The Blood Tide, page 1
Praise for The Blood Tide
‘Tightly plotted, tense and thrilling. Neil Lancaster just gets better and better’
Marion Todd
‘You can’t beat the voice of experience, and that’s what you get here. A rugged tale from a writer who’s done this chilling stuff for real’
Paul Finch
‘Line of Duty on steroids… narrated with unremitting verve and pace. It just never lets up!’
John Barlow
‘What a gripping page-turner – it kept me guessing until the very end’
Michelle Davies
‘Gritty, gripping, and authentic. This is crime thriller writing at its finest’
Alex Shaw
‘Authentic and sympathetic with a great sense of menace. The book is beautifully paced. Highly recommended’
Sinead Crowley
‘A rattlingly good read. The pages practically turn themselves…’
John Sutherland
‘I’ve been hooked on this for a few days. The Blood Tide is incredible – it has it all: action, humour, tightly plotted with the most satisfying of endings. Gonna be huge!’
Chris McDonald
‘An absolutely thrilling read from a brand-new star of Tartan Noir. Superb’
Caroline Green
‘I got totally hooked and kept finding reasons to keep listening. Really engaging, 100% convincing police dramas in fantastic settings’
S.G. MacLean
‘The Blood Tide grabs you from page one and doesn’t let go. A powerful thriller in the best traditions of Desmond Bagley, Lee Child and James Lee Burke. Be warned: don’t sit down planning to read only a few pages!’
Kate London
‘A brilliantly plotted, beautifully written novel from the master of the police procedural. Authentic to a tee. A story to die for. Characters that leap off all the page-turny pages. Bravo’
Imran Mahmood
About the Author
Neil Lancaster is the No.1 digital bestselling author of both the Tom Novak and Max Craigie series. His latest novel, Dead Man’s Grave, was longlisted for the 2021 William McIlvanney Prize for Best Scottish Crime Book of the Year. He served as a military policeman and worked for the Metropolitan Police as a detective, investigating serious crimes in the capital and beyond. As a covert policing specialist, he used a variety of tactics to obtain evidence against murderers, human traffickers, drug dealers and fraudsters.
He now lives in the Scottish Highlands, writes crime and thriller novels and works as a broadcaster and commentator on true crime documentaries. He is a key expert on two Sky Crime TV series, Meet, Marry, Murder and Made for Murder.
/@neillancaster66
@NeilLancasterCrime
www.neillancastercrime.co.uk
Also by Neil Lancaster
Dead Man’s Grave
The Tom Novak Novels
Going Dark
Going Rogue
Going Back
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road
Dublin 4, Ireland
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022
Copyright © Neil Lancaster 2022
Neil Lancaster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008518462
E-book Edition © February 2022 ISBN: 9780008470371
Version: 2022-02-23
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for The Blood Tide
About the Author
Also by Neil Lancaster
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Extract
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For my boys.
Alec, Richard and Ollie.
I’m so proud of you all.
1
THE RIB CHUGGED steadily, its engine low, as it nosed into Loch Torridon. The slack tide and absence of tricky currents allowed the boat to cut soundlessly through the water towards the small beach by the road. Jimmy McLeish had left his Toyota pick-up parked there, trailer still attached, as he often did when he went out fishing or picking up his creels. It wouldn’t cause any comment or curiosity, so he should have been relaxed. He was anything but relaxed, though, because this cargo wasn’t the usual fish or lobster. This was a whole different ballgame.
The night was dark and moonless, with the inky darkness that you get only in the Highlands, far away from light pollution. If it hadn’t been for Jimmy’s night vision goggles, he would never have been able to navigate his way in past the rocks. Lights tonight would be a mistake, however, because of what lay in a black bag between his feet. The night was his ally.
Jimmy scanned the scene before him, the ghostly green tinge from the goggles bathing the landscape in an unnatural glow. A few specks of light were visible to the west, where a handful of dwellings dotted the tiny clachans of Fasag and Torridon, but beyond that there was just deep, impenetrable blackness. This was his neighbourhood. This wild, beautiful coastline was his home.
