The Night Watch, page 1
Praise for Neil Lancaster
‘Grabbed me from the first page … think Jack Reacher fronting Line of Duty’
Ian Rankin
‘The best police procedural I’ve read in years – fast-paced, compelling, and deeply authentic. D. S. Max Craigie is a brilliant hero and I can’t wait for the next in the series’
Jane Casey
‘Neil Lancaster is a thriller writer set to blow up the bestseller lists’
C. L. Taylor
‘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
About the Author
NEIL LANCASTER is the No. 1 digital bestselling author of both the Tom Novak and Max Craigie series. His first Craigie novel, Dead Man’s Grave, was longlisted for the 2021 McIlvanney Prize for Best Scottish Crime Book of the Year. The second Craigie novel is The Blood Tide which has topped several ebook and audio charts. 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 and surveillance specialist he utilised all manner of techniques to investigate and disrupt major crime and criminals.
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
The Max Craigie Novels
Dead Man’s Grave
The Blood Tide
The Tom Novak Novels
Going Dark
Going Rogue
Going Back
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
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.
Ebook Edition © September 2022 ISBN: 9780008470418
Version 2022-06-10
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008518479
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
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
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader,
About the Publisher
This book is dedicated to my wonderful
sisters, Judith and Helen
We did OK, right?
1
SCOTT PATERSON YAWNED as he left the dark streets of Edinburgh and drove towards the leafier suburb of Ravelston. It was pitch black, dry and cloudy, and the city was deserted this early in the morning.
His head felt heavy after spending the evening with some pals in a nice pub in the centre of town. He’d drunk some champagne, smoked a joint, and snorted a line of Charlie, so whilst he probably shouldn’t have been driving, he was hardly drunk. He was, however, knackered after a whirlwind of emotions and celebrations. A few days ago, he’d been given a ‘not proven’ verdict at the High Court. He’d gone from facing a life sentence in Saughton Jail to freedom, and it was all a little hard to take in. He settled with pleasure into the soft leather seat of the BMW X5, and yawned again. Time to go home and continue getting reacquainted with the wife.
His phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He picked it up and looked at the screen, his eyes widening as he saw the name of the caller. Jackie McLennan. The Jackie McLennan. A man to be feared and revered in equal measure.
‘Jackie, my man,’ he said.
‘Scotty, I just heard. You’re out of Saughton and dinnae tell me, eh?’ a rough Edinburgh accent barked in his ear.
Jackie was a serious face from the Edinburgh underworld with fingers in all sorts of pies. Scott hadn’t seen him for a while, but then he hadn’t seen anyone after almost a year on remand in Saughton Jail, awaiting trial for a rather nasty murder.
‘Ach, you know. Been busy, catching up with my lady and my boys.’
‘Aye, I guess. So, a not proven then. You jammy bastard, how’d you pull that off, eh?’
‘Innocent as a wee lamb. The cop in charge got fucked by my lawyer, and the rest is history. What a shame, eh?’ he guffawed.
‘Fucking Teflon-boy, you are. Rumours were, you were bang-to-rights for a life stretch.’
Paterson opened his mouth to retort, but paused, distracted by movement in his rear-view mirror. A big, dark car suddenly pulled out of a side street. It was accelerating hard to catch up with him. Within seconds, it closed the distance until it was only a few feet from his bumper. Its bright halogen headlamps pierced the darkness, flooding his car with blinding, white light. Scott was a man of the world, and a car that close, with its lights on full beam, meant only one thing.
Trouble.
Either a cop car, or worse, a rival gang. The cops didn’t bother him too much. He had a gram of coke in his pocket, and a small knife in the door of the car, but he could either ditch those before the cops pulled him, or just brazen it out. Worst case, if it was a lone cop, he would intimidate the life out of the bastard. Scott was used to doing that. At well over six feet tall and close to eighteen stone of solid muscle, it wasn’t hard. A tooled-up rival gang was a different matter altogether. He d made plenty of enemies in his years as a gang enforcer for hire, and he was always ready for trouble. His hand gripped the phone, his eyes dropped to the door pocket where he was reassured to see the glint of the lock-knife.
His jaw set tight, and he growled softly, under his breath. No one fucked with Scott Paterson. Not the cops, and certainly not some wee gadgies wanting to make a name for themselves.
‘I’m gonna have to go, Jackie. I’ve got company.’
‘You okay?’
‘Aye, someone on my tail. I’ll call you later.’ He hung up without waiting for a reply, hoping Jackie wouldn’t be offended.
Then it happened. He watched in the rear-view mirror as an arm came out of the pursuing car’s window. It clamped an oscillating blue light on the roof.
Fuck. Cops. Even worse, not regular cops, but a specialist unit by the look of the car, a decent-sized SUV with a covert light. They probably had him under surveillance, but he was sure he hadn’t seen anyone. Only been out a few days and the bastards were already trying to fuck him over. Anger flared in his chest like sudden indigestion.
Paterson floored the powerful BMW and roared off, gathering speed along the long, straight road. The cop car accelerated, too, but Scott was making good ground. Seeing the junction ahead he swiftly turned right onto Strachan Road, heading towards Ravelston. He mashed his foot to the floor again. The BMW screamed as it sped along, tyres protesting. Soon the streetlights ended, and he found himself on Ravelston Dyke Road. It was a dark and lonely stretch, lined with woodland on either side. The cop car briefly disappeared, so he quickly lowered the passenger window. Reaching into the door pocket, he tossed the lock-knife out over the low wall and into the woodland, closely followed by the small wrap of cocaine. He checked his rear-view mirror, to see the pursuing cop car screech back into view in hot pursuit, blue lights strobing and flickering through the surrounding trees.
