Against the Clock

  AGAINST THE CLOCK

  A DCI Harry McNeil NOVEL

  JOHN CARSON

  Copyright © 2021 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

  In memory of my friend, Clifton Bodiford

  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 Sean Bracken series

  DCI Harry McNeil series

  DI Frank Miller Series

  Max Doyle Series

  Scott Marshall Series

  About the Author

  One

  Lenny Smith stood at the exit door of the block of flats and put a hand on his side. He was sweating and had a stitch and that was just from coming down in the lift.

  That and the fact he’d come out in his slippers.

  His wife had wasted no time in pointing that out, and he’d been tempted to tell her that he’d give her a slipper over the arse, but that would have resulted in his waking up with a body part missing.

  The kicker had been when he saw the old boot from next door in the lift just as the doors began to close.

  ‘Hold it!’ he’d shouted, and he could have sworn the old cow pressed the close button. He’d just managed to get a hand between the closing doors.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, silently cursing her.

  ‘Aye,’ she replied, as if English were her second language and that was the only word she’d mastered so far.

  Down in the lobby, he’d stood and got his breath back. He double-checked that he had indeed removed his slippers and was pleased to see the trainers with the Velcro fasteners were on his feet.

  He wasn’t built for running. Not on a treadmill, and certainly not in the dark in the street where all the fucking nightcrawlers were on the prowl.

  But his doctor had given him that fat bastard look and had strongly suggested he cut back on eating shite and started to exercise. So here he was, standing outside the doors of the tower block, finishing a cigarette, waiting for Fat Sam.

  He remembered back in the day when Fat Sam’s was a restaurant up at Fountainbridge, but now that it was gone, the only Fat Sam he knew was his mucker.

  Five minutes later, his pal came out the doors, leaning on his walking stick. And it was wasn’t the one he used for his disability interviews, but a nice carved wooden one.

  The sun was coming up now, and Sam thought the same way as Lenny: no sense in going out in the dark and inviting the muggers. If some wee bastard came along and wanted to take their wallets, Sam was now a master martial artist, able to use his cane to incapacitate somebody. Or at least give them a good whack in the balls. Sam was a black belt in giving them a good belting, having graduated from the University of YouTube.

  ‘Fuck them all,’ he had told Lenny. ‘The only thing they’re going to get from us is this walking stick shoved up their arse.’

  Now Sam was finally here. ‘Morning, cock,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ready for a jog along the promenade?’

  ‘No.’ Lenny looked at his watch. ‘Six o’clock on a Saturday morning and you’re smiling? There’s a fucking want about you, pal.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Cheer up, neighbour. I don’t know about you, but I want to see seventy.’

  ‘Christ, I’m only sixty-two, Sammy. And you’re only a baw hair away from sixty-one. We’re hardly near seventy.’

  ‘That’s the point. We don’t want to be dropping deid before retirement age.’

  ‘We don’t work,’ Lenny said.

  ‘Exactly. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’

  For April, it was sunny, but there was yet any warmth to be felt. Later on maybe, but right now the wind was hooring off the sea and making Lenny shiver. Still, once they upped the pace, he would feel sweat running down his legs. At least he always hoped it was sweat.

  They turned left at the bottom of the hill, making for the traffic island. They would get to the middle of the road and make sure there was nothing coming before crossing the other half.

  ‘Wee bastard on one of them dirt bikes nearly got me the other day,’ Sam said as they crossed the first lane and stood in the relative safety of the island. ‘Came roaring along that road from Portobello like he had just stolen the fucking thing. Which he probably had. He was more than likely on his way to burn it out somewhere. Beats paying for a taxi, I suppose.’

  ‘Just keep concentrating, Sammy,’ Lenny said, feeling his shirt sticking to him already. Sweating like a beast while his face was raw.

  They saw a white-and-madder double-decker coming towards them, and Lenny knew some of these bus drivers were mad bastards.

  ‘Hurry! Run!’ he shouted, but neither of them ran. They wobbled and hobbled, but made it in one piece while the big bus went flashing by, almost parting Lenny’s hair in the middle.

  ‘These big bastard things nowadays,’ Sam complained. ‘They go faster than shite, and sometimes I swear Stirling Moss is driving one.’

  ‘Rest his soul.’

  ‘Aye. Legend.’

  They walked past the Chinese where they got their Saturday night takeaway when the four of them got together for scran and a few beers.

