by Ed James
The girl in front brushed off the creepy stag and swung round to them, panic widening her eyes. ‘Excuse me, is this the flight to London?’ Polish accent, but with a light coating of cockney.
Chantal patted her on the arm. ‘No, sorry.’ She pointed to the Passport Control. ‘That’s Portugal out there.’
‘Oh, not again.’ She clicked her suitcase handle and started barging her way against the queue. ‘Thank you.’
‘Poor girl.’ Chantal watched her shove her way through shouts of ‘Well, excuse me!’ towards the staircase back up to Departures. Their flight neighbour was six people ahead of them now. ‘Craig, that queue is moving.’
Hunter took another look. ‘Can we change?’
‘Chantal Jain, well I never . . .’ A thick-accented Geordie stood in the other queue. Tall, broad-shouldered and as much eye contact as you could handle. Like being back in Newcastle, he just needed to be topless and drunk. Instead, he wore a suit, carried a long overcoat and gave her a sobering leer or a smile. DI Jon Bruce.
Brucie Bonus.
Brucie Boner. Tried to pull Sharon once . . .
Chantal flashed him one of her fake smiles. ‘Long time, no see.’
‘Far too long, pet.’ He looked over at Hunter, beaming from ear to ear. ‘This your boyfriend?’
Chantal coughed. ‘Partner.’
He frowned. ‘Police or personal?’
‘Police.’ Chantal’s polite smile returned as she lowered her voice. ‘He’s my DC. We’re on a case.’
‘Ah.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I see.’
Hunter raised his eyebrows at Chantal and held out his hand. ‘Craig Hunter. Nice to meet you.’
‘DI Jon Bruce.’ He returned the grip. His queue moved forward and he took a step away. ‘You’re coming with me, right?’
Chantal kicked her bag over towards him. ‘Sure.’
‘You can’t do that!’ A red-faced man in jacket and jeans scowled at her. ‘There’s a queue for a bloody reason!’
‘Is there?’ She gave a shrug and joined Bruce in the queue.
Hunter hefted his bag and followed her. Got a poke on the arm as he squeezed in front of the complainant. He glowered at the man, gave him his sternest policeman glare. ‘Sir, you need to back off.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘A police officer.’
‘Well, you’re on Portuguese soil now, so—’
‘Nice to meet you, mate.’ Hunter nodded at Bruce. ‘Tell me, how do you two know each other?’
‘We were on a course down in London together. Few years back, now.’ Bruce leered at her. Brucie Bonus, indeed. Play your cards right and he might be good for a favour or two. ‘Had cracking fun, didn’t we?’
Chantal looked him up and down. ‘What brings you out here in your fighting suit?’
Bruce looked away, scratching at his chin. ‘Running this bloody Harry Jack case.’
‘Heard about that on the radio.’ Chantal frowned. ‘The abduction, right?’
‘Yeah. Kid got lifted in Alnwick on Wednesday. Coming home from school.’ Bruce draped his jacket over the other arm. ‘As you can imagine, it’s got a bit of press interest. As per usual, that’s led to a series of sightings of the lad. Happened to be a few in the Algarve yesterday. Given the Daily Express can still cover their front page with Madeleine McCann and the fact the kid’s mother’s Portuguese . . .’ He raised his hands. ‘Voila. The Chief Constable’s going apeshit. Half of Northumbria police are on their way down here. Omnishambles.’
Chantal stepped forward. Their previous queue still hadn’t moved, not that the stag parties seemed to care. Or notice. ‘At least they’ve got you, Jon.’
Bruce chuckled. ‘Tell you, the Chief’s brought in three psychics to help. Can you believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘And we’ve got sniffer dogs from one of the Yorkshire forces out.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘Think we’ll need it.’ Bruce stepped forward in the queue. ‘What are you here for anyway?’
‘A serial sex offender has slipped out of the country.’
‘Oh, you bastard.’ Bruce grimaced. ‘Still, not a bad gig here. It’s been pissing down in Newcastle all week. Suspect it’s the same up in Edinburgh. We should grab a drink sometime, given we’re both over here.’
Chantal smiled at him. ‘Sounds like a good idea.’
