False start, p.1
False Start, page 1
FALSE START
A ROB MARSHALL PREQUEL
ED JAMES
OTHER BOOKS BY ED JAMES
ROB MARSHALL SERIES
Ed’s first new police procedural series in six years, focusing on DI Rob Marshall, a criminal profiler turned detective. London-based, an old case brings him back home to the Scottish Borders and the dark past he fled as a teenager.
THE TURNING OF OUR BONES (Feb. 2023)
Also available is FALSE START, a prequel novella starring DS Rakesh Siyal, is available for free to subscribers of Ed’s newsletter or on Amazon.
SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES
Eight novels featuring a detective eager to climb the career ladder, covering Edinburgh and its surrounding counties, and further across Scotland.
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
DEVIL IN THE DETAIL
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
STAB IN THE DARK
COPS & ROBBERS
LIARS & THIEVES
COWBOYS & INDIANS
HEROES & VILLAINS
CULLEN & BAIN SERIES
Six novellas spinning off from the main Cullen series covering the events of the global pandemic in 2020.
CITY OF THE DEAD
WORLD’S END
HELL’S KITCHEN
GORE GLEN
DEAD IN THE WATER
THE LAST DROP
CRAIG HUNTER SERIES
A spin-off series from the Cullen series, with Hunter first featuring in the fifth book, starring an ex-squaddie cop struggling with PTSD, investigating crimes in Scotland and further afield.
MISSING
HUNTED
THE BLACK ISLE
DS VICKY DODDS SERIES
Gritty crime novels set in Dundee and Tayside, featuring a DS juggling being a cop and a single mother.
BLOOD & GUTS
TOOTH & CLAW
FLESH & BLOOD
SKIN & BONE
GUILT TRIP
DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES
Set in East London, will Fenchurch ever find what happened to his daughter, missing for the last ten years?
THE HOPE THAT KILLS
WORTH KILLING FOR
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU
IN FOR THE KILL
KILL WITH KINDNESS
KILL THE MESSENGER
DEAD MAN’S SHOES
A HILL TO DIE ON
THE LAST THING TO DIE
Other Books
Other crime novels, with Lost Cause set in Scotland and Senseless set in southern England, and the other three set in Seattle, Washington.
LOST CAUSE
SENSELESS
TELL ME LIES
GONE IN SECONDS
BEFORE SHE WAKES
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
3. A week later
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
Afterword
About the Author
Other Books By Ed James
Next book
CHAPTER ONE
The wind outside was howling like an army of wolves enacting some freaky mating ritual. Another rattle of the window, like someone was thrown against it.
Sammy Irvine got up and the room swam around him. He kicked away the pizza boxes and staggered over to the window. He swept the net curtain aside and looked out into the night.
He couldn’t see anything out there beyond his lit-up veranda. Windy, but not as bad as the night he first got here, when some of the bigger trees tumbled over and just missed a couple of caravans further out than his. Two months on and they were still uprooted and lying there. That cheeky wee sod Gillespie hadn’t cleared them. Lot of good timber gone overnight, he’d moaned. Still, Sammy wasn’t complaining – one bright morning spent with his pocket chainsaw had got him enough logs to last him through next winter too. Not that he’d be here, but still.
The lights dyed the piled-up snow yellow like smoked haddock a couple of days past its sell-by date. The worst of it built up around the table and chairs, making it look like some snowmen were playing a serious game of Texas hold ‘em. Hard to believe that a few weeks ago it would’ve been real people out there, with high stakes. Booze flowing, music playing, laughter. Now, the caravans opposite were empty, not that he could see into any of them. Couldn’t quite figure out how it’d been managed, but he wasn’t knocking the fact nobody could look in on him either.
Still, he wished for company. Longed for it. Another person to talk to, to listen to. To share war stories. Didn’t have to be deep and meaningful, just… a bit of humanity.
At least the air would be fresh outside. Inside, it stank – the bin was full and the last two bags were piled up like the snow outside. He just couldn’t get enough of those kids’ crisps. Still on offer in Ashworth’s, that prickly tang was too tempting.
He knew he should’ve taken the bags to the big bins when he went out earlier, but he’d got lazy. Complacent. Story of his life. At least he’d been out and stocked up – the cupboards were filled with tins of soup and enough long-life bread to see out the rest of the season.
Sammy took one last look out there. The only movement was the white-noise swooshing of the wind rattling the trees. He was the only one left here, the only one who still needed to hide in January.
The only one with nothing in his life.
Aye, keep focusing on the negatives, why don’t you?
Sammy topped up his glass, all milky white from fingerprints. The gurgle of a free pour of vodka and the hiss of clear lemonade splashed in on top.
That big bluebottle buzzed around the kitchen. The bane of his life, that big bastard somehow avoiding the thwack of his rolled-up magazine. He took another shot at it and killed it.
Then the little shit buzzed off through to his bedroom.
