Treasure Hunters: The Greatest Treasure Hunt
Author: James Patterson; Chris Grabenstein
Date: 2023-05-29 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humorous Stories; Juvenile Fiction / Mysteries & Detective Stories; Mysteries & Detective Stories; Siblings; Survival Stories; Young Adult; Juvenile Fiction; Action & Adventure; Juvenile Fiction / Act
Description: In the finale of James Patterson's bestselling series, the Kidds compete for fame and glory—but can they solve a mystery, restore their family name and uncover the biggest treasure yet? Bick, Beck, Storm, and Tommy Kidd have uncovered and rescued some of the world’s greatest treasure, without ever seeking out fame and glory. So they aren’t happy when the Collier Kids (as in Nathan Collier, the Kidds’s nemesis) start treasure hunting for the camera, more focused on looking good and selling ads for their streaming show than actually recovering treasure. When the Kidds are invited to compete with
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

CONTENTS

Dedication

Day 1 — Thursday 12th May, 2016

One - Hunter

Two - Chantal

Three - Hunter

Four - Chantal

Five - Hunter

Six - Hunter

Seven - Chantal

Eight - Hunter

Nine - Chantal

Ten - Hunter

Eleven - Chantal

Twelve - Hunter

Thirteen - Chantal

Fourteen - Hunter

Fifteen - Hunter

Sixteen - Chantal

Day 2 — Friday 13th May, 2016

Seventeen - Hunter

Eighteen - Hunter

Nineteen - Chantal

Twenty - Hunter

Twenty-One - Chantal

Twenty-Two - Chantal

Twenty-Three - Chantal

Twenty-Four - Hunter

Twenty-Five - Chantal

Twenty-Six - Hunter

Twenty-Seven - Chantal

Twenty-Eight - Hunter

Twenty-Nine - Chantal

Thirty - Hunter

Thirty-One - Chantal

Thirty-Two - Hunter

Thirty-Three - Chantal

Thirty-Four - Hunter

Thirty-Five - Chantal

Thirty-Six - Hunter

Thirty-Seven - Chantal

Thirty-Eight - Hunter

Thirty-Nine - Chantal

Forty - Hunter

Forty-One - Chantal

Forty-Two - Hunter

Forty-Three - Hunter

Forty-Four - Chantal

Forty-Five - Hunter

Forty-Six - Chantal

Forty-Seven - Hunter

Day 3 — Saturday 14th May, 2016

Forty-Eight - Hunter

Forty-Nine - Chantal

Fifty - Hunter

Fifty-One - Chantal

Fifty-Two - Hunter

Fifty-Three - Chantal

Fifty-Four - Hunter

Fifty-Five - Chantal

Fifty-Six - Hunter

Fifty-Seven - Chantal

Fifty-Eight - Hunter

Fifty-Nine - Chantal

Sixty - Hunter

Sixty-One - Chantal

Sixty-Two - Hunter

Sixty-Three - Chantal

Sixty-Four - Hunter

Sixty-Five - Chantal

Sixty-Six - Hunter

Sixty-Seven - Hunter

Sixty-Eight - Chantal

Sixty-Nine - Hunter

Seventy - Chantal

Seventy-One - Hunter

Seventy-Two - Chantal

Seventy-Three - Chantal

Seventy-Four - Hunter

Seventy-Five - Chantal

Seventy-Six - Hunter

Seventy-Seven - Chantal

Seventy-Eight - Hunter

Seventy-Nine - Chantal

Eighty - Hunter

Eighty-One - Hunter

Eighty-Two - Hunter

Eighty-Three - Chantal

Eighty-Four - Hunter

Eighty-Five - Chantal

Eighty-Six - Hunter

Eighty-Seven - Chantal

Day 4 — Sunday 15th May, 2016

Eighty-Eight - Hunter

Eighty-Nine - Chantal

Ninety - Hunter

Next Book

Afterword

Other Books by Ed James

Meet Scott Cullen

About Ed James

For Brian.

Day 1

Thursday, 12th May, 2016

ONE

Hunter

Thunk, thwip. Thunk, thwip.

The wipers cleared a hole in the rain splatter pattern on the windscreen, as DC Craig Hunter slowed the pool car at the roundabout. He got a clear view of the grey street for long enough to wonder if this could really be May. Then the hole refilled and Hunter’s head was awash with questions.

Thunk, thwip. Thunk, thwip.

Hunter blinked hard. Come on, focus on the job. Galashiels emerged through the hazy deluge. Typical small town Scotland. Could be anywhere — Elgin, Dalkeith, Forfar, Stranraer. Places that anyone with half a mind would escape at eighteen and never look back. The traffic crawled. Clearly, the people who stayed weren’t in a rush to get anywhere in this no-man’s-land between Scotia and Engerland. The rain wasn’t either. The weather made it look even worse, draining the life and colour out of the sky.

Fine mood I’m in this morning.

One of the new trains was grinding its way back towards Edinburgh, water sluicing down the side windows as it gathered speed. The tracks hid behind a low brick wall; an older one was set into steep steps higher up the cliff face, the beige blocks darkened by the rain.

He switched into the right-hand lane, took the old bridge across the river Tweed and waited by a grand hotel opposite a Farmfoods, the indicator clicking.

Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.

DS Chantal Jain tutted at her mobile phone. He shot her a glance, was about to comment on the dreich weather, then thought better of it and just enjoyed the view. Her skin had the tone a barista could spend hours getting coffee to match. Cheekbones that could catch a glint of sunshine even on a dull day like this. Hunter’s boss, and didn’t she know it.

Weather like this, his mind had a habit of going to places he didn’t much care to revisit, so he was glad of the distraction.

She rattled the cable hanging out of her phone. ‘Bloody thing still isn’t charging.’ She waved a hand over the road, obscured by the wipers squeaking across the windscreen. ‘It’s that way.’

‘Terrific.’ Hunter flicked the indicator to the left and set off down a long street. Old buildings faced off against the sixties police station, three grim storeys of white harling. He turned into the busy car park and settled for the space in the furthest, darkest shadow. Not that there was much light.

Chantal was already out, snapping her brolly out like it was a baton and jogging across the tarmac towards the cop shop.

Hunter turned off the engine and got out into the rain. Even heavier than it looked. He darted through the stair rods and burst in through the front door. His jacket looked like he’d dived into the deep end of a swimming pool.

Chantal shook out her umbrella by the public desk, water spraying in the empty room. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Wish I was, doll.’ The Sergeant perched on a stool, eyes fixed on his computer screen. ‘All that way, and she can’t be arsed to turn up. Nightmare, eh?’

Hunter joined Chantal and rested his soaking hands on the desk. ‘What’s going on?’

‘She’s not showed up.’ Chantal stared at the desk Sergeant, like that’d do any good. ‘Have you misplaced her on the system?’

The Sergeant swivelled the monitor around to show four empty rooms. ‘Just the two here, hen. She’s not in either of them.’ He chinked the screen. ‘And these others are the only places she’s allowed. She’s not here.’

Hunter clamped his eyes shut. ‘Think she’s bumped us again?’

‘Three times in a week.’ Chantal whipped out her umbrella with a fresh mist of water. ‘You’d think she didn’t want that dirty raping bastard to go to prison.’

What if she’s not bumped us?

Hunter swallowed hard. ‘Tulloch can’t have got to her, can he?’ He checked his watch, sweat trickling down his back. ‘Supposed to still be at Fort George until about now.’

What if we’re wrong?

What if he’d left the barracks early and headed down here to . . .

Hunter dug out his phone.

Closed his eyes again.

Five missed calls from Paisley Sanderson.

*   *   *

Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.

Hunter took his chance and joined the snake of cars and vans winding down the High Street, a proud gallery of Scottish small-mindedness. Curry house, hairdresser, charity shop, hairdresser, Wetherspoons, hairdresser, pool hall, kiltmaker. He slowed the wipers a notch. ‘Is she answering?’

Chantal stared out of the window, a slight shake of her head. ‘Still nothing.’ She put the phone to her ear. ‘Tell me this isn’t another one.’

‘I’d love to.’ Hunter drove on, twisting his fingers against the rubbery steering wheel. Polish shop, another bloody hairdresser, taxi firm, corner pub in an old bank building. ‘Four victims pulled out, now it looks like another one’s refusing to testify. How’s this happening?’

The hills climbed up in a gentle sweep to engulf the town’s valley.

‘I don’t know, Craig.’ Chantal looked back at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Voicemail.’

‘Eight months.’ Hunter grunted as he twisted round another bend. ‘Twenty cops across half the bloody country, trying to get enough evidence to put one shitebag away.’ A financial advisor’s office hid amongst the old shopfronts, long since converted into cramped houses. ‘He’s not getting away with it.’

The McDonald’s arches loomed in the distance, the Californian yellow glowing in the bruised Scottish sky.

‘Terrific.’ Hunter braked hard and the car skidded in the rain. He pulled a sharp left and overshot the turning, almost smacking into a Toyota SUV. He climbed up towards some orange flats overlooking the river valley. ‘Maybe you should’ve driven.’

‘You can’t navigate to save your life. Left, then left again.’

Hunter followed the road round. Victorian houses on both sides, all with dormer roofs, the left-hand side dotted with satellite dishes. He took another left onto a row of modern houses dripping in the rain. Brick first floors, covered in harling upstairs. He pulled in opposite and killed the engine. ‘He’s put four women in hospital and made each one too scared to talk. I’ll get some serious satisfaction when we lock this bastard away. Not that it’ll make his victims feel much better.’

Chantal looked at him, but before he could say another word, she got out of the car and darted across the road. Rain teemed down, soaking her black hair. She knocked on the first door and turned around, holding her jacket above her head.

Hunter joined her in the downpour, the lights flashing as he plipped the pool car. Already felt like his suit had just come out of the washing machine.

Chantal thumped the door. Nothing.

Hunter took a step back, rain seeping into his shirt collar. A tiny little house, only one window on both floors. Most of the interiors would be stairs. Next door was a mirror image.

No sounds from inside.

A lane ran down the back, steps leading up to a flat at the back of a tenement. Before he could figure out how to access the rear of the property, Chantal knocked again. ‘Miss Sanderson, it’s DS Jain.’ She waited for a few seconds, tapping her foot, then another knock. Still nothing.

Hunter checked his baton was in his belt, his teeth grinding into each other. ‘Stay here, I’ll check the back. Keep trying her phone.’ He marched over to the narrow path at the side of the house.

Yesterday’s curry fumes hung in the air. A small yard lay at the back of the house, a four-square patio which would never get any direct sun. Not that anywhere in the British Isles would today. Two green plastic chairs sat either side of a pile of bricks. Raindrops dotted the little bird bath. No, it was an ashtray, submerged with cigarette butts. No chance of telling if they’d been smoked ten minutes or ten years ago.

Hunter peered into the kitchen window. Lights off, gloomier than a funeral home. No immediate signs of life, but the glass had misted around the kettle.

Bingo. Someone was in.

Hunter stepped over and tried the back door.

The handle jolted down and the door flew back into the house. A boot lashed out, cracking into Hunter’s knee. Something thumped his chest and he tumbled backwards. He reached out, grabbing hold of one of the bricks as he fell.

His hip cracked off the concrete.

The ashtray toppled onto his face, covering his suit and trousers in grey water. Burnt ash powdered his face, covered his tongue. He swallowed dirty rainwater, thick lumps getting caught in his throat. He tried to cough it up, gagged.

A boot hit him in the side.

Hunter rolled away and swiped out with his leg.

Missed.

Another boot sparked off his thigh. A hand gripped his wrist and twisted his arm back. Pushing down, slowly, until his lips kissed the slabs. Hunter wriggled round. ‘Stop!’

A hand pressed Hunter’s face against the slabs, grit digging into his chin. ‘Sean Tulloch, you’re under arrest!’ Irish accent.

‘I’m not Tulloch!’ Hunter jerked his head round, getting a nice scratch on his cheek. ‘I’m a cop!’

The grip slackened off. ‘What?’

Hunter slapped the hand away and rolled over. ‘DC Craig Hunter, Sexual Offences Unit.’ He reached into his jacket pocket for his warrant card and flashed it at the loose-limbed cop above him, confusion pulsing his bushy eyebrows. He took off his cap, coiled-up curls springing free, the sides shaved to a step. Glamour biceps stretched his standard-issue T-shirt. ‘Terrific.’

Hunter pushed himself to standing. His kneecap felt like it had swivelled round to the inside. ‘What’s your name?’

‘PC Lenny Warner.’ Dirty Dublin accent. What on earth was he doing out in the Scottish borders?

Hunter spat out a cigarette butt. He almost vomited. ‘Jesus.’

‘Ah now, did I hurt you?’

‘Not really.’ Another butt came out. Still tasted like . . . like a bloody ashtray. ‘This is horrible.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you were your man, Tulloch.’ Warner was a good few inches taller than Hunter. He looked young, his designer stubble a thinly veiled attempt at adding maturity. ‘Were you trying to get a jump on him round the back or what?’

‘We’re supposed to be interviewing Paisley Sanderson.’ Hunter tried to dust off his crotch. Looked like he’d had an accident in a baker’s. ‘She’s one of many long-term domestic abuse cases relating to a Sean William—’

‘—Tulloch.’ Warner groaned as he put his cap back on. He thumbed inside the house. ‘Your woman there called us. Said she’s got a nasty text from her boyfriend, one Sean Tulloch. Tried calling some cops, but they never answered.’

‘That’s us.’ Hunter hadn’t seen a squad car. ‘You here alone?’

‘For now.’ Warner pulled the back door open. ‘So, can I get you a cup of tea?’

TWO

Chantal

Chantal tipped the boiling water into the pastel-coloured teacups, her phone clamped between her ear and her shoulder. She mashed Hunter’s teabag. Just how the picky little princess liked it. ‘Aye, we’ve got hold of her now.’

Her boss didn’t need to know that Craig had somehow managed to get into another fight in the process.

Sharon McNeill sighed down the line anyway. ‘You had me worried.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Chantal dumped the first teabag into the grey compost bin on the counter and splashed in milk. ‘Shaz, we’ll get him, okay?’

‘Right, well, let me know if anything happens.’ Click.

Chantal pocketed her phone and started going through the cupboards.

Cheap sub-Ikea junk, like the rest of the kitchen. The stuff that doesn’t cost much when you had to replace it.

An animal sanctuary calendar hung off the side of the metallic fridge. May’s animal was Pumpkin, a squat donkey with its head stuck into a bucket of carrots. Nothing much filled in on the days. Except . . .

Today’s date had two entries.

11 — APPOINTMENT IN TOWN

2 — SEAN BACK!!!

Something to go on, at last.

She picked up Hunter’s tea cup along with her own and headed back through.

Hunter was standing in the hallway, staring into space, his mouth twitching, his cheek scuffed red.

She waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Craig, are you okay?’

Hunter blinked hard, then focused on her. He huffed out a breath. ‘Is that my tea?’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Pain management.’

Chantal passed him his cup, milky liquid sloshing over the sides. ‘Because that big Irish guy beat you up?’

‘After the number of times I had my arse handed to me in my other career, I had to learn how to deal with it. At least with the physical consequences. Getting battered so often messes with your head. I need to centre myself. No big deal.’

*   *   *

Chantal cautiously lowered herself on to the sofa. Still almost sent a pile of women’s magazines toppling over. The room was a mess, the owner obviously too stressed to care about her surroundings. She’d hardly taken notice of her visitors. Chantal rested her tea on the coffee table and tried to make eye contact with Paisley Sanderson.

The woman cowered on an armchair, the wings slumping at almost the same angle as her shoulders. Her gaze shot around the living room, hazed with smoke. An ironing board sat behind her, an expensive-looking model sitting face down. PC Warner leaned against the wall near the kitchen door, sipping at his tea. Her gaze finally settled on Hunter, crouching right in front of her. ‘You didn’t answer the phone!’

Hunter stood and rubbed at his trousers again. They were still covered in ash. Chantal could smell the cigarette stink from here. It was even worse than the room. He gave her a smile, then looked back at the victim. ‘I was driving, Paisley. I’m sorry. You did the right thing.’

‘Doubting that.’ Paisley’s shattered nails clawed at the navy fabric, her purple polish cracked. Her dressing gown was frayed around the wrists, hanging open by the chest, her white top greyed. Pale skin lined her mouth. Her dark-ringed eyes couldn’t stay in focus. Signs of trauma. She had the same look in her eyes as the other four victims. More evidence that Sean Tulloch had a type, a victim profile when he selected his so-called romantic partners.

Vicious bastard left a trail of battered women, too frightened to speak.

Now the challenge was to keep her talking.

‘You said you’d protect me from him.’

‘And we will.’ Hunter raised his hand but stopped short of patting her shoulder for comfort. ‘Can I see this text message?’

‘Here.’ Paisley reached over to her coffee table and picked up a giant Samsung, shiny and new. ‘Have a look.’ She held it out with a shaking hand.

Hunter took the mobile and checked the display. His eyes shut as he handed the phone to Chantal.

The texts app with that graph-paper background, her messages in yellow, Sean Tulloch’s in pale blue. All gushing and lovey-dovey until the last one from him.

NO WHO U SPOKE 2. U R DEAD BITCH.

The poor woman.

First he abuses her so badly she seeks help from the police, now he threatens to kill her.

Chantal took a sip of tea, trying to stop her hand shaking.

How the hell did Tulloch know they were speaking to her? Who’d blabbed?

And what about the others? Had the violence only escalated in Paisley’s case?

Chantal set her cup down on the coffee table. ‘Did you tell him you were talking to us?’

Paisley slumped back in the chair and tugged her dressing gown tight. ‘I only spoke to you two because I’ve had enough of him.’

‘Okay, but did you mention us to him?’

Paisley shook her head.

‘Anything at all that let him put two and two together?’

‘Nothing.’ Paisley nibbled at a thumbnail, a fleck of polish jumping off. ‘Sure it’s not one of you lot, eh?’

‘We have checks and balances in place to protect your identity.’ Chantal rested the phone on the unvarnished coffee table. ‘We will do everything in our power to make sure you’re okay.’

Paisley picked at her index finger with her teeth, a frown crawling over her pale forehead. ‘You don’t know what he’s going to do to me!’

‘We do. We’re—’

‘You don’t!’ Paisley’s hands shot out wide. ‘He’s going to kill me!’

‘Listen to me.’ Chantal settled into a crouch next to Hunter and took both of Paisley’s hands. Then she gave them a little squeeze and fixed her with a firm gaze. ‘You’re not the only one, okay? You’re the latest in a long line of women Mr Tulloch has been abusing across Scotland. There are victims in Livingston, Leslie, Edinburgh and Falkirk. There may be more.’

‘Shite.’ Paisley’s eyes clamped shut. ‘It’s not just me?’

‘Far from it.’ Chantal smiled, hoping for reassurance. ‘He’s got a pattern. He finds a fragile woman, charms her, moves in and it’s all flowers and chocolates. Then he starts abusing her, hitting her, tormenting her, frightening her until she’s so scared of him she won’t tell her family what he’s doing to her, let alone the police. Then he leaves her with a final warning and he’s on to someone new. Someone like you.’

Paisley patted her cheek, the heavy purple they’d seen a fortnight ago now yellowed.

‘Your statement will bring the story up to date and help secure a prosecution.’ Chantal released her hands and remembered the calendar . . . ‘Now, can you tell us where he is?’

‘He’s due back today.’ More nibbling at her nails. ‘He’s got two weeks’ leave.’ Paisley caressed her jaw, thumb and forefinger wrapping round. Then it clicked, sending spasms down Chantal’s spine. ‘He’s coming back from Fort George tonight, getting the train from Inverness to the Waverley. Then down to here.’ She clicked her jaw again. ‘I’m meeting him at the station this afternoon.’

‘When?’

‘About two. Said he’d call when he got on.’

‘Thanks.’ Chantal bounced to her feet. ‘We’ll try to intercept him in Edinburgh before he comes down here.’ She snatched up the phone from the table. ‘We’ll have to take this as evidence.’

‘But that’s my life—’

‘I know it’s difficult, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow, okay?’ Chantal flashed a smile as she dropped it into an evidence bag. ‘The good news is we can prosecute him for this threat right now. We won’t have to wait.’ She rattled the bag, smiling at Paisley. ‘Once we’ve confirmed the text came from him, this’ll be at least his third verifiable offence I can think of.’

Paisley nodded, still staring into space. ‘What if he comes here?’

Chantal pointed at Warner, grinning away by the kitchen door. ‘There’ll be uniform presence here as long as it’s needed.’

‘Right.’ Paisley scowled. ‘But I need my phone back as soon as.’

‘Of course.’ Chantal walked over to the front door and opened it. ‘We’ll be back later today, okay?’

Paisley gave a tiny nod. ‘Okay.’

Blue lights flashed in the street. A squad car purred outside, hopefully enough of a deterrent to keep Tulloch away.

Chantal stepped out of the house and nodded at the female officer behind the wheel, then at Warner. ‘Under no circumstances are you to let Paisley out of your sight.’

‘I won’t.’ Warner put his cap back on. ‘See that statement, could I be doing that for you?’

Chantal looked him up and down. ‘I’m afraid we need a detective for that kind of responsibility.’

THREE

Hunter

Thunk, thwip. Tick. Thunk, thwip. Tick.

Hunter nudged the passenger seat down another notch. Still not right. He cleared his throat again, trying to shift the cigarette butt he could’ve sworn was still tickling his tonsils. The thought alone made him want to vomit.

He tried calling again. ‘Pick up, you daft git.’

Chantal turned left to get back on the A7, the wipers sweeping the heavy rain off the windscreen. She glanced over. ‘Elvis still not answering?’

‘Probably pulling his wire in the toilet.’

‘Please don’t make me picture that.’

He pocketed his phone. Bloody jacket was still damp from the fight. He cleared his throat. Tasted like nicotine. Another cough and something shifted. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. ‘How did Tulloch find out we were speaking to Paisley?’

She glanced over at him. ‘Been wondering that myself.’

Hunter leaned back in the chair and threw some ideas around his head. Nothing landed where he wanted it. To make things worse, his knee throbbed in tune with the windscreen wipers. He stretched the leg out as far as the cramped space allowed. ‘Maybe one of the other victims blabbed? He could’ve done this to the other four, as well. You know, scattergun approach.’ He stabbed the phone, then redialled. ‘Either way, we’ve got a leak.’

Two rings. ‘Hello?’ DC Paul Gordon. Elvis. Yawning like he’d just woken up. As ever. ‘What’s up, Hunter?’

‘You in the office?’

‘Been speaking to DI—’

‘Need you to speak to the British Transport Police for me.’

Elvis groaned. ‘Why?’

‘Get them to check if Sean Tulloch was on the nine o’clock train from Inverness to Edinburgh.’

‘Hold on a minute.’ Computer keys clattered in the background. ‘Aye, he’s on it.’

Hunter frowned at Chantal. ‘What, how have you done that?’

‘I wave my wand and magic happens, Craig my man.’ Elvis laughed down the line. ‘I’ve got access to the Scotrail CCTV feed, you dobber. Only reason you lot hired me, right?’

‘Knew there had to be one.’ Hunter swapped his phone to the other ear and shuffled his notebook out of his soggy suit jacket. He winced as something creaked in his chest. ‘It’s definitely him?’

‘Oh, aye. I see this Tulloch boy’s face when I close my eyes at night thanks to all the skivvy work you’ve had me doing.’ A sigh cut through the office chatter. ‘The big bugger got on at Inverness, just before the train pulled off, I hasten to add. Chancing it a bit.’

‘Right.’ The pine-covered hills rolled past. ‘Can you get a call out to local uniform to check in with his other victims?’

‘What did your last slave die of?’

‘Stupid sideburns and an insatiable appetite for donuts.’ Hunter could feel a blush heat his cheeks at the sound of Chantal’s laughter. ‘Oh, one more thing — DS Jain requests that you meet us at Waverley.’

‘What, as in now?’

‘Well, as soon as.’

‘Christ’s sake, man. Jim’s been to Krispy Kreme’s.’

‘Sure you’ll be able to munch a couple on the way over.’

‘Wanker.’

Click.

Hunter pocketed his phone, careful not to damage anything. ‘Take it you got the gist of that?’

Chantal grinned. ‘It’s not every day I see a man make you blush.’

*   *   *

Hunter got out of the car. Market Street, down in the depths of Edinburgh’s old town. Passengers spilled out of Waverley, a gang of Japanese tourists ran past in translucent raincoats, rain spattering their exposed heads. A coach hissed.

Nearby, a confused couple in matching outdoor gear, the uniform of the German abroad, the man gesturing at a huge street map held between them like a two-man tent, while a bemused taxi driver could only nod.

DC Paul Gordon got out of the car in front, munching on something. He stepped in a puddle, oily rainwater splashing up the beige legs of his trousers. His fingers shot out to flash across the air. ‘In the name of the wee man.’

Hunter unclicked Chantal’s brolly, unable to stop laughing. ‘You okay, mate?’

‘Like shite I am—’ Elvis nodded at Chantal as she dumped the “On Official Police Business” sign on the dashboard. ‘Sarge.’

‘Constable.’ Chantal looked up and down the street. ‘You were supposed to get the Transport cops.’

‘Lad’s waiting downstairs.’ Elvis clicked his heels like he was a doorman at a nightclub, then he smirked at the obvious pain and rubbed his triangular sideburns. ‘Follow me.’ He set off into Waverley, gingerly taking one step at a time, his every move part of a campaign for early retirement. ‘Oh, before I forget, I checked with those other victims?’

Hunter kept pace with him. ‘And?’

‘Nobody else’s even heard from Tulloch in months. Certainly no death threats.’

Hunter stopped and swung round to face Chantal. ‘So he’s only targeted Paisley?’

‘Looks like it.’ Elvis grinned. ‘Who names their kid Paisley anyway? It’s asking for trouble.’

‘Constable . . .’ Chantal rolled her eyes at him. ‘Can you try and escort us to the BTP office without making yourself look any worse?’

‘Aye, soz.’ Elvis started off again. Click, click. ‘Better name than Ardrossan or Saltcoats, I suppose.’

*   *   *

PC Pete Davies paced around his grotto, a dark little room stinking of stale coffee from the mouldy dregs at the bottom of a mug. No natural light, just the greyscale glare of the computer monitors. He looked like he’d been born bored, sauntering out of the womb with a yawn. The British Transport Police officer slurped at his paper cup of tea and licked his lips. Again. He rubbed his moustache and tapped at the screens in front of them. Another lick of the lips for good measure. ‘So, like I was saying, pal, it’s a needle in a haystack.’

Why is everything so bloody difficult with this lot?

Hunter looked at the spare office chair with the ripped fabric. Seemed about as rough as he was feeling, so he stayed on his feet. ‘I need to know if Sean Tulloch is still on that train or not.’

‘Still?’ Davies frowned at Elvis. ‘How do you know he’s on it in the first place?’

Elvis cleared his throat. ‘Got a mate with access to the CCTV feeds.’

‘You’ve got a mate, have you? Congratulations.’ Davies huffed as he waved his hands at the monitors. ‘Right, the only problem is, I can’t access the on-train feed from here.’

Each screen showed live footage of Waverley station at lunchtime. A few people milled around by the announcements board, clutching coffees and pastries. The rest was like an ant colony, a mass of little creatures carrying bags from shops to trains to other people to more people to the point that Hunter’s head started spinning.

Davies licked his lips again. ‘We usually use these things to back up assaults. Drunk wankers from Prestonpans not getting on the last train on a Friday night. That kind of thing. I’m dreading the Cup Final next weekend.’

Chantal looked ready to launch herself across the room at him. ‘Is this an evasive way of saying you can’t help?’

Davies glanced round at Elvis. ‘Maybe DC Gordon’s mate can.’

Chantal hauled open the door. ‘Right, incompetence noted. Off we go.’

Davies held up his hands. ‘I’m not being a dick here.’

‘If you say so.’

‘We’ll need to hurry.’ Davies tapped at another screen. ‘That train’s just left Haymarket.’

*   *   *

Hunter jogged up the stairs then followed Chantal down the narrow corridor. Behind, Davies and a couple of Transport Police officers jog-walked, their red faces indicating they’d fail a fitness test at the warm-up. He frowned at Elvis. When the frown didn’t make him speed up, he coughed at him. ‘Elv—’ Another cough. ‘Paul, are our lot still in position?’

‘Should be, aye.’

‘Can you not phone them?’

‘Keep your hair on.’ Elvis reached into his pocket and almost tripped over.

‘Sod this.’ Hunter darted down the concourse past the WH Smith. He got a polite nod from the waiting guard as he sprinted through the turnstile.

A squad of local uniform spread out along the platform to the right, from where the tunnels lead to Haymarket. Across the tracks, the other platforms were mostly empty.

Big Jim was strutting around like he was in charge, though his suit had other notions. Must’ve bought it when he was even bigger, because the baggy atrocity looked like it was wearing him. He nodded at Elvis.

Hunter spun round. ‘Which carriage was Tulloch in?’

Elvis rubbed at his left sideburn as he slowed to a halt. He was sucking in breath. ‘Erm, the second.’

‘Counting from which end?’

‘Oh, eh. This end.’ Elvis frowned. ‘I think.’

A train spluttered out of the tunnel, the dirty yellow front hissing towards them, rain flashing in the headlights.

Hunter jogged partway up the track, trying to gauge the train’s braking. Metal screeched on metal, time slowed, the ground seemed to vibrate as the colossal machine shuddered to a stop, just metres from Hunter.

‘Terrific.’ Hunter let out a deep breath, only now realising he’d held it. Then he raced down the platform.

The bulk of the uniforms stepped towards the train, blocking the exits. A door further down bleeped open and a guard stepped out. He reached in to fiddle with the controls, but a cop stopped him before he could release all the other doors.

Hunter peered through the second carriage’s windows. Two queues merged at the exits. A couple were facing the wrong way, lost in an argument. Empty cans of lager filled a few of the tables. An old man stood, letting his walking stick take the strain as he joined the queue.

There, a pair of hulking giants both matched Tulloch’s description. But which one was him? Hard to tell when you’ve never seen the guy in person.

Hunter locked eyes with Chantal, got a curt nod.

The doors hissed open. A small woman with a buggy and two toddlers was first out. Passengers flooded past as she did up her coat in the driving rain.

The first of the giants stooped below the doorway. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, a uniform grabbed him and pulled him through the crowd. Chantal headed over towards him, turning her back on the second brute. The man slipped out, his hooded head twitching around. He clocked the nearest uniforms and disappeared, lost in the crowd.

Hunter took one look at the wheezing Transport cops and bolted after the fugitive. ‘Stop, police!’ His voice thundered above the crowd noise.

Tulloch was on the tracks. Didn’t as much as flinch at the command, just bounded across the planks.

Hunter bombed after him into the pit between platforms, landing on the pebbles with a quiet crunch. The air fizzed with electricity. Bloody thing’s live . . .

Tulloch hauled himself up the other side with military ease.

Hunter stepped across the boards, careful to avoid the tracks, and hefted himself up onto the rough concrete platform. Took two goes to get up. Bloody knee was still throbbing with every hard impact.

Tulloch jumped down to the next set of tracks and ran down towards the main body of the station. His hood kept flapping back but never fell.

Chantal was scowling at Hunter, arms wide. ‘Craig, what the hell are you doing?’

He set off across the empty platform, trailing Tulloch along the edge. Tulloch’s stride was much longer than his, but the stones were slowing him down. He reached the end and swung up like a cat.

Hunter gained ground on the upper level with every stride. He grabbed Tulloch as he got up to a crouch and stuck his knee between his shoulder blades. He pulled him to his feet and jerked his right arm up. Something damp splashed on his trousers. Hopefully not Coke . . .

Tulloch’s mid-grey tracksuit bottoms darkened in a patch winding round his leg. A yellow puddle spread out at his feet.

He’d pissed himself. All over Hunter’s legs.

Chantal skidded to a halt next to them, frowning at him. ‘Craig, you—’

‘My name is DC Craig Hunter of Police Scotland.’ He tightened the grip on the arm. ‘Sean Tulloch, I’m arresting you for Threatening and Abusing Behaviour, you don’t—’

‘I’m not Sean Tulloch!’ Thick Australian accent.

‘What?’ Hunter relaxed his grip.

Chantal reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. She flipped it open and groaned. ‘James Maxwell?’

‘That’s me.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s hurting, mate!’

Hunter released his arm and shrugged at Chantal. ‘Is it a fake ID?’

‘Unlikely. Unless he’s also faking the Brisbane accent.’ Chantal got in Maxwell’s face. ‘Do you know a Sean Tulloch?’

‘What? No!’

‘So who were you running from?’

Maxwell tried to glance round at Hunter but didn’t make it very far. ‘Look, I’ve got the new series of “Game of Thrones” on a memory stick. Thought you were after that.’

A low-profile case of copyright infringement. Bloody terrific.

FOUR

Chantal

Chantal pushed Maxwell towards one of Davies’s Transport cops.

All that hassle for a USB drive full of some fantasy TV show. A minor crime, but he’d be lucky to avoid prison for his ad hoc escape. Hope it was worth it . . .

‘Can you process him for trespassing on the tracks, please?’ She got a nod as a female BTP officer uniform led Maxwell away. ‘So, where is Tulloch?’

Hunter frowned at her. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. He raised his shoulders.

‘The other big guy who got off the train is one Keith Brannigan.’ Chantal glowered at him. ‘Tulloch wasn’t on that train, Craig.’

‘Terrific.’ Hunter stepped backwards with a squelch. ‘Well, this day just keeps getting better.’

‘And you stink.’

‘Craig, Craig, Craig.’ Elvis grinned wide. ‘You caught some rube with “Tits and Dragons” on a stick. Man . . .’ His nostrils twitched. ‘Did he piss all over you?’

Hunter couldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘You said he was on that train.’

‘Aye, he was.’ Elvis’s tongue flicked across his lips. ‘Must’ve got off somewhere between here and Inverness.’

Chantal got between them. ‘Paul, I need you and Jenny to get down to Galashiels now and take a statement from Paisley Sanderson.’

Elvis’s shoulders slumped. ‘Don’t you want me to help find him, Sarge?’

‘You can do both. If Jenny drives, you can muck about on your laptop.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I want to know everything Sean Tulloch’s done to her. Every little detail. And I want you to compare it to the other victims. Is she different in any way? Is there something we’ve missed about the others that could get them to talk?’

‘But I’ve got to get away at—’

She put a finger to his lips. ‘Constable, her abuser is still at large. Every time Sean Tulloch’s back on leave, he aggravates the suffering he’s already caused her. We have to assume he’s guilty of them same crimes with each of the other four victims, until we can persuade them to add their testimony. Now, if you don’t have any more pressing engagements, we’re going to stop him.’

‘Look, it’s—’

‘You’ve got three hours overtime tonight, you can go when the statement’s done.’

‘But, Sarge—’

‘But nothing.’ Chantal took a step forward, her eyes cold slits now. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know how to take a statement?’

‘No, it’s—’

‘You’re a DC, Paul. You take statements. And I’m your boss, so you take orders from me. Understood?’

Elvis looked away with a glower. ‘Right. Fine.’

Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You live in Dalkeith, Paul. Galashiels isn’t a million miles from home.’

Elvis’s nostrils twitched. ‘Please tell me you haven’t got any of that piss on me?’

Chantal sniffed at Hunter’s trousers. ‘You’ll need to get to Markies for a new fighting suit, Craig.’ She started off towards Davies, a tone of reconciliation creeping back into her voice. ‘I’ll see what I can do about you trespassing on the tracks . . .’

*   *   *

Chantal overtook a lorry on the inside lane. The wipers struggled to cope as the pool car thundered along the M8, dirty rain spraying across the windscreen.

What a disaster. What an absolute disaster.

Tulloch had given them the slip. He was out there, somewhere. Which meant he knew they were after him. Didn’t it?

She reached over and flicked on the radio.

‘—Meanwhile, Newcastle detectives investigating the disappearance of young Harry Jack from his home in Alnwick last night believe he might have been taken to Portugal. DI Jonathan Bruce of Northumbria police had this—’

Chantal snapped it off and glanced over. ‘You can thank me, you know?’

‘What, for being a pervert?’ Hunter rubbed at his new trousers. Even she could still smell the vague whiff of stale piss rising off him. ‘These are far too bloody tight. You can see my balls, can’t you?’

‘I wasn’t looking. But if they do compress your gut, you might think twice about chasing the wrong guy next time.’ Chantal flicked the indicator left and pulled off onto the slip road for Bathgate. ‘I meant that you can thank me for getting you off a charge for trespassing on the tracks.’

Hunter ran a hand over his skinhead, his nails rasping on the dark stubble. ‘Those Transport cops would have to catch me first.’ Another tug at his trousers let out another blast of urine odour. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’

Hunter scowled over at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’

‘Even for Miss “I don’t do allegories, I do arrests”, that phrase sounds a bit laboured.’

She groaned. ‘Come on, Craig.’

‘Well, you putting images of abused ovaries in my head isn’t in particularly good taste, given what we’re investigating.’

‘What?’ She sighed. ‘Right. Sorry. Force of habit. Something we used to say in . . .’ She barged through the roundabout, ignoring the honking Mercedes on the right, and powered up the road at the far side. ‘What’s your take on Elvis?’

‘Worked with him for years, on and off.’ Hunter stretched out his trousers, hulking thighs straining against the fabric. The swell of his bollocks, of course she had seen the outline in those tight trousers. Too many squats. Ever since he’d bought those kettle bells, he was worse than a teenage girl, obsessing about his fitness routines, buying workout gear off Amazon, talking about some Russian drill instructor on YouTube . . . ‘He’s got his uses.’ What? Oh, yes, he was talking about Elvis. ‘He’s got access to stuff us mere mortals would need a warrant. Means we’re not dependent on anyone else. Our own roving tactical unit, if a little less mobile than he should be. Do you reckon I should have a word with him? Give him a few pointers ahead of the next fitness test?’

Chantal pretended not to have heard. Don’t fancy another lecture on functional fitness. Instead, she overtook a dawdling bus on the way into town and shivered. ‘So, I’m now thinking that Sean Tulloch has definitely got wind of our investigation.’

‘What, you think he was leading us a merry dance at Waverley?’

‘That’s what it looks like to me.’ Chantal exhaled as she slowed to the thirty limit. ‘And I’m worried about Paisley. You’ve seen what he’s done to the other victims.’

‘And I’ve seen that sort of sick shite before on the beat. And in the army. And I’m sick fed up of it. What these men do to women, treating them like punchbags? I’ve seen the fallout, I’ve seen the scars.’

‘Craig, we don’t know where he is. He could be—’

‘Relax. Tulloch can’t get to her. The Irish Van Damme is still at Paisley’s house and Elvis is taking the statement. Once that’s in the bag, we’ll prosecute him. He won’t get away this time.’

‘I wish I shared your optimism.’ Chantal drove into the station car park and pulled in next to a bottle-green Golf. The rain wasn’t making much inroads in the dirt clarted to the back. She let her seatbelt go. ‘Right, I’m starving. Do you want anything from the shop before I get a shoeing?’

FIVE

Hunter

‘I’ve got my piece with me.’ Hunter grabbed his bag from the back seat, his sandwich box rattling around inside. Hopefully the contents are still intact.

His mouth watered at the prospect. Goat’s cheese and beetroot, with that lovely new rocket he’d been growing in the kitchen.

Chantal checked her handbag’s clip. ‘Not even a cup of tea?’

‘That would be nice. Thanks.’

‘Won’t be long.’ Chantal got out and wandered off into the rain, mobile in hand.

Hunter clunked open his door and got out of the pool car.

Judging by the rain, a proper west-coast downpour, I’d be better off in an Ark.

A damp figure trudged out of the station’s front door, tall and athletic, marching off towards the Golf. Baby face twisted into a bitter scowl. DS Scott Cullen. He clocked Hunter and the glower deepened. ‘Craig.’

‘You look like someone’s caught you shagging their girlfriend.’ Hunter smirked.

Cullen zapped his car and leaned against it. He exhaled, his breath catching in the nervous laughter. ‘Bit close to the bone that, isn’t it?’

‘If you can’t laugh about life, it’ll kill you.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘What brings you to beautiful Bathgate?’

‘Supposed to be having lunch with Sharon, but she’s too busy. Only she tells me after I’ve driven all the bloody way here.’

‘Hope she’s in a better mood than you are.’

‘Worse, if anything.’ Cullen opened his door and nodded over at Chantal, phone to her ear, waving back at them. ‘Cosy little morning with your lover, aye?’

‘Excuse me? We’re not an item, Scott.’

‘Aye, bollocks. I remember when me and your DI started seeing each other. Sneaking around like schoolkids.’ He shook his head. ‘We should get that pint sometime, Craig. I’ll give you some tips.’

Hunter gave him another shrug. ‘Name the date.’

‘I’ll text you.’ Cullen got in the car and the engine roared. He rattled out onto the street, the left brake light on the bonk.

What a day. You start off thinking you’re taking a statement, next thing you know someone’s pissing on you.

A black Audi pulled into the car park and stopped by Chantal. An A7 or A8, one of the posh ones. Looked official, too. It slid to a halt next to him and the back door clunked open.

An army Captain got out. Number two uniform, service dress, olive-green khaki. Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. MP stamped on a black armband.

Sure to make an impression with the feeble-minded in or out of uniform, even though the guy was medium height, medium built. Total chancer, mind. He didn’t need to wear uniform on a police visit. He was just trying to intimidate the civvies.

His simpering gaze settled on Hunter. ‘Captain Brian Rollo-Smith.’ The sort of braying accent some wankers spend several grand on public school fees to ensure their kids acquire.

Hunter had to fight the urge to salute. ‘How can I help, sir?’

‘I’m with the Special Investigation Branch. I’m looking for a DI McNeill?’

*   *   *

Hunter stopped by the entry system and swiped his card through. ‘Follow me.’ He marched down the corridor. Feels like I’m on bloody parade again.

Rollo-Smith frowned at him. ‘You’re ex-services, aren’t you?’

Like it’s stamped on my forehead . . .

‘3 Scots, sir.’

‘Third Battalion, eh?’ Rollo-Smith gave a military nod, short and precise. ‘Lance Corporal Craig Hunter, isn’t it?’

How did that twat get my name?

Hunter returned the nod with interest. ‘That’s Detective Constable Craig Hunter, now.’

‘I see.’ A brief flick of the eyebrows ended the chat. Rollo-Smith couldn’t bring himself to speak to a lowly Lance Corporal.

Hunter led the way across the busy office. A box of donuts was half-stuffed into the bin, the card and plastic twisted into a knot. He held open a door at the far side. ‘This is DI McNeill’s office, sir.’

Rollo-Smith clamped his cap under his arm, frowning at Hunter, nostrils twitching. ‘Can you smell something?’

For once, the room didn’t stink of Pot Noodles and Gregg’s sausage rolls. Just donuts. Sickly sweet donuts. And his pissy socks.

Rollo-Smith’s aftershave hung in the air. Surprised he could smell anything over it.

Hunter shook his head. ‘Nothing unusual, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Rollo-Smith entered the office without another word.

DI Sharon McNeill sat behind her desk, glaring at her laptop with an expression that rivalled the army man’s — impatience armed to the teeth with belligerence. She brushed her dark hair over her pale forehead and folded her arms across her blouse. ‘Captain Rollo-Smith, I presume?’

‘Inspector.’ Rollo-Smith took the seat opposite and rested his cap on the desk. He shifted his sneer towards McNeill and tilted his head at the door. ‘I’d prefer we did this alone?’

‘I’d rather DC Hunter stayed.’ McNeill smiled, though her eyes had missed the memo. She beckoned Hunter in and he sat next to Rollo-Smith. Didn’t give either man a chance to speak before she resumed control of the conversation. ‘I’m honoured by your presence here in sunny Bathgate, Captain.’

‘Yes, well, I was passing, as it were.’ Rollo-Smith cleared his throat, trying to maintain the high level of syrup in his voice. ‘I must say that I’m used to dealing with a DCI in such matters. That being said, and given the special circumstance regarding your superior’s leave, you will have to suffice in his absence.’ He unzipped a document holder and pulled out a notepad. ‘Let’s start with your failed attempt to apprehend a member of the Armed Forces, mm?’

McNeill held his gaze and exhaled slowly. ‘We discussed this on the phone.’ She looked away, eyes briefly connecting with Hunter’s. ‘The man in question wasn’t Sean Tulloch.’

‘I’m curious as to why you thought your remit, at this juncture, extended to arresting him.’ Rollo-Smith scribbled on his pad with a silver ballpoint. ‘Have you got additional evidence or intelligence, mm?’

‘This operation was purely preventative.’ McNeill cracked her knuckles and leaned forward. ‘As you well know, these crimes are all civilian in nature and don’t relate to any time when Mr Tulloch was—’

‘Private Tulloch.’

‘—when Mr Tulloch was on Ministry of Defence business.’ McNeill let it hang in the air like the sweet tang of the donuts. ‘As per your agreement with DCI Fletcher, the MoD won’t prosecute Mr Tulloch until we’ve had a fair chance to obtain evidence. Then, when he is at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, you’ll have all the time in the world to conduct your court martial, assuming you get approval from the Home Secretary.’

‘I could rip up that agreement, you know?’ Rollo-Smith stopped writing and carefully placed his pen down on the pad. ‘You have yet to produce concrete evidence to me or my officers.’

‘You know full well that we’re still collating it.’ McNeill waved a hand over at Hunter. ‘My DC here was about to obtain a statement from Mr Tulloch’s current victim when he was diverted to preventing your officer from murdering her.’

‘Ah, the threat.’ Rollo-Smith swiped at his pad like a grandmaster at a canvas. ‘And you have evidence of this, yes?’

‘We’ve taken the mobile into evidence.’ McNeill rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Now, given what’s transpired this morning, do you honestly expect me to sit on my hands while you pontificate?’

Rollo-Smith sat back and forced a creak from the wood. He rubbed at his moustache for a few seconds. ‘What additional assistance do you need from my officers?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘Fine? Well.’ Rollo-Smith picked up his ballpoint and clicked it. ‘You say you’re fine and yet you don’t appear to have Private Tulloch in custody, do you?’

‘You should’ve kept him at Fort George this morning.’

‘That is outwith my remit.’ Rollo-Smith clapped his document holder shut. ‘As you insist on repeatedly telling me, these crimes do not fall within my jurisdiction. Therefore, we are reliant on you capturing him on civilian territory.’

Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

Rollo-Smith looked at him like he was assessing how best to squash a fly. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I asked, have you spoken to Private Tulloch?’

‘Inspector, keep me apprised of any movement on the case.’ Rollo-Smith got to his feet and nodded at McNeill. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He left them with a clicked heel and a slammed door.

McNeill collapsed back into her chair. ‘Christ under a patio.’ She waved a hand at the door. ‘Are all military cops like that?’

‘He’s standard issue for the Royal Military Police. Barging in, expecting everyone to take orders.’

Can’t get that look out of my mind. Rollo-Smith sneering at me, a lowly DC. Like a drill sergeant on my first week in service. Thinking I’m a bug, so far below him.

Hunter’s fingers started twitching. He cleared his throat. ‘But I gather they’re all as bad as that.’

‘Great.’ McNeill huffed out a breath. ‘Well, my afternoon is going to be spent covering up that incident at Waverley. Thanks for that.’

Hunter clenched his fists. ‘I accept full responsibility, ma’am. We should’ve exercised greater diligence when researching Tulloch. I should’ve triple-checked he was still on the train.’

‘And maybe not trespassed on the rails?’

Hunter looked away. His heart felt like it would jump out of his chest and start attacking McNeill. ‘Sorry about that.’

She smiled at him. ‘Craig, I know—’

The door burst open and Chantal waltzed in, clutching a brown paper bag. ‘Sorry, Shaz, they were out of chicken. Has to be a BLT, I’m afraid.’

Hunter stared down at his hands. His fingers were twitching like he was playing the banjo. He tried to stop them but he just couldn’t.

Bloody Rollo-Smith. Twat ignored me like that. Treated me like an ant.

McNeill tore open her sandwich and bit into it. The hot bacon smell wafted out, mixing with mayonnaise and mealy tomato.

Hunter shut his eyes.

Bacon . . .

SIX

Hunter

Hunter got on the other side of the door and raised his SA80. The air felt like it could burn your skin, even though the sun had dropped behind the tall building ahead. He checked down the narrow street. Clear both ways. He gave the nod.

Terry grinned back. ‘We’ll make a soldier out of you yet, Jock.’

The other lads laughed along.

Jokes about his Scottishness rankled anywhere. Hunter couldn’t help but return fire. ‘Piss off, you Cockney bastard.’

‘That’s my girl. Keep flirting like that and you might get lucky after this mission.’ Terry lifted his rifle and aimed at the door. Battered wood, barely hanging there. Looked old enough to have been around when they wrote the Bible. He thumped the door with his boot. ‘Open up!’

No response.

Hunter’s nostrils twitched. Bacon. Someone was cooking bacon. He frowned at Terry. ‘Can you smell that?’

That pikey oik from Terry’s squad joined in the sniffing. Rat-faced arsehole. ‘Thought they didn’t eat pig here?’

‘Supposed to be dirty or something.’ Terry nodded, his eyes narrowing on the door. ‘Or was it sacred? I can’t bloody remember.’ He thumped the door again. ‘Open up!’

Nothing.

‘On my mark!’ Terry looked around them, one by one. ‘Hunter, you’re with me. Rich, Mike, you stand guard here. Nobody in or out. Capiche?’

A couple of nods. Hunter added his.

‘Now.’ Terry jolted forward and his size elevens crunched into the dark wood. The door flew off rusted hinges and toppled inwards. The bacon smell got worse, overpowering. Stinking the place out. A wave of heat burst out of the room, like they’d walked into a sauna and someone had poured a gallon of water on the coals.

Something clattered inside.

Terry bolted through the open doorway and came to a dead stop, his SA80 on something in the room. ‘You filthy bastard!’

Hunter stopped behind him. Almost lost his lunch rations.

A woman lay naked on a table, strapped in at the wrists and ankles. She twisted her face away from them.

‘Craig.’

A man in a cloak stood over her, holding a branding iron in a brazier. He held it out to them and hissed something in Arabic or Aramaic or Klingon for all Hunter could tell.

‘Craig.’

Then he pressed the brand into the woman’s face. Smelled like someone was frying bacon.

*   *   *

‘Craig!’ Chantal’s grip was red hot on Hunter’s forearm. ‘Are you okay?’

The image of McNeill was swimming in front of him, as she chewed her sandwich. At least one of the four images he saw of her was also scowling at him. The bacon smelled worse. Acrid, deep-fried, sharp. Like a brand into human flesh.

‘Sorry.’ Hunter shook himself as he stood. ‘Haven’t eaten all day.’ He flashed a smile at McNeill and stormed out of the office.

The woman screamed through her gag as—

Fat Jimmy waddled towards him, carrying a tray of Krispy Kreme donuts like it was the Ark of the Covenant. ‘See what I’ve got—’

‘Not now.’ Hunter barged past and jogged down the corridor. He swiped his card in the reader and pushed the door. Nothing.

The flesh started to sizzle and pop as—

Not now.

NOT BLOODY NOW!

He took a deep breath. The corridor smelled of coffee and whitener. No bacon.

He swiped again, slowly this time. Click.

He nudged the door and stepped out of the back entrance into the narrow lane. Blackened bricks on both sides, barely enough space for one person to walk down without slicing their arm open. Rain teemed down on his head. He looked up into the sky and shut his eyes. Scottish air filled his lungs, cold and crisp and tinged at the edges with a sharp note of petrol fumes.

Cigarette smoke.

Curry spices.

Chips.

He slowed his breathing, sucking breath in through his nostrils.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

A hand caressed the back of his jacket, sliding up to his neck. ‘You okay?’

Hunter couldn’t open his eyes. He gulped in more air, tasting her perfume. Sweet and alpine and . . .

He opened his eyes and grimaced at her. ‘Another flashback.’

‘Oh.’ Chantal leaned back against the opposite wall. ‘Thought you were over them?’

‘Me too.’

She ran a hand through her hair, fanning it out. ‘The bacon triggered it, didn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’m sorry, Craig. If I’d known—’ Her jaw twitched. ‘Look, I had a . . .’ She smiled. ‘I had a friend who had a smell trigger. Cigar smoke . . .’

‘Cigar smoke.’

‘Bit easier to deal with than bacon, I suppose.’

‘Look, it’s been years since I had a flashback like that. Years. It’s not like I go past a greasy spoon or into someone’s house and they’re frying bacon and it kicks me off to la-la land.’

‘This why you’re a vegetarian?’

‘Partly.’

She tilted her head. ‘You have been taking your meds, right?’

Hunter managed a nod. ‘Never miss a day.’ He huffed out air. Almost felt the Afghan heat shoot through the breeze blocks. The black Audi was on the street. ‘I’m thinking it’s Rollo-Smith.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Years ago.’ Hunter swallowed. ‘Back in Afghanistan, I had a run-in with one of those monkeys.’

Her smile twisted into a frown. ‘Monkeys? Are you serious? You’re going to use a racial slur in front of me?’

‘Christ, no.’ Hunter grabbed her arms. ‘That’s what we called the RMP. The military police.’

‘The monkeys?’

‘Right. So I thought this guy was investigating me, turned out it was someone who’d recently died on a mission. It was pretty stressful.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Doubt you can, but those guys are brutal. They don’t give up.’

‘And this was in your flashback?’

‘Right.’ Hunter huffed out a sigh. ‘I was back in Iraq. With . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Terry and a couple of others. We were supposed to find this . . . cleric, I think he was. The intel said he was training suicide bombers. But we stumbled on his location. Turned out he was also in the habit of torturing and branding women.’

Her eyes bulged, mouth widened. ‘I’m not having a go, but why haven’t you told me about this before?’

‘Because I blocked it out.’ Hunter dug his knuckles into his eye sockets. ‘This was before Terry, you know . . .’ His mouth was dry as the Iraq air. ‘That guy escaped. We found him later, dressed up in the full hijab, burqa thing. We chased him and . . .’

He opened his eyes again just in time to see her brows jolt up. ‘And then he . . .?’

‘Then he blew himself and Terry up, aye.’

‘Christ.’

‘Aye.’ Hunter sighed. ‘Or maybe it’s because this guy is a Captain. Those pricks in charge. They really dropped a clanger, you know? Sending us out on that mission was grossly irresponsible.’ He rested against the door, arms folded. ‘DI McNeill going tonto at me in there didn’t exactly help either.’

Chantal leaned on the wall. ‘Sharon’s under so much pressure. The new Chief Constable wants results, not convictions falling apart before they get to court.’

‘Lies, damned lies and statistics. Worst of the three.’ Hunter ran his hands over his shaved scalp. The rasp took him closer to his safe place. ‘But we got that stoat last year. He’s inside.’

‘That’s one case, Craig. And that was based on your investigation, not a team effort that would silence the CC and his calls for more efficient use of our resources.’ Chantal pinched her cheek. ‘Look, there’s the careerist shit, like Shaz needing our investigations to come to something. We need to stop witnesses dropping off the face of the earth when they’re due in court.’ She stared down the lane to the thin sliver of car park, brushing damp hair out of her eyes. ‘But there’s a much bigger reason why any of us are in this unit, right? We want to get these degenerates off the street. We want to put these raping, abusing scumbags away.’

‘Couldn’t agree more. Even Elvis has that saving grace. Even fat Jim.’

‘Right.’

‘I know what you’re getting at, though. This isn’t about just some guy getting away. This is Sean Tulloch, a serial abuser . . . The damage he inflicts. Again and again. It’ll never stop, until we catch him and pin a ton of evidence on him to make sure he can’t squirm out of a life sentence.’

‘Right. Glad to see your head’s back on the case. So, this army guy. Rollo-Smith . . . Why do people have to have those double barrel surnames? What happens to the next generation? Rollo-Smith-Ponsonby-Smythe?’

Hunter barked out a laugh. Then he rubbed his face, trying to scrape the last fragments of the memory away. ‘Chantal, we can’t trust him. That thing I just said about pinning him under a mountain of evidence . . . Once we’ve got enough of it, they army will pounce and get Tulloch on a court martial before we can even arrest him.’

‘So what? The scumbag still goes away. Why’s that bad?’

‘Because Rollo-Smith will try to cover it over. Trouble with them is . . .’ Hunter cleared his throat. ‘See if we arrested an American with child porn on his laptop over here, we’d send him back to the States because he’d get a much longer sentence there. Right?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well, the RMP aren’t necessarily interested in justice the same way most investigators are. They’ve got an agenda. At least they did when I could’ve used some due process.’

Chantal shook her head at him, her forehead knotting. ‘You need to—’

Her Airwave blasted out, the sound shrill in the confined space.

She put it to her ear with a sigh. ‘Go on, Constable.’ She nodded along then jogged off towards the car park. ‘Stay with her!’

Hunter sped off after her. ‘What’s happened?’

Chantal zapped the pool car and hauled the door open. ‘Paisley Sanderson’s been assaulted.’

SEVEN

Chantal

Chantal stomped down the corridor, her flat soles not providing nearly enough noise to reflect her fury.

Another victim. Another woman lying there, battered and bruised at the hands of Sean Tulloch. While they . . . messed about. Trying to catch him at Waverley, while he waltzed in to her flat thirty-odd miles away and assaulted two police officers, then kicked the living shit out of her while . . .

While he did what?

I don’t even want to think about it.

Chantal swerved past an orderly pushing an old man down the corridor. The poor soul looked inches away from death. She squeezed between the wheel and the wall, getting a scowl from the orderly, and powered off again.

‘Wait!’ Hunter grabbed her arm. ‘You need to calm down before you go in there.’

‘Craig . . .’ She glared at him, waiting until he let go. The wheelchair trundled past them. ‘I’m calm enough.’

‘Bullshit. You’re feeling guilty about it, aren’t you?’

‘Well done. You know how I think.’ She gave him a round of applause. ‘Now, do you mind?’ She turned the corner into the next room. ‘Through here, right?’

‘Stop!’ Dr Helen Yule caught one glance at them, groaned, then dragged the curtains shut behind her. ‘I should’ve guessed you’d both be involved in this.’ She held out her long arms, stopping them in their tracks, her stethoscope swaying from her neck. Her glasses obscured the missing half of her right eyebrow, yet couldn’t do much for the vertical scar bisecting it. ‘I can’t let you speak to Ms Sanderson.’

Chantal was almost out of breath with suppressed rage. A pair of nurses milled behind them, whispering to each other. ‘How is she?’

Yule checked her tablet computer. ‘Well, Ms Sanderson has been savagely beaten. No thanks to you. She’s been punched and kicked by someone a lot bigger than her.’ She clutched her tablet tight to her chest. ‘Did you have any idea this would happen?’

Chantal gave her a curt nod. ‘We had been notif—’

‘You knew her life was at risk.’ Yule’s gaze darted between them. ‘You should have stopped this!’

‘We had a team at her house to protect her.’

‘Fat lot of good that did.’ Yule stepped away from the curtains and swished another one open. ‘This is your idea of protection.’

A woman lay unconscious on the bed, two nurses milling around her. Chantal recognised her — the cop who turned up at Paisley’s flat to assist PC Warner.

‘PC Smith here has yet to regain consciousness.’ Yule tugged the curtain shut. ‘So you see why I’m reluctant to let you anywhere near Ms Sanderson.’

Chantal nodded at her. ‘We accept full responsibility for this.’ She stood her ground, hands on hips. ‘How is Paisley?’

‘Delirious. But she’s been talking, which is something. Saying she’s sorry, over and over.’ Yule’s tongue flashed across her lips. ‘Now, I assume that whoever did this to her is who she’s apologising to?’

Chantal gestured behind Yule at the curtains. ‘We need to speak to Ms Sanderson.’

‘Given the state of her injuries, I can’t sanction that. Especially after your actions when last we had the pleasure.’

‘Listen to me.’ Chantal’s nostrils flared wide. ‘We’re investigating Paisley’s partner in the context of a long series of domestic abuse incidents. Sean Tulloch. He’s done this before, four times now. She’s the fifth. If we don’t stop him now, he’ll do it again.’

Yule nibbled at her lip, looking genuinely torn. ‘Look, I can’t . . .’

‘Paisley is our only hope. The evidence we’ve collected from the others is . . . Well. Nobody’s willing to stand up in court. Paisley alone said she will.’

‘Look . . .’

Chantal stepped closer to Yule. ‘Tulloch remains at large. He will do this again.’

Yule stared at her for a few seconds, then gave Hunter the up and down. ‘Very well.’ She raised a finger. ‘But this is on the condition that I will terminate any discussion as soon as I deem it harmful to the patient.’

Chantal smiled at her. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’

*   *   *

Paisley looked sore. Where she wasn’t bandaged, her skin was puffed up, red and dark purple. Dried blood mixed with dark-brown iodine on her forehead, multiple cuts. Her lips twitched, but formed no words.

Chantal perched on the chair next to her. ‘Hi, Paisley.’

She closed her good eye, her lips still twitching. ‘Sorry.’ Her voice was close to hissing. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

‘Why are you apologising?’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Paisley, who are you apologising to? Is it Sean?’

She seemed to come out of a trance, blinked and glowered at them. ‘This is your fault.’

‘What is?’

‘What do you think?’ Paisley waved her hands around her beaten face. ‘This!’

‘This is nobody’s fault but Sean Tulloch’s.’

‘It’s mine as much as yours for not protecting me. I should’ve protected myself. Should have kept my mouth shut. Shouldn’t have made him angry.’ Paisley stared down at her hands. Her right was a claw, seemingly unable to open or close. ‘I should’ve known . . .’

Chantal clenched her fists at her own powerlessness.

What have I just said? This isn’t her fault. The training — base and generic and empty. Reaching for platitudes when you need to connect with her. Show her you understand. Deeply. Personally. Not just as part of the job, but because you’re trying to fix her life. Trying to stop craven bastards abusing her and fellow victims.

Chantal shunted the chair closer to the bed. ‘You’re not the first woman he’s done this to, Paisley. You’re the fifth we know about.’

Tears streamed from her good eye. ‘So why haven’t you caught him yet?’ She punched a fist against her thigh. ‘Why?’

Hunter cleared his throat. ‘We’re trying to, Paisley, okay? It seems like Mr Tulloch knows that we’re talking to you.’

Paisley waved a hand at her face. ‘Has he done anything like this to the others?’

‘So it was Sean who attacked you?’

‘Of course it bloody was.’ She closed her good eye. ‘Who else?’

‘As far as we know, Mr Tulloch has only targeted you. Did he say anything when he attacked you?’

Paisley rolled her shoulder. Losing her . . .

‘I know how hard this is, okay? And I’m not just saying that.’ Chantal squeaked the chair forward. ‘How about you take us through what happened? In your own time? In your own words?’

Paisley sucked in a deep breath. ‘I was waiting on those cops of yours to turn up, right? Bored out of my skull cos you’ve got my phone.’ She let out a sigh. ‘Then that Irish cop — Lenny? — he hears something out the back, like when you turned up. So he went outside.’ She nibbled at her lips and rubbed a stream of tears away. ‘Must’ve got blindsided the same way your friend here did, same way all the useless people you get to protect me do, cos next thing I know, Sean’s in the house. The woman cop tried to hit him, but he . . .’ She scrunched up her face. ‘He knocked her out. One punch. Then, he’s grabbing my hair and asking who I was speaking to.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What do you think?’ Paisley shook her head. ‘I said I wasn’t talking to anyone but he started punching me, anyway. Over and over again.’

Chantal let a breath escape slowly. Every one of those punches, all the renewed suffering. My fault.

Hunter scribbled on his notebook. ‘What happened next?’

Paisley bunched her fists up tight. She’d clammed up again.

Chantal glared at Hunter, trying to shut him up. After a tactful pause she opted for a much softer tone. ‘Paisley, it’s very important that you tell us exactly what happened.’ Paisley’s sobs filled the gap. ‘He hit you a few times. Did he do anything else to you?’

‘He went for a shower.’

‘Immediately?’

‘Can you believe it? That prick left me on the floor like this.’ Paisley ran a hand down her battered body. ‘Tore all my clothes off and left me there while he had a bloody shower. Said this wasn’t finished.’

Chantal looked over at Hunter, brief hope mixing with bitter revulsion. ‘Did he rape you, Paisley?’

She ran a finger along the palm of her hand. ‘First time he didn’t.’

Jesus. The first time . . . How casually she talked about being violated. Like it was an everyday occurrence, like going to the shops.

Chantal sat back with a sigh. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Someone knocked at the door.’ Paisley lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘That’s when Sean left.’ She made walking motions with two of her fingers. ‘Waltzed out the back door.’

‘And then?’

‘Eventually, that Irish cop opened the door. A dumpy cow and some boy with sidies had turned up.’

Elvis saves the day . . .

Chantal leaned forward and waited until she locked eyes with her again. ‘Is there anywhere else Mr Tulloch could’ve gone?’

Paisley scowled at her. ‘His mum died five year ago. Never knew his old man, eh? Got army mates everywhere, but I was never allowed to meet them. Must’ve been ashamed of me.’

Chantal gave her a stern look. ‘He’s got a lot of things to be ashamed of, Paisley, but you’re not one of them.’

*   *   *

‘That’s not good enough.’ Sharon’s voice was distorted by the car’s speakers. Her verdict, however, was crystal clear. ‘I need him in custody like yesterday.’

‘If you’ll let me speak?’ Chantal scowled over at the stereo. ‘Shaz?’

Sharon paused on the line, huffing out a blast of static. ‘Right. Go on.’

