The dark heart, p.1
The Dark Heart, page 1
Praise for the DS Max Craigie series
‘Non-stop action, breakneck pace, deliciously suspenseful … When Shadows Fall was my first DS Max Craigie book and won’t be my last – I loved it’
Andrea Mara
‘Neil is the master of the crime mystery’
Jeremy Vine
‘Grabbed me from the first page’
Ian Rankin
‘Utterly compelling, ingeniously plotted and incredibly entertaining, this puts Neil Lancaster up at the forefront of Tartan Noir’
Liz Nugent
‘Fast-paced, compelling and deeply authentic’
Jane Casey
‘Neil Lancaster is a thriller writer set to blow up the bestseller lists’
C. L. Taylor
‘Action-packed and lightning-paced with some of the best dialogue I’ve read … Explosive and compelling’
Helen Fields
‘Tight and tense with laugh-out-loud moments. An absolute joy to read’
Marion Todd
‘A masterclass in how to deliver a taut, pacy thriller hot on the page’
Imran Mahmood
‘A wickedly clever and riveting thriller. Lancaster has an innate talent in treating the reader to whip-cracking, deeply authentic stories’
Graham Bartlett
‘Bone-chilling and full of so many twists’
The Sun
‘A good old police procedural … I was pleasantly terrified’
The Guardian
‘Deliciously dark’
Daily Mail
About the author
NEIL LANCASTER is the No. 1 digital bestselling author of both the Tom Novak and Max Craigie series. Writing as Max Connor, Neil is also the author of No Mercy and No Way Out. His first Craigie novel, Dead Man’s Grave, was longlisted for the 2021 McIlvanney Prize for Best Scottish Crime Book of the Year. The second Craigie novel is The Blood Tide, which has topped several e-book and audio charts, and was also longlisted for the McIlvanney Prize and shortlisted for the Dead Good Reader Award. He served as a military policeman and worked for the Metropolitan Police as a detective, investigating serious crimes in the capital and beyond. As a covert policing and surveillance specialist he utilised all manner of techniques to investigate and disrupt major crime and criminals.
He now lives in the Scottish Highlands, writes crime and thriller novels, and works as a broadcaster and commentator on true crime documentaries. He is a key expert on two Sky Crime TV series, Meet, Marry, Murder and Made for Murder, and appeared on a BBC true crime show, Big Little Crimes.
@neillancaster66
@NeilLancasterCrime
www.neillancastercrime.co.uk
Also by Neil Lancaster
The Max Craigie Novels:
Dead Man’s Grave
The Blood Tide
The Night Watch
Blood Runs Cold
The Devil You Know
When Shadows Fall
The Tom Novak Novels:
Going Dark
Going Rogue
Going Back
The Josie Chapman Novels:
No Mercy
No Way Out
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper,
Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland
First published in Great Britain by HQ 2026
Copyright © Neil Lancaster 2026
Neil Lancaster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorised use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.
Source ISBN: 9780008688387
Ebook Edition © March 2026 ISBN: 9780008688400
Version 2026-02-16
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Contents
Cover
Praise for the DS Max Craigie series
About the Author
Also by Neil Lancaster
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
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
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
Dedication
Dedicated with deep respect to all the men and women in law enforcement who operate in the shadows in order that we might be safe.
1
Dr Daniel Solomon stood and waved self-consciously, as he accepted the warm applause in the bookshop in central York. The place was packed to the rafters with readers eager to hear him talk about his inspiration for his new book, An Iman, a Rabbi, a Priest, and an Atheist Go Into a (Juice) Bar: How Religion and Secularism Can Peacefully Coexist.
The book was his life’s work. A polemic forged by his experiences, beginning in Israel, formed in the University of Alberta in Canada and then crystallised while getting his doctorate at Edinburgh. This was his passion. Social cohesion in a polarised world. Unlike many others, he could see a way out of it, and his driving force was to broadcast it to the whole world.
