Against the Clock, John Carson [digital ebook reader txt] 📗

AGAINST THE CLOCK

A DCI Harry McNeil NOVEL

JOHN CARSON

Copyright © 2021 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

In memory of my friend, Clifton Bodiford

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

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

Afterword

Other titles

DCI Sean Bracken series

DCI Harry McNeil series

DI Frank Miller Series

Max Doyle Series

Scott Marshall Series

About the Author

One

Lenny Smith stood at the exit door of the block of flats and put a hand on his side. He was sweating and had a stitch and that was just from coming down in the lift.

That and the fact he’d come out in his slippers.

His wife had wasted no time in pointing that out, and he’d been tempted to tell her that he’d give her a slipper over the arse, but that would have resulted in his waking up with a body part missing.

The kicker had been when he saw the old boot from next door in the lift just as the doors began to close.

‘Hold it!’ he’d shouted, and he could have sworn the old cow pressed the close button. He’d just managed to get a hand between the closing doors.

‘Thanks, love,’ he said, silently cursing her.

‘Aye,’ she replied, as if English were her second language and that was the only word she’d mastered so far.

Down in the lobby, he’d stood and got his breath back. He double-checked that he had indeed removed his slippers and was pleased to see the trainers with the Velcro fasteners were on his feet.

He wasn’t built for running. Not on a treadmill, and certainly not in the dark in the street where all the fucking nightcrawlers were on the prowl.

But his doctor had given him that fat bastard look and had strongly suggested he cut back on eating shite and started to exercise. So here he was, standing outside the doors of the tower block, finishing a cigarette, waiting for Fat Sam.

He remembered back in the day when Fat Sam’s was a restaurant up at Fountainbridge, but now that it was gone, the only Fat Sam he knew was his mucker.

Five minutes later, his pal came out the doors, leaning on his walking stick. And it was wasn’t the one he used for his disability interviews, but a nice carved wooden one.

The sun was coming up now, and Sam thought the same way as Lenny: no sense in going out in the dark and inviting the muggers. If some wee bastard came along and wanted to take their wallets, Sam was now a master martial artist, able to use his cane to incapacitate somebody. Or at least give them a good whack in the balls. Sam was a black belt in giving them a good belting, having graduated from the University of YouTube.

‘Fuck them all,’ he had told Lenny. ‘The only thing they’re going to get from us is this walking stick shoved up their arse.’

Now Sam was finally here. ‘Morning, cock,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ready for a jog along the promenade?’

‘No.’ Lenny looked at his watch. ‘Six o’clock on a Saturday morning and you’re smiling? There’s a fucking want about you, pal.’

Sam laughed. ‘Cheer up, neighbour. I don’t know about you, but I want to see seventy.’

‘Christ, I’m only sixty-two, Sammy. And you’re only a baw hair away from sixty-one. We’re hardly near seventy.’

‘That’s the point. We don’t want to be dropping deid before retirement age.’

‘We don’t work,’ Lenny said.

‘Exactly. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’

For April, it was sunny, but there was yet any warmth to be felt. Later on maybe, but right now the wind was hooring off the sea and making Lenny shiver. Still, once they upped the pace, he would feel sweat running down his legs. At least he always hoped it was sweat.

They turned left at the bottom of the hill, making for the traffic island. They would get to the middle of the road and make sure there was nothing coming before crossing the other half.

‘Wee bastard on one of them dirt bikes nearly got me the other day,’ Sam said as they crossed the first lane and stood in the relative safety of the island. ‘Came roaring along that road from Portobello like he had just stolen the fucking thing. Which he probably had. He was more than likely on his way to burn it out somewhere. Beats paying for a taxi, I suppose.’

‘Just keep concentrating, Sammy,’ Lenny said, feeling his shirt sticking to him already. Sweating like a beast while his face was raw.

They saw a white-and-madder double-decker coming towards them, and Lenny knew some of these bus drivers were mad bastards.

‘Hurry! Run!’ he shouted, but neither of them ran. They wobbled and hobbled, but made it in one piece while the big bus went flashing by, almost parting Lenny’s hair in the middle.

‘These big bastard things nowadays,’ Sam complained. ‘They go faster than shite, and sometimes I swear Stirling Moss is driving one.’

‘Rest his soul.’

‘Aye. Legend.’

They walked past the Chinese where they got their Saturday night takeaway when the four