  ‘Still on for tonight, pal?’ Lenny said, nodding to the closed restaurant.

  ‘Aye. Try and stop me. I’ve been in every night this week, listening to Cathy rumble on and watching Netflix. Time for a wee swally.’

  There was a brief respite from the wind at this point, the building giving them shelter.

  ‘You been along to the Wee Green Van this week?’ Sam asked.

  This was a little classic Citroen van, painted bright green, that served food and drinks down on the promenade.

  ‘Aye. I had a coffee and a baguette. Before lunch. I made Jimmy, the owner, promise he wouldn’t mention me being there if he saw me and the wife
out having a stroll.’

  Now they turned onto the promenade itself. The sea looked a wee bit choppy. Their pace wasn’t a full-on jog but at least it was faster than a walk. Lenny made sure he had his wee screwdriver in his pocket. He didn’t know if he could actually stab somebody with it, but he could ram it into a hand if he was grabbed. While Sam got wired into them with his walking stick.

  He had never thought in a million years they would be accosted down here in the morning, but it had happened one day, when a guy with a funny accent stood there smiling at them and told them they knew what was coming next and pulled out a small knife.

  Well, he didn’t know what was coming as Sam swung his cane across the guy’s wrist, then brought it back round to his shins.

  The man had dropped his knife and run away screaming. Sam had kept the knife in his pocket as a trophy, promising Lenny that the guy would get it back if they ever saw the bastard again.

  Lenny could feel the sweat starting already. He stopped, putting two fingers on his wrist to see if he still had a pulse. He puffed out a breath into the cool morning. Already spring, but was it getting warmer? Was it fuck. He looked back up at Coillesdene House. He knew Mary wouldn’t be watching; she’d be curled up under the duvet, where he should be right now.

  ‘Hold on, pal,’ Sam said. ‘My shoelace is out. These bloody trainers are trying to kill me. The damn laces come out all the time.’

  Sam had a look around, worried that somebody from the social might be gawking at them from the comfort of a wee white van, and leaned against a lamppost with one foot on the sea wall.

  ‘Keep a shotie, pal,’ he said, exaggerating his movements.

  Lenny sat down on the wall and looked back along the way they had come, at the beach and the cold sea dissipating on the sand. At the litter some ignorant bastard had left behind –

  ‘The fuck is that?’ Lenny said, getting up quickly, while not quite moving like his arse was on fire.

  ‘What?’ Sammy looked around as if expecting to see some bawbag from the social with a camera pointing towards them.

  ‘There, down on the beach. Somebody’s dumped something.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Lenny. You know what you can have engraved on my headstone? “Sammy died because some bastard left some shite on the beach and Lenny caused him to have a heart attack.”’

  Lenny was leaning over the wall more now, trying not to take a heider onto the sand. ‘Hold my hand.’

  ‘Will I fuck.’

  ‘There’s something big down there.’ He straightened up, looking at his friend. ‘Something wrapped in plastic. Like a big haul o’ drugs or something.’

  ‘Jesus. What if it is? I’m not touching it. There might be some cartel hovering about here. Naw, pal, if it’s anything like that, you can have it. I’d rather keep my wullie attached. Those cartels are mad bastards. Almost as mad as those Niddrie gangs.’

  ‘Christ, if it’s drugs, we could become millionaires.’ Lenny smiled at Sam.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how many millions you have in the bank, you can’t spend it if you’re deid.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to deposit millions in the bank. I’ll keep it under the bed.’ Lenny looked at his friend. ‘Come on, let’s have a look. It’s more likely to be some shite than drugs, but I’m curious.’

  ‘Tell you what, though, if some guy pops out and says, “Hi, amigo”, I’m fucking off.’

  ‘What if it’s some kind of treasure?’ Lenny was moving back along the way they had come.

  ‘Hang fire there, pal,’ Sam said, following his friend but not at such a fast pace, although Lenny’s walking speed wouldn’t win him any gold medals.

  Lenny stood at the end of the promenade waiting for his friend. ‘Looks like something wrapped in shrink film, but not the kind you’ve got in your kitchen. Like the stuff that pallets of boxes are wrapped with.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Sam said, looking down onto the beach, sweat lining his forehead.

  ‘Why are you sweating? You’ve got “benefits cheat” written all over you.’

  ‘Bollocks. Although I thought I saw somebody with a suspicious bag walk by.’ He looked at Lenny. ‘Like he had a camera peeping through a hole.’

