Hunted

by Ed James

  ‘We’ve got no choice here.’ Sharon sighed down the line, office chatter making it hard to understand her all the way back in Scotland. ‘Chantal, I told you and Craig to get back here. My orders still stand.’

  Chantal stopped by their door. Tulloch’s room was right there. Not even twenty metres away. ‘We need to—’

  ‘Just stop!’ Sharon’s voice echoed around the office. More donut chatter cut in. ‘I should never have agreed to this at all. First, Craig assaults Tulloch. Next, he’s involved in a failed arrest. Now someone’s dead because you got him tailing Tulloch!’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘Shaz, Tulloch’s on the run. He’s desperate and at his weakest right now.’ Chantal slid her hair behind her ear. Dried blood cracked on her temple. ‘He’s raped someone and assaulted God knows how many others, and now he’s involved in what’s happened to Finlay.’

  ‘Wait, Finlay? Finlay Sinclair?’

  ‘Yes, he was helping us–’

  ‘The victim was Finlay bloody Sinclair?’ Sharon went silent. In the background, someone asked if she wanted a coffee. They didn’t get a reply. ‘What was he doing there?’

  Chantal glanced at Hunter, a silent cry for help. He squeezed her shoulder, then unlocked the door and went into their bombsite of a room, clothes and furnishings still strewn all over the place. ‘Fin was helping us.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because we asked him.’

  A door slammed and the office chatter died. ‘You what? No, don’t tell me. We’ll deal with that when you get back. You’re still checked in for that flight. I suggest you get to the airport sharpish.’

  Chantal sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Just one more day, Shaz. That’s all we need.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Quaresma’s people will track down Tulloch. Failing that, it’s Rollo-Smith’s remit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen to me, Chantal. Quaresma’s people have locked down Tulloch’s room and he’s on a no-fly list, okay? He’s not getting out of the country. But you are. Today.’

  ‘Shaz . . .’

  ‘Don’t Shaz me! I need you back here, so I can pour boiling oil on the pair of you. Get to the airport.’ Sharon paused. ‘And I mean it this time. Okay?’

  Chantal looked over at Hunter, eyebrows raised. Seemed like he wanted do anything but head back to Scotland.

  What were they to do? Stay and fight?

  The RMP would win. Tulloch would escape justice for what he’d done. His victims wouldn’t be able to heal their suffering, wouldn’t receive closure in the knowledge that he’d just be sent to Syria or wherever the MOD could use loose cannons like him.

  Hunter jolted to his feet. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect.’

  Here we go . . . Chantal glared at him, trying to make him shut up.

  ‘We’ve seen what he’s done with our own eyes. One woman raped, another plied with spiked drinks. What happened with Luisa, I don’t know. I think it’s another attempted rape. We need to make sure he pays for these crimes and all the crimes back home. Paisley. Anna. Erica. Kylie. Jane. We can’t just give up now.’

  Sharon was quiet for a few seconds. ‘I expect you on that plane.’

  Chantal let her chin drop on her chest. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good.’ Click.

  Chantal lowered the phone to her side, then tossed it on the bed. Hunter was over by the window, staring out.

  For a moment she just stood there, willing him to turn around and make all this mess disappear with a smile. A profound sadness settled in the pit of her stomach when he didn’t move. Tearing her eyes off him, she shuffled into the bathroom and started pulling off her clothes, bloody and soaked with sweat. Her hair was matted solid. She leaned into the shower and turned on the water. It burst out almost at boiling point. She stepped under the spray and worked the water into the wound on her head, cleaning it. Her feet were covered in red, the water starting to fill the bathtub. The shampoo stung as she lathered it into the wound.

  All this pain and agony and we didn’t even get Tulloch.

  Focus on the mundane, the heat of the water, the sting on her skin.

  Paisley. Anna. Erica. Kylie. Jane.

  Kirsten. Nora. Luisa.

  Finlay was lying in a bed somewhere, his life in the balance, and Tulloch was . . .

  What? Where the hell was he?

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Hunter

  The shower’s white noise hissed through the apartment.