Hunter frowned at her. Seemed unduly worried about her flirtatious banter, like he might worry she was pissing him about until someone else came along. He cleared his throat. ‘Actually—’
Bruce patted Chantal on the arm and nodded at the passport desk. ‘You go first, princess.’
TWENTY
Hunter
The officer stared at Hunter’s passport, blinking as slowly as though he’d just woken up. Seemed like he’d been looking at it for five minutes. Then he turned away and spoke into his phone. Not tired, just suspicious.
Terrific.
Grumbling voices came from the queue behind.
Hunter could see neither Chantal nor that Geordie guy. Bruce or whatever it was. Seedy-looking git. He smiled at the officer. ‘Is there a problem?’
He got a raised finger for his trouble.
Hunter picked up his bag again with a sigh. Don’t speak, don’t make eye contact, don’t give them any reason to treat you differently from the faceless crowds.
‘Okay.’ The officer put the phone down and handed the passport back with a sniff and a sneer. ‘Welcome to Portugal, sir.’
Hunter responded with a silent smile and sauntered through to the Arrivals area.
Bruce was walking up ahead, right next to Chantal. She seemed eager to get away for a bit of privacy, while she was talking on her mobile. Maybe not attracted to Bruce’s brand of brash machismo after all. Relief filled his lungs with stale airport air and . . . the smell of burnt meat from a fast-food place.
Hunter clenched his teeth, his fingers starting to dance.
Not now.
He focused on his case, steadily trundling behind him and pushed through the doors to outside. Fresh air. Well, a breeze of it anyway, somewhere among the desperate smokers, lighting up as soon as they cleared the exit. And Bruce, staring at him with an open smile. More than a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. Slight tanning around his ring finger, a pale band cutting across the rough hairs.
A gang of pissed-up stags queued by a row of taxis, a couple of them holding coffees.
Roofed walkways outside the airport hid them from the worst of the unseasonable deluge, leaving them exposed to the occasional cross-blast of tropical wind. To the west, a shaft of sunlight crept out of the grey gloom, lighting up the towers in Faro town centre.
Welcome to Portugal, indeed.
Hunter sighed, his pulse returning to normal. Could be back in Bathgate or Leith.
‘You okay, mate?’
Hunter cleared his throat. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay . . .’ Bruce grinned at Hunter. ‘Well, I’m heading into town, so I’ll catch you later, aye?’
Hunter glanced at Chantal again, clenching his fingers into a fist. ‘I take it Cha— DS Jain’s got your number?’
‘Sure has.’ Bruce hoisted his jacket over his shoulder. ‘You pair supposed to be meeting anyone?’
‘Inspector João Quaresma. Do you know him?’
‘He’s one of our contacts. But I’ve got to meet the local chief of police first.’ Bruce exhaled slowly. ‘A mate in the West Mercia force was out here a few years back hunting a fugitive. Said the locals are useless, just so you know.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Bruce leaned in close, his minty breath mixing with his aftershave, a scent of musk heavier than a Turkish barber. ‘What’s the story with you and Chantal?’
Hunter clocked the hunger in his eyes, a little twinkle in the baby blue. ‘She’s my DS.’
‘Riiiight.’ Bruce’s head tilted almost halfway round. ‘Tell you, mate, the
things I’d do to that woman . . .’
Hunter swallowed an exasperated laugh. Prick. ‘See you around, sir.’
‘Right. Yeah.’ Bruce looked him up and down, then saluted at Chantal as he walked off, his jacket hanging loosely over one shoulder.
Chantal hung up her call. ‘Thank God he’s gone.’
‘Old flame?’
‘Craig . . .’ She raised her eyebrows and sucked in her cheeks. ‘No, he’s not.’ She glanced after Bruce, eyes narrowed. ‘Not for want of trying on his part. Though he was more interested in Sharon.’ She yawned. ‘We had a week-long course in Advanced Interview Techniques. Something like that. Supposed to be at Tulliallan, but Sharon’s DI at the time thought it’d be good to have us mingle with the English cops, some limp-wristed political gesture. Somehow we ended up in Hendon, deep in Met territory. Anyway, he was trying it on with all the girls at night.’
‘Sounds like hell.’
