Blood Runs Cold, page 1
Praise for the Max Craigie series
‘Grabbed me from the first page’
Ian Rankin
‘Fast-paced, compelling, and deeply authentic’
Jane Casey
‘Neil Lancaster is a thriller writer set to blow up the bestseller lists’
C. L. Taylor
‘Deliciously dark’
Daily Mail
‘One of the very best police procedural writers in the country’
The Sun
‘A brand-new star of Tartan Noir. Superb’
Cass Green
‘Whip-smart and pacy with laugh-out-loud black humour. I loved it!’
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
‘I loved all the characters who are so true to life … Five stars for sure’
Alex Pine
‘Stylish, fast-paced and utterly unputdownable’
Woman’s Own
‘Line of Duty on steroids … It just never lets up!’
John Barlow
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, and was also longlisted for the McIlvanney Prize, and shortlisted for the Dead Good Readers Award. 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, and will shortly be appearing on a BBC true crime show, Big Little Crimes.
@neillancaster66
@NeilLancasterCrime
www.neillancastercrime.co.uk
Also by Neil Lancaster
The Max Craigie Novels
Dead Man’s Grave
The Blood Tide
The Night Watch
The Tom Novak Novels
Going Dark
Going Rogue
Going Back
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper,
Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland
This edition 2023
1
First published in Great Britain by
HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023
Emojis © Shutterstock
Copyright © Neil Lancaster 2023
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: 9780008551278
Ebook Edition © April 2023 ISBN: 9780008551254
Version 2023-04-04
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008551278
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
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
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Dedicated with thanks to two wonderful teachers
who inspired me to believe that one day I’d be
able to write a book. It took forty years before it
happened, but I never forgot what you said.
To any teachers reading this dedication, just remember
that one well-placed piece of praise, may make a kid
dare to dream. And a book begins with a dream.
So, with that in mind I’m saying a belated, but heartfelt
thank you to Martin Chilvers, and David Yabbacome.
You both made a young man believe that
maybe one day, it could happen.
Prologue
AFRODITA DUSHKU WAS staring out of the window of the high-speed train as it carved its way through the Scottish countryside. She had no idea how long she’d been in the sleek and modern carriage, which was nothing like the one she’d travelled on during her interminable trip all those months ago. She assumed it was months, but so much had happened that she’d lost track of time, so it could have been a year. One thing she could say, though, was that British trains were far superior to Albanian ones.
The lush, green scenery clearly fed by the driving rain sped by in a blur as the train’s velocity pushed droplets horizontally along the windows. She couldn’t get used to the colour of the countryside in the UK after the dry, dusty Mediterranean climate of Albania. It was seemingly so cold and wet all the time here.
Soon the landscape became more built up, with housing and factories, as the train began to slow, presumably for a stop. She couldn’t understand the announcement that erupted out of the tinny speakers, but she did hear the word ‘Falkirk’. The train pulled to a gentle halt at a station and the signs that read Falkirk confirmed what the announcer had seemingly said. The doors hissed open and a few passengers got on board, stowed their luggage in the racks and settled in their seats. Very soon the doors were shut again, and the train gathered speed as it passed into what looked like the edges of a town.
One of the recently joined passengers, a youngish-looking man wearing a hoodie and baseball cap, walked along the carriage, a phone in his hand, which he was apparently studying. There was something about him that didn’t add up. He had no luggage, and his dark, swarthy complexion just didn’t seem to fit with the other passengers. Suddenly, he looked from his phone, straight at her, before immediately averting his eyes again. Afrodita froze, her blood like ice water in her veins. He was wrong. He didn’t belong. She stared at the table in front of her, trying not to show that she was trembling.
She pres sed her back into the firm, yet somehow yielding upholstery of the comfortable seat, and tried to relax, despite the lump in the base of her spine. The thought of what was causing the lump in her back made a fresh wave of nausea grip her stomach. She shuddered violently, and her head swam.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ticket, which she looked at with feigned interest, and then let it fall from her fingers onto the floor. She reached down to pick it up and took the opportunity to glance behind her. There was no sign of the suspicious newcomer. She breathed, just a little, as she sat back up straight.
An elderly lady with short, dark hair and a gentle face nodded at her, a smile in her kind eyes. The woman said something to her in English, the tones of which seemed to indicate concern, but they meant nothing to her. She understood a little English, but it hadn’t been a priority for her, and it most definitely hadn’t been encouraged by Jetmir.
Afrodita averted her eyes, feeling the hot flush in her face intensify so that it almost burned. Even without the language barrier, she didn’t want to speak to anyone. Another wave of nausea overcame her, like a fist wrenching at her stomach. She couldn’t afford to be sick, not here, not now. It would draw far too much attention, which was the last thing she needed. Without looking up, she leapt to her feet and staggered off to the toilet cubicle at the end of the carriage. The electronically operated doors opened agonisingly slowly, and she felt that every occupant of the carriage was staring at her; her cheeks flushed even more. The doors closed at a pace that seemed even slower than they had opened. Willing them to shut faster, she felt the urge to vomit rising in her throat.