  Hunter sat on the balcony, scanning the courtyard for any movement. Like he was on an operation again, hunting insurgents. Looking for enemy combatants.

  If only he’d been more vigilant . . .

  He checked his phone. Still nothing. No messages. No news on Finlay.

  Won’t even get a chance to visit him in hospital. Poor guy alone out here, nobody to see him.

  Maybe calling Mary would be a good idea, let her know, at least. Maybe she’d come out here. And what? See her broken ex-husband? Regret divorcing him?

  At least give her the choice.

  His phone flashed up. Elvis. He stabbed the screen. ‘Finally . . .’

  ‘Craig, mate, I heard about Finlay.’

  How? Bloody Quaresma banging those jungle drums.

  ‘Think he’ll pull through?’

  Hunter didn’t reply.

  ‘That bad, eh?’ Down the line, horse-racing commentary blared out of a TV speaker somewhere. Elvis was in the bookies, as per bloody usual. ‘You still in Portugal, mate?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, DI McNeill told me to pick you up from the airport, bring you straight back here.’

  Hunter shut his eyes. ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Tell me about it, mate. Hell of a day I’ve had. Just getting my piece now.’

  Hunter swapped his phone to the other hand. ‘Have you got anything on Tulloch?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like where he is?’

  ‘No, mate. We’re monitoring all the airports, but nothing’s pinged up. Fat Jimmy’s calling round on repeat. Nobody under that name has travelled.’

  ‘What about under another name?’

  ‘Very good. Is your brain even on? Listen, we’ve got the guy’s photo and description with all the airlines. They’re checking for every lookalike, too. Tulloch’s a pretty unique fella, hard to miss. Already stopped some giant psychopath from getting on a flight from Faro. Turned out the boy was a Polish bodybuilder with a sideline in the escort industry. Tell you, the people you come across in this—’

  ‘What about the other end?’

  ‘Craig, he’s on a no-fly list. Drop it.’

  ‘Right. Keep me posted, though, okay?’ Hunter killed the call and pocketed his phone. He leaned back in the creaking chair and put his feet up, let the sun attack his skin.

  I’m all done fighting.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Chantal

  Chantal twisted the handle to cold and let the freezing water blast her head, her shoulders, her back, her bruised . . . everywhere. Her breath slipped out in a rapid pant until she twisted the shower off and grabbed a hand towel, wrapping it around her hair.

  She snatched Hunter’s towel and stepped on the tiny bath mat. Started drying herself off.

  All that time preparing a case and it all goes down the drain so quickly. All that work, for nothing.

  She wrapped the towel around her body.

  Finlay lying in a hospital bed, dying because of her. Because of Craig.

  She padded back into the bedroom and fished a fresh set of clothes out of the pile next to her case. Black top, black skirt.

  Should just wear a white flag.

  She slipped on her underwear, then tugged the skirt up.

  Hunter was out on the patio. He’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, finally looking like the Scotsman abroad. Tapping his phone off his hands. Usually a bad sign. All that thinky inside that skull.

  She haul
ed on her top, soaking the material, and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Craig, get packed.’

  He scowled at her. ‘That’s it? We’re flying back?’

  ‘Like we have a choice.’ Chantal stared out of the window. Dark clouds billowed in off the sea. Two rainbows arced through the sky, the sun still bright in the foreground. Like a summer’s day in Ullapool. ‘Is there anything else we can do here?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘We can stay and—’

  ‘And wait for Quaresma to arrest you?’ Chantal put her feet into her sandals and tightened the grips. ‘You saw what he was like at the crime scene.’ She walked over to him, resting her head on his shoulders. He flinched away, so she kissed it instead. Both of them, battered and bruised, for no benefit. If anything, they’d made matters worse. ‘We don’t have a Plan B, do we?’

  ‘I’m all out of ideas.’ Hunter pushed away and stepped to the balustrade. ‘It would be nice to stay here for a couple more nights. I’m so tired I could do with lying on the beach.’

  ‘Sipping wine and reading.’ She joined him outside, wrapping him in a hug. ‘A nice red from the—’

  Across the quad, Tulloch’s door burst open and Captain Brian Rollo-Smith stormed out.