‘We’re on our way to her house right now.’ Chantal sped out into the oncoming lane to overtake a tractor. A Focus hurtled towards them, flashing its lights. She saw Hunter gripping the grab handle tight, eyes clamped shut. The car veered back as a horn blared. ‘If Tulloch is still in the area, we’ll catch him.’ She swept round a cream Mini, in and out just like that. Finally that advanced driving course aid off, even if Hunter wouldn’t qualify as an eye witness. Speaking of eye witnesses . . . ‘We’ve got units guarding his previous victims. He’s not getting away.’

‘Right, well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

Chantal gripped the wheel until it hurt her thumbs. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘Sorry. Just . . . Just catch him.’

‘Like it’s that easy.’ Chantal glanced over at Hunter. ‘Anything from Rollo-Smith?’

Sharon left another long pause. ‘I’m keeping this latest development from Captain Flashpants for now.’

‘Sure that’s wise?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Your job’s on the line as much as mine. Speak later.’ Chantal killed the call and floored it, the needle dancing past ninety. ‘What a bloody shambles.’

Hunter opened his eyes and let go of the handle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really.’ Chantal flicked the radio on.

‘— Alnwick where Detective Inspector Jonathan Bruce of Northumbria Police has been apprising the press of developments in the missing child case—’

She snapped it off again and muttered, ‘That’s all I bloody need.’ She settled back in her seat and flashed him a smile. ‘Can’t believe Elvis saved the day . . .’

EIGHT

Hunter

Hunter glanced over at Chantal, his grip on the “oh shit” handle turning his knuckles bone white like he was in a troop transport heading to Iraq. Or in a coffin wheeled into an incinerator. Same thing, really. And about time I started talking to someone again about these morbid thoughts.

Chantal’s eyes tracked the road ahead of them, her jaw clenched. She swerved into Paisley’s street, the brakes squealing as Hunter was thrown over the handbrake.

‘Slow down!’

She tore past the squad car and slammed on the brakes again, this time parking between an Astra and a Fiesta. Then she got out her mobile.

Terrific. Multitasking when both of our lives were on the line.

Hunter got out of the car fast.

Across the street, PC Warner was trying to unroll a length of Crime Scene tape over the open front door to Paisley Sanderson’s house, while holding the back of his head. He swung round and clocked Hunter’s approach. ‘Hey.’

‘Any sign of him?’

‘No such luck.’ Warner snapped off the tape with a penknife and grinned. ‘But there was no sign of him when he battered me on the back of the head, either.’

‘I saw what Tulloch did to your partner.’

‘Fractured skull, according to my Sergeant.’

Hunter pointed at the back of Warner’s head. ‘Sure you should be on duty?’

‘Not sure at all, but what can you do?’ Warner ran his thumb down the tape, looking for the end. ‘Prick came at me when I went out the back there.’ He flicked the end up with his thumbnail and stuck the tape to the doorframe. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though, Tulloch’s a big guy. Huge. I’d say he’s on a fair bit of gear now. You don’t get to that size by training clean, know what I mean?’

Know exactly what you mean.

Chantal barged past them and ducked under the tape.

Hunter smiled at Warner, swallowed his sigh and followed her inside, straight into the living room.

Paisley’s armchair was ripped open and the stuffing thrown around the place. Other than that, it was exactly as they’d left it that morning, the silence as oppressive as the memory of that broken woman in the hospital bed.

Then Elvis stepped through in the bedroom doorway, rasping at his sideburns. ‘Alright?’

Chantal scanned around the room again. ‘Have you found Tulloch yet?’

Elvis couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Not yet, Sarge.’

‘What about the mobile he used to text that death threat?’

‘Switched off after he sent it. Not been on since.’

Chantal nodded slowly. ‘And the CCTV?’

‘Getting nowhere with that, Sarge.’

Chantal took a step closer, head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘Are you saying there’s no footage?’

‘Well . . .’

Her arm shot out and pointed towards the street. ‘There’s a pair of cameras over there!’

Elvis finally looked at her. ‘They won’t give me access.’

‘Let me be clear. Your access to public surveillance footage is why you’re on this unit, okay? You better get it in the next five minutes or I’m putting in a request to transfer you to the traffic department. Good chance to reacquaint yourself with the basics of speeding violations and parking permits. Is that clear?’

Elvis nodded, eyes flickering. ‘Sarge.’ He bent down to pick up a laptop bag, then made his way outside. Looked like he was about to burst into tears. Out in the back yard, he picked up one of the green patio chairs and shook off the rain. Then he sat hunched over, tearing at the catches on his bag.

Hunter beckoned Chantal into the bathroom. Shower, sink, toilet. An all-white suite edged with nicotine-yellow silicone. ‘You might’ve been a bit hard on him there.’

‘He deserves a lot worse for his casual indifference to protocol and any form of professionalism in the line of duty. What he doesn’t deserve is a place on this unit, not unless he starts pulling his considerable weight.’ Chantal leaned against the doorjamb and grimaced. ‘This is a bloody disaster. He didn’t spot Tulloch getting off the train. Now he’s responsible for this.’

‘Need to keep your pecker up, Sarge.’ Hunter winked at her as he put a hand to a turquoise towel. Still damp. ‘Well, Tulloch used this to dry himself.’ He touched the base of the shower unit. Still wet, too. ‘Paisley’s story is checking out.’ He eased himself up to full height, his calves aching from the chase at Waverley, but at least his knee wasn’t throbbing any more. Thank God for small mercies. ‘But there’s something I don’t get.’

‘Here we go.’ Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘What is it, oh master detective?’

‘Tulloch’s a squaddie, right? Been on for a month, maybe more. He comes home for a week’s R&R and he’s had to make do with Madam Palm and her five sisters.’ Hunter locked eyes with Chantal. When she didn’t react, he offered a slow rendition of the wanker gesture, hand moving across her field of vision in long, fluid strokes.

Eventually, Chantal’s composure broke and she looked at his hand. ‘I get it.’ She looked back inside the house. ‘It’s a disgusting image, especially after you gave me a hard time for my “uterus” comment earlier on, but I know what you mean. You’re wondering why he didn’t take advantage of her when he had the chance?’

‘Right.’ Hunter frowned. ‘Admittedly, he had two unconscious cops here, which might well explain it. I don’t know what he was planning, but . . .’ He stepped through to the living room and gestured for Warner to join them. ‘See when you woke up, did you call it in straight away?’

‘No, I took a while coming around.’ Warner patted the back of his skull. ‘Not for lack of trying, mind. But after that shitehawk banjaxed my head, I felt like my brains were—’

‘No details, please. I’m still a bit lightheaded myself. You didn’t hear anything while you were lying on the floor, did you?’

‘Wait, I’d heard water running, maybe?’ Warner rubbed at his forehead and stared out of the front door. ‘But then I blacked out again. Next thing I know, I’m on my feet, wobbling into the house like a dwarf on stilts. Nearly fell over again when I saw Sally lying on the floor in the kitchen, by the cooker. Guy had gone to town on her. Vicious bastard.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Your woman was next to her. The pervert had taken her clothes off, you know?’ He pointed at the living room carpet. ‘Lying right there, moaning like she was wondering whether to call an ambulance or go straight for the hearse.’

‘No sign of Tulloch?’

‘Not that I saw, no. Your man with the sideburns was knocking at the door.’

‘We know.’ Hunter waved into the bathroom. ‘He spooked Tulloch before he could finish whatever he was planning to do to the poor girl.’

Warner stepped forward. ‘You know he’s crying in the garden?’

‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Hunter clicked his tongue a few times. ‘The boss had a harsh word with him, but it’s for his own good. Anyway, if he spooked Tulloch, that means the guy’s scarpered. He won’t be coming back here any time soon.’

Warner frowned. ‘Sure you’re not jumping to conclusions there, bud?’

‘Come with me.’ Hunter paced through to the bedroom.

Built-in wardrobes surrounded a small double bed, the stained sheets crumpled up.

Bingo.

A giant holdall lay on the other side. Standard military issue.

Hunter snapped on a pair of gloves and opened the bag slowly. ‘Elvis should’ve been through this.’ He peered inside. Full of dirty washing — underpants and socks, jeans and T-shirts, not the uniform apparel that the military support staff would clean.

‘I’m Batman!’ Elvis stood in the doorway, holding his laptop up like a trophy. ‘Got the CCTV from the street.’ He shuffled over and rested the laptop on the coffee table like it was a sleeping baby. A dongle hung out of the side of the machine, its blue light pulsing. He hit the space bar and it started playing.

The camera caught Paisley Sanderson’s house square on, including the side lane and the neighbour’s property. As the recording played, a car pulled up outside, wheeling back to park in the same space they had used just now. Only this car was a BMW 1-series, and it looked factory new. Which it probably wasn’t, not on a squaddie’s salary, so the gleaming paint job reflected nothing as much as the owner’s glowing pride. A tall, bulky man got out and grabbed a big bag from the passenger seat.

Sean Tulloch. This time.

He lugged it over to Paisley’s house, dropping it at the front door and staring down the street. Spent a good few seconds there, motionless.

Hunter tapped the screen. ‘So he’s seen PC Smith’s car.’

Elvis frowned. ‘Who’s PC Smith?’

‘The female officer you found with her head caved in.’

On the laptop screen, Tulloch was moving again, cutting down the side lane. The house sat silent.

‘Give.’ Elvis grabbed the laptop and set it playing at high speed. A couple of cars shot past like they were on their way to the Moon. ‘Now watch. Eighteen minutes later, this happened.’

A grey Vauxhall pulled up outside the house, double-parking and blocking the street. Elvis got out and sauntered over to the house, laughing away to himself or whomever he was regaling with one of his marvellous jokes on the mobile pressed to his ear. He rattled the front door and waved at the car. The driver got out in slow-motion — DC Jenny Diamond, struggling out of the narrow confines with her gammy leg. Elvis shrugged his shoulders and knocked on the door again.

Out of his sight, Tulloch crept from the lane and hid behind the wall. The front door opened to a crack and Elvis dropped his laptop case. Warner was visible, lying in the doorway. DC Diamond flinched and started tapping at her Airwave. Elvis helped him to his feet. Then they entered the house.

The BMW’s lights flashed. Seconds later, Tulloch dashed over to it and got in. The car revved off down the street, the camera catching Tulloch putting on his seatbelt.

Chantal cleared her throat and the three men turned in unison. She acknowledged the good find with a smile at Elvis. Then she snatched the laptop off him and wound the footage back. She paused it and tapped at the car as it sped off. ‘Is this Tulloch?’

Hunter squinted at the grainy figure wrapping the seatbelt around his bulk. ‘Looks like it.’

‘For definite, this time?’

‘For definite.’

‘Right.’ Chantal stabbed a finger on the BMW and glowered at Elvis. ‘Next job is to find this car. Now. Try to keep up the good work.’

‘Right, Sarge.’ Elvis took the laptop back and perched on the edge of the sofa, his fingers dancing across the keyboard, a faint smile lingering in those unkempt sideburns.

Hunter walked back through to the bedroom. ‘What do you think?’

Chantal leaned against the door jamb. ‘I think Elvis and Jenny are lucky Tulloch didn’t brain them as well. If Warner hadn’t opened the door . . .’

‘You’re telling me.’ Hunter sat on the bed and dug deep into the open kit bag, wading his gloved hands through soiled underpants. Something clattered near the bottom. He piled up the grey jockey shorts on one side and shifted the T-shirts until he found it. Something hard and cold. He eased it out. A small laptop, shiny and silver. ‘Jackpot?’

Chantal flashed her eyebrows. ‘See if it’s any use.’

Hunter opened the lid and it bounced to life, straight into a football management game. Chelsea versus Heart of Midlothian in the Champions League. ‘Didn’t even need a password . . .’ He marched back through to the living room and held it in front of Elvis. ‘Need you to go through this, Paul.’

Elvis didn’t look up from his own machine. ‘Can’t you?’

‘Not been forensics trained.’

‘I’ll get your dry-cleaning as well, aye?’ Elvis snapped on a pair of blue gloves. ‘Nice trousers, by the way.’

Hunter tugged at the thighs and sighed. ‘Reckon you can find anything?’

‘Well, the good news is it’s unlocked.’ Elvis tapped the screen. ‘That’s usually a complete ball ache. The bad news is he’s a dirty Jambo bastard. Hearts playing in the Champions League? Science fiction . . .’ His laptop chimed. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ He squinted at it, then swivelled it round. ‘Here you go. Got a sighting of that car on the ANPR system.’

A grey image showed the City bypass at Sheriffhall, the BMW on the turning from the A7.

Elvis clicked the space bar and the car followed the road west.

Hunter nodded at him. ‘Will this take us to him?’

‘Let’s see.’ Elvis tapped away until the screen went to a map. ‘Right, he comes off at the far end of the Bypass, then goes along the A8.’ He hit another key and the display filled with the car coming off the road, heading down to a roundabout. ‘Now he takes the airport exit.’

Hunter stared at the shot of the car, surrounded by a few pine trees and shades of grey. ‘Is that it?’

‘Just a sec.’ Elvis clattered the keys again. ‘Oh, snap.’

‘What?’

‘Well, there’s more bad news. I’ve lost it.’

‘Any more good news?’

‘I lose him going into the Ingliston Park and Ride, and he doesn’t come back out.’

NINE

Chantal

Chantal overtook another lorry, hitting eighty as she cleared it. Got back into her lane just before the next impatient commuter whizzed past them, the evening rush-hour traffic piling towards them in ever shorter intervals.

Where the hell was Tulloch? Who was he battering now? Making them look like idiots while he dashed around the countryside, presumably off to silence one victim at a time. Stop them speaking. Stop them getting him off the streets.

She hugged the rear of a coach, banking out into the right lane to chance another overtake.

Hunter grabbed the wheel and stopped her. ‘Do you want to calm down?’

Chantal shot him a glare and held it for a few seconds, then looked away, back on the road. With a slow sigh she took her foot off the accelerator and settled in to a reasonable cruise to match the bus’s fifty-five. ‘Sorry.’

‘This whole thing isn’t your fault, you know?’

She clenched her teeth, then swept her hair behind her left ear. ‘We should’ve had more units stationed at her house.’

‘We had two uniform there. And a squad car. Elvis and Jenny Diamond were on their way there, too.’

‘Fat lot of good that was.’

‘Warner’s no slouch. He beat the snot out of me.’

‘I know that, but I also know what state Paisley’s in. That man beat her straight into a hospital bed.’

‘You didn’t do that to her, Chantal.’

‘But it’s my fault Tulloch was able to do it.’

‘Look, she’s bumped our statement twice in the last week.’ Hunter cracked his knuckles and settled back in the seat. ‘I hate to be a dick, but she’s got to take some responsibility for what’s happened.’

What? Did he really just say that? She shot him a glare. ‘Do you want to take that back?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Hunter looked away. ‘That guy is a craven bastard. I just wish girls like her would stop falling for his patter or whatever it is that attracts them in the first place. And then keeps them in abusive relationships. I’ve seen the evil men can do, I wish they could.’

Chantal nudged the accelerator again, nearly tailgated the bus before she swerved out. No obvious obstacle, but there was a turning up ahead.

Hunter folded his arms. His suit jacket puckered up around his biceps. Can barely look at him without thinking of those damned kettlebells. Swinging them and pressing them and going on about them whenever he wasn’t busy criticising her driving. He glanced over. ‘What’s with all the silence? Something I’ve done?’

‘Craig . . .’ She pulled out to overtake the bus and sailed past it.

‘Jeeeeesus, come on—’

Hunter’s Airwave chimed as she steered the car back into her lane. He checked the display. ‘Here we go. The BMW belongs to a Marcus Wearmouth of Harrogate. Reported stolen from a car park in Cupar.’

‘Anything from the Park and Ride?

He shook his head. ‘Still waiting on a response. Big security incident on Princes Street at lunchtime.’

‘Is Tulloch still there?’

‘No, that’s the end of the good news.’ Hunter put the Airwave away. ‘Elvis has lost him.’

*   *   *

Chantal kicked down to second and powered towards the flashing blue lights. Ingliston Park and Ride sprawled in front of them. Miles of damp tarmac rammed with what felt like half the cars in West Lothian. A glass box with an inward-sloping green roof obscured a tram stop.

The BMW lay diagonally across two electric car charging spaces. A pair of squad cars blocked it in.

She stopped next to it and got out.

A plane roared up into the sky half a mile away, another coming in over the Firth of Forth, banking left in a long, smooth curve to land at the airport west of the city.

Hunter jogged round to her side of the car. ‘Are we cool?’

‘We’re always cool, Craig. Stop being a fanny.’ Chantal stomped off, splashing rainwater up the legs of her trousers.

The doors of the first squad car opened. ‘Oh, look who it is.’ Six foot something of idiot got out, gurning away at Hunter.

‘Steve . . .’ Hunter crouched down to look inside the car. ‘You finally bothered your arse to show up, then?’

‘Afternoon, Detective Constable Hunter.’ Another uniform joined the first one leaning against the car, like a pair of grinning chimps. Might as well be brothers. ‘Got the stabilisers off your Chopper yet?’

Hunter winked at them. ‘The only chopper round here is the one you were playing with in that car. Steve’s, was it?’

Chantal peered inside the BMW while the boys had their fun. Pretty much empty. A black can sat in the middle, WakeyWakey stencilled in green on the side. Christ, that takes me back . . . She stood up straight and nodded at the simpering arseholes. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Five minutes, Sarge. Nobody’s been near it all that time.’

‘Right.’ Chantal tried the handle. Not even locked. She reached over to the glove box. Another can of WakeyWakey fell out, sounded full from the thud. Nothing in there that looked like it might lead them to Tulloch. ‘Well, at least Marcus Wearmouth will get his car back in one piece.’

The rain started thumping down again and the uniforms got back in their squad car.

Hunter drummed his fingers on the top of theirs. ‘So, where the hell is Tulloch?’

Chantal looked back over at the tram terminal. ‘I’m thinking he got on there.’ A tram ground its way towards them down the long straight from Edinburgh Park and the Gyle. The next and final stop the other way was the airport. ‘I hope he’s gone into town.’

Her gut churned. Victim number three. Kylie Davison. Lived in Pilton. Get off in the city centre and get a bus down.

Hunter hit dial and put his mobile on speaker. ‘Elvis, are you getting anywhere with the CCTV?’

‘Struggling, mate. The coverage around there is patchier than Big Jim’s hair. Like I said, I lost Tulloch as he drove in.’

Hunter stepped closer to Chantal and held up the phone. ‘We think he’s on the tram. Can you get access?’

‘Shite, no. Supposed to have access to the trams but I’m having loads of ballache with that, man. It’s not working.’

Chantal pulled the phone closer. ‘Are you telling me that’s another dead end?’

‘Aye. Soz.’

Chantal sighed. ‘What about that laptop?’

‘Not finding much, to be honest. Guy had signed Messi for Hearts on Football Manager, can you believe it?’

She rolled her eyes at Hunter. ‘Any emails?’

‘Doing that right— Oh, hang on.’ Elvis squealed like a little girl. ‘I’ve got something! He’s got a flight booked for today.’

So much for Tulloch heading back into town . . .

Chantal stared off in the direction of Edinburgh airport, an orange EasyJet plane swooping up. ‘Where to?’

‘Flight to Faro in Portugal at half five.’

Chantal checked her watch. Just after five. ‘Come on, Craig!’ She sprinted off towards the tram trundling into the station. ‘We can still make it!’

TEN

Hunter

The tram door screeched open. Hunter splooshed through the puddles at the back of the multi-storey car park. Barged an overweight businessman out of the way. ‘Police! Coming through!’

Chantal was lagging behind, waving him on.

Hunter stomped across the road and stuck his Airwave to his mouth as a ned blew cigarette smoke in his face. He swallowed it down, ignored the faint aftertaste of the butts from earlier in the day, and coughed into his radio, ‘Elvis, have you got hold of security yet?’

‘Aye, look for the big ex-forces knucklehead at the entrance.’ Elvis sniffed. ‘And I’m not talking about you.’

‘Very funny. Any update on Tulloch’s movements?’

‘Entered the airport at five past four.’

Hunter scanned the grey-metal doorway and clocked the security goon immediately. He swapped the Airwave for a flash of his warrant card. ‘DC Craig Hunter.’

‘Josh Brown, Airport Security.’ A lump in a suit, more muscle on his neck than on Hunter’s thigh. He undid the top button on his suit jacket. ‘You need to get to the RobertsAir flight to Faro, right?’

‘Is the plane still here?’

‘I’m checking. Follow me, sir.’ Brown darted off into the airport, his huge frame belying his nimble feet as he took the stairs three at a time.

Hunter swung a hard left at the top and followed in the barrel-shaped man’s slipstream towards the security desk, weaving around travellers dumping their water bottles and over-sized toiletries.

Brown called out to the first scanner operator and opened the door. Hunter let Chantal go first, then followed them down the middle of the security hall. He bombed through the unused lane in the middle, past the two queues winding away from them, their eyes wide, mouths hanging open.

Brown stopped to open the gate for them, his radio crackling out static. The gate had hardly swung shut behind them when he was off again, darting down the right into the wide departures area, restaurants and shops lining the way. ‘Gate fourteen!’ He swerved round a stag party already several sheets to the wind.

Hunter raced after him and checked back the way — Chantal was lagging behind. ‘Should I wait?’

She waved him on, sucking in air.

Hunter spun round again and smacked straight into a tourist. Three pints of beer flew through the air. Hunter tumbled to the floor and rolled over, lager sluicing down his new trousers. He landed on his arse with a crunch.

Another pair of trousers ruined, another hard landing, another reason to have stayed in bed. Bloody terrific.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ The red-faced drinker was on top of him, screaming in his face. ‘That cost fifteen quid!’

‘Police!’ Chantal hauled the man off him. ‘We need to move, sir.’

‘— disgrace!’

Hunter pushed himself to his feet and something tore. Fresh air hit his thighs. Ripped the arse out of these trousers. And there were cameras everywhere. This was sure to make the rounds at the station. No way Elvis wouldn’t get access to that kind of precious footage. Like a bloody Benny Hill sketch.

Right, ignore the monkey yapping on about his spilled pints.

Get back in the chase.

He sprinted off.

Ahead, Brown slowed by a huge glass window and barked out an order at the ground staff. The gate was quiet. He threw his radio to the floor, smashing it into pieces. ‘You were supposed to keep the sodding plane here!’

Hunter stopped beside him. ‘What’s happened?’

Brown pointed at the window. A plane shot off down the runway, the RobertsAir logo on the side. It floated up into the air and arced round to the south. ‘That’s your flight.’

ELEVEN

Chantal

‘—because this shower can’t follow orders!’ Josh Brown jabbed a finger at the desk. ‘I told you to keep him here!’

Chantal caught up with Hunter, chest heaving, but reading their disappointment from afar.

No.

No, no, no.

She tried to catch her breath. ‘He’s gone?’

‘Looks that way, sweetheart.’ Brown shook his head at the disappearing plane. ‘Tell you, if I had a rocket on me . . .’

Hunter was sucking in air as he leaned against the security desk, his warrant card resting on top. He reeked of beer. ‘Can you confirm if Sean Tulloch was on the flight?’

‘One second.’ The ground staff rep looked half-Filipino. Her smile betrayed her experience of dealing with angry brutes. ‘We relayed the request to the captain, but he didn’t comply. I can only apologise.’

Brown scowled at her. ‘Check the bloody manifest, Deirdre.’

She smiled as she stared at the screen. ‘This is going to take a second, I’m afraid.’

Chantal checked her watch. ‘This has to be the only time a plane has ever taken off on time with me in the airport . . .’

Brown looked personally offended. ‘Happens more often than you’d think.’

‘Well, then, if you’re so sharp on protocol, how did an identified fugitive get through your security?’ Chantal nodded back the way they’d come. ‘We weren’t that far behind him.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ Hunter grimaced. ‘His MOD90 card.’

Chantal glowered at him. ‘His what?’

‘MOD90. Every serviceman and woman gets one. Lets you bypass passport control.’

Brown’s eyes misted over. ‘Aye, I remember the days . . .’

‘Excuse me?’ The ground rep raised a hand as she looked up. ‘I can confirm that Sean Tulloch was in seat 3C.’

Chantal slumped back against the desk. ‘End of the road . . .’

*   *   *

Chantal slammed the car into the space. The bumper crunched against the police station’s wall, grinding hard. She snatched the keys out of the ignition and grabbed at the door handle. Missed it.

Could hardly contain her frustration. Tore at it again and the door wobbled open.

Hunter reached over and held her arm lightly. ‘Slow down.’

She stared at his arm until he let go. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘You need to slow down, Chantal.’ Hunter’s eyes were narrow slits. ‘You’re in danger of slipping into unprofessionalism.’

She brushed his hand off but pulled the door shut again. ‘That filthy, abusive bastard has given us the slip. He’s . . .’ She let out a deep sigh, way deeper than she expected. Way deeper than Hunter expected, too, judging by the look of concern in his eyes. ‘We’ve dropped the ball, Craig. A known sex offender is at large in Portugal, as we speak, because we let him slip away. Plus, he knows we’re after him, so it’s only going to get harder to apprehend him, and with no jurisdiction . . .’

What’s his next move?

Run away?

Ignore them and find some other women to abuse?

The police over there are, well. They don’t know about him. His history. What he can do. And they’re not known for their professionalism.

Like I can talk.

Hunter huffed air out through his nose, his teeth gritted. ‘We’ll get him when he comes back.’

‘If he comes back.’

He held her gaze like he’d held her arm, but she still shook him off. ‘Look, if he’s gone AWOL, the MOD will get him back. Trust me.’

‘I trust you, Craig, but do you trust the chimps or whatever you called them?’

‘Monkeys. And about as far as you can throw me.’

‘I could throw you to Mars about now.’

He laughed, then shut his eyes. ‘Do I trust them?’ He reopened them and stared out of the passenger window. ‘No. It’s a gamble over whether they prosecute him. The guy I knew, they just moved him on. He’d killed a woman in Iraq, but he was back with us in Afghanistan. The army’s not very popular. Soldiers always are, but war rarely is. So they have a habit of guarding their already tarnished reputation at all cost. They’ll cover it up if they can.’

‘Even if we shout from the rooftops about him?’

Hunter looked down at the footwell. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘This is on us, Craig.’ She pushed the door to its full width, clunking into the squad Volvo next to them. ‘We let him get away. So we need to get him back.’

‘We didn’t just let him saunter on to that plane. He—’

‘He’s been one step ahead of us the entire time.’ Chantal punched the steering wheel. The horn peeped. A dust of God knows what burst out, clouding the air in front of her. She settled back in her seat and looked at Hunter. ‘He wasn’t at Waverley. Then he got to Paisley while we were chasing our tails. Now he’s on the way to Portugal.’ She crunched the keys in her hand into a tight ball. ‘Who says he’ll even come back?’

‘As long as he stays in NATO territory, he’ll—’

‘That’s not much consolation . . .’ She shut her eyes and gave a gentle nod. ‘Come on, let’s face the music.’ When her eyes opened again, there were slight twinkles of moisture in the corners. Her nostrils twitched. ‘You stink, by the way.’

TWELVE

Hunter

Chantal left Hunter with a slammed door thudding in his ears. He sniffed the air. Sweat, second-hand piss, stale beer.

Terrific.

And the bitter tang of letting a rapist get away.

What a pair of amateurs they were. Messing about at Waverley while he beat up their witness and two cops into the bargain. Poor Paisley. Turned to hamburger patty by—

Hunter’s gut lurched. He swallowed down saliva, tasted more like stomach bile.

Not now.

Not. Now.

Centre yourself. Focus on the here and now, not the there and then.

Bathgate.

2016. Twelfth of May.

Get that breathing under control. One.

The drone of traffic far away.

Two.

Children shouting and singing a couple of blocks away.

Three.

The soft tinkling of his car keys in the ignition.

Four.

An Orange Focus next to a silver Astra, sandwiched by two Jeeps.

Five.

High-rise towers in the distance, hills behind.

Bathgate.

Bloody Bathgate. Always bloody Bathgate.

Another deep breath and he got out, back to normal. A gust of wind caught the rip in his trousers. Forgotten about that latest humiliation. Some wore their hearts on their sleeve, I wear my defeat on my arse.

But not today. Walk like the lion in his den and nobody will notice.

He marched across the car park and swiped into the side entrance. The corridor smelled of coffee, earthy and stale like the giant drum of instant was nearing the end of its life. He pushed through to the SO Unit’s office, still buzzing with activity at the back of six.

Elvis was working in the corner, a smirk on his face as soon as Hunter cleared the doorway. ‘Craig, my man, this must be some kind of record. You’ve ruined two pairs of breeks in one day. I can almost see your arse from here.’

Hunter felt the heat creep up his neck. ‘You shouldn’t be looking.’

‘Think there’s some standard-issue flannels in the store cupboard.’

‘Great.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the desk, the wood cool against this buttocks. ‘Why aren’t—’

‘Craig!’ Elvis battered him with his notebook until he stood up. ‘Tell me you’re not going commando?’

‘Aye, and I didn’t wipe up after my last jobby. Waste of time if I can just sit on your keyboard instead.’

‘Get off!’

Hunter stood up and rested against a column. A mug of instant smouldered on the desk, the black surface dotted with undissolved granules. ‘Why aren’t you still in Galashiels?’

Elvis leaned back with a huff. ‘The SOCOs turned up and told us to leave.’ He waved his hands across his midden of a desk. ‘So here I am, working when I should be at home.’ He scratched at his sidies. ‘DI McNeill’s not impressed, by the way. Not one little bit.’

‘Speaking of records, this is only your second week and you’ve already pissed her off.’

‘It’s you and your bird she’s raging at, mate.’

‘She’s not—’

‘Aye, aye, keep telling yourself that.’ Elvis opened a silver laptop on his desk. ‘Look, I’ll no doubt get a good dunt of the blame.’

‘And you’ll deserve every inch of it.’ Hunter glanced over at McNeill’s office. The door was shut, raised voices booming through the tilted blinds. Poor Chantal. ‘Is there any good news?’

Elvis held up the laptop from Paisley’s house. ‘Got something else on this.’

THIRTEEN

Chantal

Chantal entered Sharon’s office and perched on the chair opposite her desk. The room was stuffed with enough paperwork to keep her in reading for years.

The mess isn’t exactly helping my anxiety about this case. Started out ordered and structured, then that swine of a man found out we’ve had the temerity to talk to his victims and . . .

With a sigh she finally made eye contact.

‘You lost him.’ Sharon ran a hand down her face. ‘Look, after you let him get on that plane, I—’

Chantal shot out of her chair. ‘We didn’t let—’

Sharon silenced her with a hand. ‘I’ve spoken to the Portuguese police. The Polícia de Segurança Pública, hope I’m saying that right.’

‘Whatever. Are they picking him up?’

‘Well, they’re not accepting my request to arrest Tulloch at Faro airport. Now, would you kindly retake your seat?’

‘What?’ Chantal’s shoulders slumped as she slid back down. ‘Why are the Portuguese not collaborating?’

‘Said I’ve got to go through proper channels.’ Sharon groaned. ‘Which means, we’ll have to get the PF to agree that we need a European Arrest Warrant. Then we both take it to the NCA, who’ll spend a few days going over it. Then they take it to the High Court. At which point, Tulloch’s lawyers have ten days to appeal.’ She looked up from her notepad. ‘In the meantime, there’ll be a load of glad-handing at the Foreign Office, our people liaising with the British Embassy in Lisbon and having the ambassador speak to someone there. And our channel to Interpol is the NCA.’ She sighed. ‘Upshot is it won’t be quick. Weeks.’

And then some.

Chantal slumped back in the chair. ‘That sounds like a diplomatic nightmare, but the real problem is, we’re nowhere with the evidence against Tulloch. The PF isn’t going to buy the whole case yet, is she?’

‘She doesn’t have to.’ Sharon rapped her fingers on the desktop. ‘We can do him for the assault. People have been extradited for lesser crimes, like stealing chickens in Romania. We have a case.’ Another thunk on the desk. ‘The way I see it, we need to fast-track the detailed statements from Paisley Sanderson and the two officers Tulloch assaulted. We’ve got CCTV evidence of him entering and exiting the property at the time.’

‘What about the phone?’

‘One text? I’m afraid that’s too tenuous to stand up in court. Don’t want to stake everything on him not being smart enough to claim he lost his phone and someone pranked his girlfriend.’

‘Right. Well, procuring further evidence is going to take time.’ Chantal got back up and started pacing the room. ‘Meanwhile, Tulloch’s in Portugal, doing God knows what. If he stops to think for a second, he’ll run. He’s in the Algarve. You can get a boat to Spain or Africa pretty easily.’ She stopped pacing. ‘We need to get out to Portugal and bring him in ourselves.’

Sharon wagged a finger at her. ‘This isn’t like when you took that statement in Southampton last month, okay? Arresting someone on foreign soil is a completely different beast.’

‘I’m not saying it’s the same.’ Chantal paused. ‘I know it’s not.’ Sharon didn’t seem convinced. Time to change tack. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, while all that legal stuff’s rumbling on, we need to get eyes and ears on Tulloch. Make sure he doesn’t flee the EU. If needs be, apprehend him.’

‘And you’re suggesting you and Craig head over there?’ Sharon’s eyes lost their humour pretty quickly. ‘This isn’t a chance for you pair to have a dirty weekend at the taxpayer’s expense, okay?’

Chantal laughed, her eyes rolling back in her head. ‘You’re still on about that?’

‘You’re still denying it?’

Chantal sat forward and smiled. ‘Shaz, we need to get someone on the ground over there. Send Elvis or Jimmy or whoever. Christ, you and Scott could go.’

‘Eight months, I make it.’ Sharon’s gaze scanned around the ceiling. ‘Actually, nine, right?’

‘Sharon, this is unprofessional.’

‘I’m unprofessional?’ Sharon tilted her head to the side, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re the one sneaking around with lover boy—’

‘Do you want me to get him in here so we can take this to HR?’

‘Come on, don’t get in a huff.’

Chantal planted herself against the chair back. She rubbed a hand along the rough pink fabric. ‘Look, DC Hunter and I are the ones with experience of Tulloch’s MO. We know how he thinks.’

‘So how did he manage to outfox you today?’

‘Because . . .’ Chantal clamped her teeth together. ‘Because I underestimated his tactical competence and because he got lucky at the airport. Won’t happen again. All I’m asking for is the chance to bring him in.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Sharon slumped back in her chair and folded her arms tight like a petulant teenager. Her blouse popped open near the bottom. ‘My hands are tied.’

Chantal started pacing around the room again, running her tongue across her teeth. ‘So, what, we’re just leaving this to the lawyers?’

‘There’s the MOD.’

Chantal stopped, hands on hips. ‘The army cops?’

‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Sharon slouched back further in her chair, until the squeak of the wheels made her freeze. ‘They’ve got jurisdiction over there. We don’t.’

‘Have you spoken to Craig about it?’

‘About what?’

‘He used to be a soldier. He said something like, if we involve them, they’ll take Tulloch for court martial. You won’t get to prosecute him for years.’

‘Oh bloody hell.’ Sharon clenched her jaw. ‘Bring him in here.’

FOURTEEN

Hunter

‘Cop your whack round this, big boy.’ Elvis gave Hunter a sheet of paper. ‘Hotel de Sousa.’

Hunter smiled. First smile in what felt like a week. A chance to grab something positive out of this shambles.

Then he looked at the printout. A giant hotel complex, the dull white concrete not even glowing in the bright sun. Loungers in front of a turquoise pool, the sliver of sea a tourist-mottled coastline stretching all the way to the horizon. Well, all the way to the next bleached bunker. The sort of Mediterranean dump that looked like it belonged in Leith in its heroin days. Trainspotting in the sun.

Hunter’s smile faded.

‘Bet it’s even worse in person, man.’ Elvis handed him a wad of pages, filled with an email conversation. ‘Anyhoo, Tulloch’s away on a boys’ weekend.’

Hunter scanned through the names. None were familiar. Certainly nobody on the case log . . . ‘Wait a second. Keith Brannigan? He was on the train at Waverley.’

Elvis shut his eyes. ‘Shite on toast.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘We let him go when we saw he wasn’t Tulloch.’

Another failure . . .

Hunter took a closer look at the list. Nope. Nothing. No names he could put faces or arrest records to. He passed it back to Elvis. ‘You got anything on them?’

‘Had a wee look. They’re all squaddies. And they’re all on that flight manifest you sent through.’

‘Get me names and regiments, okay?’

‘Boss.’ Elvis saluted him. ‘Been going through their Schoolbook profiles.’ He tapped the laptop. ‘Tulloch got a few email notifications before the flight took off.’ He slid a sheet across the table.

Another set of photos showed Tulloch downing a pint in the departure lounge. A ruck of hulking brutes stood in the background, clutching bottles of beer and laughing.

The police were out in force, hunting Tulloch for battering the shite out of Paisley, battering her so bad, she lost all sense of culpability to the point where she even apologised to her abuser, and he was partying?

Hunter composed himself with a sigh. ‘That’s good work, Elvis. Keep—’

McNeill’s office door grunted open and Chantal stomped out, beckoning him over.

‘Here we go.’ Hunter folded up the pages and set off. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, send in a search party.’ He wandered over and frowned into the room. ‘What’s up?’

‘That stuff you told me about the military cops? Tell Sharon.’

Hunter shut the door and sat down opposite McNeill. ‘What do you know?’

*   *   *

‘So that’s how it’ll lie.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. The office stank of cheap perfume. At least it was masking his own fragrance of the week, eau du beer and pish. ‘Rollo-Smith will hop in, arrest Tulloch and take him away. Whether he’ll face any form of justice, well, your guess is as good as mine.’

McNeill dug her fingers deep into her eyes. ‘Well, I’ve spoken to Rollo-Smith. He said he doesn’t think we’ve got enough evidence to prosecute.’

Hunter frowned at her. ‘We don’t or they don’t?’

‘Both.’ McNeill picked up a notepad and ran her pen down it. ‘He said Tulloch’s got another thirteen days’ leave. He needs to be back on MOD property before they can go after him.’

Hunter nodded at Chantal. ‘You shouldn’t believe that.’

McNeill rested her pad down again. ‘What, then, should I do, Constable?’

Hunter passed her the first of his sheets of paper. ‘This is where Tulloch’s going.’

McNeill stared at it. ‘What a bonny place.’ She slid it over to Chantal. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘Not yet.’ Chantal gave him an icy glare, then redoubled her focus on McNeill. ‘You know the right move as well as I do. We should go after him.’

McNeill shook her head. ‘Chantal, I can’t sanction that kind of foreign trip.’

‘Surely we’ve got enough of a budget left in the pot for a blitz mission. Our team’s still two heads short and we’ve only just taken Elvis on.’

McNeill smirked, but didn’t say anything.

Chantal coughed. ‘Sorry, I mean DC Gordon.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

Hunter tossed the other pages on the table. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you’ve seen what he’s capable of. If he’s in the Algarve, that means there’ll be thirteen days of raping and pillaging. Literally.’

‘Then hopefully the Polícia de Segra—’ McNeill broke off with a sigh. ‘Hopefully the local cops will pick him up when he breaks the law. We’ll have options then, depending on the severity of the crime out there.’

‘This is a disaster.’ Chantal settled against a filing cabinet, shaking her head. ‘A complete disaster.’

McNeill glared at Chantal. ‘Sergeant . . .’

Chantal ignored the admonishing tone as well as the kind smile.

‘Tulloch knows how to play us, ma’am.’ Hunter waved a hand at the door. ‘Look, I’ve been to Portugal before. The local cops don’t care about anything. It’s like Mexico over there.’

‘Craig, my hands are tied.’

‘Two days.’ Chantal shot to her feet, the cabinet behind her rocking back. ‘That’s all we need. If we don’t bring him in, we’ll come back and you can pursue the MOD strategy.’

McNeill blew air up her face and stared at the ceiling. ‘Your shift’s over, Chantal.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Get home.’ McNeill sat up straight and adjusted her blouse. ‘But leave your phone on.’

Chantal’s face lit up. ‘Thanks.’

McNeill winked at her. ‘And have a wee think about telling me the truth, okay?’

‘I’ve told you the truth.’

‘Aye, right.’ McNeill did up an errant button at the bottom of her blouse. ‘And Hunter, change your trousers. I could charge you with a breach of the peace.’

FIFTEEN

Hunter

Hunter lay back, panting hard. He tied up the condom and stuffed it back in the wrapper as Chantal burrowed under his arm. Her feline sleekness made him twitch in all the places they’d just played. With a smug grin he pecked her on the forehead. ‘I love you.’

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes cold. ‘You know you only ever say that when you’ve had your way with me, right?’

‘Oh, please.’ Hunter tossed the packet on the bedside table. That wasn’t true, was it? He frowned at her. ‘I tell you all the time.’

She slapped his chest, harder than she intended. Or not. ‘No, you don’t.’

‘Okay, well, I’m sorry. I do love you all the time, not just after I’ve shot my muck up you.’

She smirked and settled back into his embrace.

Over by the door, Bubble sneaked into the room, her eyes catching the light with an almost reptilian glint. As if to confirm his post-coital confusion, she snaked across the room towards the pizza box on the carpet.

Hunter shot her a look. ‘Bubble!’

‘Mieow?’ Another step closer.

‘No, Bubble.’

‘Mieow?’ She was patting the box with her paw.

Hunter hissed at her. ‘Get out!’

She hunkered down on all fours, her focus trained on the pizza like she was hunting a rat.

‘Bubble!’

‘Mieow?’ She leapt forward and grabbed a discarded strip of green pepper, then spun around and raced out of the room.

‘Bloody cat.’

Chantal drilled a fingernail into his chest. ‘She’s as much of a freaky eater as you are.’

‘More so, if that’s possible.’

‘I like how you can have a conversation with her, though.’ More drilling, getting close to really hurting. ‘I bet you tell her you love her.’

Hunter reached down and tickled the rough stubble under Chantal’s arms.

She squealed out. ‘Stop it!’

Hunter let her go and raised his hands. ‘See in McNeill’s office . . . She knows. We can’t keep this a secret any longer.’

‘Craig . . .’ She sat back on her heels and bunched up her hair.

‘This is way past the point of being fuck-buddy cops. We’re lying to people. To your boss.’

‘Craig, come on . . .’

‘Although, maybe it is just about the sex for you. You’ve never said “I love you” to me, even after I’ve sho—’

‘Craig, you know why.’ Chantal clutched her face tight. ‘I’m . . .’ She slapped his chest, hard this time. ‘You prick.’

‘Hey, hey.’ He pulled her tight to him and stroked her back. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Craig. Jesus. It’s not okay.’ She pushed him back, her palms slapping off his flat belly. ‘You know the deal. This has to be on my terms.’

‘Sure, but tell me you’re not ashamed of me.’

‘Stop being a twat. This isn’t about you.’

‘Some of it is, though.’

‘Right.’ She nudged away from him. ‘I’m not ashamed of you and your little willy. Happy?’

Hunter stared at his wilting cock. Not exactly massive, but . . .

She snatched it and it slipped through her hands. ‘Relax, Craig, I’m just winding you up. It’s perfectly adequate.’

‘Adequate. Terrific.’ Hunter averted his eyes. ‘You’ve been quiet tonight.’

‘Aye, making a mess of an arrest is something you want to scream from the rooftops.’ She slapped his chest. Looked like she was still being playful, but the skin was gradually becoming as bruised as his ego. ‘Look, Craig, this case is important to me. Should be important to you as well. The reason we’re even in this unit and not chasing our careers in the MIT is that we want to bring pricks like Tulloch to justice. Or maybe I should just speak for myself.’

‘That’s how I feel, too.’

‘Right. Well. For me, the frustrating things isn’t in the never-ending series of tedious interviews. And it’s certainly not about kissing the right arses to get a promotion. This is about stopping what’s happening to real people because of real sexual and emotional violence.’

‘I know that. You know that.’

‘Right.’ She snorted. ‘Well, if we come out to Sharon, then one of us will have to move. There’s not room for both of us in the unit. Could be you, could be me.’

She was right. Bloody hell. And the worst part of that wasn’t the prospect of being transferred to another department. Theirs was such a small team with nowhere near enough resources, so if one of them had to go, the team would cave under the case load. Who would suffer most? Not Chantal, not Hunter, but the victims they were supposed to serve and protect. If that didn’t sound too grandiose. Well, might as well find out . . .

‘It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done in my career.’ Hunter smiled at her. ‘But I love you and we can’t hide forever. And I’m not being sappy here. If we’re caught, there’d be sanctions and we might both be transferred. So what I’m saying is, when you’re ready, we’ll tell Sharon and I’ll volunteer to leave the unit.’

‘Back to uniform?’

Back to chasing cats around houses. Scraping smackheads off railway tracks. Dealing with Dave and Steve and their endless inane banter. Sergeant Lauren Reid and her constant griping about how cold it is. Inspector Buchan and his stupid chess bollocks.

Where I belong.

Hunter shut his eyes. ‘Back to uniform.’

Chantal picked her bra up from the floor. ‘The cat’s at your pizza again.’

‘Bubble!’

She flew off through the flat.

Chantal followed the cat out into the hall, shaking her head.

Well, Hunter, you are a cockblanket . . .

He reached down and tore off the crust Bubble had been licking. He dropped it on the box. Then the rest of the slice. No appetite for it.

What can I do? How can we keep this a secret? I feel like Lady Chatterly’s lover. Sergeant Jain’s lover.

So many bloody secrets. All tangled together like cables in a box, no idea which was the old keyboard and which the one I actually want. And which was a live wire. Given my luck, I’ll probably electrocute myself.

That bloody Taylor Swift song blared out, muffled under a pile of clothes.

‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’

SIXTEEN

Chantal

Chantal flushed the toilet and hugged on her bra. Out in the corridor, Bubble sat on the laminate chewing on some green beans she’d stolen from the pizza. Freaky cat. Freaky owner.

What am I playing at? He was right. Lying to Sharon like that. Daft cow.

What’s so wrong with being split up at work? Having someone else to shadow her, him off with another DS.

Nothing.

It’s . . . It’s admitting that I’m in a relationship with someone. Someone that I . . .

Do I love him? Really?

He’s nice. Strong, kind, funny. Smart. Sensitive.

It’s just . . . All the shit in my head. Does he deserve that?

He’s as bad. Worse. That flashback at lunchtime. Christ, what if that ever happens during an operation?

‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’

Here we go . . .

She opened the bathroom door and jogged through to the bedroom. ‘Where is it?’ She rummaged around in the heap of clothes, Bubble lying on it as she ratted at the pizza box. She snatched it from under the cat and checked the display. A photo of Sharon, hoisting a bottle of blue WKD above her head, out of her skull. ‘It’s the bloody boss.’ She put her fingers to her lips and answered it on speaker as she lay on the bed. ‘Sorry, Shaz, I was—’

‘Shagging Craig?’

‘Piss off. Have they got him?’

‘Tulloch walked through passport control an hour ago.’

‘They didn’t arrest him?’

‘Said they needed evidence for an arrest. Caught a load of flak when they arrested a Romanian last year. Turned out he’d stolen two lettuces.’

Chantal collapsed back onto the bed. ‘Shaz, this is boll—’

‘I know, I know.’ Sharon sighed down the line. ‘Look, I’ve got approval for you and lover boy to investigate over there.’

‘He’s not my—’

‘You’re on the seven o’clock flight to Faro tomorrow morning. Three nights’ accommodation max. Ideally less.’

‘Thanks, Shaz.’ Chantal looked round at Hunter, an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Whose arm did you have to break?’

‘You don’t want to know.’ Sharon’s sigh hissed out of the speaker. ‘A local detective will meet you at the airport. Inspector João Quaresma. I think that’s how you say it.’

‘You seem to be the expert.’

‘Right, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find Craig and tell him, aye?’

‘Funny.’ Chantal scowled at the phone. ‘I’ll call you once we’ve spoken to this Quaresma guy, okay?’

‘Look forward to it.’

‘Cheers, Shaz.’ Chantal ended the call and got to her feet. ‘Glad that wasn’t FaceTime.’

Hunter smiled at her as he chomped on a slice of pizza. ‘So, you happy now?’

‘Happier. Ball’s in our court now.’ She stepped into her pants and hoisted them up. ‘Right. Need to get someone to look after Muffin.’

Day 2

Friday, 13th May, 2016

SEVENTEEN

Hunter

Far too bloody early.

Hunter stared out of the flat window again, yawning as he sipped more tea. Rain battered the glass, as the first rays of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds overhead. Felt like the Biblical flood had hit again. Now, where did I put that Ark?

Bubble rubbed against the legs of his jeans, almost tying herself in knots. ‘Mieow?’

A dark car pulled to a halt across the street by the park, the diesel engine throbbing through the stone tenement. Chantal got out of the back, lugging a box, and held out her hand to the driver, fingers splayed. Five minutes.

Hunter crouched down and tipped a cup of biscuits into Bubble’s bowl then into another next to it. He wagged a finger at the cat, her nose twitching. ‘You’re in charge, okay, Bubble?’

‘Mieow?’

‘Don’t let Muffin eat all the food. Okay?’

‘Mieow.’

The door lock twisted and Chantal pushed through it, her keys dangling from her grasp. Sunglasses propped over her hair, pastel-yellow crop top and a flowery skirt. Not clothes for Edinburgh, not even in May. She lugged the box over and set it down by Bubble. ‘Sure this is the right thing to do?’

Bubble sniffed at the strange cat box, her legs stretched up to her full height.

‘It’s going to be fine.’ Hunter waved at the window and the giant buildings hulking across the main road. ‘Murray works at the Scottish Government just over there. He looks in on Bubble most lunchtimes. He’ll feed them and change the litter. Besides, this’ll be their third time together and they’re both neutered.’ He pointed at a beige plug in one of the sockets. ‘And just to be extra safe, I’ve put out some of that stuff that chills cats out. They’ll be stoned the entire time.’

Chantal laughed. ‘Okay.’ She unclipped the box and a monster-sized blonde cat stepped out, regally, like he owned the place. King Muffin. He sniffed the air. ‘Ma-wow!’

Bubble paced over to him and kissed him on the nose. Then bopped him with a paw. Muffin sat back and licked his front left leg. Breathing slowly. Bubble backed off, happy that she was in charge after all.

Chantal crouched down and rubbed her cat under the chin. ‘You know, Muffin was in a pair with Sharon’s cat, Fluffy. Nobody would take two huge boys so we split them up.’

Hunter stroked the top of Muffin’s head, then did the same to Bubble. ‘This can be a dry run for when they move in together.’

Chantal hauled herself to her feet. ‘The taxi’s waiting.’

*   *   *

Unnamed land swept past below, glimpses of France or northern Spain framed in the oval window of the budget airline. Lush green hills, sparkly blue rivers and roads with tiny cars and lorries, like a children’s play set.

Hunter shifted round in his seat, sweat trickling down the back of his jeans. My new darlings, 24 kilogram kettlebells, maybe did make my trousers rather, well, snug. Especially in this sweatbox of a toy plane. It wasn’t even that hot, but the air was drier than Iraq in the height of summer, and there was about as much space to move as in a tank. Another glance up at the air conditioning and Murray’s advice rattled around his head. That’s where the germs are. Never turn it on.

A row of golfers queued in the aisle, stepping from foot to foot like the floor was as hot as Hunter’s trousers, when really all they needed was a good, long piss after downing four breakfast pints each.

Hunter unfolded his Argus. Got that newspaper smell. The front cover was filled with the grinning face of Harry Jack, the missing kid from Alnwick. A photograph of his mother at a press conference, frail and gaunt, desperate.

HARRY’S MUM: I JUST WANT MY SON BACK

He flicked through the article. Kid disappeared on his way home from school in Alnwick. Small town near Newcastle. Shocking business.

He showed Chantal the paper. ‘You seen this?’

She didn’t look up from her Kindle. ‘Read about it last night. Horrible.’

‘That poor woman.’ Hunter tapped at the page. ‘I can’t imagine what she’s going through. To lose a child? I’m already sweating at the thought of having left Bubble behind for three days.’

‘Really? You’re going to blame the cat for your sweat attacks?’ Chantal tried to squeeze his thigh, couldn’t dent the muscle though, so she punched it and giggled. When her eyes fell on the paper, the smile died away as fast as it had appeared. She pointed at the photo of the mother, her finger landing on the figure next to her. A tired cop in a grey suit. ‘I know him. Jon Bruce.’

‘Where from?’

She went back to her Kindle without a word.

Hunter leaned back and sighed as his knees dug into the seatback in front of him. ‘Sharon could’ve got us the extra legroom seats.’

She shot a nervous look towards the man at the end of their row, hidden behind his Daily Mail. Then she poked Hunter’s little love handle. ‘You might need to lose a few inches.’

He leaned in to whisper. ‘Thought I needed to grow another couple?’

‘Craig, get over it.’

Right. That easy.

Hunter adjusted himself in the seat and folded up his paper. ‘I’m not sure we should be flying on Friday the thirteenth.’

‘What?’ Chantal frowned at him, an impish grin on her face. ‘Tell me you’re not superstitious . . .’

‘Of course I’m not . . . It’s . . . It’s just that I don’t want to be the guy who laughs at this kind of feeblemindedness, and then his plane falls out of the sky.’

‘You have flown before, right?’

‘Of course I’ve bloody flown.’ Hunter squeezed his arse to the right. Not good. Back to the left. That’ll have to do. ‘You don’t drive to Iraq or Afghanistan.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She locked her Kindle and stuffed it in the seat rest. ‘Look, you could’ve brought something else to read, or was annoying me your idea of in-flight entertainment?’

‘If my company isn’t appreciated, I can take it elsewhere.’ The food trolley clunked behind them, letting one of the waiting golfers past to the toilet. ‘Or maybe not. Fine, I’ll have a nap.’

‘Good idea. Sweet dreams, captain tight pants.’

‘Sweet dreams . . .’ Daily Mail man was lost in his latest threat to house prices. Hunter slid his hand on Chantal’s thigh.

‘No, we’re not joining the mile-high club.’

Hunter huffed. ‘Wasn’t going to suggest it.’

The air hostess leaned over to them. Smelled like she’d spent half her salary on perfume, even at duty-free rates. ‘Sir, can I get you anything?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Madam?’

‘Coffee, please.’ Chantal gave her a five Euro note. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

‘Of course.’ She handed her two little milk cartons stuffed into a plastic cup. Serviettes and plastic spoons lurked out of the top.

Chantal wrestled her tray table down to horizontal and placed the miniature coffee shop on it. ‘Thanks.’

‘We should go on a holiday, Chantal.’

‘Okay.’ She tore off the lid and blew on the drink, then tipped in both milks. ‘When?’

‘When we tell Sharon we’re an item?’

‘Craig . . .’

‘I’m serious. We’re not going to get time off together any other way, are we?’

Chantal took a drink and grimaced.

The stewardess squeezed past a waiting golfer and sashayed down to the front of the plane.

‘We’ll talk about this later, okay?’ Chantal grabbed her Kindle and unlocked it. ‘Now, try to get some sleep, okay?’

‘Maybe.’ Hunter shut his eyes and huffed out a breath.

The plane droned around them, white noise overlaying the chatter.

Chantal slurped at her coffee.

Sharon McNeill was her friend. Her best friend. They’d been cat shopping together, splitting a pair of monster boys. Why couldn’t she even tell her as a friend? Come to some sort of arrangement?

Am I being unreasonable here?

Probably.

She’s got her reasons. Solid reasons. The sort you shouldn’t question.

You selfish twat.

From two rows down, a saccharine voice trickled into his ear. ‘Here you go, sir.’

‘Thanks.’

The smell of bacon wafted over to him.

Hunter clenched his fists and fought hard against—

EIGHTEEN

Hunter

White noise, everywhere, the RAF transport’s propellers droning in the darkness. Cold wind hit Hunter’s cheek, distracting him from his teeth rattling.

A few faces lit up in yellow around him. Friends, now. One grinned maniacally at him. ‘Lance bloody Corporal Hunter.’ Terry lifted the cap off his hip flask and handed it over, the cockney twat grinning like there was no tomorrow. ‘Have a swig of this, you big Scotch poof.’

‘You wanting to shag me doesn’t make me the poof.’ Hunter reached over, the straps cutting into his shoulders, and hefted the flask. ‘Slàinte!’

Terry scowled at him. ‘Slange? What?’

‘Slàinte. It’s Gaelic for health. Not that you’d know anything about that, you sick pederast.’ Hunter downed a measure of the whisky, burning the back of his throat. Disgusting. ‘What’s that?’

Private Dave Mowat sat opposite, smirking away. Twat from Dundee, barely tall enough to enlist. ‘Single malt. Like that Sassenach would know any different.’

‘It’s Dunpender, if you must know, pipsqueak.’ Terry took the flask back and necked a good measure. ‘Slàinte.’

Mowat almost spat at him. ‘You’re not allowed to say that, you cockney wanker.’

‘I can say what I like when I’m drinking your whisky. Just you wait what I say when I shove the flask right up your arsehole.’ Terry put the cap back on and hurled the hip flask at Mowat. It clattered off the bulkhead above and dropped to the floor behind him.

‘Watch it!’ Mowat craned his neck to look below. ‘You’ll have dented it!’

‘Hardly.’ Terry buckled with laughter. ‘Get it down you! Hunter’s drying up.’

Hunter wiped the whisky from his chin. Started repeating on him. Horrible stuff, but you’ve got to play along. ‘Last decent booze we’ll get for a while.’

Terry snarled as he caught the flask, thrown with enough venom to crack a window, if there’d been any.

Mowat’s gaze settled on the flask like a fly on shit as Terry passed it back to Hunter. ‘You boys looking forward to killing some of these pricks?’

‘That’s not what we’re there for, pipsqueak.’ Hunter sucked down more whisky. Felt half-pissed already. ‘But I’m looking forward to getting back into action, if that’s what you mean.’ He lobbed the hip flask over. ‘Here.’

Mowat caught it and drank in the spirit’s aroma. ‘You boys were in Kandahar, right?’

‘Right.’ Hunter gripped the straps tight, the fabric digging into his hands. ‘This is supposed to be a breeze compared to that. But thanks for reminding me.’

*   *   *

The air was rancid with the stench of burning opium poppies, bitter and dark, catching at the back of his throat. Hunter tightened his mask around his mouth, but the taste and the reek still got through. Will smell it for weeks.

The chinooks roared above them, their propellers lashing the rising sun into a night-club strobe. Lashkar Gah gleamed in the near distance, the town’s lights flickering in the desert’s cold air.

Hunter rested against the ledge and looked down into the valley immediately below them. A small stone building sat alone. Looked like a goat hut, but there was no sign of any goats. He looked left, then right. Terry and Mowat looked like he felt — nervous, cold and eager to get back to base. ‘You guys okay?’

‘Like shit, I am.’ Terry hefted his SA80 and leaned back against the wall, a pile of stones as old as war itself. ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks.’ He yawned. ‘I want a pint of fizz and my bed.’

‘Last Afghan tour for us, mate.’ Hunter patted his arm. ‘Iraq will be a breeze after this.’

‘That’s what they promised about this so-called conflict.’ Terry peered through his rifle’s sights and swivelled it around the area. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘This is more like Operation Kitten’s Claw than Panther’s.’ Mowat slipped his goggles up onto his forehead. ‘The bloody brass must be loving SHITE!’

The wall above them puffed up, the air exploding. A rifle report echoed around them.

‘Get down!’ Mowat hauled them both to the stone floor. ‘Jesus Christ!’

More gunshots battered the wall, small fragments ricocheting all over the place.

‘Have you got sight of them?’ Hunter grabbed his binoculars and scanned around for any sign of insurgents. ‘Anything?’

‘Not a sausage.’

The wall exploded five, six, seven times, pebbles lashing down on their legs.

Hunter got up to a crouch. ‘We need to move.’

‘Where do we go?’ Mowat perched on his elbows, twisting his head round to glower at Hunter. ‘Where the hell do we go, man?’

‘That hut.’ Hunter nodded into the valley. ‘Then down to the bottom.’ He slipped his binocs on. Yep, definitely a trail. ‘There’s a path down there. It’s got to lead to the town.’

Mowat shook his head. ‘No way, man.’

‘Private, we’re moving out and that’s an order.’ Hunter grabbed hold of Mowat’s sleeve and hauled him up to standing. Sheer terror in his eyes, his face as pale as the sand. He let Mowat go. ‘Terry, you okay to lead us down?’

‘Waiting to be asked.’ Terry bombed off along the stone pathway and stopped by the opening ten metres along. Then he swung down and scrambled down the scrubland.

Hunter followed Mowat down, his gear rattling as he jogged down towards the shelter.

WOOOSH!

BOOM!

Hunter dived and rolled, tumbling arse over tit until his shoulder thudded into a rock. He clenched his jaw and focused on the pain, trying to swallow the scream searing his throat. Pebbles rained down the slope. Back up the way, a huge hole smoked in the wall they’d been leaning against seconds ago. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Rocket!’ Mowat stumbled towards him, sliding on the avalanche until he braced himself against a boulder. ‘They’ve got rockets!’

Downhill, Terry leaned against the stone hut’s front wall, puffing and panting. He shifted his rifle around, pointing above them. His free hand beckoned them to move on.

‘Come on.’ Hunter pulled himself up to standing and jogged down. ‘Let’s go!’

‘No!’ Mowat hugged the boulder tight. ‘I’m not going anywhere!’

‘We’re sitting ducks here.’ Hunter stomped back up and grabbed Mowat’s jacket. The little bastard wasn’t budging. ‘We’re moving out, NOW.’ Another tug then he started running downhill. He raced towards Terry and cut to the other side of the entrance, spinning round to face back up the way, his SA80 pointing up and ready to fire. All one movement. Like he’d been trained to do. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he could cope with this shit.

Mowat bombed towards them, his short legs pounding downhill, and shot between them into the hut.

Hunter shook his head at Terry and stepped inside. Half of the bottom right wall was open to whatever creatures lived here, worms of light crawling across the scrub floor towards Mowat, who was now lying in a heap, groaning.

‘Pipsqueak . . .’ Terry joined them inside as gunfire lashed the building. ‘You bleeding tit.’

Mowat pushed himself up to his feet. ‘Shut up!’ He pointed his gun at Terry. ‘Shut your face, you cockney arsehole!’

‘You what?’

Mowat lifted his rifle and pointed it at Terry. ‘I said, shut up!’

Terry raised his hands. ‘Calm down, Pips—’

‘Stop calling me that!’

‘Stop it!’ Hunter stepped between them. ‘Dave, you need to calm down, okay?’

‘How can I stay calm?’ Mowat switched his gun to focus on Hunter. ‘They’ve got rockets!’

Terry held up his hands to Mowat. ‘It’s okay. We can stay here for a bit. It’s cool.’

Mowat nodded slowly.

‘This place is safe as houses.’ Terry waved a gloved hand around the hut. ‘Been standing here since we were monkeys in the trees, I reckon.’

‘I’m not happy about this.’ Hunter pointed his rifle back out the door. ‘Like he said, they’ve got rockets and this place is falling apart.’

‘No!’ Mowat raised his rifle again. ‘I’m staying!’

Hunter tapped the wall with the butt of his rifle. ‘One lucky strike and this is coming down.’

Terry sucked in air and peered through the hole. Then back in with a grim look on his face. ‘He’s right, mate.’

Mowat’s breathing sped up. ‘I’m staying.’

‘Dave, we need to move out.’ Terry waved down the hill. ‘The path at the bottom of the slope will take us into Lashkar Gah. We’ll be okay from there.’

‘I’m not going. Send a chopper to pick me up.’

Terry looked lost, his barrow-boy cool missing in action. He frowned at Hunter. ‘Craig?’

Ranking soldier here, got to show leadership.

Hunter locked eyes with Terry, then Mowat. ‘We’re moving out. No man left behind.’

Mowat threw his rifle on the floor. ‘Piss off.’

‘Dave.’ Hunter settled into a crouch. ‘We need to—’

BOOOM!

The ground shook. Hunter tumbled over, landing face first on the scrub. Dirt covered his teeth. He spat it out and rubbed his tongue against his sleeve. Then he got to his feet and huffed out more dirt. ‘No questions. We’re moving out.’

Mowat eased himself up to standing, shaking his head like he wanted to be back in his mummy’s arms.

Didn’t we all?.

Terry leaned against the wall, surveying the ground outside. ‘Looks clear this way.’ He waved off to the right. ‘The rocket came from over there.’ He followed the trajectory to the bottom of the valley. ‘Those rocks will give us cover when we’re on the path.’

Hunter swung round to Mowat. ‘You hear that? One last push and we’re safe.’

Mowat nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’

‘On three.’ Terry counted on his thumb. Then his forefinger. Then his middle finger. ‘Go.’ He clambered through the hole in the wall and hurtled down the hill, dust billowing up behind him.

Hunter climbed through the gap and jabbed a finger at Mowat. ‘Go!’ He ran down the hill. Much steeper than it looked. He tripped and pushed himself up into a run, unable to do anything but keep going. It levelled out to a shallow bank near the bottom, where he almost clattered into Terry.

WOOOSH!

A gust streaked across the sky from the left.

BOOM!

Pebbles and boulders scattered down the hill. Hunter covered his face and waited for everything to settle. When it was just dust falling, he pulled his arm away and scanned around the path.

Terry kicked away a pile of stones and picked up his rifle. ‘You okay, mate?’

‘I’m fine. Where’s—’

An SA80 skittered down the scrub towards them, the strap torn in half.

‘Where’s Mowat?’

Next down the hill was a standard-issue boot, blood streaking the dusty ground as it trundled to a halt.

Terry swallowed hard, his eyes shut. ‘That’s Mowat.’