‘And then some.’ Chantal waved at someone behind Hunter and snapped her fake smile back into place. ‘There we go.’
By the taxis, a middle-aged man held up a card with “DS Jane” on it.
Chantal stopped in front of him and showed her warrant card. ‘DS Chantal Jain.’ She thumbed at Hunter. ‘This is DC Craig Hunter.’
‘Inspector João Quaresma.’ He looked at them as though waiting for strangers at the airport was his personal idea of purgatory, eyes smouldering away, close to burning out. His grey hair might have passed for silver, perhaps even distinguished, if he hadn’t looked so tired with his tanned skin fading to yellow, his eyes lost in the shadows of his heavy brow. ‘Come on.’ He folded the paper up as he walked towards a car park. ‘This way.’
TWENTY-ONE
Chantal
‘I don’t understand.’ Chantal leaned forward, the seatbelt straining and digging into her chest. She stuck her head closer to Quaresma. ‘You should’ve arrested him when he landed.’
Quaresma’s head crept round and stale coffee breath swept over her. ‘Sergeant, we will discuss this business at my police station. Now is not good time.’
‘You’ve seen the evidence, right?’
Quaresma put a finger to his lips. ‘I am driving.’
Chantal slumped back in her seat, letting the belt slap back.
What an arrogant prick.
The countryside slid past them. Steep hills metres away from the edge of the dual carriageway. Even the pouring rain struggled to dampen the dry soil. The road ahead was almost empty, a camper van lurching between the lanes.
Albufeira came into view round a tight bend, a long sprawl of grey down by the gusty blue sea. Above, dark clouds were racing across a low sky, so low it nearly touched the buildings, none taller than three or four storeys by the looks of it, certainly nothing like back home.
Hunter was next to her, tapping out a text on his phone. ‘Finlay’s going to meet us at the station.’
‘Right.’ She dropped her voice to a mutter. ‘What’s with this guy?’
Hunter looked up. ‘What, him not arresting Tulloch?’
‘And not speaking to us.’ Chantal folded her arms. They swept up to a roundabout and Quaresma hammered the horn, swearing in Portuguese. Nice to see a fellow road-rage sufferer. ‘Might be the airport traffic, I suppose.’
Hunter put his phone away. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Grab some of the local officers, find Tulloch, arrest him, take him back to dear old Blighty.’
‘And what do we do tomorrow?’
Quaresma slowed to a halt and hit the horn again. ‘You see English press? Why they have to come to my country, eh?’
The road was mobbed with journalists, all holding their mobiles out like dictaphones. A couple of TV crews swung round, aiming their cameras at Quaresma’s black Audi. Gradually, he inched through the crowed and pulled into a car park. ‘This is every day now. Press ask question, shout at police. Every day.’
Chantal tried her door. Locked. Quaresma got out and opened Hunter’s door. She squeezed out after him.
Quaresma already had her case out on the tarmac. ‘Sergeant, you follow me. Please. Do not speak to press, okay?’
She shrugged. ‘Off you go, then.’
Quaresma marched off across the damp marble, a shaft of sunlight breaking through the granite clouds and lighting up the station. Concrete pillars held up a brutal rendition of a Greek temple in pale stucco. All hard angles, the top floor about twenty metres wider on each side than the ground. The windows were narrow, designed to block the sun, rather than let in what little light you got. Here, light wasn’t the precious commodity it was in Scotland.
Hunter followed Quaresma inside.
Chantal stopped by the front door. Cool and calm, girl, cool and calm.
Someone grabbed her by the arm. She swung round, ready to sucker-punch the scrawny . . .
Rich McAlpine. What the hell? The journalist had a haunted look to him. ‘Hey, Chantal, you got a minute?’
‘Been told not to speak to the press, Rich.’
‘Come on.’ His phone was almost in her face. Twat was recording this. ‘Have Police Scotland been called in to assist with the hunt for Harry Jack?’
‘No comment.’
‘That cos you are?’
‘I said, no comment.’
‘Come on, Chantal. We’re getting soaked here. A little tidbit?’
Another reporter joined Rich, the sort of hipster you only saw in London. Big beard with a twirly handlebar moustache. Shirt buttons done up to his throat.