And how he’d succeeded. Against all odds the book had been an instant, massive success, topping the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists for weeks and weeks on end. For once, a narrative had been delivered that was not polarising, quite the opposite. He preached to all faiths, and cultures came together with a shared vision, and it had landed on the public like nobody could have foreseen.
He had read from the first chapter, which he had performed with all the vigour of a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Rose Theatre. His voice was rich and sonorous, and had car ried to every inch of the space, and into each and every listener’s heart, as he espoused his vision of unity amongst all faiths.
His final sentence had captivated the audience, his soft voice accented with a curious mix of Israel, Canada and Yorkshire. ‘My friends, this is my message. As communities we must stand tall against the scourge – the pernicious scourge – of the racism and bigotry that we all face. We must do it steadfastly, honestly, with courage, humility and open hearts. How can we succeed? We must unite, as friends and faiths together, whether believers in a higher power or not. We are all the same, friends, and our differences must unite us, not divide us. As one, we can form a world where the overriding agenda is not one of want, of avarice, but is one of service. To serve all by being part of one community of all faiths. We must not fail. We cannot fail.’
The rapturous applause of the fifty listeners could have been a hundred-strong, such was the enthusiasm with which it was delivered.
Daniel was a scholar of philosophy, an academic, and a former soldier, in that order. He had seen evil up close, and knew that there was only one solution to overcome it. Acceptance, cooperation and understanding.
The line of readers, all clutching copies of the book, snaked towards the back of the shop, and Daniel spent time with everyone, shaking hands, posing for selfies, and signing and dedicating copies.
He felt giddy with excitement as the queue began to dwindle and the last customer arrived at the table, book in hand, a wide smile across his face. He was a short and stocky man, with huge eyebrows and thick spectacles, and he wore a heavy raincoat, despite the hot, sultry day. ‘Hello, Dr Solomon, I loved your talk. Please would you sign my book?’ he said, grinning inanely.
Daniel smiled. ‘Sure, what’s your name, my friend?’ he asked.
‘Lionel,’ he said, showing stained and uneven teeth that were framed by a wispy moustache and beard. His pale, spotty face was covered with a light sheen of sweat. Daniel enjoyed book signings, but you did attract the occasional odd-bod, and it seemed Lionel was one of those.
A quick squiggle in his book, and a pause for a photograph, and he was done.
‘Thank you very much, Dr Solomon. I very much loved your descriptions of life in Israel in the Eighties, very interesting.’ His voice was high-pitched, monotone and flat.
‘You’re welcome, my friend, now if you’ll excuse me, I really must get going.’
‘Of course, shalom, doctor,’ said Lionel, studying the dedication and signature rapturously.
There was a brief pause while Daniel thanked the staff at the shop, and very soon he was emerging into the bright, early evening sun, the rays warming his face after the air-conditioned interior of the shop. He sighed, satisfied about a great talk and a good number of hardbacks sold, which would all add to his chances of staying in the Sunday Times top ten.
He was excited to get back to his home in Leeds, where his wife, Abigail, would be waiting, eager to hear all about his first big event. Hopefully there would be something nice cooking in the oven. A story with the kids, and then he had a book he was wanting to finish, perhaps with a nice glass of something chilled.
It was as he was leaving the shop and walking along the narrow, twisty York streets that things changed forever.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out and looking at the screen, he saw it wasn’t his wife, as he’d expected, but a private number.
‘Hello?’
‘Dr Solomon?’ A well-educated voice, with shades of public school, tinged with a hint of Scotland.
‘Yes, who is this, please?’
‘It doesn’t matter who I am, Dr Solomon, but you are in danger. You need to hide; you must get away and hide.’
He felt his insides chill as he slowed his pace. ‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’
‘Never mind who I am. Listen, there are people out there who hate you. They hate you and they want you dead. Your book is the final straw to them, and if you want to live, you must get away.’
Despite the absurdity of the words, he felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Who could wish him harm? He was just a lapsed Jew who preached social integration and peace. ‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person, I’m just a writer.’