‘What?’ Hunter vomited, his stomach evacuating his final remains of hope. A half-digested sausage lay in amongst the carrots and bile. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone, mate.’ Terry clapped his arm. ‘Come on. We’ll have a squad of Taliban on us before we know it.’

Hunter grabbed Terry’s fatigues. ‘You’re not listening to me! Where did—’

*   *   *

The office could’ve been anywhere. Painted concrete blocks, covered almost floor to ceiling by aluminium filing cabinets. The only window was open wide to encourage some air flow, a pitiable attempt against the oppressive force of the Afghan heat. At the centre of the room stood a giant desk the size of a family car, neatly ordered by a series of three trays. No computer, just a phone. Cutlery clattered as Captain William Morecambe tucked into a fry-up. A full plate of meat; four sausages, six rashers of bacon, tomato, fried bread, two eggs. The aroma coiled round Hunter’s nose, the sweet burnt smell of the bacon making his eyes water.

Morecambe nibbled at the bottom of his hare lip, then reached up to flatten his moustache, some habitual attempt to cover the cleft palate. With a quick flick of the knife he sliced off some tomato and speared it with a doubled-over rasher of bacon. Left it hovering in front of his mouth. ‘Lance Corporal, your actions were responsible for the death of a serving member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.’

Hunter stared at him, long enough to show he wasn’t going to be messed with, short enough to show some respect. He flared his nostrils as he looked away. ‘My actions were responsible for the safety of myself and Corporal Terence—’

‘You lost a soldier, Lance Corporal.’ Morecambe finished chewing and stabbed his fork into another rasher.

‘My actions were responsible for—’

‘Silence.’ Morecambe cut a sausage in half lengthways, the fat dripping out. ‘Someone’s clearly trained you for a mission debrief. Repeat your pat line, over and over, until I eventually give up, right?’ He left a space.

Hunter didn’t fill it, had no intention of ever speaking again, especially to a monkey like him.

The cutlery clattered against the plate. Morecambe snapped at the Military Police armband on his arm. ‘Lance Corporal, need I remind you of my function?’

‘You’ve made that clear, sir. My actions were respons—’

‘Enough!’ Morecambe’s shout echoed round the room, until it slipped out of the crack in the window. ‘We had been investigating him. Your actions stopped the prosecution!’

Hunter scratched at the scar on his cheek. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You got in the way of justice, Lance Corporal.’

Hunter’s mouth was dry. He reached over for his glass of water. Already drunk it. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘We had your late colleague under investigation.’

‘What for?’

‘Quit it.’ Morecambe sat back in his chair with a creak. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Lance Corporal, I can squeeze you until you admit to—’

‘Are you threatening me?’

Morecambe ran his tongue around his teeth. Seemed to find something worth chewing among his bottom-left molars. ‘Are you telling me you had no inkling of—’

‘None. I swear.’ Hunter wanted to open his shirt collar, but didn’t feel like giving the little dictator the satisfaction of appearing hot and bothered, so he left it. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

Morecambe waved a hand across to the door. ‘Get out of my sight.’

Hunter got to his feet and stood there. ‘My actions were responsible for—’

‘We’re watching you, Hunter.’ Morecambe went back to his breakfast, his cutlery chinking off the plate as he cut away at the fried bread. ‘Now, clear off.’

‘Sir.’ Hunter saluted him and marched over to the door. One last look at him, hamster cheeks twitching as he chewed the fried gunk. Looked like a plate of sick. The bacon smell everywhere in the room.

Hunter opened the door and left.

The corridor was baking hot, worse than Morecambe’s office. He took his hat off and clamped it under his arm, sweat trickling down his back now. That could’ve gone better.

‘He got you, too?’ Terry was sitting outside the room, head cocked, eyebrows raised.

‘He got me.’ Hunter marched off down the corridor.

Terry caught up with him by the stairwell door. ‘What did he say?’

Hunter pushed through the door and let it rattle shut behind them. ‘Tried to haul me over the coals, but I kept to the party line.’

‘Good man.’ Terry grinned. ‘Good man.’

Hunter leaned against the wall, the bare breezeblocks scratching at his uniform. ‘He said they’d been investigating him.’

Terry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

‘You know why, don’t you?’

Terry nodded. ‘A little birdie told me something.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘Said that little bastard killed a woman in Iraq. Last tour. Local girl. And I mean girl. Fourteen.’

Hunter slumped back against the wall. ‘You serious?’

‘Deadly, mate. They found this girl’s body, didn’t know it was him who did it. Now someone can place him at the scene. Turns out he shot her when he was pissed.’

‘He killed someone?’

‘So they say. He did go for his gun in a heartbeat, though. We both saw that.’

‘So why was he still on duty?’

‘You know what they’re like.’ Terry thumbed behind him. ‘Most of what the monkeys get up to is political. If he’d done that back home, he’d be locked up. Out here? They’ll cover over anything they can.’

NINETEEN

Chantal

‘—killed a girl?!’ Hunter jolted forward, almost cracking his head off the seat in front.

What the hell?

Chantal stuffed her Kindle away and twisted round to face Hunter. His eyes were swivelling in his head, not focusing on anything. His breathing was out of control.

The passenger next to Chantal looked up from pretending to read his Daily Mail. ‘Is he okay?’

‘We’re fine.’ Chantal smiled at him as she clutched a hand around Hunter’s. ‘Craig, it’s okay.’

‘Where’s . . .’ Hunter was panting hard. ‘Where’s . . .’ He pinched his nose.

‘Did you have a flashback?’

They were over tall hills now. Foothills of the Pyrenees? Could even see the plane’s shadow on the green. The engine droned, the waft of bacon and coffee filling the pressurised air.

Hunter kept his silence.

‘Craig, who killed a girl?’

‘A squad mate.’ Hunter swallowed, his breathing still fast. ‘In Helmand. Private David Mowat. We were hiding in a hut and a rocket fired into it. He just blew up. Disappeared. I carried his rifle back to base. The only thing left of him was a boot. Turned out he’d . . . he’d . . .’ Tears filled his eyes.

She tightened her grip, let him focus on it. Centre around it. ‘It’s okay, Craig.’

Hunter ran a hand across his face. ‘What a bloody mess.’ He clenched his jaw tight. ‘I’d forgotten all about Dave. There was an investigation, word was he’d killed a civilian, then he got blown up before the . . . That shouldn’t happen to anyone.’

‘You poor thing . . .’

‘Christ, and I want you to commit to me?’

‘Hey, hey.’ She leaned over and kissed his lips. ‘It’s okay, Craig. You’re with me. Okay?’

‘It was so real . . .’ Hunter stared over at Daily Mail man as he sunk his gnashers into his last bite of roll. ‘Bloody bacon . . .’

‘So that’s definitely the trigger?’ She caressed his hand. ‘We’re going to get through this, okay?’

‘You don’t have to do this with me.’

‘I want to.’ She reached up and ran a hand over his stubbled head. ‘That’s two flashbacks in two days. Do you need to call Dr Gold when we land?’

‘I’m fine, Chantal. I can keep my shit together when it matters.’ Their neighbour’s ears were burning. What was going through his head? Hunter leaned over and kissed the top of her head. ‘Such a bloody mess.’

She returned the kiss. ‘I love you.’

Hunter frowned. ‘You . . .’ He couldn’t help but grin.

‘We’re fine.’ She wrapped an arm around his and leaned in close. ‘I’m here for you, Craig.’

Hunter settled back and stroked her cheek. ‘Thank you . . .’

*   *   *

‘Thank you, madam. Have a nice day.’ The hostess’s smile was skin deep. Hunter would probably see some poetic imagery in her features, the way he looked at the world. Maybe that soft nature was what got him through his hard experiences in the army. Glancing at the stewardess again, Chantal tried to see her through his eyes. The woman’s smile looked . . . chiselled into her face, worn thin from hundreds of repetitions a day. Doubt she meant a single one.

Chantal felt a smile of her own spread across her face. She was finding it easier to inhabit Craig’s head, finding it easier to see things his way . . . finding it easier to see a shared future.

The cockpit hissed behind them, radio chatter turned to noise. Another nod. ‘And you too, sir.’

Chantal nodded back as she gripped Hunter’s hand and stepped down the stairs. Cold air nibbled at her cheeks, wind clawing at the stubble on her bare legs. Dots of rain turned into penny-sized splodges, the sort she would have thought you only ever saw on the west coast of Scotland.

‘Sure we’ve not landed back in Edinburgh?’ Hunter wrapped his holdall around his shoulder.

Chantal reached into her bag for a cardigan and groaned. ‘Typical.’ She clanked down the steps to the bus hissing and droning at the bottom, already half-filled. The tiny airport in the distance looked an hour’s drive away . . .

She marched across the tarmac and swung inside the bus, wrestling past the old couple hogging the entrance.

Hunter dropped his bag by a pole and grabbed her hand again. ‘Glad I wore my jeans.’

‘It’s supposed to be high twenties later today.’

Hunter shrugged. ‘So I’ll get some shorts. These are too tight anyway. Might be a good excuse to get some cycling shorts.’

‘Loose bermudas, please. Jesus.’ She felt herself grimace. ‘Looks like you’ll have time for a quick workout as well. I’ve checked out the airport transport. Train’s not an option. Taxis will be mobbed. You could carry me to the hotel.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Hunter held onto the pole as the bus set off. ‘I’ve got a mate who lives out here. He’s giving us a lift.’

‘Who?’

‘Finlay.’

‘Sinclair?’ Chantal’s eyes bulged. ‘I thought he broke his back?’

‘Aye, he got his compo, so he retired out here. All it took was a text. He jumped at the opportunity to give us a lift.’

‘That’s kind of him, but that’s where his involvement stops, okay?’ Chantal wagged a finger at him. ‘He’s not helping on this case.’

*   *   *

‘Craig, come on.’ Chantal led him to the end of the queue.

Hunter stabbed a text into his phone as he walked. Then he clunked his head on the underside of the staircase. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

Chantal rubbed at his head, the stubble rasping. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. A lot of men your size have difficulty getting through the day.’

Can almost see the knob gag taking shape in his mind, but for once he thought better of it.

The queue ahead of them wound round the bend, then back again. A rope separated the strands of passengers as they forked to the three officers manning the Passport Control. Looked like they were double-checking every single word on the documents.

Hunter rolled his eyes at Chantal. ‘Maybe we’ll take that holiday somewhere else.’

She nodded, her fingers clutching her passport. Close to murdering someone.

Next to them, vodka and rum wafted off a stag party, all dressed in multi-coloured suits. A man in green and yellow covered in question marks pointed at his wheeled suitcase and hugged a mate. ‘Keep an eye on that, Stevie, aye?’ Sounded like he was from deepest, darkest Glasgow.

Perfect flight scheduling — two planes full of pissed-up Scots heading to a tiny bottleneck of three officers on Passport Control.

A young woman stood between the stag party and them, a frown twitching all over her face. Another stag member gave her a theatrical wink. ‘Excuse me, sweetheart, will you marry me?’

The guy who’d sat next to them on the plane was level with them in the other queue, though he’d lost his Mail somewhere between the plane and here. He shot them a lewd grin.

Chantal looked back at Hunter. ‘We’re in the wrong queue.’

‘I know.’ Hunter kicked his bag forward an inch, though it seemed to be more in hope than in actual purpose. ‘We’ve not moved for ages.’

She nodded over at them. ‘They have.’

‘Sure?’

Chantal shrugged out a huff. ‘It’s too bloody late, anyway.’

‘Wish I still had my MOD90.’

Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘You wish you were still a soldier?’

‘Well . . .’ Hunter swallowed like something was stuck in his windpipe. ‘Being able to breeze through without all this malarkey.’

The girl in front brushed off the creepy stag and swung round to them, panic widening her eyes. ‘Excuse me, is this the flight to London?’ Polish accent, but with a light coating of cockney.

Chantal patted her on the arm. ‘No, sorry.’ She pointed to the Passport Control. ‘That’s Portugal out there.’

‘Oh, not again.’ She clicked her suitcase handle and started barging her way against the queue. ‘Thank you.’

‘Poor girl.’ Chantal watched her shove her way through shouts of ‘Well, excuse me!’ towards the staircase back up to Departures. Their flight neighbour was six people ahead of them now. ‘Craig, that queue is moving.’

Hunter took another look. ‘Can we change?’

‘Chantal Jain, well I never . . .’ A thick-accented Geordie stood in the other queue. Tall, broad-shouldered and as much eye contact as you could handle. Like being back in Newcastle, he just needed to be topless and drunk. Instead, he wore a suit, carried a long overcoat and gave her a sobering leer or a smile. DI Jon Bruce.

Brucie Bonus.

Brucie Boner. Tried to pull Sharon once . . .

Chantal flashed him one of her fake smiles. ‘Long time, no see.’

‘Far too long, pet.’ He looked over at Hunter, beaming from ear to ear. ‘This your boyfriend?’

Chantal coughed. ‘Partner.’

He frowned. ‘Police or personal?’

‘Police.’ Chantal’s polite smile returned as she lowered her voice. ‘He’s my DC. We’re on a case.’

‘Ah.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I see.’

Hunter raised his eyebrows at Chantal and held out his hand. ‘Craig Hunter. Nice to meet you.’

‘DI Jon Bruce.’ He returned the grip. His queue moved forward and he took a step away. ‘You’re coming with me, right?’

Chantal kicked her bag over towards him. ‘Sure.’

‘You can’t do that!’ A red-faced man in jacket and jeans scowled at her. ‘There’s a queue for a bloody reason!’

‘Is there?’ She gave a shrug and joined Bruce in the queue.

Hunter hefted his bag and followed her. Got a poke on the arm as he squeezed in front of the complainant. He glowered at the man, gave him his sternest policeman glare. ‘Sir, you need to back off.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘A police officer.’

‘Well, you’re on Portuguese soil now, so—’

‘Nice to meet you, mate.’ Hunter nodded at Bruce. ‘Tell me, how do you two know each other?’

‘We were on a course down in London together. Few years back, now.’ Bruce leered at her. Brucie Bonus, indeed. Play your cards right and he might be good for a favour or two. ‘Had cracking fun, didn’t we?’

Chantal looked him up and down. ‘What brings you out here in your fighting suit?’

Bruce looked away, scratching at his chin. ‘Running this bloody Harry Jack case.’

‘Heard about that on the radio.’ Chantal frowned. ‘The abduction, right?’

‘Yeah. Kid got lifted in Alnwick on Wednesday. Coming home from school.’ Bruce draped his jacket over the other arm. ‘As you can imagine, it’s got a bit of press interest. As per usual, that’s led to a series of sightings of the lad. Happened to be a few in the Algarve yesterday. Given the Daily Express can still cover their front page with Madeleine McCann and the fact the kid’s mother’s Portuguese . . .’ He raised his hands. ‘Voila. The Chief Constable’s going apeshit. Half of Northumbria police are on their way down here. Omnishambles.’

Chantal stepped forward. Their previous queue still hadn’t moved, not that the stag parties seemed to care. Or notice. ‘At least they’ve got you, Jon.’

Bruce chuckled. ‘Tell you, the Chief’s brought in three psychics to help. Can you believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘And we’ve got sniffer dogs from one of the Yorkshire forces out.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘Think we’ll need it.’ Bruce stepped forward in the queue. ‘What are you here for anyway?’

‘A serial sex offender has slipped out of the country.’

‘Oh, you bastard.’ Bruce grimaced. ‘Still, not a bad gig here. It’s been pissing down in Newcastle all week. Suspect it’s the same up in Edinburgh. We should grab a drink sometime, given we’re both over here.’

Chantal smiled at him. ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

Hunter frowned at her. Seemed unduly worried about her flirtatious banter, like he might worry she was pissing him about until someone else came along. He cleared his throat. ‘Actually—’

Bruce patted Chantal on the arm and nodded at the passport desk. ‘You go first, princess.’

TWENTY

Hunter

The officer stared at Hunter’s passport, blinking as slowly as though he’d just woken up. Seemed like he’d been looking at it for five minutes. Then he turned away and spoke into his phone. Not tired, just suspicious.

Terrific.

Grumbling voices came from the queue behind.

Hunter could see neither Chantal nor that Geordie guy. Bruce or whatever it was. Seedy-looking git. He smiled at the officer. ‘Is there a problem?’

He got a raised finger for his trouble.

Hunter picked up his bag again with a sigh. Don’t speak, don’t make eye contact, don’t give them any reason to treat you differently from the faceless crowds.

‘Okay.’ The officer put the phone down and handed the passport back with a sniff and a sneer. ‘Welcome to Portugal, sir.’

Hunter responded with a silent smile and sauntered through to the Arrivals area.

Bruce was walking up ahead, right next to Chantal. She seemed eager to get away for a bit of privacy, while she was talking on her mobile. Maybe not attracted to Bruce’s brand of brash machismo after all. Relief filled his lungs with stale airport air and . . . the smell of burnt meat from a fast-food place.

Hunter clenched his teeth, his fingers starting to dance.

Not now.

He focused on his case, steadily trundling behind him and pushed through the doors to outside. Fresh air. Well, a breeze of it anyway, somewhere among the desperate smokers, lighting up as soon as they cleared the exit. And Bruce, staring at him with an open smile. More than a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. Slight tanning around his ring finger, a pale band cutting across the rough hairs.

A gang of pissed-up stags queued by a row of taxis, a couple of them holding coffees.

Roofed walkways outside the airport hid them from the worst of the unseasonable deluge, leaving them exposed to the occasional cross-blast of tropical wind. To the west, a shaft of sunlight crept out of the grey gloom, lighting up the towers in Faro town centre.

Welcome to Portugal, indeed.

Hunter sighed, his pulse returning to normal. Could be back in Bathgate or Leith.

‘You okay, mate?’

Hunter cleared his throat. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Okay . . .’ Bruce grinned at Hunter. ‘Well, I’m heading into town, so I’ll catch you later, aye?’

Hunter glanced at Chantal again, clenching his fingers into a fist. ‘I take it Cha— DS Jain’s got your number?’

‘Sure has.’ Bruce hoisted his jacket over his shoulder. ‘You pair supposed to be meeting anyone?’

‘Inspector João Quaresma. Do you know him?’

‘He’s one of our contacts. But I’ve got to meet the local chief of police first.’ Bruce exhaled slowly. ‘A mate in the West Mercia force was out here a few years back hunting a fugitive. Said the locals are useless, just so you know.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll bear that in mind.’

Bruce leaned in close, his minty breath mixing with his aftershave, a scent of musk heavier than a Turkish barber. ‘What’s the story with you and Chantal?’

Hunter clocked the hunger in his eyes, a little twinkle in the baby blue. ‘She’s my DS.’

‘Riiiight.’ Bruce’s head tilted almost halfway round. ‘Tell you, mate, the things I’d do to that woman . . .’

Hunter swallowed an exasperated laugh. Prick. ‘See you around, sir.’

‘Right. Yeah.’ Bruce looked him up and down, then saluted at Chantal as he walked off, his jacket hanging loosely over one shoulder.

Chantal hung up her call. ‘Thank God he’s gone.’

‘Old flame?’

‘Craig . . .’ She raised her eyebrows and sucked in her cheeks. ‘No, he’s not.’ She glanced after Bruce, eyes narrowed. ‘Not for want of trying on his part. Though he was more interested in Sharon.’ She yawned. ‘We had a week-long course in Advanced Interview Techniques. Something like that. Supposed to be at Tulliallan, but Sharon’s DI at the time thought it’d be good to have us mingle with the English cops, some limp-wristed political gesture. Somehow we ended up in Hendon, deep in Met territory. Anyway, he was trying it on with all the girls at night.’

‘Sounds like hell.’

‘And then some.’ Chantal waved at someone behind Hunter and snapped her fake smile back into place. ‘There we go.’

By the taxis, a middle-aged man held up a card with “DS Jane” on it.

Chantal stopped in front of him and showed her warrant card. ‘DS Chantal Jain.’ She thumbed at Hunter. ‘This is DC Craig Hunter.’

‘Inspector João Quaresma.’ He looked at them as though waiting for strangers at the airport was his personal idea of purgatory, eyes smouldering away, close to burning out. His grey hair might have passed for silver, perhaps even distinguished, if he hadn’t looked so tired with his tanned skin fading to yellow, his eyes lost in the shadows of his heavy brow. ‘Come on.’ He folded the paper up as he walked towards a car park. ‘This way.’

TWENTY-ONE

Chantal

‘I don’t understand.’ Chantal leaned forward, the seatbelt straining and digging into her chest. She stuck her head closer to Quaresma. ‘You should’ve arrested him when he landed.’

Quaresma’s head crept round and stale coffee breath swept over her. ‘Sergeant, we will discuss this business at my police station. Now is not good time.’

‘You’ve seen the evidence, right?’

Quaresma put a finger to his lips. ‘I am driving.’

Chantal slumped back in her seat, letting the belt slap back.

What an arrogant prick.

The countryside slid past them. Steep hills metres away from the edge of the dual carriageway. Even the pouring rain struggled to dampen the dry soil. The road ahead was almost empty, a camper van lurching between the lanes.

Albufeira came into view round a tight bend, a long sprawl of grey down by the gusty blue sea. Above, dark clouds were racing across a low sky, so low it nearly touched the buildings, none taller than three or four storeys by the looks of it, certainly nothing like back home.

Hunter was next to her, tapping out a text on his phone. ‘Finlay’s going to meet us at the station.’

‘Right.’ She dropped her voice to a mutter. ‘What’s with this guy?’

Hunter looked up. ‘What, him not arresting Tulloch?’

‘And not speaking to us.’ Chantal folded her arms. They swept up to a roundabout and Quaresma hammered the horn, swearing in Portuguese. Nice to see a fellow road-rage sufferer. ‘Might be the airport traffic, I suppose.’

Hunter put his phone away. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘Grab some of the local officers, find Tulloch, arrest him, take him back to dear old Blighty.’

‘And what do we do tomorrow?’

Quaresma slowed to a halt and hit the horn again. ‘You see English press? Why they have to come to my country, eh?’

The road was mobbed with journalists, all holding their mobiles out like dictaphones. A couple of TV crews swung round, aiming their cameras at Quaresma’s black Audi. Gradually, he inched through the crowed and pulled into a car park. ‘This is every day now. Press ask question, shout at police. Every day.’

Chantal tried her door. Locked. Quaresma got out and opened Hunter’s door. She squeezed out after him.

Quaresma already had her case out on the tarmac. ‘Sergeant, you follow me. Please. Do not speak to press, okay?’

She shrugged. ‘Off you go, then.’

Quaresma marched off across the damp marble, a shaft of sunlight breaking through the granite clouds and lighting up the station. Concrete pillars held up a brutal rendition of a Greek temple in pale stucco. All hard angles, the top floor about twenty metres wider on each side than the ground. The windows were narrow, designed to block the sun, rather than let in what little light you got. Here, light wasn’t the precious commodity it was in Scotland.

Hunter followed Quaresma inside.

Chantal stopped by the front door. Cool and calm, girl, cool and calm.

Someone grabbed her by the arm. She swung round, ready to sucker-punch the scrawny . . .

Rich McAlpine. What the hell? The journalist had a haunted look to him. ‘Hey, Chantal, you got a minute?’

‘Been told not to speak to the press, Rich.’

‘Come on.’ His phone was almost in her face. Twat was recording this. ‘Have Police Scotland been called in to assist with the hunt for Harry Jack?’

‘No comment.’

‘That cos you are?’

‘I said, no comment.’

‘Come on, Chantal. We’re getting soaked here. A little tidbit?’

Another reporter joined Rich, the sort of hipster you only saw in London. Big beard with a twirly handlebar moustache. Shirt buttons done up to his throat.

She smiled at them. ‘Sorry about what happened to you, Rich, but I’ve got nothing to say other than we’re not here about that case.’

Rich’s mate piped up. ‘So what is it, then?’ Northern accent. Maybe Manchester.

‘No comment.’ Chantal grabbed her case and pushed into the station.

Quaresma was standing inside, hands on hips, lips pursed. ‘Sergeant, I said do not speak to press.’

‘They’re known to me and DC Hunter. I gave them a no comment.’

‘I see.’ Quaresma started off towards a set of doors. ‘Please. Follow me.’

As she obliged, Hunter sidled up to her. ‘That wasn’t Rich McAlpine, was it?’

‘You know him, too?’

‘Aye, shared a flat with Scott Cullen, didn’t he?’

‘Well, not any more. But it was him.’

‘You didn’t let on why we’re here?’

She winked at Hunter. ‘Not yet.’

*   *   *

Quaresma leaned back behind a cheap-looking desk, resting his leather boots on the white plastic surface. The room stank of boot polish. No natural light in here, just a bright desk lamp facing them. ‘So, you travel all this way for Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill.’

‘And it looks like we’ve come a very long way for nothing.’ Chantal perched on the chair opposite Quaresma. She trusted it about as much as him. She glanced at Hunter, standing by the door. ‘Or have you got Tulloch in custody yet?’

‘You know we have not.’

Chantal threw her arms out wide. ‘He’s been here since last night.’

Quaresma flashed his surprisingly white teeth at her. ‘I am afraid we have, how you say? Other priorities.’

‘A serial domestic abuser running around on your territory isn’t a priority?’

‘Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant. I want to help you and Detective Inspector Sharon McNeill. And Mr Farmer here.’

‘Hunter.’

Quaresma nodded slowly, his teeth still bared. ‘You are here to hunt this man, yes?’

Hunter shrugged at him. ‘We’re here to bring a criminal back to our country. That’s it. No need for melodrama.’

‘Melodrama?’ Quaresma reached forward and flicked his left trouser leg back down over his boot. ‘You are only here to escort this man back to UK?’

‘I’m sure DI McNeill passed that on?’

‘Yes.’

Chantal butted in. ‘And yet you’ve let him go.’

‘Sergeant, tell me. If I come to UK and ask to bring home a Portuguese man I say is criminal, do you let me do it? Just like that?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d spend some time looking at the evidence you’d sent by email and fax.’ Chantal looked across the empty desk. ‘I don’t really see you doing that.’

‘I have a lot of work.’

‘Listen, we shared evidence with you yesterday of Sean Tulloch viciously assaulting a woman in Scotland.’

Quaresma held her gaze for a few seconds, then ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Then why let him leave your country?’ His toothy smile may have been intended as a mollifier when he first offered it five minutes ago, but by now it looked about as welcoming as a wolf.

Welcome to Portugal? I think not.

Quaresma sighed and changed tack. ‘You have heard of Harry Jack, yes?’

Chantal’s gut plummeted through the soles of her sandals. Here we go — Brucie Boner strikes again. She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Of course I’ve heard about him.’

‘He is our priority. Your press reported two sightings of this child yesterday. Another one this morning and two this afternoon. Is not a coincidence.’

Chantal looked over at Hunter, got an encouraging nod, and leaned forward. ‘Inspector, we’re requesting you divert a couple of resources to support our investigation.’

‘Sergeant . . .’ Quaresma chuckled as he got to his feet and strolled over to the window overlooking the street. Still soaked in Scottish-style rain, hordes of journalists huddled under umbrellas. He leaned his back against the glass. ‘The world is watching. This morning, six news crews from your country landed here. This story is even popular in America.’

Chantal folded her arms tight. ‘I still don’t get why you can’t give us an officer or two to support our investigation.’

‘You ask again, I say again. The Harry Jack case is our priority.’ Quaresma raised his eyebrows, the sunlight catching shards of white. ‘You know the Madeleine McCann case, yes?’

‘Our case has the potential to—’

‘My boss say not again. My hands are, how you say? Locked?’ Quaresma put his hands together like they were cuffed. ‘This is start of tourist season here. Busiest time of year. Lots of people from north Europe come down to party. Many rapes, many fights.’

‘So, you’re telling us we’re on our own?’ Chantal stood up with a frustrated groan. ‘Fine.’

‘Not so simple.’ Quaresma wagged a finger at her. ‘This is not your country. I can not allow you play police woman and arrest people here, yes?’

‘Which is why I’m asking for support from you.’

‘Sergeant, please. My men are busy. Budget is not big. You are allowed to investigate because we want to help friendly colleagues. It is a favour, you understand? If you disrespect it, you get next plane to Glasgow.’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘Look at me. Do I look like I care?’

‘Inspector, if this was the other way round, we would give you a Superintendent to work with, plus a team under him or her. We would work tirelessly to bring your suspect to you.’

‘That is luxury of rich police force.’

‘Have you done anything?’

Quaresma stepped forward and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a paper file and dropped it on the desk. Not exactly thick enough to thump on the wood. ‘This.’ He nudged it across the table.

Chantal tipped the contents on the desk. Their faxed evidence stapled together. Aside from that, five sheets of A4. The sum total of the local police work amounted to five pages. Five. And one was a form, manually typed. Hard to follow the Portuguese, but she could pick out a few phrases. Hotel de Sousa. She flicked through the other pages. One was a photocopy of the guest list. She held it up. ‘So at least you have confirmed that he is staying there?’

‘Correct.’ Quaresma snatched the file back and locked it away in his desk drawer. ‘Now, that is all the assistance until we find Harry Jack. I will be clear — you will use my men to arrest this Sean Tulloch.’ He reached into another desk drawer, scribbled on a small white card and tossed it to Chantal. ‘Call this number when you need to make arrest.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That is it. And it is a favour.’ Quaresma smiled at her. ‘If you think not, you are welcome to get next flight home.’

Chantal put the card in her pocket. Let him have his petty little victory. ‘Can you at least give us a lift?’

TWENTY-TWO

Chantal

Chantal stomped across the car park, the rain soaking her hair. ‘What an arsehole.’ She stopped, scanning up and down the four lanes of cars. The press corps were still camped outside the front of the building, huddled together as they listened to someone speaking. She dumped her bag into a puddle. Water splashed up her bare legs. She groaned, closed her eyes, breathed through her nose. When she looked up again, Hunter was standing in front of her, a kind smile in his eyes. ‘Tell me this is okay, Craig.’

‘I wish I could.’

She paused for long enough to return the smile, then snapped back to professional focus. ‘Here’s where my thinking’s at. Sean Tulloch is here and we know very little about what he’s doing. In fact, all we know for certain is where he’s staying, and that he’s with some other squaddies on a boys weekend.’

‘Which is my worry.’

She frowned at him. ‘What is?’

‘Well, I’ve been thinking that this delay in proceedings might not be that big a deal. He’s a serial abuser, which is a long game. You know the drill. He meets the women, charms them—’

‘—moves in and starts booting the living shit out of them.’ She glared at him. ‘I don’t get why you think that’s not a big deal.’

‘That’s not what I said. Look, he’s here for a few days. Getting drunk, maybe playing some golf, maybe just lying on the beach.’ He broke off. ‘Then again . . .’

‘What?’

Hunter swallowed. ‘He’s here with a load of lairy lads. Squaddies. You may not know what they’re like, but it’s a powderkeg of laddish bullshit. They’ll be arsing around, daring each other. This place has a big nightclub precinct. So—’

‘—his aggression might escalate?’

‘You’re finishing my sentences.’

Doing what she hated in others. This case was seriously messing with her head.

She huffed out a sigh. ‘But you’re worrying all this lairy chat will, what, push him over the edge? Make him go on a groping spree?’

‘Or worse.’

‘We can’t arrest him on strength of your suspicion alone, Craig.’ She shook her head and scowled over at the police building. Looked like Bruce was heading inside, inching his way past the reporters. ‘We need help here. We need Quaresma’s men to bring him in.’

Hunter stepped closer to her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re on our own. The only good thing is we work well together. We’ll catch him.’

‘Assuming he’s still at the hotel.’ Her gaze shot up and down the road. Not that many cars, none looking like taxis. ‘Assuming he’s even still in the country.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked south. ‘Africa’s what, twenty miles that way?’

‘It’s that way, aye, but it’s a lot further than twenty. At least a hundred.’ A horn honked behind him and Hunter swung round.

Finlay Sinclair leaned against a red Fiesta, one arm in the window pressing the horn even as they stared straight at him. The man was a wreck, his muscle tone turned to flab, beer gut poking out of the bottom of his polo shirt. Looked like a full-sized keg now. He stood up tall, hand held out, and winced. ‘Ah, Jesus.’

Chantal frowned at Hunter as she hefted her bag and started across the road. As they approached Finlay, her smile was back in place. ‘How did you end up over here?’

‘Long story.’ He winked at Hunter. ‘I was thinking you’d get stuck getting through passport control, Craig.’ He opened the boot of his car. ‘Didn’t the pat down find that cucumber stuffed in your pants?’

Chantal burst out laughing. ‘Good to see you, Fin.’

‘And you. Let me take your bags, madam.’ Finlay crouched down and lifted up Chantal’s suitcase, the old back injury making him wince. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

Chantal raised the boot lid to the full extension. ‘Back still playing up?’

‘Most days, aye.’ Finlay dumped the case in next to a pile of work tools. ‘That said, I’m lucky I can even walk after what happened.’

Hunter rested his bag next to Chantal’s. ‘I’ve apologised, mate.’

‘It’s fine. We caught the stoat and the compo was more than enough to set up a life out here.’ Finlay clapped his hands together. ‘Now. Where can I take you two lovebirds?’

*   *   *

‘Well, I still don’t believe you.’ Finlay powered along the dual carriageway, completely empty save for an Aldi lorry ahead. ‘But that’s not my problem, I guess.’

The rain was back in full shower mode, the water sluicing into drains in the central reservation.

Chantal slumped back in the seat, a rogue spring poking into her back. ‘Like being back in Edinburgh.’

‘Almost.’ Hunter was in the back, still struggling to get his seatbelt to close. ‘It’s two degrees warmer at home.’

‘Crazy.’ Finlay laughed. ‘So, this motorway, right? They spent all that EU money on it and it’s a toll road. Loads of them here.’ He held the wheel casually, like back when he was Hunter’s partner, and swerved out into the fast lane. ‘I love it. Cuts the journey time in half for a Euro, because the locals are too tight to pay it. Spoke to this old geezer in the pub the other night. Ranting and raving about it, he was. He says it’s the EU’s fault. They built it for the Spanish coming here for the golf. Or something.’

Chantal craned her neck round to see what Hunter was up to. He’d tugged his seatbelt closer to the buckle, still not quite managing to connect.

‘Casual anti-EU ignorance . . .’ Finlay overtook the Aldi lorry, rain spraying up the sides of the car, his wipers going full pelt. ‘Not long till the referendum, is it?’

‘Christ knows what’ll happen if we vote to leave . . .’ Chantal looked over from the passenger seat. ‘All those racists who are just waiting for a democratic verdict to legitimise their knee-jerk xenophobia will be trying to kick me out.’

Finlay chuckled. ‘Aye, where is India in the EU?’

‘Pakistan. Three generations ago. Four, if you count my baby nephew.’

Hunter leaned forward to wedge his head between them. ‘Take it you’re quite far down the road to drinking yourself to death, then?’

‘Getting there.’ Finlay pointed his thumb over his shoulder, grinning. ‘I live in Olhão, which is the other way from Faro. Quieter. Earthier. Like being in Elgin or Nairn or something, but with marginally less wind and rain. Feels like the real Portugal, not some cheap resort filled with drunk tourists.’

Chantal smirked at him. ‘Except for you.’

‘There is that, but I can’t escape myself. Trust me, I’ve tried.’ Finlay pulled off onto the slip road. Water pooled at the bottom, spraying out as they passed under the main carriageway. ‘On the upside, my flat only cost twenty grand. And there’s a working harbour, so all the fresh fish I can eat. Nice beer, too.’

Hunter chimed in with the fake cheer. ‘So that’s how you’re medicating?’

‘The old back’s shite most days.’

So much for cheer.

Finlay started off down a straight road lined with Mediterranean-style houses in a range of pastel colours. ‘It was horrible back in Scotland over the winter, but give me enough heat and Sagres and it’s almost bearable.’

Hunter rattled around in the back still. ‘As if there’s ever enough for you.’

‘Ha.’ Finlay stopped at some traffic lights. The Fiesta thudded to a stall. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Lovely motor, by the way.’

‘Aye, piece of shit I bought off a bloke in the boozer.’ Finlay got the engine started again on the third go. ‘Gets me to the Lidl for my messages and that’s about it.’

‘Fair to say that it rattles like a Glaswegian fishing trip afterwards?’

‘Nah. The whisky’s crap here.’ Finlay trundled over the road as the lights changed back to red. ‘You two involved in this missing kid case, then?’

Chantal tutted. ‘You get another guess.’

Finlay grinned at her. ‘So you’re over here shagging each other’s brains out, or what?’

‘I’ll pretend you never said that.’ Chantal got her phone out of her pocket. ‘We’re here to pick up a suspect, if you must know.’

‘Oh aye? Need any help?’

‘Aye, from the local police.’ No interesting texts. Family noise in WhatsApp, two from Sharon and a boatload of emails that could wait. She looked up from her mobile. ‘You know any local cops?’

‘Not had many dealings with them.’ Finlay tapped his temple. ‘Touch wood. Only come across the odd cop in the local bar, you know how it is.’

‘Don’t I just.’

‘Bloody Wild West here, Chantal.’ Finlay hurtled towards a red light. ‘It’s a tough game for them, you know? The pay’s crap and they’re under a heap of pressure. Way I hear it, they cut a big chunk of the budget a couple of years ago, let a load of cops go. The ones left are all pissed off and exhausted from doing three people’s jobs each. And most of them are still barely scraping by on the meagre wages.’

‘How bent are they?’

‘Not sure. Seems like most of them have long since given up on the rules. Fighting a losing battle. Economy’s in the toilet. Their focus isn’t on controlling the natives.’

Chantal waved at the passing apartment buildings. ‘Even here?’

‘Even here.’ Finlay pulled down a long street.

The mid-blue sea glistened in the distance, dark rainclouds swimming halfway to the horizon. A pale sun shone down on the buildings, lighting them up from their gloom. Two sprawling hotel complexes sat in a hollow on the left, one marked with purple signage, the other red. A big fence separated them, so oddly enough only one had access to the beach.

Finlay took a left and pulled up alongside the first hotel. A few tourists mingled about — one old guy had his top off, showing off his mirror muscles. ‘Here you go.’

Hunter let his seatbelt flop down. ‘Cheers, mate. I appreciate it.’

‘I’m serious. You guys need a hand?’

Chantal opened her door. ‘I can manage my bag, Finlay. It’s fine.’

‘I mean, with this case, whatever you’re up to. I’m here if you need me, aye?’

‘We’ll think about it.’ Chantal pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, then waved up at the sky. ‘Sun’s out. Go and work on that Leith tan.’

TWENTY-THREE

Chantal

Chantal fanned her face with both hands as they stood in the queue. ‘Could do with air conditioning in here.’

‘It’s a bargain hotel, my dear.’ Hunter grabbed her hand. ‘The sort of place a bunch of squaddies will go for a weekend on the piss. Or all a young couple like us could afford.’

‘Or all Police Scotland’s budget will stretch to.’

A mobility scooter whizzed past them, the obese driver looking like he’d melted in the sun. He stopped next to a group by the counter, a guy in a Manchester United shirt, ROONEY and 10 on the back, his voice about as loud as you would expect in a football stadium as he shouted at the receptionist. ‘But they’ve stolen money from my boy!’

‘Definitely not holidaying here . . .’ Chantal kicked her bag along the floor as the queue shifted up. ‘Feels like all we’ve done since this morning is stand in queues.’ The scooter reminded her of her uncle in his wheelchair, his broken kidneys packing in. ‘Nice seeing Finlay, though. Thought he’d be in a wheelchair.’

‘Aye, good old Compo. Six-figure pay-out plus full pension . . .’

‘This is a disgrace!’ Rooney stormed off, the mobility scooter whizzing along behind. ‘An absolute pigging disgrace! You can keep the EU, see if I care!’

‘Here we go.’ Chantal sighed as she grabbed her bag and marched up to the desk. ‘Got a reservation in the name Jain. That’s J-A-I-N.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ The receptionist had a South Wales accent, seedier than the valley choirboy. The sort of pretty boy who spent his best years working minimum wage jobs in holiday resorts, shagging anything he could, while he still could. ‘I see you’re staying for three nights.’ He stared at Hunter, his lips twisting into a pout. ‘And it’s Craig Farmer, is it?’

‘Hunter.’

‘Yes, sorry.’ He typed, eyes focused on the inset monitor.

Chantal leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Do you have a Sean Tulloch staying here?’

Eyes still on the screen. ‘Is he a friend?’

‘My boyfriend’s cousin.’ Chantal laughed and grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Sorry, darling. I can’t give out that information.’ He hit the keys hard. ‘I can pass on a message next time he comes to the desk, though?’

‘No, it’s fine. Element of surprise and all that.’

‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll need your passports and then we’ll be all set.’

Chantal passed them both over and watched him mince over to the photocopier. ‘What a charmer.’

‘As long as it has no effect on you . . .’

‘Craig, you really want to tone down the jealousy. It’s getting boring.’ She leaned forward and twisted the computer screen round. ‘Too bad, he’s locked it . . .’ She shifted it back round.

The receptionist reappeared with their passports. ‘There, that’s you checked in.’ He made a fish-like motion with his hand. ‘Your room is through to the right, then up the stairs and again on your right.’

Chantal frowned at him. ‘Did you say room?’

*   *   *

‘Cheeky cow.’ Chantal dumped her bag on the double bed in the middle of the room.

A small kitchen lay to the left, a couple of tatty cabinets above a stove-top ring and a counter fridge. The patio door was open, the curtains flapping in the gentle breeze. Across a narrow lane, other apartments looked in, claustrophobically close.

Calling it chintzy would be doing it a favour. Just . . . horrible. Two weeks of misery in this hellhole. Typical Sharon, thinking she’s funny.

She collapsed back on the bed and groaned. ‘This is Sharon’s idea of a joke, isn’t it?’

‘What, booking one room?’ Hunter dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed on the bed. He pulled her close, burying his head in her stomach. ‘It fits our cover story.’

She looked down at him. ‘What cover story?’

‘Us being a young couple on holiday.’ He lifted up her top and kissed her belly. ‘Doesn’t that sound good?’

She hauled her top back down. ‘I’m not in the mood, Craig.’

‘Fine.’ Hunter held up his hands. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, would you look at yourself, you big girl’s blouse.’ Chantal sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Sorry, I’m being a cow. It’s . . . I want to text Sharon a load of abuse.’

‘So do it.’

She reached over for her phone and started tapping at the screen. ‘Thanks for arranging our one room. Having to pay for the other one out of my own money. You cow.’

‘Think she’ll check with the hotel?’

Chantal dumped her mobile on the bed. ‘Maybe.’

‘Our carefully laid plans thrown apart because of one little slip up?’ Her glare silenced him. ‘So we’re pretending we’re not a couple who are pretending to be a couple?’

Chantal couldn’t even begin to follow it. ‘Whatever, Craig.’ She hopped off his knee and hauled the top over her head, a pastel-purple shade, soaked in sweat. Bloody thing stank now. Just the kind of detail that would turn the big brute on. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’ She grabbed her bag and rummaged deep until she found the right top. ‘We’ve not got any leads, have we?’ She pulled the top on. Felt better. ‘It’s not like Tulloch’s playing baccarat at the local casino and all we need to do is—’

Her mobile blasted out Taylor Swift again.

She rolled over the bed and grabbed it. Sharon. She stabbed the answer button with a sigh. ‘Hi, Shaz.’

‘Morning, Chantal. I take it you meant what you texted?’

‘Of course I meant it.’ She lay back and kicked off her sandals. Her feet started breathing again. ‘Wouldn’t have texted it if I didn’t.’

‘So, you and Craig in one room, eh? There’ll be a bolster you can put between you. Top and tail, aye?’

‘Piss off.’

Sharon laughed. ‘Have you really booked another room?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you joined the Mile High Club on the way over and, right now, he’s got his fingers right—’

‘I’m warning you.’

‘—you moan with delight?’

‘Stop it.’ Chantal lay back on the bed. Could fall asleep right this second. ‘Was there a reason for your call? Any progress at your end?’

‘Nothing much. I take it you’ve spoken to your contact?’

‘And what a pleasure that was . . . He didn’t even try to arrest Tulloch.’

Hunter’s phone blared out that drill noise. Chantal glanced down the bed at Hunter, fumbling about with his mobile. She scowled at him and pointed at the patio door.

TWENTY-FOUR

Hunter

Hunter grabbed his mobile and checked through his messages. A photo from Murray popped up, Bubble and Muffin sleeping in the same cat bed. He texted back ‘Cute’. Only other message was from Finlay, offering his help, yet again. He was about to type a reply when his phone erupted in his hands.

WhhrrrRRRRRRRR. The dentist’s drill. No missing that.

ELVIS CALLING . . .

Chantal shot him a glare and thumbed at the patio door.

He walked over and wrestled the door fully open, hitting answer. ‘Morning, Elvis.’

His lips slapped down the line, like he was chewing something. ‘How’s sunny Portugal, mate?’

Hunter sat on the patio chair in the shade. The sun was finally out, burning off the rain on the main tourist drag, but it was still missing their gloomy apartment. ‘Better than Bathgate. Just.’ He got up and leaned against the banister with his free hand. Damp and cold. A couple made their way down the path below, arm in arm. Sunglasses, flip-flops, shorts, sunburnt arms and necks. Brits abroad. Just missing the hankies over their heads. ‘What’s up?’

‘Eh, calling in a bet. Fat Jimmy says you’ll have him in custody. I’ve got a tenner on you not having a scooby where he is.’

Hunter let his breath out slowly. ‘We’re nowhere near anything.’

‘Ya dancer.’ Elvis’s hand covered the mouthpiece, but Hunter could still hear his shout of delight: ‘Wanker! That’s ten quid you owe me!’

Pair of arseholes.

Hunter took in the place as he waited for Elvis to deal with more pressing issues than this international call on a mobile.

Which room was Tulloch’s?

Any of them?

Was he even here?

And how the hell were they going to deal with him if they did come across him? Now that the Portuguese hadn’t apprehended him, they didn’t have a plan. Getting here was enough of an ordeal, finding the bastard . . .

Then again, someone like Tulloch would stick out like a sore thumb. The old couple passed below him now, each step looking like it might be their last. Should he bother making inquiries among the expat branch of Alcoholic Anonymous? They might’ve seen Tulloch and a troop of squaddies. They might even know where he is. Or not. Tulloch could be lying low with a drugged up tourist in—

‘Nice one, mate.’ Elvis’s lips slapped again. Like he could only eat when talking to Hunter. ‘Can always rely on you to make an arse of things.’

Hunter gripped the banister tighter, pictured it being Elvis’s neck . . . ‘Have you taken Paisley’s statement yet?’

‘She won’t let us.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’m not messing about. Me and that Jenny bird were down at the hospital this morning. Jenny’s a piece of work, I tell you. Anyway, doctor wouldn’t let us in. “Paisley’s not up to answering questions, blah blah blah.” Stupid mare.’

‘And you took that for an answer?’

‘I’m not you, Robocop. I don’t go in there, guns blazing.’

Don’t rise to it . . .

Hunter rested back against the patio door, his T-shirt tight around his arms. ‘What about Tulloch’s laptop?’

‘Aye, well, I’ve finally got round to it now.’ Elvis yawned. ‘There’s a ton of emails between Tulloch and one Gordon Brownlee of Muirhouse in, wait for it, Edinburgh.’

‘Any form on him?’

‘Nothing major, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a dodgy bastard.’ Elvis clacked at keys in the background. Almost like the lazy sod was only running the PNC check now. ‘Ex-squaddie, by the looks of things.’

Hunter sucked in the fresh air. ‘Send me a photo, would you?’

‘It’ll cost me a bloody fortune . . .’

‘So? Expense it.’

Elvis paused on the line. ‘Right, aye. I’ll fire it through the now.’

‘Cheers. Catch you later.’ Hunter killed the call and waited for the message to arrive. He grabbed the banister and leaned forward until he was in the sun. The rays heated up his hair and neck.

Not bad at all. Must be low twenties. Nothing like the baking heat in the Middle East. Rather nice, in fact. Maybe southern Spain would be good for a holiday. Málaga, Nerja, somewhere like—

His mobile chirruped. He leaned back into the shade and checked it.

Two photo messages.

The first was Gordon Brownlee in full uniform. 3 Scots, for certain. Big lad, typical squaddie — trim, tight muscles, dead stare like he could stab you in the guts with his eyes, or at least without thinking. His left ear looked like it’d been sliced off and reattached by an amateur, hanging a couple of centimetres below the right.

The other photo was of Brownlee in Germany, holding up a full stein of foaming lager, wearing comedy lederhosen and plastic breasts. Classic Schoolbook shot. Wide grin, but the same dead eyes and wonky ears.

The things we see on duty. Hunter caught sight of himself in the patio doors. His arms were getting stronger. Nice shape to the shoulders. Still too much of a gut. Always the last thing to go, but the kettlebells were kicking its arse.

Inside, Chantal was sitting on the bed, staring at her phone. When he entered, she looked up and smiled. ‘That cow knew exactly what she was doing.’

‘Don’t rise to it.’ Hunter held up his phone. ‘In other news, Elvis might’ve found our baccarat game.’ He walked over to the bed and handed her his mobile. ‘This is Gordon Brownlee, looks like one of Tulloch’s mates.’

‘Good effort.’ Chantal stared at the screen, like she was sucking in his life story from the two photos. She rested it on the bed and lay back, her hair splaying across the pillow. ‘So, what’s the plan, then, Constable?’

‘Here’s what I’m thinking.’ Hunter picked up his phone and stared at Brownlee’s dead eyes. ‘This lot are boozers on a piss-up. They’ll start with a few here, check out if the hotel’s up to snuff. Mostly, it’ll be old duffers on their holidays, but sometimes it’s full of stag and hen parties, and it’s the cheapest for drinks. Total carnage.’

‘The voice of experience.’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The voice of informed conjecture. Anyway, given Mr Quaresma’s not doing his job, we’re going to have to do it for him. Time for some undercover work.’ He stared at Brownlee’s photos again, then at Chantal. ‘That Keith Brannigan who got away at Waverley is supposed to be here. There are others, too.’ He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed. ‘So, here’s the plan: we’re on our first holiday together. A young couple in love. Let’s hit the bar and see who knows anything about Gordon Brownlee or Sean Tulloch, shall we?’

*   *   *

Hunter bit into the falafel burger and chewed slowly. Swallowed it down with a glug of Sagres, the lager bitter and cold. Lovely. He leaned back and soaked up the sun. The bar area was walled off on three sides, but somehow enough sun crawled in to give the beer that special summer flavour.

Another hour of this and it was sure to burn my peely-wally skin. Need to rub some suntan lotion on.

Hunter took another mouthful. ‘Didn’t know how hungry I was.’

‘Me neither.’ Chantal cut her hamburger open, the meat still a touch pink on the inside, hipster-style. She ate it, anyway. ‘That’s a good burger.’

At least she hadn’t added the bacon. ‘Glad to hear it. Don’t see any pissed squaddies, though.’

She nodded behind him. ‘That lot might have.’

A hen party sat at the far end of the bar. All ages from late teens to sixties, though most of them were in their twenties. Screaming and shouting and dancing and downing shots and battling tomorrow’s hangover with all the desperate bravado they’d been able to fit in their luggage. Sounded like an unholy mix of Scousers and Brummies, all of them glad not to be home, glad to escape the depressing reality of austerity Britain for a few days of make-believe celebration.

Just then a waif of a girl appeared with a tray of shots, getting a roar of applause and laughter for her balancing act.

‘Christ, that takes me back.’ Chantal put her burger down in a pool of liquid fat, shaking her head at them as she sucked her fingers. After a long, nostalgic gaze, she finished her wine, the glass still frosted from the cool white. ‘I was here on a hen weekend a few years ago.’

‘This hotel?’

Chantal thumbed back up the hill Finlay had driven them down. ‘Up there. Makes this place look five star.’ She scowled. ‘Me and Sharon and a load of our old mates from uniform days. A few from Turnbull’s CID team. You know Angela Caldwell, don’t you?’

Hunter shook his head.

‘Her hen weekend. Anyway, it was complete carnage.’ She took another bite of her burger, then smirked. ‘The chief bridesmaid got knocked up by a barman.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Wish I was.’ Chantal dipped a chip in spilt ketchup. ‘Had to get an abortion when she got back. Poor Geraldine.’

‘Geraldine Fox?’ Hunter frowned, swallowing down another mouthful. ‘Seriously?’

Chantal shut her eyes. ‘You know her?’

‘Me and Cullen worked with her up in St Leonards, few years back.’

‘Of course you did. My luck has been horrible ever since we’ve been working this case.’ Chantal’s cheeks flushed, not all from the wine. ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’

‘Secret’s safe with me.’ Hunter zipped up his lips.

She wrapped her fingers around her empty glass and squinted into the sun. ‘Back at the room, you said stuff about the bar tactics. Finding the best place to drink. Take it you’ve done this before?’

‘I’ve never knocked up a barmaid, or DC Fox, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Aye, very good.’ Another bite of burger, as she twirled her finger at the hen party. ‘But you have been here?’

‘Came to Portugal back in my army days.’ Hunter sipped some lager, barely tasting it. ‘That’s early on, like. We were based up at Fort George near Inverness. Got a fortnight’s leave, so a group of us booked cheap flights from Edinburgh.’ He swallowed, gazed off at the memory of his former unit like it might come marching in through the door any second. ‘A trip not unlike what Tulloch and his mates are doing. Only we didn’t bring a sex pest along.’

She narrowed her eyes at him, holding the burger in mid-air, a big dod of fat dribbled on the plate.

‘Anyway, we turn up at a place like this, all tanked up from a couple of litres of Captain Morgan’s someone bought in Duty Free.’ Hunter pushed his burger away, smearing minty yoghurt over the plate. ‘Worst luck. Turned out a bunch of officers were staying down the corridor form us. Out here on a stag. And one of them knew two of our lads, so they ordered us to join in their session. Trust me, you’ve not lived until you’ve seen an army captain neck four Es then invite everyone to his room for— Well. I’ll leave it there.’

‘Eww.’ Chantal’s burger dropped on her plate. ‘Did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’ Hunter picked out a lump of falafel and popped it into his mouth. ‘Made myself sick. My mate Terry helped me back to our room. Gave him a good excuse to leave as well. Win, win.’

‘Terry’s the one—’

‘Aye.’ Hunter pressed the burger into his plate, bits of chickpea tumbling out. ‘Him.’

‘Is that why you’re getting all these flashbacks?’

Hunter took another drink, his pint glass below halfway now, and wiped his lips. ‘Maybe.’

‘You should’ve said.’

‘Look, my PTSD doesn’t say to me “Oh, hey Craig, I’m going to do your head in every time someone eats a bacon roll.” It’s all random shit until I figure out the root cause. The smell of bacon is just the trigger.’

‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’ She grabbed her glass and got to her feet. ‘Finish that pint, we’ve got a cover to maintain. We’re supposed to be getting blootered in the sun, then shagging each other’s brains out.’ She gave him a dirty wink and walked over to the bar.

TWENTY-FIVE

Chantal

Chantal stopped by the door and let the skinny girl go first.

‘Cheers, chuck.’ Her Black Country accent cut through the afternoon sunshine.

‘My little Chucka!’

Chantal froze, clenching her jaw at the memory. She stared around the hotel bar, nostrils flaring. Was somebody smoking in here? A gang of wild women at the far side were singing along to someone’s mobile, that slushy One Direction song. Wide range of ages, late teens to forties, at least. A coach pulled up by the entrance. Two men with their tops off wandered past, T-shirts wrapped around their waists, burnt skin close to cracking.

The girl was carrying a tray of shot glasses filled with pale-blue liquid. ‘You okay, chuck?’

Chantal swallowed bile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘I’m Bekah, by the way.’

‘Chantal.’

‘Nice to meet you. Do you want to do a shot with us?’

Chantal had another scan of the bar area. Still no likely suspects in the hunt for Tulloch, but a tray of shots meant a group of women. Maybe they’d seen something, maybe spoken to Tulloch or his crew. She nodded without a backwards glance at Hunter. ‘Aye, go on.’

Bekah led over and set the tray down. ‘Here we go, girls!’ She took a glass and handed Chantal another drink. Pale blue liquid, way more than a standard measure. Probably way stronger, too. ‘Here you go, chuck!’

Chucka . . .

Jesus.

Chantal tried to cover her grimace with a smile. ‘Cheers.’

The group crowded around the drinks tray, pushing Chantal and Bekah to the back. The one who seemed like the chief bridesmaid climbed onto a table and raised her glass. ‘Here’s for Amy!’

‘Wahey!’ Bekah necked her shot.

Chantal waited until she shut her eyes in recoil, then tossed hers over her shoulder. She stuck her tongue out and gagged. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Bekah leaned in close and burped out citrusy breath. ‘I asked the barman for the strongest stuff they had.’

‘Nice one!’ Chantal gritted her teeth. ‘So how well do you know the hen?’

‘She’s my cousin.’ Bekah’s accent was even stronger than the drink. ‘We’re from near Stoke.’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘Is that Scotland?’ Bekah waited for a nod. ‘You don’t look local.’

Chantal laughed. ‘Born and bred there.’

‘We get lots of your kind round our way. My best mate Mina, her parents are from Pakistan. Do you know her?’

‘I do know a Mina but not one from Stoke.’ This was a mistake . . . ‘When did you come out here?’

‘Wednesday night. We fly back on Sunday. Having a great time. I don’t want to leave!’

Chantal nodded slowly. She caught a glimpse of Hunter, sitting on his own, eyes fixed on his mobile. The hotel bar was busy, full of people who might’ve seen Tulloch, and he was texting someone. I’m doing all the bloody work here. She smiled at Bekah. ‘So what’s the chat like round the bar here?’

‘The chat?’ Bekah bellowed with laughter. Poor girl was way more pissed than anyone should be at half twelve. ‘I love your accent!’

‘I mean, is this a good place for a laugh?’

‘Yeah. Totally. Yesterday, we got talking to these—’

‘Come on!’ A bridesmaid came back from the bar, carrying yet another tray of shots, her mouth stretched out way beyond a smile. ‘Here we go, ladies!’

Bekah raced over and grabbed two glasses. She bounced back like a spring deer and handed one to Chantal.

The glass weighed less than a paper weight and yet enough to make her heart sink deep into her chest.

Bekah threw a shot down her throat. ‘Come on, Chantal. Let’s get some more in!’ Then she hopped off to the bar.

TWENTY-SIX

Hunter

Hunter sipped at the pint, now flat and tasteless, and huffed out a breath. A quarter of it left. Just as well I didn’t down it when Chantal asked me to.

Across the other side of the hotel bar area, she was in with a hen party, laughing at some no-doubt dirty joke. Looked like she’d been caning it with them all morning.

The waif next to her handed her a glass. Blink and you’d miss it, but it looked like the shot went right over Chantal’s shoulder.

That’s my girl.

No new messages on his phone. Heat burned his neck as the sun crawled round to inflict its worst on the bar area. The rainwater was half-dried now, could almost see it hissing away, the ozone tang was real, though. Like doing a paper round, first thing in the morning, before everyone was up.

Early lunchtime drinkers. How many of them would merge into all-day boozers?

At the next table, a guy in his forties lay back in his chair, soaking up the fresh sun. Shaved head, tat-shop Ray-ban clones, maroon T-shirt with a little fish logo, wiry hair poking out of his pale-blue shorts, and, of course, a whole canvass of tattoos, chief among them a red rose that climbed up his entire arm.

Squaddie, for sure.

Hmm . . .

Hunter finished the dregs of his pint and got up to stretch. The bright light bouncing off the guy’s glasses nearly blinded him. ‘Excuse me, mate?’

He lifted up his shades, his eyes barely open. ‘What’s that?’

‘Could you watch these seats for me?’

‘No worry, mate.’ Northern accent. Manchester. Maybe Liverpool or anywhere between. Rugby League country.

‘Cheers.’ Hunter trudged into the bar, ignoring yet another roar of laughter from the hen party. Even though the doors to the outside bar area were open, it was cool inside from the industrial air conditioning. Cool and dark. Took a while for his eyes to adjust. Long marble bar, a tattooed guy sitting at the far end, lost in his mobile.

Hunter nodded at the barman. ‘Two pints of Sagres, please.’

‘Coming up, sir.’ The barman flipped on the taps over two glasses. Short dark hair, designer stubble, practiced movements, but sulking like a teenager walking around a supermarket with his mum.

Hunter reached into his pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper, and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recog— Sorry, do you know this man?’

The bartender huffed out a sigh as he flipped off both taps. ‘Listen, my friend, English police officers already ask about Harry Jack.’

Hunter gave a warm smile. ‘This isn’t about Harry.’ He tapped the photo again. ‘Have a look.’

The barman gave the tiniest glance at the photograph and shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Big guy.’ Hunter put his hand a few inches above his head. ‘Accent like mine.’

‘I see many people here, my friend.’ The barman dumped both glasses on the bartop, the handles facing out. ‘Six euro.’ A little nod at another customer.

‘Cheers.’ Hunter’s mobile rattled in his pocket. A text from Finlay.

SERIOUSLY MATE! NEED ANY HELP?

Hunter pocketed his phone and handed over a ten-euro note. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ A smile sparked on the barman’s face. ‘I will watch for that man.’

‘Cheers, boss.’ Hunter carried the glasses by the handles and stepped out of the way as Chantal and a couple of the hens danced their way into the bar.

Chantal was a few steps behind and looked every inch as bored as Hunter.

He stepped back into the blinding light and put one beer on his table, one on his neighbour’s. ‘Thanks, mate.’

The neighbour slid his shades down his nose, frowning at the fizzing beer. ‘What’s that for?’

‘Looking after my seat.’ Hunter sat down and took a big gulp. Cold and crisp. Lovely. He rubbed at his wrist.

Chantal came out of the bar alongside the skinny girl, both ladies skipping like they were trying to convince each other they were having the time of their life. Neither seemed particularly convincing.

His neighbour frowned over the top of his shades. ‘Come on, die young?’

Hunter held up his right wrist, showing his tattoo. ‘It’s an army thing, mate.’

His neighbour shifted his chair, almost sparking fire from the slabs as he ground the legs forward. He offered a hairy hand. ‘Ricky.’

Hunter shook it, getting the old masonic thumb press for his troubles. ‘Craig.’

‘You a squaddie, too?’

‘Ex.’ Hunter almost winced. Shite. Keep up the cover. Can’t say you’re a cop, you daft bastard. ‘I’m in private security now.’ He took another sip of beer. ‘You?’

‘Still in, mate.’ Ricky’s eyes glazed over, like he wasn’t in southern Portugal any more. ‘Corporal. Just back from Syria. Brutal, mate, brutal.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Worse than Kandahar?’

‘You see action there?’

Another sip, the lump in Hunter’s throat almost throbbing. ‘Two Afghan tours plus one in Iraq. Trouble with Syria is the bloody Russians. I swear. In Afghanistan and Iraq, it was us against the bad guys. Too much pissing about in Syria, mate.’

‘Shitty business, innit?’ Ricky settled into his pint, clearing half in one long gulp. ‘Worst way to make a living, I swear. If I had my time again, I’d pay attention at school.’ He grinned. ‘Damn it, I’d actually go.’ He bellowed out a laugh.

‘Story of my life, mate.’ Hunter toyed with showing him the photo. Not yet. No point in seeming too keen. ‘Feels like I’m back on base, though. Seen a few squaddies round here already.’

‘Can’t bloody get away from them.’ Another gulp of lager, then Ricky’s expression darkened. ‘Tell you something. Got chatting to a bunch of lads yesterday evening. Matt, Matty, something like that and his mate. Big prick. Thought he was something. John? Sean? Some nobody name anyway.’

Hunter drank some beer, his pulse racing. ‘Aye?’

‘Pair of pricks pretending to be squaddies. Can you believe it? Cheeky bastards. Thought it would impress the birds or something.’

Hunter looked around the place. The walls seemed a good twenty metres or so further away than when they’d started drinking. ‘This was here?’

‘Yeah, right here.’ Ricky drilled a finger into the table and snarled into his pint. ‘Said they’d been in Kandahar, but the story didn’t stack up. I kept prodding at it, finding gaping holes in it. Arseholes.’

‘Didn’t they look the part?’

‘Well, they was big lads. Taller than you even. Muscly, you know?’ Another gulp. ‘But it’s all mirror muscles with these lads, right? Think they’re in the Premiership.’ He started lifting his arms like he was raising dumbbells. ‘Like that in front of the mirror for hours, mate.’ He scowled, darkness clouding his eyes. ‘I’m all about functional strength. Calisthenics and kettlebells. All a man needs.’

‘What do you sling?’

‘Sixteen kilo. You?’

‘Just upped it to two twenty-four kilos.’

‘Hardcore.’

‘Until I dropped one on my bedroom floor. My girlfriend’s making me put down towels in case they get too heavy. Doesn’t feel so hardcore when you’re swinging on Egyptian cotton.’

‘Ha! Tell me about it, mate. Twenty-four’s a lot.’ Ricky went back to his beer. ‘Anyway, this pair of pricks looked like they preferred a needle in the arse. Matty and Sean.’

‘Definitely Sean?’

‘I think so. Like that Bond actor.’ Ricky snarled. ‘Wankers. If I see them again . . . I swear.’ He wrapped his fingers round the beer glass like it was a neck.

Hunter took another sip and nodded. Sean Tulloch was here, then. Just, where?

He leaned forward and pushed the glass out of his reach, a futile attempt to slow down the day’s descent into long, dark inebriation. ‘Why do you reckon they were pretending to be squaddies?’

‘Just a feeling. Makes me sick.’ Another drink and Ricky didn’t have much beer left. He eyed Hunter. ‘Take it you’re not lying?’

Hunter laughed. ‘I’ve got the PTSD to show for it, mate.’

