Hunted

by Ed James

  ‘Nothing much, to be honest with you.’ Ricky pointed over to the bar. ‘Oh, here we go.’

  Chantal appeared in the doorway, the bright sunshine glinting off her sunglasses, her black hair like wet coal. She walked over and put a tray down on the table. Four pints and a bottle of fizzy white wine with two glasses. ‘It’s happy hour, so this will save you boys a couple of trips.’

  Ricky grabbed a beer by the handle. ‘Cheers, darling.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Ricky, by the way.’

  ‘Chantal. I’ve heard all about you.’ She sat next to Hunter and pecked him on the lips. Then she poured out some wine.

  Kerry joined them, carrying a smaller tray with eight small glasses filled with black liquid. ‘Now, before you get stuck into that, have a go of this.’

  Chantal handed Hunter a pair of them.

  Jesus . . . He took a sniff. ‘Is this Sambuca?’

  ‘Black Sambuca.’ Kerry raised her glass, sunlight twinkling on the frosting. ‘After three! One, two, three!’ She threw the first one back.

  Hunter watched Ricky do the same. He tossed his over his shoulder, slaking the baked lawn behind them. ‘Ugh. Not had that in years.’

  Ricky slammed his glass, toppling over Hunter’s and Chantal’s. ‘Lovely stuff!’

  Kerry sat on Ricky’s lap, wriggling around suggestively. ‘Those crazy Scotch boys yesterday were drinking it. Haven’t done this since our honeymoon, have we?’

  ‘Not in years.’ Ricky took the first of his pints below the halfway mark in one gulp. ‘I love the lager here. No messing about.’ He wiped the foam off his lips with the hair on his right arm. ‘I was telling Craig about those Scotch pricks.’

  ‘Bunch of wankers.’ Kerry picked up her wine glass and nudged one over to Chantal before settling back and wiggling some more on Ricky’s crotch. ‘Fighting and wrestling and showing off.’ She sipped at the fizz. ‘One of them kept taking his top off and flexing.’ She thumbed at the hen girls, their numbers now depleted. ‘One of them lot started flirting with him. Matty his name was, or something.’

  Ricky held up his glass. ‘Mirror muscles.’

  ‘Sounds like a twat.’ Hunter sipped at his beer. Way behind now. How can I pass a pint to Ricky without him noticing?

  Kerry swirled wine round her glass. ‘Then this boy pulled his shorts really low. You could see he’d shaved his pubes.’ She cackled. ‘So this girl, yeah? She reached down and grabbed his cock, then shouted out about how small it was.’ She rested her arm against Chantal as if to steady herself. ‘He pissed off sharpish, I swear.’

  ‘Bunch of punks.’ Ricky finished his pint in another mouthful. ‘Not like you and me, Craig.’ He reached over for another beer and chinked it off the one in Hunter’s hand. ‘Not like you and me, mate.’

  ‘Damn right.’ Hunter took another sip of beer, then set his glass down on the table and pointed at Chantal while he burped. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting some mates out here. I’ve got a feeling they’ll be with that bunch of clowns.’

  Ricky picked up his second beer, flexing his bicep as he drank. ‘Whoever they are, they took a lesson and cleared off. Think they went to some bars up the road there.’ He waved off behind the complex, the way they’d come into town. ‘If those arsewipes are your mates, then . . .’

  ‘My mates are officers.’ Hunter gulped down more beer, burning his gut. ‘Not that they’re much better.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Do you think they knew them?’ Chantal sipped her wine. ‘You haven’t seen them since, have you?’

  ‘No way. Not after he gave them what for!’ Kerry handed her a shot, then passed one to Hunter. ‘Anyway, drink up, boys and girls!’

  Hunter’s stomach lurched as he sniffed the booze. ‘Here goes. One, two, three.’ Over the shoulder again.

  Kerry washed hers back with some fizz, clearing her glass in one go. ‘Crazy stuff, that.’ She got up from Ricky’s lap and sat next to Chantal. ‘So, you got any plans while you’re over here?’

  Ricky leaned in close to Hunter, sickly Sambuca breath washing over his face. His shorts were tent-poling, the dirty bastard. ‘She’s the love of my life.’ He sucked down half of his pint. ‘Me best mate, I swear. Hope you get something like that with your Paki bird.’