He took a deep breath and edged the small craft towards the shore of the sea loch, aiming for the tiny single-track road that ran parallel with the edge of the frigid water. He scanned the shore and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the shape of his pick-up truck, a silhouette against the craggy rock that bordered the road. Another vehicle was parked right behind it, as expected. Three brief flashes of a torch indicated he was good to go. That was the agreed signal, so Macca, Scally’s right-hand man, was there waiting for him. Jimmy gently increased the engine power, and the small rib picked up speed towards the truck.
His task was childishly simple, so he really shouldn’t have been this nervous. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his battered hip-flask. His hands shook as he unscrewed the cap and took a hefty nip of the peaty whisky, enjoying the warmth as it slid down his throat.
The torch flashed again, three times, as he killed the engine and nosed the boat to the shore, close enough to his launch trailer. There was a soft bump as the rib came to a halt on the stony sand and he flipped up the goggles on their harness. The sudden silence was absolute. He looked at the shore but saw nothing in the blackness. There was no one there.
He waited, nestling his goggles down to scan the area, the scenery once again bathed in the soft green light. The beads of sweat on his forehead made the rubber eyepiece feel greasy and slick. He had seen the flashes from the shore, he was certain of it, so where the hell was Macca? He jumped off the small boat into the shallows and pulled the rib ashore, feeling the gravelly surface grip the keel. He quickly jammed a stake into the ground and lashed a line to it.
He looked again at the new vehicle, which was as dark and foreboding as the landscape surrounding them. As he adjusted the intensifying properties of the goggles, hoping to see something, the landscape gradually lightened. His eyes followed the loch’s shore towards Torridon, where his wife would be sitting at home in front of the fire. More than ever, he regretted the blazing row that they’d had before he left. As always it was about money, or the lack of it. He’d stormed out, giving her no indication of where he was going or what he was doing. He hoped that enough cash to pay the outstanding bills and maybe get a nice meal would soften her up. Part of him wished that he could be with her, right now, rather than here in the inky blackness, waiting for the distinctly intimidating Macca. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.
Suddenly a blinding burst of torchlight shone directly on him, immediately overwhelming the image-intensifying properties of the goggles. He gasped and pulled them away from his face. Stars danced in front of his eyes from the sudden assault on his senses. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes, but the flare remained.
When he opened them, he was once again flooded with bright light from a head torch worn by a huge man. This wasn’t the short, stocky Macca.
‘Jesus, you almost bloody blinded me,’ Jimmy said. ‘Who the hell are you? I was expecting Macca.’
‘I’m Davie, and this is Callum. Scally sent us. You got the bag?’ The man was tall and muscular, with a pale face and dark hair. His accent was pure Glasgow and there was something about it that Jimmy didn’t like. The torchlight only partially lit the man’s face giving it a ghostly, unpleasant quality. Jimmy’s thoughts flashed briefly to the times his brother would scare him by holding a torch underneath his face. He felt a prickle of fear begin to grip at his gut. This didn’t feel right.
‘Aye, it’s here. You got my money?’
‘Of course we have, but we need to see the package first,’
said Davie, with a smirk.
‘But Scally said cash on delivery,’ Jimmy said, his voice faltering, unsure where this was going.
‘Cash on delivery? You hear this? Mannie here wants paying before we’ve even seen in the bag.’
The man called Callum stepped forward. He was a full head shorter than Davie and much slimmer, although it was hard to see him properly, the only light sources being Davie’s head torch and what looked like a penlight in Callum’s hand. ‘Oh dear, my friend, is this your first time?’ Callum said. ‘Nobody gets paid before we check the bag, right? Do be a sport and pass it over then we need to get your rib out of the water, pronto. I know this is a little bit of a backwater, but the local constabulary may venture here. Come on, chop-chop.’
Callum had a surprisingly light, cultured accent that sounded like it came from southern England. Despite the man’s light timbre, his voice was laced with sarcasm, and even by the flickering light, Jimmy could see the half-smile, his teeth shining white. The hairs on the back of Jimmy’s neck began to prickle. They seemed to be seasoned professionals, but unlike any criminals Jimmy had encountered before. He suddenly felt very exposed.
‘Aye well,’ Jimmy said, ‘give us a hand getting the rib hooked up, but we’ll leave the bag where it is until we’re out of the water.’
‘Fair enough. Give Davie your keys and he’ll reverse your truck.’
Jimmy tossed his keys at the big man who caught them and walked away up the beach.
Jimmy eased the wheeled launch ramp into the water and within a few minutes had the rib secured. Davie was soon reversing the pick-up, with trailer attached, onto the beach.
