by Ed James
Hunter barged past Chantal. ‘Come on.’
* * *
Hunter glanced through the window, saw Gordon Brownlee sitting on a chair in full-on hangover slump, flicking through TV channels.
Hunter tapped on the door and waited, out of view. He smiled at Elena, her eyes narrowing. ‘Meeting a friend.’
Elena nodded and looked away.
Chantal got up close and whispered, ‘Craig, what the hell are you up to?’
Another knock on the door. ‘If this doesn’t work, we’re getting on that plane. Okay?’
‘Craig, come on . . .’
The door slid open and Hunter wedged his foot in the gap.
Gordon Brownlee stood there, giving him the up and down. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Where’s Tulloch?’
‘What?’ Brownlee pushed the door, but Hunter held it firm. He nodded at Chantal, his eyebrows up, then smiled at Brownlee. ‘Where is he?’
Brownlee looked away, focusing on the tracksuit tops hanging from the pegs. ‘Not seen him for a while.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘Piss off.’ Brownlee shoved the door. Hunter caught it with his foot and kicked hard, cracking it off Brownlee’s nose. He stepped through the gap and grabbed Brownlee’s throat, pushing him inside, pinning him against the wall among the tracksuits. ‘Where is Tulloch?’
‘I’ve no idea!’
‘Tell me where he is.’
‘Help!’ Brownlee’s shout came out as a strangled whisper.
Hunter nodded at the wall. ‘Thought you were staying next door?’
‘Cops . . .’ He coughed and spluttered until Hunter loosened his grip enough to let him answer. ‘The cops aren’t letting me in.’ Brownlee sucked in air. ‘Matty gave me his keycard.’
‘Where is he?’
‘No idea, man.’ Brownlee grabbed Hunter’s hands, trying in vain to pry them away from his throat. ‘Not seen Sean since last night.’
‘You’re lying.’ Wriggling bastard was going to alert the cops next door. Hunter pushed him against the wall with a thud. Terrific, a masterclass in subtlety. ‘Where is Matty?’
‘He’s not been here!’
Hunter tightened his grip on Brownlee’s throat. ‘You and Keith were with him this afternoon, weren’t you?’
‘Stop that!’ Brownlee dug his nails into Hunter’s fingers. ‘Let go!’
Hunter slackened off the grip once more. ‘You’re telling me where he is or I swear I’ll—’
‘Right, right.’ Brownlee rubbed at his throat. ‘Sitting outside, having a few beers. Sean called Matty. Matty ran off. Keith went with him. This was hours ago, man.’
‘About five o’clock?’
‘Maybe.’
Hunter glanced at the door. No sign of Chantal. ‘They went to attack me, am I right?’
‘No.’ Brownlee pushed Hunter back. ‘That bird wouldn’t—’
The door burst open.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Chantal
Chantal checked behind her. That female uniformed officer was looking their way. Craig’s about to go all Rambo on Brownlee. The last thing we need.
She walked towards her, smiling. ‘It’s Elena, isn’t it?’
She got a frown in response. ‘What is going on in there?’
‘One of Craig’s friends from his army days.’
The frown lines deepened. ‘He is a soldier?’
‘Was.’ Chantal leaned against the wall outside the front door. ‘Weirdest coincidence, right?’
Elena barked out a laugh. ‘I do not like coincidence.’
‘Me neither.’ Chantal gave her a sisterly grin. ‘Did you get to interview Sean Tulloch in the end?’
Another nod, smaller and shorter. ‘He is pig.’
‘And yet your boss let him go?’
‘He is not my boss.’ Elena made a face like she wanted to spit. ‘Craig told me what that pig did to those women in your country. Is it true?’
Chantal huffed out a sigh. ‘Sadly yes, but it’s hard to get the victims to confirm it, you know?’
‘Is problem we have here. Nobody will speak.’
A thud came from behind them.
Chantal tried to act like it was nothing. ‘Do you have any idea where Tulloch is?’
Elena shook her head. ‘He is vanished.’
Chantal ran a hand through her hair, still damp from her shower. How much time did he need? She glanced up into the blue sky, the rain having stopped as soon as it started. ‘It’s nice here.’
‘Too much sun.’
‘Not a problem we have in Scotland.’
