by Ed James
‘Maybe.’ Hunter sighed. ‘I used to be like him and his cronies. A stupid squaddie, taking orders, getting rat-arsed. Now the mere sight of these losers sickens me.’
‘You’re not like that now, though.’
‘I’d like to think not.’
Bruce smiled. ‘Chantal said you’re a good cop.’
‘I’m proud of what I’m doing now.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘I liked what I was doing before, too, but then I got shunted down to uniform.’
‘Why was that?’
Hunter paused, then looked him straight in the eye. ‘My face didn’t fit.’
‘I’ve seen that a few times.’ Bruce cracked his knuckles. ‘Sounds like you’re on to a good thing in this Sexual Offences Unit . . .’
‘In theory, aye, but we keep having to let the offenders go.’ Hunter’s spine tingled like a horde of rats were climbing it. ‘There’s seven women, maybe eight, who’ve been abused by him in one form or another. He left one girl tied up on a bed while he pissed off to Blackpool. That man is incapable of feeling. Judging by the timeline of his violent episodes, he’s escalating. I need to stop him before he breaks any more women. And I need to get justice for the ones whose lives he has already ruined. Seems like no one else will.’ He shook his head. ‘In the army, this guy in my unit. Turns out he’d raped this Iraqi girl, a teenager. Then he killed her. The powers-that-be covered it over. Let it slide. That’s what’s happening here.’
‘Hard to take, isn’t it?’ Bruce picked up his book again and flipped it open. That was it? That was all he was going to say? Stupid Geordie bastard. He dug his nail into the dustcover, making it click. ‘Listen, I tried having a word with Quaresma about him arresting the wrong suspect.’
‘He needs to find Matty Ibbetson.’
Bruce traced a finger down the page of his novel, frowning at the text. ‘I don’t disagree . . . Finlay Sinclair was your friend, wasn’t he?’
‘Ex-partner.’ Hunter cast his eyes down, unsure where to go from here. His palms were knobbly with calluses from the kettlebells. ‘I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to Finlay’s ex-wife.’
Bruce arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s very difficult.’
‘It would be easier if I had a story to tell. Like some bent Portuguese officer let his killer go.’
Bruce leaned over the aisle. Chantal stirred in her sleep. ‘What do you mean bent?’
Hunter frowned at him. ‘Do you have anything on Quaresma?’
‘Not as such.’
‘Something rotten in Portugal, that’s what you said. The old copper’s gut instinct?’
‘That’s where it started.’ Bruce reached into a bag. One of those fancy ones with the Swiss flag on. No name. He got out some papers. ‘Chantal told me you saw some video from that bar but the owner was a bit funny about it.’
‘Cheap and Cheerful. What of it?’
‘Wouldn’t let you see the whole thing, right?’
‘Right.’ Hunter took the sheets and sifted through them. CCTV shots, inside the bar. The view into the backroom. And . . .
Holy shit.
Quaresma was leaning back against the wall, hands behind his head.
José the barman on his knees in front of him.
Hunter flicked though them. The blowjob went on for over a minute. Quaresma cradled José’s head as he ejaculated. Then they were off, tucking themselves in. ‘How did you get these?’
‘José thought he’d deleted them. Luisa thought it might help us, eh?’
‘I don’t get it. Quaresma’s gay. So what?’
‘Married. Bad boy. Doesn’t want anyone finding out. Wasn’t very happy when I showed these to him.’
‘This is why he’s being so evasive?’
‘Clearly didn’t want anyone sniffing round that place. Us turning up, then you and Chantal.’
‘Poor guy.’
‘Ah, Constable . . . Whatever will we do with you?’
Hunter passed the photos back. ‘Help me catch Sean Tulloch.’
* * *
Chantal was still blinking herself awake, gripping Hunter’s hand tight, trying to keep the plane in the air. Can almost feel her snapping my bones.
Newcastle lay below them, yellow and white, like a chalk outline. Could just about make out the Metro Centre next to the shine of the A1 darting through the squiggle of ink blue rivers, other brightly lit dual carriageways shooting off in all directions like neon laser beams, red and yellow rays in the night. The plane swung round towards the runway and plunged down, the wheels hitting the tarmac with a squeal. The plane rocked to the side, the braking pushing her forward.
