Point of no Return: A Scottish Crime Thriller (A DCI Harry McNeil Crime Thriller Book 7)

by John Carson

  POINT OF NO RETURN

  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

  For Merrill Astill Blount

  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

  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

  If Muckle McInsh hadn’t had those few drams after dinner, he might have turned the Land Rover round and gone for help.

  As it was, some of Scotland’s finest product was coursing its way through his veins and he was more than up for a fight. He could have asked Wee Shug for back-up, but he didn’t see the need. He’d already handed his notice in and the Wolf family could shove this place up their arse.

  Right now, he was spoiling for a fight. He was more than happy to give one of those pompous bastards a tongue lashing. Nobody is to go near the properties until they’ve been officially handed over. Those had been the instructions, and by God he was going to enforce them. It wasn’t as if they could fire him.

  He could see the top half of the house appear as he drove further up the private road.

  It was the light on in the extension that caught his eye in the dark. Nobody lived in the house, and he wasn’t privy to which member of the McTool clan had been left this pile of stones in the old man’s will, and he couldn’t give a toss, but he was raring to go now.

  Sparky, his German Shepherd, sensed his anger and started to get agitated. Muckle laughed as the vehicle got closer.

  ‘That’s it, Sparky my boy. Get yourself prepared for a bit of arse-biting. And God help him if he has a weapon. Daddy brought the twelve-gauge.’ He laughed in the darkness of the vehicle and smiled at the dog, who was now sitting up in the passenger seat, growling.

  ‘Don’t you worry, pal; if Daddy sees one of those shaggers is going to hurt you, I’ll make sure you’re not in the line of fire.’

  The dog sensed he was being spoken to and wagged his tail.

  Sparky was a good boy. Muckle’s best friend. Yes, Donald in the pub was his best human friend, but his big furry pal was the love of his life. His wife came a close second for sure, but Sparky was the most loyal companion a man could ever hope for.

  Why don’t you get a sheep dog? Donald had asked one night in the pub.

  Are you daft? Muckle had admonished. What would I do with a dog who runs around like it’s on crack?

  No, Sparky was his early warning system, and Jesus was the end of the fight. He’d nicknamed his shotgun Jesus years ago, so if any bastard was causing trouble and asked the question, Who’s going to make me?… well, Jesus will, fuckwit.

  Muckle was disappointed that nobody had ever asked him that question. Probably because he was built like a brick shithouse and stood at over six feet, and the dog acted like he was inbred when he got going. Sometimes it took two commands of Shut up, ya hoor for the dog to listen to him.

  It was obvious that nobody wanted punched in the mouth, shot in the balls or bitten on the arse by the giant of a man and his dog.

  ‘I bet it’s that wee arse-piece, Clive,’ Muckle said as he slowed the car down. Clive Wolf, member of the Wolf clan and a royal pain. Nothing a good skelping wouldn’t have taken care of when the wee bastard was growing up, he was sure, but they had spared the rod. Now, the young man sniffed stuff up his nose and drove his car while he was pished, thinking he could guide the car using a crystal ball or something. One day, that would be the only way his family would be able to speak to him if he carried on like that.

  Muckle wanted to approach the house cautiously, not boot it up to the front door and leave himself open to attack. Some people might think he was daft when they looked at him, but he would soon convince them that looks could be deceiving.

  Still, you had to think on your feet at times like these. Maybe there were some housebreakers in there, raking about looking for a TV or the likes. Crime wasn’t big on the island, but sometimes they got some scally bastard from the mainland hopping on the ferry for a bit of breaking and entering. Not that they would find anything of value in the house. The tenants had all been told to sod off after Oliver Wolf had died last Christmas. In preparation for the family getting what was coming to them.

  Then the headlights picked out a bright-red Mercedes. The small convertible kind that people bought to impress others. The hairdresser’s special.

  Muckle scoffed. ‘It’s not even one of the big ones,’ he said to Sparky, who barked a few times in agreement.

  ‘That’s enough, pal. I knew it would be that wee bastard. We don’t want to give him a heads-up. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing here when there were specific instructions that nobody was to go raking about.’

  Sparky barked again and stood on the seat as Muckle stopped the vehicle. Muckle’s wife was always nagging him about not letting the dog sit on the seat in their own car, but this mud-plugger belonged to the Wolf family, so as far as Muckle was concerned, Sparky could tear it to pieces.