‘Where in Scotland you live?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘I know that city. Is lovely.’ Elena frowned. ‘But your skin is not Scottish. I mean—’ Her radio blasted out static and a squall of guttural Portuguese. She entered Tulloch’s room and answered it.
Chantal nodded at the two other officers visible through the open door. Male, more interested in checking her out than stopping Hunter doing whatever he was doing to Brownlee next door.
Elena burst out of the room, clutching her radio, and barged past Chantal. ‘I need to deal with this.’ She unholstered her pistol and kicked Brownlee’s door open. She aimed her gun at Hunter, then shifted it to point at Brownlee. ‘Gordon Brownlee, I am arresting you for the murder of Finlay Sinclair.’
Brownlee raised his hands. ‘I’ve done nothing!’
Hunter got between Elena and Brownlee. ‘He didn’t push Finlay!’
She glanced at him. ‘I have orders.’
‘It was Matty Ibbetson!’
‘Talk to Inspector Quaresma, my friend.’ Elena unfolded a pair of handcuffs and slapped one on Brownlee’s left wrist. ‘I need to read him his rights. If you get in my way one more time, I will—’
‘It wasn’t him!’ Hunter’s whole body clenched. His eyes flickered. ‘Wait, did you say murder?’ He swallowed hard. ‘You mean attempted murder, don’t you?’
Elena snapped the other cuff on and led Brownlee towards the door. ‘Speak to the Inspector.’
Hunter stormed out of the room, his eyes like tiny pinpricks. Chantal wanted to grab him, take him away and calm him down, but there was no holding him.
Three steps later he bumped straight into Quaresma, who was just stepping out of the room next door, shaking his head at Rollo-Smith behind him. He untangled himself from Hunter and huffed out a deep sigh. ‘Here they are. Still not at Faro airport.’
‘What’s happened to Finlay?’
Quaresma’s head slumped low. ‘I am very sorry. Finlay Sinclair is dead.’
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Hunter
Hunter sucked in a lungful of breath, bitter and acidic. Snot bubbled in his nose. ‘He . . . He . . .’
The bedsprings creaked as Chantal sat next to him. Her hand stroked down his back, an offer of gentleness he barely registered.
He wrapped an arm around her and held her tight. The shitty hotel room spinning. Finlay Sinclair’s life dispersing around them, his last breath fizzing out into the air. His personality, his annoying habits, his everything, all gone.
Jabroni.
Dude.
She kissed his cheek. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
Hunter grabbed her hand, clutching it between both of his. ‘Of course I want you to stay.’
She smiled. After a long pause, suspended in their quiet companionship, she cleared her throat. ‘You need to let it out.’
He rubbed his cheeks, swiping the tears away like a windscreen wiper. ‘I’ll grieve for him later.’ He looked over at the door. ‘Right now, all I want to do is make sure we get Matty for this.’
A knock on the door.
Quaresma leaned in, pouting. ‘Mr Hunter, has Mr Sinclair a next of kin?’
‘His parents are dead.’ Hunter brushed away fresh tears. ‘He got divorced a few years ago. No kids either.’ His forehead creased. ‘Do you know what happened?’
Quaresma nodded. ‘He fal
l and break rib. The bone puncture big artery. Bad luck. Paramedics and doctors try everything, but . . .’ A shrug.
Hunter got up and paced around the room. The curtains weren’t fully shut, letting in thin strips of light. ‘I was speaking to him. He didn’t have any blood in his mouth or . . .’
‘I understand. This is what doctor tell me.’ Quaresma perched on the dressing table opposite Chantal. ‘She say to me no one can do nothing to save Mr Sinclair.’
Hunter stopped next to him and leaned low. ‘Nothing anyone could’ve done?’ He gripped the edge of the table. ‘How about arresting Tulloch when we asked you to? Pick any of the times, go on. I can count at least four.’
‘Do not play this game, Constable. I warn you.’
Hunter stood, his hands shaking. ‘You let him go and . . .’
Quaresma looked down his long nose at Hunter, then at Chantal. ‘Now, I escort you to airport.’
Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘You let him murder someone!’
Quaresma jolted to his feet and jabbed a finger at Hunter’s chest. ‘This is my country!’ His words rattled round the small room. He rubbed a gob of saliva from his lips. ‘You leave! Now!’