  Hunter sat back and folded his arms. ‘Come on, that’s not cool.’

  Ricky frowned. ‘What, she’s not a Paki?’

  ‘No, it’s not a nice word.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Sorry.’ Ricky stared into the depths of his beer. ‘I don’t mean anything by it, mate. I’m just saying, I hope you’ve got something like what we’ve got, yeah?’

  Hunter looked over at Chantal, braying with laughter at something Kerry had said. ‘I think we might do. It’s still early days, but . . .’ He shrugged, unsure what he meant. ‘I love her.’

  ‘That’s all you need, mate.’ Ricky gripped his shoulder tight, like he was trying to make up for the measly 16 kilogram kettle bell embarrassment. ‘All you need.’ He finished his pint, leaving a thin layer of slop at the bottom. ‘Right, come on, you bitch, let’s get back to our room.’

  Kerry looked over. ‘What did you say, you wanker?’

  ‘I said, let’s get back to our room, you bitch.’ Ricky got up and stretched out so his T-shirt rode up. His stomach was criss-crossed with scars. Knife wounds. His nether regions were back under control. ‘It’s your birthday, you daft cow.’ He gave her a dirty leer. ‘Don’t want you getting hammered before I get the chance to smash your backdoors in, do I?’

  ‘You trying to say you’re still able to get it up?’

  ‘You cheeky bitch. I’ve got three Viagra with me.’ Ricky bellowed with laughter and leaned on Hunter’s shoulder like it was a walking stick. ‘Right, see you love doves later.’

  Kerry belched. ‘Good shagging, you two! You can have the rest of this to get in the spirit.’ She chinked a fake nail off the remaining shots. Then she necked her glass of wine and got up. After a little wobble, she leaned in, whispered something to Chantal then finally made for the exit, her hand clamped firmly on her husband’s crotch. ‘Come on, then, Rambo.’

  Ricky slapped her swaying buttocks and set off. ‘See you, Craig. See you, Charmaine.’

  ‘She’s called Sharleen, you daft sod.’ Kerry shook her head as they walked deep into the bar, heading for reception.

  Chantal pushed her glass away and collapsed back into her chair with a groan. ‘Oh, thank God that’s over.’

  Hunter surveyed the carnage. A pint and a half, two shots and two-thirds of a bottle of wine left. So many empties. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I feel like I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She winked at him. ‘I’ll be fine as long as you hold my hair.’

  Hunter pushed his beer into the middle of the table and waved over at the dregs of the hen party, just two older women flirting with two middle-aged men. ‘Well then, Mrs Bond, did you get anything from your mission?’

  ‘Alcohol poisoning.’ Chantal yawned. ‘You?’

  ‘Lover man had a run-in with some fake squaddies.’ Hunter peered round to see Kerry pinching Ricky’s arse through his shorts as they walked away. ‘Only, they weren’t fake. It was Tulloch and his mates.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  The barman appeared, looking harassed and tired. ‘Thank God happy hour is over.’

  ‘Like that every day?’

  ‘This is quiet day.’ The barman arranged the drinks on a tray. ‘Listen, can I see photo again?’

  Hunter frowned as he got out his mobile, pulse picking up speed again. With an outstretched arm he held up the phone. ‘You recognise him?’

  ‘I remember. He made trouble last night. Want to buy a whole bottle but not pay whole price. Your friend? His name is Sean, yes?’

  * * *

  Hunter held Chantal’s hand as they walked, warm and tight in his grip. Might’ve been the booze, more likely thou
gh the warmth of growing companionship. Then again, the sun felt too bright, the cars too fast, so maybe it had more to do with the daytime drinking than his sentimental self would like. ‘I hate lunch-time drinking.’

  She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Not when we’re supposed to be working.’ Hunter checked both ways down the side street. Two, three, four, five times. ‘Come on.’ He led her across.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Hunter stopped on the other side and burped into his hand. ‘Bloody lager.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Right, I’m putting two and two together, so bear with me. The barman IDed Tulloch. Ricky and Kerry were drinking with some squaddies called Sean and Matty. They went up this way for a drink.’