‘Right, yeah.’ Ricky’s stubbly eyebrows flicked up, a stray spike arcing its own way. ‘Don’t believe in it myself.’

‘It’s real, believe me.’ Hunter wrapped his hands around his beer. ‘So these blokes, fancy sorting them—’

Ricky shook his head, his eyes screwed tight behind his shades. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to get involved. I had a word in their ears and they pissed off, sharpish.’

Tulloch pissing off at a warning? That didn’t sound like him.

Then again, he knew the police were investigating him. Most likely didn’t want to get into any scrapes here.

The one crime the locals would actually crack down on was fisticuffs in the street, since none of those squaddies and other pissheads could be trusted to respect the Marquess of Queensberry rules, or even to have heard of them.

If Tulloch was smart, he’d keep his hands in his pockets. If.

Hunter took another sip of beer. ‘Have you seen them today?’

‘If I had, they’d be in hospital.’ It looked like Ricky meant it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Chantal

Chantal dumped the glass on the table and wiped her chin like she’d downed the shot.

Playing the odds here. Going to get caught sooner or later.

Their group was thinning out a bit, but still at least twenty-strong. No sign of them moving on from the hotel bar, either. Could this really be where all the action was?

She leaned forward to pick up her wine, sunlight bouncing off the glass. ‘So, you were saying about last night?’

Bekah looked like she was going to be sick. She licked her lips a few times and stuck her tongue out. ‘Yeah, there were these lads here. Big strapping sorts, you know?’ She puffed up her cheeks. ‘A couple of them were Scotch, like you. One of them kept asking me about my fanny. Can you believe it?’

‘I can believe anything.’ Chantal grinned at her, hoping it looked genuine enough. ‘Did you say they were squaddies?’

‘My brother’s in the army. They acted like him, bunch of wankers.’

‘I’m looking for a friend of my boyfriend’s. Did you meet anyone called—’

Another roar went up and a woman appeared with yet another tray. A bottle of some spirit lay on its side. Chunky and dark. Jägermeister. Nasty. The glasses were chunky tumblers, way bigger than single shot-glasses. The woman started tipping out measures, the size that a drunk aunt might give you at Christmas, though not in the Jain household.

Bekah snatched up two glasses and handed one to Chantal. ‘Here you go!’

Chantal took the glass. Sickly thick liquid sloshed over the side, running down her fingers. Horrible stuff.

The woman who’d bought the bottle joined them. Early forties, dyed-blonde hair and a crop top twenty years too young for her. She thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Kerry.’ Sounded Manc. When she smiled, her face lined like old leather. ‘You with the hen party?’

Chantal shook her head. ‘Bekah here grabbed me.’

‘Well, the more, the merrier.’ Kerry linked arms at her left elbow, Bekah took the right. ‘Here we go, girls!’

No getting out of this one. Chantal downed the shooter and hissed. Cloyingly sweet, like cough syrup. Disgusting. She put the glass down. Hope to all that was holy that this isn’t a huge waste of time.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hunter

Ricky dumped two fresh pints down on the table. ‘Here you go, sunshine.’

‘Cheers, boss.’ Hunter was still halfway through his previous pint. Feeling it, already. Don’t let them stack up, you amateur. He checked over the other side of the bar area, shielding his eyes from the sun. The hen party was in full flow, as was the alcohol, and by the looks of it, Chantal was drowning in fake cheer. Seriously hope she’s getting something out of this, other than pissed.

He touched the beer to his lips and took a bite out of the crisp lager. ‘So, what are you doing over here? Holiday?’

‘On a month off, mate.’ Ricky pushed his shades up. ‘After the shit I’ve seen over in Syria, I thought I’d treat the wife to a nice little trip for my fortieth.’ Looked at least five years too late for that. Ricky slammed the glass upside down, like some sort of Viking. ‘Only thing is, our bloody son’s at home on his Jack Jones.’

Hunter frowned. ‘How old is he?’

‘Little bugger’s eighteen.’ Ricky growled at his empty glass, like that would refill it. ‘House’ll be a bloody bomb site by the time we get back.’ He lifted the fresh beer by the handle. ‘You?’

‘First holiday with my girlfriend.’ Hunter waved over at Chantal as she took a fresh shot glass. He got a wave before she started talking to another woman, much older than the waif who’d grabbed her.

Ricky smacked Hunter’s arm. ‘Jeez, mate! You’re punching above your weight there, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t say that to her.’ Hunter rubbed at his arm. Stung like a bastard.

Ricky aimed his finger like a rifle, straight at the woman next to Chantal. ‘See that bird she’s chatting to?’ He was pointing at a short woman in her mid-forties, blonde hair and a smile halfway to a snarl. ‘That’s me wife. Kerry.’ His eyes misted over. ‘She’s me best mate, man. Best thing in my life.’

‘I know the feeling.’

Ricky locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Do you?’ The deep intensity of the mad squaddie, trying to peer into the recesses of your soul, pull out any doubt over the statement, any hint of a lie. ‘Do you?’

Hunter nodded. ‘That’s how I feel about Chantal.’

‘Doesn’t sound that bad a name, mate.’ Ricky cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Oy! Get over here, you bitch!’

His wife rolled her eyes at Chantal and shouted back. ‘You’ll have to come over here, you daft bastard!’

‘No, you come here!’

TWENTY-NINE

Chantal

Kerry topped up Chantal’s glass again. ‘Here, you!’

‘You’re crazy!’ Bekah held hers out, thirsty for more.

‘Don’t talk to my husband about how crazy I am!’ Kerry joined in the countdown. ‘Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’

They linked their arms into Chantal’s and yanked them up, locking eyes with her. No choice but to down the drink. Flamed down her throat like heartburn. Feel like I’m going to vomit. She pulled her arms free, then dropped the glass on the nearest table. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘Thanks for that, love.’ Kerry bellowed with laughter. ‘I bought that.’

‘I mean, it’s too much. And I usually have it with Red Bull.’

‘Useless place has run out already.’ Kerry tutted. ‘Can you believe it?’ She tapped at her watch. ‘Not even one o’clock and there’s no Red Bull!’

‘It’s rubbish.’ Bekah burped into her hand, looking like she was going to be reacquainted with her lunch. If she’d even had any. ‘You’re not with us, are you?’

‘I am now!’ Kerry bellowed with raucous laughter. ‘No, I’m here with me husband.’ She nodded over to the other side. ‘See that bald bastard with that— Oooh, he’s lovely.’

Chantal clocked the object of her affections. Craig Hunter. ‘That’s my boyfriend.’

Kerry’s eyebrows flashed up and down. ‘What I wouldn’t give for . . .’ She gave him another long stare, then grabbed her bust. ‘Do you like my boobs? Got them for my fortieth. Me husband paid for them. They’re smashing, aren’t they?’ They barely moved when she shook them.

Bekah couldn’t take her eyes off them. ‘Can I have a feel?’

‘On you go, love.’

Bekah bit her lip as she honked the left breast. ‘Wow.’ She stared down at her flat chest. ‘I’ve thought about getting some tits.’

‘Best thing I’ve done.’ Kerry nodded at Chantal. ‘Do you want a feel?’

‘I’m good.’

‘Yeah, pair of tits like you’ve got.’ Kerry shook her head. ‘Wait till you have kids, love, then you’ll want to see what these are all about.’ She gave them another wiggle. ‘You’re not with this lot either?’

‘It’s mine and Craig’s first holiday together.’

‘Aw, that’s lovely.’

‘Aye, well. This is when I get to see how bad his personal hygiene is, right?’

Kerry slapped her on the arm as she roared with laughter. ‘Don’t you live together?’

‘Not yet.’

Kerry leaned over for the bottle and tipped a dribble into her glass. ‘Oh, Christ, it’s all gone!’

Chantal smiled at Bekah. ‘So, did you meet anyone called Sean?’

Bekah was struggling to keep both eyes open at the same time. ‘Didn’t get any names, sorry. They were lovely, though.’

‘Who was?’ Kerry sipped the spirit.

‘I’m looking for a friend of Craig’s.’ Chantal nodded over the way. ‘Supposed to be a surprise, but we can’t find him.’

‘Mum’s the word.’ Kerry tapped her nose.

Bekah coughed into her hand and swallowed something down. ‘We’re going to a club soon, if you want to come?’

Chantal looked at her watch. ‘It’s two o’clock.’

‘Is it? Well, we want to dance. Then we can come back for a siesta and hit it even harder later on. We were out till six this morning.’ Bekah stuck her arm in the air, fist clenched. ‘Whooo!’

‘You’re mental.’ Kerry grinned until her husband shouted something over at her. She bellowed something back. Words lost in another cheer from the hen party.

Chantal leaned in to Bekah. ‘Have you seen any of those squaddie lads?’

Bekah was too far gone. Fast train to Partyville, stopping at Dancefloor Snog and Kebab Central, terminating at Hold My Hair While I Spew.

Kerry nibbled at her lip and rested her head on Chantal’s shoulder. ‘Here, this lot are getting too crazy.’ Sickly shot breath. ‘It’s still happy hour, do you want to get some booze and head back to our fellas?’

Chantal nodded, then patted Bekah on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’ She whispered into the girl’s ear. Feel like a maiden aunt. ‘Go and get yourself some sleep.’

Bekah turned and walked off.

Kerry grabbed Chantal’s hand and pulled her into the hotel bar area, where she rested on the bartop like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The barman smiled at her. He looked like he could come off the bench for Barcelona any second, slick hair and tight shirt ready for the cameras. One of those prospects who’d end up never making it in the big league, but would turn up in English football, swilling in the money. ‘What can I get you?’

THIRTY

Hunter

Hunter checked his watch. Not even three and the beer glasses were coming at him like flak. Need to slow down. ‘So, what have you got planned, then?’

‘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 though 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.

A few seconds later, the woman handed the mic back and Tulloch snatched it out of the karaoke guy’s hands. He jabbed a finger in the guy’s face and got an open-palmed gesture in response. Then Tulloch started singing something, his mates at the bar laughing on cue.

Chantal tapped a nail on the screen. ‘What was he singing?’

José clicked his fingers a few times, then jabbed one in the air. ‘Hall and Oates? “The Private Eyes”?’

‘Guy’s got taste.’ Chantal shook her head at him, then at the monitor. ‘Oh, God.’

On the screen, Tulloch had pulled his trousers down and waved his penis around. Spinning it around like a propeller. Eye-wateringly long and thick.

Her eyes bulged. ‘Well, that’s a big one, alright.’

José rolled his eyes at her. ‘I see bigger.’

The three barmen, including José, raced across the stage, one of them pushing Tulloch over. He tried to fight but stumbled over again.

José hauled him to his feet and escorted him out of the bar.

‘Man like him is bad news.’ José shook his head again. Onscreen, he pulled Tulloch’s trousers up and helped him with his belt. ‘He was very drunk. I had to help put penis away.’

‘Bet you did . . .’ Chantal grabbed the remote control and wound it forward.

Tulloch’s mates necked their shots and left the bar. José stayed with Tulloch all that time, supposedly to stop him from getting back in, but there was no sound recording.

Chantal cleared her throat. ‘What were you saying to him?’

‘He was talking about girlfriend. She likes big cock, he say.’

‘That was it?’

‘That was it.’ José flicked his eyebrows. ‘Such a waste.’

‘Do you know where they went?’

‘Sorry.’ José reached down to the printer and handed Chantal images of Tulloch and his mates, all with their cocks safely tucked away. ‘This is all.’

Chantal smiled as she took the page and handed him the fifty in return. She didn’t let go and when he looked in her eyes, she gave him a business card. ‘You call me if he comes back, okay?’

*   *   *

Chantal left Hunter giving his mobile number to José and strolled across the bar. A couple were sitting in the window now, smiling as they sipped at sparkling white wine.

Luisa was leaning against the door, arms folded. When Chantal pushed her empty coffee cup across the bar, she took it, tired irritation showing in the curl of her lip. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

Chantal nodded. ‘Why didn’t he want you talking to us?’

‘You heard him. It’s bad for business, isn’t it?’

‘That child was kidnapped in England?’

‘So? You think that player knows anything but where his next blowjob’s coming from?’

Chantal unfolded the printed pages and pointed at the photo of a big thug talking to Luisa. ‘Looks like you know this man.’

The barmaid took one look at the photo and smiled. ‘He had a thick accent. Northern or something. I couldn’t understand it. He was after a Crazy Vimto, but I didn’t know what it was.’

‘Did you get him one?’

‘Yeah. He explained it. Port and vodka added to a bottle of blue WKD.’ Luisa shook her head. ‘Classy.’

THIRTY-TWO

Hunter

Hunter walked down the road, one hand in his pocket rubbing against his keycard. The street leading down to reception was quiet, just an idling taxi belching out brownish fumes. The sun beat down hard, like it was begging forgiveness for all the earlier rain. Its harsh light was flaring across the sea, dappling in the afternoon sky. No clouds, just a blue so deep he thought he might drown if he looked at it any longer.

Still not sure whether that was the elemental force of nature or the first sign of a murder hangover.

Best not think about it.

A few girls sat in one of the gardens lining the road, stretching out on the lawns as they passed around a bottle of Vodka.

The vaguest whiff of skunk on the breeze, mixing with coffee and food smells. Mostly cheese and herbs, the tang of tomato sauce. No meat, thank God.

Hunter stopped on the corner heading towards their apartment and looked at Chantal. ‘What exactly did you mean about Tulloch’s cock?’

Chantal gave him that look, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. ‘You saw it, right?’

‘It?’ Hunter sighed as a coach pulled past them. ‘Looked like two to me.’

‘You need to stop worrying, okay?’ She laughed as she stroked his arm. ‘I know what I like, Craig. I’ve had a huge guy before and it’s not much fun, believe me.’

Huge? Terrific.

Hunter scowled at her. ‘Look, it’s—’

The bus hissed to a stop over by reception and the door unfolded. A gang of pissed blokes started jumping out, roaring with laughter and shouting at each other. Big lads. More squaddies.

‘Hold that cock.’ Hunter squinted at one of them. ‘I meant “thought”.’ Wonky ears, dead eyes. He got out his phone and checked the photos Elvis had sent over. ‘That guy looks very much like Gordon Brownlee.’

Chantal frowned over. ‘Tulloch’s mate?’

‘Certainly matches the description.’ Hunter flicked through the rest of them. ‘No sign of Tulloch, though.’ He put his mobile away. ‘Want to have a wander over and chance it?’

‘Got a better idea.’

THIRTY-THREE

Chantal

Chantal strode over to the apartments lining the road and stopped by the second from last. Four alcohol corpses lay on the grass, groaning as they sipped wine from teacups. ‘Bekah, how’s it going?’

‘Chantal!’ She bounced to her feet, almost rising above the fence. Christ knows where she got the energy from. She was lobster-red, must’ve fallen asleep in the garden. ‘We lost you, chuck. What happened?’

Chantal smiled at her. ‘Had to get a coffee. Too much . . .’ She made the drinky-drinky motion with her hand and looked around. A couple of the other girls from the bar lay on the grass, sipping vodka from the bottle. ‘Thought you were going clubbing?’

‘We fell asleep.’ Bekah gingerly prodded her arm and winced. ‘So what’s new?’

‘Going to get some drinks in the bar, if you fancy it?’

‘Do I ever!’ Bekah vaulted the fence and landed without a sound. She held out a hand to Hunter, like a fairytale princess expecting it to be kissed. ‘I’m Bekah. Take it you’re Craig?’

Hunter didn’t look like he knew the Disney protocol. He smiled and wrapped her hand in his paw. ‘That’s me.’

‘Lover boy.’ Bekah leered at Chantal. ‘Heard a lot about you, didn’t I, chuck?’

Chucka . . .

Chantal grimaced.

‘Have you?’ Hunter’s eyebrows looked out of control. ‘All good, I hope.’

‘The best!’ Bekah skipped towards reception, the throng of squaddies parting like the Red Sea, most of them checking her out.

Chantal grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘Go to the bar. I’ll try to use her as bait.’

*   *   *

Chantal leaned back in the chair and took another dry sip of rosé, head thumping in tune to the awful club mix blaring out of the indoors dance area.

So much for the plan, the plan that had backfired the second they’d set foot in the hotel bar . . .

The tables near them were filled with older people, enjoying the sun. Not exactly dignified as they tucked into cheap Portuguese booze. Still no sign of Tulloch’s crew, either.

The hen party sipped white wine instead of shooters. The bar staff still hadn’t cleared away the bottles of empty spirits lying on their sides.

Bekah leaned forward, her teenage face crumpling with angst. ‘So, my boyfriend, right? All he wants to do is a quick shag and that’s it. It’s, like, boring?’

Still going on about her boyfriend back home being rubbish in bed. He’s a teenager, it’s what they are, love.

The way she was leaning in to Hunter . . . Felt like she was angling for a threesome. Or maybe a twosome. Wonder what Craig would say to that? Maybe I’m surplus to requirements.

Chantal took a proper sip of wine. Feel a bit better. ‘And have you talked to him about it?’

‘Talk? He doesn’t listen! Do you know what I mean, chuck?’

Chantal gritted her teeth. If she says that one more time . . . ‘I know what you mean.’ She looked at Hunter. Poor guy looked bored to death, so probably interested in neither a two- nor a threesome. Or he’s still preoccupied with matters of greater length and girth. Were all men perv—

‘Here we go, boys!’ One of the squaddies from the bus sauntered out into the sunshine, dirty Scottish accent and he didn’t care who knew it. Tray full of fizzing beer, shades on the top of his head, shorts and T-shirt, his skin salmon pink, at least in the few places where it wasn’t tattoo-black. ‘This is the game!’ He put the tray down and started chucking some tables together, pushing the chairs into place around them. Enough for a squad of about twenty.

Bekah hadn’t even noticed, but the lads had certainly spotted her. She leaned in close to Chantal. ‘And he won’t even go down on me.’

THIRTY-FOUR

Hunter

Hunter sipped another millimetre off his beer. Still loads left.
Feels like I’ve wandered into some German fairy-tale, the glass replenishing itself as if by magic every time I take a sip. The illusion broke as soon as he looked up from the glass and saw the new squaddies livening up the place. Didn’t recognise any of them. Certainly no sign of Brownlee or Tulloch.

Bekah’s doing my nut in. So much banality in one skinny body. Fat Jim back at the station always went on about young girls, the dirty old bastard. Can’t see the appeal. Old enough to be her father and I’m not even thirty-five. The thought of a man my age or older shagging someone so immature . . . Alcohol and morals, a recipe for gut rot.

She said something he didn’t catch.

Chantal looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face. She leaned forward. ‘Do you, you know?’ She stuck her tongue in her cheek.

‘All. The. Time.’ Bekah sipped at her Breezer like it was a formula bottle. ‘And I swallow, too. And not a lick of thanks from that bastard.’

Save me from the tedium . . .

They were surrounded by hens slowing down and stags speeding up.

Behind enemy lines. Getting rat-arsed with a hen party. Getting bloody nowhere, while Tulloch was . . .

What?

Back home, he was abusing women who provided some form of consent. Paisley, on some level, at some point in time, had agreed to have sex with him. When she withdrew, he would’ve rationalised his rape as merely taking his conjugal rights. Or he just brutalised her without a second thought, but in her case, it hadn’t started with sexual violence.

Out here, though, rabid stags were unlikely to bother with consent before firing into pissed teens like Bekah.

Hunter necked a couple of inches of beer, then swirled the dregs round, trying to get some head to foam up. When none did, he just sank the rest and hoped it would wash down the filthy aftertaste of his thoughts. ‘I’ll get another round in.’

Chantal clasped his hand and gave him a quick squeeze. ‘G&T for me.’

Bekah swayed in the sunshine, waving her bottle in the air. ‘Another Bacardi Breezer!’

‘On my way, ladies.’ Hunter huffed up to his feet and walked inside, dumping his empty glass on the bartop.

The barman gave him a sly nod as he poured out three pints simultaneously. Looked like he’d lost the will to live, if he’d ever had it.

Bloody knee was still sore from that tussle in Galashiels. Felt a million miles away.

He took out his phone to check how far it actually was, but the message symbol caught his eye. Two from Finlay. He pocketed it and rested against the bar. Still nothing from Elvis about those other squaddies.

The barman pushed three beers over to the customer to Hunter’s right. ‘Ten Euro fifty.’

‘Here you go.’ The lumbering hulk of muscle dumped a note and a coin on the bar. He picked up three pints in pyramid formation and gave Hunter a nod.

Gordon Brownlee.

If you opened the dictionary at squaddie, it would show a picture of Brownlee. Thick cranium, mouth hanging open, beady little eyes focused on the foaming pints. Had a bit of a twitch, every so often, just when you thought it had stopped. The wonky ears were less obvious in real life, but the eyes . . . The eyes . . .

Hunter blocked him off. ‘Here, do I know you?’

Brownlee scowled at him. ‘Doubt it, mate.’ He pushed past him into the sunshine.

The barman tapped him on the shoulder, eyes wide. ‘Sir?’

‘What’s up?’

‘I have that beer you ordered?’

*   *   *

Hunter clattered the tray down on the table. Nobody looked up except Chantal.

Gordon Brownlee was sitting next to Bekah. He’d lost two of his pints and it looked like he’d need reinforcements soon. In the time he’d been at the bar, the squaddies’ table had filled up and spilled out in their direction. ‘Aye, of course it’s a hard life.’

Bekah was purring at him. She tossed her hair back. ‘Tell me, do you miss your wife?’

‘Hardly.’ Brownlee bellowed out a laugh. ‘I’m not married yet!’

Hunter sat between Brownlee and Chantal, and distributed the drinks.

Chantal pounced on Bekah, whispering in her ear. She got a giggle for her effort at discretion.

Hunter cleared his throat and frowned at Brownlee. ‘It’s Gordon, isn’t it?’

He shifted his gaze from Bekah’s bare thighs up to Hunter, squinting at the sunlight. ‘Look, I don’t know you, man. Piss off.’

‘Craig Hunter.’ He held out a hand. ‘You were in Kandahar, right?’

‘Not for very long.’ Brownlee supped at his beer. ‘I don’t recognise you.’

‘You still serving?’

Brownlee settled back. Slightly more comfortable, the ice beginning to thaw. ‘For my sins, aye.’

‘You know a Sean Tulloch?’

‘Big Sean . . . What a guy.’ Brownlee bellowed out more laughter. ‘You know him?’

‘Served with him in Kandahar. He with you?’

Brownlee reached over and tapped someone on the back. ‘Matty?’

Matty could’ve passed for Sean Tulloch’s brother. Same height and bulk, his twinkly eyes twisted by booze, coke and God knows what else. Although, chances were not even God knew what had addled that ogre’s mind. He was puffing on a cigar, like he was some Hollywood big shot. And of course he had his top off, cupping a hand around his bicep as he flexed. Bloody squaddies on R&R . . . ‘All right, mate?’ Throaty Leeds accent. ‘What’s up?’

‘Boy here says he knows Sean from Kandahar.’

‘Yeah?’ Matty looked him up and down. ‘What squad were you in?’

‘3 Scots.’ Hunter smiled at him, careful to maintain eye contact. ‘Stationed at Fort George. You?’

Matty picked up a pint and sucked down a third in one go. ‘Parachute.’

‘Still in?’

A slight nod. ‘Thinking of giving it up, though.’ Matty swivelled his chair round. ‘My year’s notice is up in May. Thinking of moving out here.’

‘Sounds ideal.’

‘It is, mate.’ Matty drank some more, his eyes still not quite buying what Hunter was selling. ‘What about you?’

‘Jacked it back in 2010. Doing private security now.’ Hunter drank some more of his own pint. Spin the lie through more questions, rather than inventing too much. Matty wasn’t biting, though. ‘Been out in Syria for six months.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Worse than Kandahar, I swear, but I’m a step removed from the frontline, you know?’

Matty punched Brownlee on the shoulder. Hard enough to make noise. ‘We met some bloke who’s been over there, didn’t we?’

‘Aye, last night.’ Brownlee clinked his fingers off the glass. ‘Not a very nice guy, mind. Older punter. Cracked in the head. Being in the army that long’ll make you go that way, right?’

Chantal sashayed past them to the toilet, arm-in-arm with Bekah.

Matty whistled through his teeth. ‘That your bird, mate?’

Hunter nodded as he sipped more beer. ‘Love of my life.’

‘Talk about punching above your weight.’

‘You’re not the first to say that.’

Matty cackled with laugher. ‘You’re a six at best, right. I’d say she’s a nine. At least.’ He thwacked Brownlee on the arm. ‘What’d you give her, Gogs?’

‘I’d give her one.’

Matty rocked back with laughter. ‘These boys . . .’ He puffed on the cigar. Didn’t look like he was going to share it around. Selfish as well as a creep.

Terrific.

Matty blew out smoke like he was about to blow a whole lot more up someone’s arse. ‘You’re sound, you are. Not like that prick last night. Wouldn’t believe we were squaddies!’

‘What a wanker.’ Hunter drank some more beer. Feel like I’m drowning. Maybe now’s the time to close the deal. ‘So, is Sean around?’

‘Was. God knows where he is now, mate.’ Matty licked the edge of the cigar. ‘We was away shark fishing, not that we saw any. A few boys jumped out of the coach back in the old town. Supposed to be meeting them later, but they could get lost in a toilet, know what I’m saying?’

‘Only too well . . . Tell you what would be a laugh. What about if I meet up with you boys later. It’ll wind Sean right up. You know he hates spiders, aye?’

Brownlee was scowling at him. ‘Spiders? Piss off.’

Hunter flicked up his eyebrows. ‘I’ll get a load of plastic ones from one of those tat shops and we can throw them at him.’

‘Tell you what’d be hilarious!’ Matty fell about laughing. ‘Sticking them up his arse!’

Brownlee rolled his eyes. ‘Always the arse play with you, Matty.’

‘Funny as fuck, though, mate. Shove a plastic spider right up his hole.’ Matty downed the last of his beer. ‘Supposed to be going for dinner down the Strip tonight. Back of eight, I think. Same place we were in last night, if they’ll let us in. The biggest steak you’ve ever seen in your life, mate. And five euros!’

Hunter’s gut churned at the thought. ‘Sounds brilliant.’

‘First one on the left as you hit it from this end. Can’t remember the name.’

‘Cool.’ Hunter got to his feet and nodded. ‘See you later, aye?’ He offered a fist to bump.

‘Sure thing, mate.’ Matty obliged, cracking his knuckles much harder than he needed to. ‘Later.’

Brownlee gave him a salute. ‘Later.’

Hunter marched off to the bar. Bekah was getting served, though Christ knows how anyone could even think about giving her more booze, the state she was in. The poor girl could barely stand up.

He gripped Chantal’s arm. ‘Come on, I’ve got something.’

Chantal nodded at him, then patted Bekah’s shoulders. ‘Think it’s time you had a little siesta, miss.’

‘You two inviting me back to your room, are you?’ Bekah tried for a saucy wink, but couldn’t control either eye.

‘Hardly.’ Hunter flagged down a passing hen and whispered in her ear, ‘Think you should get this little chick tucked up in bed.’

THIRTY-FIVE

Chantal

Chantal opened the apartment door and stomped across the tiles. Struggling to not just collapse on the bed and fall asleep. She pulled the patio doors wide and sat on the chair, knees pointing inwards. No sooner had her bum touched the plastic had she torn open the lid and glugged down half the coffee. ‘I don’t see how this gets us anywhere.’

‘We’ve got a likely location.’ Hunter joined her outside and dumped his phone on the table. ‘The circle’s closing around him.’

‘Still feels like a very big one.’

‘Speaking of which . . .’

‘Craig, drop it.’ Chantal slurped down more coffee. Could barely taste it. ‘You’re a one-track record.’

‘Would you rather have a one trick-pony? Or a donkey. At least they come with massive—’

‘Just let it go.’

He didn’t look like it was settled. Coming up next, more of Craig Hunter’s perceived penile inadequacy. ‘That Bekah girl, think she’ll be okay?’

‘I hope so. She needs to get some sleep.’ Chantal finished the coffee, the black sludge finally hitting her tongue. ‘She’s desperate for a shag. I almost thought she wanted to try it on with y—’

Hunter’s mobile blasted out the drill again. Set Chantal’s teeth on edge. Finlay Sinclair’s ugly mug gurned out of a drunken photo taken on some club night best forgotten.

‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter turned it over and covered the speaker. ‘Finlay keeps pestering me. I forgot how clingy he is.’

‘Tell him to piss off.’

Hunter looked at her like he was wondering about her character transformation. All that swearing didn’t sound like her, at least not the her he knew. Then he held up the mobile and turned the ringer down a bit. ‘Wish I’d not got in touch with him now.’

She crumpled up the coffee cup. ‘Why not say you’ve got your martial arts thing?’

The corner of his mouth turned up. ‘He loves that excuse.’ The phone stopped ringing. ‘You really think I should text him?’

‘Whatever, as long as you get rid of him.’

Hunter seemed to pick up on her decisiveness as he hammered at the screen. ‘What were you saying about that Bekah girl?’

‘Nothing.’

He put his phone down again. ‘Come on, I know it’s not nothing.’

Chantal pushed out a sigh. ‘Okay, I thought she was—’

‘—YOU STUPID BITCH!’

Crash. Thump. Tinkle.

‘WHAT ARE YOU—’

Screech. ‘I HATE YOU!’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Chantal jolted to her feet and dashed over to the fence. ‘What’s going on?’ She squinted hard. Over the small lane, one of the ground-floor apartment doors hung open, the curtains flapping in the breeze.

A suitcase sconed off the French doors and rolled across the patio, shirts and pants tumbling out. Ricky appeared in the doorway. ‘LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE NOW, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ He bent down and started scooping up his clothes, an aggressive tension in his every movement.

Chantal pushed away from the barrier. ‘We need to stop this before one of them gets killed!’

THIRTY-SIX

Hunter

Hunter used the plant pots to vault over the picket fence. He landed on the lane with a soft thud and jogged towards the apartment, his knee unaware of the kicking it was sure to be delivering any moment. That Ricky had looked like a bruiser the minute he laid eyes on him, and now he was laying his hands on a woman . . .

Take it slowly, man. You’re half-cut. No jumping to conclusions. Not every macho squaddie is also an abusive wifebeat—

‘STOP CALLING ME A BITCH!’ Kerry booted Ricky on the arse and he tumbled forwards. ‘YOU FAT PRICK! CAN’T EVEN GET A HARD-ON ANY MORE, YOU PISS ARTIST!’

‘SHUT YOUR MOUTH!’

‘NO, YOU SHUT— AH!’ Kerry fell backwards, cracking her head off the door. ‘YOU BASTARD!’

‘Stop!’ Hunter stopped on the other side of the fence, arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’

Ricky was on all fours, rubbing at a gash on his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘What’s your problem, mate?’

‘Calm down.’

Ricky pushed himself up to his feet. ‘You want to make something of this, do you?’

Hunter clambered over the fence and landed on their patio. ‘I don’t want this to turn nasty.’

‘You want to stick that big Scotch beak in, though, don’t you?’ Ricky spat at him, thick gobbets splattering Hunter’s cheek. ‘You think you’re something, do you? Big hard master of the kettle bell, eh?’

Kerry appeared in the doorway again. ‘I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!’

‘PISS OFF, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ Ricky sneered at her, his head butting the air. Then back at Hunter. ‘You want to take me on, mate, you’ll regret it.’

‘It’s okay.’ Hunter stood slightly back, his fists clenched and in position. ‘Calm down and it’ll all be cool.’

‘You hear what that bitch said to me? See what she did?’ Ricky picked up his suitcase and hurled it at Kerry, cracking it off her head. ‘Did you?’

Chantal scrambled over the fence and stopped dead.

‘You can piss off, too, you Paki bitch!’ Ricky lunged for Chantal.

Hunter stepped forward to block him. Ricky darted left and clawed a hand at Hunter’s throat. He pushed hard, pinning him to the side wall.

‘Get off him!’ Chantal scratched at Ricky’s hands. ‘Stop it!’

‘Back off or I’ll hurt you next!’ Ricky batted at her with his free hand, just missing her.

Hunter dug his chin down into his chest, piling pressure on Ricky’s thumb. He gripped his right hand around Ricky’s wrist and jerked it downwards. Then smashed Ricky’s nose with his left. ‘You don’t hit women!’ He swivelled his hips to the right and thrust out with his left hand again, this time cracking Ricky’s chin. ‘You don’t hit women!’ With a high knee he cracked Ricky’s groin, sending him tumbling to the ground. ‘You don’t hit women!’

‘STOP!’ Kerry stood in the doorway, cradling a bread knife. ‘Get away from my husband!’

‘Craig . . .’ Chantal tugged at his hand, pulling him away. ‘Come on.’

Hunter sucked in a deep breath. ‘You need to think about divorcing this idiot.’

‘You can piss off, you Scotch twat!’ Kerry slashed the knife through the air, nowhere near hurting anyone but herself. ‘I love me husband!’

Hunter shook his head and helped Chantal over the fence, eyes trained on Ricky as he groaned on the lawn. Hunter, too, could barely breathe. Felt like his throat was half the usual size.

‘Stop!’ A male voice came from the direction of the bar.

Hunter swung round, wary of putting his back to Ricky. ‘Aw, shite.’

Inspector João Quaresma marched towards them, flanked by a pair of brutish uniformed officers. ‘Stop right there!’

THIRTY-SEVEN

Chantal

Fantastic timing . . .

‘He’s all yours, officer.’ Chantal pointed back the way, then put her hands up. Act innocent, don’t give them a chance to find fault. ‘He was going to kill her.’ She leaned in close to whisper, ‘Keep our cover. No one knows we’re police.’

Quaresma peered over at Ricky.

Kerry was crouching by her husband, still brandishing her knife. ‘Keep the hell away from us!’

‘Typical British. . .’ Quaresma waved for the two uniforms next to him to take over. ‘Leve-os de volta para a estação.’

The bigger of the two nodded, then smiled at Kerry. ‘Madam, give me knife.’

Kerry dropped it on the patio and hugged her husband tight. ‘I love you, Ricky.’

‘I will deal with these two.’ Quaresma started off down the lane back towards reception. ‘We got a call to this hotel and I was driving past. On my way to importance business, so I am not happy.’ His eyes confirmed the statement. ‘This call, I wonder if you two are up to no good. No good with no permission of Portuguese police. Now I think, I was right.’

‘It’s a coincidence.’ Chantal rubbed at her arm, a rash puckering the flesh halfway up. ‘We intervened to stop him killing her. Ended up the other way round.’

Quaresma rolled his tongue over his lips. ‘Mr Hunter, it looks like to me, you assaulted a foreign national on my territory.’

Hunter’s turn to raise his hands. ‘Only in self-defence.’ He rubbed a hand across his throat, the bruise already turning purple. ‘He went for me. Grabbed me. I disarmed him.’

Quaresma narrowed his eyes at Chantal. ‘Sergeant, we have agreement, no? You call me when things get, how you say? Operational?’

‘This wasn’t an—’

‘No question, no exception.’ Quaresma stopped by a squad car next to an Audi. ‘Must I ask Mr Hunter to come with me to station, or do you give me your word?’

Hunter bowed his head. ‘You’ve got my word.’

‘And you, Ms Jain?’

‘We’ll call you next time.’

‘Then we have deal.’ Quaresma grinned at Hunter, his face lighting up like a little kid’s at Christmas. ‘Was that Krav Maga?’

Hunter lifted a shoulder. ‘I know a bit.’

‘A bit?’ Quaresma laughed. ‘You should be in UFC!’

‘Hardly.’

Quaresma’s face darkened again. That man’s moods changed like the wind. He waved at the two uniforms as they led Ricky and Kerry towards the car. ‘We will put fear of God in these two.’

Ricky snarled at them as the cops forced him into the back. ‘You pair of wankers!’

Chantal caught Quaresma’s door as he opened it. ‘Look, we’ve got some intel on Tulloch’s whereabouts.’

Quaresma stood up tall with a huff, his eyes tracing the car’s route up to the main road. The glint was gone from his eyes. ‘I am listening.’

‘We believe he’s down the Strip.’

‘You look for needle in haystack, yes?’ Quaresma chuckled and waved his hand around the area. ‘Stay here, please. Is much safer for you and your partner.’

‘But Tulloch’s not here.’

Quaresma licked his lips again. ‘Listen to me. You must act like tourists, okay? Tomorrow, I will give you some men to help.’

‘Tomorrow’s not good enough.’

‘Tomorrow is good enough, my friend.’ Quaresma put his fists up in the air and grinned at Hunter. ‘You want fight me, eh?’ He bobbed and weaved then held his hands up. ‘Please no!’

‘We need to get him tonight.’ Hunter folded his arms, conscious of his bulging biceps. ‘He might be gone by tomorrow.’

‘Listen to me.’ Quaresma rested a hand on Hunter’s back and one on Chantal’s. ‘My friends, we have big case from your country already. That is my priority. Not my decision, but my responsibility. First we must find the boy, so long my hands are locked.’

Chantal shrugged off his rather free hand. ‘So what you’re saying is, if I go to the press with our case, make sure it’s just as big as the missing person’s case, you’ll give us some support?’

Quaresma held her gaze, his eyes frozen over despite the summer sun. Then he burst into laughter. ‘You are very funny.’ He opened the car door wide. ‘You stay in this area, we have no problem, okay?’ He got into the black Audi and gunned the engine. A final wave and the car tore up the hill to the main road.

Chantal folded her arms, her right hand playing with the rash. ‘What a disaster.’

‘We saved her life.’ Hunter wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the head. ‘They’ll prosecute him for that. One wife-beating arsehole off the street is a result, and the day isn’t even over yet.’

‘Sounded like she gave as good as she got.’ She collapsed into Hunter’s embrace, her back warm against his stomach, and let out a deep, long sigh. ‘Jesus, I’m so pissed.’

Hunter kneaded her shoulders. ‘You’ve done very well, Mrs Bond.’

‘Miss Bond, thank you very much.’ Chantal stared at the road. Quaresma’s Audi droned away into the distance, the deep throttle engine noise louder than any other car in the road. ‘That macho idiot just loves being in charge, doesn’t he?’ She waved up at the main street, the car stopping outside the karaoke bar. ‘Meanwhile, Tulloch’s running wild in this town, up to his usual behaviour, no doubt. We need to get him before anyone else comes to harm.’

‘You heard what Quaresma said.’

She turned round to wink at him. ‘Oh, I heard what he said. I also heard what he said between the lines. He likes you. We should use that.’

‘Not sure how.’ Hunter gripped her shoulder where it hurt the most. Heaven . . . ‘What were you saying before that happened? Something about Bekah?’

‘Forget about it.’ Chantal smoothed down her hair. ‘Look, this is above our pay grades. I think it’s time we spoke to Sharon.’

*   *   *

Chantal stabbed a finger at her screen to stick it on speaker. Then she laid it on the bed between her and Hunter, and took a deep breath. Here we go . . .

The light outside was dimming to an early evening glow. Way earlier than in Scotland, but the heat was still there, still hotter than home at any time of the day.

‘Afternoon, Chantal.’ Could almost hear Sharon’s grin down the line. ‘Just left the beach, have you?’

‘Hardly.’ Chantal yawned into her fist and blinked hard a few times. How many more coffees can I drink? Another yawn hit her in the face, sinking its claws into her cheeks. ‘We’ve been working hard.’

‘You’re slurring your speech, you daft mare.’ Sharon sighed down the line. ‘Tell me you’ve not been drinking since you got there?’

‘All part of our cover story, Shaz.’ Chantal picked up the phone and scowled at it. ‘Did you not get my text?’

‘Aye, something about a possible location on Tulloch blah blah blah. And a cock block? What?’

‘Quaresma, our liaison, is blocking any progress. We know where Tulloch’s going to be tonight, and yet he won’t give us any officers. Any suggestions?’

Sharon sighed, then left a pause. Sounded like someone shouted ‘She was over eighteen!’ in the background. ‘Like we discussed, we have to progress this through the official channels. That means heeding the council of the local cops, much as that may frustrate you.’

‘Here’s the thing.’ Chantal rubbed her hands together. ‘Quaresma isn’t playing ball. This missing kid’s taking up all their time and we . . . had an incident.’

A deeper sigh crackled the speaker. ‘Christ on a moped, what have you done now?’

‘Some knuckle-dragging squaddie was battering his wife. We stopped him.’ She flashed Hunter a wink. ‘We should try and claim credit for it.’

‘You’ve not got jurisdiction over there, Chantal.’

‘We stopped one of them dying.’

‘I said no messing about. And you’ve been messing about.’

‘Come on, Shaz.’ Chantal stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Quaresma isn’t helping us at all. In fact, he’s told us to stick to the hotel area. We’re basically under house arrest.’

‘Sounds to me like you got what you want. Isn’t that where Tulloch is?’

‘He’s a mile away, tops.’

The line went silent again. The same voice shouted ‘Eighteen!’

Hunter got up and started pacing the room.

‘Right, I’ll speak to his superiors, see if I can chivvy things along.’ Another Sharon sigh. ‘But you need to listen to what Quaresma says, okay? I don’t want you jeopardising this investigation by pissing off someone we need — do you hear me? — neeeeeed to liaise with.’

Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘Like I would ever bend the rules.’

‘Did you say this guy was a squaddie?’

‘From Manchester or something.’ Chantal tried to fend off another yawn. ‘We’ve met quite a few soldiers here. Seems to be armed forces week off.’

‘Right. Well, it’s been all quiet on the Rollo-Smith front. Not sure that’s a good thing, mind.’

‘How do you want us to progress, then?’

‘Double bed comfy?’

‘Aye, very funny.’ Chantal shook her head at the phone. ‘Make sure you sort out Quaresma for us, okay?’ She ended the call and tossed her mobile on the bed. ‘Christ’s sake.’

The bed squeaked as Hunter kneeled on it behind her and started rubbing her shoulders again. ‘Think she’ll get anywhere with Quaresma’s bosses?’

Oooh, yes. There. Her head collapsed forward. ‘I think it’ll just piss him off.’

‘Isn’t that what we want?’

She tried to shrug, but it didn’t happen. ‘Maybe.’

Hunter kissed her neck and slid her bra strap down from her left shoulder. His thumb dug into her muscles, almost too hard. ‘So, what do you want to do while we wait for Sharon to pull a few strings?’

‘A little lie down wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I’m with you there.’ Hunter slid the right bra strap down, too, and kissed her neck some more, still hitting the right spots on the massage. ‘And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards we’ll get something to eat. I’m thinking we should head down the Strip.’

‘Nothing to stop us going for a walk, is there?’

‘Nothing.’ Chantal swung round and kissed him hard on the mouth, bashing against his teeth, her tongue wrestling against his. ‘Get one of those condoms, then.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Hunter

Chantal’s hand clamped round Hunter’s, warm and tight, as they walked down the street. The sun was low on the horizon, but the air still hot. His boozy haze was replaced with a mellow calm washing over like warm water. ‘This feels good.’

Chantal pecked him on the cheek. ‘This must be what happiness feels like.’

He frowned at her. ‘My hand feels like a penis?’

She laughed. ‘Happiness. Not half a penis.’ She put her head to his shoulder and wrapped her arm around his torso. ‘I love you, Craig.’

‘You only say that after you’ve got your way with me.’

Chantal pinched his side as they walked on. ‘Very funny.’

The wide street joined a crossroads. Busy neon led to the right, a deep bass drum booming out. A couple of lapdancing clubs were across the other side, right next to some cash machines.

She waved a hand over the road. ‘Think Tulloch might’ve gone in there?’

Hunter glanced at the thinly veiled brothel. ‘Someone like Tulloch would rather not pay for it.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Chantal clenched her jaw. ‘You saw what he did to the four victims before he abused Paisley. Anna, Erica, Kylie and Jane. What they went through at his hands . . . Whatever horror he put them through, it was enough for each one of them to never want to talk to us about it. I don’t think it’s about whether he has to pay for it. He sees women as commodities, as instruments of satisfaction, his satisfaction. He takes what he wants and screw the consequences. I keep saying this, but we can’t afford to stand on formalities here, Craig. We need to do what we need to do to catch this predator before he can . . . before he can hurt anyone else.’

‘And we will.’ Hunter led her over to the crossroads, making sure his grip was tight enough. ‘Starting here. The Strip. Let’s start tightening the net.’

A long avenue crawled down a gradual hill, kinking slightly to the right then twisting back to the left. Like the high street of any small Scottish town, but instead of butchers, bakers and Post Offices, every door led to a bar or club. Men and women outside handing out flyers. A steady stream of boozers traipsing down, grouped by gender, but all of them shouting or laughing. Flashing neon, hissing dry ice, thumping house music.

Hunter looked at her. ‘You ready for this?’

Chantal sucked in a deep breath then pointed to the right. A two-storey Irish pub that thought it was in the Wild West. A staircase led up the side to a steak restaurant. ‘Was that where Tulloch was going?’

‘Maybe.’ Hunter scowled at her. ‘But. Steak?’

‘Oh dear, I didn’t think.’ She rubbed his arm through his shirt. ‘We can sit outside and watch the entrance.’

‘It’s fine.’ He started up the steps. ‘I think Matty said first on the right.’

‘You told me left.’

‘Did I? Shite.’

‘Come on.’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed, hauling him across the road.

A ground-floor eatery with an olive tree climbing up the stucco front for a touch of class. El Rancho Steak House.

Hunter stopped and groaned. ‘Another steakhouse . . . ?’

He took a look inside. No sign of Tulloch or the other two, Brownlee and Matty.

Chantal chapped her knuckle off the placard outside. ‘Look, it’s mostly pizza and pasta.’

‘Now we’re talking.’ Hunter scanned down the menu. ‘You sure you’re okay about missing out on a steak?’

‘I’ll be fine. Already had a big portion of meat.’

Hunter groaned. ‘Hardly big . . .’ She tried to lead him in, but he held back. ‘What self-respecting pizza place doesn’t have a banana topping?’

‘Come on.’ Chantal pulled him by the hand to the front desk.

The restaurant was bigger than it looked from outside, a tacky Tardis. A few tables for two ran along the windows, long benches stretching from front to back along each wall. Less likely to meet the Doctor in here than a mob of hungry school children. Or stag and hen parties, same thing really. Either way, it was selfie central. Twenty-odd blokes filled a bench at the far wall. Halfway up, some of them were turned to chat up the hen party behind them. The nearest men looked like they were still asleep, no doubt a result of a hardcore Thursday night. Evening meal of the living dead. Someone shouted out ‘Pintman!’, whatever that meant, whoever that was.

Chantal folded her arms. ‘Definitely no sign of Tulloch or his mates.’

‘The night’s still young. And we need to eat.’

A waiter flounced over to them and grinned at Chantal. ‘Table for two?’

She nodded. ‘Could we get one away from everything?’

‘Sure thing, darling.’ The waiter led over to a series of tables on the side and pulled out a chair halfway along the benches.

Chantal took the seat facing away from the teeming crowd. ‘Thanks.’

The waiter brandished two menus. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? Wine? Beer? Perhaps a little cocktail?’

Chantal sighed as she started studying the specials. ‘A bottle of the Rioja, please.’

‘Sure thing.’ The waiter sauntered off past the bedlam, rolling his eyes. One of the lads was dancing on a table, throwing Marty McFly air-guitar shapes to a Guns ’n Roses track pumping out of the stereo.

Hunter reached a hand over the table. ‘A whole bottle?’

‘Sod it. We’ve got to blend in, right?’ Her phone rattled the tabletop and closed her tired eyes for her. ‘Work calling. It’s Sharon.’

*   *   *

‘Well, answer it.’ Hunter pulled the menu close to him. At first glance it was all barbecued meat. Terrific. Can’t even find a single spaghetti in this sausage fest. Disgusted, he looked back up at Chantal, who was still staring at her phone, biting her lip rather than taking the call. ‘Come on, take it outside. You can’t do a speakerphone call in a place like this.’

‘Back in a sec.’ Chantal snatched up her mobile and headed outside.

Hunter flipped the menu over. Pizza and pasta. Finally. Another ring put a sudden end to his relief. This time it came from his phone, though. More texts from Finlay. Give it up, mate.

He rubbed at his throat. Still hurt from Ricky’s clawing, but the pain was back down to seven out of ten. Maybe.

The menu, however, was a three at best. Places like this, it was usually best — and safest — to just go for the margarita. More delicious cheese and less unwanted bacteria. Fewer places to hide off food.

Maybe worth asking for a banana?

The waiter came back with a bottle of wine and a frown. ‘Has madam left, sir?’

‘Had to take a call.’ Hunter coughed. ‘Her mother.’

‘I see.’ The waiter twonked the bottle in front of Hunter and launched straight into an elaborate opening ceremony with a pen knife, tearing at the foil, instead of yanking it off like any self-respecting barbarian would. The corkscrew encore took the better part of a minute. Save the sexy stuff, pal, you’ve blown your chance of a decent tip already. He looked at Hunter like he could read his mind. ‘Are you not in the mood for a little something, sir?’

‘Aye, sure, pour to your heart’s content. My cup overfloweth today.’ Hunter unlocked his phone and found the photos. He held it up to the waiter. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

The man splashed wine into Hunter’s glass and frowned at the photos, as he slowly flicked through them.

Hunter picked up the glass for a sniff and sip. Passable, though not a Rioja.

The waiter’s eyes bulged at one photos and he shuddered. ‘How is the wine, sir?’

‘It’s fine.’ Hunter slid the glass back and let him top it up. ‘So, do you recognise him?’

The man in the picture was Tulloch.

The waiter poured some wine into Chantal’s glass. ‘This man was in last night. Loud and drunk.’

‘I take it that’s not out of character for here?’

The waiter rolled his eyes at the excess behind him. ‘You see what we have to contend with every night. All the summer.’ He tipped some more plonk into Hunter’s glass, filling it up almost all the way to the brim, then rested the bottle in the middle of the table. ‘I take it you are police.’

‘From Scotland, aye.’ Hunter took another sip of the sour wine. ‘Have they been in tonight?’

‘They would not be allowed back.’ He puckered his lips. ‘Shall I take your food orders when madam has returned?’

‘Please.’ Hunter stared at the menu again. ‘Hang on, I don’t see it on the menu, but can I get banana and mushroom on a pizza?’

‘Well, of course. Whatever sir desires.’ And off he flounced.

Another two stags and three hens were up on the table, playing air guitar to that Bryan Adams song.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Chantal slumped down in her chair and gulped down some wine. ‘Oh my God.’

‘That good?’

She pinged a finger on her wine glass, the sound about as dull as the flavour. ‘Sharon didn’t get anywhere with Quaresma’s boss.’ Another sip. ‘We still have to give him a call if we need any assistance.’ She fanned her hair out. ‘And, of course, we’ve pissed them off now.’

‘I suppose the only good news is that they were in here last night.’

‘Tulloch?’

‘And company. They won’t get let back in, though.’

‘Another dead end.’

The waiter reappeared with his hands clasped. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’

THIRTY-NINE

Chantal

Chantal sipped at her wine. Tasted like diluted balsamic. Why the hell did Craig accept it?

Hunter was still nibbling at the crust of his pizza. Looked disgusting. Tomato and cheese and banana and mushrooms. Hate mushrooms.

He finished chewing and pushed his plate away. ‘That wasn’t bad at all.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Chantal dug into the last layer of her lasagne. Red meaty mush. Not even sure it’s beef. ‘This is minging.’

‘Looks okay to me. Apart from, you know, the meat.’

‘It’s vile. Should have taken the veggie option.’

‘We all need our carbs.’ Hunter took a sip of wine. ‘So, what do—’

‘There you are!’ Finlay Sinclair came marching across the tiles towards them. ‘Knew I’d find you here!’

What?

Has Craig been texting him?

Asking him to help out?

Hunter stood up and got in Finlay’s face. ‘Fin, you can’t be here.’

‘What? I’m meeting a pal for a drink.’ Finlay leaned back against an empty bench, the table behind it deserted. Where had the Bryan Adams fan club gone? Weren’t they dancing and singing on the tables a moment ago? Vanished, leaving only their air guitars.

Finlay beamed at Chantal. ‘Evening.’

She tried to return the smile. ‘Evening.’

‘Mate, you’re not a cop anymore.’ Hunter was smiling, looked as forced as hers felt. ‘You really can’t be here.’

‘I want to help.’ As Finlay stood, his back clicked like a seatbelt buckle. ‘I know the area.’

‘You said you live the other side of Faro.’

Finlay put on a puppy-dog face, his eyes sagging. ‘Look, let me—’

‘Finlay.’ Chantal got up and dusted off the shoulders of his polo shirt, again feeling like a maiden aunt. Or like a spinster at a wedding, given how much she had on her plate. Still, Fin was the last person they needed in this mess. ‘I appreciate your offer of help, but this is for Craig and me, okay?’

Finlay did a petulant teenager stomp. ‘Come on . . .’

‘I’m serious.’ Chantal gave him her best cop glare. ‘Our local liaison isn’t impressed with us and, well, I don’t want you getting caught up in this. Might get you in some trouble. And you have to live here . . .’

‘Come on . . .’ Finlay deflated like a stabbed beach ball. ‘I just want to help. That’s all.’

‘I get that.’ Chantal flashed a grin at him. ‘Look, the local cops are supposed to be helping us tomorrow. Could maybe use your help making sure they’re not bullshitting us.’

Finlay nodded. ‘Cool.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Cool. What time?’

‘Probably best if we phone you.’

‘Then I’ll wait for the call. Let’s do that.’

Chantal smiled again and patted his back. ‘Now, we’ve got something to get on with, so . . .’ She tapped her nose. ‘Aye?’

‘Aye.’ Finlay beamed at them and strolled out of the restaurant, his back ramrod straight.

Hunter sat back down and drained his glass. ‘Thanks for the save.’

‘Have you been goading him?’

‘God no.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Should’ve just got a taxi from the police station, shouldn’t we?’

‘I don’t disagree.’ Chantal waved over at the waiter and held up forty euros. Got a saucy wink in return and quickly turned back to Hunter. ‘Come on, lover boy.’ She left the rest of her glass of vinegar and headed for the door, dragging Hunter after her like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. ‘Before Finlay comes back.’

*   *   *

Chantal stood outside a pulsing nightclub.

Hunter caught up with her and grabbed her hand. Felt like he was pulling away, but she held strong. ‘Were you serious about using Finlay?’

Hardly.

She looked inside the bar. Strobe lighting jerked across an empty dance floor. Sky Sports played on the screen above the bar, English football for English punters. CHE-MNU. Goalless draw. Yawn. ‘Guy seems bored.’

‘I told you that he moved out here to drink himself to death, didn’t I?’

‘That’s his choice.’ She scanned around. Nobody over six foot, let alone an abusive squaddie. ‘No sign of Tulloch in here, either.’ She shrugged.

‘Come on.’ Hunter left the bar.

She watched Pedro tumble in the box, arms outstretched before he hit the grass, then joined Hunter in an island of tranquillity in the centre of the Strip, crowds streaming around a lamppost in the middle.

Over the other side was Bar Mambo. Packed out with drinkers, a rudimentary dance floor stuffed between the bar and the glass doors with a view of a side street.

‘What’s that?’ She cupped a hand round her ear. ‘It sounds a hell of a lot like “Shake It Off” to me!’

Hunter stared at the club. Could almost hear him groan. ‘Come on, we were just in there. And Tulloch wasn’t.’

‘But Taylor Swift is.’ Chantal grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd into the bar. She twisted round as they got to the dance floor, arms in the air, singing along with the music.

Hunter’s deaf feet couldn’t find the rhythm, so he just stood there, stepping to every other beat.

*   *   *

Chantal gripped Hunter’s hand tight as she led him off the dance floor, out of the doors and down the hill. The poor guy seemed totally out of it. Too much booze or another flashback, or both? The rubbery tang of hot dogs belched out of a small van parked at the side of the road. A queue wound back across the street, blocking the traffic.

She frowned at Hunter, his eyes almost rolling back in his head. ‘Jesus, are you alright?’

His lips twitched. ‘I’m . . . trying to centre myself.’

‘What, why?’

‘That van.’ Hunter ran a hand across his nose. ‘The smell. It’s . . . ’

She tightened her grip. ‘Craig, it’s okay.’

Hunter shut his eyes, clamped them tight, his forehead knotting. ‘I’m getting better at it.’

She gave his hand a pulse. ‘Good.’

He reopened them, smiling. ‘Thanks.’ Then he frowned over to the side. ‘Terrific.’ And started walking across the street.

Matty and Gordon Brownlee leaned against a bar window, munching on hot dogs. Matty laughed as Hunter approached. ‘Alright, mate. You seen Sean yet?’

‘Not yet.’ Hunter beamed at them. ‘Getting the spiders now.’

Matty finished chewing some hot dog. ‘We’ll shove them right up his arse!’

Brownlee bunched up his wrapper, shaking his head. He tapped on the glass. ‘Supposed to be meeting him in here, if you’re ready?’

Chantal caught up with Hunter. ‘What’s up?’

‘See you inside, yeah?’ Matty followed Brownlee into the bar.

Chantal scowled at him. ‘Craig, what are you up to?’

‘Finding Tulloch. Far as I’m aware, he doesn’t know anything about us. Who we are, least of all that we’re cops.’

‘He’ll start to smell a rat if you say you served with him.’

‘I’ll say it’s John Pollock. The important thing is we’ll know where he is. Then I can call Quaresma and we can get out of this godforsaken place.’

Chantal stared into the bar. Matty was shouting an order at the bar staff and waving euros around. ‘Come on, then.’

Hunter led the way inside. The bar was hot, liquid that looked suspiciously like sticky sweat trickling down the walls. Old-school house pumped out of giant speakers, genuine Detroit and Chicago sounds, not mid-nineties Balearic dross.

Chantal stopped by the bar, a two-deep queue around it, and smiled at Matty. ‘Sean here?’

He shook his head. ‘Nobody’s seen him, love.’

She stared at Hunter. This isn’t the right move. Need to regroup and replan.

‘Here.’ Matty handed her a pint glass of dark-red liquid. Then another. ‘Get stuck in!’

‘What are you playing at?’ Hunter was in her ear. ‘We need to go.’

She leaned back into him and muttered out of the side of her mouth. ‘This is your fault not mine.’ She took a drink. Really did taste like Vimto. She flashed a smile at Matty. ‘Cheers!’

Hunter grudgingly took one as well and started sipping at it.

‘Chantal!’ Bekah wrapped her arms round her, vomit breath crawling up her nostrils. ‘Chantal!’

She had to take a step back to stop her drink from spilling. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m on it like a comet! Whoo!’ Bekah jumped in the air, looked like she was floating on her very own high.

Matty appeared, giving Bekah a good going over with his eyes. Only his eyes, for now. He took a sip from a pint glass. ‘Alright?’

She held out her hand. ‘I’m Bekah!’

‘Matty.’ He offered her a drink from his glass. She slurped it down. ‘How’s my girl?’

‘Starving!’ Bekah leaned against Chantal, barely any weight at all. ‘Anywhere good to eat round here?’

Matty stepped forward. ‘Me and Gogsy here just had a hot dog from that van. Lovely.’

‘You had a big sausage, did you?’ Bekah released Chantal and reached for Matty, resting one hand on his arm, the other on his stomach. She started running her hand around the edge of his shorts. ‘Bet there’s a big one in your pants, too.’

‘Fucking massive, love.’

Bekah hauled his shorts down to his knees. Matty’s cock was half-erect, barely two inches long.

A gasp from Bekah, a strangled bellow from Hunter.

Matty was hunched over trying to pull his shorts back up. ‘Fuck off!’ The humiliated soldier pushed her over and stormed out of the bar.

‘Shite.’ Brownlee downed his Crazy Vimto. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

The crowd around them were laughing louder than the music. More than a few girls from Bekah’s hen party among them, all wagging their pinkies.

Chantal leaned in to whisper in Hunter’s ear. ‘Craig, that was a normal-sized penis.’

He scowled at her. ‘Hardly.’

‘I doubt you’ve seen many cocks in your life, have you? Just goes to show how distorted your view of male anatomy is. Classic case of Scottish sex education. All you know about your equipment is what you’ve seen in pornos. Those aren’t real knobs, sweetheart.’ She grabbed his groin. ‘There’s nothing wrong with yours, okay? Now, let’s put that issue to bed.’

FORTY

Hunter

Hunter trotted after Chantal, almost losing her in the throng of boozers marching down the strip. Couldn’t get the image of that tiny walloper out of his head. Couldn’t wallop anything with it. Just a little toffee hammer.

Gangs of Germans dressed in Lederhosen, even more superheroes, wrestlers, and Star Wars characters alongside the odd cork-hatted Australian. A little apart, squads of Brits in jeans and shirts.

The next-door bar had spilled out on the street, British stags necking bottles of Grolsch and eyeing up every. Single. Woman. But though the perverts seemed to be out in force, there was still no sign of Tulloch.

Hunter stopped in the street and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is like Groundhog Day, you know that? I’ve no idea what time it is, other than night. That daytime boozing has twisted my melon.’

‘It’s messing with my head, as well.’ Chantal leaned it on his shoulder. ‘I can barely remember why we’re here, other than I keep seeing Paisley’s battered face when I close my eyes. Do you get that, too?’

‘Don’t I just. And the other four.’ He grabbed her hand and led her down the street, walking past a 5D cinema. Whatever that meant.

A big lump of holiday apartments sat across the road, set back like they were keeping away from the bacchanalian excess.

A blue light flashed down the side street by the apartments, too far away to be the neon of a bar or club, or was it?

It wasn’t.

Two armed police officers guarded a side entrance. Black polo shirts, maybe even navy, stamped with POLICIA. Baseball cap, black boots and black trousers with a hip holster each.

Hunter clasped Chantal’s hand and stopped her. ‘Something’s going on down there.’ He nodded at the officers and started off down the street. ‘What’s happened?’

The street widened into a small square. Police officers leaned against their cars, arms folded, looking bored. Quaresma was marching around, shouting instructions in Portuguese.

The first officer sniffed, taking his eyes off a hen party across the road. ‘Is your apartment here?’

‘I’m police.’ Hunter flashed his warrant card. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You cannot be here, sir.’

‘We need to speak to Inspector Quaresma.’

Chantal slapped his hand away. ‘Craig, we should go.’

The officer smiled at Hunter. ‘Listen to your little girlfriend.’

Hunter glared at him, yet before he could put the smarmy prick in his place, he caught sight of DI Bruce and what looked like another couple of Northumbria’s finest hot on his heels. Didn’t look good, whatever it was.

Hunter nodded over at him. ‘Is this about Harry Jack?’

‘Good bye, sir.’

‘Come on, Craig.’ Chantal tugged at Hunter’s hand and led him away.

‘Chantal!’ Bruce was jogging towards them, his coat flapping behind him. ‘Look, we’re two skulls down and this lot have given us intel on a sighting at the arse end of town. We need to run a raid. Can you help?’

*   *   *

Hunter sat back in the passenger seat, the booze gurgling in his stomach. Didn’t feel like the right thing to do, but it might curry favour with Quaresma, so . . .

Bruce tore through night-time Albufeira, heading away from the clubs and pubs towards a residential area. Houses set back from the road, blocks of flats hugging it. The occasional shop or café. Street lighting was optional.

Chantal was in the back seat, tapping away at her mobile. She pocketed it and leaned forward. ‘So, you’ve got a sighting of this kid?’

‘Yet another, my sweet.’ Bruce turned right at a roundabout, blasting down an empty road. The satnav on his dashboard pointed a blue line towards a street more than a mile away. ‘This whole thing started out because someone called us, saying they saw the kid. Recognised him from the Sun or Mirror or whatever. Trouble is, she spoke to the papers as well. So we’re out here chasing our tails while all hell breaks loose. Absolute nightmare.’

Hunter glanced round at Chantal. Her eyes weren’t open at the same time. ‘Did she work at a bar?’

Bruce craned his neck round to glare at Hunter. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Coincidence.’

‘Right, well. Aye, she did.’ Bruce tugged at his collar and powered down the road. ‘We had a word with her earlier. Stupid cow should’ve kept her mouth shut. Couldn’t back it up, either. Kid might not even be in the country anymore.’

Hunter waved ahead, the white lines dancing through his blurred vision. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Someone else called us tonight. We thought it was another one of those things, you know? A sighting that came to nothing. But we raided a flat near that hellhole where you were. Found this woman cowering in the bath. She said she’d seen Harry out this way. Then we got another call, right? Same story, saw the kid near this house. Could even describe him, wearing the same clothes as when he got taken. Gave us an address.’

Chantal shot him a cheeky grin. Now she was half-pissed, was she flirting with him? Really? ‘Sure it’s not one of your guys calling it in so you can all have a jolly in sunny Portugal?’

‘I’d much rather be home. My marriage is . . .’ Bruce cleared his throat. ‘Look, I asked you pair to help because it might earn you a few brownie points with our chum Quaresma.’ He reached into the middle console and tossed over a pack of gum. ‘But chew that, for crying out loud. Pair of you smell like a brewery.’

*   *   *

‘Go, go, go!’

Hunter burst into the house and clattered up the stairs. A pair of uniforms stormed into the living room. He grabbed hold of the wooden banister to keep him upright as he climbed. Booze swilled in his guts, not quite dulled by the food. He tripped and went flying, thumping his head against Chantal’s leg. Pushed her over on the landing, the carpet bunching up around her hands. ‘Watch it!’

Bruce was standing over them, face red with fury. ‘What are you playing at?’

Hunter helped Chantal up. ‘Caught my footing on the carpet there.’

‘Get up, you pair of amateurs!’

Hunter followed Bruce over to the landing. Two doors led off. The first was a bathroom. One of Bruce’s plainclothes was hovering over the bathtub, shaking her head. ‘Not in here, guv.’

