Catawba Point

by Colin Campbell

  CATAWBA POINT

  A Jim Grant Thriller

  Colin Campbell

  PRAISE FOR COLIN CAMPBELL

  “Very real. And very good.” —Lee Child

  The Jim Grant Thriller Series

  “There’s nothing soft about Colin Campbell’s writing. If you enjoy your crime fiction hard-boiled, the Jim Grant series is a must read.” —Bruce Robert Coffin, award-winning author of the Detective Byron series

  “A cop with a sharp eye, keen mind, and a lion’s heart.” —Reed Farrel Coleman, for Jamaica Plain

  “Campbell writes smart, rollercoaster tales with unstoppable forward momentum and thrilling authenticity. The Resurrection Man series is a blast.” —Nick Petrie, for Beacon Hill

  “Grim and gritty and packed with action and crackling dialogue.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Jamaica Plain

  “Action packed. Tough-as-nails. The pages fly like the bullets, fistfights and one-liners that make this one of my favourite books of the year. Top stuff!” —Matt Hilton, for Jamaica Plain

  “Campbell’s wry maverick Grant never fails to entertain.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Montecito Heights

  “Sets up immediately and maintains a breakneck pace throughout. Its smart structure and unrelenting suspense will please Lee Child fans.” —Library Journal Review, for Snake Pass

  “Harkens back to the gritty action series of the 70s and 80s, with a stylish noir voice.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Adobe Flats

  “Crackerjack entertainment: taut, gritty and full of devilish twists.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Snake Pass

  “Hard-hitting action and Grant’s dry wit make this a rollicking good time.” —Library Journal Review, for Snake Pass

  “Campbell’s Beacon Hill is a great tale of violence and intrigue, stretching across the Atlantic and back again. In it, Jim Grant proves he is the real deal.” —Reed Farrel Coleman

  The UK Crime Novels

  “This is police procedural close-up and personal. A strong debut with enough gritty realism to make your eyes water, and a few savage laughs along the way.” —Reginald Hill, for Through the Ruins of Midnight

  “An excellent story well told. A mixture of The Choirboys meets Harry Bosch.” —Michael Jecks

  “Campbell’s 30 years as a Yorkshire policeman infuse this unusual procedural with grim reality and the harsh humor that helps keep the coppers sane.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Blue Knight White Cross

  “Every detail feels authentic, and Campbell’s dark, muscular prose suggests the best pulp writers of the ’50s.” —Kirkus Reviews, for Northern Ex

  Copyright © 2020 by Colin Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Catawba Point

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from Some Awful Cunning by Joe Ricker

  Preview from Coldwater by Tom Pitts

  Preview from Occam’s Razor by Joe Clifford

  For readers groups and bloggers everywhere. But mainly for readers, without whom there’d be no writers.

  FLIGHT CANCELLED

  ONE

  “A knitting circle conference? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Place is swarming with little old ladies.”

  “And they’ve taken all the hotels?”

  Jim Grant let out a sigh and slumped in his seat at the Airport Services Counter. The assistant held out his hands and shrugged. It was 10:45 p.m., and Charlotte Douglas International was busier than any airport Grant had ever been in. Chaos reigned, and not just because the knitting circle had their needles out. People rushed past, dragging cabin luggage or suitcases. Voices were raised. Tempers flared. Everybody was trying to get somewhere else, and nobody seemed happy with where they were.

  Grant closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. It had been a long day. He should be halfway across the Atlantic by now, not stuck at an airport in Charlotte, North Carolina. He flexed his neck. Bones cracked. He opened his eyes and glanced at the airport loop road through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shuttle buses and local cabs collected stranded passengers and whisked them off into the night.

  The day had started so well. Until the sign flashed up on the departure board at La Guardia. Then it went downhill faster than shit rolling into cop valley. Grant lived at the bottom, and the shit just kept coming.

  Grant didn’t check the La Guardia status update until an hour before his flight. The last time he’d looked, it stated the departure gate would be announced later. It was later now. He dumped his leftovers in the food court waste bin and shrugged into the bright yellow windcheater with Old Town Trolley Tours on the breast. He slung the small canvas rucksack he was using as cabin luggage over one shoulder, still adjusting to the fact they’d finally called him back to give evidence over the Snake Pass incident. Three years and half a lifetime ago.

  The nearest departure board hung from the ceiling near the concession shops. A crowd was beginning to gather beneath it. The crowd didn’t look happy. Grant wondered if this was how BF Cranston felt when he’d been recalled from holiday for Crown Court. Knowing the blitzkrieg cop from Bradford, he reckoned Timmo’s reaction would have been a lot more colorful. Grant joined the back of the queue and craned his neck to find the flight number.

