by Ed James
Bruce rapped on the door. ‘Mr Ibbetson, this is DI Jon Bruce of Northumbria Police. We have a warrant to enter and search these premises.’
No sound. No activity.
Bruce held up the Airwave. ‘Any movement out back?’
Crackle. ‘Negative.’
Bruce cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Mr Ibbetson, this is the police. We are entering your property.’ He waited a few seconds, then nodded at the uniform to his left. ‘Open up, Doug.’
Doug cracked his knuckles, then launched his boot at the door lock.
Another kick, harder.
Nothing.
‘Okay, if at first . . .’ Doug stepped back and kicked the door just above the handle, striking it as though trying to step right through it. The top hinge burst off and he hammered the wood again until it collapsed into the house.
‘Stay here.’ Bruce nodded at him, then motioned for the other uniform to lead them inside.
Looked like an old person lived there — heavy wallpaper, dark pictures, plastic runners on the green carpet. A navy-blue bathroom suite to the left.
Something caught Chantal’s nose as she followed Bruce into the living room. The walls were painted white, the floors stripped. Like someone was modernising, room-by-room.
Her nostrils twitched again. Dark and bitter. Like . . .
No.
Bruce opened a sliding door at the far end. The bitter smell got worse.
Matty Ibbetson stood in the doorway, eyes wide, smoking a cigar.
* * *
Chantal stood shivering in the rain, wiping wet hair out of her eyes. The rugby ground was shut, all the other kids gone home with their parents. Cars streamed past, their headlights glistening in the downpour, but none stopped for her. The wind stung her bare legs, already cut and bruised from the tournament. Touch rugby, if only. More like full contact martial arts.
She hugged her arms tight. Her sports top was soaked and scratchy and—
Hoooonk!
A silver Mercedes pulled in next to her, the indicator pulsing orange into the twilight. Just a red dot inside. An arm reached across and opened the door. Uncle Ditinder looked out, puffing on a cigar, the bitter smoke leaking out and coiling around her like exhaust fumes. Phil Collins pumping out of the stereo. ‘Sorry I’m late, Chucka.’
Chantal let out a sigh. ‘Is Dad busy again?’
‘He had to go to the cash and carry. Asked me to pick you up.’
Chantal blew warm air up her face. Didn’t shift the soggy fringe covering her eyes. ‘It better be an emergency . . .’ She got in the passenger seat and tugged her belt on, her sodden thighs squelching on the leather upholstery.
‘How was the game?’ Uncle Ditinder pulled out into traffic, sucking hard on the cigar. The whole car stank of it. Horrible, horrible smell. ‘You score any goals?’
‘They’re called tries?’
‘Tries, eh?’ Ditinder looked at her thighs. Her skin was almost white with the cold, like all her dreams had come true. He puffed on the cigar with moist lips, then tapped ash into the tray. Turned the music off, if you could call it that. ‘I’m a cricket man, myself. A much more noble sport.’
‘Noble, aye.’
Dirty old pervert couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. Why didn’t Dad just get her the trackies? They weren’t expensive, even had them at—
‘How old are you now, Chucka?’
‘Don’t call me that.’ She tried to move away from him in the narrow confines of the luxury car. ‘I’m twelve. Chucka’s a little girl’s name.’
‘You’ve certainly grown up a lot this year, my little princess.’
‘I’m nobody’s princess.’
‘Quite right, my darling. I like your attitude. Very grown up.’ Ditinder turned left off the road and took another deep drag on his cigar. ‘Need to do a wee favour for your father.’ He drove down a lane, away from all the traffic, the car rocking with potholes.
Twisted trees on both sides. No streetlights, just the flicker of the odd set of headlights in the distance.
She gripped her seatbelt tight. ‘Where are we going?’
Ditinder pulled into a derelict courtyard and stopped the engine. He sucked on his cigar and flicked more ash into the bucket. Kept looking at her legs. ‘You really have grown, Chucka.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
He put a hand on her thigh, warm against her frozen flesh. ‘You’re my favourite niece.’