The place still had that stale reek of gas. He’d checked the cooker and it definitely wasn’t on, but the pong just hung there. He remembered one of the few chemistry classes he’d bothered to attend at school, where the teacher said they made the gas stink like that so you knew you had a leak. And it absolutely did. Minging. But he couldn’t detect anything. Not that he was an expert.
Sammy took the glass and sat down in his chair. Despite this caravan being an absolute midden, it had one thing going for it – a stove. Someone had taken the trouble to install one of those Norwegian jobs. Shove enough wood and coal in there, set it alight, and that was you for the night. Bliss. Made the whole caravan all roasty-toasty, so it did.
He stared at the telly.
The big guy caught the other one under the arm and threw him clean over the ropes, landing with a clatter on a table. He stood there, arms out wide, eyes closed, muscles glistening, bowing for the crowd.
They were booing him. Drinks cartons filled the ring, second-hand juice spraying all over him. He ran, bouncing off the opposite rope, then thundered across the ring and launched himself over the top, aiming for his opponent.
But he missed.
Didn’t hit the deck straight away, either. He landed on a metal barrier, the steel crunching into his chest, and went down like a sack of coal.
Christ, was he dead?
Sammy didn’t know, but it made him lean forward on his armchair, elbows digging into his thighs. Too focused to even think about taking a sip of vodka.
The other one – the boy in pink and lime green, the one who’d been chucked over the top – managed to haul himself up to standing. Dizzy from destroying the table he’d landed on. But he was starting to come to. Managed to get the big one up to standing, then rolled him back into the ring.
Because he had to pin him inside the ring, didn’t he?
Smart cookie!
Sammy reached over to grab his glass of voddie and took a deep drink of it, a few gulps. Burned at his throat a bit – just the bloody ticket!
He was still sniffing, though – that voddie wasn’t clearing this cold like that Polish boy he used to knock around with said it would.
Still, Sammy didn’t get much of a hangover from this stuff, surprising given the quantity he was putting away. He tipped the last of the bottle into his glass. Sod the lemonade.
A thump on the door.
Shite.
He tried to pause it, but it wasn’t having it. The big guy was on his back, legs in the air, the other boy pinning him to the mat.
Sammy walked over to peer out of the window again. Dark, just thin light. Wind blowing the trees.
Nobody there.
He picked up the phone from the arm of the chair and put the SIM card back in. Waited for it to boot up.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Great.
Must’ve been a stray branch thrown through the air.
Another thump on the door.
Everything clenched in him.
Sammy was minding his own business here, and that included not answering the door after dark. It was just him, his vodka and several hours of WWE wrestling.
Aye, just ignore it.
Somehow the fight was still going on. He stood there watching it, holding his hands against the stove to warm them until they were nice and toasty. Keyed up, not just by the voddie. Kept glancing at the door and window for signs of movement. He picked up the glass and took another glug, almost retching at how strong it was.
Another knock. ‘I know you’re in there!’
In the name of the wee man…
Sammy put his glass down and wandered over to the door. Stuck his peeper up to the peep hole.
Man. Thirties. Long hair in curtains, deep scar on one cheek, cowboy jacket with all those daft tassels.
Nope.
Sammy sat back down again and took a sip of voddie. Glass was empty again. Didn’t recognise the boy, so this was one to wait out. He picked up another bottle and unscrewed the lid, then—
Another thump. ‘Sammy, come on! It’s freezing out here!’
He knew his name…
Who the hell was he?
Another thud on the door. Then another.
Aye, and he knew Sammy was in.
All that smoke from the fire was giving him away!
Crap.
He got up and padded back over, then opened the door to the security chain. ‘Can I help you, pal?’
The bloke was taller and fatter than he’d expected. Big guy, with a real presence. He was wagging his finger at Sammy like they were old pals. ‘Thought I recognised you.’
Well, that was something he had on Sammy.
‘Aye? Don’t know you, pal.’
‘Come on, Sammy. You do. Of course you do, you daft bugger!’
Despite the heat in the room, Sammy got a right shiver up his spine. Where did this guy know him from? Where could he know him from? Millions of possibilities and very few of them were positive.
‘You’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage here, mate.’
‘Come on, man! You were shagging my wee sister. Kelly.’
Christ. Kelly…
Well, the apple had fallen a few fields away from the orchard.
‘Oh, aye. Kelly. She was a smasher.’ Sammy gave him a wide smile. ‘Didn’t knock her up, did I?’ His laugh was too much, even he knew that. And he hadn’t seen her for three years.
‘Hardly!’ The big bugger bellowed with laughter. ‘Couldn’t get it up, what she said. Mind if I…?’ And he barged past, getting into the caravan. No stopping a boy that size, was there? ‘Roasting in here! That fire’s amazing and, ooooh, you’ve got one of them stick things, eh? All the channels for free. Mad into wrestling, me. Who’s fighting?’