‘Right.’ Bruce stood to one side of the other door, holding up a finger. Then two. Then three. Nod at Hunter. ‘Go!’

Hunter tried the door. Locked. He shouldered it and tumbled into a bedroom. The curtains twitched. He charged over and pulled them open. The window was locked from the inside, the key still in.

‘Out you come.’ Bruce was kneeling on the bed.

Three pairs of hands appeared, including one child’s. A man raised himself up to standing. Looked English, judging by his weak chin. Maybe Welsh, but certainly not Portuguese.

Then he helped up a woman, a local by the looks of her dark hair and olive skin. Shaking her head, shouting: ‘No, no, no!’

‘Out you come, Harry.’ Bruce reached and lifted up a small child, kicking and screaming.

Pink pyjamas. Blonde hair in bunches, blue eyes.

Not Harry Jack.

FORTY-ONE

Chantal

Bruce pulled up down the street from the Strip and killed the engine. ‘Tell you, Chantal, I hoped that’d be my ticket out of here, but no.’

‘I’m disappointed in you, Jon.’ Chantal spat her gum into a tissue and stuck it in the bin under the stereo. The car reeked of cheap cigarettes and Bruce’s hideous musky aftershave. Seedy git. ‘Thought a seasoned DI like you wouldn’t have any hope left.’

Bruce laughed. ‘Must be all the sun here, messing with my mind.’

‘Well, just make sure Quaresma hears about us helping.’

‘Almost breaking your necks on the stairs.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d better drop that part from my report.’

‘That wasn’t my—’

CRACK.

Behind Bruce, two faces beamed into the car. Rich McAlpine and his hipster mate. Pair of twats grinning away.

Bruce wound down the window. ‘Evening, lads. Do you need someone to wipe your arses, again?’

Rich nodded at Chantal. ‘Wonder if you wanted to answer some questions about that raid.’

Bruce glanced at her. Gave himself away. ‘What raid?’

‘Don’t be a fanny, Jon. Me and Liam know what’s been going on. You found him, didn’t you?’

‘Get to fuck.’ They didn’t look they were getting anywhere. Bruce wound up the window and smiled at Chantal. ‘You fancy getting a drink later?’

She yawned. ‘Going to get an early night. Maybe tomorrow?’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ Bruce got out of the car and grabbed Rich and his mate by the arm. ‘Come on, lads, time for you to take me for a coffee and tell me what you know.’ He plipped the locks and led them off.

Hunter appeared from the other side. ‘You’re going for a drink with him?’

‘You feel threatened?’

‘Hardly.’ Hunter chuckled, but it didn’t look like he meant it. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Once again, we’ve lost the scent of Tulloch and his mates.’ She started walking towards the thump and flash of the Strip, yawning into her fist. ‘Let’s see if we can pick it up.’

*   *   *

‘So, where the bloody hell is he?’ Chantal stood at a crossroads.

The Strip crawled up the hill ahead of them, but it looked more like accommodation than drinking dens. Some grimy old bars lined the side streets to the left and right. A golf tee-shaped building loomed up, for no apparent reason, lit up in blue from below. Certainly not the sort of place that would seem to attract a bunch of squaddies. Besides, the hordes were streaming the other way, right towards them.

‘I don’t fancy our chances up there, Craig.’ She swivelled round. Flashing blue lights burst out at the top of the hill behind them.

Had DI Bruce got something out of them?

Hunter shrugged at her. ‘I think we should retrace our steps.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘There are at least four clubs we only glanced into. They could’ve been on the dance floor or doing coke in the toilets.’

‘All at once? Come on, we can’t miss a group of twenty squaddies.’

‘Maybe Tulloch and his mates haven’t met up yet, or they’ve branched off into smaller groups.’

Made sense.

Made almost perfect sense.

But Quaresma was right. Needle in a haystack. Running around, chasing their tails and for what? Convincing Craig that Matty’s tiny cock was the real deal?

She glanced at her watch. After ten. Christ.

Tulloch wasn’t here. One last sweep for conscience’s sake and that was it.

‘Come on, then.’ She grabbed his hand and paced up the street, swerving between two groups of Germans, one dressed in the old Italia 90 West Germany kit, the others as Native Americans, and not very tastefully at that.

Hunter jogged round the side of them to keep up with her. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m dehydrated.’ Chantal stopped by a bar and folded her arms.

Bar Shooters. Classy. A middle-aged local stood outside, dressed as a pirate. That or Captain Morgan from the rum bottle. He was handing out vouchers to passing piss artists. Couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic when two English men in Fitch T-shirts pulled him in for a photo. Selling his soul for the tourist’s shilling and hating every moment. Same old story in these English holiday colonies.

Outside the bar next door, a fat man in a polo shirt sucked on a cigarette then did a little twirl and vomited on a window.

Chantal could see why Captain Morgan wasn’t impressed and took two vouchers by way of commiseration. ‘Did we try in here, Craig?’

‘It looked empty.’

‘That’s a no, then. In we go.’ Chantal entered the bar. It stretched deep into the building, longer than she expected. Two fat men strutted on the dance floor, gyrating to some two-step like they were kids in front of their bedroom mirrors. They weren’t. Not for at least forty years. And forty stone between them.

A bar filled most of the front, decorated like a desert island with coconut trees and bamboo. A hen party stood by it, getting their free shooters. The barman poured out of an unmarked bottle. God knows what it was. Meths. Ethanol. Nobody seemed to care.

Chantal handed over her vouchers to the barman.

‘Cheers.’ Essex boy, spiky blond hair and a vest with torn-off sleeves. Kill me now. ‘Coming right up, princess.’ He tipped the unlabelled spirit into two glasses.

Chantal took them with a smile and gave one to Hunter. She sniffed the drink. Had a citrus tang to it. Toilet Duck, maybe? ‘Well?’

Hunter stared into his glass. ‘I think it’s meths.’

‘No, is Tulloch here?’

‘Not now. He could’ve been, though.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘We’re not searching deep enough into these clubs.’

Chantal downed her shot and grimaced. ‘That’s . . . Wow.’

Hunter took a sip of his. ‘I’m not drinking that.’

‘Go on, you big jessie.’ She raised her eyebrows, trying a bit of peer pressure. ‘Got to keep up the cover.’

‘Sod it.’ Hunter threw it back. ‘Holy arse fuck!’ He gagged, like Ricky was still grabbing his throat.

A gaggle of women in pink piled in through the door, a middle-aged one waving her free shot voucher. ‘Woo!’

The music turned up a notch, the off-kilter beat rattling her fillings. That dour dental heritage of her typical Scottish childhood diet, even though her parents were kids of immigrants. Too many sweets.

Hunter leaned in closer. ‘When did music get shit?’

Chantal started swaying to the beat. ‘I like two-step.’

‘This is just . . . Ugh.’

‘Wow!’ Bekah, the skinny girl from the hotel bar, wrapped her arms around Chantal. ‘Oh, this is so cool!’

Here we go again.

FORTY-TWO

Hunter

Hunter stepped away from Chantal and Bekah. The girl looked wasted. Someone needed to keep an eye on her before . . . The dance floor filled up with a group of lads. Too late.

Terrific.

The stag wore full Highland gear, a dangling foam cock hanging below the line of his kilt. So pissed he needed to be propped up.

Hunter walked outside, his throat burning. Either from being strangled or because of the turps he’d necked.

Captain Morgan was still handing out vouchers. People were taking, but nobody was buying.

Hunter smiled at him and held up his phone, brandishing the photo of Tulloch. ‘Have you seen this man tonight?’

A gang of Germans staggered towards him, yodelling some tuneless football hymn while dressed as Australians in outback gear, corks dangling from their hats. One took a voucher and tripped over. He hit the concrete at the pirate’s feet, scratching at the ground for his voucher.

‘Have you seen him?’

The pirate shrugged. ‘I have seen a lot of things, my friend, but I try to forget.’

Chantal stepped outside, her forehead creased. ‘Good news. Ish. Bekah’s lot stayed with Matty and Brownlee. They’ve seen Tulloch tonight.’

*   *   *

Hunter left Captain Morgan, his footsteps rattling up the hill. ‘We should call Quaresma.’ He tried to grab hold of her wrist.

Chantal shook him off and stomped up the strip anyway.

‘Wait!’

Terrific.

She stopped, her eyes trailing a couple walking arm in arm on the other side of the road. ‘Jesus, can you see that?’

Hunter frowned over. ‘What?’

‘It’s Ricky and Kerry!’ She started across the road.

‘What the hell—’ Hunter grabbed her arm and stopped her. ‘Come on . . .’

Kerry swung round and scowled at them. ‘Here you, you Paki bitch!’

Chantal clenched her fists. ‘Say that again.’

Ricky took one look at Hunter and patted his wife on the arm. ‘Come on, love. She’s not worth it.’

‘She’s a dirty bitch!’ Kerry spat at them. ‘Go back to your own country!’

‘You’re in Portugal, you daft cow.’ Hunter’s heart thudded.

He could see the rage in Chantal’s face. All the stories she’d told him.

All those pricks at school. Everyone who spat on her dad’s shop. Everyone who put shit through their letterbox.

Like that lecturer at Uni who tried it on, got knocked back and attempted to recover his dignity with a slew of racial slurs.

Like any scumbag she picked up as a cop, talked to in her Edinburgh accent and still got told to go back where she belonged.

And yet . . .

‘Scotland is my country!’ She watched them go down the strip.

Hunter grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug. Wasted energy, trying to talk diversity to the racist and ignorant. ‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s far from okay.’ She shrugged him off and barged round a group of Swedes guarding a girl vomiting on the street. ‘She said they’re over here.’

Mambo rhythms danced out into the night, enough neon to light up the sky. A bar in the middle, ad hoc partying and drinking all around it. Just inside the door, a woman who looked about twelve danced with a guy who looked about forty.

She was staring inside that bar.

Tulloch wasn’t in there, was he? They’d checked it, even danced to that bloody Taylor Swift song. Zen and the art of relationship maintenance.

He followed the line of her finger as she pointed.

Over the other side of the bar, two of the guys from the hotel were drinking and chatting to two blonde women, both of them struggling to stand up. Matty and another beefcake, similarly big. Bigger than Brownlee, without the wonky ears.

And between them, perched on a bar stool, Sean Tulloch.

Finally.

FORTY-THREE

Hunter

Tulloch looked bigger in the flesh, somehow. Easily six and a half foot of brawn and rage. Thick muscle padded his shoulders, a tight shirt showed off his marine physique. And what no photo could get across was how the light caught his eyes, almost sparkling. Mischief and danger hid in his grin. Seen it so many times in so many cheeky punks, but there was a darker aura to this model prick.

‘Come on.’ Hunter stomped off towards the entrance.

‘Wait!’ Chantal grabbed him back. ‘I’m calling Quaresma.’

‘Fine.’

Tulloch was sitting between that Matty guy and another lump of gristle, chatting to an older woman, dark-haired. Another couple of girls lingered around.

Tulloch’s target tried to stand up from the stood but fell over. Her eyes were rolling back in her head. Tulloch picked her up and plied her with another sip from a tall glass.

‘Shite.’ Hunter shut his eyes. ‘Do you see that?’

‘What, him date-raping her?’

Chantal lowered her mobile. ‘He’s not answering.’

‘Let me try.’ Hunter went for his phone and dialled their local master.

Didn’t even ring. Quaresma breathed hard into the receiver. ‘What, Constable?’

‘We’ve got sight of our target.’ Hunter locked eyes with Chantal. ‘We need two or three of your officers to secure him.’

‘You must wait.’ Quaresma was out of breath, panting into his phone. ‘We are in middle of operation. Tomorrow, like we say.’

Click.

Hunter pocketed his mobile. Tulloch’s hands were snaking all over the woman. ‘Looks like we’re on our own.’

Chantal stared inside the bar, nostrils flaring. ‘He’s not getting away with this.’

‘We should tail him. Keep an eye on him until—’

Tulloch shoved the woman’s hand down the front of his shorts and stuck his tongue down her throat, all in one practiced move.

‘Sod this.’ Chantal barged into the bar, straight through the dancing child-woman and her sugar daddy, and made straight for Tulloch.

Hunter followed her in, getting a grunt from sugar daddy.

Tulloch towered over Chantal. ‘What’s up, princess?’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘You want a portion, too? Never had a Paki before—’

Chantal scratched at her eyebrow. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘There’s enough of my knob to go around.’

Chantal gritted her teeth. ‘Paisley Sanderson sends her—’

Tulloch pushed the woman into Chantal, sent her tumbling across the dance floor.

Next thing Hunter saw was the man mountain’s fist flying towards him. Landed on his left cheek. Snapped his head around before he even felt the sting. Wind-milling his arms, he staggered backwards, bumped into a stranger and hit the deck in a heap, face-first into stale beer and sticky cocktails. Somebody landed on him, squeezing the wind out of his lungs like an accordion.

As he caught his bearings, Tulloch was already barging through the dance floor.

Hunter freed himself from the man on top of him and pushed himself to his feet in one go.

No sign of Matty or the other squaddie.

Chantal lay prone under a pair of bar stools.

Hunter grabbed her under the armpits and pulled her up. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded and rubbed at her chin. ‘I’ll look after the girl. Go get him!’

Hunter chased through the furrow Tulloch had cut into the crowd. Outside, the Strip thronged with drinkers up and down the hill. Multi-coloured crowds swarming around him like tropical fish.

There, across the road, Tulloch dashed down the lane where Quaresma had earlier parked his car. No sign of any police.

Terrific.

Hunter darted over the Strip, tried to pick up speed, a spearing pain digging into his side. Felt like he’d cracked a rib or something.

Tulloch had slowed to a jog, his flip-flops shlup-shlup-shluping on the asphalt. Seemed to think he’d got away from them.

Hunter hurtled into the back of his legs, classic rugby tackle, felled even the biggest men. But Tulloch twisted to the side as he rolled.

Hunter landed on the marble floor, landed right on the point of his bad knee. Pain seared up his leg, up his left side, could’ve sworn he felt it all the way up in his left eye. When he opened it again a fraction of a second later, Tulloch was already back on his feet, scanning around the area. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ He moved back slightly and lifted his hands, one foot forward, getting into the Basic Stance.

Hunter pulled himself up to a sitting position, then flipped up to standing. He mirrored Tulloch’s movements, stepped into the pose, and tried to ignore the burning pain in his knee. Quick glance around. No obvious danger. ‘I know what you were up to in there.’

Tulloch was bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘You jealous or what, you big poof?’ He lurched forward and launched a right hook at Hunter’s head. Missed by miles. Maybe just a feint.

Hunter got a punch to his gut as the guy followed through with a left body shot. Then Tulloch pushed him against the wall. Another missed punch, but this time Hunter deflected the second blow and smacked Tulloch on the chest. A sharp knee to Tulloch’s groin and he stepped back into the stance.

Tulloch hardly seemed to notice the groin shot as he jumped backwards into his pose. Then jolted forward again and lashed out with his left fist. Then feinted right and crunched a rising knee into Hunter’s side.

Hunter parried it with his hands, but staggered back into a wall.

Tulloch closed in, jabbing at Hunter three times, each blow rattling the bones in Hunter’s forearm. Fists darting towards his hands, blocking his face.

Footsteps thundered from behind.

Hunter blocked another blow and backed away from Tulloch.

As he glanced behind him, Tulloch got a shot into his left knee.

Hunter tumbled over, cracking his shoulder off the hard floor.

Another boot hit his back.

Shlup-shlup-shlup.

Footsteps raced towards him.

Another blow to his Hunter’s spine. Felt like it’d shifted his kidneys a few inches. Hunter lashed out with his feet and smacked his sole off something. Felt like a face. Something metallic clanged off the ground.

He tried to spring to his feet. His knee wasn’t having it. Turning on his back, he did a quick scan of the area.

Tulloch was gone.

‘You nosy bastard!’ Ricky was staggering towards Hunter, holding a length of metal pipe over his head. ‘That was between me and me fucking wife!’ He swung it down, aiming for Hunter’s skull.

Hunter leaned back on his shoulders, popped his hips and kicked up with both feet, straight at Ricky’s hands. The pipe clattered to the ground and rolled away.

Now!

Hunter rolled, pushed up to his knees and charged low at Ricky. He caught his legs behind the knees and pulled them out from underneath him, landing his entire bodyweight on the soldier as he bulldozed him over.

Hunter arched up as he lashed a fist into Ricky’s gut, then dropped his elbow on the guy’s jaw, buried his face under his chest and wrapped his arms around his throat in a mounting choke hold. He looked around, heart pounding. His breathing sounded distant, like someone else’s. Blood pumped in his ears, poured into his mouth from somewhere.

The pipe crawled down the lane. A man stopped at the end and looked their way, then walked off.

No sign of Tulloch.

No sign of anyone else.

He tightened the grip around Ricky’s throat. ‘Where is he?’

‘Pare!’ A voice roared from the right. ‘Stop!’

Hunter spun back towards the Strip.

A local cop stood a few metres in from the main drag, his pistol trained on Hunter. ‘Get off him.’

Hunter raised his hands. ‘You need to arrest this guy.’ He pointed at the pipe. ‘He threw that at my head!’

Quaresma appeared alongside the cop, shaking his head. ‘Constable, Constable, Constable.’

FORTY-FOUR

Chantal

Chantal gasped. Feels like a cracked rib. She tried to sit up, but her chest screamed out at the mere attempt.

Hunter hauled her to her feet like she was weightless. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded, rubbing her chin. ‘I’ll look after this lot. Get him!’

Hunter shot off through the crowd, chasing Tulloch.

Chantal sucked in a breath, trying to gain control, if not of the situation then at least of her pain. Probably hadn’t cracked the rib, but it still hurt. The dance floor had pretty much emptied, the sight of two big lads fighting clearly enough to make everyone look for safer entertainment elsewhere.

The two girls swayed around next to her, nowhere near controlling their movements. One blonde, one dark-haired. Both as skinny as anorexia itself.

The blonde girl opened her left eye and tried to focus. ‘Where’s Sean?’

A tall woman wandered over, head tilted to the side. ‘Can I help?’

‘I’m a police officer.’ Chantal couldn’t find her warrant card. ‘These women have been date raped.’

‘I’m the bar manager here.’ West Country accent, like her tongue was trying to reap hay instead of speaking some intelligible form of English. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Please call the local police.’

‘Sure thing.’ The manager disappeared through the crowd of rubberneckers.

Chantal hefted the stools upright and rested them against the wall. Much heavier than they looked. ‘Sit here.’ She helped the first girl onto the seat, about as co-ordinated as a small child. ‘Take your time.’

‘I love him.’ Both eyes clamped shut. ‘I looooove him.’

Chantal rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder to stabilise her. ‘What are your names?’

Dark-hair burped, eyes shut. ‘I’m Nora.’ A melodic rasp, Belfast by the sounds of it. ‘This is me cousin, Siobhan.’ She patted blondie on the back.

Siobhan wobbled around on the stool. ‘Where’s Matty? He’s lovely . . .’

‘Nora, I need you to focus, okay?’ Chantal looked around the place for the drinks Tulloch had been forcing on them. Some crumpled plastic cups and a big puddle. A cleaner swept his bucket through the liquid. There goes the evidence.

And still no sign of the local police. The bar crowd were all outside, ogling back in from a safe distance. The manager waved over, her hand in a telephone shape, then gave a thumbs up.

‘Where’s Sean?’ Nora opened her eyes, but her pupils couldn’t agree what to focus on, if anything. ‘He’s got a massive langer.’

At least her mind’s eye was enjoying the view.

Time to get serious now. Chantal held her shoulders. ‘Can you understand me? Sean spiked your drinks.’

‘Whaaaat?’ Nora’s head lolled forward. ‘He’s lovely. He bought us cocktails! They’re lovely!’

This was going nowhere.

Someone grabbed Chantal’s arm. ‘Step away, miss.’

She swung round.

Two uniformed police officers stood in front of her, one male, one female, both armed. The female officer stepped forward. Lantern jaw, hair in a top knot. ‘What’s going on?’

Chantal caught Nora before she could slip off the chair again. ‘They’ve been date-raped.’

The uniform swallowed hard and stared at her partner. ‘In here?’

‘Their drinks have been spiked.’ Chantal looked at the two girls. Barely in their twenties. ‘I don’t mean they’ve been raped yet, but it’s on the cards. A certain Sean Tulloch spiked their drinks. He’s known to Scottish police as a sexual predator.’

‘One second.’ The uniform stepped away and spoke into her radio.

Chantal smiled at the girls, though only one of their four eyes was open. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

Keep telling yourself that . . .

‘Okay, madam.’ The uniform was back, her jaw set even squarer. ‘My partner will take them to hospital.’

‘I’m going with them.’

The uniform shook her head. ‘No. DS Jain, I have order to take you to the station.’

FORTY-FIVE

Hunter

Quaresma thundered down the single carriageway, the patchy street lighting not exactly giving a clear view of their route. Palm trees lined the road, blocking out a brilliant white monstrosity hulking on the left. It looked like it’d been built upside down.

Hunter was in the back, cracking his knuckles. He stretched out his knee and got a different timbre of crack. Felt about twice the size of the other one. His arms were peppered with bruises where Tulloch had punched him.

Feel like I need a new back.

Speaking of new, the car smelled like it had just rolled off the production line, the leather seats fresh from the tannery. Almost too clean. Local radio droned out at a low volume, just about loud enough to make out that it was people speaking, but not which language.

Hunter got a click from somewhere in his ribs. He pressed a throbbing hand to it, red welts rising on his forearm. ‘I said, where’s DS Jain?’

‘I hear you.’ Quaresma swung right through a tight gap into a car park next to the white building. He slammed into a space by a bare brick wall and killed the engine. Then he sat there, drumming his thumbs off the steering wheel. ‘Get out.’

Hunter tried the door and it clicked open. He stepped out onto the marble surface, the pale mosaic glinting in the street lighting. The shiny stuff was everywhere, hurting his bruised brain. He leaned against the Audi’s roof. ‘I can’t see her.’

‘Constable, come with me.’ Quaresma waited for Hunter to shut his door before plipping the locks, then he marched over to the station. He held the front door, breathing slowly like a parent whose kid had just been expelled. ‘Inside.’

Hunter shook his head and stood his ground. ‘What happens if I go in there?’

Quaresma flicked his tongue across his teeth. ‘Inside, Constable.’

‘You’ve not arrested me or anything, so . . .’

A squad car trundled to a halt nearby. The officer with the pistol got out and opened the back door. Ricky seemed to take a week getting out. When he did, he scowled over at Hunter, then burped into his hand.

‘Come with me.’ Quaresma marched inside.

Hunter followed him in. Couldn’t even be bothered to shrug anymore.

The station was quiet, a bored Desk Sergeant in full uniform sticking his nose into a local newspaper. Harry Jack’s cherubic face stared out from the front, haunted and lost, like the kid was already missing when the photo was taken.

Quaresma nodded at him as they passed, then opened a metal door handle. Looked gloomy inside, but not a cell. ‘Inside.’

Hunter stopped a few metres away from the door. ‘This isn’t a cell, is it?’

‘Inside.’ Quaresma bared his teeth, his patience wearing as thin as his lips. He grabbed Hunter’s arm and pulled him into the room.

FORTY-SIX

Chantal

Lantern jaw held a door open. ‘You wait in here.’

Chantal stepped into the room, Spartan at best. Bare white walls, functional desks, hard chairs. Only one window in the room, six vertical slices of glass lit up sodium yellow from outside. No noise, but for the hum of the strip lighting and the occasional drone of a passing car.

There’s a time and place for standing your ground. This was neither.

She sat at the desk, letting all her aches and pains go with a long sigh. If only. After a few deep breaths she looked back up at the cop. ‘Are those girls okay?’

‘They are on the way to a hospital.’

‘My partner, Craig Hunter. Do you know where he is?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Have you got him in custody?’

‘I cannot say.’ She shut the door and left Chantal alone.

What a disaster. Where the hell was Craig?

Tulloch was at large. Had Craig caught him? Had Tulloch hurt him?

There was no sign of Matty or the other big lump. Three against one . . . Craig would’ve been heavily outgunned. Not that such a statistical detail would ever stop him.

The only good thing was that they had managed to stop Tulloch raping someone. Focus on Nora and Siobhan. Watch what you drink, girls. Blind trust will cost you dear . . .

She dialled Hunter’s phone. Still just voicemail. ‘Craig, I’m at the station. Call me when you hear this.’ She hung up and typed a message to Sharon.

TROUBLE BREWING HERE. CALL ME.

The door clicked open and she looked up. DI Jon Bruce walked in, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Evening.’

Chantal slumped back. ‘Jon. What’s going on?’

Bruce sat on the edge of the table, far too close to her. Brucie Boner, indeed. ‘I was in the area. Quaresma called me, told me I was needed here. So here I am. We were on the Strip, responding to another sighting.’

‘Do you know where Craig is?’

Bruce shook his head. ‘I’ve only just arrived. God, those sightings are getting out of hand. Another false alarm.’ He adjusted his cufflinks, big spangly things that looked like he got them from a toy shop. ‘Starting to doubt the boy’s still here.’

‘Think you’ll find him?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I think. I do my job.’ Bruce shot her a wink and just like that his serious tone shifted to a pillow talk mutter. ‘Now, what trouble have you got yourself into, eh?’

She huffed out breath and gave him a sobering look. ‘We found him, Jon. The guy we’re after. Date raping someone.’

‘You sure?’

‘Well, I doubt she could consent to what Tulloch was going to do to her.’

‘One of those, eh?’ Bruce got up and started pacing the room. Just like he did when he gave a training course. Working up a flow, or whatever he called it. Looked as artificial as those shiny cufflinks he kept fingering. Be it unconsciously or by force of habit, the guy was a creep. ‘From what I gather, your boyfriend’s in the shit.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘Sure about that?’ Bruce twitched an eyebrow. The poor thing looked like it couldn’t wait to leave his face. ‘Sharing a room, aren’t you?’

‘Craig’s a gentleman. He’s on the sofa.’

‘Of course he is.’ Bruce scratched the rogue eyebrow, like that was the only control he had over it. ‘All I know is Craig got into a scuffle with someone.’

‘Tulloch?’

‘No idea, Chantal. Way Quaresma said it, he’ll get done for fighting. Affray or God knows what they call it here. Maybe Breach of the Peace.’

‘He was doing his job.’

‘Not sure our mutual friend sees it that way. Speaking of whom . . .’ Bruce moved over to the window and sat against the sill.

The door opened and Quaresma stepped inside. Hunter followed him in, his head low.

‘Craig!’ Chantal shot out of her chair and wrapped a hug around him. ‘Are you okay?’

Quaresma wedged them apart with his fingers. ‘Yes, he is okay.’

Chantal stared at Quaresma’s hands. ‘That’s technically assault.’

‘Maybe in your country.’ Quaresma sat behind the desk and shrugged off his long jacket. ‘But this is my country and you two are making problems. A lot of problems.’

Chantal didn’t want to take her eyes off Hunter, but did so just long enough to shoot a spiteful glare at Quaresma. ‘We had Tulloch.’

‘Ah, but you, how you say? Break protocol?’ Quaresma loosened his tie and lifted the loop over his head. ‘We had agreement.’ He pointed a bony finger at her. ‘We agree, you wait.’

‘We called you and—’

‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma gripped the edge of the desk, his eyebrow cocked like a Magnum. ‘You call and I say, do not make move. We agree tomorrow, yes?’ He left a pause, but she wasn’t going to fill it. ‘Next, you take our law in your hands, when we are in middle of operation. Is big risk for all.’ He licked his lips. ‘I know your country. People like you think they—’

‘People like me?’ Chantal tilted her head to the side. ‘You want to be careful where that sentence takes you.’ She nodded over at Bruce in the window. ‘You’ve got witnesses here.’

‘I do not mean your skin colour or where your parents from, Sergeant.’ Quaresma lowered his head, shrouding his eyes under that heavy brow of his. ‘I mean how you people think. You British think you can walk in here and do what you want, like you own our country.’ He thumped his chest like a footballer in the World Cup final.

‘You know what happened in that bar, right?’ Chantal let Hunter go and sat in her seat, arms folded. ‘Sean Tulloch had spiked that girl’s drinks. He was going to rape her.’

‘The girls are in hospital now. We have doctors here, too, you know? And my government pay for medicine. Is nice, no?’

‘If it were true, it would be very nice, but I think you’ll find that our government covers those expenses.’ Chantal scowled at him. ‘Either way, though, it would be better if you had someone in custody for that crime.’

Quaresma held her gaze, rubbing his fingers together, then glanced over at Bruce. ‘We must let Richard Smith go.’

Hunter frowned at him. ‘Who?’

‘You fight with him on street. No memory? At your hotel?’

‘Rick . . .’ Hunter raised his hands in the air. ‘Why are you letting him go?’

‘Because you assaulted him, Mr Hunter.’

‘He attacked me when I was—’

‘Mr Hunter!’

‘—to arrest a suspect in multiple—’

‘Mr Hunter!’

‘—which you don’t seem to be bothered to do anything—’

‘ENOUGH!’ Quaresma’s voice echoed around the small room. He pulled out a sheet of paper and jotted a note on it. ‘Why I must remind you again that you are in Portugal, not Britain? If I prosecute Mr Saunders, I prosecute you. You are happy with that, yes?’

Chantal got between them, waving her hands to try and calm the situation. ‘Look, Craig and I prevented Tulloch from raping that girl.’

Quaresma gave them a round of mock applause. ‘Very good. You like a medal now?’

What was he playing at?

Chantal’s nostrils flared. ‘You are going to arrest him, right?’

‘Sergeant, you must learn to mind own business. Especially in other country.’

‘He tried to rape one of those girls.’

‘I see it every night. What can I do?’

‘You can start by arresting him.’

‘This is my country!’ Quaresma thumped his desk, eyes drilling into Chantal. ‘I am in charge. Not you. Not him. I. We have other way for police here.’

‘Look, this is your chance to bring Tulloch in.’

‘We agree to meet tomorrow morning.’ Quaresma dropped his pen on the desk, the metal thunking off hard plastic. ‘If you cannot remember this agreement, perhaps I must keep you here tonight? Nice cell for two, ah?’

Bruce cleared his throat and waited for Quaresma to look at him. ‘João, let them go.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘We’ve got to get on with investigating that sighting of Harry.’ Bruce gave a slow sigh. ‘You agree with that, right?’

Quaresma sat back in his chair and snorted. ‘Okay.’ He jabbed a finger at Chantal, then Hunter. ‘We will be busy for rest of night. I meet you at two o’clock tomorrow. Here, okay?’

Second-class citizens . . .

‘Okay, fine.’ Chantal scraped her chair across the tiles and got up. ‘Can we at least get a lift back to our hotel?’

Quaresma shook his head, chuckling. ‘Is only a few kilometres walk.’

Hunter glowered at him. ‘This is taking the piss a bit.’

‘Listen, my friend, you assault same man two times this evening. Richard. Ricky. Whatever he called, we order him to leave Portugal tomorrow. How you say? Eysapp? And I will do to you, too, if one more time you forget our agreement. Is last warning, so be happy you can go with no, how you say?’ He put his wrists together in what seemed to be his favourite gesture. ‘Hand locks?’

*   *   *

Chantal stomped along a narrow pavement at the side of the dual carriageway. ‘Are you sure it’s this way?’

‘Think so.’ Hunter checked his phone again. ‘Still looks like the right way. Should end up at the Strip. Might be able to get a cab from there.’

‘The Strip?’ Chantal stopped and stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Jesus, Craig.’

‘All roads seem to lead there.’ Hunter pocketed his mobile. ‘I could call Finlay . . .’

‘Don’t even think about it.’ She leaned against the wall of a house. ‘I’m tired just thinking about this case, and now our supposed liaison is making us walk back to our house arrest. Every effort we’ve made her feels utterly futile and then you fight this abuser and . . . ’

Hunter was still checking up and down the road. Like that’d do anything. He looked over at her. ‘You want to talk about this?’

She let her shoulders slump. ‘No.’

‘Sure?’

A taxi whizzed towards them. Hunter held out a hand and got a shrug in response.

Chantal sat on the kerb, her feet pressing down on the asphalt. ‘I lost you. I’d no idea what happened to you.’

‘I got seven shades of shite kicked out of me.’

‘You could’ve died, Craig.’

‘Takes a lot more—’

‘Shut up.’ She shook her head at him. ‘You can’t fight people all the time, you know? Especially three of them.’

‘It was only Tulloch. Ricky must’ve seen me and—’

‘Craig, Tulloch’s bigger than you. Is there anyone you wouldn’t fight?’

Hunter looked her straight in the eye. ‘You.’

Another taxi flew past. Don’t know what to say to that.

Hunter averted his face. ‘I don’t get what Quaresma’s playing at here.’

‘Craig.’

‘Look, sorry. But we did save those girls from getting raped.’

‘As harsh as this sounds, I don’t give a shit about those girls if you’re lying dead somewhere.’

He grinned. ‘So you do love me?’

She looked away. ‘Piss off . . .’

‘Sorry. I . . . Look, I’ll try and keep the head, okay?’

‘No, you will keep the head.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘If you want me to commit to you, it cuts both ways. I almost had a breakdown in that office, worrying what might have happened to you.’

‘Right.’ He looked lost. Another glance at a passing car, then he looked back at her. ‘So, what are we going to do?’

‘Wait for Quaresma.’

‘Like I said, I don’t get him.’

‘He’s in a bad situation. No resources, trying to maintain law and order in Europe’s Wild West. Then the world’s press descends on the very place that generates most of their tourism revenue and makes them look like another British kid’s gone lost under their noses.’

‘Fair enough. Quaresma’s up against it. Maybe our agenda isn’t quite meshing with his.’

Chantal leaned forward. ‘But where does that leave us? Do we just go back to Scotland with our tails between our legs?’

Hunter stared at her, then turned away. ‘I’m trying to be positive.’

‘I understand. It’s . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Craig, we’re . . . nowhere.’

‘Well, that’s great, because I’ve had the living shit kicked out of me and I’m glad my efforts have been so successful.’

‘Stop being such a drama queen.’

‘Look, I’m black and blue all over.’ Hunter stood over her. ‘I narrowly avoided getting twonked with a steel pipe.’

She looked up at him again. ‘You okay?’

‘I’ll live.’ Hunter held out a hand and winched her up. She let him. ‘Look, Quaresma’s not going to help us, is he?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘We only have one option, then. We need to track down Tulloch and bring him in when Quaresma’s ready. I’ll try to keep the martial arts to a minimum.’

‘Well, that’ll be a start.’ She almost laughed. Almost. ‘But, we’re back to square one. We’ve no idea where Tulloch is.’

‘Not quite.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘He’s staying at our hotel complex, right?’

A taxi swung round the bend, and this one had its yellow light on.

Hunter stepped out and flagged it down. ‘Someone’s got to have seen him.’

FORTY-SEVEN

Hunter

There was a light on in Ricky and Kerry’s apartment. Hunter could see it from the lawn outside. No sound of any shouting or screaming, though. Not for now.

If that pipe had connected . . .

Can’t believe Quaresma let the bastard go.

Chantal was over by a set of French doors. She whisper-shouted at him. ‘I can hear something.’

Hunter listened closely. Deadly quiet, except for a TV booming out from the far side of the quad. Traffic droned past. Could almost hear the bass-drum din of the Strip from here. But there was something weird. A sort of moaning sound.

He frowned over at her, not that she could see him in the darkness. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s over there.’ Chantal pointed into the pitch black, right in the middle of the hotel grounds, where the lights failed to cover. ‘Come on.’

Hunter flashed on his phone’s torch. What the hell was it? A victim of Tulloch’s, moaning as she regained consciousness? Hotel security after Tulloch had assaulted them?

He shone it over a patch of ground. Something moved on it, something fast. He stepped closer. Something jumped towards him. He ran away from it. ‘What the hell is that?’

Chantal squinted into the light, then let out a groan of her own. ‘Frogs.’

‘Frogs?’

‘Yes, Craig. Frogs.’ She held her torch low. Looked like a spring, water pouring out of the top. Dark green foliage surrounded a tree. Tiny little frogs jumped up and down in a pool, making a hell of a racket this close up. ‘Well, that’s a result, I suppose. We’ve solved the mystery of the moaner in the night.’

Hunter switched off his torch. ‘What are we going to do, then?’

Chantal shrugged. ‘Start again tomorrow.’ She looked over at the bar area. ‘Night cap?’

‘Night cap.’

*   *   *

Hunter stared into the fizzing lager, half of it sitting there like a silent indictment of his inability to finish anything in his life. Even beer.

‘You okay?’ Chantal’s fingers were cupped around her glass, just a splodge of red at the bottom.

Hunter took a swig of lager. Still tasted like shite. Horrible stuff. ‘I saw that Ricky twat. Well, a light on in their room.’

She took his hands, her fingers warm and soft. ‘You stopped him murdering his wife.’

‘I merely delayed it.’ He broke free of her grip. ‘It’s his fault that Tulloch got away. He went after me with a pipe. If he’d cracked me over the head . . .’

‘Shite.’ Chantal shut her eyes and sighed. ‘Craig, you need to stop getting into those situations.’

‘You told me to go after Tulloch.’

‘Did I?’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Look, you almost got him.’

‘Almost got done in by him, you mean.’ Hunter finished the beer in one long gulp. ‘I met my match. Tulloch does Krav Maga, too. I thought he’d be another thick-skulled wife beater. But he’s got the skills to harness all that . . . evil. We need to watch what we’re doing with him.’

‘What, so we let Quaresma deal with him?’

‘We’ve seen what happens if we don’t.’ Hunter grabbed their glasses and got to his feet. ‘Right, one last drink before bed?’

She gave a tiny nod.

Hunter walked over to the bar. The place was quiet, just a crowd of older people winding down. He smiled at the barman. ‘Pint of Sagres and another glass of whatever the red is.’

‘Rioja, my friend.’ The barman unscrewed a bottle and poured some wine into a waiting glass.

‘Actually, get me one as well.’

‘Hold the lager?’

Hunter nodded and leaned in close. ‘Has our friend been back?’

The barman tipped the last of the wine in and reached behind him for a fresh bottle. He twisted the cap off and topped up Chantal’s glass. ‘Not tonight.’ He started pouring into Hunter’s. ‘A couple of his friends were in earlier. Chaos.’

‘What sort of chaos?’

‘Same as before. Dancing on the tables. Taking their shirts off. The security man talked to them and that was the end of the matter.’

‘Did you see where they went?’

‘No, sorry.’ He pushed the glasses over the bartop. ‘Seven euro.’

Hunter gave him a ten. ‘Keep an eye out for them, okay?’

The barman answered with a nod.

Hunter collected the glasses and headed back to the table. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’ She sniffed at her drink, frowning. ‘Look, I was thinking . . . about us being in the closet. How much does it mean to you?’

‘Why the sudden interest?’

‘Well . . . I don’t know. Back a few years ago, when Scott Cullen caught that serial killer. Well, he wasn’t really a serial killer, but the press said he was.’ She nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘Anyway, Scott and Sharon got together then. He ended up in hospital or something, but my point is that they started seeing each other. Two weeks later, they told their boss. Brian bloody Bain. Cullen got shifted to this total prick DS, I got shifted to Sharon.’

‘So you did well out of it?’

Chantal shrugged. ‘I’ve got my Sergeant stripes now.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I don’t know.’ Another shrug, her lips and forehead twisted. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. I could go back to the MIT, you could keep doing this.’

‘But this is important to you, right?’

‘Of course it is.’ She took a firmer grip of her glass. ‘What we do in this unit is important to me. You’re important to me . . . I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Well, we need another solution, then.’ Hunter took a sip. Peppery and sweeter than he expected. ‘Not bad.’

‘You drinking wine is a weird sight.’

‘Had some with dinner.’ He took another sip and grinned at her. ‘When I was fifteen, I used to down a couple of bottles to get pissed before we went out.’

‘Classy.’

‘I’m a proud Porty boy.’

‘Aye, and you haven’t changed.’ A big hand clapped him on the back. ‘You twat.’

Finlay, gurning at them, his eyebrows dancing.

Terrific.

Hunter swivelled round to face him. How much had he heard? ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Passing through. Thought I might find you here.’

‘Fin, I told you. There’s nothing for you to do in this case.’

‘Get over yourself, Hunter. I’m here because I took a lady out for dinner.’

Chantal frowned at him. ‘Thought you were married?’

‘Aye, was.’ Finlay sat between them, twisting his car keys in his fingers. ‘Mary chucked me out few years back. Took me to the cleaners, too. Just as well we didn’t have kids, I tell you.’

‘Can I get you a drink, Fin?’ Chantal took a sip of her wine. ‘Look like you need it?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘Oh, of course, sorry.’

‘Just swung by to see how you love birds were doing?’

‘We’re fine.’ Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘And we’re not—’

‘I get it.’ Finlay gripped Hunter’s shoulder right where it bloody hurt. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Fin, we’re not—’

Finlay tapped his nose. ‘Aye, aye.’

Chantal cleared her throat. ‘So, this date?’

‘Aye, not so good.’ Finlay ran a hand over his chin. ‘Maybe she thought the same about me, who knows?’ He got to his feet. ‘Look, if you need any help, I’m more than willing to step in, okay?’

‘It’s noted.’ Hunter raised his glass. ‘Safe drive back to Olhão.’

‘Aye, see you Chantal.’ Finlay waddled off, his straight-backed gait even worse than before.

‘What a guy.’

‘Sounds like he’s bored, Craig.’

‘Looks like it, too. But don’t even think about it. We can’t use him.’

Day 3

Saturday, 14th May, 2016

FORTY-EIGHT

Hunter

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Sunlight burst through Hunter’s eyelids as he looked around for the source of the noise.

Head thumping. Mouth dry. Bursting for a piss.

Shite, how many did we have in the hotel bar last night?

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Christ, what was that sound? Like a dying animal.

Hunter blinked hard, braved the bright light and opened his eyes fully. Then he turned over.

Chantal faced him, her hair plastered across her face, naked as the day she was born. The duvet kicked off her side of the bed. She hissed in air then snored it out. ‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Hunter wiggled the mattress and she snorted a couple of times before settling back into her comatose sleep.

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Bloody hell. This isn’t getting us anywhere.

He got out of bed to retrieve the mobile plugged in by the kettle. Least I had the presence of mind to charge that.

He grabbed it and padded through to the bathroom. As he pissed, he tried checking his messages. Not a bad job, either, all in the pan.

10.04.

How did it get to that time?

Hunter sat on the lid. Didn’t flush so as not to wake Chantal.

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Nothing would wake Chantal.

He flicked through the texts. Four from Finlay after him turning up in the bar. Desperate, much?

One from Murray, including a photo. Bubble had let Muffin sleep next to her on her giant bed. It was far too big for a skinny little cat anyway. That said, the poor boy lay on the edge.

CATS BOTH FINE. SUCH A CUTE COUPLE. LIKE YOU AND CHANTAL.

He tapped out a reply.

THANKS FOR DOING THAT. THEY LOOK HAPPY.

The one person he’d trusted with the news. The one person he knew who wasn’t on the bloody job. His brother.

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

A text flashed up. Elvis. What now?

LYING BASTARD! KNOW YOUR SHAGGING HER.

Shite, balls, bastard.

Hunter replied.

STOP THINKING ABOUT ME NAKED. BESIDES, WE’RE NOT TOGETHER.

He sent it and sat back against the cistern, rattling the porcelain.

‘Gnnnnaawwww.’

Here they were, able to act like a real couple, and it felt right. And now Elvis knew . . . Back to bloody uniform. Back to—

Bzzz.

Another text from Elvis.

QUIT LYING, DUDE. FIN TOLD ME.

Terrific.

Back to a squad car, chasing scumbags, responding to calls. Back to Steve and Dave. Fat Keith and his constant moans about his motor. Lauren. Buchan and his stupid chess weirdness.

‘Gnnnn— Craig?’

Do I tell her?

Of course I tell her. This is our problem. Not mine, not hers. Ours.

Hunter locked his phone and walked back through, his feet slapping off the cold tiles.

Chantal was squinting at him, her hair sticking up at all angles. Would have been a funny look if it hadn’t left her nipples exposed. At that, his laugh turned into a guttural groan.

‘What time is it?’

Hunter knelt on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s gone ten.’

She slumped back in the bed and pressed her palms into her eye sockets. ‘We’ve slept in. Great.’ She yawned. ‘Think it was that early flight yesterday?’

‘I rather suspect the last glass of wine was spoilt.’ Hunter held up his phone, showing the picture of the cats. ‘See how well they’re getting on?’

She smirked at it. ‘They look so cute. Poor Muffin.’

‘He’s about twice the size of Bubble.’

‘Like you and me.’ Chantal snuggled into him and he eased himself back down on the worst mattress in the world as she rested her head on his chest. ‘How much did we drink last night?’

He started kissing her head. ‘Not much, in the end.’

‘Feels like a lot.’ She brushed her hair out of her face and yawned again. ‘Do you think Tulloch’s run off?’

‘Could’ve done.’ The curtains flapped in the breeze, giving a glimpse of the bright day outside. ‘But who knows? I’m glad that all this time working on sex crimes hasn’t made me think like one of those sickos.’ He ran a hand through her hair, stopping when he got to a knot. ‘Chantal, I need to tell you—’

‘So what’s the plan, Craig?’ She swatted his hand away. ‘We’ve got to meet your fan club at two. Right?’

‘Quaresma isn’t . . .’ Hunter put his phone away and lay back on his pillow, pulling her in close. ‘Never mind, listen—’

‘We should try to pick up Tulloch’s trail.’ She batted his chest. ‘Can’t believe you let me sleep in.’

‘Can’t believe you got leathered.’ Hunter kissed her forehead. She smelled of broken biscuits. ‘See this stuff about keeping us a secret?’

‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his lip. ‘I’m hungry. Time for food. And coffee. Then we’ll talk.’

‘Would you just listen to me, please? This is serious.’ Hunter unlocked his mobile and showed her the text. ‘Finlay overheard us. He’s told Elvis.’

FORTY-NINE

Chantal

Chantal slammed the door behind her and checked it was locked. And checked again.

Can’t believe we’ve been so careless. All that time, all that sneaking around, only to let Finlay the superbrain Sinclair see us as a couple. One thoughtless moment and one of them was going to be booted off the team.

Back to the MIT. Working with Cullen, working for Methven. Bain, Stuart Murray, Simon Buxton.

God help me.

Hunter’s shoulders were slumping as he walked ahead of her.

The MIT would be better than what was in store for him. They’d chucked him out before, weren’t likely to take him back.

So she had no choice, really.

She caught up with him and burrowed her hand in his big paw, letting him lead her away. ‘Craig, look, I’ll take the heat, okay? I’ll go back to the MIT. You can stay.’

‘I appreciate it, I do, but I don’t think we’ll get a say in it.’ Hunter couldn’t look at her as they climbed down the stairs. ‘How’s Sharon going to feel when she finds out from bloody Elvis? And how likely is it that he hasn’t already blabbed?’

Chantal stared at the marble, sparks of light bouncing off and taking her thoughts in all kinds of criss-crossing ways. She blinked, tried to focus.

He was right. I should phone her. Now. Tell her. Come out and . . . What if he hadn’t told her yet? What if he wasn’t going to?

She let go of his hand and sped up towards the staircase to the restaurant area, a long balcony above the bar. ‘My head’s not in the game yet. I need to think this through.’

Too many variables. Too many things in play. Hard to figure out who knew what and who’d do what damage, armed with that information.

Hunter caught her by the bottom of the stairs, grabbing her hand. ‘Can we go somewhere else? Please?’

Chantal spun round and locked her arms across her chest, stretching her vest top and making his eyes drop to her chest. ‘What? I’m starving and I need coff—’

Hunter glanced up the staircase. Seemed oddly reluctant to speak. ‘The bacon?’

She rolled her eyes and stared up at the sky. Well played, girl . . . ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s alright, Chantal. I don’t want to ruin—’

She bounced down the step and kissed him on the lips. ‘Don’t be daft. I just wasn’t thinking. Or thinking too much of other stuff. Come on, we’ll go somewhere else.’ She grabbed his hand and led him away. ‘But I still think you need to sort this out.’

Hunter let go of her hand. ‘Just like that? You think I can just sort that pesky PTSD shite out by telling someone about it? Look how well that worked when I told you.’ He shook his head at her, real anger in his eyes. ‘You’re pissed off because you can’t have your bloody coffee. If I have another flashback . . .’

Chantal shut her eyes. He’s right, you selfish cow. This is when he’s at his lowest and you’re as blasé as a teenager.

‘Craig, I’m sorry.’ She pressed her thumb against his palm, caressing it. ‘You’ll manage. Okay? I’ll help you.’ She stopped on the slabs in the full morning glare. ‘And I’m being a total cow. I’m sorry. This slip-up with Elvis is doing my head in.’

He pulled her tight.

She pushed her head into his chest and he tightened the hug. She looked up at him. ‘Do you think I should call—’

‘Excuse me?’ A woman stepped down the staircase, frowning at them. Blonde hair, tied back tight. One of the girls Tulloch and Matty were forcing rohypnol on in that club. Nora, was it? She folded her arms, shivering in the sunshine. ‘You’re the lady from last night, aren’t you?’

‘Hi, Nora. Are you okay?’

‘Breakfast has stopped serving, by the way.’ She thumbed behind her. ‘One of the bars up there serves a fry-up all day. That’s where I’m heading.’

‘You know I’m a cop, right?’

Nora looked away. ‘I remember.’

Chantal let go of Hunter’s hand and held it out. ‘I’m Chantal and this is Craig.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry about the circumstances we had to meet in yesterday, but it’s good to see you’re okay now. Being assaulted is never easy, so I’m glad we were there to help.’

‘Thanks, I suppose.’ Nora’s eyes were flitting all over the place, seeking any exit route from Chantal’s benign smile. ‘Did you catch him them?’

‘He got away.’

‘Jesus.’

‘We’re doing all we can to catch him.’ Chantal took a step towards the girl and rubbed her arm. ‘Did you go to hospital?’

Nora nodded. ‘We got out at three.’ Again her eyes avoided Chantal’s. ‘I didn’t even know why the hell I was there. The cops are useless. Out here, I mean.’ She nibbled at a painted nail, a crack forming in the purple sheen. ‘You guys work in Scotland, right?’

‘Edinburgh.’ Chantal coughed. ‘Well, Police Scotland, so yes. We’re part of the Sexual Offences Unit.’

‘Are you after one of those guys?’

‘Afraid I can’t really tell you that.’

‘Well, I hope you can’t really cut his balls off, either.’

Chantal laughed and rubbed her arm again. ‘Did the doctors get anything they can use?’

‘Wouldn’t tell us.’

‘Have you got the name of any local police officers?’

‘Elena something or other.’ Nora grabbed Chantal’s hand. ‘It’s the big one, isn’t it? Sean?’

‘I really can’t say.’

Nora tilted her head to the side. ‘Tell me. Please.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry?’ Nora screwed up her face and scowled at Hunter, then back at Chantal. ‘I . . .’ She nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘Look, are you after him or not?’

Hunter stepped forward and craned his neck low. ‘We’re here to bring him back to Scotland.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘He’s a serial abuser of women. His latest victim is in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary right now.’

‘Ah, shit.’ More nibbling as her face pinched tight. ‘Look, what he tried to do to us last night, in the bar, that wasn’t the full story like . . .’

‘What?’

‘Come with me.’

*   *   *

Nora put her keycard in the lock and it clicked open. She twisted the handle and stopped. ‘Shit, I don’t . . .’

‘Come on, Nora, it’s fine.’ Chantal leaned against the doorframe. ‘We’re trained in this sort of thing. Okay?’

Nora sighed. ‘In for a penny . . .’ She opened the door and led inside.

The apartment was bigger than theirs and faced due south, which meant full sun exposure at this time of day. Fortunately, one of the curtains was drawn across the patio door, bathing half of the room in darkness. But even as their eyes adjusted, there was no sign of life.

Nora sat on the bed and prodded a mound of duvet. ‘Kirsten?’

Nothing.

‘She’s not been up since . . .’ Nora nibbled at her lip. She shook her head and stabbed a finger into the mound. ‘Come on, you. Get up!’

Still nothing.

She shook the duvet and pulled it back. Again, nothing, just more sheets and pillows. ‘Shit.’

Chantal looked over at Hunter, who appeared to be as worried as she felt. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t . . .’ Nora rubbed her face. ‘I don’t know.’

‘No idea?’

Nora shrugged. ‘I can’t think. Sorry.’

‘It’s natural if you’ve had your drink spiked.’ Chantal gave her some space, let her settle down. ‘Take us through this from the start. Who is Kirsten?’

‘She’s me cousin. Me mam was the baby of their family, there’s twelve years difference between her and Kirsten’s mam.’ Nora sniffed, couldn’t keep her focus away from her wringing hands for longer than a second. ‘We’re here on another cousin’s hen weekend. Flew over on Thursday night, typical first night blues. Got hammered on the flight over, then we hit the Strip . . . Last I saw of Kirsten was her chatting to that big lad in the bar.’

Hunter crouched down and handed her a photo. ‘Was it him?’

‘Sean . . .’ She reached for the picture, tentative at first, then her face twisted into a snarl and she swatted the photo out of Hunter’s hand. ‘That’s him . . .’

Hunter let the picture lie where it fell, his attention on Nora alone. ‘And he abused her?’

A slight nod. ‘I think so.’

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Nora, but . . .’ Chantal frowned at her. ‘He brutalised your cousin, and yet you let him buy you a drink?’

Nora went over to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. She downed it, liquid sluicing down her hand. ‘She’s . . . Look. She didn’t come out with us last night. Didn’t speak to me all day. I thought she was too hungover, but . . . Some of the girls got chatting to those lads again. Sean just started on me, you know? I thought he was lovely, but . . .’

‘But you think he may have raped her?’

‘Well, I don’t know, but I think so.’

Chantal gave her a gentle smile, but her silence was as firm as any insistence that Nora owed it to her cousin to be completely honest with them.

Nora sighed again. ‘She sort of said something this morning, then she just stopped. After what happened to us last night, she clammed up any time I went near the topic. But . . .’ She refilled the glass and held it in front of her face. ‘Seeing you . . . It made me think.’

Had enough of this stalling. The girl’s reluctance to implicate herself might be costing her cousin dearly if she was still in Tulloch’s hands . . .

Chantal stepped over to the kitchen area. ‘Let me get this clear. You don’t have any idea whether she was attacked last night or not? Or whether she might be with her abuser as we speak?’

Nora flinched. ‘All I know is, she was chatting to this Sean guy in the bar the other night.’ She put the glass down with a thud. ‘Then she’s in this state. I mean, come on. After what he tried to do to me last night and—’

Her phone rattled on the counter. She picked it up. ‘I know where she is.’

FIFTY

Hunter

Nora stood on the golden sand, her left hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘There she is!’ She started jogging towards a bridge leading to the sea. Metal handholds around wide wooden slats guided the path out to a pier. A woman sat halfway along, facing away from them, crouched down, rocking back and forth.

Hunter set off after Nora, trudging across the dry sand, his stiff knee slowing him down to the point of embarrassment. He clambered over the walkway’s edge and slowed down as he approached.

Nora stood over the woman, rubbing her shoulder. She smiled at Hunter. ‘Kirsten, these guys are cops.’

Dark hair, like a nineteenth-century photo of a potato famine victim. Her lined face was blurred by smudged make-up. Below her short skirt her tights were rucked and torn. Her handbag lay next to those Ugg boots Chantal had stashed at his flat. She looked up at Hunter and scowled. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Nora flashed her a smile. ‘These guys are from Scotland. They’re looking for Sean.’

Kirsten looked over at them, suspicion deepening the lines on her forehead.

Hunter squatted down between the cousins, giving each a warm smile. ‘Kirsten, can I get you anything?’

She looked up at him, her eyes hiding behind her fringe. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I know what’s happened to you.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Kirsten hauled herself up to standing. ‘How the fuck can you know what’s happened to me, eh?’

‘Your cousin told—’

‘Get the fuck away from me!’ Kirsten shoved Hunter, both hands planted on his chest, the force of her pent-up rage unleashed in a single frantic push.

He stayed rock solid. The girl had no strength left in her, most likely hadn’t slept or eaten since the bar, probably cried herself dry after what that bastard . . . ‘It’s okay, we know how you feel. You need to express that anger.’

‘Get the fuck away from me!’

‘Look, I’m a police officer. We’re trying—’

‘Fuck off!’

‘—to arrest Sean Tulloch.’

‘Fuck off!’ Kirsten frowned at him. ‘You don’t say his name to me! Fuck off!’ She slapped him across the cheek.

Stung hard, like she’d taken a couple of layers of skin off. He kept his hands at his side, tried to control his breathing. ‘Kirsten, we know you were drinking with Mr Tulloch on Thursday night.

‘Fuck off!’ She stepped forward, her arms raised to slap again. Nora grabbed her arm, pulling it down to her side.

Hunter kept the smile in his eyes. ‘Did he buy you a drink?’

Kirsten disappeared under her hands, hiding her face and her eyes from these strangers as much as from the memory of her indignity. ‘I’m not talking to any of you. Fuck off away from me!’ She reached down and grabbed her handbag. Only caught one of the handles. The contents spilled over the sandy boardwalk. ‘Now look what you’ve fucking made me do!’ She bent down and started stuffing tampons and paracetamol and her purse back in the bag.

Nora’s jaw clenched as she crouched down next to her. ‘Sean spiked my drink last night.’

Kirsten looked up, frowning. Half the contents of her bag still lay on the sand. ‘He what?’

‘That Sean spiked mine and Siobhan’s drink . . . After he raped you.’

Kirsten collapsed back against the banisters. ‘Nora, will you keep your fucking mouth shut?’

Hunter crouched between them. ‘Kirsten, my name—’

‘Leave me the fuck alone!’ Kirsten shifted away from him. ‘Just piss off!’

‘My name is DC Craig Hunter.’ He got his warrant card out and held it in front of her. She didn’t even look at it. ‘And this is DS Chantal Jain. We work for Police Scotland’s Sexual Offences Unit.’ He took his ID back. Looked like the mere presence of it had calmed her down enough to listen to for a moment. Then he showed his phone, the photo of Tulloch on the screen. ‘This is the man you were drinking with, isn’t it?’

Nora snatched it off him and showed it to Kirsten. ‘This is him.’ She waved it in her cousin’s face. ‘This is Sean! He tried to rape me as well!’

A wind blew across the sand towards them, spiralling as it hit the walkway.

Kirsten stared at the phone for a few seconds. ‘It could be him, I suppose.’

‘His name is Sean Tulloch and we’re here to arrest him.’ The man’s twinkling eyes glared out of the screen, innocent as a choir boy. ‘Believe me, I wish we’d arrested him back in Scotland. I wish he’d not been able to do what he’s done to you. And I can only imagine how you feel right now. All the anger and rage and hate, some of it probably even directed at yourself. It’s natural. But it’s not right. Mr Tulloch has a history of domestic violence against women. His latest victim is in hospital back in Edinburgh, fighting for her life.’

Kirsten leaned into Nora, shutting her eyes.

Chantal rested on the supports, her voice soft and quiet. ‘What happened, Kirsten?’

She looked at Nora for a few seconds, then shut her eyes again. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

Hunter let the cool sea breeze hit his skin. His stomach growled. ‘Kirsten, I know this is difficult, but it would help us if you could tell us what you do remember.’ He left a pause, waiting for her nod. He smiled at her. ‘Nora said you’re here on a hen weekend. Is that right?’

Kirsten ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back. ‘Look, I don’t remember too much. We were on that party mile on Thursday night. Dancing and drinking, you know how it is.’ She pressed the heels of her palms hard into her eyes. ‘I feel so fucking stupid.’

‘Kirsten, this isn’t your fault.’ Hunter crouched down to eye level. ‘Okay? None of this is your fault.’

Kirsten nodded. Didn’t seem to believe a word of his consolation, though. ‘I got speaking to this fella in one of the bars.’ She scratched her wrist, opening up a barely scabbed over wound. ‘Look, I got divorced last year. Not had a lot of luck with men since.’ She stabbed a finger at the phone, still couldn’t look up. ‘This guy was charming. Lovely fella. Gorgeous eyes. Kind smile. He asked if I wanted a drink. So I said, make it a double.’

Hunter left her some space but she’d retreated too far into herself to even notice, let alone fill it with any information they could use to finally put this scumbag in the dock. ‘Can you remember whether he got you that drink?’

‘Bacardi and Diet Coke.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I can still taste it. Can still see it fizzing away when I close my eyes.’ She scratched her wrist again. ‘If only I’d not . . .’

‘Kirsten, it’s okay.’ Nora was trying to stop her cousin from scratching that wrist of hers and drawing fresh blood. ‘You need to tell them what happened.’

‘What happened?’ Kirsten pushed herself up to her feet and got in Hunter’s face, covering him in sour vomit breath. ‘I woke up with him shagging me!’ Spit flecked his cheeks and dribbled down her chin. ‘And he was hurting me!’

Chantal sat back, looking like she was trying to act calm. ‘This was in his bed?’

‘Where do you fucking think? Of course it was!’ Kirsten started pacing along the planks. ‘Motherfucker had taken me home to his room. Some taxi bastard had let him do that! The state I was in!’ She wiped her bare arm across her nose. ‘When that swine was done fucking me, he fell asleep and I left. I got back to our room early. Late, whatever. Like five, six. Can’t remember. It was still dark outside. I felt so disgusted with myself I just stayed in the room yesterday.’ She cracked her hand off the walkway support, the metal ringing. ‘And his cock . . . It hurt like . . . I’m so fucking sore. Had to take eight ibuprofen . . .’ She slumped back against the handrails. ‘I’ve been pissing blood. It’s like having me period.’

Chantal reached out and lay her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Okay. I hear you. And I’ll try to help you. Let’s get you to the local police, Kirsten. Have you had a shower since the attack?’

‘I had a bath last night.’

Another chance to stop Tulloch had slipped through their grasp. All their fears about him, his lust escalated by the leery atmosphere of a bunch of squaddies out on the lash. Kirsten was the cost of that.

Not arresting him in Inverness when he went for the train.

Him giving the slip at Waverley.

Not catching him at the airport.

Quaresma not arresting him when he landed.

Ricky battering Hunter and letting Tulloch escape.

Chantal crouched in front of Kirsten. ‘We’re going to catch him and prosecute him for what he’s done to you. Were there any witnesses?’

‘Of course there fucking wasn’t.’ The girl stared off towards the beach. Tears seeped out of the sides of her eyes, slicking down her cheekbones. ‘Wait. There was someone in the other bed.’

What?

Kirsten wiped away her tears. ‘His mate was there. While this fucking bastard raped me. He was there the whole fucking time!’

Hunter reached into his pocket for his phone and brought up a photo of Matty Ibbetson. ‘Was it him?’

Kirsten shook her head. ‘Smaller.’

Hunter found one from the CCTV, Gordon Brownlee lurking at the bar. ‘Him?’

‘That’s the one. He had these funny ears. They weren’t the same height on his head.’

‘Did he . . . Did he also abuse you?’

Kirsten shook her head again. ‘He . . . was there. Watching. Fucking bastard might’ve been wanking himself off for all I know. Jesus, I was so out of it.’

Hunter pocketed his phone. ‘We’re going to find him, okay? We’re going to get a statement from him. We’re going to arrest Sean and he’s going to do time for what he’s done to you.’

‘Look, Craig, is it? I don’t want any trouble, please.’ Kirsten pulled back her sleeves. Dark bruises circled her lower arms like watch straps. ‘He . . . He’s a big man. I don’t . . .’

Hunter clenched his fists and scanned the area. ‘Kirsten, we’re going to make sure he can never do this again. Not to you and not to anyone else. And we’re going to make sure he’s punished for what he’s done to you.’ The beach was getting busy, despite the cool breeze. Or maybe only he could feel that. Him and the women looking at him, hoping against better knowledge that his promise would come true by the sheer force of his conviction. Then he frowned. ‘You said it happened in his room?’

*   *   *

Hunter stopped dead and groaned, as Kirsten pointed up at Tulloch’s apartment. His and Chantal’s wasn’t even twenty metres away. He leaned back against the wall and dialled Quaresma’s number, listening to it ring and ring. And ring. So he redialled.

After eight more rings, Quaresma finally moaned into his phone. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Craig Hunter. I—’

‘I have caller ID, Constable.’ Quaresma sighed. ‘I say we meet at two o’clock. What now?’

‘I need you to get some officers out here to enter a property.’

Silence on the line. ‘Two o’clock.’

Hunter looked over at Chantal, ten yards off, her left arm wheeling as she spoke to McNeill on the phone. With a sigh he refocused his attention on his own call. ‘Tulloch has raped a woman.’

Quaresma gasped. ‘What?’

‘A Northern Irish woman. Look, we need your men to enter the premises and collect evidence.’

‘Now? And when I am there, you say again false alarm? Or fight more UFC? No thank you, Constable.’

Click.

What the hell?

Hunter stared at his mobile. He’d bloody hung up on him.

FIFTY-ONE

Chantal

‘I know, Sharon, but he’s escalating.’ Chantal wheeled away from Tulloch’s room, leaving Hunter to guard it. The place was a crime scene. What had happened in there, what Kirsten had gone through at Tulloch’s hands, it had to be fixed, and if that wasn’t possible, it at least had to be prevented from happening to anyone else. The bastard had used his physical bulk to get his way, had used his penis as a weapon. ‘It’s likely he’s raped this woman. It’s on Portuguese territory, so your chum will have to—’

Hunter scowled at her.