‘Don’t—’
Ditinder grabbed her mouth and covered it with his stinking hands. He pushed her head back into the seat, his other hand tearing at her shorts, pulling them down. Her seatbelt tightened around her shoulders, pinning her down. His fingers were up her soaking top, inside her bra, cupping what little breast there was, tugging at her nipple.
She tried biting his fingers, but he let go.
She screamed, but he covered her mouth again.
She kicked, but he pushed her back against the seat.
‘This is our little secret, Chucka.’ His trousers were down, his cock erect and brushing against her knee. He tore her knickers to the side, his knees pushing her legs apart. ‘Tell anyone and I will kill you.’
She slapped his back, but he yanked her sports bra over her throat, choking her, silencing her. ‘My little Chucka!’
The dirty smell of cigar smoke in her face. Bitter, dark. Holding her down, strangling her as he climbed on top of her little body, his hard cock forcing its painful way inside her.
* * *
Chantal blinked hard. Where the hell am I?
A living room, leather couches. White walls. Dirty cigar smoke.
Crash.
DI Bruce staggered around, dazed. Matty Ibbetson stepped into the room and cracked him on the chin, sending him backwards over one of the sofas.
Sharon was slumped on the floor in the corner, a hand covering her head. Barely awake. A uniform lay behind her, groaning in a pool of blood.
Then Matty spotted her. Murdering bastard. He took another suck on his cigar and puffed out a thick grey cloud of smoke. ‘Look who the cat dragged in.’
Chantal snapped out her baton and hefted it in her right hand, ready to strike. Ready to batter the fuck out of him.
He blew a puff of smoke at her. The bitter air went up her nose.
‘My little Chucka!’
Clatter. Something struck her feet. She looked down. Her baton.
‘My little Chucka!’
Matty grabbed her by the throat and lifted her clean off her feet. With a dirty laugh he threw her onto the sofa. ‘Never had a Paki before.’ He straddled her, grabbing her throat again, tight enough to stop her breathing. ‘I’m almost drooling at the thought of your minge.’ His other hand tore at her skirt, pulling it down to her knees, while he pressed down hard on her mouth.
She tried biting his fingers, but he let go.
She screamed, but his fingers filled her mouth.
She kicked, but he pushed her back against the sofa, his weight on her, pushing her down.
Zip. ‘Going to take my time enjoying this.’ A rough hand ran up her thigh, squirming fingers tugging at her knickers, yanking them aside.
EIGHTY-FOUR
Hunter
‘Come on, come on, come on.’ Hunter held his phone to his ear and listened to the ringing. Where the hell is she? ‘She’s still not answering.’ He redialled Control. ‘It’s DC Craig Hunter. Can I get an update on the units sent to Murchison Grove in Galashiels?’
A cough wet with catarrh rattled the speaker. ‘Still blocked on that, son.’
‘I just need one squad car to get—’
‘Listen, I’ve got two squad cars in the borders the night. That’s it.’ Another cough, sounding like her lungs were going to flow down the phone line. ‘You’re not the Chief Constable, so you can get off the line and let me do my job.’ Click.
‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter punched the glovebox. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Get out of the way!’ Cullen
blared past a slow-moving SUV and pulled back into their lane like he was the one driving at a sensible speed. With a stern shake of the head, he glanced at Hunter. ‘You need to calm down, mate.’
‘Calm down?’ Hunter shot him a glare. ‘How the hell can you expect me to calm down? I’ve let that psychopath go I don’t know how many bloody times now. If no one stops him in time, he’s going to kill her!’
Cullen’s face glowed in the pale blue light of the speedo. ‘We don’t know it’s him.’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ Hunter hit redial. Same result. ‘Terrific . . .’
Cullen descended into a valley, the speedo clearing ninety. ‘Is there anyone else you can try?’
Was there?
Local cops were blocked.
Edinburgh cops were as far from Galashiels as they themselves were.
Wait . . .
Hunter tapped another number and let it ring.
‘How are you?’ Irish blarney boomed out of the phone. PC Lenny Warner, sounding like he was in a pub.