Sod this, no way was he letting this boy stay.
Sammy shut the door and walked back over. He reached for the remote and turned off the telly. ‘I’d offer you a wee drink, pal, but I’m expecting company.’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine. Won’t notice I’m here.’
‘Female company.’
‘Aye? You cannae get hard, so that’s not going to be a problem! And I could show you how it’s done!’
Sammy was blushing. ‘That isn’t true!’
Of course it was true. And he knew. But how much did he know? Was he really Kelly Templeton’s brother?
Sammy sat down. He needed more vodka, more lemonade but he didn’t want to turn his back on him and go over to the fridge.
The other guy – Christ, what was his name? – snatched the remote and put the telly back on. The WWE was still playing. The big lump had turned the tables and was pounding the wee lad, trapping him against the turnbuckle.
‘It’s Paul, by the way.’
‘What is?’
‘My name. Paul Templeton.’
‘Oh, right. Aye.’
‘According to that chancer, Gillespie, it’s just you and me here the now. In this whole caravan park. Two lads among hundreds of empties. Have to be mental to stay here at this time of year, in this temperature. Makes me think we’re both in the same boat.’
Sammy picked up his empty glass. ‘Aye, and what boat’s that, then?’
‘It’s not a wee dinghy, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’ Another loud laugh, eyes locked on the telly. ‘We’re both hiding here.’ He looked over at Sammy. ‘Who are you hiding from?’
Was he really Kelly’s brother?
Christ, was this guy a cop trying to sniff him out? Or was he someone Sammy had done wrong by? Could he be connected to the people he was hiding from?
Neither possibility was good.
‘You first, big man.’ Sammy took a slug of vodka. ‘Who are you hiding from?’
‘Cops. Post office robbery in Troon last month. Harder to come by these days, what with all that internet stuff and what have you meaning so many of the buggers are being shut down. Thing is, if you can find yourself a good one, it’s well worth it. No guards and tons of cash. Price of stamps these days too, man – if you get a ton of them you can shift them like nobody’s business.’
‘Worth it even if you have to hide out down here?’
‘Oh aye. Cleared a hundred grand in cash too. I’ll hide out here until the spring and put some feelers out. Hopefully the heat will have died down by then. Head back to Glasgow, sell the stamps and spend my money. Or if the heat’s still on, might take myself away on a wee holiday somewhere warm. Get a ferry to Spain or Holland.’ He snorted, then rubbed at his septum. Checked it was still there. ‘Now I’ve told you my life story, why are you here?’
Sammy wanted another voddie, even though he was feeling pretty pished. And he had a stranger in his house. Not a good combo. ‘Actually just fancied a wee break from all that.’
‘All what?’
‘Ach nothing. City life.’ He raised his glass. ‘If you’re not buggering off, do you want a—’
‘Sure it’s nothing to do with killing him.’
Said it so quietly it was like he barely said it at all. One of those things where Sammy could’ve imagined he was saying it.
‘What was that, Paul? Didn’t quite catch it.’
‘I said, you hiding here has nothing to do with you killing John?’
Shiiiiiite.
What had he been thinking letting him in?
Guy was a total stranger!
‘John who?’
‘The John you killed.’ Paul picked up the empty vodka bottle and tossed it in the air. He caught the handle, brandishing it like a club, then swung at Sammy’s head.
It battered off his skull and he fell back in the chair. Paul grabbed his hair and hauled him to the floor.
Too pissed to get up. Too drunk to fight him off.
‘I haven’t killed anyone!’
‘You fucking did!’ Paul was still holding the bottle. A thick red mark smeared the bottom. ‘John was my cousin!’
‘I don’t know a John!’
‘John McStay!’
Shiiiiite.
‘Come on, mate, it wasn’t—’
Clang.
Another thwack with the bottle.
Sammy went down face-first. A nail from the floorboard dug into his cheek, tearing at the skin under his eye. He felt a bump growing on his head already.
Everything swum around – and not in a good way.
Big Paul was looming over him. ‘You’re going to pay for what you did to him!’
‘Listen, I don’t know a John McStay!’
‘Thing is, pal, I know your face from Inner Space.’
The nightclub Sammy ran through there.
Bit too much Charlie and not enough Sammy.
‘Saw you chatting to Wee John in there, so don’t fucking lie to me!’ Paul swung the bottle back, then lashed it forward again.
Sammy managed to duck out of the way.
The bottle crashed into the table and sent everything flying off. The remote hit the wall. The glass rolled onto the floor, smashing into a few pieces.
Glass went everywhere.
Sammy grabbed the heavy base in his right hand. The good one. Spiky shards pointed out.
Paul thundered towards him and kicked the glass. Staved Sammy’s hand. Followed it up with a right hook, sending Sammy flying across the floor onto the pile of broken glass.
Paul reached down and grabbed Sammy’s collar, then pressed his face into the glass. ‘Admit it!’