He smiled to himself, his confidence rising now the contraband was gone, and he was certain they couldn’t have seen him ditch it. If they were CID officers, they’d never have a breath machine with them and they’d certainly never have a field drug test kit. If he made enough of a fuss, they’d probably leave him alone. Police manpower in this bit of Edinburgh was shite, and they’d have no desire to wait for ages with an angry Scott Paterson. They were almost universally fucking cowards.
As quickly as he’d accelerated to get away from the pursuing police car, he stamped on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road, just past the entrance of the empty car park of Ravelston Golf Course. He sighed, totally relaxed now. They had nothing on him at all, he chuckled to himself, his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror.
The cop car stopped close behind him, almost touching his rear bumper, headlights on full beam, the pulsing blue light blinding him.
‘Jesus suffering fuck,’ he said to himself, flipping the mirror up to avert the beams of light. Turning to the wing mirror, he saw the cop car door open, and a shadowy form step out. Through the glare he could just see the cop’s hi-viz ballistic vest as it began to move towards him. Cheeky bastard, he thought. He was going to make his life a misery.
He’d only seen one person get out of the car. Whoever it was had made a big mistake.
Paterson decided that he was going to stay put. The fucker could come to him. He turned the music up and began to scroll through Facebook on his phone. The photos from his celebration a few days ago were there, and he grinned at the pissed carnage that had ensued.
A full minute had passed before he looked up again. The lights were still burning into the back of his car, but there was no sight of the cop. He killed the music and squinted, trying to see what the hell the pig was playing at. Was he trying to freak him out?
He looked down at his phone again, but he couldn’t concentrate. Something tickled at his subconscious. He’d been stopped by cops a million times, and they always approached the car. They were usually all over him like a cheap suit. Suddenly, the cop car’s headlamps and blue flashing light died, and the BMW was plunged into darkness.
‘What the fuck?’ he murmured, wishing that he hadn’t tossed his blade.
He looked at the car behind him. It was quiet and inert in the gloom, as shadowy and ominous as the night itself. He leaned out of his open window and strained to hear, but his engine was too loud. He pressed the ignition button, and the BMW fell silent. Everything was suddenly shrouded in darkness. The only sound was the engine ticking as it cooled, and the soft breeze whispering through the trees. The silence was almost physical in its intensity. He flinched at a rustling noise from the edge of the woods beside his car. He swivelled his head towards it, his eyes wide, but could see nothing through the deep, impenetrable blackness.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ he said, opening the door and stepping out, pulling himself up to his full height, muscles tensed, massive shoulders squared. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he bellowed towards the car.
Nothing. He felt a prickle along his spine as he waited. There were no other cars, no one else on the street. At that moment, the full moon broke through fast-moving clouds and a shaft of light hit the car, momentarily bathing him in a pale glow. Long shadows crept across the road and then vanished into the trees as the moon disappeared.
‘I’ll have my fucking lawyer on you bastards,’ he shouted, his voice loud, but without the furious anger of before. He walked up to the silent cop car that was black enough to melt into the night. There was no sign of a blue light on the roof, and nothing on the dash. What was the stupid bastard up to? Despite the cool autumnal air, a bead of sweat ran down his spine. His heart thudded. He swallowed and turned towards his car.
As he strode back, he glanced around once more. Again, nothing. He tried to stay calm as he peered through the stillopen door of his vehicle. The interior light was on, illuminating everything in a soft glow. It would be fine. He would just drive home and forget this ever happened. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was missing something.
Then he saw it.
His car key had gone. It was no longer in the slot next to the steering wheel.
Paterson groped around in the footwell, hoping it had fallen onto the floor, but after a moment, he stopped. He stood up, blinked, balled his hands into tight fists. His nails dug into his palms as he took a ragged breath and his insides turned to ice.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ he yelled, but he sounded scared. His words were quickly swallowed up by the surrounding trees and the deep, velvety night.
There was a faint cackle of laughter behind him. The snap of a twig under a boot. Paterson froze. He turned slowly, looking into the undergrowth for the source of the noise. Something moved, came out of the dense trees, a slow-moving shadow, only just visible. He gasped, sucked in a lungful of air.
The shape approached, one arm outstretched, clutching something.
Scott Paterson cried out in terror and turned to sprint into the darkness.
He ran for his life.
2
FERGUS GRIGOR KISSED his wife gently on the cheek. He stared down at her as she lay asleep in their narrow double bed. She stirred and turned to look at him.
‘You’re awake early,’ she murmured, stroking his cheek.
‘Morning. I’m going for a run, I can’t sleep.’
‘You’re mad,’ she said, with an exaggerated yawn and a stretch.
‘You love me for it. It’s why you married me.’
‘No, I married you for your huge wallet and athletic physique. Make sure you bring me coffee when you get back. Where’re you going?’
‘Just around the headland. It’s looking like a beautiful day. Honeymoon weather,’ he said, stroking her long auburn hair.
‘Aye well, it’s honeymoon weather every day in the Maldives, but your daft bloody job put paid to that, eh?’ she said without resentment, referring to the holiday that they’d cancelled because of his overrunning trial. So instead of two weeks in the Indian Ocean, they’d had a long weekend in a lighthouse keeper’s cottage at Dunnet Head.
‘We’ll do it soon, Mrs Grigor. I promise.’ Fergus leaned forward and kissed his new wife once more.
‘Yeah, whatever, counsel,’ she said, burying herself in the duvet again and closing her eyes, a trace of a smile on her face.
Fergus chuckled, stood up and left the room, pulling his running vest over his head. He quickly put his well-worn trainers on and let himself out of the small, whitewashed cottage right next to the lighthouse at Dunnet Head. The most northerly part of the United Kingdom.