Chantal covered her mouthpiece. ‘What?’

‘He hung up on me.’

‘Is he sending anyone?’

‘Don’t think so.’

Chantal stared at him, her jaw clenched tight. After an intense stare, she shifted her focus back to her phone. ‘Right, Shaz, we need to make a move. Quaresma is still not co-operating.’

‘Well, I can’t promise it’ll lead to anything if I go over his head.’ Sharon sounded worn out. ‘But I’ll do it anyway.’

‘We need approval now.’

‘Chantal, leave it with me, okay. Look, Elvis wants a word. I’ve got to go.’

Click.

Don’t need a million guesses to work out what that’s about. And what a time to tell her.

Chantal pocketed her phone and stared at the door for a second. ‘Craig, we can’t . . . Any defence team worth their salt will—’

‘I know. We’ll just have a little peek.’ Hunter twisted the handle. ‘Would you look at that? It’s unlocked.’

Chantal snorted. ‘You make Scott Cullen look professional.’

‘Tell me to stop, then.’ Hunter wiped the handle with the hem of his T-shirt and nudged the door open wide with his trainer. ‘Can you hear that? Sounds like there’s someone in there. Sounds like they’re in distress. Sounds like there might be a crime in—’

‘Go on.’ She nodded and Hunter stepped through the door. She kept an eye on the hallway, then entered the room herself.

No sign of anyone, not Tulloch, not even his roommate Gordon Brownlee.

The bathroom door was ajar. Smelled like someone had poured a bottle of mint shower gel down an open sewer. By the looks of it, the toilet wasn’t working. Dirty bastards were just shitting on more shit.

Back in the main room, Hunter was over by the kettle, rummaging through a pile of papers and holiday debris. ‘Nothing here.’

A little camera case sat to the side. Chantal opened it and pulled out the contents, then held something up to show Hunter. ‘Is this Tulloch’s MOD90?’

He took a glance and nodded at it. ‘Ought to be a bit more careful with it, but yeah, that’s his ticket through airport security.’ He got out his mobile and snapped a photo of it. ‘Must’ve made him think he’s invincible.’

Chantal squatted down near a plastic shopping bag. A pair of jeans, some shorts, a bunch of T-shirts. ‘Looks like he’s bought this lot here.’ She crossed over to Gordon Brownlee’s side of the room. Neat piles of clothes, a trolley suitcase, coins ordered by denomination. Much less chaotic.

‘Shite.’

She swung round.

Hunter held up the jeans, gripping them with a towel. A brown pill bottle poked out of the back pocket. He shook it out and Chantal picked it up between a pair of teaspoons. A silhouetted image of a man, side on, standing up and penetrating a woman bending at the waist in front of him.

“HEAVEN”

(THE ORIGINAL U.S.A.)

GHB

PURE ECSTACY

Blood boiled in Chantal’s veins. A smoking gun against Tulloch.

But . . . Jesus. That’s how the guy thought. Who cares if a girl didn’t want to have sex with him. Slip some of those into her drinks and she’s anyone’s for the taking.

Didn’t explain how someone like Paisley could fall for his charms without chemical assistance, but clearly he didn’t rely on his natural charm alone when he wanted a woman to bend to his will.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the logo. A bloody typo on the bottle, too. EcstaSy, you raping arseholes.

‘How the hell did he get that into the country?’

‘Maybe bought it here.’ Hunter shrugged the pills back into the jeans, then dropped them back on the bag. ‘Come on, we can’t be here.’

Chantal followed him back out into the courtyard. ‘Did you find anything that points to where he is?’

‘Sweet FA.’

She hit dial and put her phone to her ear.

‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma gave a massive sigh. ‘I say to your partner, two o’clock.’

‘Listen, we’ve reason to believe there is direct evidence in that apartment supporting the rape allegation.’

Quaresma’s sigh was even bigger this time. ‘What?’

‘We spoke to a drug dealer who sold Tulloch some rohypnol.’

‘Wait there.’

Click.

Chantal pocketed her phone. ‘Sounds like he’s finally sending someone over.’

‘Finally, indeed.’ Hunter huffed out a breath. ‘So, we’re meant to guard it until they get here?’

‘You got a better plan?’

Hunter stared away from them. ‘Brownlee isn’t here.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Assume he comes back and sees us here. He must know we’re cops by now. He’ll tell Tulloch and he’ll piss off out of here.’

‘That’s if he’s not gone already.’

‘You want to take that chance?’

She grabbed his shoulder. ‘Right, go over to the bar and see if you can find them there, okay? Then wait out front, while I guard this room. There’s only one way up here. If you see him, warn me, okay?’

FIFTY-TWO

Hunter

Hunter leaned against the front wall of the hotel and put his phone to his ear, listening to it ring. The bar was heaving now, not even noon and the shots were out. Grown men were playing cowboys, running round with their fingers and thumbs thrust out like pistols, shouting ‘pew, pew’.

Typical Brits abroad. Must make the rest of the EU so proud of us. Maybe a vote to leave in next month’s referendum would spare the continent the worst of our behaviour.

Looking around, he could see only British tourists. No Germans, no Swedes, no one to ask when we became so set on our differences. Maybe they keep us all separate? Looked like some Germans in the hotel next door, lying by the pool in knee-length lederhosen. No need to fight the Brits over sun loungers at dawn.

Like that Oktoberfest a few years back. The ambulance drivers were total pricks about taking Cullen to hospital after splitting his head open. For that fortnight of citywide alcohol abuse, drunk antics weren’t covered by the health insurance.

His trousers started vibrating. No aneurism, thank fuck, just my phone. Chantal. ‘What’s up?’

‘Room’s still empty, Craig. Any sign of the cops?’

‘Not yet. Negative on Brownlee, too.’ Hunter looked up and down the street. No sign of any police cars, just the occasional taxi winding past the row of coaches. ‘Five minutes and Quaresma’s getting another call.’

‘Better go.’

Click.

Hunter pocketed his phone as a Mercedes taxi pulled up and a guy in jacket and jeans got out, his black shoes gleaming in the sunlight. Couldn’t have looked more out of place next to the sagging bodies at the bar. The driver got out a set of golf clubs and he trundled them inside, followed by the passenger.

‘Wa-haaaay!’

Four topless men wobbled about the bar area, half muscle, half flab. They downed their drinks, then tossed plastic shot glasses in the air, raining down on a middle-aged couple tucking into a bottle of red. Too polite to say anything, their ears going the same colour as their fake Rioja.

Then Gordon Brownlee left the bar area, laden with a tray of shots and blinking in the glare. He set the drinks down on the table and tried to get the topless idiots to calm down.

Hunter took another look around. No cars approaching. Not much drone from the main road. He scanned through Brownlee’s mates — Tulloch and Matty weren’t there.

But hadn’t there been a third guy trying to spike that girl’s drinks last night? Where was he? Not there, that’s where.

He tapped out a text to Chantal.

GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.

Was that really such a good idea? Then he took a deep breath.

Sod it, here goes. A last check of the road and he walked over to lean across the fence. ‘Hey, Gordon?’

Brownlee gave a nod back and toasted him. ‘Alright, mate.’ Clearly didn’t recognise me. Matty and Tulloch hadn’t passed on anything useful. He downed the shot and strolled over, lugging his pint like a kettlebell. ‘What’s up?’

‘Tried catching up with Sean last night, but I couldn’t find him.’ Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seen him today?’

Brownlee shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Not since first thing.’

Hunter nodded slowly. ‘You’re rooming with him, right?’

Brownlee squinted at him. ‘Aye.’ Could almost see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. He got up and leaned on the face, almost face-to-face with Hunter. ‘You seem in an awful hurry to see big Sean.’

‘Fly back home tomorrow and I’ve not seen the prick. Ages since I last sank a pint with him.’

‘Right. Aye, well, he crawled back into the room in the wee small hours, you know?’

But where the hell was he now?

Hunter flashed a grin. ‘Still a shagger, eh?’

‘Tell me about it. Not that I can talk.’ Brownlee laughed. ‘Out at the tits till the back of four.’

Hunter gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Which one did you go to?’

‘First one at the crossing. Classy place.’ Brownlee gulped at his lager and bared his teeth. ‘Anyhoo, Sean’ll still be with Matty.’ He shook his head. ‘Dirty big bastard was up in my room at eight this morning, off his tits. Said he’d got back at six but couldn’t sleep. He’s got a bag of coke and some MDMA from somewhere. Course Sean couldn’t give that a miss. Perked right up and off they went.’

‘While you were sleeping?’

‘Tell me about it.’ Brownlee took another sip of his lager. ‘Those two pricks snorting coke and dancing to tartan techno on Sean’s phone. Then big Geordie Keith pitched up with a bottle of voddie. They went off to the pub at half eight, no sign of them since, likes.’ He checked his watch. ‘They’ll head back soon for a kip, I reckon.’

Fuck! Chantal was up at the room, alone. Three huge squaddies on the way there . . .

You stupid bastard.

FIFTY-THREE

Chantal

Chantal stood outside their room, eyes trained on Tulloch’s door, phone against her ear. ‘Still no sign of them, Shaz.’ She did another scan. Bloody nothing. ‘Craig went to wait by the bar. Not heard from him.’

‘Well, there’s nothing I can do, Chantal.’ Sharon sounded like she was out and about, wind rustling leaves. ‘Sorry.’

‘Thought you’d like to know.’

‘I’ve got better things to do on my day off than sort out this mess. Not that I’m getting any time off.’

Chantal’s phone buzzed with a text. She didn’t check it. ‘Sorry, but—’

A man approached Tulloch’s room, swaying with the fluid movements of a habitual drunk. Absolutely shit-faced. One swerving hand was clutching a chemist’s bag. Without slowing his pace, he walked right into the door. Suspended in the loud bang, he giggled, then slid down the wood a few inches, leaned his head against it and smiled, eyes closed. A moron in his happy place. After a few seconds of quiet snuffles, he knocked. ‘Gogs!’

Gogs?

Gordon?

Not just a confused drunk, then. This guy was looking for Gordon Brownlee.

Chantal turned away and hissed into her mobile. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She killed the call and pocketed her phone.

‘Gogs! Come on, mate! Party’s getting started!’ Sounded like a Newcastle accent. He swung around, his wet gaze landing on her like a gob of spit. It was the third guy from the bar last night. The third date raper. He tried to lock eyes with her, but looked right through. ‘Right, get your cock away, you big poof, I’m coming in!’

The evidence! Can’t let him disturb the crime scene!

Chantal darted across the quad towards him. ‘Here, mate.’

His hand rested on the door. He gave her the up and down, stopping to linger on her boobs for a good three seconds. ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’

‘Gordon was looking for you.’

‘Aye?’ He reached behind him, missed the door, grabbed thin air but somehow managed to stay on his feet, swaying like a wilted flower in the breeze. ‘Thought he was here. Was this morning, anyway.’

‘I was supposed to be meeting him and Sean at the hotel bar.’

He frowned. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Jane.’ She held out a hand, careful not to get too close.

He lunged forward and reached out to kiss it. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Jane.’ He burped out vodka fumes. ‘I’m Keith.’

‘I’ve got to change my knickers.’ Chantal winked at him. ‘Gordon’s getting a round in at the bar.’

‘I was going to get a kip, but . . .’ Keith leered at her. ‘Bugger it, I’ll see you over there, pet!’

FIFTY-FOUR

Hunter

Need to get away . . .

Hunter nodded at Brownlee, sweat trickling down his forehead. Heat or Stress? No time to waste. Chantal’s alone, needs my help. ‘What bar do you reckon they’re in?’

Brownlee took another swig of lager. ‘Any. All.’

‘Cheers.’ Hunter gave him the thumbs up, turned and—

Bumped into a big lump of gristle and rugby. Eyes like piss holes in the snow. He looked at Brownlee and burped. ‘Gogs, how’s it going, mate?’ Thick Geordie accent, impenetrable as the Northumberland coast in the fog.

‘Keith, my man.’ Brownlee slapped his arm. Crack. Left a white handprint in the sunburnt skin. ‘You met Craig? He served with Sean in Kandahar.’

Keith eyed Hunter, up and down. Full ocular patdown. ‘Aye?’

Shite. It was the third lump of meat from the bar last night. The third raping bastard.

Hunter nodded, his breath struggling to stay under control. ‘We did Operation Diablo Reach Back. Must’ve been 2006?’

‘2006?’ Keith straightened up, twisting his head to the side. ‘You sure Sean was there?’

Hunter’s guts churned. He forced a grin. ‘Guy was just a pup.’

‘Little virgin back then.’ Keith held out his hand. ‘Keith Brannigan.’ He burped some more vodka fumes.

‘Craig Hunter.’

‘Craig was asking where Sean’s got to.’ Brownlee sank the last of his pint. ‘You seen him about?’

‘Keep clear of that wanker.’ Keith opened a chemist’s paper bag and took out some eyedrops. He squirted a few into his left eye and blinked hard and fast. ‘Had me contacts in two nights in a row, man. Feels like I’m going blind. And not from the wanking!’

‘You seen Sean?’

‘I tell you, I was seeing two of him after we had a Hollywood line of Matty’s coke.’ Keith took care of his other eye. Then another squirt for good measure. ‘Went up to that bar on the corner for breakfast. Cheap something or other. Matty bought a bottle of absinthe over the counter.’ He belched. ‘We finished it.’

Brownlee reached back for another pint of lager. ‘After that voddie?’

‘You keeping a tab, Gogs?’

Brownlee held up his hands. ‘Not me.’

Hunter thumbed behind them. ‘Sean still up there?’

‘Nah, mate.’ Keith scowled at Brownlee. ‘You know what Sean’s like. Fired into the waitress in there. Bought her a drink, then she started doing shots of absinthe with us.’

Tulloch plus woman plus alcohol. Another date rape? Hunter nodded. ‘Did he get lucky?’

‘Bird was all over him, man.’ Keith put his eyedrops back in the bag and blinked like he was having an episode. ‘Jesus, I’m fucked.’ He rubbed his thumbs deep into his eyes. ‘Either of you got any Valium?’

‘Clean out.’ Hunter did a fake patdown and huffed out air. ‘I’ll maybe take a walk up there. Try to surprise him.’

Keith nodded, but his eyes were all over the tray of pints on the table behind. ‘They were going to her flat.’

No . . . Hunter set off. ‘Right, I’ll see you around.’

‘Not so bloody fast.’ Keith grabbed hold of Hunter’s T-shirt and glowered at him. ‘You going to join in with a spit roast, are you?’ He scowled at Brownlee. ‘Gogs, who is this prick?’

Brownlee swallowed hard. ‘Said he’s a mate of Sean’s.’

Keith stepped forward, looming over Hunter. ‘Who are you?’

Take him down now? That’ll just make him clam up.

Hunter caught a flash of white from the left, over Keith’s hulking shoulder. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll be on my way.’

Keith took another handful of Hunter’s shirt. ‘Who the fuck are you, mate?’

‘Sir.’ A uniform tried to wrest Keith away. The lantern-jawed woman from the previous night. Didn’t seem to recognise any of them.

Keith didn’t budge.

‘Sir, step away.’

Hunter got in Keith’s face. ‘Where is he?’

Booze breath swept across Hunter’s face. ‘Fuck off.’

Hunter gripped his wrist and twisted through, pinning it to Keith’s back. ‘Where is he?’ He jerked it up. ‘Tell me!’

‘Fuck, ow, fine, he’s gone to that bird’s flat!’

The cop pushed Hunter back. ‘Get off him!’

Hunter didn’t let go. ‘Which flat?’

‘Up at that bar! Cheap and something!’

FIFTY-FIVE

Chantal

Chantal scanned around the area. Still no bloody cops. Still no sign of Tulloch or Matty. Or Brownlee. So many bloody squaddies, all up to their necks in it.

She fished out her phone. Nothing from Hunter since . . .

That text. She checked the message again.

GOT GORDON BROWNLEE AT BAR. GOING TO APPROACH.

And she’d just sent Keith down there.

She jogged off towards the bar. No sign of Hunter. A police car sat on the road, the blue lights flashing. Cops nowhere to be seen.

A horn blared and a black Audi pulled up next to her. Quaresma got out, stretching out his long coat. ‘Sergeant, we say two o’clock.’

Chantal held up her hands. ‘We’ve got something.’

‘I hope it is good.’

A stark choice — preserve the evidence or help Craig?

He’s a big boy, and this evidence could put away a rapist. She started walking. ‘This way.’

Quaresma jogged to catch up with her. ‘What is it?’

‘We’ve got some hard evidence against Tulloch. We need you to secure the room.’ She stopped by the door and pointed at it. ‘He’s got some GHB. Date rape drugs.’

Quaresma nibbled at his lips. ‘This is proof that he raped the woman last night?’

‘It’ll add to the girls’ statements.’

Quaresma looked away.

She grabbed his coat. ‘You have taken statements?’

‘Not yet.’

Chantal sucked in a deep breath. ‘Tulloch has raped someone on your territory. Why aren’t you arresting him?’

Quaresma’s eyes shifted. ‘Sergeant, we are—’

‘Sir!’ Behind Quaresma, a female uniformed officer pulled Hunter down the pavement. Lantern-jawed and focused. ‘We have a problem.’

Quaresma marched over and grabbed Hunter by the lapels. ‘What you think you are doing, Constable?’

Hunter pointed towards the main road. ‘Tulloch’s raping someone else!’

FIFTY-SIX

Hunter

Hunter got out of the squad car first and swung round, fists clenched.

Tulloch isn’t getting away this time, no random assaults, no saved by the bell bullshit. Just him in cuffs, heading back to Scotland.

The bar’s veranda was rammed with early boozers. José the barman was clearing up a beer pitcher from the nearest table, frowning at a man in black jeans and a Slipknot hoodie holding on to a beam for dear life while vomiting into the corner.

Hunter bounded up the steps and grabbed José. The smells of fresh sweat and stale lager mixed with the acidic sick stink. ‘He’s been here, hasn’t he?’

Jose looked over at Quaresma’s Audi. Then gave a tight nod. ‘He was here.’

‘You didn’t think to call me, like we agreed?’

‘Sorry. I . . . Luisa told me not to.’

Terrific . . .

Hunter let his grip slacken. ‘Did Luisa talk to him?’

José nodded. ‘And left with him.’ He pointed down the side of the bar. ‘Third house, top floor.’

An alleyway ran up the side of the bar, lined with lock-up garages, a stone wall about thirty metres back.

Quaresma joined them. ‘Do we have him?’

‘Not yet.’ Hunter stamped down the stairs and beckoned for the uniforms to follow them down the lane. Tall blocks of flats loomed up beyond the garages.

Third one along, top floor. Looked like some apartments.

Hunter jogged down the street and climbed the steps to the front door. ‘This one here.’

Quaresma joined him on the veranda and grabbed his wrist. ‘This is last time I trust you, my friend.’ He nodded at him, then tried the door handle. ‘Okay. My command, remember?’

‘Absolutely.’ Hunter held up his hands and stepped back.

The first uniform piled in past him, leaving the second on guard.

Next in was Quaresma. Hunter followed and powered up the stairs. Both the Portuguese men were fitter than the average Scottish cop, neither out of breath by the third floor.

Once scan of the landing, three doors. Terrific.

Quaresma scowled at him. ‘Which one?’

Hunter put his ear to the first one. Quiet as a grave. He moved over to the middle door. Muffled screams from inside. ‘Here. This one.’

‘Out of my way.’ Quaresma waited for Hunter to comply and knocked on the door. ‘Esta é a polícia. Abrir!’

No response.

Another knock. ‘This is the police. Open!’

Again, nothing.

‘We are coming in!’ Quaresma twirled a finger at the uniform. ‘Quebre a porta!’

The local cop stepped back, then launched himself at the door shoulder-first. It toppled into the flat, the uniform taking a tumble before he rolled out of the way.

Quaresma was in first, Hunter right behind him.

Sunlight streamed into the hallway from a kitchen-lounge area, a thick mist blocking visibility. Smelled like skunk.

The muffled screaming was getting louder, came from a closed door to the right.

Quaresma nudged it open.

Tulloch was kneeling on the bed, naked except for his white tennis socks. The woman in front of him looked like a rag doll, forced down on all fours, one of his hands hooked under her waist, the other clamped firmly on her mouth, his hips thrusting hard and fast. ‘Oh, you dirty bitch, you like that, don’t you?’

FIFTY-SEVEN

Chantal

‘What’s your name?’ Chantal looked at the lantern-jawed woman working her way around Tulloch’s hotel room, her blue gloves almost strobing in the sunlight.

‘Elena.’

‘Nice to meet you, Elena.’ Chantal looked back out into the quad. Two men in jeans ran towards the stairs, carrying a giant inflatable dolphin. Were all the men here arrested in their development, somewhere around the stage of pubescent hedonism? Arrested? If only. She looked back into the room. ‘You find anything?’

‘This.’ Elena held up the bottle of GHB. Her male partner noted it on a clipboard. She bared her teeth. ‘Dirty man who stay here.’

Chantal exhaled like it was the first time she’d seen it. ‘That’s disgusting.’

‘We see it a lot.’ Elena shook the bottle and popped it into an evidence bag. ‘Your men come here and make women have sex with them.’

‘I work in a sexual offences unit back home. They’re hardly my men. More like my problem.’

A smile flashed across Elena’s face. ‘That is good.’

‘When we can put someone away, aye.’ Chantal waved around the room. ‘The man who stays here, he’s wanted for—’

‘Hoy!’ The voice came from behind Chantal. A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

She stumbled over and landed on her side. Crunched her hip against the mosaic.

Gordon Brownlee stood over her. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my room?’

Chantal pushed herself up to a crab position, ready to kick out. ‘We’re searching your room.’

‘Oh, you are, are you? Have you got a warrant?’

Elena appeared in the doorway, unfolding a sheet of paper. ‘This.’

‘Fuck.’ Brownlee’s eyes darted around. Prick was going to make a run for it.

Chantal kicked out with her left leg and jabbed her heel into his shin.

Brownlee caved in and cracked his head off the wall. On the rebound, he landed on Chantal, squeezed all the air out of her lungs. Somehow one of his flailing arms landed a punch in her side. Then her stomach.

‘Enough!’ Elena lashed out with her baton and clattered it off Brownlee’s skull. He rolled off, knocked out.

Chantal pushed him off and scrambled to her feet with Elena’s help, winded and sore, again. ‘Thanks for the save.’

‘Is not a problem.’ She prodded Brownlee’s body with her baton, then looked back up at Chantal. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Maybe.’ Her gut felt like it was on fire. ‘I’ll heal in time.’

Elena held up the bag. ‘Drug is maybe his?’

Chantal looked at the bottle. ‘It was in Sean Tulloch’s jeans, wasn’t it?’

‘How did you know?’

Damn it. Quick, think of an excuse. ‘Because he’s used the stuff to rape someone before.’ Lame. Got a better idea . . . Chantal took Elena’s cuffs and wrapped them round Brownlee’s wrist. ‘He’s our witness.’

FIFTY-EIGHT

Hunter

Hunter stepped into the room. ‘Stop!’

Tulloch swung round and clocked him, clocked the local cops too. ‘Shite!’ He pulled out of the girl and jumped off the bed. The condom barely went halfway up his penis.

Quaresma lunged and wrapped the naked man in a bear hug. ‘Mr Tulloch, you come with us.’

The girl hauled the duvet over her, curling into a tight ball. Luisa Oliveira, the barmaid they spoke to the previous afternoon.

Tulloch looked stunned, hardly struggled against Quaresma as the cop pulled his arm round his back. ‘You. Come. With. Me.’

Resigned, Tulloch rolled forward across the bed and let Quaresma cuff him, while the girl darted into the bathroom, the duvet fluttering behind her like a white flag of surrender.

Hunter stood over the bed. Want to rip Tulloch’s dirty cock off. Or at least smother him with the pillow. Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Sean Tulloch, once you’re back at the police station, I’m going to place you under arrest.’

Tulloch’s face was pressed against the mattress. He still managed to shoot a glare at Hunter. ‘You’re a fucking cop?’

‘You’re coming back to Scotland with me.’

‘What for?’ Quaresma flipped Tulloch over and helped him to his feet, his half-swollen manhood flapping around uselessly. ‘You want a few of my ten-inches, eh?’

‘You’re not my type.’

‘I’ve seen your type. Dirty little Paki bitch, eh?’

Hunter took one look around the room. If I kicked Tulloch in the balls, nobody would notice. Make him scream like a pig. Lash out again and again, keep kicking until he’s a eunuch. Spare God knows how many of his future victims . . .

Quaresma yanked Tulloch to his feet. ‘Enough!’

*   *   *

The car park was a lot quieter than the last time they’d had the doubtful pleasure of viewing the police premises. Hunter couldn’t spot a single reporter. Whether they’d gone home after none of the sightings could be confirmed or were just off drinking somewhere, he had no idea, but at least their presence wasn’t blighting the white building, radiant in the summer sunshine.

Chantal was standing by a squad car, scowling as a female officer helped Gordon Brownlee out of the back.

What the hell was he doing here?

Hunter opened the passenger door, but Quaresma grabbed his wrist before he could get out. ‘You must stay, Constable. Time to start listen to me.’

Hunter brushed him away. ‘Time for you to start letting us do our jobs.’

‘Your job is work with me.’ Quaresma waved at the squad car next to them. Two local cops helped Tulloch out of the back. Their black uniforms and hats absorbed the sunlight like a guilty conscience. Meanwhile, Tulloch’s shorts and T-shirt seemed to glow.

Quaresma sighed. ‘I see in your eyes what you want to do to him.’

‘Someone should’ve done that a long time ago.’ Hunter got out into the baking heat. Much worse this side of town, this far from the beach.

Another squad car pulled up. Looked like it had Tulloch’s latest victim in the back, though her dishevelled hair shrouded most of her face. Luisa, was that her name?

Chantal marched over and grabbed him in a hug. ‘You okay?’

Hunter held her tight. ‘Almost.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’ Hunter pulled back and leaned against Quaresma’s car. Terrific. Like taking a baking tray out of the oven with your bare hands. ‘What’s the plan?’

Quaresma rested his hands on the car’s roof. Given his unflappable behaviour so far, it was hardly surprising the guy had asbestos fingers. He nodded at the squad car that had just pulled up. ‘I will interview Luisa. This supposed victim of Mr Tulloch.’

‘Supposed?’ Hunter scowled at him. ‘You saw him raping her.’

‘I saw sexual intercourse, Mr Hunter. You say it was rape. Let us hear what she say.’

‘It was rape.’ Hunter rubbed his cheek. Feels like it’s on fire. ‘May I interview Tulloch?’

Quaresma shrugged. ‘If you want. Go ahead.’

‘You don’t want to join me?’

‘We will record.’ Quaresma clapped Chantal’s shoulder. ‘Your Sergeant and I, we will have word with Luisa, yes? Let us see if we can solve mystery like your famous, what is his name? Sherlock Holmes.’

Hunter suppressed a smile. ‘Sure, you do that. I just want to take Tulloch back to Scotland. Now. The next flight out of Faro. I’ll even settle for Newcastle or Prestwick.’

Quaresma nodded slowly as he jabbed a finger at Hunter’s sternum. ‘When we get European Arrest Warrant. So long, Mr Tulloch stay here.’ He gave Chantal a wink. ‘Come on, Sergeant, please show my men how the masters from Scotland do it, yes?’ He marched off across the dusty mosaic.

Hunter glared after him. ‘Tell me there’s no point in arguing with that man.’

‘There’s none, Craig. Play the part he’s given you and see how the pieces fall. There’s still a chance we’ll checkmate this bastard.’

‘Chess? The heat and booze really have got to you, haven’t they?’ He frowned at Chantal. ‘Speaking of bastards, why’s Brownlee here?’

‘He assaulted me for starters.’ She switched her glare to Quaresma. ‘And he’s a witness to Tulloch raping Kirsten Latimer yesterday morning.’ She flapped a hand over at the building as Quaresma entered. ‘If this case falls apart like everything else has done since we landed here, we can at least fall back on that.’

‘Where is Kirsten anyway?’

‘I wasn’t allowed to accompany her in.’ Chantal huffed out a sigh. ‘Usual shit. No authority. The good news is I managed to track down Jon Bruce and he’s with her as we speak.’

*   *   *

The standard of police work in the Algarve wasn’t what Hunter was used to, that much had become glaringly obvious already. But the interview room was a new low. A battered table with two seats either side, the only recording equipment a CCTV camera looming overhead, its red light pulsing like a Terminator.

Another apocalyptic omen.

Elena was next to him in her full uniform, also somewhat reminiscent of the T-1000. Even weirder, though, was the fact that she didn’t look like she’d rather be anywhere else. She sat there, fully focused on the interview.

Tulloch was opposite them, leaning back in his chair to stretch out the maroon HARVARD shirt he wore. Yes, a likely candidate for entry. He gave Elena his usual twinkly-eyed attention. ‘So, do you fancy a drink? After this is over, we’ll go somewhere, I’ll get you a nice steak or something?’

She looked away.

Hunter couldn’t blame her. The very sight of that arsehole makes me feel hollow, draining my energy to the bone.

Tulloch was finally here, under lock and key. Secure. Unable to rape anyone else, and yet he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Something wasn’t right.

Hunter glanced up at the camera, no idea who was at the other end. He leaned into the recorder. ‘Can you state for the record that you do not wish to have a lawyer represent you?’

Tulloch kept his concentration on Elena, slowly and deliberately moistening his lips with a wet, long tongue. ‘Told you pal, I don’t need a lawyer. You’ve got hee-haw on me.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Hunter sat back in his chair. ‘Mr Tulloch, I need you to outline your movements today, if you don’t mind?’

‘Need? I don’t need to speak to you, do I?’

Hunter rested on his elbows. ‘You know why you’re here, right?’

Tulloch smirked at him. ‘Because you fancy me?’

Keep calm. Keep calm.

Hunter leaned back and cracked his knuckles. ‘Why do you think we picked you up in that apartment?’

Another leer at Elena. ‘To see if the rumours are true? See if I really pack a bazooka in my pants?’

Hunter tore at the ligaments on his fingers, popping them in the sockets, trying to keep the tension from spreading to his face. ‘It was to stop you sexually assaulting a woman. Luisa Oliveira.’

‘Never done nothing to anyone in that flat except make sweet, sweet love to Luisa.’ Tulloch flashed Elena his wolfish grin, drilling his gaze deep into her guileless eyes. ‘Pretty sure he wants me to sit on his face, don’t you think?’

Elena jerked her chair back, scraping it across the floor. When she’d recovered her composure, she pointed at the door. ‘Mr Tulloch, you sexually assaulted Luisa Oliveira.’

Tulloch tilted his head to the side, giving her the full matinee idol look. ‘You don’t think that’s what happened, do you?’

‘You put GHB in her drink.’ Elena held up an evidence bag containing the tub of pills. ‘And then you raped her.’

Tulloch frowned at the bag. ‘That’s not mine.’

‘We found it in a pair of your jeans.’

‘You got a warrant for that, sweet cheeks?’

Elena sighed as she slid a sheet of paper over the table. ‘Here.’

‘You’ll have to bear with me, because I’m a bit thick, okay?’ Tulloch smacked his lips together. ‘See, if I spiked this lassie’s drinks, how come you’ve got the drugs, not me?’

‘Because you took some pills with you.’ Elena rested the bag down on the table and started smoothing out the plastic. ‘You’re stupid, but not so stupid you carry that bottle with you.’

‘Listen, this guy’s a lying bastard.’ Tulloch nodded slowly at her. ‘He’s trying to fit me up for God knows what reason. Tell you, though, I bet you’d be pretty hot in a bikini.’

Elena’s cheeks flushed. ‘You . . .’

Terrific. He’s getting under her skin. All I bloody need.

Hunter leaned forward, distracting Tulloch from his prey. ‘Did you use GHB on Luisa Oliveira?’

‘No.’ Tulloch slumped back in his chair, his hairy hands clasping his naked knees. ‘Never used it on anyone.’

‘We’ll give her a blood test, so I’d advise against lying.’

‘Would you, aye?’ Tulloch laughed. ‘You got a tiny one, is that what this is all about? You’re envious of my third leg.’

‘This is about your abuse of consent, Mr Tulloch.’

‘Two inches, is it?’ Tulloch chuckled. ‘Bet that little lady of yours told you that’s normal, right?’ Another peal of laughter burst out. ‘They tell all the trouser dwarves that two inches is average. I got news for you, little guy. She’ll never moan for you the way she would if I impaled her with my man sword.’

Hunter glanced away, then camouflaged his discomfort by setting out the photos of Tulloch and his mates in the bar. ‘On Friday morning, you raped one Kirsten Latimer.’

‘Here we go.’ Tulloch shuffled through the photos. ‘Take it you’ve kept the nude shots of me in that bar for your wank bank, aye?’

Hunter put another photo down on the table. ‘Her name is Kirsten Latimer.’

Tulloch shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘This.’ Hunter prodded the photo. ‘She’s from Lurgan in Northern Ireland. You sexually assaulted her yesterday morning.’

‘Just another lassie who wanted to ride a proper stallion for a change, not some knobbly-dicked Shetland pony.’ Tulloch started drumming on his knees, his stare as firm as his belief in his unrivalled virility. ‘Oh, I see right through you, pal. This isn’t about me. This is about you and your childish insecurities. Was I being too generous with that two-inch estimate? Is that why you’re blushing? Have you ever made a woman come?’ He leered at Elena. ‘What’s the biggest cock you’ve ever had up you, darling? Six inches, maybe seven?’

Hunter banged the table. ‘You doped her drink and raped her.’

‘It’s not just about length.’ Tulloch held both hands out, fingertips touching, like he was forming a big tube. ‘It’s the girth too, eh? Like a fucking Coke can.’ He grinned at Hunter. ‘Your pal here’s seen the Python in full flow. He’ll testify to its majesty.’

‘As well as Kirsten Latimer, you raped Luisa Oliveira, didn’t you?’

Tulloch was still ignoring Hunter, eyes glued to Elena. ‘Tell you what, I come like a fucking race horse. Gallons of the stuff. Thick as treacle. I’m told it tastes like it, too. You’ll want to suck me dry, sweetheart.’

Hunter leaned back in the chair. Need to turn the tables somehow, anyhow. Fight fire with fire. Just . . . how?

Tulloch rested his arms on the table edge. ‘So, I’m thinking that as soon as you let me out of here, we go get a drink?’

Elena smiled at him. ‘You are staying here.’

‘Listen, gorgeous.’ Tulloch thumbed at Hunter, his eyes twinkling in the spotlights. ‘Whatever he’s telling you, it’s bullshit, okay? I’ve not raped anyone. He might think he’s all smart, but he’s just a jealous little boy, not that I blame him.’

Elena tapped her page, still trying to resist Tulloch’s magnetism but clearly developing doubts. Already her voice was quieter, her tone less adamant. ‘You raped Luisa Oliveira.’

‘This again . . .’ Tulloch shook his head at her. ‘Believe me, Luisa consented to everything we did. Kept begging me for more. Like a bitch in heat, I swear.’

Hunter waved at Elena to stop. ‘That’s not what it looked like to me.’

‘Aye?’ Tulloch shuffled his chair to the side and ran his hand up the inner seam of his shorts. A thick bulge ran halfway down the left side. ‘The lassie was drinking with us. She saw the Python through my shorts and just wanted it. Asked to stroke it through the material. You know how girls are, when they see a length of pipe, they want to touch it. Especially if it’s the size of mine.’

‘You raped her.’

‘No, mate. She asked for it. Gagging for it, so she was. You know how the song goes.’ Tulloch ran his fingers down the bulge in his shorts again. ‘She wanted every inch of my love. Not both inches of yours.’

‘You raped her.’

‘I never. Now, why don’t you fuck off out of here? Leave me and Elena here to get better acquainted while you see what Luisa has to say for herself, eh?’

FIFTY-NINE

Chantal

Luisa rubbed her bare arms, gooseflesh puckering the skin all the way down to her elbows. Her ponytail was gone, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

Chantal shuddered as well. The interview room was freezing, the air conditioning on full throttle. She tried to rub some warmth into her arms. Didn’t make a difference. She got up and started walking around, passing behind Quaresma, who was sitting there with a stupid look on his face like this was all such a laugh. ‘Luisa, let’s go back to the start, okay? You were working at the bar . . .’

‘That’s right.’ Her Essex accent still jarred with her Portuguese appearance. ‘We had some people in for breakfast, but they left.’ She chewed a fingernail. ‘Then John walked in with his pals.’

‘John?’

‘John.’ Luisa frowned, then cradled her head in her hands. ‘I mean Sean.’

‘Sean Tulloch?’ Chantal leaned across Quaresma to reach into an evidence pouch on the desk. She got out a photo of Tulloch. ‘Is this the man we’re talking about?’

‘That’s him.’ Luisa snatched the photo and ran a finger across Tulloch’s face. ‘That’s him.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘He was with Matty.’

Chantal frowned at her. ‘You know Matty?’

Luisa cleared her throat and stroked the photo again. ‘He’s been in before.’ She cleared her throat. ‘On Thursday night, like I told you.’ She rested the picture on the table, like it was the Turin shroud. ‘There was someone else. Keith, maybe? But he left. Said his eyes were stinging.’

‘How did the men seem to you?’

‘Typical tourists. Drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. And not just starting, if you know what I mean.’

‘Did you serve them anything?’

Luisa nodded. ‘A bottle of absinthe. And they bought me a drink.’

‘A bottle of spirits at that time?’

‘It’s not uncommon.’ Another shrug. ‘If they buy a whole bottle, it’s cheaper for them, but we get a lot of money upfront. And they’ll stay there, buy some food, some mixers, maybe some beers.’

‘And did they?’

She looked away. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘They must’ve drank about a quarter of the bottle by the time—’ She ran a hand through her hair. Clammed up.

Chantal tilted her head to the side. ‘By what time?’

Luisa nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘I was working, okay, but it’s quiet and it’s still sort of off-season. So the boss lets us . . . We’re allowed to, you know, consort with the customers.’

‘So you drank from Mr Tulloch’s bottle?’

‘He was generous like that. Really nice.’

‘Did he try and put anything in your drink?’

‘What?’

‘Like a drug?’

‘Hardly.’ Luisa shook her head. ‘He asked me if I lived nearby, so we went up to my apartment. It’s near the bar.’

Chantal frowned. ‘Just like that?’

‘Like what? I liked him. And . . .’ She ran a hand up her bare arm. ‘Well, he’s my type.’

A chill shot up Chantal’s spine. ‘You went of your own volition?’

‘Yeah?’ Luisa glanced at Quaresma. ‘He’s . . . I like guys like him. Big guys like him. We were kissing each other on the stairs.’ Her eyes went out of focus. ‘He was practically inside me by the time I opened the flat door.’

‘So you consented to the sex with Mr Tulloch?’

‘God, yeah.’ Her expression darkened and she waved a hand at Quaresma. ‘Then this joker came in and pulled him out of me.’

Quaresma levered himself up to standing and buttoned up his long coat. ‘Sergeant, we must talk. Outside.’

SIXTY

Hunter

Hunter leaned forward on the plastic desk. Ice cold, unlike the roasting air in the room. ‘Mr Brownlee, I need to go through your movements on Thursday night.’

‘We’ve been through this in detail.’ Brownlee scowled back at him. ‘What’s the point in her writing this down if you keep asking me to repeat it, eh?’

Elena was sitting opposite him, writing everything down. Nice to have someone working for you for once. Someone who wasn’t smearing icing sugar on the forms or ratting you out to your boss. Wonder if Elvis has already told Sharon about Chantal and me?

Brownlee burped and Hunter was back in the interview room. ‘You said you were drinking at a bar near the hotel, then down the strip.’ Hunter pressed his forearms against the cool table. ‘What was the name of the bar?’

Brownlee exhaled slowly through his nostrils, his focus locked on the desk. ‘Something like Cheap and Cheerful.’

‘And you were doing karaoke in there?’

‘Sean was. Same shite he always does . . .’ Brownlee smirked. ‘Hall and Oates.’

‘And you said you left early?’

Brownlee looked up. ‘Aye.’

‘You weren’t thrown out?’

‘Sean was.’ Brownlee scratched his neck, lobster-red around the T-shirt collar. ‘Like I told you, we went back to the hotel to meet up with some of the other boys. Then we headed down the strip.’

Hunter nodded slowly. ‘Where did you end up?’

‘Couldn’t tell you.’

‘Wouldn’t be Mambo, would it?’

Brownlee held up his hands. ‘Take your word for it.’

‘That’s where you . . .’ Hunter leaned over Elena’s shoulder to read her notes. Terrific. They were in Portuguese. He coughed. ‘Where you met the “Irish birds”.’

‘Well, aye, but I didn’t call them “birds”. It’s demeaning. Ladies, I think I said.’

Hunter almost laughed. Just about caught himself in time. ‘Did you chat to any of them?’

‘No.’

‘Did Sean?’

‘No.’

Hunter pulled out a photo of Kirsten Latimer. ‘What about her?’

Brownlee took it and glanced at it. He flapped it in the air, like he was weighing up the decision whether to tell the truth or not. ‘Never seen her in my life.’

‘Sure about that?’

Brownlee put the photo back on the table. ‘Don’t recognise her.’

Hunter held it up and gave Brownlee one last look. ‘So, what happened next?’

‘Some of the boys were heading off to the ti—’ Brownlee coughed and cleared his throat. ‘They were heading to a lapdancing bar.’

‘And did you go?’

‘Not my scene, dude.’

‘You told me earlier that you were “at the tits till four”.’

Brownlee exhaled slowly through his nostrils. ‘Fine. I was in there. Had a few dances. Then I went back to my crib.’

‘Which you share with Sean Tulloch?’

‘Well, the room, aye.’

Hunter got out the bottle of pills. ‘Have you ever seen this?’

Brownlee raised his hands, palms out. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

Elena put down her pen. ‘We found that in your hotel room, Mr Brownlee.’

‘Well, it’s not mine.’

Hunter rested it on the table. ‘So it’s Sean Tulloch’s?’

‘Never seen it in my puff, pal. Couldn’t say.’

Hunter passed the pills back to Elena. ‘So, you got back to your room and you went to sleep, right?’

Brownlee put his hands back down and stared at the slice of table between his forearms like he was anxiously looking for a reason to keep lying for his rapist of a roommate. ‘That’s . . . That’s what I told you.’

‘When did you wake up?’

‘In time for breakfast.’

‘Was Mr Tulloch in the room when you roused yourself?’

‘Might’ve been. Can’t remember. Had a stinking hangover. All I could think about was coffee and bacon.’

Hunter grimaced. ‘Was there any other company present?’

‘Look, pal, I can’t even remember if he was there, let alone whether he’d pulled.’

‘Kirsten Latimer wasn’t there, was she?’ Hunter tapped the photo.

Brownlee didn’t even look at it. ‘What is this?’ He threw it over his shoulder. ‘I never saw that girl.’

‘Ms Latimer says you were looking at her as Mr Tulloch raped her.’

‘Not me.’

‘Staring at her while he—’

‘Not me, pal. Must’ve confused the room number. Have you spoken to Matty?’

‘She identified you by means of a photograph. You’re rather distinct in your appearance, wouldn’t you agree?’

Brownlee scratched his droopy ear. Almost looked bashful, a bashful ogre.

Hunter snorted. ‘What sort of person gets off on watching someone being raped?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Sean raped that girl. You saw him do it. If you had an ounce of decency, you’d tell us what happened.’

Brownlee sat there and folded his arms. ‘You’re getting nothing more out of me.’

‘You let her be raped. Just lay there, playing with yourself. Would you like to add anything to that summary of events?’

‘You’ve got my statement.’ Brownlee pushed his chair back and got up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind? I’m supposed to be on holiday.’

SIXTY-ONE

Chantal

Quaresma led Chantal down a long corridor and opened a door at the end, holding it for her.

Classic ID parade room, a wide window running down the side, looking onto another, smaller room. Two women stood silhouetted against it. A local male uniformed officer, and Kirsten Latimer.

Chantal followed Quaresma into the room, but stopped at a respectful distance behind them.

Kirsten greeted her with a nod, her eyebrows squashed together, arms folded tight across her chest.

Five giants loomed behind the glass. Four looked British, one local. Tulloch was the fourth from the left, a wide smirk on his face. Not that the others were any better.

Oh. Matty was in there too, standing at the far end.

‘Ms Latimer, thank you for your help.’ Quaresma licked his lips. ‘Now. I know it is difficult. But please, try to identify your attacker.’

Kirsten shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

‘Take your time.’ Quaresma gave her his full smarmy charm in a single, quick smile. ‘You recognise one of the men?’

‘They all seem familiar.’ Kirsten blinked hard like she needed glasses. ‘It’s . . . I can’t remember. That stuff they put in my drink.’

Chantal let out a groan, regretting it instantly.

Kirsten turned round and frowned. ‘Sorry.’

Chantal tried a smile, but it wasn’t happening. ‘Do you recognise any of these men? Any at all?’

Kirsten took another look. Long, slow, one by one. Focusing hard, her fingers twitching. She settled on Tulloch, flinched when he stared back at her, but somehow found the strength to lock eyes with him. He snorted, a smirk on his face. Then she shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Take your time, if you need it.’ Chantal wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her point at Tulloch. ‘Take one more look at—’

‘Ms Latimer, you can leave now.’ Quaresma smiled at the cop next to her. ‘My colleague will go with you.’

Kirsten followed the uniform out of the room, her head bowed.

‘This isn’t the way to do it.’ Chantal glowered at Quaresma. ‘We use a system called VIPER at home. It’s proven to give better results by not letting the suspect see—’

‘You are not in UK, Sergeant.’ Quaresma got in her face, blowing coffee breath over her. ‘I say for last time. This is how we do police work here. You do not like, you go home.’

SIXTY-TWO

Hunter

Quaresma held the door for them as Hunter followed Chantal into the room.

Hunter slumped in the corner. Sounds like her interview had gone as badly as his. Yet judging by Quaresma’s grin, he didn’t seem to care about their progress. Didn’t seem to care about Bruce’s progress in finding Harry Jack, either. Didn’t seem to care about anything.

The Observation Suite was a broom cupboard so small it seemed crowded by the big computer monitor someone had picked up in Aldi or Lidl. The screen was split in four, the bottom half empty. Tulloch was in the top-left, Luisa in the screen next to him.

‘Now we have no choice.’ Quaresma hauled himself up to standing. ‘Elena, please let Mr Tulloch go.’

‘What?’ Hunter’s gaze darted around the room, his heart thudding. ‘You can’t!’

Quaresma folded his arms and lowered his eyes behind that granite wall of his forehead. ‘Constable, we have no legal reason for keep this man, no witness testimony. So, we let him go.’ He waved a hand at Elena. ‘Now.’

She left the room.

‘This is complete bullshit!’

‘I cannot change law, Constable. He do not commit crime in this country. Or the girl cannot remember. But no testimony, no arrest.’

Hunter held his gaze for a few seconds until Quaresma looked away. ‘He raped someone.’

‘Evidence, Constable. Ms Latimer say she cannot remember, and we have no proof for that the GHB from Mr Tulloch’s room was used. Not any time. And not this time for rape of this woman. Or the other lady.’

‘That’s your fault.’ Hunter’s voice felt hoarse, sounded like it was a million miles away. ‘If you’d—’

‘Constable, we had agreement to talk at two o’clock today. Now, is not even one o’clock.’ Quaresma held up his watch, the gold glinting in the light like an Aztec pyramid. ‘I wanted to give you two of my officers, but not now. You do not disrespect me like this. If you make move anyway, I will arrest you.’

‘What’s your problem?’ Hunter locked eyes with him. ‘Are you getting a backhander from someone?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Every step of the way, you’ve blocked us. Our suspect landed here, what, forty hours ago? You could’ve arrested him on countless occasions by now, could have sent him back to Scotland before Kirsten fell victim to him in your jurisdiction. Or you could’ve kept him in a holding cell until we got here yesterday morning. But no, you’ve let him run wild, raping just about anyone that he can buy a drink.’

‘Constable, I know your country. I have travel. It is a degenerate land full with people of no moral. Men like this Sean Tulloch, they are everywhere in UK.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Hunter started pacing the small room. ‘Is this your official position? That these women should’ve known what they were getting into, because the man is British? That they deserved their abuse?’

‘Listen, Constable. My boss decide my priority. Not you. He decide the Harry Jack case is more important. An innocent child, my friend, he was kidnapped, he had no choice. Your Mr Tulloch, well, these women, they are complicit in the crimes, no? They come here, they drink alcohol until they fall down, they do not say no to pigs like that man. It is their lifestyle. Then they want arrest? This is not justice, Constable. This is joke.’

Chantal stepped forward, almost going head to head with him. One long, silent stare later she walked over to the door. ‘I need to speak to your superiors.’

Quaresma tried his toothy smile on Hunter. ‘Your DI McNeill already do it. Look where you are. My superiors are not happy with your actions.’ He licked his bottom lip. ‘You should think, maybe better idea if we go home, yes?’

Hunter almost put his hand through the screen to strangle the still-grinning Tulloch. After a deep breath he took his eyes off him and looked straight at Quaresma. ‘This man is coming back to Scotland with us.’

Quaresma tucked his thumbs through his belt loops. Hunter focused on his breathing. Three steps and I could break that pencil pusher’s fingers. ‘Mr Hunter, I can already arrest you for assault.’

Chantal stomped back over, her fists clenched. ‘Look, we’ve got Tulloch for five serious long-term sexual abuse cases back home, plus assault and battery. If you let him go, it’s on your head.’

‘I say again because reason is same. I have no spare officers. We have new sighting of Harry Jack in Vilamoura.’

Hunter looked into his eyes, searching deep for the lie. ‘Is that the truth?’

‘You call me liar now, Constable?’ Quaresma laughed. ‘We do not get your European Arrest Warrant. So, even if I bend rules and arrest the man, I cannot pass him to you.’

Chantal shook her head at him. ‘Why are you being as obstructive as possible?’

‘Listen to me, I must manage my resources. Very careful. When you are Inspector, maybe you understand.’

‘Look, if you won’t release him to us, then you need to at least keep him in custody until we can come to an agreement through official channels.’

Quaresma puckered his lips. ‘In this country, I cannot detain suspects with no charge.’

Tulloch was slipping through their fingers, again. How the hell do I get him on the onside? Hunter cleared his throat. ‘Can you at least take a full statement of Tulloch’s movement over the last few days?’

‘How full?’

‘Down to the second. Keep him talking for a few hours.’

Quaresma looked like he was going to put up even more of a fight. Then he scratched his head and gave a slight shrug. ‘Fine. I do it for you.’

‘And can you put a tail on him when he leaves?’

Quaresma’s laugh expressed his frustrated disbelief more than anything he’d said all day. When Hunter kept staring at him, he shrugged again. ‘No, Constable. I know this is surprise for you, but this here is not American gangster movie.’

*   *   *

Hunter leaned back against DI Bruce’s car and let the sun burn his skin. ‘How come we don’t get a hire car?’

‘Because we’re not special, Craig. Were you not paying attention to Senhor Quaresma?’ Chantal stuffed her hands in her pockets.

Ready to slap the guy’s grin off his fat face, then raid the police station and kill Tulloch with my bare hands.

Chantal just stood there, an ice queen in the baking heat. When she finally unfroze, she reached for her phone. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better call Sharon and let her know the great news.’ Bracing herself for the shit-storm from Scotland, she strode off towards the shade.

Hunter looked after her for a few steps, then got out his own mobile. A text from Finlay, that was it.

I GET IT, MATE. I’M NOT WANTED. BUT CALL ME ANY TIME YOU NEED ME.

What were the odds of that ever happening? Low before he’d ratted us out to Elvis. Since then, nil.

‘You filthy bastard!’ Matty was tearing across the car park towards Hunter, fists clenched, fury in his eyes. ‘You fucking pig!’

Hunter dropped his shoulders and got into the Basic Stance, ready to fight. ‘Unless you want to tell us all about Sean Tulloch, I suggest—’

‘Fuck off!’ Matty stopped a yard in front of Hunter and stabbed a finger at the police station. ‘They’ve just hauled me inside to do a fucking ID parade! You stupid prick!’

‘Go on, then. Take your shot or piss off, but get on with it. I’m a busy man.’

Matty moved his head close, almost touching. ‘You’re not fucking worth it.’ He stormed off, heading away from the crowd of reporters by the station’s entrance.

Where had they suddenly come from? Oh, yeah, Quaresma mentioned another sighting.

Terrific.

Hunter settled back against the car and folded his arms, blood thudding in his ears. Should I go after the bastard? Batter his head in for aiding and abetting his rapist of a friend? Not in front of the world’s press.

Bide your time, Hunter.

Think of his tiny cock.

And try not to laugh.

‘The joys of rank.’ DI Bruce tutted as he approached, then thumbed over at Chantal, who was still wheeling around at the other side of the car park. ‘Updating the boss, is she?’

Hunter sighed. ‘Getting a kicking for it, as well.’

‘Typical. This place is a shambles, I swear.’ Bruce shook his head at the building. ‘So, are you two an item?’

Hunter gave him a long look. ‘Surprised to see you here, what with that sighting of Harry Jack.’

Bruce’s head twisted to the side, a vein in his temple pulsing to some unheard rhythm. ‘What did you say?’

‘Quaresma mentioned they had a sighting of him in Villa something.’

‘Vilamoura?’

Hunter shrugged again. Felt like it was becoming a habit. ‘Maybe.’

‘That cheeky bastard!’ Bruce stormed off towards the police station, kicking up clouds of sand from the mosaic pebbles.

Not a happy man.

Hunter glanced back at his phone as another text from Finlay popped up.

Maybe it is time . . .

SIXTY-THREE

Chantal

Chantal stomped across the car park, her phone tight to her ear. What an absolute joke. ‘What’s up, Shaz?’

‘It’s a nightmare here.’ Sharon’s voice hissed out of the speaker. ‘The PF keeps battering down the door, asking why Tulloch isn’t in custody yet. She’s threatening to go to the press with it. Fletcher’s been on the bloody phone every hour, talking about coming back off holiday and taking over.’

‘That’s the last thing we need.’

‘Aye. Over a year’s work on this bloody case so that scumbag can walk?’ Her voice kept getting shriller. ‘And to top it all off, I’ve had Inspector Quaresma’s superior on the phone.’

‘Already?’

‘Already.’ A deep sigh scratched the speaker. ‘I don’t know what you two have been up to, but you’re kindly requested to get the next flight home.’

Chantal scowled over at Hunter. Bruce was talking to him. ‘We’ve got Tulloch in custody. We—’

‘Chantal, no.’ Sharon was breathing hard, rattling the microphone with every frustrated exhale. Chantal felt a pang of guilt. Sharon cares just as much about getting this bastard behind bars. She’s placed her faith in Craig and me and now . . . ‘The Portuguese are giving us no quarter here, Chantal. I need you and Craig out of the country.’

Silence on the line.

At Sharon’s end, a door clunked shut. ‘Chantal, if you try and pick Tulloch up from the station or anywhere else, they will arrest you. A certain someone doing a Bruce Lee impression hasn’t impressed them. Barging in on the suspect having consensual sex, unfortunately that also didn’t impress them.’

‘Craig acted with due diligence in both cases. Look, all I’m saying is that we desperately need that Arrest Warrant.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t make that happen this week.’

‘Are we giving up, then?’

‘We’re never going to give up on taking that predator off the streets. This is one of our highest priority cases, okay?’ Sharon paused again. ‘But I’m going to have to go cap in hand to Rollo-Smith . . .’ She let her defeat hang there, hissing in the sun. ‘The MOD can bring Tulloch back to this country, even if that keeps him beyond our reach. At least he’ll face charges of some sort, hopefully enough to keep him away from vulnerable women for the rest of forever.’

‘Still sounds like giving up to me.’

‘Do you think I’m pissing about back here? I’ve been in meetings all weekend while you’ve been drinking and shagging your brains out. The PF’s not playing ball until we’ve got enough evidence.’

Chantal’s fingers were sore from gripping the phone like a hammer, ready to bash that rapist’s head in before she let him disappear in the army’s judicial system. ‘If Rollo-Smith gets him, you better wave goodbye to any prosecution from us.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ve got SOCOs searching Paisley’s flat. Meanwhile, Elvis and Jenny have been taking a statement from her all day.’

‘Finally.’ Chantal felt the blood returning to her hand as she relaxed her grip a little. ‘Speaking of Elvis, what did he want yesterday?’

Sharon huffed. ‘His son’s birthday. I told him all leave’s cancelled.’

‘I don’t see how keeping Elvis at work up in Edinburgh helps us down here.’

‘We’re close to a full statement on Tulloch. In two days we should have a complete story to take to the Procurator Fiscal. The noose is tightening. Okay?’

Chantal huffed. ‘Given the way he’s drugging them over here, we’ll be lucky if any of the victims even remember their testimony when Tulloch goes up for trial.’

‘Come on, Chantal . . .’ Sharon’s resilient optimism sounded battered and bruised. ‘I’m trying my hardest here.’

‘That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? Statistics . . .’ Chantal lowered her phone, squeezed it as hard as before, couldn’t help herself. Smash it to pieces on the marble floor of this legal wasteland. Instead, she put it back to her ear, determined to make her case one last time. ‘We’re letting a rapist out of our sight. Do you know what—’

‘Chantal, enough!’ Sharon’s shout echoed off her office walls, the reverb sending shockwaves into Chantal’s ear. ‘You’re booked on the half eight from Faro to Edinburgh. Your passes are with the airline. Make sure you’re at the airport by seven.’

Click.

SIXTY-FOUR

Hunter

‘So, that’s us knackered.’ Chantal rested her head on Hunter’s shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. She blew air over her face, giving Hunter a backdraft of sweet suntan lotion. ‘Tell me there’s something we can do.’

Was there? Hunter couldn’t even think. They had Tulloch in custody, had witnesses against fresh crimes and . . .

And yet it had all fallen away to shite.

Hunter pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. ‘The only thing I can think is Rollo-Smith will be days getting out here.’

‘I wanted good news.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Rollo-Smith will be on the next flight out, won’t he?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Feel like I don’t know anything. ‘The military can be bloody slow. Then again, if they’ve got wind of him putting their reputation at risk, then maybe. The blowback on them could be pretty bad if he rapes and kills someone.’

‘Maybe, maybe, maybe. That’s not good enough.’ She pushed away from him and pointed at a grid of thin windows overlooking the car park. ‘Meanwhile, Quaresma will let that scumbag out and he’ll go on raping other women. Or he’ll disappear into thin air.’ She folded her arms and leaned back against Bruce’s hire car with a thud. ‘There are times when I hate this bloody job.’

‘I was on a course with a twat from Dundee a few years back. He called his car the python.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘When I was interviewing Tulloch, he kept calling his cock the Python . . .’

‘Sick bastard.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Hunter drummed his hands on the top of the car. ‘At least we’ve got Tulloch pinned down.’

‘For now.’

‘Aye, for now. Just a matter of minutes until that bureaucrat Quaresma lets him out.’ Hunter stopped drumming and rasped a hand across his stubble. ‘What we need to do is keep an eye on him ourselves.’

‘What, you’re saying we ignore Sharon and stay here? If we do that, Quaresma will arrest you.’

‘Should I look around for a drill and screws to try and tighten up the shoogly peg my coat’s on?’

Her laugh didn’t spread to her eyes. ‘So, what then?’

‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘I’m—’

Clatter.

DI Bruce stomped out of the front door, charging across the car park like a man on a mission, straight towards them.

Hunter nodded over at Bruce, still out of earshot, and dropped his voice to a mutter. ‘Can you persuade him to get one of his lot to keep a tail on Tulloch?’

‘That’s your idea?’

‘He’s got resource and nothing to do with it. Tell him he’s involved in Harry Jack’s disappearance?’

‘Craig, I can’t lie . . .’

Hunter marched across the car park to meet him halfway. ‘How did it go?’

Bruce stopped a few metres away, shaking his head, jaw clenched tight. ‘Have you pair got anything on Quaresma? Any dodgy behaviour. Vague suspicions that he’s up to something. Anything?’

‘He’s pissed off with us for trying to do his job for him.’

‘But he’s not done anything wrong?’

‘No, why?’

Bruce’s jaw clenched tighter, a rogue muscle twitching as he swung round to glare at the police station. ‘You were right, he did have a sighting of Harry in Vilamoura.’ Blink and you’d miss it, but it looked like Quaresma was standing at an upstairs window, speaking on a phone. Bruce took a deep breath. ‘It’s not far from here, but he’s kept us out of the loop anyway. Not a word to me or my team.’

‘Was it Harry?’

‘That’s not the point.’ Bruce unlocked his car and pulled his hand away from the hot door. ‘Came to nothing, like everything around here.’

Chantal joined them with a huff. ‘Sounds like you’re as deep in the shit as us.’ Another huff. ‘He’s grassed to teacher.’

Bruce frowned at her. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve been doing to him?’

‘Maybe.’ Chantal shrugged at him. ‘I don’t like it happening to us, though. We were only trying to make him arrest a known rapist, and now we’ve been ordered to head back to Scotland, tonight.’

Bruce opened his car door. ‘In that case, do you guys fancy a crafty lunchtime pint?’

Chantal nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

Hunter smiled at the two of them. ‘I’ll leave you to catch up, if it’s all the same.’

SIXTY-FIVE

Chantal

Chantal sat outside a bar on the main drag through Albufeira’s old town, close enough to the sea for the bitter salt tang to flavour her wine with the memory of happier holidays, but far enough to avoid the many smoking Brits getting tanked up and aggressive to ruin yet another one. The town stretched out ahead of them, white stucco buildings climbing the hill, harsh cliffs edging the sea. Behind, a wide beach was squeezed back by the high tide, hardly any sunbathers, despite the heat. Still too early in the season for that.

Bruce was at the bar, paying. I could still just walk away.

She picked up her phone. Still nothing from Craig.

A British pub sat opposite, advertising “real beer!” and “Proper English fry-ups!” The sunburnt skinheads drinking inside seemed to enjoy it anyway. And her legs. Couldn’t keep their eyes off her.

Bruce came outside and dumped two full pints on the table, the lager’s head fizzing away.

This is the right strategy. Chantal sat back in her chair and sipped the cold beer. ‘Nice place this.’

‘Not bad.’ Bruce gulped down his lager like he hadn’t drunk anything all day. ‘Much better over here than where you’re staying, Chantal, let me tell you that.’ He swallowed more beer, his eyes misting over. ‘Used to bring the kids here in the summer for a fortnight. Every year. Sometimes get a week at half term in October.’ He smirked. ‘Plus golfing trips with the boys.’

Chantal clutched the handle of her glass, ready to drink. ‘You any good?’

‘That’s not the point.’ Bruce tore open a bag of crisps. One of those continental brands that looked like the British ones, but with a different name. ‘Help yourself.’

Chantal grabbed a handful and shovelled them down. ‘Haven’t eaten all day.’ She nodded as she chewed, the vinegar tang biting into her tongue. ‘Been hard at it since we got up.’

‘You caught him, though, that’s a good thing.’ Bruce ate a crisp, dainty like someone’s gran. ‘Just because the wheels of justice don’t turn as quickly as you, doesn’t mean you haven’t done great.’

‘Doesn’t mean I feel great, though.’ Chantal looked over at the bar’s door, fiddling with the tie on her shorts. A couple of knuckle-dragging Cockneys kept leering at her. ‘To feel great I’d need to be sitting at the airport, escorting that raping bastard home.’

‘Just saying. You caught him. That’s no mean feat.’ Bruce’s gaze stayed on her hand as she munched through the crisps. ‘You’ve done well, pet.’

‘He’s going to slip through our grasp, though.’ Chantal took a gulp of lager, giving herself a beer moustache. ‘God, I needed that.’ She wiped at her top lip.

Bruce reached over and wiped the foam off. ‘You missed a bit.’

She pushed his hand away with a glare. ‘I’m not happy about getting kicked back to Scotland.’

Bruce shuffled the crisp bag round to her. ‘Two-bit operation here, Chantal. Calling them cowboys would be an insult to cowboys.’

She took another crisp and chewed slowly, her forehead creasing. ‘Any chance you can get a tail on him?’

‘With our resources?’ Bruce laughed. ‘No chance. If we get caught doing that, we’ll have the next media meltdown on our hands.’

‘That might not be a bad thing.’ Chantal took another sip of beer. ‘Your case isn’t short of profile in the media, which means it’s all Quaresma seems to bother about.’

‘Aye, to the detriment of my work. That prick wants all the glory for himself.’

‘We could play to that.’

‘Chantal . . .’ Bruce bellowed out a laugh, then downed the rest of his pint. ‘Right, after the morning I’ve had, I’m having another refreshment. What about you?’

Chantal’s glass was below halfway. ‘Aye, go on.’

‘I’ll get more crisps, too.’ Bruce got up and went inside, leaving the door hanging open.

Chantal picked up her phone and dialled Hunter. Took him an age to answer.

‘Hey, lover, how are you doing?’ Sounded like he’d taken four MDMA . . .

‘I’m okay. Wallowing in my grief here. What about you?’

‘Still waiting. Tulloch’s still inside.’ Hunter sighed down the line. ‘Do you want to get some food?’

‘Too pissed off to eat properly, Craig.’ Chantal took another angry drink of beer, her teeth chapping off the glass. ‘Right now, I want to get so drunk they don’t let me on the plane. Then I can stay here and catch that bastard, if I can still walk.’

‘You want to face Quaresma’s wrath again?’

‘You know we should be tailing him.’

‘Have you got Bruce to bite yet?’

‘No resource. Press profile. You name it.’

