‘Anyway, Sarge, piss off. It’s date night tonight, and you aren’t cocking that up again,’ Janie chuckled.
‘Janie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks, pal. You stuck by me and had my back when no one else did. I won’t forget that,’ said Max, surprised at the touch of emotion he was feeling.
‘You’re welcome, Sarge, now sod off. I’m required elsewhere.’ She punched him lightly and affectionately on the shoulder.
Max laughed as he got out of the car, waving as Janie pulled off in the BMW. He grabbed the blue wheelie bin and began to tug it up the track towards his home. He was looking forward to a workout in the gym and then just sitting in front of the TV, something he hadn’t done for some time.
He stopped still in the middle of the drive, his senses alive, despite his bone-wearing fatigue. It suddenly occurred to him that Nutmeg hadn’t come down to meet him. He frowned, a tickle of apprehension nipping at him. A combat indicator, once more? But from who, and why? Surely not now, he thought, not after everything that had happened. His synapses began to fire, once again. He instinctively reached for his pocket, suddenly cursing the fact that he’d left his baton in his desk at the office.
He continued, cautiously, until he reached the top of his drive, using a birch tree as cover. As he peeped around the thick trunk, he could see that he had company.
Katie sat on the bench in front of the glass doors at the front of the house, Nutmeg curled up next to her, resting her shaggy blonde head on Katie’s leg.
‘This is a surprise,’ was all that Max could think of to say, as Nutmeg leaped off his wife’s lap to joyfully welcome Max home.
‘I saw the news, so I took a flight to Glasgow. I was worried,’ she said, pointing at her suitcase on the ground next to her.
‘You should’ve asked Lynne to let you in. She has a key,’ said Max.
‘I was happy here with Nutmeg. I had no idea you lived somewhere so beautiful.’
‘I like it. Why are you here?’ said Max, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions. He looked at her sparkling green eyes, choppy, dirty blonde hair and wide mouth and he was gripped by a longing for her. For everything to be right between them, again.
‘I wanted to see you. We said that we needed to be apart for a while, to see if we wanted to be together. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you a lot,’ she said standing.
Max took her in his arms and hugged her tight, smelling her light perfume.
‘Can I stay a while?’ said Katie, pulling away and looking at Max.
‘You can stay forever,’ said Max.
They both sat down, next to each other on the bench, their arms entwined, and Nutmeg leaped up and snuggled in between them, looking adoringly at both of them in turn.
‘This feels like home,’ said Katie, resting her head on Max’s shoulder.
‘It is. Welcome home.’
If you loved Dead Man’s Grave, don’t miss this exclusive early extract from Book 2 in the Max Craigie series …
THE MURDER COAST
You can get away with murder.
In a remote sea loch on the West coast of Scotland, a fisherman disappears without trace. His remains are never found.
You can make people disappear.
A young man jumps from a bridge in Glasgow and falls to his death in the icy water below. D. S. Max Craigie uncovers evidence that links both victims. But if he can’t find out what cost them their lives, it won’t be long before more bodies turn up at the morgue …
You can come back for revenge.
Soon cracks start to appear in the investigation, and Max’s past comes back to haunt him. When his loved ones are threatened, he faces a terrifying choice: let the only man he ever feared walk free, or watch his closest friend die …
Pre-order now!
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1.
The rib chugged steadily, its engine note low, as it nosed into Loch Torridon and on towards the small beach by the road. Jimmy McLeish had left his Toyota Pickup parked just 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. This wasn’t the same, though, and he was anything but relaxed, because his cargo wasn’t the usual fish or lobster. This trip was a whole different ballgame.
The night was dark and moonless, with that inky, impenetrable blackness that you only get in the Highlands, far away from light pollution. If it hadn’t been for the night vision goggles clamped to Jimmy’s face, he would never have been able to navigate his way in past the rocks. Lights tonight would be a mistake, however, particularly with the nature of the cargo that lay in a black bag between his feet. Darkness was his ally.
Jimmy scanned the scene before him, the ghostly green tinge from the goggles bathing the landscape in an unnatural hue. A few dots of light were visible just to the west, where a handful of dwellings dotted the tiny hamlets of Fasag and Torridon, but beyond that the scenery was dark and desolate. This was his neighbourhood. This wild, bleak, but 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 dark shape of his pickup truck, a silhouette against the craggy rock that bordered the road. Another vehicle was parked right behind it, just as he was expecting. 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.
He knew this area well, having been raised a few miles away in Kyle of Lochalsh, which he accepted, along with the fact he owned a rib and worked as a fisherman, probably made him perfect for this trip.
His task was simply to deliver the cargo to Macca and his job was done. It was childishly simple, so he really shouldn’t have been this nervous. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his battered old hip-flask. His hands shook as he unscrewed the cap and took a hefty nip of the peaty, smoky whisky, enjoying the warmth as it slid down his throat.
The torch flashed again, three times, as he nosed the boat to the shore, close to the launch trailer he had left when casting off. There was a soft bump as the rib came to a halt on the stony sand and he killed the engine, simultaneously flipping the goggles up 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 nestled his night vision goggles down to scan the area, the scenery once again bathed in the soft green glow. 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 rocky, 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. Where was he? He adjusted the intensifying properties of the goggles, hoping to see something, and the landscape gradually lightened. His eyes followed the Loch’s shore towards Torridon, where his wife would be sat 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, 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, about to hand over some illicit cargo to 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 and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He rubbed his eyes, but the flare remained.
When he opened them, he was once again flooded with bright torchlight 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 cargo?’ 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. He looked mean, nasty. In fact, he radiated menace.
‘Aye, it’s here. You got my money?’
‘Of course we have, but we need to see the package first,’ said Davie, smirking unpleasantly.