  “Oh, fuck me.”

  Nearly as colorful as BF Cranston but under his breath. The flight status column was changing across the board. Flashing red letters informed the crowd that their flights were delayed. All the way down the list. All except Grant’s flight to Manchester via Philadelphia.

  “Fucking shitty death.”

  A little louder this time. He checked he’d got the right flight number.

  “Fuck.”

  The status blinked red and urgent.

  FLIGHT CANCELLED

  Nothing else. No explanation. No instructions about what to do next. The tropical storm sweeping up the eastern seaboard was wreaking havoc with the flight schedules. The natives were restless. The only thing to do was enquire at the US Airways desk. That’s when the next pile of shit rolled down on him.

  The queue zigzagged around the temporary lane barriers turning the concourse alcove into a parking lot for wheelie cases and shopping bags. The enquiry counter almost disappeared behind the crush of humanity, with three harassed-looking US Airways staff trying hard to explain the delay and reroute the passengers. They weren’t trying hard enough.

  “This is a goddamn disgrace.”

  The overweight woman at the head of the queue looked like she needed two seats and hadn’t even been offered one. The assistant kept her face calm and played a ditty on the keyboard. The computer screen didn’t give the right answer, so she tapped some more. The other two staff did the same. Grant settled in for a long wait. The woman was given a voucher and some hushed advice, then the next person in the queue stepped forward.

  Grant checked his watch.

  The queue crawled
forward.

  Ninety minutes later he was two places from the front, and the queue was as long behind him as when he arrived. One of the staff had been replaced, and one had gone for a toilet break. That meant there were only two left. The pace slowed. Grant reached first place. The man at the counter in front of him had a complicated query. His travel plans were discussed at length with lots of keyboard action and staring at the monitor. Grant checked his watch again. He knew it was the wrong thing to do. It only made the time go slower and sent the wrong message to the airport staff.

  The passenger at the next counter took her voucher and instructions and left the desk. Grant stepped forward and handed his boarding pass over. The woman behind the computer spoke as if Grant was the first passenger she’d dealt with. Grant was impressed. Being able to keep calm under pressure was a rare talent. He wondered if she’d been in the forces. She looked up from the monitor.

  “There aren’t any more flights on your route.”

  His admiration evaporated in an instant.

  “What?”

  Her fingers danced over the keyboard. Her eyes scanned the display.

  “Let me check alternatives.”

  Dancing fingers. Concentrated eyes. The fingers stopped, and she nodded.

  “Okay. I’ve got a flight leaving in an hour to Charlotte. Connection to Manchester at ten-fifteen.”

  She printed out fresh boarding passes for both flights. Grant thanked her, then had another thought.

  “Suitcase?”

  She looked at him.

  “You got checked-in luggage?”

  He nodded.

  “One.”

  The woman pointed at the monitor.

  “New itinerary has gone to your canceled flight. Your checked luggage should be transferred across.”

  Grant nodded again. The woman smiled and looked like she meant it.

  “Sorry for the delay. Have a nice flight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grant went back along the concourse to the food court. There was still a crowd beneath the departure board. He checked the boarding pass and looked up for the new flight details. New York LaGuardia to Charlotte, N.C. The status column flashed red and urgent.

  FLIGHT DELAYED

  Right back where he started. It felt like running up a down escalator. He supposed it wasn’t as bad as having his flight canceled. He held on to that thought for another two hours, then even that fizzled out.

  Grant stood up when the seatbelt sign blinked off and took his rucksack from the overhead compartment. The plane was full. Everybody straightened their clothes and retrieved their carry-on luggage. Nobody could move until the door was opened. There was only room for one person at a time. It was another hurry-up-and-wait situation. Grant waited. The stewardess opened the door.

  The press of bodies surged forward. Grant was swept along as everyone dashed to make connections they’d already missed. He didn’t rush. He didn’t panic. He was a big believer in only worrying about what you could control; everything else was in the hands of the gods. The gods directed him to another US Airways information desk. The queue was shorter than last time. The outcome was the same.

  “No more flights on your route.”

  It couldn’t hurt to double-check though.

  “To Manchester?”

  The assistant wasn’t wearing her stress as well as the LaGuardia staff.

  “To England.”

  Deft fingers worked the keyboard.

  “Let me check for alternatives.”

  Grant’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Alternatives to England?”

  The woman looked over the top of her glasses.

  “Alternatives to the flight you just missed.”

  Grant took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Things you can’t control. He softened his eyes and apologized. The woman’s expression softened too. Grant nodded and gave a sad little smile.

  “Fire away.”