‘No. Look, listen to me, Dr Solomon. You cannot go home, they’ll be wait—’
Daniel hung up and quickened his pace, looking behind him. The streets were busy, bustling with early evening revellers.
‘Nutters,’ he whispered to himself, trying not to break into a jog as he crossed from Parliament Street onto Piccadilly towards the Coppergate Car Park, feeling the colour draining from his face. ‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered, as he risked a glance behind.
And then he saw him.
It was Lionel, from the shop, his hands buried beneath his thick coat. He was matching the pace of Daniel’s stride, about thirty metres behind, head down, his slightly knock-kneed gait giving him a curious rhythm. A cold hand seemed to grip him.
Feeling his stomach clench at the sight, he quickened his pace, pushing the doors to the car park open. He quickly validated his ticket at the machine in the stairwell, hands shaking as he poked the piece of card into the slot, and then tapped his payment card against the reader.
Within a minute, he was blipping the lock on his Jaguar, and sighing with relief as he settled into the cosseting leather. He just sat there, breathing easily, as he regained his composure. He reached down and grabbed his insulated metal water bottle, and took a swig.
It was as he was screwing the lid back on that he saw him again.
Lionel was walking slowly towards Daniel’s car, his hands buried in his pockets, head down, a half-smile on his face.
‘Oh, shit, no, please,’ he said, as he fumbled for the start button, his finger trembling.
Lionel reached the car, his hands moving from his pockets, almost seeming to be in slow motion, a copy of the book in his hand. ‘Dr Solomon, you forgot …’
As Daniel pressed the car’s starter, the world seemed to shift on its axis, and his only conscious sensation was of massive, overwhelming pressure, just for a microsecond before the explosion from the device under the car threw it up in the air, smashing the roof into the low, concrete ceiling, before ripping both Daniel and Lionel into pieces with its devastating force.
2
Almost a year later
Terry ‘Stringer’ Dent smirked as he looked from the dock, in court one of Newcastle Crown Court. The judge, Mr Justice Imran Ahsan, met his gaze, scowling over the top of his spectacles, his wig only just slightly askew. He was a slim man, with heavy eyebrows and thick greying hair. As always, he wore a superior expression, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a permanent sneer.
Stringer had grown to hate the judge with a burning passion. It was the way he fucking stared at him, and the way every single thing his barrister presented to him he rejected, with a sarcastic grin that made Stringer want to smash through the glass in the dock, and wring the skinny fucker’s neck.
But not now.
Now Mr Justice Arsehole, or whatever his name was, looked depressed as the prosecution barrister, a severe and stout woman called Mrs Cullompton KC, had offered no evidence after the star witness had failed to turn up at court for the second day running.
This wasn’t entirely unexpected to Stringer, owing to the fact that said missing star witness, James McGovern, was currently stricken with a severe case of permanent missing person syndrome, and was in fact at the bottom of the Tyne, weighted down by a twenty-kilogram kettle bell. It had been a bastard to sort from jail, and had almost cost him another six months on remand, with his legal team demanding adjournments for bullshit technical reasons, to allow his people to take care of the grass. It was six months well spent; he sniggered to himself. Six months on an easy remand against a life sentence if the McGovern had turned up in the witness box was an easy call to make.
The judge cleared his throat, faced the jury and spoke in his stupid posh-boy voice. ‘Members of the jury, we now find ourselves in a highly unfortunate position. The Crown finds itself unable to proceed in this case, and as such have offered no evidence, effectively ending the trial. However, as you all took an oath promising to fairly try the defendant, he remains in your hands, and as such, only you can clear him. I will soon ask your foreman to stand, and the clerk will ask you whether you find the defendant guilty or not guilty. As the prosecution has unfortunately decided to draw stumps, this case remains unproved, and as such there is only one verdict open to you, therefore I direct that you are to return a verdict of “not guilty”.’ He nodded at the clerk, who stood and faced the jury.