  The road curved round to the left, climbing the hill. No sign of any bars so far. A fat man marched out of a chemist’s on the right, lugging a wheeled suitcase behind him. A condom machine was mounted on the outside wall.

  Hunter nodded over at the machine. ‘Shall I get some for later?’

  Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘Would you rather I went on the pill?’

  Sweat slicked down Hunter’s back. ‘No way. You know I don’t trust it.’

  ‘You don’t trust the pill or you don’t trust me?’

  ‘I’m not the one with commitment issues.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. The beer swilling in his guts, the booze in his veins surging to his brain. He held up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘It’s okay, Craig.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘Remember that I’ve never been out with someone this long.’ She marched off towards the first bar.

  ‘Chantal!’ Hunter grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  A lorry trundled past, rattling the concrete beneath their feet.

  ‘Remember how pissed you are.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Chantal

  Chantal swayed up the street, adrenaline fighting with the booze in her guts. All those shots on a mostly empty stomach. Stupid.

  The bar seemed to be called CHEAP AND CHEERFUL. Cheap yes, but cheerful? A two-storey affair with a large veranda in the shade. Deep House music boomed from inside, the sheer volume undoing any chill in the sounds.

  Chantal pushed through the door and clicked across to the bar. She sat on a stool and leaned against the bartop. Almost managed to steady herself.

  Hunter joined her, perching on an adjacent stool. Looked as pissed as she felt.

  A barman stood in the doorway to the backroom, rubbing a towel deep into a yard of ale, a long glass tube shrinking from a pint-sized opening to a narrow stem, ending in a glass ball. ‘Luisa!’

  A woman appeared from the far side of the pub, the floor squeaking as she walked across. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows silhouetted her tiny frame, barely five foot, but black-coffee-and-cigarettes skinny. Used to be considered sexy, didn’t it? Now she just looked like she couldn’t afford a gym membership. Or stay sober for long enough to fill in the form. She flipped the bar up and went to the other side. Seemed to take a week inspecting her new customers. Her olive skin was almost as dark as Chantal’s, just a few shades lighter and offset nicely against her black blouse and trousers. She nodded at them, then turned the music down. ‘Afternoon. What can I get you?’ Her Portuguese accent was cut with Essex, could almost taste the Thames estuary on the air.

  Chantal leaned forward and yawned into her hand. ‘Do you do coffee?’

  ‘You name it, love.’ Luisa pointed at a menu. ‘Americano, latté, Nescafé.’

  ‘Two Americanos, please. Not too much water in mine.’

  ‘You got it.’ Luisa turned round and fiddled with knobs on the hulking coffee machine, two or three times the weight of her. It started hissing and growling.

  Behind her, the barman rested the yard down on the back wall, dripping distance from the optics. Eyed her like she was going to rob from the till. Or was he looking at Hunter. Hard to tell. Eyes haven’t properly adjusted to the indoors yet. Or to the alcohol in my blood.

  ‘God, I’m so pissed.’

  Hunter frowned. ‘But I saw you tossing the shots over your shoulder?’

  ‘Not all of them.’ Chantal drummed her fingers on the bartop and yawned. ‘That couple were lunatics.’

  ‘Seen their type so many times.’ Hunter caught her yawn, covering his mouth with a fist. ‘Marry at sixteen, seventeen, have kids by twenty, then they’re stuck into that life. Guy must’ve enlisted in his teens and he’s still a Corporal. Cannon fodder.’

  Luisa passed a steaming mug of coffee to Chantal. Dark, thick liquid halfway up the sides. Next to her cup she placed a small metal jug of milk. The coffee smelled bitter. Almost smoky like . . .

  Chantal swallowed hard. No, it didn’t.

  ‘Thanks.’ She tipped the milk in and reached into her bag for her phone. ‘Wondering if you could help us.’

  Luisa set Hunter’s coffee down in front of him, and furrowed her little brow. ‘You’re cops, right?’

  Chantal nodded.

  ‘But not local?’

  ‘Scottish.’

  Luisa refilled the milk from a UHT carton. ‘So, I don’t have to help you?’

  ‘Your funeral.’

  ‘Listen, I told the other policemen who came in, I saw what I saw. I don’t know anything else?’