  The woman went back to the keyboard. Fast fingers and brief pauses. She scrolled through various screens and checked every possibility. After a few minutes, she found the only one that fit and looked at Grant.

  “Next flight we can fit you on is three days. Same time.”

  “Three days?”

  The woman was already printing out the boarding pass and reached into the drawer for a hotel voucher. She smiled at Grant to soften the blow.

  “Think of it like Three Days of the Condor. You’ve got seventy-two hours to see the sights.”

  Grant took the papers.

  “Redford was running for his life.”

  The woman tapped the voucher.

  “Shouldn’t be as hard on you then. Call the Freephone hotline. Airline has preferential rates on all database hotels.”

  Grant looked at the complicated instructions.

  “Preferential? You mean I’ve got to pay?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Weather-related. We only pay if it’s a mechanical fault. Sorry.”

  Grant slung the rucksack over his shoulder.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me to have a nice flight?”

  The woman was already clearing the screen for the next passenger.

  “Come back in three days. Then I’ll tell you to have a nice flight.”

  Grant stepped back onto the concourse and wondered where the Freephone was, then spotted a sign hanging above the walkway. Airport Services Counter. There wasn’t a queue. Everybody was rushing past it to the loop road and shuttle buses. He glanced at the hotel voucher, then at the man behind the counter. He needed a little help here. The man smiled as Grant approached, then he walked right into the knitting circle blockade.

  “They gave you the hotline number, huh?”

  Grant relaxed in the chair. He was still absorbing the fact that he’d been laid low by a bunch of little old ladies. He waved the voucher.

  “Preferential rates.”

  The assistant took the voucher.

  “Database hotels filled up hours ago. Like I said. They’re in swarm. The few rooms that were left got snapped up when the first delays came in.”

  Grant crossed his legs and rested one arm across the back of the chair.

  “Well, I can’t sit here for three days.”

  “Three days? Damn.”

  Grant watched the world going mad around him.

  “That wasn’t the first word came to mind.”

  The assistant nodded.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his supervisor wasn’t listening, then picked up the phone.

  “Let me try a place I know.”

  Grant uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

  “Database?”

  The assistant shook his head as he dialed.

  “Off the books. It’s still okay though. Used to be a Days Inn. Just not jumped the hoops yet for official recognition.”

  He held up a hand as the phone was answered.

  “Hi. It’s Jerry.”

  Grant listened as Jerry found him a room and gave a thumbs up. He passed Grant’s description for the hotel shuttle on the loop road collection point. Grant shook Jerry’s hand and thanked him. The assistant noticed Grant’s rucksack.

  “Luggage?”

  Grant twirled a hand in the air.

  “Somewhere.”

  The assistant went to a cupboard behind the counter and took out a little blue zipper bag of toiletries with a US Airways label. He handed it to Grant.

  “Travel survival kit.”

  Grant looked at the fold-up toothbrush and miniature toothpaste.

  “Thanks. I think I can survive this.”

  He picked up a free map from the display stand and kept the positive thoughts going all the way to the automatic doors. Right until the steaming hot North Carolina night hit him when he stepped outside.

  TWO

  The Sleep
y Nook Inn was only ten minutes away but felt like it was in the middle of nowhere. There were no streetlights. There were no houses. There was no traffic. Just trees and darkness. Anywhere else and the darkness would have helped cool Grant down, but Charlotte in July wasn’t anywhere else. Even this close to midnight, the air was hot and steamy. Sweat soaked through his shirt and trousers long before the minibus picked him up at collection point D. Grant lost his sense of direction after the third turn. He had no idea where he was by the time the driver swung into a tree-lined driveway and parked outside a low flat reception block.

  Grant got out and swung the rucksack over his shoulder. The driver didn’t offer to help. There wasn’t any luggage to carry. Grant wiped a finger across his forehead and flicked the sweat to one side.

  “The heat always this intense?”

  The driver’s dead eyes didn’t flicker.

  “What heat?”

  So much for the have-a-nice-flight attitude. Grant closed the door, and the minibus pulled across the parking lot into an angled bay in the corner. He walked under the portico and almost bumped into the automatic door. The door didn’t open. Grant couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a manual door. He pulled it open and stepped into air-conditioned air. He took a deep breath and let the air cool the sweat on his back.

  The single-story building was separate from the accommodation blocks. There was a drinks machine on the right and a conservatory on the left with low bamboo furniture. The reception desk was high wide and handsome, sandy-colored wood that looked like it had been imported from a more expensive hotel. The Sleepy Nook wasn’t an expensive hotel. It wasn’t even the Days Inn that it used to be before the signs had been changed but the color scheme retained. There was a single light above the night desk. A slow-eyed woman came out of the office behind the desk.