Bruce didn’t even look up from his Jack Reacher, just licked his finger and turned the page. Kept smirking to himself. Hardly the look of someone returning with their tail between their legs.
The plane jerked back and Hunter gasped again as Chantal’s nails dug into his palm. Jesus, she’s tearing my hand apart.
She relaxed as the plane wheeled safely round the runway and followed the row of lights towards the terminal building in the distance, while the stewardess at the front unbuckled her seatbelt and jogged up the aisle. She leaned in to Chantal, her voice a whisper. ‘You can use your phone now.’
‘Thanks.’ Chantal let go of Hunter’s hand and slid her mobile out of her handbag, stabbing at the screen before it was even out properly. ‘Shaz, that’s us landed.’
Out of the window, a squad car sat a few hundred metres away, blue lights twinkling. The light-rimmed silhouette of a man was visible in front of it.
Chantal let the phone drop to her lap.
Hunter looked over at her. Worry etched in her forehead. ‘They’ve got Tulloch, right?’
Chantal stared at him, fury in her eyes. ‘They’ve lost him.’
EIGHTY-ONE
Hunter
The cool evening breeze cut through Hunter like an old-familiar regret. Another rapist on the loose. He stepped down the staircase, wrapping his bag around his shoulders. The tarmac felt solid beneath his feet. Home again. ‘Christ, you never forget that wind.’
Rollo-Smith was first down. He jogged towards a black car and got in without a word of good bye. It pulled off and was soon lost in the dark.
The squad car’s headlights flashed and Hunter started over towards it. The plane set off again, taxiing over to its gate at the main concourse.
A figure got out of the car, hooded by the glow of the squad car’s lights. ‘Evening, Craig.’ Sounded like Elvis. ‘Hi there, Chantal.’
She got in the back without a word and took a seat, arms folded tight across her chest. Bruce got in next to her, grumbling about something or other. Probably lost his page in the Reacher novel.
Hunter joined Elvis at the front of the car, his face awash with the cold blue glow. ‘What happened?’
Elvis opened the passenger door but stopped Hunter getting in. ‘You need to thank me.’
‘What for?’
‘I didn’t tell her nibs about you and Chantal.’ Elvis pushed his index finger through the hole he made with the thumb and index finger of his other hand. ‘Alright?’
‘Get in the bloody car, you clown.’ Hunter barged past him and got in the back.
Bruce was manspreading, pushing Hunter’s legs into the door. Bloody barbarian.
The local officer behind the wheel tore off across the tarmac before Hunter had his belt on.
He clicked it in. ‘What’s been going on here, Paul?’
Elvis was in the front, his seat pushed all the way back. He twisted round and flashed him a grin. ‘First time in years you’ve called me Paul.’ He held out a hand to Bruce. ‘DC Paul Gordon. Pleasure to meet you, sir.’
Bruce fished out his mobile and stabbed at the screen with his thumbs.
Hunter almost laughed. ‘I asked if there’s been any progress?’
Elvis huffed back round like a surly teenager. ‘You know the drill. Usual amount of nothing.’
The car rattled to a halt just in fro
nt of the terminal. Chantal was out first, racing towards the security guards.
Hunter got out after her and nodded thanks at the uniformed officer before he scowled at Elvis, standing on the tarmac. ‘How the hell did you lose Tulloch?’
Elvis led inside the building, as a fresh gust of wind blew through them. He waved a hand at Chantal who had already caught up with DI McNeill. ‘Swear, mate, this lot take forever to do anything.’
‘They’ve got a different agenda.’
‘Maybe.’ Elvis scratched at his sideburns as he held the door open. ‘Mind in CID, we’d get a new case every week, always something to do. Got the blood pumping. This?’ He blew air up his face.
Hunter’s gaze switched over to Chantal as McNeill shook her head in a fury. Much rather be over there.
Elvis gave him a sly look. ‘Take it you were banging, though, aye?’
‘Piss off.’
Elvis leered at him. ‘Nice wee romantic break on the expenses. Good effort.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ Hunter grabbed his shoulders. ‘How the hell did Tulloch get on that flight without you knowing?’