The door opened behind them. ‘I could hear you in France, João.’ Hunter didn’t even have to look round to recognise Rollo-Smith’s syrupy tones. ‘Can I have a moment with them, please?’
Quaresma shook his head. ‘What you want to say, you say in front of me.’
Rollo-Smith held the door open wide and smiled at Quaresma. ‘Two minutes, please.’
Quaresma huffed out his disbelief. ‘Very well.’ As he looked at them all in turn, he seemed relieved to be rid of this troublesome British delegation. As if to prove the point, he walked off without another word, letting the slammed door do the talking for him.
SEVENTY-NINE
Chantal
Rollo-Smith cracked his knuckles, first left then right. Sounded like he’d snapped the ligaments. ‘Now what the sodding hell is going on here, mm?’
Chantal ran a hand through her hair. Play it cool. And keep playing it cool. ‘We were obtaining intelligence on—’
‘Sergeant.’ Rollo-Smith shook his head slowly. ‘Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant. How about I give you a little bit of friendly advice, mm?’ He left a pause but Chantal wasn’t going to interrupt his preening performance. ‘Your behaviour and that of your colleague is close to turning this into an international incident. You have to leave.’
Chantal hauled herself to her feet and stepped away from him. ‘We need to bring Tulloch and Matty in.’
‘Matty who?’
‘Ibbetson. Another one of your lot. He killed Finlay Sinclair.’
Rollo-Smith clenched his jaw. ‘Inspector Quaresma has Gordon Brownlee in custody for said alleged crime.’
‘He’s got the wrong man.’
‘Need I remind you that you’re on foreign territory and expected to extend due courtesy to those officers guiding you, mm?’ Rollo-Smith let his words sink in for a few seconds, seemingly convinced he had rattled them to the core with his pomposity. ‘João is an honest man, doing an honest job.’ His sickly sweet camaraderie was nauseating.
Chantal couldn’t help herself, simply had to burst his bubble. ‘When did you get on first name terms with the good Senhor?’
Rollo-Smith’s eyes bulged. ‘I’ll have your badge, Sergeant. This is a disgrace.’
‘The only disgrace here is how your good friend João can aid and abet Sean Tulloch’s crimes.’
Rollo-Smith stopped, his breath hissing out. ‘Do you have any evidence for such a serious allegation, Sergeant?’
Chantal looked away. ‘We’ve been here since early yesterday and he’s slowed us down or got in our way at every opportunity.’
Hunter pulled away from the window, looking like he was going to launch straight into some martial arts. ‘He—’
‘Lance Corporal Hunter, enough.’ Rollo-Smith held up a thick paper file. ‘João passed me this. Do you know what it pertains to?’ He shook the file in the air. ‘It details the times you have assaulted someone, several pages worth of incriminating material, amassed in the very short time you’ve been here. Now, João is promising to rip this up if you clear off. But you don’t seem to want to—’
‘He’s got the wrong man in custody!’
‘Lance Corporal . . .’ Rollo-Smith walked over to Hunter and gripped him by the arm. ‘An ex-colleague of yours lies dead because you enlisted him in some illicit activities.’
Hunter frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘Don’t think you’re dealing with some amateur civilian officer, Hunter. I know what you’ve been up to.’ Rollo-Smith took out a photo showing Hunter getting out of Finlay’s car outside the police station. ‘You honestly thought the local officers wouldn’t notice a red Fiesta in their car park, mm? You had Mr Sinclair tail Tulloch.’
Hunter looked up at him. ‘This isn’t my fault.’
‘Oh, you had better believe it is! And if this goes to court, so will the judge.’ Spittle flew from Rollo-Smith’s mouth, landing on Hunter’s cheek. ‘Now, the MOD takes Private Tulloch’s actions very seriously. If there is a shred of evidence that he’s been up to anything illegal, then I will frogmarch him back to the UK for a court martial. But you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You have undermined me at every step. You’ve muddied the waters sufficiently for nobody to know what the sodding hell’s going on. And, because of your actions, Mr Tulloch is nowhere to be seen.’
Hunter wiped at his cheek. ‘My actions?’