‘You on duty?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’ Shouting in the background. Rangers songs. ‘I’m attending a pitched battle in a Hawick pub. Jesus!’ Glass smashed. ‘Who the fuck is that guy?’
‘I had a call from Paisley Sanderson. She thinks Tulloch’s at her house.’
‘He’s round her gaff now?’ Warner’s voice went all shrill.
‘Can you get round there and check?’
‘I doubt I’ll be done with this shambles any time—’ More smashing. ‘Ah, sure, why not?’
Click.
* * *
Cullen swerved into Paisley’s street.
Darkness, hardly punctured by the dim glow of the odd streetlight. No sign of any squad cars. Hunter hissed out a breath. ‘Where the hell is Warner?’
Cullen snapped on the handbrake with a sproing. ‘Will you stop having kittens? Like dealing with Bain, I swear . . .’
‘I don’t think you under—’ Hunter caught himself. Don’t moan. Just get on with it. ‘Come on.’ He got out of the car.
Big Keith’s Subaru was wedged between two small Fiats, three car lengths from Paisley’s flat. The weak sodium yellow dripping from the streetlight above bled it from off-white to mustard.
Hunter stared at the house. Pitch black and quiet as the grave. Curtains drawn. Was Tulloch still in there?
Headlights arced round the bend from the main drag, switched off as it got nearer until a squad Volvo parked next to the Subaru, shrouded in darkness. Lenny Warner got out of the passenger side and pulled his hat on with a muscular tug. When he spoke, his voice was low. ‘Got here as fast as I could.’
‘Right.’ Hunter started off across the street. He pointed at Warner’s partner, a female officer with short hair and tired eyes. ‘You two take the back.’
‘Thanks would’ve been nice.’ Warner shot him a wink. ‘Come on.’ He led his partner down the lane to the back of the house.
‘I don’t know where you find them, mate . . .’ Cullen jogged up to the front door. ‘We’ve not got a warrant, but we’ve got probable cause, right?’
‘Hell yeah!’
Cullen thumped the door. ‘This is the police! Open up!’
Nothing.
Hunter darted round the front to the living room window, sticking his ear to the glass, hoping to make the most of their sudden approach.
Muffled screams, like someone’s mouth was taped. Could be the TV, but not bloody likely.
Cullen thumped the door again. Duff, duff. ‘Open up! This is the police!’
‘Who the fuck’s that, eh?’ A male voice. ‘You have been talking to the police, you stupid bitch!’
Tulloch. Terrific.
Another muffled scream.
‘We need to get in there!’ Hunter ran back to the door and launched himself at it, shoulder-first. He bounced off it. Another go and it didn’t even budge. ‘Shite, no way that’s opening.’
A louder scream hammered the door from the inside.
Cullen tried kicking the lock. ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘He’s . . . I don’t know what he’s doing to her.’ Hunter glanced around. Maybe better luck at the back . . .
Or . . .
Hunter snapped out his baton as he rushed to the living room window. He touched the baton against the corner of the glass pane, then swung back and lashed out.
A huge spider’s web splintered out from the corner. Glass hit the ground, tinkling. Tiny shards fell out onto the street, like frosted-over snow.
Hunter cleared the jagged frame with his baton and tugged the curtains open.
Tulloch was inside the window, his white T-shirt soaked through.
Paisley sat on a chair, computer cables securing her wrists. Silver tape covered her mouth, curling away at the edges. Her face was a black-and-blue mess, her eyes puffed up even worse than a few days ago.
Tulloch swivelled around, his face leering in the dim glow from the side lights. ‘Motherfucker!’ He wrapped his left arm around Paisley’s throat, his right holding a sizzling iron to her face. ‘Make a move and I’ll burn this bitch!’
‘Sean, it’s over.’ Hunter held his baton in a neutral position. ‘Drop the iron and let her go.’
‘Nae danger!’ Tulloch pressed the iron into Paisley’s cheek.
Steam hissed, her face turned red, veins popped on her forehead, her forearms braced against the restraints, her entire body convulsed and she screamed, screamed, screamed against the tape.
