Rush to Judgement Read online

  RUSH TO JUDGEMENT

  A DCI Harry McNeil NOVEL

  John Carson

  Copyright © 2020 John Carson

  Edited by Charlie Wilson at Landmark Editorial

  Cover by Damonza

  John Carson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  All rights reserved

  Created with Vellum

  This one is for Bejay Roles.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Afterword

  Other titles

  DCI Harry McNeil series

  DCI Sean Bracken series

  DI Frank Miller Series

  Max Doyle Series

  Scott Marshall Series

  About the Author

  One

  He held the knife aloft, watching the man’s back. He gently ran the tip of the blade along the kitchen island’s marble top, not making a sound, slowly advancing on the man in front of him.

  He held it high, the steel glinting in the subdued lighting. He took another step, getting closer.

  Then, without warning, the man turned towards him and looked at the deadly weapon.

  ‘Jesus, Shug, you’ll do yourself a mischief there,’ Muckle McInsh said.

  ‘I’m starving. Has he not moved yet?’

  Muckle looked back at the fridge, then down at the floor where his dog lay. Sparky lifted his head as if he knew the two men were talking about him, then laid it back down again.

  ‘He moves his heid to look at us, then goes back to doing his own thing. He’s like this at home as well. Need to get into the dishwasher? Dug’s lying in front of it. Need the lav? Dug’s lying on the tile floor, cooling off. The only time he moves is when the wife gets the hoover out because he’s feared o’ it. I swear the bugger’s doing it on purpose.’

  ‘They left us that turkey for a midnight snack, and correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s twelve fifteen in the a.m.’

  ‘Come on, Sparks, get your arse in gear, boy,’ Muckle said. No joy. The German shepherd lay where he was, blocking the doors to the large built-in fridge. Beyond the stainless steel waited a turkey with their name on it.

  ‘I meant to ask what you got me for Christmas,’ Shug said, putting the knife down before he managed to cut off a valuable piece of himself.

  ‘I got you something from the FcCall line,’ Muckle replied.

  ‘FcCall? Never heard of it.’

  ‘More popularly known as fuck all.’

  ‘Ah. Covering up your stinginess with humour. Very classy.’

  ‘What’s classy?’ a female voice said from behind them. Vern Baxter, the only female member of the security team.

  ‘Muckle’s subtle way of telling me that he’s a skinflint.’

  She smiled at the smaller man. ‘Some people call it being wise.’

  And with the sound of her voice, Sparky got up and went over to her, his tail wagging.

  ‘Now you get up, ya hoor,’ Muckle said quietly, pulling one half of the fridge open. ‘You up for a sandwich, Miss Vern?’ he said, taking the turkey-laden tray out and putting it on the counter. It never failed to amaze him how big the kitchen was. His whole flat could fit in it.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she said, pausing from petting the dog and making baby noises at him. ‘And I’m sure my little friend here wouldn’t mind a few bits.’

  ‘I must admit I am famished,’ Shug said.

  ‘She meant Sparky,’ Muckle said without turning round.

  Shug looked at Vern. ‘Say it’s not true.’

  ‘Sorry, but my furry friend looks at me longingly and my heart melts.’ More rubbing his sides and talking to him like he was a baby.

  ‘Hey, Muckle, if I wear a fur coat, will you put some turkey on a plate for me?’ Shug asked.

  ‘Yeah, fuc…I mean, watch me.’ Muckle brought the bird out and felt his stomach rumbling. ‘Our Christmas dinner. What a beauty.’

  ‘If he has any more turkey, he’ll crash out,’ Shug said. ‘And don’t get me started on the dog.’

  ‘You’re hilarious, Shug. I can eat a horse and still go a full shift.’

  The other two looked at him.

  ‘Not that I’ve ever eaten a horse, mind. But this frame is built for eating and I can still go the full nine yards.’

  ‘Getting your metaphors mixed up there, Muckle,’ Vern said.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about there, Miss Vern. Not an ounce of fat on me. It’s taking Fuzzy Bum there on a three-mile walk every day. He goes up to our room, lies down in front of the fire and that’s him till work time. Me? I’m a machine.’

  ‘Well, get cutting that bird up. I only had a little bit of dinner,’ Vern said, watching as Sparky went into begging mode and sat looking at his master.

  ‘I only had a turkey sandwich earlier. I’ve been imagining this moment for hours now,’ Muckle said.

  He was about to stick the carving knife in when they all heard a scream coming from outside.