  ‘Clive Wolf, baw-bag of the family. I wonder what the wee bastard’s doing in here?’ He put the vehicle in park but kept the engine running. Sparky looked at him in anticipation of some arse-biting, but Muckle held up a hand. ‘No’ yet, boy. If ding dong starts to give us his pish, maybe I’ll let you have an early supper, but keep yourself together. And when I say, Sparky! Get your arse over here! that is not the signal to go and do whatever the fuck you feel like doing. I don’t want anybody to think you’re sticking it up me. I gave Donald a bottle of my best twelve-year-old malt to train you. I think I got the pointy end of the stick.’

  Sparky stood on the seat and turned his head one way then the other as Muckle spoke to him.

  ‘Aye, ya daft b
astard, you know exactly what I’m saying. Tilting yer heid like I’m talking Chinese.’ He reached out and rubbed the dog below his ear.

  He looked out through the windscreen as spots of rain started to hit it. ‘Magic. I forgot to bring my heavy jacket. If I get soaked and I go in there and that wee fanny is up to no good, I’ll pretend I didn’t recognise him and we’ll truss him up like last year’s Christmas turkey. How about it, boy?’

  Sparky barked his enthusiasm, then stood looking out the front of the vehicle and growled again.

  ‘I know, pal; who buys a red Mercedes like that? Apparently, Clive Wolf does. Maybe he’s got a lassie in there with him. A bit of seclusion. But she mustn’t have set the bar too high if she’s impressed by that dump. Or him.’

  The house, made of solid stone, looked like it was a hundred years old. It had been added to many years ago and was comfortable enough if you liked that sort of thing. The view was the money-maker; the loch sat below the house with the hills in the distance. It was secluded and private.

  The tenant who had been told the lease wasn’t being renewed was a businessman who had worked from home. Doing what, Muckle didn’t know, but being head of security, Muckle had been called up to the property one Saturday night when a bunch of yahoos from the mainland had come over in their fancy foreign cars and thought that playing music at full blast was going to go down well.

  Muckle had shut them down pretty sharpish after Old Man Oliver Wolf had called him. Even he could hear the music from the big house, and disturbing Oliver’s sleep was not a pastime you wanted to get comfortable with.

  The music had stopped and one of the friends of the tenant had called Muckle a fat bastard. ‘I might be overweight,’ he had replied, ‘but at least I can go on a diet. Midget.’ While the other guests had laughed at the remark, the small man had taken a step forward. Muckle had let a little bit more of Sparky’s leash slip through his hand and the small man got the message that he was about to become even smaller.

  Oliver Wolf had found great amusement in the tenant’s complaint about his head of security, telling the man to fuck off back to the mainland if he wasn’t happy. Words were never minced by Oliver.

  ‘Right, boy, you ready to go and do some security work?’ Muckle had another glance at Jesus the shotgun and decided against taking it in. He’d need his torch in one hand, which meant only one free hand, and he didn’t want Sparky running about loose while he had the gun. He left it where it was, within easy reach should he need to run back and get it.

  Sparky bounded about in the seat. He knew he was at work, because Muckle had bought him a K9 vest to wear and the smart dog soon associated the vest with going to work. Muckle was under no illusion that his Shepherd was as good as a police dog, but when he was straining at the leash, people didn’t stop to think the dog wasn’t highly trained. They saw a mouthful of teeth on legs that could perform cosmetic surgery without anaesthetic.

  Muckle clipped the leash to the vest, which revved the dog up. He opened the door, and Sparky was across the seat in a flash and he jumped down, starting to pull.

  ‘Wait, ya hoor,’ Muckle said, almost missing the driver’s door as he pushed it shut without banging it.

  The driveway was semi-circular out the front and Sparky made a beeline for the little area of grass in front of the house, where some bushes were growing in the middle. Sparky watered them before starting to haul towards the front door.

  ‘Do you want that bloody bark collar on?’ Muckle asked the dog, a threat his wife used in their house when the Shepherd became too rambunctious. As tough as he was, Sparky hated the collar and had soon learned to behave just by the very threat.

  He stopped pulling so hard and Muckle made it look like he was in full control as he walked towards the front door of the house. He fished out the set of keys he carried on his rounds when checking on the properties. He looked closely at the front door as the automatic overhead light came on, illuminating the scene. It was slightly ajar, as if Clive had tried to swing it shut but hadn’t put enough force behind it and it hadn’t closed properly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get a shock,’ Muckle said, toeing the door open wider. He put his keys away and pulled out the Maglite from an inside pocket and held it up in such a way that he could bring it down hard on somebody, like a baton. There were no lights on downstairs and the sharp light picked out a little table in the main hallway.