Jimmy used the winch to pull the boat and launch trailer onto the back of the vehicle. He then spent a few moments securing the rib with straps, until it was tightly fastened and ready to go.
‘Now, old bean. I believe you have something for us?’ said Callum. ‘Much as we trust you, we’d like to see it before we hand over your fee.’
Jimmy reached into the rib and dragged over the heavy waterproof canoe bag. He heaved it with a grunt onto the stony sand at the side of the truck. Davie quickly unbuckled the bag and reached inside. His head torch lit up the interior with a bright blaze of white light.
‘Tiger stamped,’ said Davie, a trace of pleasure in his voice.
‘Capital. Sling it in the back of the truck then, Jimmy,’ said Callum.
With a growing sense of unease, Jimmy did as he was asked, carefully securing the canoe bag, then hefted it onto his shoulder. Callum’s torch illuminated the back of the truck.
It was bathed in bright white light. Jimmy heaved the bag into the load-bed and it landed with a thump, but didn’t lie flat.
‘Shift it, man. It needs to be out of sight,’ said Callum in an oddly simpering voice, which managed to combine insincerity and sarcasm in equal measure.
Jimmy suddenly felt cold. He swallowed, reached in and dragged the bag away from a long object that was stopping it from lying flat. The bright torch beam fell on a pale face. Jimmy let out a yelp. A dead body stared up at him with sightless eyes.
There was a red-rimmed hole, deep and black, in the centre of its forehead. Even in Jimmy’s blind panic, he recognised Macca, Scally’s right-hand man. His heart raced and bile rose in his throat. He was about to be ripped off, or worse.
He turned to stare at Davie and Callum as terror thundered towards him like an express truck. They both gazed back, with unpleasant, yet amused looks on their faces. Davie stepped forward. The head torch beam flooded into Jimmy’s eyes, blinding him.
2
THE MORNING SUN peered over the horizon and sent shafts of light across the sweeping Glasgow skyline. PC Hamish Beattie yawned as he drove his marked police car from what he hoped was the final call of the night. An argument in the street in Erskine between two drunken nightclubbers had been simple enough to sort out, a stiff word and an empty threat was all that was required to see both men staggering off home.
Being single crewed had its disadvantages, but he enjoyed working on his own, beholden to no one. Hamish’s twenty-eight years of experience meant that he rarely needed to reach for his radio for backup, instead relying on his powers of persuasion to sort problems. He always thought that if he ended up in a roll-around with a prisoner, he had failed.
Hamish wasn’t big and he was certainly no fighter, but he was a good negotiator, a peacemaker and he hardly ever needed to go beyond his persuasive abilities.
After a long and frustrating night, racing from call to call, sorting out Glaswegian problems, Hamish couldn’t wait to get home to his bed. He had four days off and he planned to start work on some DIY. He squinted into the low sun as he crossed onto Erskine Bridge, the modern two-lane structure that spanned the River Clyde. Light danced on the water’s flat surface below. He flipped down the sun-visor with a yawn, as he drove along the smooth tarmac, hoping that there was nothing else to do back at Clydebank Police Station. His sergeant was a flyer, and even if he arrived ten minutes too early, he would come up with some bullshit task for him to do.
‘Cleared your property record? Have you finished that misper report?’ This was why Hamish always tried to arrive bang on end-of-shift time. A man of his service wasn’t working for free, that was for sure.
Hamish blinked and rubbed his eyes. Unease began to rise in his gut. Something was wrong. He couldn’t work it out at first, his sleep-deprived brain failing to interpret what he was seeing. A silhouette stood against the barriers to his nearside, next to the edge. This early on a Sunday morning, the bridge was usually devoid of pedestrians, but it wasn’t abnormal to see people stopping to take in the view.
This, however, was not a pedestrian. He or she was on the wrong side of the barrier, perched on the ledge, both arms leaning back with nothing separating them from the drop below. Hamish let out an exasperated sigh, thoughts of cotton sheets and a cosy duvet disappearing fast.
A jumper. Another bloody jumper. It wouldn’t be the first that Hamish had dealt with, and as sure as the sun rises in the east, it wouldn’t be the last. Fifteen people had leaped to their deaths from the bridge last year, and many more had threatened to do so.