  Sparky turned away from Muckle and started barking ferociously, sensing something was up.

  Muckle put the knife down. ‘Come on, Shug, let’s go and see what’s up.’ He grabbed Sparky’s lead off the counter and clipped it on him. The big dog started yanking him towards the kitchen door.

  ‘That’s it, boy, let’s go,’ he said. Then, in a lower voice: ‘Ease up for fuck’s sake, or you’ll have me on my arse.’

  ‘You stay here, Miss Vern,’ Shug said, making sure his extendable baton was in his inside pocket. He grabbed his torch from the counter and went to follow Muckle outside.

  ‘So I will,’ she replied. ‘I’m coming with you. No arguments.’ She grabbed the carving knife and Shug tried not to let his eyes go wide.

  They left the kitchen and went along the back corridor, where Muckle was now standing with the door wide open. They all heard another scream, then it was choked off.

  ‘It’s coming from the woods,’ Shug said, catching up with Muckle and Vern.

  Another scream, not a
s loud this time.

  ‘Let’s go up the path into the Magic Woods,’ Vern said.

  Both security men turned to look at her. Magic Woods?

  Vern shrugged. ‘It’s what I heard one of the staff call them. Across the back lawn and there’s an opening in the trees.’

  Sparky was already pulling in that direction as both men switched their torches on. The place was covered in a foot of snow, making it lighter than normal, and the beams of light danced around as they started moving as fast as they could.

  ‘Do either of you have a spare torch?’ Vern asked. ‘I forgot to grab mine.’

  Shug turned to look at her and his light bounced off the sharp steel in her hand. You didn’t forget to grab a fucking knife, though. ‘Here, I have a small one in my pocket as well as this big one.’

  He fished it out and handed it over before moving forward, grateful that Vern was now in front of him, her weapon of mass destruction pointed at Muckle’s back and not his.

  They reached the pathway and continued on into the woods. There were no footprints here and it was starting to get treacherous, though the dog seemed to thrive in these conditions.

  Sparky pulled harder and Muckle felt himself losing his footing, the dog’s lead in one hand and his torch in the other, the light now illuminating the branches and the leaves, anywhere but the ground in front of him.

  ‘Sparky, if you pull me over and make me a laughing stock, I swear I’ll send your new fucking ball back to the shop, Christmas present or no Christmas present.’

  Muckle slipped and fell on his face. Sparky could haul his master, but he couldn’t drag him, so he stopped, panting. ‘Aw, fucking magic, eh?’

  ‘There’s no time for a lie-down, lazy bugger,’ Shug said, stopping behind Vern, glad to see she hadn’t also slipped and pinned Muckle to the ground by the goolies with her knife.

  ‘Bastard ground’s slippy,’ Muckle said, getting to his knees, then standing up. ‘Pardon the French, Miss Vern,’ he said, throwing a look at Shug that suggested the grin on his face might be getting wiped off shortly.

  And Sparky was off again, barking and growling. Muckle let out some more of the long lead and then they were in a clearing. It was darker in here, the snow not reaching the ground as much as outside.

  What seemed like a shadow at first started to move. A figure stood looking at the woman hanging from an overhanging branch. He turned to look at the advancing figures before turning away and cresting the brow of the pathway.

  ‘Hey, fucking stop right there!’ Muckle shouted, which revved the dog up more. ‘I’ll let the dog go!’

  But he had no intention of letting Sparky run off after the stranger. Instead, they turned their attention to the female who was hanging limply from the tree.

  ‘Out my way,’ Vern said, following the line of the rope to where it was tied to another tree, holding the woman up.

  Vern sliced into the rope with her knife, back and forward like a saw, and strands starting snapping. She worked hard at it until the rope broke and the woman fell to the ground.

  Shug was on the phone, calling it in. Muckle looked around them, but was confident that nobody would be able to sneak up on them with the dog in a frenzy.

  Vern kneeled beside the woman, trying to get the rope off, while Muckle grabbed hold of Sparky’s K9 vest on the back and settled him. He bent over and looked at the woman and put a hand on Vern’s shoulder.

  ‘She’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Vern said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Shug walked over. ‘Uniforms will be on their way over, but a pound to a penny there are no detectives round here.’

  ‘They’ll draft them in from Inverness, no doubt,’ Vern said.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Muckle said, taking his phone out.

  He called the one person in the world whom he trusted more than anything.