The smoked-bacon stink of burning human flesh hit Hunter’s nose like artillery fire . . .
* * *
‘And yet here we are again.’ Captain Morecambe’s office looked the same in Iraq as it did in Afghanistan, if you ignored the fact that the giant desk and filing cabinets were squashed into a room less than half the size. And here, the plate on his desk contained two rolls, flabby slices of bacon poking out of the sides. With a ravenous look in his eyes, Morecambe picked up one of the rolls and took a large bite, tomato ketchup splattering the plate like blood patterns from a knife frenzy. ‘The good news, Lance Corporal, is that Corporal Terence Saunders wasn’t under investigation by the RMP.’
Hunter couldn’t prise his eyes off the bacon roll. The smell coiled around him, invaded his nostrils like a band of insurgents.
Like when Terry—
He tried to slow his breathing, keep his eyes shut.
‘Lance Corporal, are you okay?’
Hunter opened his eyes again. Morecambe’s roll was hovering in mid-air. Fat droplets slid down the side and splashed into a glistening, already congealing pool in the centre of the plate. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, Corporal Saunders wasn’t—’
‘I wish to tender my resignation.’
Morecambe dropped the roll on the plate. He rubbed his hands together, then wiped his thumb across his pathetic moustache. ‘Well, Lance Corporal, we are actively investigating you.’
‘Well, fill your boots, because I’m leaving.’
‘We don’t want you to leave.’
‘But you don’t want me to stay, either. You just want to do me because a bunch of cretins with stripes dropped a massive bollock over that operation and you’re looking for a patsy.’
Morecambe picked up the roll and narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘We’ve been over your medical record and you’re not fit to serve, are you?’
‘Fine, invalid me out. I don’t care.’
Morecambe opened the lid on his roll and let the reek seep out. ‘Very well.’
* * *
Sean Tulloch swung the iron around.
Heat seared the air in front of Hunter’s face, sending a contrail of sour steam up his nose. He leaned back, braced himself against the smashed window, caught his palm on the broken glass. Pain burnt up his arm as he stumbled to regain his footing.
Paisley screamed inside the flat, shrill and ear-piercing. Then nothing.
Cullen hopped over the
windowsill into the house. He tripped over Hunter, grabbed hold of the curtains but still collapsed off to the side.
Hunter disentangled himself from the prone body and peered into the gloom.
Tulloch lurched towards Cullen, brandishing the iron like a two-handed claymore. ‘On your knees, you pig fuckers, I’m going to murder the fuck out of you two!’
Cullen jumped forward and lashed out with his baton.
Tulloch jumped aside and punched out with the iron. Missed. Cullen stepped in closer and whacked Tulloch in the face. On the jaw, but the guy just laughed, then cracked his fist into Cullen’s cheek and sent him tumbling down on the coffee table, two legs snapping off as it collapsed under his weight.
Hunter grabbed a tight hold of his baton, his right hand pulsing with the pressure. Blood trickled down his wrist.
Tulloch held the iron over Cullen’s face. ‘Now, you little cu—’
Hunter lunged and snapped his baton at Tulloch’s right elbow.
The iron thudded to the floor.
Hunter swung out again.
And caught thin air.
Tulloch danced around the blow and kicked out, his army boot cracking off Hunter’s right wrist.
He dropped the baton with a yelp.
Tulloch threw a long left hook, landed it right on the tip of Hunter’s right shoulder, making him squeal as the pain bit deep into his muscle.
Tulloch got both hands on his throat, curled his fingers tight around his flesh, and squeezed.
Hunter’s throat closed up. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Kuh, kuh, kuh.’
Tulloch squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Chantal
Dirty fingers scratched at Chantal’s legs as she kicked and screamed, and yet they kept tearing and fumbling at her.
Her focus darted around the room, hanging on to anything she could find, hanging on for dear life.
Matty pressed his hand into her throat, felt like he was crushing her windpipe.
The cigar lay discarded on the leather, smouldering away.