Elvis wriggled away from him. ‘Search me, mate.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve not been sacked.’
Elvis scowled at him. ‘Bullshit.’
Hunter gripped his shoulders again. ‘You dropped a clanger, mate. Only monitoring Scottish airports.’
‘What?’ Elvis shrugged Hunter off and made his way down the corridor. ‘That’s bollocks.’ He stopped a few metres from Chantal. ‘We had all UK and Irish airports hooked up to our laptops. And the bloody ports, even Rosyth. The north of France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, you name it, I can see the manifests. Newcastle United flew down to Southampton ahead of tomorrow’s match. Doubt they’ll stay up this season.’
‘I don’t give a shite about Newcastle United.’ Hunter got a glare off a passing security guard. ‘I want to know how a Geordie DI found Tulloch on a flight back to Newcastle and you didn’t?’
‘No idea, mate.’
Hunter frowned.
That DI with the eyebrows, the twat who was always doing triathlons, was now standing next to Scott bloody Cullen.
Hunter groaned. ‘That’s all I need.’
* * *
‘We’re nowhere, Chantal, and that’s the brutal truth.’ McNeill looked lost, her eyes blinking slow, her breath going even slower. ‘He got off that plane, then poof, disappeared into thin air.’
Hunter joined them. He looked around the area. Ten or more security guards lingered around, along with some uniformed cops.
Chantal’s shoulders dropped. ‘How did they let him go?’
‘One of those things, I suppose.’
‘What?’ Hunter wanted to grab hold of McNeill and shake her. ‘So what are you doing about it?’
‘Me? It’s not my—’
‘Sharon McNeill.’ Bruce barged in between them, like James Bond at a cocktail reception, eyes twinkling with mischief and a hint of menace. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Not long enough, Jon.’
‘Charming as ever.’ He winked at her. ‘You got a minute?’
‘Fine.’ McNeill followed him away.
Hunter trained his scowl on Scott Cullen, skulking around with a couple of DCs in cheap suits. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Chantal grimaced. ‘Sharon’s managed to get Colin Methven’s team on loan for this. We need help here.’
‘More chiefs. Great.’ Hunter nodded over at their huddle. ‘Have they got anything on Tulloch?’
‘That’s the thing. He got off the plane before they could lock it down. They think he’s still in the airport.’
‘They think?’
‘Well . . .’ Chantal put her hand on her hip. ‘I’m as pissed off as you are, believe me. They’re interviewing the staff and security to find out what happened.’
‘That plane landed hours ago!’
‘I know, Craig.’
Cullen walked over, nodding at Hunter. ‘Evening.’
Terrific. Hunter couldn’t even look at him. ‘How the hell have you let him off that plane?’
‘It’s not my fault, mate.’ Cullen put up his hands. ‘Besides, his passport didn’t get swiped at the controls.’
Hunter shut his eyes, rubbing his temples. ‘You bloody amateur, he doesn’t need to show a passport!’
* * *
Hunter raced down the corridor, shaking his head. ‘Schoolboy error, Scott.’
‘You need to call me Sergeant if you’re going to be a twat like that.’ Cullen pushed open the door and let Hunter go first. ‘He’s in here.’
DC Simon Buxton sat at a laptop. Cullen’s right-hand man. Cockney wanker. He frowned at Hunter, recognition flickering over his forehead like a summer storm. ‘Alright? Not seen you in donkeys.’
‘Have you got him?’
Buxton nodded at Cullen. ‘I’ve done that property search, Scott. Nothing on either Matty Ibbetson or Sean Tulloch.’
‘So neither owns any property.’ Cullen leaned in close. ‘What about the CCTV of the passenger border checks for that flight?’
Buxton tapped on the monitor. ‘Here we go.’
Thing was on fast forward, quadruple speed at least. A queue of holidaymakers wound its way up to passport control, still wearing their shorts and summer dresses like they could keep the holiday going forever, even in northern Britain. Good luck.
Hunter scanned through the crowd, eyes weaving through the faces. Barely anyone over six foot, let alone— Wait— A hulk near the gate. ‘Stop!’