As soon as the doors hissed shut, she engaged the locking mechanism and retched and coughed into the stainless-steel toilet bowl, although all that came out was a thin, acidic yellow drool. It had been so long since she had eaten that there was nothing in her shrunken belly. She heaved again, trying to limit the noise. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she shuddered at the icy feeling in her stomach. She panted, trying to regain her composure before she stood up, her head spinning.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. The blush on her thin face was fading as she returned to her more usual pallor – just like the colour of the wheat bread dough that her mother used to knead in the kitchen of their tiny house in Albania. Her long, dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail, which was greasy, lifeless and badly needed washing, but facilities at the London apartment were sparse, and there was rarely hot water. Her forehead was dotted with acne, and her green eyes were flat – surrounded by dark circles. To her, she looked much older than her twelve years. Not yet a woman, but no longer a child. Her grubby, baggy tracksuit jacket and loose track pants gave no signs of the figure that was hidden beneath. Another benefit of the voluminous garments was that they effectively concealed the flat package that had been tucked by Jetmir into the small of her back and secured with parcel tape that encircled her tiny waist. She hadn’t asked what was in the package, as Jetmir wouldn’t have told her in any case, and she’d often found it best not to question it.
Her stomach gurgled, a mixture of nausea and hunger. It had been hours since she’d eaten, and yet despite the twenty-pound note in her jacket pocket, she had shaken her head each time the food trolley had passed her seat in the centre of the train. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, and she was so scared that she didn’t think she could eat without throwing up.
There was a sudden pounding on the door, which caused Afrodita to flinch. ‘Tickets,’ came a deep, authoritative male voice.
Fear gripped Afrodita, her stomach lurching again, her breath rasping, her face greasy with sweat. She had no choice; she had to leave the bathroom and return to the carriage. She ran the tap and splashed some water on her face, before drying it on a coarse paper towel. She took one last look at herself, inhaled deeply and pressed the button to open the doors again. The progress was painfully slow; she held her breath, only letting it out when she saw the uniformed ticket collector who had walked the train length earlier.
‘Ticket?’ he said, his face and voice softening as he looked at Afrodita.
She wordlessly held up the ticket that Jetmir had given her, and the guard gave it a cursory glance, before nodding, his eyes registering concern.
‘Are you okay?’ he said. His voice was kind and Afrodita wondered if he was a father.
She just nodded before heading back to her seat, her stomach spasming as she tried desperately to control her breathing. She felt hot tears begin to well, which she swiped away and glanced at the lady opposite her, who smiled as Afrodita sat.
She’d delivered a few much smaller packages before, but this felt different. Previously she’d taken packs wrapped in clingfilm that she concealed in her underwear and she had only visited smaller towns within a couple of hours of London. This package felt like it was at least a kilogram, and her destination today was much farther away. She’d never even heard of Glasgow, let alone travelled there.
Her instructions, given harshly by Jetmir, rang in her ears: ‘Speak to no one. Look at no one. And do nothing to attract any attention. If you lose the package, the debt will be yours, Afrodita, and if not yours then we know where your sister is in Albania. You understand me?’ His black eyes glittered as he’d handed her a ticket, a scratched mobile phone and a twenty-pound note at a railway station in London. He had messaged her on the phone on several occasions as the train passed through stations, clearly just to let her know that he was tracking her, presumably with the device. It made her anxiety even worse, knowing that she was being watched and wondering if one of the Mafia Shqiptare, the violent Albanian gang, really was on the train with her as Jetmir had suggested there would be. She looked around the carriage but saw only bored passengers reading, tapping on computers, or staring at phones or tablets, earbuds in their ears. No one showed her any interest, apart from the kind-looking woman opposite, whose gaze she still refused to meet.
‘Relax,’ she muttered to herself, but she knew it was pointless. Today was different. Today she was doing something that she suspected could get her into big trouble. She’d had no contact with the police in London, invisible as she was. However, if they were anything like cops in Albania, she didn’t want to encounter them ever, and particularly not now.
Afrodita took several deep, deep breaths, trying to force the panic away. ‘Get hold of yourself,’ she said under her breath, reminding herself of Jetmir’s earlier words. ‘You look so young and innocent, Affi, that no cop or gang-banger will suspect you. Do as we tell you and you’ll be fine.’ She’d smiled as he’d lightly brushed his fingers against her cheek. He could do this, just a touch from him could make her feel special, despite the other side of his personality being so dark and scathing.
She was so tightly wound up that she flinched and gasped when the phone in her pocket vibrated. Concern crossed the lady’s face, but Afrodita didn’t meet her gaze as she picked it out.
Thjesht largohesh nga Falkirk? read the message on the screen.
Po, she replied, her face flushed, the feeling that she was being watched flaring again.
She craned her neck to look behind her and then she saw him. A new face that she hadn’t seen in the carriage before. One that had most certainly appeared after they had stopped at Falkirk. He was young and muscular, with a short goatee. He stared down at the phone in his hand, his baseball cap perched on his head. His eyes flicked up and momentarily caught hers before he hurriedly looked down again. Her heart began to pound in her chest. Who was he? She knew that couriers had been robbed before; was he going to rob her?