‘Your renegade behaviour has destroyed any hope of securing a prosecution on Portuguese soil.’ Rollo-Smith grabbed Hunter’s bicep and hauled him towards the door. ‘Right, Lance Corporal, let’s process you.’
‘No.’ Hunter pushed him away. ‘I’m not the one you should be arresting.’
‘You’re not giving me any choice!’ Rollo-Smith pulled him outside. ‘Come on!’
Quaresma was ploughing towards them across the quad, DI Bruce hot on his heels, face flushed with umpteen pints.
Hunter stopped dead. ‘What’s happened?’
Bruce pointed at the sky. ‘Your mate Tulloch is on a flight to Newcastle.’
EIGHTY
Hunter
Quaresma pulled out into the oncoming lane as they bombed out of Albufeira, blasting past a lorry, the low sun almost blinding.
Hunter was in the passenger seat, arms folded. Couldn’t speak.
Chantal sat in the back, phone clamped to her ear. ‘Right, Shaz, I’ll see you in Newcastle.’ She hung up and put her mobile away, then glanced at Hunter next to her. ‘They’re holding the plane back for us.’
Quaresma swerved past another lorry, the speedo clearing a hundred. ‘You are very lucky.’
She locked eyes with him in the rear-view. ‘If you’d done your job, we wouldn’t be depending on luck.’
‘Be thankful you have power of arrest in your own country.’
‘And what about Finlay Sinclair?’ Hunter looked up. ‘Should I be thankful he’s dead?’
‘It is not my fault, Constable.’
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
Quaresma gave him a short look. ‘The wrong man?’
‘Gordon Brownlee didn’t kill Finlay. Matty Ibbetson did.’
Quaresma looked back at the road ahead, spitting Portuguese at his phone. It started ringing through the stereo and he had a loud conversion with someone in his native tongue.
Hunter slumped back in his seat, starting to rattle through the timeline. A couple of hours were missing, unaccounted for. ‘How the hell did Tulloch get on that flight?’
‘Because those dozy bastards were monitoring flights to Scottish airports but forgetting the rest of the UK?’ Chantal glowered at him. ‘Bloody Elvis . . .’
* * *
Quaresma swerved off the main road and pulled into a parking bay outside the airport. A local squad car was idling by a heavy-duty guard entrance. He swung his head round an
d grabbed Hunter’s arm. ‘These men take you to plane. Make sure you follow.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter tried to shrug his grip off, but it wasn’t budging any. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Do you listen?’ Quaresma squinted at them. ‘If I see you again in my country, I arrest you. You understand?’
‘I won’t be back in a hurry.’ Hunter got himself free and hefted his bag to his shoulder. He followed Chantal across the tarmac towards the squad car, her case squeaking as she dragged it behind her.
Another black Audi pulled up. Rollo-Smith eased himself out of the passenger seat and tapped the roof. He glowered at Hunter, then shooed him off. ‘Hurry up! The plane is waiting for us!’
Bruce got out of the other side, head bowed as he traipsed off.
Hunter caught up with him. ‘You’re heading back, too?’
‘Orders from the top.’ Bruce shook his head, stinking of breath mints, his face ruddied with booze. ‘Absolute shambles, anyway. We’re pissing away public money out here.’ He gave Quaresma a look. ‘There’s something rotten in the state of Portugal, mate.’
* * *
Hunter stared through the tiny window, the pinging light on the plane’s wing the only illumination in the pitch black. In the distance, the yellow gridline of a city passed into view. Could be anywhere in western Spain, France or southern England.
They were near the back, the plane rammed to capacity. No sign of the drinks trolley yet.
‘Gnnnnaawwww.’ Chantal’s head swung over and landed on his shoulder, a dribble catching on his shirt. She mouthed something quiet, then her head dipped again, snoring quieter than before.
Rollo-Smith was over in the other window, his head nodding as he slept, arms folded tight like he was concentrating hard.
Bruce was across the aisle from Chantal, scowling over the top of his Lee Child hardback. ‘You’ll get him.’
Hunter got a tingle of pins and needles in the arm Chantal was leaning on. He nudged her back into her seat. ‘You think?’
‘Aye, I think.’ Bruce clapped the novel shut and stowed it away in the seat pouch. ‘Guy like Tulloch can only be at large for so long.’