Hunter’s sigh burst in her ear as a hiss of static. ‘Well, what’s to stop me just happening to walk back to the apartments the same way as Tulloch?’

‘Nothing?’ Chantal took another drink of beer. ‘But what if he gets driven by your friend Elena?’

‘She’s hardly my frie— Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’

‘Is Tulloch—’

Click.

Damn it! Should never have left him up there by himself.

Chantal finished her beer in one gulp. That superhero carry-on was going to get him killed.

Felt like a spider crawled up her spine. She hit it when it reached her shoulder. Only problem was it went both ways at the top and snaked down both arms.

The stress is getting to me.

‘Think that rain will get us?’ Bruce was clattering through the small door.

The spiders scurried off. ‘What rain?’

‘That rain?’

A giant storm cloud hovered over the sea, dirtying the turquoise a dark grey.

‘Nah, it’s a sea storm.’ Chantal pushed her empty glass to the middle of the table.

Bruce handed her a fresh pint, foam dripping off the side, and tipped four bags of crisps on the table. ‘Time to forget about the case, okay?’

She hauled the beer over and snatched a pink bag of prawn cocktail. ‘You’re sure you can’t get a tail on Tulloch?’

Bruce’s chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. ‘No dice.’

‘Even if you get intel suggesting that he’s involved in the disappearance of Harry Jacks?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ He waved a finger at her, then capped the creepy uncle routine off with a perfectly timed wink. ‘Now, my place isn’t too far from here, if you fancy a little wander?’

SIXTY-SIX

Hunter

The police station was still quiet. No sign of Tulloch getting out yet. In fact, no sign of any progress, as per usual.

A red Fiesta van pulled up a few spaces away.

‘Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’ Hunter killed the call and stretched out. His back was starting to ache from all that sitting. The section of wall he’d been leaning on was covered in a damp patch from his sweaty arse. It shrunk away to nothing in seconds.

The red Fiesta’s door swung open and Finlay Sinclair stepped out in all his hobbling glory. After a few slow steps, he lunged and grabbed Hunter into a bearhug. ‘Jabroni!’

‘Fin.’ Hunter patted him on the back and broke off. ‘Thanks for meeting up, mate.’

‘No worries, no worries.’ Finlay took a look around the place, like he was assessing some Leith crime scene. ‘So, what’s the deal?’

‘Chantal and I are heading home tonight.’

‘And . . .?’

‘What do you mean “and”?’

Finlay whistled through his teeth. ‘There’s always something with you, my man.’

‘Nope, that’s it, just going to get on the plane and—’

‘Aye, bollocks.’ Finlay raised a finger in the air. ‘Before I forget . . .’ He reached into the car and groaned, his hand going to his back. ‘Oh, you bastard.’ He straightened up and handed a paper bag to Hunter. ‘Got this for you.’

‘You okay?’

Finlay pushed at his spine until something clicked. ‘That’s it.’ He opened his watering eyes and waved a hand at the bag. ‘Open it, then.’

Hunter peered inside. A plastic container, absolutely rammed with salad. A thin burrito lay on top, almost an afterthought. ‘I don’t know what to say, that looks . . . Wow.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Finlay reached back into the car and got a second bag out, this one stuffed with a chunky tortilla unadorned by anything except a drizzle of chilli oil. ‘You beauty.’ He bit into the burrito and chewed with his mouth open, his lips slapping together like he was giving the chef a round of applause.

Hunter smiled. ‘I’ve been craving vegetables since we got here.’ He ate a forkful of salad, crunchy in a way you didn’t get in Scotland. ‘This is more fruit and veg than you eat in a month.’

‘Try a year.’

You can take the boy out of Dalkeith . . .

Finlay looked at Hunter’s food. ‘They didn’t have any banana or goat’s cheese, though. Still eat that poof food, you freak?’

‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’

Finlay laughed, his tortilla poised over his mouth. ‘Weirdo.’ He bit into it with a primal relish. ‘Ah, that’s the bambers.’

‘Remember that Met DI who was up for a bit a few years back, would only ever eat a burrito?’

‘God, aye.’ Finlay chomped with his mouth open. ‘What was his name again?’

‘Had a bit of a darkness behind his eyes, that one.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. One of those stations on a Monopoly board, wasn’t it?’

‘Whatever.’ Finlay flashed up his eyebrows. ‘So, how’s the case, then?’

‘Like I said, mate, they’re sending us home.’

‘Meaning, you got the punk you were after?’

‘Sort of.’

‘It’s never straightforward with you, is it?’ Finlay’s laugh sounded like a strangled scream for mercy from deep inside his gut. With a smelly belch he tried to regain control of his body, then hacked out a series of coughs that sounded like an old donkey’s death rattle.

Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You okay, buddy?’

‘Aye, aye, just a wee cough. Anyway, why are we meeting in a police station car park?’

‘It’s a long story and . . .’ Hunter bit into his burrito. Felt like his tongue was on fire. ‘Christ, you barbarian, how can you eat this stuff?’ He got the bottle of water out of the bag and slurped it down. ‘Ah.’

‘Too hot for you, jabroni?’ Finlay wiped his chin and a dod of chicken fell back into the box. He picked it up with nimble fingers and swallowed it without chewing. ‘Saw some report on the news earlier. That kid from Geordieland was supposed to be in Vilamoura. Was that you guys?’

‘Not us, but I know about it. It’s gone to shite, mate. Like our case.’

Finlay chuckled as he plucked a pepper out of his fajita and set it aside. ‘Usual story, then?’

‘Aye. Usual.’ Hunter took another drink of water. Wasn’t damping the heat any. ‘Thanks for blabbing to Elvis.’

Finlay leered at him. ‘You are boning her, aren’t you?’

Hunter put a finger to his lip. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’

Finlay shrugged. ‘I can’t force you to talk to me, dude.’

Hunter finished chewing a mouthful of burrito, mouth still on fire. ‘We’re an item, yes.’

‘And DI McNeill doesn’t know?’

‘She suspects, but we haven’t come clean . . . Until you mentioned it to our mutual friend Elvis.’

Finlay’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Mate, I mused aloud to the boy, but only in the strictest confidence. You know me. But why are you keeping it a secret anyway?’

‘It’s not at my insistence.’

Finlay shut his tray. ‘Do you want my advice?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I’ll give you it anyway. Don’t lie. And don’t get caught in a lie.’

‘Like I said, it’s not at my insistence. It’s complicated.’ Hunter picked up some olives from the salad. ‘Look, about your back. I’m sor—’

Finlay waved him away like an old lady trying to pay for tea and scones. ‘Forget it, dude. It’s old news.’

‘I mean it. It’s my fault you went upstairs in that house and . . .’ Hunter pointed at Finlay’s back, the olives in his hand glistening bright green in the light. ‘And he did that to you.’

Finlay leaned forward with a sickening crunch. ‘It’s cool, dude. I’m fine.’ He waved at the sunshine, ignoring the clouds darkening the horizon. ‘I’m enjoying my life out here.’

‘It shouldn’t have happened.’

‘But it did. I mean, if it hadn’t happened, I’d be stuck in a squad car with Dave or Steve, getting a shoeing off Lauren every five minutes. You want that to happen to me?’

‘Suppose I’ve saved Lauren a lot of hassle.’ Hunter bit into his burrito. Couldn’t taste a thing. ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’ He swallowed it down. ‘How bad is your back?’

‘It’s fine, jabroni.’ Finlay finished his fajita, leaving a pile of green and red peppers in his box. ‘The only downside is I’m bored shitless out here.’

‘What about that retirement plan of yours? Weren’t you hoping to drink yourself to death?’

‘Oh, the dreams of a younger man. Alas, even they get old.’ Finlay closed the box and dumped it back in the bag. ‘I mean, drinking in the sun is fine and everything, but once you get over the novelty, it’s just another place, right? You see the same bams all year round, except when they go back home for a bit. Doctors’ appointments for their hearts, trying to see the kids that don’t speak to them anymore, that kind of thing. Getting more lively now the tourists are rocking up. Not that we get many of them in Olhão, mind.’

‘So you’re bored?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Didn’t you get that from my texts?’

‘Oh, I got it.’ Hunter bit into his burrito and chewed slowly. ‘How would you like to help me out?’

SIXTY-SEVEN

Hunter

Hunter paced along the main street, the hordes of tourists making way for him like rowing boats for a barge. The frustration coming off me must be louder than a fog horn.

He stopped outside the pub. No sign of Chantal or Bruce. Terrific. Brucie Boner.

Inside the bar, a group of Scots stood near a telly playing the Celtic-Rangers match. Of course, they were shouting abuse at each other, rather than focusing on the football. And not very good-natured abuse at that. Knives were mentioned. A lot.

‘—Paula’s bloody wedding. Can you imagine?’ Chantal’s voice. Round the corner. He followed the trail. A parasol blocked the sun from her and Bruce. The table was full of empties, a load of crisp packets rammed into a glass.

Chantal got up and wrapped Hunter in a drunk hug. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve only been gone for an hour and a half.’ Hunter pulled her tight. So pissed she didn’t care who saw them. Didn’t even care who Bruce knew in Scotland. He leaned down to her. ‘Who’s Paula?’

She collapsed into a chair and clutched Hunter’s hand like it was the last thing she’d ever hold. ‘Never mind.’

Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Who is she?’

‘It’s just . . .’

Bruce licked his lips and raised his glass. ‘The old truth serum, mate. Chantal’s been talking to me. I know what’s going on.’

‘That’s more than I do.’

She whacked him on the arm. ‘Hoy.’

‘That’s what I was telling her, mate.’ Bruce finished his pint. ‘Another round?’

‘Sure.’ Hunter took her hand in his again.

‘Nothing for me, though. Christ.’ Once Bruce had gone inside, she coughed into her hand. ‘God, lager makes me so bloated.’

‘Why are you drinking it, then?’

She lifted a shoulder. ‘That sleazy bastard has been hitting on me.’

‘Bruce?’ Hunter got to his feet. ‘I’m going to smash that little weasel’s face in.’

‘Craig, drop it, okay?’ Chantal burped into her hand. ‘I told him about you and me.’

‘Really?’

‘I think he’s scared of you.’ She tried to clear her throat, but stopped short. ‘Cat’s out of the bag with bloody Elvis anyway.’ She shrugged again. ‘How’s Finlay?’

Hunter couldn’t stop his eyebrows shooting up. ‘How do you know it was him I was meeting?’

She tapped her nose. ‘I just do.’

‘Right.’ Hunter pulled his seat closer to hers. ‘Well, you know how he is.’

‘What was he after?’

‘Food and the pleasure of my company.’ Hunter started shifting the empties to the next table. ‘This wedding. Whose is it?’

‘Paula Zabinski.’

‘Oh, I know her.’ Hunter drummed his thumbs on the metal table, the tiny circles all swooshing. ‘Not well enough to get invited to her wedding, dear.’

Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘Dear?’

‘You know what I mean. Worked the beat with her.’ Hunter settled back in his seat, resting his hands behind his head. A strip of sunlight on his face, warm as a hot burrito. ‘Is this a new thing?’

‘Craig . . .’ She waved her hands around the air, didn’t seem to be aiming anywhere in particular. ‘Can’t we just enjoy this?’

‘Fine.’ Hunter sat back and pulled his sunglasses off his head. ‘Here comes lover boy.’

Another thwack on the arm. ‘Wheesht.’

Bruce dumped the beer on the table. ‘What did I miss?’

Chantal smirked. ‘Nothing.’

‘My ears were burning. Come on, what did I miss?’

Hunter took one of the pints and had a sip. He stared at his beer, the fizz in his gut tasting worse than the cheapest Portuguese lager. ‘There’s a serial sex offender in the police station and he’ll get let out soon. And we’ve no way to take him home with us. Not even locking him in a suitcase.’

‘You think that’s bad?’ Bruce thumped down in a seat and cracked his knee off a chair, almost knocking the pints over. ‘Ah, shitting hell.’ He picked up his glass and licked the spillage off his thumb. ‘We were working till four this morning, after that sighting on the Strip. Then the locals had another false sighting of the kid at seven, so I had to get out of my pit on three hours sleep.’ He tore into a bag of crisps. ‘Tell you, the bell ends here don’t know how to do subtle. Guns and dogs and God knows what else. Tanks and helicopters can’t have been far off.’ He crunched a crisp, swallowing it down. ‘Spent the rest of the morning interviewing the parents to prove they really were the kid’s parents and he really wasn’t Harry Jack.’ He sipped his beer again. ‘Tell you what, though, Quaresma was pissed off at your little Wrestlemania on that street last night. Almost put our obbo at risk.’

Hunter reached over for another pull of beer. ‘That why he’s pissing on our chips?’

‘Who knows? Like most things out here, it’s all a waste of time in the end.’ Bruce reached into his pockets for some more bags of crisps and tossed them on the table. ‘You’ll be glad to know I don’t feel guilty about having a pint after the shifts I’ve put in on this case.’

Chantal swirled her lager around her glass. ‘I’m with you there.’

Bruce tore open a crisp bag along the seam and spilled it on the table. ‘We’ve got the Express, Mail, Sun all auditing what we’re up to. The London Post and Edinburgh Argus too, God knows why. On a bloody jolly, the lot of them.’

‘Think you’ll find the boy?’

‘I don’t.’ Bruce stared deep into Hunter’s eyes. ‘I think he’s long gone.’ He took another sip and rocked forward on his chair. ‘My lads are monitoring every flight out of this country and most out of Spain. We’ve got all the shipping manifests. Nada. I recommended to my Superintendent that we head back home.’

‘And?’

‘The cogs are still grinding in Newcastle.’ Bruce picked up another crisp. ‘Not that the locals help.’

‘You think they’re bent?’

‘Well, I find ineptitude hard to swallow at the best of times.’ Bruce yawned. ‘Christ, I need my bed.’ Another yawn threatened to suck in the whole table. ‘Better make this the last. I’d offer you a lift, but . . .’ He held up his glass.

‘We can walk.’ Chantal supped her beer. ‘We need to check out soon, anyway.’

‘You guys know the way to your hotel?’ Bruce pointed back down the street. ‘Follow the beach round the path, then follow the yellow brick road. Not the nicest, but hey, you’ll get the sand on your feet.’ He gave them a wink. ‘Couple of secluded spots if you want to—’

‘Thanks.’ Chantal rolled her eyes and got to her feet. ‘I get the idea.’

*   *   *

The damp sand stuck to Hunter’s feet as he walked, the drier stuff grinding against his soles. The sun burnt his neck, the sea breeze cooling it. Chantal’s hand was soft in his.

Life is good.

Except for the serial abuser not facing trial. Not in custody. Free to reoffend as soon as Senhor Quaresma was done asking a few polite questions.

‘You’re right, Craig.’ Chantal led them inland towards a craggy rock. ‘It’d be nice to go on a proper holiday.’

‘Not here, but aye. We should.’ Hunter dropped his trainers on the sand and stepped into them again. He took his T-shirt off and stuffed it into his shorts’ pocket. That’s better. ‘How about after this wedding?’

Chantal let his hand go. ‘Craig . . .’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Look, it’s difficult. You know her, right?’

‘Used to. Kind of lost touch.’

‘Well. She’s a mate.’ Chantal tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘The problem is, she’s worked for Scott Cullen for a year or something and I know that he’s definitely going.’

Everything clicks into place.

Hunter nodded. ‘So Sharon will be there?’

‘Mhm.’

Hunter put his hand on his hips. ‘You know the right thing to do. We should come out.’

‘Craig, it’s not that simple.’

‘Come on. Either I am your boyfriend or I’m not. None of this grey area shite anymore.’

She narrowed her eyes at him, hurt and hesitation fighting a silent battle he wished he could end for her. But before he could reach out, she looked away. ‘You accepted this when you started shagging me.’

‘Chantal . . . Please, don’t be like that. We need to move on.’ Hunter grabbed her shoulders, his fingers tightening around them. ‘Maybe it’s time we move in together.’

She brushed his hands away. ‘You think you know me well enough?’

‘I trust you. I love you.’

‘It’s . . .’

‘Come on.’ He put his hands back. ‘What’s stopping you committing?’

‘I don’t know.’

He tried a smile, but she still wasn’t looking at him. ‘Is it because we’ve been lying to people for months now?’

‘Part of it.’

‘Well, we can say we got together out here. One thing led to another and . . .’

She grabbed his hands, finally met his eyes. ‘Look, I know this is difficult for you, too, but . . . let me think about it, okay?’

‘I’m serious, Chantal. We should—’

‘I’ll bloody think about it!’ She stomped off towards the rocky path, sand clouding up behind her.

Terrific.

He walked after her, finally catching up with her by some back-street lapdancing bar in a residential area. ‘Look, this has got to stop.’

‘What?’

‘You. You’re acting like a bloody teenager. I’ve been making allowances for months. This is . . .’ Hunter threw his hands up in the air. ‘Sod it, I don’t need this drama. I don’t deserve to feel like an embarrassment . . .’

‘You’re not an embarrassment.’

‘Oh, aye? Well, you’re making me feel like one. You owe it to our relationship to stand up and say we’re in love with each other.’

‘Craig . . .’

‘What?’

‘Look, it’s just—’

‘Just what? Fuck it, I’ll go back to uniform. I just want you to be bloody honest about us for once.’

She kicked a stone along the road. An elderly couple crossed the street to avoid them. ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Do you want me to keep thanking you for deigning to kiss me when no one’s watching?’

‘You idiot!’

‘You’re right, Chantal. I have been an idiot. I should never have agreed to this charade.’

She stormed off down the road, head low, fists clenched.

Bloody hell. He jogged off after her.

And then the clouds burst like some cosmic comment on their petty problems, thick drops of rain hammering Hunter’s flash of resentment into oblivion faster than Chantal could run off.

He sprinted after her, catching her by their apartment.

Chantal had her hand to her head. I know that look. She got out her card, almost dropping her wallet in the process. ‘Look, I said I’ll think about it, that doesn’t mean on the walk home, okay?’

‘Fine, whatever.’

‘Fine.’ Didn’t look it. Chantal swiped through the door and stopped dead. ‘Oh, no.’

‘What’s up?’ Hunter joined her in the doorway. No . . .

The place was a mess. Clothes strewn across the floor. The bed pulled apart. The two mattresses they’d pushed together now bunched up against two of the walls.

And no sign of the squaddies responsible.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Chantal

‘This isn’t happening . . .’ Chantal scanned around the carnage. Their clothes were jumbled in multi-coloured piles, the toiletries emptied into the kitchen sink, the washbags turned inside out.

Her case was on the kitchen floor, filled with water. Just a bra floating inside.

Hunter’s bag was next to it, soaked through. Empty.

‘Craig.’ Chantal tapped the lockbox under the TV. ‘What’s the code?’

Hunter was standing in the doorway, fists clenched like the burglars were still in the room and he might yet stop them from wreaking all this havoc. ‘1776.’

She entered it and twisted the lock. Their Passports were still inside. She let out a sigh of relief. ‘Some good news, at least.’

Hunter snatched his out off her hand and put it in his back pocket. ‘This can’t have been Tulloch, so who was it?’

‘Why can’t it have been Tulloch?’

Hunter’s eyes narrowed at her. ‘Because he’s still at the station.’

‘How do you know that?’

Hunter shrugged and glanced away. Cheeky bastard was hiding something. With a sigh he looked back at her. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this. Come on.’

‘I’m staying here, Craig.’

‘Fine.’

*   *   *

Chantal stood in the doorway, glancing up and down the path outside their apartment. No movement in Tulloch’s flat. No sign of Hunter either. She got out her phone and dialled Quaresma’s number.

‘Sergeant.’ Sounded out of breath. ‘Why you phoning and not the UFC champ, ah?’

‘Someone’s broken into our room. You need to send someone right away.’ She leaned against the wall. ‘This is serious.’

Quaresma sighed down the line. ‘Sergeant, I think I say you leave my country?’

‘We’re trying to, but someone has burgled our room.’

His snort turned into laughter. ‘You think this is Mr Tulloch?’

‘Tell me it’s not.’

‘He only leave here just now.’

‘You’ve let him go?’

Another sigh. ‘If your paperwork—’

A voice from behind Chantal. ‘You!’

Chantal swung round. Nora O’Meara was powering towards her, face puckered tight. She stopped within touching distance, shaking with fury. ‘This is your fault!’

Chantal closed her eyes, then spoke into her phone. ‘I’ve got to go. Send some officers now.’ Chantal killed the call. ‘Nora, what’s—’

‘You bitch!’ Nora slapped her palm off Chantal’s shoulder. ‘It’s all your fault!’

Chantal jumped back, eyes wide with surprise. When the next slap came, she was ready and pushed it away with the hand holding the phone. A thud rocked through it, sending a dull shockwave down her arm. ‘Stop hitting me!’

Nora held up her hand for another go, but let it drop with a sigh. ‘Your bloody fault . . .’

‘What is?’

Nora pointed at their apartment across the way. ‘My cousin’s just got back from the police station. Do you know what they did to her?’

Some breach of conduct I can report, I hope.

‘I spoke to Kirsten when I was there.’ Chantal marshalled the last of her fake positivity, trying to disarm Nora with a smile. ‘She was giving evidence, wasn’t she?’

‘Not like you’d think.’ Nora squinted at her. ‘They don’t believe she was raped. Hauled her over the coals for it. Made her speak to that Sean boy.’

‘What?’ Chantal swiped her hair out of her face. Still feel half-pissed. But fully enraged. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

‘Well, it did.’ Nora raised her hand again. ‘And it’s all your—’

‘I’m warning you.’ Chantal didn’t so much as flinch, but her glare stopped Nora as fast as any physical restraint. ‘How is Kirsten?’

‘How do you think? The poor girl’s after blaming herself for what happened.’

‘Christ.’ Chantal ran a hand across her forehead.

She’s right, that is my fault. We shouldn’t have gone running in there, trying to force everything through without understanding the ground rules. The caveman attitudes of the local cops. How hard it was to get anything done.

‘This isn’t Kirsten’s fault. It’s mine.’

‘What?’

‘I shouldn’t have forced her to go to the police here without priming them first. Shouldn’t have made her face her abuser all over again, either.’

‘Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself.’ Nora brushed her hair out of her face. ‘I’ve been in our apartment all afternoon, waiting for her. Then she called me and . . .’

‘How bad is it?’

‘I’m a psychiatric nurse back home. I’ve seen worse, but not much. Kirsten’s not in a good way. Near enough catatonic.’ Nora stepped forward. ‘What those cops did to Kirsten is shocking. Aren’t you going to do something about it?’

‘We’ll report it to our local liaison.’

‘I bet you will.’ Nora’s eyes widened as her eyes strayed over Chantal’s shoulder into the vandalised room. ‘What happened here?’

Chantal glanced behind her. ‘Someone’s raided it.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ She simpered, near enough fainted on the spot. ‘Sean?’

‘Probably his mates.’ Chantal stifled a yawn and pointed back down the lane. ‘Your room looks out on this bit. Did you see anyone near ours?’

‘Not that I can think of.’ Nora shook her head, tears flooding her eyes. ‘Wait a second. I saw him, when I went out for a bottle of water. That guy. The big one from Leeds, I think.’

‘Matty?’

Nora clicked her fingers. ‘That’s him.’

Chantal glanced back at the room next door to Tulloch’s. Nobody there. When was the last time I saw him? Bloody hell, in the line-up. Craig had a run-in with Matty outside the station. Meaning he had enough time to get over here.

‘What was this guy doing?’

‘God, I wasn’t paying all that much attention. He was sort of sitting near your room. Reading a paper. I think.’

‘Anyone else with him?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Thanks.’ Chantal nodded at Nora. ‘I’ll speak to my boss and—’ Her phone blared out. Hunter.

SIXTY-NINE

Hunter

‘You don’t understand.’ Hunter leaned across the reception desk, keeping his voice low. ‘I’m a police officer.’ He slid his warrant card across. ‘You need to expedite this.’

The receptionist scanned the card, his eyes flaring. Same Welsh guy as when they checked in the previous day, the one who flirted with Chantal. He passed it back. ‘I see, sir.’

‘I need to access your CCTV footage to see who’s been in our room.’

‘One second please, sir.’ He tottered off behind the giant cheese plant.

Hunter grabbed his phone and redialled Finlay for the sixteenth bloody time.

‘Yo.’ Sounded like Mansun playing in the background, “Wide Open Space”. Like it was 1997. Probably still was in that idiot’s head . . .

‘Finally.’ Hunter turned round to search the reception area. ‘Been calling for the last five minutes. Where have you been?’

‘Sat right here, jabroni. Had my phone on mute. Only noticed the now.’

A middle-aged American sidled up to the next desk and gave it the full, ‘Howdy, y’all?’

Hunter leaned forward, trying to follow where the receptionist had gone. ‘Is Tulloch still there?’

The background music turned down a few notches. ‘He’s still in the station.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Fifty million percent, dude. I can see both exits from here.’

‘You’ve not pissed off to get a sandwich or anything?’

‘After that monster burrito?’

‘What about going to the toilet?’

‘After that monster burrito?’

Always a pleasure to share in another man’s constipation. ‘What about a drink or a paper?’

‘Got a load of bottles of water in the boot for when I go on a long drive.’ Sounded like he took a swig of water, as if on cue. ‘Listen, I had a word with a guy I recognised from the pub who works in there. Paolo. He checked and Tulloch’s still inside, getting a proper grilling.’

‘You could’ve opened with that useful titbit.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

The receptionist wandered back round, followed by a knuckle-dragging brute who could’ve played rugby for Portugal. If they played rugby in Portugal.

‘Right, Fin, I’ll catch you later. Call me the second you hear.’

‘Will do, jab—’

Hunter killed the call and pocketed the phone, giving the receptionist a wide grin.

‘Sir, Pepé here is the head of security.’ The receptionist ran a hand down the circus strongman’s arm, thicker than his own waist. Looked like he spent all day with a pair of cast-iron dumbbells in front of the mirror, rather than looking at CCTV. The receptionist caressed his bulging biceps. ‘He’ll be able to help you.’

‘Come with me, sir.’ Pepé spoke in the most brutal English, all clipped vowels and hardened consonants. Like some troglodyte from Musselburgh. He pulled up the partition and guided Hunter through. ‘You are police?’

‘Based near Edinburgh in Scotland.’

‘Ah, Edinburgh.’ Pepé opened a door behind a photocopier machine. ‘Beautiful city. I play rugby there many year ago.’

Hunter smiled at him and entered the office. More plush than the guest rooms, anyway. A glass desk ran along the far wall, with a laptop plugged into a giant TV mounted on top. ‘Did your colleague tell you what happened?’

‘Is not uncommon.’

‘I need to see the CCTV for the area outside our room, please.’

‘Kevin told me.’ Pepé sat behind the desk, almost blocking the TV, and twisted his neck until it cracked. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Hunter, we do not have CCTV for those rooms.’

Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘How is that possible?’

‘Sorry, sir. That block only is two years old. We have no approval already from boss to install system. Is very expensive.’

Looked a lot older than two years . . . ‘What about the entrances?’

Pepé waved a hand towards the door. ‘There is one by reception, but it points at sea, not road.’

Hunter peered round to look at the TV. It showed the bar area from the roadside, with a thin sliver of beach and the hotel next door. Gordon Brownlee and a couple of the other squaddies were in as usual, but no sign of Sean Tulloch or Matty Ibbetson.

Hunter pointed at another camera, angled at what looked like their apartment block. ‘What about that one?’

‘Is not recording.’

Hunter shut his eyes, teeth clenched. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Fake camera. Sorry. Is standard practice.’

‘Do you have staff?’

Pepé frowned, the deep lines in his forehead looking like they’d been carved with a chisel. Judging by the confused expression on his face, he’d been lobotomised in the process. Eventually, though, he seemed to understand the question. ‘I have a bo staff, yes.’

‘Very nice, but I didn’t mean a literal staff. I meant people working for you.’

‘No, I am only security here.’ Pepé patted the side of the TV. ‘And this.’

‘And you’ve not seen anyone suspicious by our room?’

‘No.’ The big man looked at him with a sadness in his eyes that seemed to belong to a different time. A time when not being able to help a stranger was cause of genuine regret. When he helped victims because he was compelled to do so simply by their shared humanity. A time when he didn’t let his personal shit distract him from the real suffering of those he had taken a professional vow to help, those whose need for protection had first made him want to become a cop, those who were at the mercy of users and abusers if people like him were too caught up in their power games and relationship issues.

Pepé was still looking at him, waiting for another question, but Hunter didn’t know what to say to the man. Didn’t know what to say to anyone anymore. So he said a single word and left.

‘Sorry.’

*   *   *

Hunter stepped out into the blazing sunlight and swivelled his shades over his eyes.

Bloody amateurs.

Slow down. Think things through.

Hunter glanced over at the bar area. Gordon Brownlee and his mates were settling into a more leisurely pace of drinking, sipping their pints almost like civilised alcoholics. Almost.

Had to be one of them in our room.

He got a scowl from Brownlee as the big lump Keith joined him, his movements less erratic now. Must’ve finally found his Valium.

So, Brownlee had been released. How long till Tulloch was out?

Hunter called Chantal. ‘Hey, you got anything?’

‘I’m behind you.’ Voice like ice. ‘We’ve got something.’

*   *   *

Hunter ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Matty?’

‘Matty.’ Chantal was pouting at him. ‘We need to find him.’

‘I’ve got an idea.’ Hunter stomped off, his feet squelching on the damp mosaic tiles.

Big Keith’s eyes lit up as he caught sight of Hunter, striding straight towards him. The man was smoking a cigar, sucking deep on the brown leather. ‘Gogs, can you smell bacon?’

Terrific. Of all the cop insults, he had to pick the pig reference. Hunter stopped, still a few yards to go. Not another flashback. Not now.

He stared around them, tried to centre himself among all those lairy lads lying by the pool, drinking lager and sizzling in the sun like . . .

Stop.

Thinking.

About.

Bacon.

Focus on the sounds of the pool, splashing and giggling and roars of laughter. Distant traffic. The smell of cigarette smoke and diesel belching out of a coach.

‘Definitely some pork-based product.’ Gordon Brownlee took another sip of beer. ‘Maybe ham?’

Keith smirked. ‘Or spam?’

Wrong time to mess with me, fuckhead. Hunter took one look at sozzled Keith, reckoned he could take him out with a quick kick in the throat, then settle in on Brownlee before he even knew what was coming. His other two mates looked a bit handy, though.

He planted his feet on the tiles, shifted his weight on to the balls of his feet and spread his hands in front of him in a gesture that looked like surrender, yet left him ready to attack faster than those clowns could get out of their seats. With a meek smile he focused on Brownlee. ‘I need to speak to Matty Ibbetson, please.’

‘Oh aye?’ Brownlee nodded slowly. ‘Oink don’t know where he is.’ He frowned at Keith. ‘Have you seen ham?’

Keith took another suck on his cigar. ‘Might be in a pigpen.’

Hunter joined in the round of guffaws. ‘Terrific fun, gentlemen. Just terrific. Now, while I have your esteemed attention, I’m looking for a rapist, so I’d be mighty grateful if you could point me in the right di—’

‘Piss off, you pig bastard.’ Brownlee shook his head as he got up. ‘You can’t come over here and expect us to help you.’ He jabbed a finger at him, inches away from Hunter’s nose. ‘You arrested Sean, took me into the cop shop and now you’re after Matty. When’s it Big Keith’s turn?’

Hunter dropped his shoulders, ready to make the guy sit back on his arse if he so much as thought another insult. ‘Listen, someone’s raided our room and I’d—’

Brownlee stuck out his bottom lip and strummed it with his index finger. ‘Aw, diddums.’

I could batter you into next—

Hunter’s phone blasted out. He sighed. ‘Come on lads, this is serious. Where is he?’

Brownlee flicked him the Vs. ‘Piss off, pig.’

Hunter held his stare for a moment, then started smiling. ‘I’ll piss off, alright. But when I get home, I’ll get in touch with the cops in your area. Request a daily stop-and-search routine specifically for you upstanding members of the community. Maybe some accidental police violence when you resist arrest on some false charge. Every day.’

Keith scowled at him. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Can’t I?’ Hunter nodded at Brownlee. ‘You live in Muirhouse, right? Even easier to call in favours for you.’

Brownlee collapsed back into a chair, his face white.

Let them stew on that for a while.

‘See you around.’ Hunter walked off, checking his phone. Missed call from Finlay.

Terrific. That gratification lasted about as long as Matty’s two-inch baby cock.

He raised his phone to his ear and scanned the streets, looking for a red Fiesta. ‘What’s up?’

Finlay’s engine roared in the background. ‘Been trying to call you!’

‘Sorry, something’s come up.’

‘Aye, well, I need a bit of a hand, jabroni.’ The engine’s roar turned to a squeal. ‘Tulloch got out two minutes ago and a car picked him up. I’m following them right now.’

Hunter spun around, scanning the area again. No signs of any new arrivals. ‘Where are you?’

‘They’re not far from— Shite.’ A squeal of brakes. ‘They’ve stopped outside a bar. Just up from your hotel.’

‘What?’ Hunter started running up the slope away from the bar area. ‘It’s definitely Tulloch?’

‘Aye, he’s just got out of the car. And what the—?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Shite, he’s gone down a lane at the side.’

Hunter sped up, his gut lurching. ‘Is it the Cheap and Cheerful?’

‘Aye, it is. Why?’

‘That means he’s gone back to Luisa’s apartment to finish the job.’

SEVENTY

Chantal

Chantal caught up with Hunter by the main road as a bus thundered towards them. Could almost feel the ground rumbling through her sandals. ‘You got him yet?’

Hunter had his mobile clamped to his ear. ‘Fin’s phone is going to voicemail, as per bloody usual.’

She jogged alongside him, then sped up as he darted through a gap in traffic.

Hunter slowed by another bar, punters spilling out onto the pavement as cars hissed past them. ‘What’s the plan?’

The lane they ducked into was empty and quiet, Chantal’s voice breathless with urgency. ‘We need to wait for Quaresma, Craig.’

‘He let Tulloch go.’

‘We still need to play by the rules.’ As if on cue, her phone blasted out. She showed Hunter the screen. Incoming call from one Senhor Quaresma. ‘Here we go.’ She answered it. ‘We need—’

‘Sergeant, I not listen anymore.’ Quaresma paused. Sounded like he was driving. ‘You leave my country or I arrest you and Constable Hunter. He call me one more time, I put him in cell until next aeropl—’

‘Why have you let Tulloch go?’

‘Sergeant, I let Mr Tulloch go because he is not suspect of crime in my country.’

Hunter stomped up the steps towards the bar manager, shouting the odds at him.

Chantal grimaced. ‘Look, we need some support here. He’s gone back to Luisa Oliveira’s apartment.’

‘No problem. Sex was consensual.’

‘He’s going to rape her, again!’

‘Sergeant.’ Quaresma’s voice hissed down the line. ‘If you or Constable Hunter assault that man again, I arrest you.’

‘Two men, that’s all we need.’

‘Get on plane, Sergeant.’

Click.

Damn it.

Chantal pocketed her phone and shook her head at Hunter as he stomped back down the stairs. ‘No dice.’ She motioned behind him. ‘What were you doing up there?’

‘Having a go at our friend José the barman for not calling me when Tulloch showed up this morning.’

‘Great, that’s–

Chantal jumped clear of a red Fiesta as it barrelled towards her, the windows wound down.

Finlay. Finally.

Hunter crouched down next to the car. ‘Where did he go?’

Finlay waved over at the bar. ‘Down that alley.’

Chantal shot a glance down the lane. Tulloch was down there, doing God knows what to Luisa.

Sure, she said the sex was consensual, but the man had a history of bending women to his will, making them think they wanted him until he . . .

Chantal dug the heels of her hands into her eyes.

If we go in there, Quaresma will go apeshit.

But if we don’t . . .

Footsteps rattled nearby.

She opened her eyes again.

Finlay was staring at her, his eyes widening.

She turned, saw Tulloch running right at her. He stepped into a right hook and punched Chantal in the mouth before she could get a single word out. She tumbled backwards over the bonnet of Finlay’s car and cracked her head off the windscreen.

SEVENTY-ONE

Hunter

‘No!’ Hunter vaulted over the bonnet after Chantal, while she slumped to the ground on the far side.

Hunter checked her head injury, nothing serious, spun around to face Tulloch, caught him in a low dive and hauled him face-first on to the concrete. With a knee to the man’s kidney, he scrambled on to his back. ‘You don’t hit women!’

Tulloch twisted to the left and threw Hunter off, his hip crunching against the edge of the pavement. Tulloch lashed out with his feet, thudding his boots into Hunter’s fists, brought up just in time to guard his face.

Then it stopped.

Tulloch got up, took a step back and kicked Hunter in the balls. ‘That’s for earlier, you prick!’

White light burst in Hunter’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe. Just pain. Everywhere. His stomach. His arse. His balls felt like lava. He doubled over on the pavement and threw up. The smell of sour beer, warm concrete against his cheek.

Footsteps receding down the alley. Tulloch . . .

A hand rested on Hunter’s side. ‘Christ, jabroni.’

Hunter opened his eyes. ‘Where is he?’

Finlay helped Hunter up. ‘You okay?’

Hunter leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. Needles dug deep into his scrotum, felt like he’d burst both bollocks. ‘Have you got him?’

‘Sod that bastard! I’m making sure you’re okay, dude.’

Hunter cupped his balls. Couldn’t feel anything other than numb, paralysing pain. ‘Got get him!’

‘On my way!’ Finlay got back into his car and tore off down the street.

Hunter took a few tentative steps. Felt like his balls were in his stomach.

Chantal was sitting by the side of the road, staring into space, dabbing at the back of her head. Her face was puffing up already, both lips thick and blood smeared.

He stepped over to her and held out a shaking hand to help her up. ‘You okay?’

She stumbled back against the wall, blood trickling down the back of her neck, dyeing her shirt collar crimson. ‘Jesus.’

Behind them, the bar staff were all out on the veranda with a couple of punters, looking on in stunned silence.

Finlay’s car was stopped at traffic lights, Tulloch’s army boots clopping away towards the beach.

He’s getting away . . .

Hunter waved the barman over. ‘Stay with my girlfriend!’

*   *   *

Hunter thundered along the street, his feet skidding on the downward slope. His balls were still on fire, but Tulloch wasn’t getting away.

Not this time.

A long coach turning left blocked the junction up ahead.

He slipped between two idling cars and waited for a gap to open up in the oncoming traffic, then weaved round the back of the coach.

The street down to the beach bent round at the end, where they’d walked back from the old town that afternoon. Tourists strolled hand in hand, pausing to frown at the commotion.

Twenty yards down, Finlay’s Fiesta was pulled in by a back-street strip bar, the neon sign dull in the daylight.

A couple were peering inside.

Hunter bombed over to the car and barged them out of the way. ‘Police!’ He glanced inside. Couldn’t see Tulloch or Finlay.

Terrific.

He got out, raised himself on his toes, shaded his eyes with his hands and searched the area. No sign of them. No sign of anyone except bloody tourists.

No, wait. There.

Finlay’s straight-backed run round the bend at the bottom of the street, weaving through a group of tourists towards the beach.

‘Finlay! Wait!’ Hunter dropped his hands and started sprinting after him. ‘WAIT!’

Crack.

Hunter stumbled to the ground, his shoulder feeling like it had taken a bullet. Pain flowered in his skull. He almost hit the parked cars on the other side.

What the—?

‘Alright, mate?’ Matty Ibbetson stood over him, swinging a pair of brass knuckles round his pinkie. He took a dirty suck on a cigar, then tossed it into the gutter with another twirl of the brass.

Hunter touched his shoulder. Jesus motherfucking Christ that hurt!

Matty put the knucks back on and lashed out. Hunter ducked, blocking the blow with his left forearm, feeling the metal dig into his flesh and burst the skin in a screaming gash, red hot pain shooting up the arm deep into his ear.

Matty followed up with a boot to the side. Right where Tulloch had caught him earlier. Another boot in the ribs. ‘Keep him here!’ Then he was off, sprinting towards the beach.

Hunter opened his eyes again, tears blurring his vision, his lungs on fire. He tried to exhale the pain, tried to scramble to his knees, but a meaty paw landed on his back and forced his face into the rough asphalt.

Hunter twisted his neck, caught bright sunlight in his eyes, blinked until a silhouette came into focus.

Looked like a bear.

‘Up you get, wanker.’ Big Keith stood over him, brandishing a knife, the blade glinting in the sunlight.

‘I’m a police officer.’ Hunter pushed himself up to all fours, then slowly rose to his feet, hands raised, teeth clenched, breathing through the pain. ‘You . . . You won’t get away with this.’

‘I don’t give a fuck.’ Keith lashed the knife towards him, half-arsed, teasing him. ‘I’m going to gut you like a fucking pig!’

Hunter braced, then lunged and clapped both fists into Keith’s wrist, gripped the knife hand with his left and swung his right fist round, punching through Keith’s jaw, aiming at a target a foot behind the guy’s head.

Caught a tooth right in the open wound. Another burst of pain shot up his arm. Hunter hissed, shuffled back two steps to get his bearings, but kept hold of Keith’s knife hand and pulled him off balance on the retreat, then lunged again and landed an open-handed smack on the guy’s nose. Disoriented him enough to twist the knife out of his fingers, then headbutted him and shoved him back against Finlay’s car. Caught him on the rebound, grabbed him by the ears and rammed his head against the bonnet. Twice, three times.

The giant tumbled over. Out cold.

Hunter stood there, panting, his hands, sides, ribs, balls pulsing with pain. His face slick with blood.

‘No!’ A shout boomed out from the beach.

Hunter whipped around and sped off towards the sound, blood seeping like rain into his eyes. He wiped it away and tried to sprint on, but his legs weren’t shifting fast enough.

The path twisted across the rocks, Hunter racing along, driven by nothing more than adrenalin and panic. No sign of anyone, as he reached the churned up sand, just the shine off a pair of brass knuckles lying in a rock pool.

Hunter slowed to a walk.

The tide was pushing out, leaving a stretch of damp beach exposed to the sun.

‘No!’ The shout battered around the walls of rock around him.

Hunter sped up, but had to skid to a halt at a wide plateau a few steps down.

Tulloch and Finlay were squaring up at the edge of the rocks, Tulloch jerking forward and backward, throwing fake punches and laughing. Toying with him.

Finlay locked eyes with Hunter. He was heavily outgunned and he knew it.

Out of nowhere, Matty roared towards them. Finlay saw it too late, twisting round as Matty barged into him. Finlay’s arms windmilled as he took the impact full on and went crashing across the rocks. He tripped and skidded. Then he disappeared off the side.

Matty stumbled and fell to his knees, panting between barked laughter. ‘That’s how you deal with pigs, mate!’

Tulloch raced across the path towards the beach, Matty following him down, Hunter not far behind them as he sprinted to the edge.

What he saw on the other side made him stop in his tracks. Finlay on his back, moaning, the sand below his head a wet shade of maroon.

SEVENTY-TWO

Chantal

Chantal leaned against the red Fiesta and carefully, very carefully touched her head. Black blood flakes flecked off her fingers as she rubbed them clean. She dialled Hunter’s number again. Still no answer.

Where the hell were they?

A few tourists gawped at her, trying but failing to hide behind their hands. Some didn’t even try, just stared down from their balconies, shielding their eyes from the sun.

‘NOOOOOO!’

The scream came from round the bend. The beach.

Chantal jogged across the path towards the sound as fast as her dizzy head would let her. No sign of Hunter. ‘Craig!’ She skittered over the paving stones until they gave way to rocks. ‘Craig!’

Two men jogged along the wet sand, chased by a small dog. A game of football was kicking off back towards the old town.

Hunter was over by the edge of the cliffs, in a daze.

‘Craig!’ She bounced forward and grabbed hold of him, pulling him into a tight hug, pulling him away from the edge. ‘Come here!’

Hunter settled into the hug. ‘He’s . . . Finlay . . .’

‘What?’ She let go and pushed back. ‘What did you say?’

‘Finlay! He killed him!’ Hunter swallowed hard. ‘He killed Finlay.’

‘What? Who did?’

‘Matty!’ Hunter looked around, confusion creasing his forehead. ‘Where’s Matty?’

Chantal grabbed his shoulders and tried to get him to lock eyes with her. Had to shake him. ‘Where’s Finlay?’

Hunter pointed down, off the rocks.

She stepped over to the edge. Finlay lay on the rocks below, coughing and huffing, his back contorted at an impossible angle.

‘He’s still alive! Go!’ Chantal put her phone to her ear and followed Hunter down the path. It rang and rang.

Then some gritty Portuguese erupted from the speaker. ‘Boa tarde.’

‘I need urgent medical attention to the Praia da Oura beach.’ Chantal dropped down the path to the sands. ‘We’re at the road leading from the street by the Hotel de Sousa to . . .’

Hunter was kneeling next to Finlay.

He coughed, spitting blood down his chin, sickly red pooling on his wet chest. He looked up at Hunter, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘Did we get him?’

*   *   *

The paramedic nudged Hunter back, but couldn’t sever the hand hold. ‘Sir, you must let go.’

Chantal tried to pull him back but Hunter held on even tighter. The stubborn bastard.

Finlay’s eyes were still open, swivelling around in his head until they closed.

Hunter slapped his face, made his eyes jerk wide open again. ‘We need to keep him awake.’

The paramedic took a handful of Hunter’s T-shirt. ‘Sir . . .’ A sharp tug at his sleeve. ‘Sir, let go.’

‘Keep him alive!’

‘I try, sir.’ The paramedic pushed the gurney towards the ambulance and started winching it up.

Chantal wrapped her arms around Hunter, half in affection, half in a desperate attempt to control him. ‘He’s going to be okay . . .’

‘He needs to stay alive.’

‘They’ll try, okay?’ She worked her way round to cuddle him from the front, blocking his way to the ambulance. ‘This isn’t our battle anymore.’

Hunter’s nostrils flared. ‘He’s got to stay awake.’

The ambulance’s back door slammed and the engine sparked to life.

Chantal placed her head on his chest. ‘We’ll get Matty for this.’

‘It’s not enough.’ Hunter collapsed into her embrace. ‘It’s nowhere near enough. If we’d had Ibbetson and Tulloch, Finlay would still be . . . would still . . .’ He cradled her, resting his chin on her head. He frowned, then touched the coppery smell at the back of her head. ‘Shite. He got you as well, didn’t he?’

She brushed his hand away, wincing. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘He got lucky.’

The blue lights of the ambulance pulsed ahead of them as it rushed off to hospital. Hunter sighed and looked down at the fine sand, already covered in dirty footprints. ‘We should’ve stopped this.’

She grabbed his hand tight. ‘Craig, this is not your fault.’

‘How isn’t it? Lightning striking twice . . . Of course this is my bloody fault.’

She tightened her grip, trying to say with her hands what she couldn’t with words. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m the ranking officer at the crime scene. If anyone should’ve stopped what happened to Finlay, it’s me. Okay?’

Hunter huffed. ‘I brought him into this, got him doing that PI shit. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be okay. He’d be sitting in some pub . . . not lying in an ambulance with his back snapped and . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘It should’ve been me.’

She pushed back to look up at him. ‘What?’

‘It should’ve been me fighting them, not Finlay. I’m trained in this kind of stuff. Fin wasn’t.’

‘They’re both big guys, Craig.’

Hunter shrugged. ‘So am I.’

‘Craig, it was two on one and—’

Hunter’s head darted around. ‘Where’s Keith?’

‘What?’

‘Keith attacked me. He had a knife. He was out cold.’

Chantal followed his gaze. The tourists were giving statements to some local uniform. No sign of Tulloch’s crew. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it again. ‘They’ll catch Tulloch and Ibbetson and Keith. Quaresma will do them for this.’

He locked eyes with her, the intensity in his stare scaring her more than the unaccounted knife attacker. ‘We need to get Tulloch.’

‘Craig . . .’

Damn it, he’s right.

But how?

A lone figure stood in the blinding sunshine by a black Audi. Quaresma. As he caught her looking at him, he smiled, smoothing down a stray spike of grey hair.

Chantal looked back at Hunter. ‘Come on.’

Quaresma raised his eyebrows at their approach. ‘Sergeant, this is not good.’

Chantal jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘You should’ve kept Sean Tulloch in custody.’

Quaresma brushed her finger off and swallowed a sigh. ‘Must we discuss again?’

‘Tulloch was heading back to Luisa’s apartment.’ Chantal pointed up the beach road. ‘What do you think he was going to do there?’

Quaresma leaned back against his car and clicked his tongue. ‘This Finlay Sinclair who follow him, this is your idea, yes?’

‘I’m not answering that.’ Chantal folded her arms. ‘I suggest you find Tulloch.’

Quaresma ran his tongue over his teeth, his eyes flicking between Chantal and Hunter. ‘Because of you and your cowboy games, I now have murder case as well as—’

‘Murder?’ Hunter’s eyes bulged.

‘Well, you see injuries of Mr Sinclair. Maybe doctor is wizard, but I think his chance is bad.’ Quaresma pursed his lips. ‘Priority now is find Mr Sinclair’s attacker.’

‘The man you’re looking for is one Matthew Ibbetson.’

Quaresma looked away. ‘My officers already search for him.’

‘And Tulloch?’

‘Constable, believe me, I make sure this Mr Ibbetson or what is his name get his punishment. If Mr Sinclair not recover, this man will die in jail.’

Chantal shook her head. ‘Glad you’re finally taking something seriously.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing.’ She shrugged, the last of her defiance seeping out of her body. ‘Just tell me you’ve got Keith, please?’

‘Keith?’ Quaresma frowned into space, then nodded slowly. He thumbed behind him. ‘We have record of Mr Keith Brannigan, he say someone assault him.’

‘Someone assaulted him?’ Hunter got between them. ‘He attacked me. With a knife!’

Chantal cleared her throat. ‘Keith attacked Craig after Sean Tulloch assaulted me. Matty Ibbetson attacked Craig then . . . then pushed Finlay off the edge. You need to prosecute him for that, at least.’

Quaresma let out a deep sigh. ‘Sergeant, you need to leave my country. Fast, before more people die.’

SEVENTY-THREE

Chantal

‘—leave it like this.’ Chantal paced towards their apartment, gripping her phone for grim death. ‘Tulloch’s still at—’

‘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 hauled 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.

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 fall 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 and 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.’

‘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 front 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 update.’

‘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?’

Cullen’s head shake betrayed his disappointment. ‘Fat Keith’s down to the last Vauxhall.’

‘What about the Volvo?’

‘Buxton wrote it off last month.’

‘The twat.’

Cullen laughed. ‘Anyway. You guys have a nice romantic break?’

Don’t rise to it . . .

Hunter looked over. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you and Chantal have a nice romantic break in the Algarve?’

‘Piss off, Scott. The Portuguese cop we were working with kept mugging us off and I got seven shades of shite kicked out of me by a raping squaddie.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘You’re welcome to.’ Hunter flicked up his phone and checked the display. ‘Why do you care anyway? Not got any work on to keep your filthy mind busy?’

‘Just finished a nightmare case. The worst sort. Too many heroes and not enough villains.’ Cullen shot him a wink. ‘You’ll find out someday, don’t you worry.’

‘Again, piss off, Scott.’

‘Piss off, Sergeant Cullen.’

‘You’re a vain idiot.’ Hunter shook his head at him. ‘You should’ve known about the MOD90.’

‘Maybe you should have told us?’

Dozy git.

Hunter’s phone blasted out the drill sound and he put it to his ear. ‘Elvis?’

‘Aye, local uniform have surrounded that house, Craig.’

‘You got the name of the owner?’

‘Not yet. The local Sergeant has the warrant, though.’

‘Noted. Tell them not to move in until we get there, okay? These guys are dangerous.’

‘Aye, aye.’ Sounded like Elvis was actually writing it down.

Hunter nodded to himself. ‘Have you found that taxi driver yet?’

‘Finished speaking to the local uniform up in Morpeth. Sounds like a straightforward street pick-up. You okay to let him go?’

‘Clear it with DI McNeill first.’ Hunter spotted the town lights in the valley below them. ‘We’re almost there. Can you let the local squad know?’

‘What did your last slave die of?’

Hunter’s mouth went dry. ‘That’s not funny.’

*   *   *

Hunter looked up and down the street, concrete blocks of suburban misery lining both sides. So this is where middle-class ambition came to die. The windows were all dark except for one at the far end by the broken streetlights, death metal blaring out into the black night.

No time to shut that up just now.

Hunter scanned the warrant with his torch. Looks fine. He flashed the light twice and waited.

Seconds later, he got a flash from the two units halfway down.

Cullen spoke into his Airwave radio. ‘Serial bravo, this is serial alpha. We are moving in. Repeat, moving in. Maintain the perimeter.’

‘Roger.’

Cullen took the warrant and waved at Hunter to go first.

Hunter switched the torch to his left hand and snapped out a borrowed police baton. He crept forward, careful to keep his head below the edge of the breeze-block wall as the bitter north-east air cut at his neck.

The downstairs windows were misted up with condensation, a bare lightbulb burning in the living room. A large figure loomed in the dim glow, then disappeared again.

Hunter waved forward. ‘Let’s get in there.’ He vaulted over the wall and landed on cracked tarmac, taking the impact with his good knee. He clicked off his torch and left it on the wall, then moved towards the house, brandishing the baton.

The two Northumbria police uniforms flanked Elvis as they neared the house. He gestured for them to head round the back and waited. Elvis gave a nod like he knew what he was doing.

Cullen hunkered down next to him, unfolding the warrant. ‘You’re in charge here, okay?’

‘Fine.’ A short blast of static on the Airwave and Hunter darted over to the front door. He gave it the policeman’s knock.

Nothing.

Then louder. ‘Police! Open up!’

A light across the street flicked on, but the house door stayed shut.

Hunter leaned over to Cullen. ‘Have we got an Enforcer?’

‘No.’

Bolts behind the door clicked and rattled. Then it opened to a crack, a shaft of yellow light bleeding over the grey pavement. An eye peered out at them. ‘What?’

Cullen inched Hunter out of the way. ‘Mr Brannigan, police. We need a word with you.’

Could almost make out Big Keith’s face through the thin slit. ‘Go on.’

‘Can we do this inside, please, sir?’

‘No, you can’t.’

Cullen held up the sheet of paper. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search these premises.’

‘You’re not getting in.’

Hunter barged in front of Cullen. ‘Is Sean Tulloch here?’

The door slammed against Cullen’s toes. ‘Ah, shite!’

Hunter lurched forward and rammed his shoulder against the painted wood. Felt like a bull was pushing from the other side. Cullen joined in and the door jolted inwards, cracking off the wall as the resistance fell away.

Big Keith lay on his back, groaning. ‘You bastards . . .’ He pushed himself up to a sitting position, his hand shooting out to the side. Steel glinted in the low light.

Hunter smacked his baton off Keith’s wrist. Something clanged on the laminate, rattling as it rolled out of reach. He pounced, landing on Keith and digging the baton into his throat with both hands. ‘Where is Tulloch?’

‘Piss off, you . . .’ Coughing and snorting, Keith strained for the words to come out. ‘You pig bastard.’ He reached for the bread knife lying against the maroon skirting. ‘I’ll fucking gut you!’

‘Where. Is. Ibbetson?’

Keith wheezed as Hunter put more of his weight on the baton. Fingers grabbed at him from behind — Cullen.

Hunter shrugged him off and applied more weight. ‘Where are they?’

Keith sputtered out a string of guttural vowels.

Hunter let the pressure slacken off a touch. ‘What was that?’

‘Sean’s took my bloody car. Thought that was him coming back.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Not telling you that.’

More pressure. ‘Who else was with you?’

Keith scowled at him.

Hunter let him have a breath. ‘Three of you got into that taxi.’

‘Fuck off.’

Hunter’s gut lurched. It was Matty. Had to be him. ‘Was it Matty Ibbetson?’

‘Fuck. Off.’

‘You’ll tell us now or down the station.’

Keith held out his hands in a cuff gesture, or as close as he could get with a cop sitting on his chest. ‘Milk and two while we’re waiting for my lawyer.’

*   *   *

Big Keith’s shoulders slumped as a pair of uniforms led him over to the idling squad car, but a defiant smirk flashed across his lips as he was pushed inside.

Thumps and thuds came from inside the house. The least careful search in the history of modern policing. Not likely to turn up Sean Tulloch or Matty Ibbetson, though.

Hunter slumped back against Cullen’s car. Where the hell is Tulloch?

Elvis was standing on the other side, resting his laptop on the top. ‘Craig, your secret’s safe with me.’

‘I’m not bothered about that.’ Hunter’s sigh misted in the air. ‘Tell whoever you want.’

‘Right. Whatever. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, but I’m glad to get out. Been a bloody taxi service all day, ferrying that Presley bird back down to Gala.’

Hunter locked eyes with Elvis. ‘Paisley?’

‘Aye, her.’

‘She’s out of hospital?’

‘Doc didn’t recommend it but couldn’t keep her in. Her injuries weren’t life threatening.’ Elvis coughed. ‘Still, double time to drive her home, happy days.’

Paisley was out of hospital.

And Tulloch knew she was blabbing to the cops about him.

His gut churned. Just a policeman’s hunch, but still . . .

He found Paisley’s mobile number and dialled it. It went straight to voicemail.

Terrific. The phone was in the evidence store in Bathgate, sent there on his own orders. He flicked through her contact details. No house number for her.

Ter-rif-ic.

Hunter got out his Airwave and called Control. ‘This is DC Craig Hunter, I need a unit to attend to an address in Galashiels.’

‘Aye, good one, son. You know there was an Old Firm match this afternoon, aye?’ Laughter cut through a mouthful of crisps. ‘First one in yonks. I’ve got twenty cars on tonight in that area, getting their arses handed to them by fans of both Glasgow teams.’

‘Can you get me her house number?’

‘I’ll text it to your Airwave.’

‘Thanks.’ Hunter hung up and called Chantal.

Took her a few seconds to answer. Sounded like she was driving. ‘Hey, you got Tulloch?’

Hunter locked eyes with Cullen as he left the house. ‘Not yet.’

‘What does that mean?’ McNeill’s voice. On speakerphone. Better watch what I say . . .

‘Tulloch’s taken Big Keith’s car.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s a needle in a haystack job. And there’s Old Firm fighting on.’ Hunter watched a car rattle off down the road. ‘We’ll take Keith to Northumbria HQ, might get something out of him there.’

‘Well, I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed.’ Chantal huffed down the line. ‘We’re heading there now. It’s going to be a long night. I’ve got to go.’

‘Wait. Matty Ibbetson was with them. He was the third man at the airport.’

‘Okay, that’s useful. Speak soon.’ Click.

Hunter put the Airwave on the car’s roof and let out a long sigh. It turned into a yawn halfway. So bloody tired.

‘That good, eh?’ Cullen looked up from his own phone. ‘Elvis is heading back now.’

‘Fine.’ Hunter’s Airwave chimed. A text from Control with an 01896 number. He tapped on it and put the Airwave to his ear, waiting for an answer, his heart thudding in his chest.

The phone was answered without a voice, just room sound.

‘Paisley, it’s Craig Hunter. Are you okay?’

Her voice was a whisper. ‘He’s here.’

‘Sean?’

‘Aye.’ Harsh, distorted, desperate. ‘He’s—’

A man shouted, ‘What the fuck are—’

Click.

EIGHTY-THREE

Chantal

Chantal got out of the car and felt like she walked into a wall of wind.

Northumbria Police HQ was lit up in the night, rain streaking past the lights. Stuck between a B&Q and the A19 dual carriageway, heavy trucks spraying rainwater up as they roared north. Could be three storeys, could be five, it was all a muddle. Every inch the New Labour PFI school, all turquoise glass and breezeblocks.

A couple of journalists lurked by the entrance, huddling together, smoking. Rich McAlpine was there. How the hell did he know they were back? How did he get back? Was he on the flight?

Bruce got out of the other side and started jogging across the car park. ‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’

‘Wish I’d stayed in Portugal.’ Chantal huddled through the revolving door into the station’s foyer. Could be a bank or an insurance company office. Modern architecture was about as hard to identify as sexual predator, when he hid his deviance under as much charm as Sean Tulloch.

Bruce signed her in and nodded at the guard. ‘Are our guests here, yet?’

The guard’s sleeves were rolled up, his arms all tattoos and wiry grey hair. ‘DI McNeill’s in your office. And there’s a taxi driver waiting in interview room six.’

*   *   *

Chantal stopped in the corridor and took a styrofoam cup of what looked like tea but smelled like coffee. Probably soup. ‘Thanks for this.’

Sharon sipped her own drink. ‘What’s with the goggle eyes?’

‘Well, Craig and Scott have got Keith Brannigan, but they don’t know where Tulloch is.’ Chantal took a sip. Weak and sour, but warm. Still not sure whether it was meant to be drink or food, though. She locked eyes with Sharon. ‘All we’ve got is conjecture, but Craig reckons Matty was the third man at the airport.’

‘That’s . . . interesting.’ Sharon opened a door behind her. Looked like an Incident Room, crowded with about fifteen officers. ‘Britpop, have you got the taxi driver?’

DC Simon Buxton twisted round to look at them, his hair now shaved almost to the bone. His laptop showed CCTV footage of a deserted street. He frowned at Chantal, blushed, then nodded at Sharon. ‘Sorry, what taxi driver?’

‘The one at the bloody airport?’

‘Right, yeah, sorry.’ Buxton shook himself, then thumbed at the door. ‘He turned up about two minutes ago. DI Bruce took him into the interview room.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re most welcome, but Britpop? Really?’ Buxton looked disappointed in Sharon. ‘You sound like Bain.’

‘Thought you hated Budgie?’ She walked off down the corridor, sipping her tea.

Chantal smiled at Buxton. ‘Nice to see you, Simon.’

Buxton grimaced at her. ‘Yeah, and you.’ His accent was softening, bits of Scottish mixing with the Cockney. ‘You better hurry.’

Sharon was already halfway along the corridor.

Chantal dashed after her, the brackish liquid sloshing in her cup.

By the time she got there, Sharon was waiting outside the interview room, arms folded. ‘What is Brucie Boner doing on our case?’

Chantal finished her drink and tossed the cup into a bin. ‘Thought you okayed it?’

‘He’s supposed to be finding missing children, not perving at us again.’ Sharon shook her head and opened the door.

The room was even scabbier than the ones in Pilton. Bare concrete blocks, a winking strip light hanging lopsided from the ceiling, still stained with nicotine ten years after the ban. Northumbria Police clearly didn’t have the same budget as Police Scotland.

Bruce and one of his cops sat opposite a tired-looking thin man, prematurely aged by the streaks of grey at his temples.

Listen to yourself, you sound more and more like Craig. Late it may be, but focus on the job, Chantal.

The man was dressed in burgundy cardigan and navy Adidas trackies. Comfort wear.

‘DI McNeill . . .’ Bruce raised his eyebrows at Sharon. He coughed. ‘This is Lee Curtis, the taxi driver.’

‘I know who he is.’ Sharon took the free space next to Curtis, leaving Chantal to stand, since Brucie Boner was not man enough to get up.

Sharon got out a tattered notebook. ‘We understand you had a collection at the airport this evening.’

‘That’s right, pet.’ Curtis scowled at Elvis. ‘And I’ve spent the last five minutes telling this chump all about it.’

Sharon smiled at him. ‘Then it should still be fresh in your memory.’

Curtis sighed, deep as the night. ‘Right.’ He got out a mobile phone, the sort of flashy bling you’d expect from a teenager in their first full-time job, not a middle-aged cabbie. He stabbed at the screen with a stylus and squinted at it. ‘Aye.’ More stabbing at the display. ‘Dropped two lads in Otterburn, just up the A696. Pretty quiet for that time of—’

‘Was there another passenger?’

‘Took another lad on to Alnwick.’ Curtis rested his phone on the desk. ‘Otterburn to Alnwick’s a long stretch, like. Through Rothbury and up the back there. Bad road in the dark. Did it in less than forty minutes, mind.’

Chantal leaned forward, almost pushing Elvis out of the way. ‘Did you get the name of the passenger?’

‘Sorry, pet. Lad paid cash.’

Chantal reached into her pocket for her phone and showed him a grainy CCTV photo of Matty Ibbetson. ‘Was it him?’

*   *   *

‘Sharon . . . Gah.’ Chantal eased the pool car down the hill, the engine grumbling. ‘I wish you’d stop going on about it.’

Alnwick was lit up below them, half fairytale medieval town, half sixties housing disaster. Long rows of yellow streetlights paled to white. She turned down a side street, the sodium of an old lantern washing over a pair of cats in a stand-off. They hissed and separated.

Sharon smirked at her. ‘You need to stop denying that you’re a couple.’

‘You need to stop being a cow about it.’ Chantal’s headlights caught two squad cars at the end of a cul-de-sac, eight dark houses in a tight circle. She pulled up and hauled on the handbrake. ‘Think about what Craig’s going through right now.’

Sharon opened her door and let the bitter air in. ‘Sorry, I’m just winding you up.’

Chantal buttoned up her jacket. ‘This isn’t the time for joking.’

Sharon reached over and grabbed her hand. ‘Are you denying it?’

‘Drop it, okay?’ Chantal got out of the car and made her way to the first squad car.

Bruce gave her a wave. ‘Evening, ladies.’

Sharon smiled at him. ‘Have you got eyes on the suspect?’

‘I’ve got eyes only for you, my darling. But the local lads have him in the back room of the house.’ Bruce pointed at a sixties villa, the street lights showing up the mock Tudor grille on the front. Could just about make out that a light was glowing downstairs. ‘We’ve got a unit out in the lane at the back there. Two lads marking it. And another two cars. He’s not getting away.’ Bruce unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘And here’s the warrant, so we’re ready to go.’