She smiled at them. ‘Sorry about what happened to you, Rich, but I’ve got nothing to say other than we’re not here about that case.’
Rich’s mate piped up. ‘So what is it, then?’ Northern accent. Maybe Manchester.
‘No comment.’ Chantal grabbed her case and pushed into the station.
Quaresma was standing inside, hands on hips, lips pursed. ‘Sergeant, I said do not speak to press.’
‘They’re known to me and DC Hunter. I gave them a no comment.’
‘I see.’ Quaresma started off towards a set of doors. ‘Please. Follow me.’
As she obliged, Hunter sidled up to her. ‘That wasn’t Rich McAlpine, was it?’
‘You know him, too?’
‘Aye, shared a flat with Scott Cullen, didn’t he?’
‘Well, not any more. But it was him.’
‘You didn’t let on why we’re here?’
She winked at Hunter. ‘Not yet.’
* * *
Quaresma leaned back behind a cheap-looking desk, resting his leather boots on the white plastic surface. The room stank of boot polish. No natural light in here, just a bright desk lamp facing them. ‘So, you travel all this way for Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill.’
‘And it looks like we’ve come a very long way for nothing.’ Chantal perched on the chair opposite Quaresma. She trusted it about as much as him. She glanced at Hunter, standing by the door. ‘Or have you got Tulloch in custody yet?’
‘You know we have not.’
Chantal threw her arms out wide. ‘He’s been here since last night.’
Quaresma flashed his surprisingly white teeth at her. ‘I am afraid we have, how you say? Other priorities.’
‘A serial domestic abuser running around on your territory isn’t a priority?’
‘Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant. I want to help you and Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill. And Mr Farmer here.’
‘Hunter.’
Quaresma nodded slowly, his teeth still bared. ‘You are here to hunt this man, yes?’
Hunter shrugged at him. ‘We’re here to bring a criminal back to our country. That’s it. No need for melodrama.’
‘Melodrama?’ Quaresma reached forward and flicked his left trouser leg back down over his boot. ‘You are only here to escort this man back to UK?’
‘I’m sure DI McNeill passed that on?’
‘Yes.’
Chantal butted in. ‘And yet you’ve let him go.
’
‘Sergeant, tell me. If I come to UK and ask to bring home a Portuguese man I say is criminal, do you let me do it? Just like that?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d spend some time looking at the evidence you’d sent by email and fax.’ Chantal looked across the empty desk. ‘I don’t really see you doing that.’
‘I have a lot of work.’
‘Listen, we shared evidence with you yesterday of Sean Tulloch viciously assaulting a woman in Scotland.’
Quaresma held her gaze for a few seconds, then ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Then why let him leave your country?’ His toothy smile may have been intended as a mollifier when he first offered it five minutes ago, but by now it looked about as welcoming as a wolf.
Welcome to Portugal? I think not.
Quaresma sighed and changed tack. ‘You have heard of Harry Jack, yes?’
Chantal’s gut plummeted through the soles of her sandals. Here we go — Brucie Boner strikes again. She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Of course I’ve heard about him.’
‘He is our priority. Your press reported two sightings of this child yesterday. Another one this morning and two this afternoon. Is not a coincidence.’
Chantal looked over at Hunter, got an encouraging nod, and leaned forward. ‘Inspector, we’re requesting you divert a couple of resources to support our investigation.’
‘Sergeant . . .’ Quaresma chuckled as he got to his feet and strolled over to the window overlooking the street. Still soaked in Scottish-style rain, hordes of journalists huddled under umbrellas. He leaned his back against the glass. ‘The world is watching. This morning, six news crews from your country landed here. This story is even popular in America.’
Chantal folded her arms tight. ‘I still don’t get why you can’t give us an officer or two to support our investigation.’
‘You ask again, I say again. The Harry Jack case is our priority.’ Quaresma raised his eyebrows, the sunlight catching shards of white. ‘You know the Madeleine McCann case, yes?’
‘Our case has the potential to—’
‘My boss say not again. My hands are, how you say? Locked?’ Quaresma put his hands together like they were cuffed. ‘This is start of tourist season here. Busiest time of year. Lots of people from north Europe come down to party. Many rapes, many fights.’