  The barman was drilling holes into Luisa’s back. Just a matter of time before he came over to interrupt their cosy chat.

  Chantal wrapped her hands around the hot coffee. ‘But you saw something.’

  ‘This kid with a guy. Walking down the promenade from the old town.’

  What? Chantal frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Harry Jack.’ Luisa’s gaze shot between them. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  Chantal shook her head. ‘Something else.’

  The barman got between them. ‘Luisa, please check toilet is clean.’

  The lines on her forehead got even deeper, then she relaxed and trudged off across the bar.

  Chantal smiled at the barman. ‘Why did you stop her talking to us?’

  ‘We have enough today. Bad for business.’

  ‘There’s a child missing.’

  ‘I know but Luisa already say to police. Listen, if people think children disappear here, nobody comes. Is bad for business.’

  ‘Can you help us, then?’ Chantal got out her phone and flashed up a photo of Sean Tulloch. ‘Have you seen this guy?’

  The barman shifted his glare between them but didn’t speak.

  ‘Of course you have.’ Chantal placed a fifty-euro note on the bartop.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the cash.

  Chantal took a sip of coffee. Tasted rank, but it might lead back to sobriety. Or gut rot. She snatched up the money before the barman took it. ‘Of course, you have to prove if you’ve seen him.’

  ‘I see him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. He was here.’ The barman rested against the other side, fingers splayed on the dark fake-granite. ‘We had karaoke.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Eleven, maybe twelve. Late.’

  Tulloch flew out from Edinburgh, landed at the back of eight. Taxi over here, out on the sauce in the hotel, where he got threatened by Ricky. Then up here to sample the nearby bars.

  Where the trail died, unless this barman was as good as his word.

  Hunter’s nod confirmed her thinking — it tallied with the story so far.

  Chantal refocused her attention on the barman, his lips twitching at the hard currency. She pointed at the photo again. ‘It was this man?’

  ‘He sings . . .’ The barman clapped his hands together. ‘Come, I show you.’ He lifted up the bar partition and smiled. ‘My name is José.’

  ‘Chantal and Craig.’ She grabbed her coffee and got to her feet, taking the money and the phone in her free hand.

  José led them through to the back room, stacked floor
-to-ceiling with bottles of beer on one side, wine on the other, a thin column of spirits in the middle.

  José pointed at a greyscale monitor, the screen split in four. One display showed the area outside the front door, two offered opposing perspectives of the bar, and the last one was trained on the hallway outside the toilets. Luisa shook her head as she mopped at something in the doorway of the Ladies. Hunter’s back was visible in the bar room.

  José grabbed a remote and wound the footage back to 23:00 the previous night. The place was jumping, every table full. A load of drinkers, laughing and joking. José was working the bar with two women and another two men, tossing bottles around like Tom Cruise half a century ago.

  The bottom-left screen showed a stage area near the back, where a girl bellowed into a microphone. Then Sean Tulloch stepped across the veranda outside.

  Some cops left the bar, looked like Quaresma and two uniforms. Jesus, just bloody missed Tulloch. Not that he’d have bothered.

  Chantal waved at José. ‘Freeze.’

  He rewound back until Tulloch was halfway over the floor. Tall and big, grinning like the Devil at the crossroads. Wasn’t that another Tom Cruise film? Snap out of it!

  Tulloch was next to a mate, similarly sized, laughing at something the dirty oaf had said.

  Chantal tapped at the screen. ‘Can you print that?’

  ‘Of course.’ José licked his lips, looking at the note in her hand. He hit a button on the keyboard and a printer started grinding up behind the beer stack.

  ‘Thanks.’ Chantal rested against the first pillar of wine. ‘What was Inspector Quaresma after?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police officer.’

  ‘He didn’t speak to me.’

  ‘Can we see the rest of the recording?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tulloch and his mates entered in fast forward. One of them went to the bar and chatted to Luisa, seemed to go on for a few minutes. In the foreground, Tulloch and the other lump were scanning the room. They started speaking to a woman dressed in a bridal veil, getting a laugh from her, head thrown back. Then she slapped him. Tulloch spat at her, then walked across the room towards the karaoke guy, a middle-aged man in a bright shirt and waistcoat. He leaned in and spoke to him, getting a nod in response.