‘Thank God for insomniac judges, eh?’ Chantal nodded, then sucked in a breath. ‘This guy is very dangerous, okay? Remember that.’

‘Murdered an ex-cop, I know.’ Bruce pocketed the warrant. ‘Howay then, ladies.’ He stomped off into the cul-de-sac, speaking into his Airwave.

Chantal followed close behind, Sharon next to her. A pair of burly uniformed lads escorted them. Maybe not quite big enough to pass as fully fledged Geordies, though, and you could almost understand their accent.

Chantal stopped behind Bruce and blew a billowing breath into the cold air. ‘Let’s do this.’

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.

She reached a finger over as something hard pressed into her thigh. Matty’s micropenis. Cigar breath lashed her face.

‘My little Chucka!’

She touched the cigar, felt the heat in her fingers. She grabbed hold of it, then swung it over and jammed it into Matty’s eye, letting it sizzle even as the noise was drowned out by his screams.

Flailing blindly he reached for his impaled eye.

She let go of the cigar, got both hands flat on his chest and pushed him off her as she arched her back. Then pulled up her left knee and drove it hard into his naked balls.

Matty rolled off her, one hand covering his burnt eye, the other cupping his crushed scrotum. His trousers were by this knees, his pathetic half-erect half-cock an acorn lost in a moss of pubic hair.

Nothing to worry about. Something to laugh about. Something to kick.

She lashed out and smashed the top of her foot into his balls, like she was converting a try.

Matty squealed.

Again. Trying with all her might to make the ball sail over the upright.

Matty dropped to his knees, clutching his balls with both hands.

Chantal grabbed his hair and kicked his balls again. Two points on top of the try. ‘Fuck you!’

Matty rolled back on the floorboards, trying to curl into a ball. His pathetic little cock shrivelled away, lost inside his body.

‘Fuck you, Ditinder!’

His shorts were turning red.

‘Fuck you, Ditinder! Fuck you, Di—’

‘Stop!’ An arm wrapped around Chantal’s shoulders and pulled her back. ‘Enough!’ Sharon.

Chantal stopped, her chest heaving.

Bitter cigar smell filled the air.

‘Fuck you, Ditinder . . .’ Chantal collapsed against the sofa, sucking in deep breaths, trying to ignore the cigar smoke. ‘Fuck you, Ditinder . . .’

Matty lay on the floor, coiled up and screaming. Blood leaked between his fingers, desperately trying to hold together his smashed scrotum.

Two uniformed officers burst in the back door, the first one instantly spotting Matty and squatting next to him to inspect his wounds.

‘Cuff him.’ Sharon’s fingers probed a cut on her temple. She waited until the handcuffs clicked before sitting beside Chantal and resting a hand on her knee. ‘Who’s Ditinder?’

He put a hand on her thigh, warm against her frozen flesh. ‘You’re my favourite niece, Chucka.’

Chantal rubbed her damp hair out of her face. ‘He’s nobody.’

*   *   *

Chantal lifted her head and let the paramedic get a look. ‘I told you I’m fine.’ Carefully she touched a hand to her throat.

The paramedic pushed it away. ‘If you don’t stop, I’m going to sedate you.’

Chantal clasped her hands and let the paramedic work. ‘I’m fine . . .’

Fingers prodded at her throat. ‘Just a bit of bruising.’

‘Like I told you.’ Chantal stood up and pulled her coat on. ‘Can I go now?’

The paramedic was already looking at the next patient. Sharon.

Chantal hopped out of the ambulance, the street bright and alive with squad cars and a pair of ambulances.

DI Bruce stood between two unmarked cars, smoking.

Chantal walked over and smiled at him. ‘You okay?’

‘I’ll live.’ Bruce sucked on his cigarette. ‘What about you?’

‘Same.’ She rubbed her throat. ‘Just bruising.’

‘He tried to rape you.’

‘Did he?’ Chantal stuffed her hands deep in her coat pockets. ‘Half an inch at the most. Doesn’t really count, does it?’

‘You think you’re cool, but what he tried to do to you is not.’ Bruce exhaled slowly, sweet cigarette smoke seeping out the side of his mouth. ‘It’s serious.’

‘I know, Jon, it’s . . . This is how I cope.’

‘This being what exactly?’

She shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

He took another drag, eyeing her with suspicion. ‘What happened to you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You froze while that prick started battering us.’

‘I don’t know.’ Chantal rubbed the back of her head. Felt like the wound from where she hit Finlay’s windscreen had reopened. ‘I . . .’

Had a flashback. To my uncle raping me.

Sharon stepped down from the ambulance and grabbed a hold of Chantal’s shoulder. ‘I don’t feel so good.’

Chantal gave her a hug. ‘What did they say?’

‘Can’t remember.’

Bruce tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it. ‘You going to be okay getting back to Edinburgh?’ He reached into his jacket pocket for a packet of B&H. ‘You’re welcome to stay at mine.’

‘We’ve got to find Tulloch first.’ Sharon stared at him for a few seconds, then waved over at the house. ‘What’s going on over there?’

A squad of cops thundered through the broken down front door of Matty’s house and up the stairs.

‘We’ve got a warrant.’ Bruce sparked his lighter at the fresh cigarette. ‘Might as well use it.’

A uniform jogged out of the front door and waved at them. ‘Sir, you want to see this!’

*   *   *

Chantal followed the uniform up the stairs, their steps heavy on the tired carpet.

At the top, two uniforms stood in a hallway, arms folded. The first officer banged his fist off a door. ‘Open up!’

‘What’s going on?’ Bruce looked around, his bushy eyebrows jerking up and down, the bewilderment almost comical in the tense atmosphere. ‘Eh?’

‘Can’t get in that room, sir.’

Bruce nudged him out of the way and kicked the door. The panel splintered.

An eye looked out of the crack, switching between them.

‘What the hell?’ Bruce knelt low and grabbed at the wood. ‘Open the door!’

‘No!’

With another well-aimed kick, Bruce hacked a big chunk off and reached his arm inside. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Go away! Matty will be back!’

‘Matty isn’t here.’

The door clicked and Bruce yanked it open.

Chantal barged past him into the room. She had to vault over a bed propped sideways against the door.

A woman stood by the bed, almost skeletally thin. Deep bags under her eyes, fading bruises on her forearms. Dark hair, olive skin. Tiny, barely five foot. ‘Get out!’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Bruce stopped dead next to her. ‘Petra?’

She frowned at him. ‘Have you found my boy?’

Bruce just stood there, frozen. No reaction. Nothing. Then he shook himself, grabbed the woman’s hand and ushered her out of the door towards of one of the uniformed officers. ‘Take her down to the nick.’ Could barely contain his anger.

Petra lashed out at him, clawing her nails into his hand. ‘Get out!’

Bruce picked her up like the heaviest thing about her was her feline fury. With disgust curling his lips, he thrust her towards the uniform. ‘Get her out of my sight!’

Chantal hauled him back. ‘What’s going on?’

‘That’s Petra Jack.’ Bruce snorted at her. ‘Harry’s mother.’

‘What?’ Chantal turned and watched as Petra was carried away. ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Don’t ask.’ He pointed across the room. ‘Look!’

Chantal stepped to the wall and flicked on the light. A long, narrow space, the shape and feel of a coffin. A blacked-out window that must have faced the back yard.

A small boy lay on a bed at the far side, his face twisted as he blinked against the light. ‘Mummy?’

Harry Jack.

EIGHTY-SIX

Hunter

Tulloch’s fingers tightened on Hunter’s throat, pushed him to the ground until he was flat on his back, the weight of the big man bearing down on his neck.

Can’t breathe . . .

Hunter punched his fists into the man’s outstretched arms, right in the elbow joints, collapsing his balance and bringing his head rushing down towards his own. He dived to the side, clasped both hands behind the back of his attacker’s neck and pulled, smacking his forehead into the ground over his own shoulder. Crunch. He took a deep breath, wrapping his arms tight around Tulloch’s torso, squashing the guy’s loose hands between their chests. He rolled sideways with him, then straddled the big man’s stomach as he came out on top and dropped his elbow down on the bastard’s windpipe.

Tulloch seized up, groaning, grabbing feebly at his neck.

Hunter sucked in breath, deep gulps like he was downing pints of water in Iraq.

Cullen was out cold, lying on his side, mouth hanging open like a panting dog.

Tulloch stirred, his head twitching.

Hunter pushed himself off the prone body, got to his feet, swung out with his boot and caught Tulloch square in the bollocks.

Tulloch pulled into a ball and screamed.

Hunter rubbed his throat, trying to get some feeling back. ‘Sco—’ He coughed, blood welling up in his throat. ‘Scott, are you—’

Tulloch’s boot swept out and caught the back of Hunter’s left knee. The leg caved in and he toppled to the floor. A boot hit him in the side. Then another one.

Pause.

And another.

Tulloch lashed out and Hunter rolled away, making Tulloch swing at air. He stumbled and righted himself against the wall.

Another kick in the side.

Then it stopped.

The muffled screaming started up again.

Hunter opened his eyes.

Tulloch stood over Paisley, fists clamped around her throat. Her skin was turning blue.

Hunter hauled himself to his feet and charged over in a low rugby tackle.

Tulloch let go of Paisley, sidestepped the attack and hammered his knee into Hunter’s temple. He toppled over, landing on Cullen.

Again Tulloch booted him in the side. ‘Fucking stay down till I’ve finished, eh?’

Hunter rolled over on his side. Pain speared through his ribs. He blinked hard, tried to open his eyes.

Tulloch was strangling her, his face twisted with effort, her hands clawing at his, not making any difference.

Smoke.

Smoke smells came from behind Hunter. The iron sizzled against the carpet, face down, dark clouds pluming up. He scrambled towards it, grabbed the handle, then pushed himself up to standing.

Tulloch’s eyes squeezed shut as he strangled the life out of Paisley. She was half in the air, back arched in thrusting spasms, legs kicking against the ground, eyes bulging.

Hunter swung the iron into Tulloch’s bare arm and leaned against him with his entire weight. Hair singed, skin burned. Bacon stink filled the room.

Fight it!

Come on, fight through it!

The man’s scream tore through his dizziness. Paisley dropped back down on the seat and tumbled off the side.

Tulloch yanked his arm back and stared at the angry red burn.

Hunter snatched the cord and swung the iron around like a mace. He let go and it thudded into Tulloch’s temple, digging deep into his skull. He staggered backward, fighting against his failing footing, until he hit the wall and slid to the ground.

Hunter grabbed him under the chin and pinned him down. He seized a fistful of Tulloch’s hair and smacked his head against the floor, smearing the carpet with fresh blood. Another go and something cracked.

Arms grabbed Hunter from behind. ‘Woah, woah, he’s had enough.’

Cullen, pulling him back from the abyss.

Hunter let go and Tulloch flopped into a puddle of his own blood.

*   *   *

Hunter slumped forward in the passenger seat of Cullen’s Golf.

The interior swam around in front of his eyes, the rear-view looking like it was attached to the gearstick. His head was heavy, nausea weighing him down, felt like flu symptoms on top of a concussion. Ribs stabbing his lungs with every breath. Kneecap screaming with pain when his knee accidentally touched the dashboard. A gasp, another stab in the lungs.

What I wouldn’t give for the healing powers of Hollywood heroes. Punching the living daylights out of each other, then bang, into the next scene with a magically healed body.

The truth was a lot less fun, as my martial arts sensei once put it. When two lions fight, they both get hurt. And they stay hurt for a long time.

Blue lights from the ambulance and other police cars bounced off the buildings. Most windows had rubbernecking faces pressed up to the glass.

The side door of Paisley’s house opened and the paramedics pulled a gurney out between them. The face of the figure on the bed was swaddled in bandages, difficult to make out if they were male or female, dead or alive.

Hunter tried to get out of the car, but managed no more than a wobble. He blinked hard as his searing lungs knocked the air out of him and made him jack-knife in the car seat.

Cullen walked back from the house and leaned into the window, mobile to his ear. ‘Might want to rest for a bit, He-Man.’ He stabbed a finger on his phone and pocketed it. ‘Sharon’s got Matty, by the sounds of things.’ He clapped Hunter’s shoulder in the only part that didn’t ache. ‘And Paisley’s heading back to hospital.’

‘How is she?’ Just talking felt like it could his knock teeth out.

‘She’ll live.’ Cullen let out a sigh. As deep as he used to do, back in the day. ‘Tulloch went to town on her, though.’

Hunter eased himself into the back rest. Felt like a rib was poking through his heart.

Cullen gave him a pally wink. ‘You’ll be back to your grumpy old self in no time, mate.’ He got out his car keys, then seemed to have second thoughts. ‘Craig, when you were hitting Tulloch, were you . . . Are you all right?’

‘I just wanted him to stop. He deserved it.’

‘Not saying he didn’t.’ Cullen shook his head. ‘I’ve just never seen anything like that. You brutalised him.’

‘You can thank me, you know?’

‘What for?’

‘He was going to press the iron on your face. I know you’re a cowboy, but having half your face covered in scar tissue wouldn’t even suit you.’

‘Shite.’ Cullen swallowed. ‘I didn’t know.’

Hunter brushed away some dried blood from his forehead. ‘I got lucky when I twonked him with that iron.’

Cullen glanced away. After another deep sigh, he walked around to the driver’s side and got in the car. ‘Well, the paramedics are in there. They reckon they can patch Tulloch up enough to get the okay from the duty doctor at Leith Walk.’

‘Tonight?’

‘As long as he can speak . . . Either way, his lawyer’s on the way there.’

*   *   *

Cullen’s car was the last in a long motorcade through the streets of sleeping Edinburgh, the flashing blue lights of the ambulance and its pair of squad cars cutting a neon swathe through the silent darkness ahead of them.

Funny how they can rustle them up after the fact . . .

They hit Portobello Road, filled with taxis and Ubers ferrying tanked-up clubbers into town and wasted boozers back home.

Hunter looked at his trembling hands. Going to have to lay off the kettlebells for at least a week. Could still feel the iron’s cord between his fingers, slipping away as he sconed it off Tulloch’s head.

They ploughed along London Road and Hunter’s phone lit up. A text from Chantal:

HEARD WHAT HAPPENED. WELL DONE. X

He stabbed out a reply:

FEEL PRETTY BROKEN. HOW YOU?

A young couple staggered underneath a speed camera, both as pissed as each other. His phone flashed up again:

EVEN BROKER. I’LL KISS U BETTER LATER. X

WHAT HAPPENED? X

He stared at the string of messages, going back months. Xs on most lines. Work stuff in among their chat. Christ, some of it was rancid. And God knows what McNeill would think if she saw any of it.

Cullen was more interested in Hunter’s phone than the road. ‘What’s that?’

Hunter pocketed the mobile. ‘Just checking in with the boss.’

‘Boss, my arse.’ Cullen set off across the London Road traffic lights, guided through by uniformed officers, then turned right onto Leith Walk. ‘You’re seeing her, aren’t you?’

‘No comment, Sergeant.’

Cullen grinned at him. ‘Wanker.’

Hunter couldn’t help but share the grin. ‘Please stop including me in your sexual fantasies, Sergeant. I’ll have to talk to DI McNeill about it.’

Cullen barked out a laugh as he followed the ambulance down into the bowels of the police station. ‘Sharon knows you’re not my type. But Chantal worked for me, remember?’ He pulled up in one of the free spaces, next to a purple Jag. ‘Moving her on was for the best.’

‘I’ll pass that on.’ Hunter tried to get out, but his knees were locked. Bruises and lactic acid burned up the back of his thighs.

Cullen got out of the car and helped Hunter out his side. ‘You old bastard.’

‘Might need to apply for early retirement while I’m talking to Sharon about your sexual harassment. In all seriousness, though, are we getting to interrogate Tulloch tonight?’

A car door thunked open behind them, echoing round the car park.

Cullen shrugged. ‘Depends on which scum-sucking lawyer Tulloch’s got.’

‘The scum-sucking lawyer representing Mr Tulloch is here.’ Dead eyes stared at them through rimless specs. Brylcreemed white hair swept back to hide a good chunk of baldness. The sort of Morningside accent you only heard in jokes. Hamish Williams of McLintock, Williams & Partners.

‘My deepest condolences, by the way.’ Cullen did up his suit jacket and helped Hunter to his feet. ‘Bit odd for a big-shot like you to represent a raping scumbag like Tulloch.’ Then he frowned. ‘Oh, hang on, it’s what you do every day.’

Hunter started off across the garage, limping like an old man, every yard feeling like a mile.

Williams got between them, blocking their path to the ambulance as Tulloch’s lumbering shape was helped out. ‘My client has been violently assaulted and requires urgent medical assistance. I would greatly appreciate if you could see your way to releasing him from custody forthwith.’

Hunter got in his face and grinned as wide as his aching face would let him. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘Then I must insist that any interview be postponed until tomorrow morning.’

Cullen shrugged at Hunter. ‘I’ll process him, you go home and get yourself some shut eye.’

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Chantal

Chantal leaned against the wall in the corridor, her fingers numb around the mobile. ‘An iron?’

‘That’s what I said.’ Hunter’s voice sounded like he was thousands of miles away.

Chantal felt sick. Acid burned in her gut. ‘But you got him?’

‘We got him.’ A hiss of white noise down the line. ‘He’s not in a good way. Even too injured to interview.’

‘What did you do to him?’

‘Restrained and arrested him. Took a bit of effort, though.’ Hunter sucked in air. ‘You okay?’

‘I don’t think they’ve invented a swearword strong enough for how bad this is.’

Hunter laughed. ‘I need to use it when you’ve invented it.’

‘That bad?’

‘Aye. But are you going to be fine?’

‘I’m just . . . Glad you caught him.’

‘Me too.’

Chantal swapped the phone to her other hand. ‘Look, Craig, I’m going to be here another few hours interviewing and . . .’ She yawned into her free hand. Felt like her jaw was going to crack open.

‘Right, well, I’m back at my flat. The cats haven’t killed each other, so it’s looking positive.’

She cry-laughed, a lump catching in her throat.

Hunter’s yawn rattled the speaker.

Chantal swallowed down bile. ‘Look, Sharon told me they’re charging Gordon Brownlee with Finlay’s death.’

‘Three days of hell in the Algarve and God knows how many PTSD flashbacks just so Matty Ibbetson and Keith Brannigan can walk free?’

‘Tell me about it.’ Footsteps rang off the metal from below as some cops climbed the stairs. Chantal moved over to look down. Colin “Crystal” Methven and a local uniform. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll let myself in if you’re already asleep.’

*   *   *

Bruce was waiting outside the interview room. ‘That was some good work back there.’

‘It’s not over yet.’ Chantal took a deep breath. ‘We need to put them away for what they’ve done.’

‘Oh, we will.’ Bruce glanced round at Chantal. ‘Can’t believe Petra’s been lying to us for all this time.’ He huffed out a sigh. ‘Under our bloody noses, Chantal. My mother lives down the road from that house.’

‘Glib as it sounds, Jon, we’ve got them now. That’s what matters.’

‘What matters is putting that sex pest away.’ Bruce stabbed a finger at the door, thudding the wood. He straightened up and did up the buttons on his suit jacket. ‘Your boss and I had a conference call with our friend Quaresma.’

‘And?’

‘He wants extradition.’

‘You going to give it to him?’

‘Maybe. Not my decision. But he was gambling and I’ve got a full house.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Ask Craig.’ Bruce thumbed at the interview room door. ‘Anyway, see our friend Petra in there? Her sister is none other than Luisa Oliveira.’

‘What?’ Chantal tried to process it, her brain struggling for lack of sleep and the residual alcohol coursing through her exhausted body. The barmaid at Cheap and Cheerful. Sean Tulloch’s possibly consensual partner. The woman who phoned in the sighting of Harry, dragging them to Portugal. ‘So that’s why Matty was speaking to her on the CCTV?’

‘Correct.’ Bruce entered the room and went straight into interview proceedings.

Chantal checked her watch. Half two. Two hour drive back to Edinburgh. She blinked away her tiredness and pushed into the interview room.

Matty Ibbetson slouched on the other side of the table, rocking from side to side, eyes shut. His face was puffed up, thick and purple, his right eye bandaged up, the left focused on the table top. He kept clenching his jaw then letting go. Didn’t look up as Chantal sat down opposite him.

His lawyer gave her a glance. An old Indian man, or so it seemed. Skin much darker than hers, so not from Pakistan. Tamil or Sri Lanka, maybe. He didn’t say anything, just jotted something on his notepad.

Chantal sat back, the words washing over her like a foreign language. The seat was warm, but the legs were cold against her bare skin. She stared at Matty, trying to catch his one open eye, but it was dead. Nothing there, no emotion, no evil or any other convenient cliché, just emptiness.

Murdering bastard.

Raping bastard.

Bruce jostled her elbow. ‘DS Jain?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Chantal cleared her throat. Still no reaction from Matty. ‘Mr Ibbetson, we need you to outline your movements yesterday evening.’

Matty’s good eye peered around the room, homing in on Chantal. ‘Go to hell.’

‘Unfortunately, you have some questions to answer here first.’

‘You smashed my fucking balls!’ Matty reached under the table. ‘It hurts like you wouldn’t believe.’ A tear slid down from the side of his eye. Looked like a weeping wound rather than a human emotion, though. He jabbed a finger towards his bandaged eye. ‘And you fucking stabbed me in the fucking eye with a fucking cigar!’

‘I was defending myself from your vicious assault and attempted rape.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘You almost penetrated me, sir.’ Chantal drummed her thumbs on the table. ‘Might be facing even graver charges if you had a normal-sized cock.’

Matty rubbed at the bandage, wincing. Eyes shut, rocking. Like he had headphones in.

Bruce cleared his throat. ‘We’ve got a tough decision to make, matey boy.’ He got to his feet and walked around the room, tugging on his suit jacket like a Victorian schoolmaster. ‘We’re going to extradite you to Portugal where you’ll face a murder charge. Portuguese prisons are worse than British ones. No Sky or Xbox over there, I’m afraid.’ He flashed him a grin. ‘The decision comes down to whether we extradite you after you’ve faced justice for raping DS Jain. And, of course, for the other thing.’ He kept his silence until Matty opened his good eye. ‘I mean Harry.’

Matty folded his arms. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘We found him. Him and Petra in your spare room. Fancy that. Who would’ve thought that Harry is safe and well in sunny Alnwick. Not in the Algarve.’ Bruce shrugged his shoulders and sat down again. ‘Luisa called in the sightings, didn’t she?’

Matty’s eye bulged. He glanced over at his lawyer Who was quick to reply before his client could make his job impossible. ‘No comment.’

Bruce ignored the man. ‘We know that the girl Sean was raping is your soon-to-be sister-in-law.’

‘He wasn’t raping her!’

‘Let’s cut the foreplay, sweetheart. What’s it to be — murder charge in Portugal, or rape and child abduction here?’ Bruce was nodding his head slowly, trying to match Matty’s tempo. ‘You get to choose. Anytime you’re ready to—’

Matty held up his fingers, covered in blood. ‘I’m bleeding again!’

The lawyer helped Matty to his feet. ‘We need to get this man urgent medical attention!’

Bruce hit the recorder and reached over to grab Matty by the wrists. ‘You’re not getting out of this.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘You’re going to prison for a very long time, wee man.’

Matty leaned his white knuckles on the table, a mad rage twitching his arms. ‘When I get out, I’m going to hunt you down and fucking kill the pair of you!’

*   *   *

‘You lied to me, Petra.’ Bruce was sitting opposite Petra Jack in another cramped interview room. He glanced at her, his face twisted into a grimace of rage. Couldn’t stand looking at her for more than a second at a time. ‘You lied to the whole world.’

Chantal stood. Hurt too much to sit.

Petra stared at the table. Her lawyer stroked her shoulders. Gentle touch, probably to avoid cutting himself on her sharp bones. The woman looked more like a victim than—

‘All that time, Petra, all that fucking time he was in Alnwick. You sat in this very room, telling us how you hadn’t seen your boy for days. You lied your face off to us. “No, officer, I don’t know where my son is. When you find the people who did this, I will kill them myself.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, we’ve found the people who took your boy, so are you going to kill yourself and Matthew Ibbetson?’

Not a word of reply.

‘Didn’t think so.’ Bruce reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and rested the pack on the table. Petra’s gaze swarmed all over it like a plague of cockroaches. ‘Here’s what happened. Someone abducted Harry on his walk home from school. That someone was Matty Ibbetson, your lover, wasn’t it? Then he took him to his house and hid him there. Meanwhile, you pretended to be the distraught mother.’

Petra rubbed her clammy hands together.

‘Of course, you needed some misdirection, so you got your sister to call in a couple of sightings in Portugal, didn’t you?’

Petra’s nervous eyes shifted over to her lawyer.

‘My client doesn’t have to say anything.’ Fresh out of law school, not yet tarnished by the crud of a career’s worth of representing scumbags. The woman was short with mousy hair, her fitted blouse seemed to squish her torso, since every word was delivered with a breathless gasp. ‘I suggest you allow her to leave and we can maybe reconvene when you have something concrete to put to her.’

‘I don’t think you two realise how serious this case is.’ Bruce switched from aggressive to bemused, knocking both of them off balance with the oldest trick in the book. ‘The fact of the matter, and one every jury in the land will condemn unanimously, is that you, Ms Oliveira, or Mrs Jack, or whatever your name is this week, you kidnapped your son. And you covered it up. And you triggered an international manhunt. And not a single judge or jury member will look kindly on that, not since Madeleine McCann. Not sure what’s worse — what happened that poor girl, or vermin like you copying it.’

The lawyer swallowed hard. ‘That . . . That my client had anything to do with her son’s disappearance and subsequent reappearance remains to be proven.’

Bruce did a double take. ‘Are you serious? We found them together.’

‘Coincidence.’

Chantal stared around the dirty walls of the room. This wasn’t working. She eased herself into the spare seat and smiled at Petra. ‘You love Matty, don’t you?’

Petra’s eyes closed to narrow slits.

Chantal poured the last of her energy into that smile, so much artificial syrup, her teeth hurt. ‘I understand, Petra. I really do.’ She sighed, gently nodding at the bony wreck of a woman. Time to wrong-foot her. ‘You know that Matty is a murderer, don’t you?’

Petra’s eyes bulged. ‘He is my man.’

Chantal took a photo from the file on the table and slid it across to the stunned woman. ‘This is Finlay Sinclair. He was a police officer in Edinburgh.’ She waited until Petra focused on the gurning face, sunshine glinting off his bald head. ‘Matty murdered him earlier today. Pushed him off a rock. He broke a rib and died from his injuries.’

Petra nudged the photo away.

‘Matty pushed Finlay. Deliberately. And then bragged about it to his friend.’

The lawyer pushed the picture back towards the file. ‘That happened in Portugal, not here. I don’t see anyone from the Polícia de Segurança Pública in here, do you?’ Spoken like a native.

Chantal narrowed her eyes at Petra. ‘Matty pushed that man off a cliff. Then he ran to the airport. Finlay died just as the plane took off. That’s very cowardly for a big man like him, don’t you think?’

Petra huffed back in her seat, arms tight around her torso.

Another dead end.

What other cards do we have left?

Chantal gritted her teeth. ‘Do you know what I was doing in Portugal? How I came in contact with Mr Ibbetson?’

A shrug.

‘I work for Police Scotland’s Sexual Offences Unit. We’re investigating one of Matty’s best friends. Private Sean Tulloch of the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland. We’ve got five cases of domestic abuse against him over the last five years, all involving serious sexual assaults.’

Another shrug.

‘Sean Tulloch meets damaged women, charms them, moves in with them, then exploits them. Beats them up. Rapes them. Treats them like a slave.’ She let it hang in the air. This time the lawyer’s eyes bulged. ‘Five women. That we know of.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ Petra blinked hard. ‘Sean is a nice man.’

‘So you know him?’

Petra shrugged again, less defiance in the gesture, though.

Chantal caught her eye and persisted. ‘Mr Tulloch’s latest victim is a woman called Paisley Sanderson. She lives in Galashiels, not too far from here. Before he flew out to Portugal, Mr Tulloch abused her so badly that he put her in hospital.’

Petra flinched and averted her eyes, eventually focusing on her shaking fingers.

‘Tonight, Sean Tulloch came back here and put an iron to her face.’ She let the image do the talking for a moment. The lawyer looked like she was going to be sick. ‘Paisley’s back in hospital. I suspect she’ll be deformed for life. All because she decided to talk to us about what Mr Tulloch has put her through.’

Petra reached over and picked up her cup of water. It splashed out the sides as she sipped from it.

Just want to reach across and . . . She sighed. ‘Mr Tulloch raped two women in Portugal. Kirsten Latimer. Nice Irish girl. On a hen weekend with her pals and family. Then she gets her drinks spiked. Next thing she knows, she wakes up with Tulloch thrusting away at her. Gordon Brownlee was watching. Another of Matty’s friends. And not only was he watching the rape, he was masturbating as the poor woman lay—’

‘Shut up.’

‘And, of course, the other rape. . . Mr Tulloch took Luisa Oliveira to her room above the bar and raped her.’

Petra glanced back up. ‘That wasn’t rape.’

Chantal looked her dead in the eye. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘We know she’s your sister.’

Petra shifted in her chair. ‘I’m not saying anything.’

‘You should, Petra. We might be able to have a word with our colleagues over in Portugal. See what they can do about. . . Nah, you’re screwed. Matty’s going away for a very long time.’

Petra folded her arms.

‘Your boyfriend was with Sean Tulloch while he plied your sister with enough absinthe that he could take her upstairs and rape her.’

Petra shook her head.

‘What sort of woman lets that happen to her own sister?’

‘She loves Sean.’

Bingo . . .

Chantal leaned low, managing to lock eyes with Petra again. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Luisa called me this morning. She was upset. Police broke down the door in her apartment.’ Petra bit her lip, took a deep breath, held it, dropped her eyes to the table and gasped, the words pouring out of her all at once. ‘These men came in to the bar with Matty. They had breakfast. Then Sean started chatting to Luisa. She had a drink with them. And she asked him if he wanted to go to her apartment. Her shift was over, so she was free.’

‘And then he raped her?’

‘He didn’t rape her!’ Petra smacked a fist off the table. ‘Don’t you understand? Matty introduced Sean to Luisa. She liked him. Get over it.’

‘Was it like that with you and Matty?’

‘What?’

‘Did you meet him in a bar?’

‘I met him at Catterick when he was based there. I worked as a cleaner. Matty was different from the rest of them.’ Petra patted her cheek, almost like a lover’s caress. ‘We started sleeping together.’

‘And then you got divorced to be with him?’

Petra nodded, little trails of tears sliding down both cheeks. ‘My husband found out. He tried to get custody of Harry.’ Her face twisted up. ‘The judge, this pig, he gave him temporary custody! He took Harry away from me! My own son!’

‘So you and Matty kidnapped your son?’

Petra inspected her nails. ‘It’s just until my divorce comes through. Then we can be together as a real family.’

‘Let me get this right, you abducted Harry?’

‘Harry should be with his mother!’ Another thump on the table. ‘Do you know why I love Matty? Because my husband, the bastard, he used to hit me. He beat me up. Every night. I told Matty and . . . Matty took me away from him. But we had to leave Harry! There was nothing we could do.’

‘You could’ve spoken to the police.’

‘The police wouldn’t have believed me.’

‘You could’ve tried. Instead, you created this situation, an international tragedy with collateral damage of enormous personal cost to this department, a former policeman’s life and—’

‘Matty saved Harry from my ex-husband! He brought him back to his mother!’ Petra banged the table again, tipping her water over. ‘You should give him a medal!’

The lawyer folded her hands, then started kneading her fingers. ‘My client was in a desperate situation. I expect some leniency here.’

Bruce cleared his throat. ‘She’s going away for a long time.’ He gave her a grave nod, then leaned over to Chantal. ‘That’s nailed it. Do you want to get yourself home?’

Day 4

Sunday, 15th May, 2016

EIGHTY-EIGHT

Hunter

Hunter stared out of the kitchen window while the coffeemaker whistled on the stovetop. Leith was in full flow, Sunday morning traffic turning Commercial Street into a car park as people headed to Ocean Terminal for shopping, maybe the cinema or the gym. Or to visit the Royal Britannia, if for some mysterious reason they cared to see a collection of the Queen’s old tat on a moored cruise boat.

Rather them than me.

He stretched out, touching his palms to the floor. His thighs ached, burning up the back. Dark bruises dotted his side. Even looking at it hurt.

Hunter went over and took the coffeemaker off the hob. He got two mugs out of the cupboard and poured the thick syrupy liquid in. Beautiful. Dark and musty, smelled like truffle oil. He poured in the hot milk and tried to feather Chantal’s. Made a right mess of it.

He grabbed the handles and walked through the flat towards the bedroom. Muffin shot out, scuttling along the laminate. Bubble followed him, managing to run on three legs at the same time as punching his arse.

‘That’s my girl.’ Hunter pushed the door open.

Chantal lay in the darkness and let out a groan.

Hunter put the coffees down on his side of the bed and flicked on the bedside light.

She blinked with one eye, the other shut. ‘Fells asleep agained.’

‘When did you get in?’

She stared right through him, like understanding speech was beyond her. ‘Half four.’ She lay back and yawned. ‘Sharon was still there when I left.’

A thump came from the hall.

Hunter pushed himself up. ‘That’ll be the paper.’

‘You’re such an old man.’

Hunter padded through, indeed feeling like an old man. Muffin stood over The Sunday Argus, looking like he was going to piss on it. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’ He shooed him off and picked up the paper.

HARRY’S HEROIC HOMECOMING: COPS FIND MISSING CHILD IN ALNWICK RAID!

The photo below showed Chantal and Bruce leading the mother into a police station somewhere. Newcastle, probably.

Jesus Christ.

Hunter went back into the bedroom and threw the paper on the pillow next to her. ‘You’re famous.’

‘I’ll try not to let it go to my head.’ She raised her head and stared at it. ‘I look terrible.’

‘You wish you could look terrible.’ Hunter perched on the edge of the bed. ‘You didn’t tell me you found him.’

‘Well, I couldn’t think of anything after you told me about Tulloch.’ She reached for her coffee and slurped at it. ‘Do you remember when Cullen was on the front of that paper?’

‘Almost cancelled it.’

‘Petty twat.’ She blew on the surface. ‘Brucie Boner mentioned something about holding cards against Quaresma.’

‘Right.’ Hunter chuckled. ‘Seems a bit backwards there, but Bruce has CCTV footage of our friend José kneeling before Quaresma.’ He stuck his tongue in his cheek.

‘You’re kidding?’

‘The fear of being outed caused all that behaviour. We were sniffing around the wrong place. Us and Bruce.’

‘Just come out and be done with it. Christ.’ She took another drink. ‘This is good.’

‘I know.’ Hunter sipped his own coffee. ‘Smells like cigars.’

She froze, the mug against her lip. ‘What?’

‘I said, it smells like cigars.’

She put down her mug. ‘Last night, when we arrested Matty. Before I went . . . Before I went medieval on him. He was smoking a cigar. My uncle used to smoke cigars. Maybe the same brand, maybe not . . .’

‘Shite, I should’ve thought.’

She grabbed his wrist. ‘Craig, I had a flashback to when I was playing rugby. I was twelve and he . . . He picked me up. Dad had to go somewhere. He took me down a country lane and . . . That was the first time.’

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm. ‘I didn’t know.’

She stared into mid-distance, her eyes misting over. ‘That fat bastard and his cigars.’

‘Do you want to talk about?’

‘I don’t want to stop.’ Her jaw clenched tight. ‘I went ballistic on Ibbetson. Kicked his balls so hard they bled. I couldn’t stop. Just kept on kicking. All because . . .’ She broke off, shaking her head. ‘All because of what Ditinder did to me.’

Hunter reached for her face, then pulled back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault. It’s . . . It’s deep in the past. He can’t do what he did to me again.’

Hunter smiled at her, pride in her strength replacing the old aggressive impulse to fantasies about what he would’ve done to the perpetrator had he only been there in time. Glad to let those feelings go. Glad and immensely relieved. ‘What did Sharon say about it?’

‘She’s going to cover it over. It’s all part of the arrest record now.’ She picked up her coffee again. ‘Matty tried to rape me.’

Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. The old impulse burned at his guts. ‘He . . . He what?’

‘He tried to rape me.’ Chantal ran a hand through her hair. ‘But I stabbed him in the eye with his cigar. Then I beat the shit out of him.’

Hunter tasted sick at the back of his throat. ‘Him and Tulloch, they won’t do it to anyone ever again.’ He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the taste. ‘When we caught Tulloch and he pressed the iron to her face, I had another flashback.’

Chantal clamped her teeth tight. ‘Oh, Craig.’

‘It was like being back in Iraq, it was . . .’

A lonely tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Pretty far from okay.’ Hunter wiped tears from his own eyes. ‘Only goes to show that scumbags are scumbags, no matter where they’re from. It’s how we treat other people that makes the difference.’

*   *   *

Hunter drove into the car park in Bathgate station, taking it as slowly as his battered hands would allow. He parked in the first of a row of four empty bays. ‘Wouldn’t get this on a Monday morning.’

Chantal glanced over at him, frowning.

Hunter opened his door, then sat there, silently gazing out of the window. ‘You okay?’

‘Not really.’ She stuffed her phone away and let her seatbelt flop to her lap. ‘I need about a year’s sleep. And I’m worried we’re going to mess this up.’

He turned to look at her. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘Craig, we need hard evidence on Tulloch. We need to . . .’

‘It’s okay.’ Hunter took her hand and held it tight. ‘Look, maybe you shouldn’t be working today.’

‘Tulloch has to . . . I’ve got to make sure he—’

Something clunked off his window. DI McNeill stood there, her pencil-thin eyebrows standing to attention. She jabbed a finger at Chantal, then at Hunter.

Chantal snatched her hand away from his. ‘Shite on a lamppost.’ She opened the door with a breezy smile. ‘Shaz, good morning. We—’

‘You lying cow.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t think I didn’t see that.’ Sharon pointed at Hunter as he got out of the car. ‘You pair must think we’re all idiots.’ She turned and marched off. ‘Sergeant, my office, now.’

Chantal ran after her.

This is all we need . . .

Cullen was leaning against his Golf a few yards from the door, yawning into a fist. ‘Morning, Craig.’

‘Morning.’ Hunter huffed out a sigh through the open door. ‘Any news?’

‘Other than you two getting here at the same time?’

‘There’s nothing—’

‘Save it, mate. Not my battle.’ Cullen plipped his car’s locks. ‘Look, Sharon wants you and me to interview Tulloch, okay? I’ll see you inside.’

‘Fine.’ Hunter watched him go, slumping back in his seat, arms folded.

Bollocks . . .

Playing with fire for far too long and—

‘Alright?’ Elvis was skulking around a couple of cars over. Didn’t look himself, his mouth hanging open, slack-jawed as ever.

Hunter climbed out of the car and joined him. ‘You okay, mate?’

Elvis blew out a sigh. ‘I feel emaciated.’

‘What?’

‘When Chantal and Sharon took out that Matty guy last night, they left me behind to look through a load of CCTV.’

Hunter almost laughed. ‘You mean, you feel emasculated, right?’

‘Whatever, mate.’ Elvis hauled his laptop bag up his shoulder. ‘They were running a big dunt in Alnwick and they didn’t want me there. How’s that supposed to make me feel?’

‘Like you’ve got other uses?’

‘I can kick a door down with the best of them.’ Elvis started walking over to the back entrance. ‘Starting to wish I’d never come here.’

*   *   *

Tulloch sat back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. His face was bandaged up, broken red skin outlining the sunburnt white. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

Hunter still ached all over, but he couldn’t sit down. He paced around the interview room, eventually stopping behind Cullen’s chair. ‘Mr Tulloch, can you outline your movements on the night of Thursday the twelfth of May 2016?’

Tulloch shrugged both shoulders. ‘When you tried to assault me at Waverley, you mean?’

Hunter leaned forward. ‘How did you know we’d be there?’

‘Eyes and ears everywhere, my sweet prince.’

‘Name your source.’

‘Fuck off.’

Hunter returned to his chair and sat down. There was something there, something to push and prod. What, though? ‘Okay, so after Waverley?’

‘I went to the airport.’

‘Aye? How did you get there?’

Tulloch sniffed. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘You didn’t steal a car, did you?’

‘How dare you suggest such a heinous act?’ Tulloch licked his lips. ‘Let’s remember, all I did was fly out to Portugal. There’s no law against that, far as I’m aware.’

‘And what did you do there?’

‘Met some boys from the squad and went for a few drinks.’

‘Go for a bit of karaoke, too?’

Tulloch smirked. ‘A bit, aye.’

‘Did you speak to any women?’

‘Might’ve done.’

‘Before or after you raped Kirsten Latimer?’

Tulloch didn’t even think about rising to the provocation. ‘Like I told that Portuguese wanker yesterday, that bird was so pissed I doubt she even remembered her own name, never mind mine.’

‘So how could she give her consent?’

‘Because she said she wanted my monster cock inside her.’ Tulloch grinned and grabbed his groin. ‘Here, do you fancy a portion yourself, stumpy?’

Hunter held his gaze until he looked away. ‘What about Luisa Oliveira?’

‘Nice girl.’

‘Nice enough to rape her, too?’

‘Asked and answered, buddy. Consent given.’ Tulloch leaned over to whisper into Williams’s ear, loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. ‘See, Hamish, this boy burst in when I was balls deep inside that minx. And with my Python that’s a long way in. He’s after my cock, isn’t he? Big poof.’

Williams gritted his teeth.

Hunter waited for Tulloch to return his focus to him. ‘You raped Luisa, didn’t you?’

Tulloch paused for a few seconds. ‘Move. On.’

‘Later on, you were trying to get back into Luisa’s flat. Why?’

‘No comment.’

‘Worried she was going to tell us you had actually raped her?’

‘You find it hard to believe that a girl like that would be into a boy like me?’

‘Kind of. Aside from amusement about your overt penile pride, what’s her interest?’

‘Can’t it just be my humungous knob and my rugged charm?’

Hunter stared at him. ‘And your date rape drugs?’

‘Piss off. You’ve no evidence of anything, have you?’

‘Matty introduced you to her, right?’

Tulloch looked away. ‘It’s his bird’s sister.’ He shrugged, like it was a normal thing. ‘We had a few drinks. She stroked the Python and invited me back to hers.’

Hunter’s gut burned, all the guilt and rage biting a hole into his gullet. He switched to another sheet of paper. ‘Next, you were complicit in the murder of Finlay Sinclair.’

Tulloch shrugged his left shoulder. ‘Don’t recall it.’

‘He was pushed off a cliff yesterday afternoon. He punctured a lung and died later that day. You deny being there?’

‘Yup.’

Hunter stopped. ‘We have evidence of you at the crime scene in Albufeira.’

‘Wasn’t there.’

‘So, who did it?’

‘No idea.’

‘Matty?’

‘No idea, mate. Move on.’

‘Gordon Brownlee?’

‘Hardly. Prick wasn’t even there.’ Tulloch clicked his finger a few times. ‘You’re screwing that Paki, aren’t you?’

‘You assisted Matthew Ibbetson in the murder of—’

‘You satisfy her, do you?’ Tulloch made a little hook with his pinky. ‘That how big you are, eh? Little maggot. When I get out of here, how about I give her a real portion of man cock?’

‘Keep thinking that you’re getting out.’ Hunter slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. Everything hurt that little bit worse. ‘Mr Tulloch, we’ve been running a case against you for over a year now.’ He hefted a paper file and dropped it on the desk, the thud echoing round the small room. ‘This is the evidence we’ve so far obtained.’

‘Whilst I certainly do appreciate early sight of this . . .’ Williams looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Perhaps we are jumping the gun here, slightly?’

‘Of course.’ Hunter pushed the file across to the other side of the desk, just in front of Cullen. ‘We’ve only got started with this. We’ll fill a few more files by the time this goes to trial, but first I want to ask you a quick question about Paisley Sanderson.’

‘Fuck off.’

Williams jostled Tulloch’s arm. ‘My client denies any involvement.’

Hunter looked up from the file. ‘You deny assaulting her?’

‘No comment.’

‘You deny pressing a hot iron against her face?’

‘Move on.’

‘No, I won’t move on.’ Hunter leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. ‘You tortured her. Pressed an iron to her face, tried to kill her. Are you denying that?’

‘No comment.’

‘Of course, you’d already threatened to kill her, hadn’t you?’

‘No comment.’

‘This is a text message you sent on Wednesday night.’ Hunter held up a print-out. ‘Do you want me to read it out?’ He waited for a reply. Didn’t get one. ‘It says, “Know who you spoke to. You are dead, bitch.”’ He put the sheet down in front of the lawyer. ‘I am, of course, translating your illiterate textspeak.’

Tulloch snorted. ‘I didn’t send that.’

‘It came from your phone.’

‘Must be one of the lads in my mess.’ Tulloch folded his massive arms tight around his torso. ‘Must’ve left it on the table when I went for a slash.’

‘You didn’t lock it?’

Tulloch’s lips curled up at the sides. ‘Quaint foible of mine.’

‘None of your ex-partners received similar messages.’ Hunter tapped the file. ‘I should say victims, of course. You only threatened Paisley. Why is that?’

‘Like I said, pal. Can’t help you.’ Tulloch smiled at him, then winced and touched a hand to his bandaged head. ‘Someone messed about with my phone. Gogs Brownlee, I’d say.’

‘So you deny sending these messages?’

‘Have you got any proof that my client typed them and then sent them? No. So kindly do as he asks and move on.’ Williams flourished a limp hand up and down Tulloch’s body. ‘As you can see, my client is still in need of medical attention, so time is of the essence.’

‘Your client has spent a night in hospital and the duty doctor has approved him for interview.’

‘Move on, Constable.’

Hunter sighed and looked at Tulloch. ‘You sent her a text threatening her, then you went round to her house and tried to follow through on the threat.’

‘That right, eh?’ Tulloch winked at his lawyer and thumbed at Hunter. ‘Tell you a tale, Hamish. This boy assaulted me on the Strip in Albufeira. Then he attacked me when I was slipping a bird a length. So, I’m thinking he wants a bang with my dong, eh?’

Hunter jolted to his feet and leaned his hands on the table. ‘I arrested you when you were pressing an iron into—’

‘Fuck off!’ Tulloch almost snarled. ‘You assaulted me with an iron when I was speaking to Paisley.’ He pointed to a white bandage on his arm, red splotches leaking through. ‘You burnt my arm, you pig bastard! Then you threw it at me!’ He scratched at some stitches in his temple. ‘Do you know how much this fucking hurts?’

You deserve it all. And more.

Hunter raised his eyebrows. ‘You were pressing the iron into Paisley’s flesh.’

‘Assaulted me, man. Police brutality.’

‘You were torturing her.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You deny torturing Ms Sanderson?’

‘Aren’t you listening to me? I’ve done nothing.’

Williams sucked a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring like he was about to race at the Grand National. ‘My client wishes you to move on.’

Hunter sat back and folded his hands in his lap. ‘What I don’t get is how you found out that Paisley was talking to us.’

‘When you pricks start talking to my squadmates about me, you honestly think they’re not going to tell me that someone’s been blabbing?’

‘What? Who spoke to them?’

‘You’re a stupid prick.’ Tulloch laughed, scratching his wounds. A trickle of blood leaked from the bandage on his forehead.

Williams touched Tulloch’s temple, his finger coming away with a smudge of bright red blood. ‘My client requires urgent medical assistance. This interview is terminated.’

EIGHTY-NINE

Chantal

Chantal walked across the empty office, her heart thundering in her chest. She stopped short and . . .

Caught.

This is it.

This is where she breaks us up and . . .

She pushed at Sharon’s door and peered in. ‘Sharon?’

She was on the phone, nodding her head. A Thornton’s chocolate box sat on the desk. ‘Okay, I’ll speak to you later. Bye.’ She put the phone down and fixed a glare on Chantal. ‘You going to start telling me the truth or shall I get someone from HR to sit in on our chat?’

Chantal glanced at the door behind her and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Me and Craig are an item.’

‘I know.’ A grin crept over Sharon’s face. ‘You lying cow.’

‘It’s not like you think. We—’

‘Don’t even try telling me “Oh, we got together in Portugal, for reals, LOL”.’ Sharon reached into the chocolate box and took one out. ‘You’ve been shagging him for months, so don’t you dare try that bullshit with me.’

‘It’s the—’

‘Chantal. Stop. Back in August, I popped round to your flat when I was passing. Your neighbour let me into the stairwell. I was going to knock on the door, but I heard you. “Oh, Craig! Oh, Craig, fill me with your man juice!” Sound familiar?’

Chantal rubbed at her cheek, not all of the heat from the tan top-up. ‘Mmh, aye, so, are you going to separate us?’

‘I’ve not got a choice.’ Sharon took another chocolate from the box, the paper rustling. ‘Look, Scott and I kept it a secret for a month when we started going out, remember? It’s not a good idea. We’ve got to be cleaner than clean in this unit.’

‘I know, it’s just . . .’

‘I’ll cover it over, but I need you to stop lying to me, okay?’

Chantal sighed, half with relief, half with embarrassment. ‘Fine.’

‘Good.’ She took another chocolate. Didn’t look like she was going to offer any. She finished chewing and picked up another. ‘So, what’s going to happen is I will fill the new DS position I’ve got approval for—’

‘What?’

Sharon pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘Last thing Fletcher did before his holiday.’ She held up a finger. ‘Don’t let Craig get excited. He’s nowhere near ready.’ She popped the next chocolate into her mouth, looked like a toffee from the way she chewed it. ‘Once this new DS is in, your old team will report to them, including Craig, okay?’ She winked at Chantal. ‘Try not to shag any of your new team, aye?’

‘Fine.’ Chantal yawned into her fist. ‘Sorry. Look, I’ve acted like a cow about this. You don’t deserve it, and—’

‘That was the Procurator Fiscal on the phone.’ Sharon stretched. Clearly the sugar boost from the chocolates was only going so far in battling her exhaustion. ‘She thinks we’ve got more than enough to prosecute and we’ve barely done any detailed interviews yet.’ She pulled out a notepad and started flicking through it. ‘Of course, you’ll be working with Elvis on it. I’ll have to pair Hunter up with Jenny or Jim. He might be able to show them how it’s done.’

The door rattled open and Rollo-Smith stormed in. ‘Inspector.’ He glowered at Chantal. ‘Sergeant.’

‘How can we help, Brian?’

Rollo-Smith bristled, probably at being addressed informally for the first time since boarding school. ‘I have spoken to my superiors.’

‘And are you going to try to help us?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve been a hindrance to us throughout this case.’

‘You say that without any solid evidence against Private Tulloch, or have you finally gathered any?’

‘The Procurator Fiscal’s pressed the button on the prosecution. We’ll be charging Tulloch as soon as DC Hunter and DS Cullen are finished with him.’

‘This might help.’ Rollo-Smith extended a mobile phone like it was a bugle.

Chantal frowned at it. ‘What’s that?’

Rollo-Smith fiddled with the screen. ‘This is gold dust, Sergeant.’ He showed her the display, a video playing.

Paisley Sanderson, tied up on a bed, screaming while Tulloch thrust away at her. She looked into the camera, terror in her eyes. Tulloch’s throaty voice booming out of the tinny speakers. ‘Tell me you love my monster cock, you fucking whore!’

Rollo-Smith paused it, the freeze frame showing tears streaming down Paisley’s cheek. ‘It would appear that Mr Tulloch sent videos of him torturing the women to a few friends.’

Chantal reached for the phone.

Rollo-Smith pulled it away. ‘Not so fast.’

‘We need that locked up in evidence. Where did you get it?’

‘DI Bruce obtained it from Matty Ibbetson. I spoke to him this morning.’ Rollo-Smith cleared his throat. ‘I shall hold onto this. But, the evidence will be at your disposal in due course.’

Sharon put one hand on her hip, the other out in front of her. ‘Give.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That’s our case.’ Chantal nodded at the handset. ‘Give me the mobile. Now.’

‘I won’t take orders from a Sergeant.’

She snatched it from his hand. ‘This is going into our evidence store.’

The soldier straightened his shoulders and glared at Sharon. ‘Detective Inspector McNeill, I refuse to be subordinated like this. I demand the return of that telephone. This instant.’

Sharon smiled at him. ‘Get out of here.’

Rollo-Smith barked out a laugh. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard.’

‘Very well.’ Rollo-Smith put his left hand into his blazer pocket and walked over to the door. ‘I shall be in touch with DCI Fletcher.’ With that he marched out of the room, the door banging behind him.

Chantal slumped into the chair opposite Sharon. ‘You’re getting on like a house on fire.’

‘He’s an idiot.’ Sharon reached into her box of Thornton’s chocolates. ‘Brucie Boner sent these through. There are flowers in the kitchen and three bottles of Prosecco in the fridge.’

‘That’s good of him.’

‘You stupid bastard!’ Shouting came from out in the office. ‘You could’ve got her killed!’

Chantal rushed out, Sharon following her.

Hunter had Rollo-Smith by the lapels, pushed up against the wall. ‘It’s your bloody fault!’

Rollo-Smith wriggled against him. ‘Let me go!’

Chantal raced over and pulled Hunter back. ‘Craig, what the hell are you doing?’

Hunter let Rollo-Smith go with an open-handed smack in the face. ‘This craven little worm leaked it to Tulloch’s mates. Told them we were speaking to Paisley.’

Chantal stared at Rollo-Smith. ‘Is that true?’

He brushed the shoulders of his jacket. ‘My officers have been interviewing Tulloch’s cohort off the record.’

‘Wait, your officers have interviewed him?’

Rollo-Smith nodded. ‘Naturally.’

‘Did you speak to Tulloch?’

‘Naturally.’

Chantal glared at Rollo-Smith. ‘You did leak it, didn’t you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You told a bunch of his mates that we were speaking to Paisley.’ Her turn to grab Rollo-Smith and pull him close. ‘Tulloch tried to kill Paisley because of what you did!’

‘This isn’t my fault!’ Rollo-Smith pushed away from her. ‘We were carrying out an investigation in support of yours!’

Chantal snorted. ‘Her injuries are a direct consequence of your blabbing. I’ll see what I can charge you with, you poncey arsewipe.’

Rollo-Smith laughed. ‘I’d love to see it.’

Chantal narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Tell me. Inspector Quaresma. Your mate João. Was he really inept or had you two come to some sort of understanding? A wee buddy deal to cover over what one of your officers was up to?’ She stuck her tongue in her cheek.

‘This isn’t the end of the matter.’ Rollo-Smith turned on his heels and marched off, pressing a mobile to his ear.

‘Right, well, that’s the end of that, then.’ Sharon snatched the phone from Chantal. ‘Time you two were out of here.’

NINETY

Hunter

Hunter held the door open for Chantal. The hospital corridor stank of cleaning chemicals and boiled cabbage, like every public building the world over. ‘So, we’re out of the closet, then?’

‘We are. You’ve got what you wanted.’

He sighed. ‘Have I? Where does that leave us?’

‘You tell me, Craig.’

‘I meant about us at work.’

‘Wait and see. Shaz’s got approval for another DS.’

‘Does that mean no more uniform?’

‘Correct.’

He nodded away to himself, then sighed again. ‘It’s for the best. You know that, right?’

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I know.’ Then she sped off down the corridor towards the ward, where Dr Yule was chatting to PC Lenny Warner. She nodded at Hunter, as he caught up with Chantal mere yards in front of the doctor. ‘Well, I might as well tell you both . . .’ She left a long enough pause to made Hunter think that Paisley was dead. ‘She’s not in a critical condition. Ms Sanderson will, however, require skin grafts. She’s suffered some very serious injuries.’ She narrowed her eyes at Hunter. ‘I wish you’d caught the barbarian who did this to her.’

Chantal nodded. ‘We have.’

‘I meant in time. Before he did this.’

Hunter looked her deep in the eye. ‘Believe me, so do I.’

Warner beamed at Yule, his gregarious grin seeming to dilute the bile pouring out of the woman. ‘C’mon, Helen, I think those two upstanding members of the community deserve a few quiet moments with the girl. Is that alright with you, love?’

Hunter folded his arms. That cheeky charmer, but good on him for wooing the grumpy gate-keeper. He nodded at Dr Yule. ‘A couple of minutes, at the very most.’

‘Very well.’ Yule paced over and opened a door.

Paisley lay on the bed, the left half of her face covered by a bandage. As soon as she made eye contact with Hunter, she looked away.

Hunter didn’t want to invade the frazzled woman’s space, so was careful to keep a decent distance. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fucked. Thanks to you. My skin’s burnt. I need grafts. Who’s going to want me after that, eh?’

‘Paisley, we’ve charged Mr Tulloch with multiple assaults on you, as well as a series of domestic abuse charges.’

‘Oh cheers! Just means I’ve got to go through it all again in court. With him standing there. His mates will kill me!’

‘It’s all going to be taken care of, Paisley.’

‘That’s bullshit. You’re going to mess it up and let him go!’ Her defiant resolve was about to crumble.

‘I know it’s difficult to process and you’re thinking of all the bad things that can happen, but the army will court martial him. Then he’ll face charges in Portugal relating to a rape he committed there.’

Paisley flinched. ‘A rape?

‘He’s not going to get out of prison for a very long time, if ever.’

‘He raped someone?’

‘A Northern Irish woman. He spiked her drink and forced himself on her in his hotel room, then abused her while she was unconscious.’

‘That’s not what he did with me.’

Chantal nodded. ‘Or with Anna, Erica, Kylie or Jane. He changed his MO and . . .’

‘That cheating bastard!’

What. The. Hell?

Trapped her in an abusive relationship. Raped her on video. Put her in hospital. Twice. And she’s not angry that he raped someone else, but that he even had sex with someone else?

Hunter sat in front of her. ‘Look, he’s going away for a long time. It’s not going to be easy for you, but we’ll have to take detailed statements over the next few weeks from all concerned. And one of these statements will have to come from you. When you’re better.’

Paisley’s eyes clouded over with a look of furious hurt. ‘Do you have any idea what this feels like? Having my life torn apart like this? How could he do this to me?’

Chantal nodded again, slowly this time. ‘I do.’ She fiddled with her blouse collar. ‘I was abused when I was a girl. By my uncle. It took me a long time, but eventually I spoke out about it. I remember the police coming around to our house. I spoke to them, told them everything . . . My uncle died in prison. Someone stabbed him, missed his heart, but got his kidneys. He suffered for a few months. I watched him waste away, suffering every day. I don’t regret it for one second.’

Paisley started crying.

And it didn’t look like she was going to stop any time soon.

*   *   *

Hunter stepped into the breeze. Chantal took a halting breath as she marched past him up the street. Still a bloody mystery what goes on in her head sometimes . . .

Hunter joined her on the top step and pressed the doorbell, the bitter wind blowing through him like it was midwinter. He turned around and soaked in the view across the south of Corstorphine, Edinburgh’s west side, and miles from its best. The May sun finally decided to show its face, rising over the wall of clouds above the Pentlands on the horizon, light raining down like shards of glass. A rainbow climbed into the moody sky from the IKEA at Straiton just behind the Braid hills.

Chantal hammered on the door. ‘Is she in or what?’

‘Give her a minute.’ Hunter tucked his jacket in tight. ‘By the way, I appreciate you talking to Sharon about . . . us.’

She smiled. ‘I feel a lot better about it.’ Punctuated the statement with a shrug. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t do it earlier.’

‘Because you’re messed up?’

‘Well, other than that.’ Chantal pressed the bell again. ‘This, however, doesn’t get any easier.’

‘What, working with me?’

She gave him a little smile, then pointed at the door. ‘No, this.’

‘Right.’

The door flew open and Mary Sinclair stood there, a navy apron covering a yellow polo neck. Thai cooking smells wafted out. She frowned at Hunter. ‘Craig? What’s happened?’

‘I need to have a word with you, Mary.’ Hunter grimaced at her. ‘Inside.’

Mary’s hands shot to her face. ‘What’s happened?’

Hunter took a deep breath, then looked her straight in the eye. ‘Let’s do this inside.’

CRAIG HUNTER WILL RETURN IN

“HISTORY”

(Craig Hunter Book 3)

Available 2018

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Afterword

Thanks for editing go to Russel D McLean and Allan Guthrie.

Thanks to James Mackay and Brian Rollo-Smith for technical help.

+1 thanks goes to Len Wanner for all manner of editing throughout the book and definitely blinding yourself during the process this time…

Thanks to James Maxwell, Marcus Wearmouth and Brian Rollo-Smith for letting me use their names here.

An important source for the PTSD elements in this book was “Aftershock: The Untold Story of Surviving Peace” by Matthew Green. A chilling book. Get it here — http://amzn.to/2m7yC40.

And I promise I’ll write the eighth Cullen book very soon. Promise!

One final note, if you could find time to leave a review where you bought this, I'd really appreciate it — reviews really help indie authors like myself.

— Ed James

East Lothian, March 2017

Speak to me — I don't bite!

Twitter is at twitter.com/edjamesauthor

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Email me at ed@edjames.co.uk

Visit edjamesauthor.com for my blog and news on forthcoming books.

Subscribe to my newsletter at http://eepurl.com/pyjv9 (news on new releases and special stuff).

OTHER BOOKS BY ED JAMES

SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES

1 GHOST IN THE MACHINE

2 DEVIL IN THE DETAIL

3 FIRE IN THE BLOOD

4 DYED IN THE WOOL

5 BOTTLENECK

6 WINDCHILL

7 COWBOYS & INDIANS

8 HEROES & VILLAINS (Summer 2017)

CRAIG HUNTER SERIES

1 MISSING

2 HUNTED

DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES

1 THE HOPE THAT KILLS

2 WORTH KILLING FOR

3 WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

DS VICKY DODDS SERIES

1 SNARED

SUPERNATURE SERIES

Writing as Edwin James

1 SHOT THROUGH THE HEART

2 JUST WALKING THE DEAD (a novella)

Meet Scott Cullen…

The first four novels for a bargain price…

Amazon UK — http://bit.ly/EJYear1

Available through all other Amazon channels — http://mybook.to/CYear1

About Ed James

Ed James writes crime-fiction novels.

His Scott Cullen series features a young Edinburgh detective constable investigating crimes from the bottom rung of the career ladder he’s desperate to climb.

His Craig Hunter series feature an ex-forces cop investigating sexual offences in Scotland.

Set four hundred miles south on the streets of East London, his DI Simon Fenchurch trilogy features a detective with little to lose, fighting to uncover the conspiracy that tore his family apart.

Formerly an IT manager, Ed began writing on planes, trains and automobiles to fill his weekly commute to London. He now writes full-time and lives in East Lothian, Scotland, with his girlfriend and a menagerie of rescued animals.

Table of Contents

Contents

Dedication

Day 1 — Thursday 12th May, 2016

One - Hunter

Two - Chantal

Three - Hunter

Four - Chantal

Five - Hunter

Six - Hunter

Seven - Chantal

Eight - Hunter

Nine - Chantal

Ten - Hunter

Eleven - Chantal

Twelve - Hunter

Thirteen - Chantal

Fourteen - Hunter

Fifteen - Hunter

Sixteen - Chantal

Day 2 — Friday 13th May, 2016

Seventeen - Hunter

Eighteen - Hunter

Nineteen - Chantal

Twenty - Hunter

Twenty-One - Chantal

Twenty-Two - Chantal

Twenty-Three - Chantal

Twenty-Four - Hunter

Twenty-Five - Chantal

Twenty-Six - Hunter

Twenty-Seven - Chantal

Twenty-Eight - Hunter

Twenty-Nine - Chantal

Thirty - Hunter

Thirty-One - Chantal

Thirty-Two - Hunter

Thirty-Three - Chantal

Thirty-Four - Hunter

Thirty-Five - Chantal

Thirty-Six - Hunter

Thirty-Seven - Chantal

Thirty-Eight - Hunter

Thirty-Nine - Chantal

Forty - Hunter

Forty-One - Chantal

Forty-Two - Hunter

Forty-Three - Hunter

Forty-Four - Chantal

Forty-Five - Hunter

Forty-Six - Chantal

Forty-Seven - Hunter

Day 3 — Saturday 14th May, 2016

Forty-Eight - Hunter

Forty-Nine - Chantal

Fifty - Hunter

Fifty-One - Chantal

Fifty-Two - Hunter

Fifty-Three - Chantal

Fifty-Four - Hunter

Fifty-Five - Chantal

Fifty-Six - Hunter

Fifty-Seven - Chantal

Fifty-Eight - Hunter

Fifty-Nine - Chantal

Sixty - Hunter

Sixty-One - Chantal

Sixty-Two - Hunter

Sixty-Three - Chantal

Sixty-Four - Hunter

Sixty-Five - Chantal

Sixty-Six - Hunter

Sixty-Seven - Hunter

Sixty-Eight - Chantal

Sixty-Nine - Hunter

Seventy - Chantal

Seventy-One - Hunter

Seventy-Two - Chantal

Seventy-Three - Chantal

Seventy-Four - Hunter

Seventy-Five - Chantal

Seventy-Six - Hunter

Seventy-Seven - Chantal

Seventy-Eight - Hunter

Seventy-Nine - Chantal

Eighty - Hunter

Eighty-One - Hunter

Eighty-Two - Hunter

Eighty-Three - Chantal

Eighty-Four - Hunter

Eighty-Five - Chantal

Eighty-Six - Hunter

Eighty-Seven - Chantal

Day 4 — Sunday 15th May, 2016

Eighty-Eight - Hunter

Eighty-Nine - Chantal

Ninety - Hunter

Next Book

Afterword

Other Books by Ed James

Meet Scott Cullen

About Ed James