  Chantal grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘There’s our Plan B.’

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Hunter

  Hunter stomped across the paving towards Tulloch’s room, ignoring the crunching pain in his knee. ‘Captain!’

  Rollo-Smith stood outside the room, ramrod straight, talking to a local uniformed officer. Ordering him around, more like. At the sound of Hunter’s approaching steps, he spun round and glowered at him. ‘Lance Corporal Hunter. You’re still in the country, I see.’

  ‘Just leaving. Surprised to see you, though.’

  Rollo-Smith dismissed the uniform with a sharp flick of the wrist. ‘I need to visit the scene of Private Tulloch’s alleged crime.’ He paused as Chantal arrived. ‘The rape.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Which one?’

  Rollo-Smith scowled at Chantal. ‘There have been more than one?’

  ‘Two that we know of. And he’s party to an attempted murder.’

  ‘Let’s take a step back, shall we?’ Rollo-Smith got out a small notebook and a black pen with gleaming brass fittings. ‘You’re suggesting Private Tulloch has been on some sort of crime spree in the Algarve?’

  Hunter barked out a humourless laugh. ‘It’s not a suggestion. Speak to Inspector Quaresma.’

  Rollo-Smith nodded slowly. ‘I have an appointment with the good Inspector soon.’

  ‘He likes his appointments.’ Hunter glanced inside the room. Nothing much going on in there, just a uniformed officer looking bored. ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘Due diligence.’

  ‘And? Have you got anything?’

  Rollo-Smith shrugged. ‘This room had already been cleared out.’

  Hunter pointed inside. ‘Kirsten Latimer was raped in there. Her blood toxicology will show he laced her drinks with GHB.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Again, ask Quaresma.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rollo-Smith rubbed his gleaming forehead. ‘Do you, by any chance, also know if a full forensic analysis of this room has been conducted yet, mm?’

  Hunter nodded at the uniform in the room. ‘Can’t you ask him?’

  ‘He’s my chaperone, Lance Corporal.’

  ‘What?’ Hunter’s gut lurched. ‘Hasn’t he been guarding the door?’

  ‘He met me at Faro half an hour ago and brought me straight here.’

  ‘Shite.’ Hunter barged past him into the room, blood thudding in his ears. The stupid bastards had left the place unattended.

  Meaning Tulloch could have got back in here and . . .

  Hunter raced over and picked up the pile of stuff by the kettle. The camera case was gone. You stupid bastards . . .

  Chantal stopped next to him. ‘What’s up?’

  Hunter grimaced. ‘Tulloch’s passport and MOD90 have gone.’ He scowled at Rollo-Smith. ‘You need to—’

  ‘I will not take orders from you.’

  ‘This is your fault, you know that?’

  The soldier narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’ve dropped a bollock here.’ Hunter stepped forward. ‘If you’d done your fucking job, sir, we’d have Sean Tulloch in custody. Paisley Sanderson wouldn’t be in hospital. Kirsten Latimer would not have been raped. Finlay Sinclair wouldn’t be fighting for his life!’

  Rollo-Smith grabbed his wrists and locked his thumbs. ‘Listen, sonny, I’m a Captain. You were nothing but a Lance Corporal before your discharge.’

  ‘Discharge? You cheeky bastard.’ Hunter shook him off. ‘You’ve got no power over me. I don’t even have to call you “sir”.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Rollo-Smith leered at him with undisguised derision. ‘Inspector Quaresma has made me aware of your behaviour out here. Kicking the snot out of anyone who looks down their nose at you.’

  ‘You better watch out, then.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rollo-Smith shook his head. ‘Lance Corporal, you need to leave or Inspector Quaresma shall have you on charges.’ He nodded at Chantal. ‘How about following orders for once, mm?’

  ‘We’re not letting you—’

  ‘Craig . . .’ Chantal seized Hunter’s elbow and led him away. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, he needs—’

  ‘Drop it.’ She tugged hard at his arm. After giving Rollo-Smith a last hard stare, he let her pull him away from the arrogant fool.