‘But Scally said cash on delivery,’ Jimmy said in a faltering, shaky voice, unsure where this was going.
‘Cash on delivery? You hear this, Callum? 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 headtorch and what looked like a penlight in Callum’s hand. ‘Oh dear, my friend, is this your first time?’ Callum snorted. ‘Nobody gets paid before we check the bag, right? Do be a sport and pass it over and 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 surprised Jimmy by having a light, cultured accent that sounded like it came from southern England. Despite his voice, he projected something a little more subtle. Ruthlessness. They seemed to be seasoned professionals, but unlike any criminals Jimmy had encountered before. Anxiety began to nip at him, and 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 up.’
Jimmy tossed his keys at the big man who caught them and walked unhurriedly to the Pickup.
Jimmy eased the wheeled launch ramp into the water and within a few minutes had the rib secured onto the low trailer. Davie was soon reversing the pickup, with trailer attached, onto the beach. Within a few minutes, Jimmy was using the winch to pull the boat and launch trailer onto the back of the vehicle. Jimmy then spent a few minutes 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 the heavy waterproof canoe bag out of the rib. 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, Cal,’ 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 rising in his belly, Jimmy did as he was asked, carefully securing the canoe bag.
He 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 effete and 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, white face. Jimmy let out a yelp and leaped back. 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 as the sudden realisation hit him that he was about to be ripped off, or worse.
He turned to look at Davie and Callum as terror thundered towards him like an express truck. They both stared at him, with unpleasant, yet amused looks on their faces. Davie stepped forward. The head torch beam flooded into Jimmy’s face, blinding him.
Keep reading …
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Author’s note
I feel that I need to explain the motivation for this book as it really does ram home how much a simple spark of an idea can morph into a 100,000-word novel.
It was Christmas 2019 and we were staying in a beautiful huge old house with a load of friends in the depths of the Scottish countryside close to Pitlochry.
After much food and drink, I got chatting to an elderly chap called John Fisher, who had travelled over from Australia to visit family and friends. He was almost eighty, but still had a broad Scottish accent. We got chatting and I learned a little about him. He had been in the police in Scotland in the 1960s for a few years. He was a splendid chap, full of fun and stories, and I also discovered that he was an avid fan of Scottish crime fiction. He told me how much he had enjoyed my books, which was lovely to hear. He then hit me with the fateful words that all authors hear at some point.
‘I’ve a great idea on how to start a book!’
Now, firstly, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but most of us breathe deeply when we hear these words. However, a few whiskies had been consumed so I listened intently.
He proceeded to tell me about the time back in the late Sixties when in a remote graveyard in Caithness doing a little research for his wife’s side of the family, he uncovered this spooky grave that simply bore the inscription: ‘This Grave Never to be Opened’. He then followed it up with: ‘I reckon that’s a pretty good way to start a book, yeah?’
Well, my socks were well and truly knocked off.
The Grave Never to be Opened. What a hook. What a start. My mind began to seethe with ideas, and a couple of days later I began writing, and a number of months later Dead Man’s Grave was written.
Sadly, John Fisher passed away on his birthday, the 24th January 2021, so he never had the opportunity to read it. But his son in Australia had told him all about it, about his part in the book being born, that Max’s neighbour is named in his honour, and that the book is dedicated to him.
So, John, this is for you.
Neil
Acknowledgements
As always, once the words “the end” are typed under a manuscript it strikes me that things really aren’t over. There is still much to do, and as such, there are lots of people who offer so much and help to bring the book to life. So, I have lots of people, who have helped me turn this from an idea through to a book, who deserve my heartfelt thanks.
To my agent, Robbie Guillory. I owe Robbie lots of beers, which this cursed virus has stopped us having. Robbie took a risk on me when a chance discussion about an idea for a book was floated with him. He said, ‘I’d love to see it!’ Problem was, I hadn’t actually written that much of it, beyond an outline and a few thousand words. He took me on anyway, and I feel fortunate to have him in my corner. The world of publishing isn’t easy to navigate and we all need someone to bounce ideas off, be a buffer, an adviser and a pal. Robbie is ace.
To my editor Finn at HQ Digital, for loving the story, helping me make it as good as it can possibly be, and seeing the potential of DS Max Craigie and the team.
To everyone else in the HQ family for helping to turn my nonsensical ramblings into something approaching a book that people may actually want to read. You guys rock.
Lots of far more talented writers than me have helped me along the way with ideas, advice and encouragement. I want to namecheck a few.
Tony Parsons, who was generous with his time in he
lping me conceptualise the basic theme of this book and put the idea into an outline that someone wanted to buy. It kept me focused and it kept me on track.
Denzil Meyrick, Lin Anderson and Ian Rankin for convincing me that the story idea was a good one, you’d never heard of anything like it and that I should definitely write it.
Colin Scott. You know who you are. I couldn’t do this without the advice, encouragement, swearing and belly laughs.
To my beautiful wife, Clare, for putting up with me whilst I tap away, occasionally coming out of the office after 40k words and saying, ‘I’m not sure this is going to work.’ You always nod sympathetically, but you always know that this is just a phase. You’re always the first to read any book I write, and your opinion really matters. Your love and support mean everything to me.
My kids, Alec, Richard and Ollie, for not laughing at me for writing my silly stories and being proud that your old man is chasing the dream.
To all my big, mad, raucous and crazy family, all over the world, who read the books and shout out to everyone that they can to read them.
As always, I have to thank the source of all my stories. Twenty-five years in the Metropolitan Police gave me an endless supply of material that I continue to mine for inspiration. The vast majority of the cops out there are putting themselves in harm’s way, day in, day out and they do it to protect us, the public.
Of course, to you, the reader, who parts with their hard-earned cash to buy my stories, a big hearty thank you. You’re the ones who count.
Neil
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