Buxton hit the spacebar on the laptop. ‘What?’
Hunter drew a circle on the monitor around a big guy, just a grainy mass of pixels. Squint hard enough and it turned into a squaddie. Shorts and T-shirts, huge. ‘That’s him there.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s Tulloch.’
‘What?’ Buxton squinted at the screen. ‘Shit . . . You sure?’
‘Trust me, he’s kicked me enough times for me to recognise him.’ Hunter tapped the display again. ‘That is Sean Tulloch.’
Buxton’s eyes pleaded with Cullen. ‘But he didn’t show up on the passport database.’
‘He wouldn’t.’ Hunter leaned back in the seat and stared at Cullen. ‘He used his MOD90.’ He reached past Buxton and hit play.
On the screen, Tulloch flashed a card at the guard and had a quick chat, then headed through to Arrivals.
‘See? He waltzed right through . . .’ Hunter looked at Buxton. ‘What other CCTV have you got on this?’
‘I’ve been looking inside the airport.’
‘Can you bring up Arrivals?’
‘Well, yeah, I’m patched in to the whole lot.’
‘Right. Follow him, then.’
The screen flipped to show Tulloch marching through the place like he was on parade. He walked right to the front door and waited in the taxi queue. Another burly squaddie joined him outside, his face hidden by a comedy hat. Then a third figure appeared, even bigger, his identity lost in a grey hoodie.
Tenner says one of them is Matty Ibbetson . . .
A car pulled up next to them. The second one took off his hat and leaned in to speak to the driver. Big Keith, the man with the knife, the one who was trying to gut me. He got in the back of the car.
Hunter tapped the screen, his finger dulling the display over the silver Skoda. ‘Find that car!’
EIGHTY-TWO
Hunter
Hunter tightened his grip on the “oh shit” handle above the door as Cullen threw them around another tight bend. ‘Your driving hasn’t improved any.’
‘You love it.’ Cullen glanced over, a maniacal grin on his face. ‘Have they surrounded the house yet?’
Hunter let go of the handle and stuck his phone to his ear. ‘Elvis, have you got an update on—’ Another tight turn pushed him towards the door. Hard to believe they were on a main road. ‘—on that address in Otterburn?’
‘You okay, Craig?’
‘Give me an u
pdate.’
‘Aye, checking now.’ Sounded like Elvis dropped his phone. More crackling. ‘Sorry, dude, I’ll need to get back to you.’
‘Right.’ Hunter put the phone back on his lap and snatched hold of the grab handle again. ‘Useless sod.’
‘Elvis?’ Cullen’s grin was lit up by his Golf’s dashboard. ‘I warned Sharon about taking him on.’
‘And still she took him on, eh?’
‘Cheeky bastard.’ Cullen gave the tightest shrug as he veered out to overtake a coach. Oncoming headlights blared at them, so he pulled back in, eyes flicking from the road to the rear-view mirror, ready to swerve back out at the first sight of a gap in traffic. ‘She wants someone who can do all that CCTV analysis in house.’ A car blitzed past. ‘You’re not exactly great at it, are you?’
‘And you are?’ Hunter couldn’t help his eyebrows shooting up. ‘I remember having to show you how to log on to Facebook more than once.’
‘I got there in the end, but I’m a Sergeant now, so I get you drones to do it for me.’
‘Drones, eh?’
‘You know what I mean.’ Cullen pulled out into the grey blank of the oncoming carriageway and hurtled towards the front of the bus. Headlights flashed a few hundred metres ahead of them.
Hunter’s hand gripped tighter.
Cullen tugged the wheel and slammed the car back into the left lane with metres to spare. Worse driver than Chantal. He patted the dashboard. ‘The GTI’s worth the extra, believe me.’
‘Take your word for it.’
‘So, how much further?’
Hunter picked up his mobile. Still nothing from Elvis. The map app showed five miles. ‘Not far.’
‘I’ll overtake this lorry, then.’ Cullen swerved out and blasted past the lumbering vehicle, straw flaring out both sides. ‘Need to keep this from the insurance company.’
‘What, that you’re driving like an idiot?’
‘That I’m driving it at all on police business.’
‘Was there no pool car available?’