  Muckle knew he should shout out, but why give Clive a warning? He shouldn’t be here, and Muckle wanted to see the look of shock on his face when he was confronted by one man and his dog.

  Muckle wanted to check downstairs first, even though Sparky was pulling towards the upper level, where the light had been coming from. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise, so he looked into the dark rooms on the ground floor, including the large kitchen in the extension, where the confrontation with the small man had taken place.

  Nobody was there.

  ‘Come on, Sparky, let’s go upstairs.’ He shone the light about as Sparky led him back out of the room, and they went up the staircase to the first floor. No light spilled out from under any of the doors here.

  Muckle stood and thought for a second. He knew the light had been coming from a room at the side of the house, in the extension, which was a two-level add-on to match the original house. The master bedroom was there, at the back, a big affair with its own bathroom. That must be where the light was coming from. Not one of the other two bedrooms, used by the teenagers when the tenant had lived here with his brood. Little bastards, the lot of them.

  Muckle didn’t have kids and was happy with his dog. When he had met his wife a few years ago, she’d had a Beagle and both dogs had hit it off, which sealed the deal for Muckle. Love me, love my dog.

  ‘Go and find him, Sparky boy,’ he said to the dog, shining the flashlight around the landing and down the hallway that led along the extension.

  He gave the dog a clue by walking towards the master bedroom. He stopped by the door and leaned in closer, not wanting to seem like he was spying, but he was security and had every right to be here. He knew for a fact that Clive Wolf didn’t have the right.

  He put the flashlight in his left hand, which was holding Sparky’s leash, and put his right hand on the ornate door handle.

  ‘Feel free to go at it, boy, if you feel we’re being threatened.’ He pushed down on the handle and shoved the door open.

  There was only one person in the room: Clive Wolf. He was sitting on a chair in the little sitting area, illuminated by a small table lamp. He was facing away from Muckle and didn’t move when the man came in with his dog.

  Sparky started barking and not in a Let’s play ball kind of way. He pulled against the vest, straining at it so hard he was off his front legs.

  ‘Easy, Sparks!’ Muckle shouted. Then, to the young man in the room: ‘Clive! It’s Muckle McInsh, security. You okay?’

  Christ, maybe he’s pished and fallen asleep. ‘Too bad if he has,’ he said to the dog, who wasn’t listening but was in full growling and barking mode now. The hairs on Muckle’s neck stood up. Usually by now, the person who wasn’t holding back the dog would at least show some interest in keeping their body parts attached, but Clive was out of it.

  ‘Clive!’ Muckle shouted, not wanting to get too close at this point, but knowing he had to. He walked forward, leaning back a little so the dog wouldn’t pull him over.

  Sparky stopped, the hair on his back now standing up. Muckle could see the red stain on the carpet under the chair. Then he saw the hole in the wall where somebody had smashed it with a hammer, the one that was lying on the carpet.

  Muckle stepped forward and shone his light into Clive’s eyes, a trick he’d learned to disable a person for a few seconds. But Clive didn’t complain or put a hand up to shield his eyes. He’d never complain again.

  Muckle shone the light at the hole in the wall. And saw the face looking back out at him.

  Two

  ‘I’d
like to propose a toast,’ the elderly solicitor said, standing at the head of the huge dining table in the great hall. ‘To Oliver Wolf. A man who was born and died on this fine piece of rock in the Atlantic Ocean. Wolf Island. A place you can now all call home. Oliver Wolf!’ He raised his glass higher and drank the Scotch, then slammed the glass down on the table.

  ‘Oliver Wolf!’ the others chanted, all of them knocking back the first of many drinks that would be consumed over the course of the weekend. All except Shona, Oliver’s daughter and the baby of the family.

  And her twin brother, Clive, who hadn’t bothered to show after yesterday’s little tantrum.

  The solicitor shuffled some papers and put them in the ratty old briefcase on the dining table, and then he closed it and picked it up.

  ‘God help you all,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m away to have a squint at the property the old man left me,’ Zachary Wolf said, tossing the keys up in the air and catching them with one hand.

  ‘The old man must have been off his head,’ Fenton Wolf said, curling his lip in barely disguised contempt.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Zachary said, standing back from the table.

  ‘At least this place isn’t crappy,’ Shona said.