’ Elvis took the laptop back and perched on the edge of the sofa, his fingers dancing across the keyboard, a faint smile lingering in those unkempt sideburns.

  Hunter walked back through to the bedroom. ‘What do you think?’

  Chantal leaned against the door jamb. ‘I think Elvis and Jenny are lucky Tulloch didn’t brain them as well. If Warner hadn’t opened the door . . .’

  ‘You’re telling me.’ Hunter sat on the bed and dug deep into the open kit bag, wading his gloved hands through soiled underpants. Something clattered near the bottom. He piled up the grey jockey shorts on one side and shifted the T-shirts until he found it. Something hard and cold. He eased it out. A small laptop, shiny and silver. ‘Jackpot?’

  Chantal flashed her eyebrows. ‘See if it’s any use.’

  Hunter opened the lid and it bounced to life, straight into a football management game. Chelsea versus Heart of Midlothian in the Champions League. ‘Didn’t even need a password . . .’ He marched back through to the living room and held it in front of Elvis. ‘Need you to go through this, Paul.’

  Elvis didn’t look up from his own machine. ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘Not been forensics trained.’

  ‘I’ll get your dry-cleaning as well, aye?’ Elvis snapped on a pair of blue gloves. ‘Nice trousers, by the way.’

  Hunter tugged at the thighs and sighed. ‘Reckon you can find anything?’

  ‘Well, the good news is it’s unlocked.’ Elvis tapped the screen. ‘That’s usually a complete ball ache. The bad news is he’s a dirty Jambo bastard. Hearts playing in the Champions League? Science fiction . . .’ His laptop chimed. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ He squinted at it, then swivelled it round. ‘Here you go. Got a sighting of that car on the ANPR system.’

  A grey image showed the City bypass at Sheriffhall, the BMW on the turning from the A7.

  Elvis clicked the space bar and the car followed the road west.

  Hunter nodded at him. ‘Will this take us to him?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Elvis tapped away until the screen went to a map. ‘Right, he comes off at the far end of the Bypass, then goes along the A8.’
He hit another key and the display filled with the car coming off the road, heading down to a roundabout. ‘Now he takes the airport exit.’

  Hunter stared at the shot of the car, surrounded by a few pine trees and shades of grey. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Elvis clattered the keys again. ‘Oh, snap.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, there’s more bad news. I’ve lost it.’

  ‘Any more good news?’

  ‘I lose him going into the Ingliston Park and Ride, and he doesn’t come back out.’

  NINE

  Chantal

  Chantal overtook another lorry, hitting eighty as she cleared it. Got back into her lane just before the next impatient commuter whizzed past them, the evening rush-hour traffic piling towards them in ever shorter intervals.

  Where the hell was Tulloch? Who was he battering now? Making them look like idiots while he dashed around the countryside, presumably off to silence one victim at a time. Stop them speaking. Stop them getting him off the streets.

  She hugged the rear of a coach, banking out into the right lane to chance another overtake.

  Hunter grabbed the wheel and stopped her. ‘Do you want to calm down?’

  Chantal shot him a glare and held it for a few seconds, then looked away, back on the road. With a slow sigh she took her foot off the accelerator and settled in to a reasonable cruise to match the bus’s fifty-five. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘This whole thing isn’t your fault, you know?’

  She clenched her teeth, then swept her hair behind her left ear. ‘We should’ve had more units stationed at her house.’

  ‘We had two uniform there. And a squad car. Elvis and Jenny Diamond were on their way there, too.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that was.’

  ‘Warner’s no slouch. He beat the snot out of me.’

  ‘I know that, but I also know what state Paisley’s in. That man beat her straight into a hospital bed.’