  * * *

  Hunter stopped outside their room. ‘This is a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Craig, we need to go.’ She grabbed his elbow and tugged it again. ‘Come on.’

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘Craig, you’ve heard the official instructions several times over now. We need to get out of here.’

  Hunter brushed her off and looked back the way. Rollo-Smith was outside Tulloch’s room, almost shouting into his phone. Prick.

  Going back to Scotland meant letting Tulloch get away with it.

  Leaving poor Anna Crichton tied up on a bed for three days, a bowl of stale water for company, while he went to Blackpool with his mates. Treating her like . . . No one deserved that.

  Battering the living shite out of Paisley. After all he’d put her through.

  But . . .

  What else could they do? There wasn’t anything, was there?

  One last futile glare at Rollo-Smith and Hunter went back into their room to chuck his clothes into his damp bag. Two unworn shirts. T-shirt. Torn jeans. ‘Here’s the thing. Tulloch’s ID is gone.’ Folded underpants. ‘What does that mean to you?’

  She was mirroring him, throwing her possessions back in the case. ‘Craig . . . Come on.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Hunter shoved his washbag into the pouch at the front. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That he’s left the country or is on his way out.’

  ‘Well, maybe. Maybe not. What it means is he’s been in that room since attacking Finlay.’

  She frowned, looking like she wasn’t quite following his logic.

  ‘His MOD90 was in the room a couple of hours ago.’ Hunter checked his watch. ‘It’s half six now. Near enough eight hours since we know he was last there. We were there at lunchtime and we saw it. Most of that time, Tulloch was in the police station. His MOD90’s gone now, so we know he ran back here after he . . .’

  Chantal rammed her washbag in the case and stuffed it down. ‘Cut to the chase, will you? Where is he?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’ Hunter scanned the room, broken furniture, water damage, general mess . . . Be lucky to get back their deposit. ‘Look, Elvis said that Quaresma’s making sure Tulloch won’t fly out of the country. Which means he’s still in Portugal.’

  ‘He could’ve driven, though.’ She zipped up her case. ‘Could be in Spain. Or France. Or Italy or Germany or Switzerland.’
She kicked her case over towards the door. ‘Or he could’ve got a boat and be lighting up some Marrakesh skunk right now.’

  Hunter let his head dip. ‘I need to find him.’

  She tapped on her watch. ‘We need to get on that plane, Craig.’

  ‘He can’t . . .’

  ‘Come on.’ Chantal wrapped an arm around him. ‘It’s not our fight any more. We’ve got to leave this to Quaresma and Rollo-Smith, okay?’

  Hunter nodded slowly, then snatched his phone from his pocket and dialled Quaresma again.

  ‘Craig, what are you doing?’

  He went out on the patio. ‘Give me a second.’

  This time, Quaresma answered it quickly. ‘Constable.’ He sighed, clicking his tongue against this teeth. ‘Do you need lift to airport?’

  Hunter leaned back against the wall. ‘Have your forensics officers been through Tulloch’s room yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Quaresma paused. Sounded like an engine firing up. Someone shouted José in the background. ‘Why you ask?’

  ‘Tulloch’s been in there and taken his ID with him.’

  ‘Shit.’ Quaresma hissed into the phone. ‘Shit.’ The engine noise got louder. ‘Why you go in his room, Constable?’

  ‘I didn’t. But I take it you know that Captain Rollo-Smith is there now?’

  Quaresma hissed again. ‘Stay there. Make sure he not go away before my men—’

  ‘I’ve got to leave the country, I’m afraid.’ Hunter killed the call and pocketed his phone.

  Chantal got in front of him and blocked his way back into the apartment. ‘Craig . . . What are you doing now?’

  ‘Causing some mischief.’

  ‘You need to grow up.’

  Out of nowhere, rain started hammering down again, thick stair rods drilling into his shoulders like some divine judgment. Or like a Scottish summer shower. Over the quad, Elena and another two officers stood guard outside Tulloch’s apartment. He gave her a nod, got one back.

  Gordon Brownlee staggered past her, looking like he’d spent all day propping up the bar. Thirsty work. He stopped by the apartment next to Tulloch’s and fumbled some keys out of his pocket.