  Two

  DCI Jimmy Dunbar was sitting drinking coffee with a female DS when the man with the ponytail and beard walked in. Dunbar had been sitting on the edge of a desk and was immediately on his feet, as were some of the other officers.

  ‘You can’t come in here, pal,’ Dunbar said, getting ready to share the contents of his mug with Beardie’s face.

  ‘It’s me, sir. DS Evans. You told me to report here this morning.’

  Dunbar had to look twice as the other detectives relaxed. Evans had long, straggly hair pulled back into a ponytail and a beard that no self-respecting tramp would be seen dead with.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’ Dunbar asked.

  ‘You know I broke my ankle and I’ve been off for six weeks –’

  ‘Alright, Tweedledum, I know that. I meant what’s with the Billy Connolly look?’

  ‘It’s the new me. What can I say?’

  ‘You can say you bumped your heid when you fell down the flight of stairs. You can say you’re going home to shave and get a haircut.’

  ‘No can do. My new girlfriend said it makes me look manly.’

  ‘Fucking mangy, more like.’

  Evans smiled. ‘I did some thinking while I was off. Maybe the polis isn’t for me.’

  Dunbar put his mug down and guided Evans out into the corridor and along to the canteen. ‘You need a coffee.’

  ‘I don’t. I watch what I eat and drink now. No sugar.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Why are we in here on Boxing Day anyway? I had plans.’

  ‘What kind of plans?’ Dunbar punched the buttons on the machine after putting money in.

  ‘Just plans with Linda.’

  ‘She thinks this is okay? Look at the state of you. Did you have a pagger with Santa or something? Your bloody hair’s all over the place and you look like shite.’

  ‘The Christmas spirit certainly doesn’t hang around in your house, does it?’

  Dunbar took the coffee cup and handed it to Evans. ‘This is not my house. And I managed to get up and dressed this morning without looking like a mangy dug.’

  ‘I washed my hair.’

  Dunbar sighed. ‘Listen, son, you don’t have much luck with women, I know that. But the right lassie will come along. You don’t want to be hanging out with some hippie who wants to change your whole life. Have I ever steered you wrong?’

  ‘Naw, but Linda’s keeping me right. She spent the night.’

  ‘What did your mother have to say about that?’

  ‘She’s away staying at my auntie’s house. I told her I’d be fine on Christmas and she wasn’t going to go without me at first, but I persuaded her.’

  ‘And Linda the cleaning lady came round to dust some of your silverware.’

  ‘She polished more than that.’

  ‘That’s enough, manky bastard. I don’t want any sordid details.’

  ‘She’s terrific, even though she’s a bit older than me.’

  ‘Grab a granny? Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You’ve been plumbing the depths for a while now.’

  ‘Age doesn’t matter. We have a connection,’ Evans said.

  ‘You have a bank account.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  They left the canteen, Evans blowing on the coffee in the plastic cup in the hope it would taste less like dirty rainwater, and they headed upstairs.

  ‘What’s it like, son?’ Dunbar said. ‘She gives you a good time, you blow your life savings on her and then she’s off to the next mug?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘You help her spend her pension money every week?’

  ‘She used to be known as Luscious Linda,’ Evans said.

  ‘And now it’s just Lush?’

  ‘What we have is real. She has a completely different outlook on life.’

  ‘You said that about that other lassie and it turned out she was married.’ Dunbar shook his head.

  ‘You’ve got to have rain to see the rainbow,’ Evans replied.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

 
; ‘I don’t know. I heard it on TV.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t go buying her a diamond ring for Christmas?’

  Evans sipped some of the coffee and looked away.

  ‘Please tell me you’re not that daft,’ Dunbar said.

  Still no answer.

  ‘Can I have that five hundred quid back that I lent you last summer?’

  ‘What five hundred quid?’ Evans said.

  ‘I’m just trying to see how gullible you are.’

  ‘It was a friendship ring, alright? Nothing more.’

  ‘Does it come with a copy of your American Express card?’

  ‘Listen, boss, after all the bad luck I’ve had with women, I’m just playing it easy with Linda. I’m learning things about myself.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  Evans mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ Dunbar said.

  ‘Forty. Fifty. Age is just a number.’

  ‘Fifty? Tell me you’re fucking joking.’

  ‘I also said forty. It could be either.’

  ‘What’s her last name?’

  ‘Fry,’ Evans said.

  ‘Linda Fry?’

  ‘Aye. You know her?’

  ‘Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kick you in the bollocks right now. As things are going, I don’t think I would want you bringing another eejit into the world.’