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