  ‘You’re the only one who peeps through fucking holes.’

  ‘Are we going to have a closer look?’

  ‘Aye. Come on.’

  They walked down the ramp towards the sand and the sea, although the water was nowhere near this package that may or may not be about to change their lives.

  ‘Christ, what do you think it is?’ Lenny said.

  It was cylindrical in shape, about six feet long, bulging in places.

  ‘Poke it with your stick,’ Lenny told his friend, giving him a gentle shove on the back.

  ‘I’ll fucking poke you in a minute.’ Sam wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

  ‘Jesus. Roll it over. Maybe it’ll have a label on it. It might have fallen off a ship. Something that’s valuable, other than drugs.’

  ‘You and your bloody drugs. You wouldn’t know what to do with them.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true. Just help me roll it over.’

  ‘No chance. Somebody could be watching.’

  ‘Sake. Let me get it.’ Lenny got a foot under it and managed to lift it a little bit, but it was too heavy to lift with his leg alone. He took his foot out, reached down, put both hands under it and lifted, rolling it over.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, jumping back.

  At the top of the package, a face with dead, staring eyes looked out at them.

  ‘Call the polis,’ Lenny said, but Sam had already turned away and was throwing up his breakfast onto the sand.

  ‘From the phone box on the main road,’ Sam said when he was finished. ‘I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘Bit late for that, pal. But see that fake Irish accent you put on when we’re making prank calls?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Use that one.’

  Two

  ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but have you put on weight?’ Detective Chief Inspector Harry McNeil looked at his wife, who was seven months pregnant.

  Detective Sergeant Alex Maxwell was standing looking out of their living room window. ‘I had a dream last night that I was eating a giant marshmallow. If you find a pillow missing, I’ve got it up my dress.’

  He grinned and smiled at her and her baby bump. ‘That’s swell.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, McNeil. I’ve heard all your jokes. And so has Amy.’ She ran a hand over her stomach and drank from a cup of green tea that tasted like sewage. She looked at her husband. ‘I’m bored being at home, Harry. Take me with you.’

  Harry was putting his Apple watch on. ‘As much as I’d love to, sweetheart, you have to rest. Doctor’s orders, remember? That’s why you’re on maternity leave.’

  ‘What does he know? It’s too early for maternity leave. I could have gone another month. Six weeks maybe. Hell, I could have given birth at my desk.’

  ‘If we hadn’t had that wee scare, then I would agree with you, but young Amy there is busy playing about with your insides and now you have to rest.’

  ‘Jesus. Make it sound like a horror movie.’

  He pulled a face and hunched over like Quasimodo. ‘Sorry, young miss.’

  ‘Tell me when you’re going to start your impression.’

  Harry straightened up again. ‘You’re so funny. I would put you over my knee and skelp your arse if –’

  ‘If I wouldn’t break the chair.’

  ‘If I didn’t love you so much, I was going to say.’

  ‘Sure you were.’

  ‘Seriously, what are your plans for today?’ He pulled his jacket off the back of one of their dining chairs and slipped it on, patting his pockets for his car keys.

  ‘Oh, maybe go for a spa day, then have lunch with the Queen. My diary’s quite packed.’

  He stood looking at her.

  She gave a sad smile. ‘Sorry. I’m goi
ng to struggle down the stairs and toddle along to the supermarket.’

  ‘We’re up three flights. Please be careful.’ He looked at her, waiting for her to confirm that she would indeed be looking after herself.

  ‘I will. You go and enjoy yourself on the beach with your friends.’

  ‘Hardly a day out when there’s a body down there. And on a Saturday morning too. I was going to take you out for a wee drive, but maybe later. Or tomorrow.’

  She held on to the mug with both hands. ‘That would be nice.’

  She turned away from him, looking out the window again, at the bowling club where her husband had been having a few drinks the night before, without her. She had made him go out for a few. No point in them both missing out on a relaxing Friday night, and God knew he needed a break from her, what with all the moaning she’d been doing recently, and shouting and cursing…

  She realised he had left, vaguely remembering him saying goodbye, telling her he loved her. There were tears running down her face and she didn’t know where they had come from.

  Alex watched Harry as he crossed over to her red Audi – his now, since she couldn’t drive. Theirs, now they were married. She wanted to open the window, shout out, I love you! But she stood there looking down at him instead.