Pre-order for just 99c

After discussing the question of how to develop interest in a pre-order title for someone who is still in the early stages of their writing career, I was given the following advice

Make the book 99c/99p during the pre-order period, and let the world know that the book is at a special price prior to release, make sure you also tell them how much the book will be after release.

This advice is obviously based on the notion that most people like to get a bargain, especially when they know how much they’re saving, and how much time they have in which to make that saving. It’s a simple concept but it’s one that didn’t occur to me until it was pointed out, of course, I’m not marketing savvy so that might be why.

Okay, since I’ve now been hit over the head with what I should have already known, I have reduced the price of my upcoming novel, Written In Blood; you can now get my serial-killer thriller for just 99c/99p if you buy it in the next 23 days, on 1st April it will go up to its full price of $3.99.

Let me just repeat that

99c/99p

That’s the bargain price you can get Written in Blood for until the end of March. If you don’t get it before then you’ll have to pay the full price of

$3.99

If you’re interested in buying the book, and so far I’ve had people from North America, South America and Europe taking advantage of my generosity, you can get it at the following link

Written In Blood for the Kindle

History of Crime (England) Part 4

For part 4 of this series I was challenged by one of my readers to find an historical crime that she hadn’t at least heard of; I like a nice challenge (within reason) so I accepted and went looking.

Wikipedia, while not a site to use if you want 100% guaranteed accurate information on a subject, can be a very good reference source, and it came up trumps for me. I discovered an article listing a number of historical crimes for the UK with dates/names of those involved/headline of crime, and on this list was the crime I am going to write about today – the assassination of Spencer Perceval, the only British Prime Minister to have suffered such a fate.

I was immediately interested, as I wasn’t aware a British Prime Minister had ever been assassinated, and went looking around the ‘net for information on this largely forgotten crime, here is what I was able to find.

The assassination of Spencer Perceval

Spencer Perceval is a man who accomplished several firsts in his life, though I think it possible that he would not have appreciated doing so: he is the only Solicitor General or Attorney General to succeed to the position of Prime Minister, the only Prime Minister to live his entire life during the reign of a single monarch, and the only Prime Minister to be assassinated.

Perceval was the younger son of an earl, and as such was well-educated, becoming a barrister and then a King’s counsel; it wasn’t until he was thirty-three that he entered politics as a member of Parliament for Northampton. Once he entered Parliament in 1796 he had a meteoric rise, becoming Solicitor General, Attorney General, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Leader of the House of Commons, on his way to becoming Prime Minister in 1809, a bare 13 years after becoming a politician.

I’m ashamed to say I knew nothing about Spencer Perceval before researching this article, which is a shame because he was Prime Minister during some of the most important events of both the 18th and 19th centuries: he was there for the inquiry into the Walcheren Expedition, a failed military attack, the madness of King George III, an economic crisis, the Luddite Riots, and the Peninsular War against Napoleon.

He brought the country through these crises and put it on the road to a better future before being assassinated on 11th May 1812.

The assassination was undramatic, Perceval entered the House of Commons on his way to attend an inquiry when a man stepped forward, drew a pistol and shot him. He was senseless, but still had a faint pulse, when moved into an adjoining rooom, he died before a surgeon could arrive, however.

Initially there was concern that the assassination might be the start of an uprising; that was quickly determined to be wrong, though, for the assassin made no attempt to escape (he not only didn’t escape, he calmly took a seat at the nearby fireplace) and revealed himself to be a merchant with a grievance against the government – Perceval being the focus of that grievance, even though he had not personally done anything to or against his killer.

John Bellingham was a businessman who in 1804 was imprisoned for debt in Russia, falsely he believed. The British Embassy refused to help him and after 5 years he was released and able to return to England, where he applied to the government for compensation. His application was denied, despite him writing to just about everyone, including the prince regent, and he developed a sense of grievance that grew until he decided to shoot the Prime Minister.

At trial Bellingham’s lawyer attempted to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, a plea that was rejected when Bellingham refused to agree to it. He was found guilty in short order and hanged on 18th May.

Perceval is considered one of Britain’s forgotten Prime Ministers, who is remembered more for the manner in which he died than for his achievements while in office, yet it cannot be denied that he steered the country safely through some difficult times – there was determined opposite in Parliament to the war in Europe against Napoleon yet Perceval kept the war going, enabling the Duke of Wellington to achieve victory and prevent any interruption in British trade, a vital aspect in maintaining the British Empire.

 

A history of crime (England) part 3

In part 3 of this series I am going to take a look at a case that is famous in England, though is perhaps less well-known elsewhere in the world. Dr Crippen is a name that many people in the UK know, they will even know that he was a killer, but most will know little about his case; it comes as a surprise when they discover that for all his infamy he was hanged for the murder of only one person, his wife.

Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen

Hawley Harvey Crippen was an American Homeopathic doctor who came to England, with his second wife Corinne (Cora), in 1897 as part of his work with Dr Munyon’s Homeopathic Pharmaceutical company.

In 1899 he was sacked from Dr Munyon’s for spending too much time managing his wife’s career as a would-be music-hall singer. He then became manager of Drouet’s Institution for the Deaf, while there he met Ethel Le Neve in 1903.

In 1908 Crippen and Ethel became lovers, after Cora cuckolded him with one of the tenants they took in to supplement Crippen’s meagre income.

It was January 31st 1910, following a party, that Cora Crippen disappeared. Her husband claimed that she had returned to the US, and had then died and been cremated in California. Following this Ethel Le Neve moved into Hawley’s house on Hilltop Crescent and began to openly wear Cora’s clothes and jewellery.

It was Cora’s friend, Kate Williams, who worked as a strongwoman, that alerted the police to her disappearance, but it wasn’t until they were asked to investigate by John Nash and his entertainer wife, Lili Hawthorne, that the police took it seriously.

Crippen was interviewed by Chief Inspector Walter Dew, and the house searched, but nothing was found. During the interview, Crippen admitted that he had made up the story about his wife dying to avoid the embarrassment of having to tell people that she had left him and returned to America with one of her lovers, a music hall actor by the name of Bruce Miller.

Dew was satisfied, both with the interview and the search of the house, unfortunately, Crippen didn’t know that and he and Le Neve fled to Brussels. They stayed there for a night before boarding the SS Montrose in Antwerp and heading for Canada.

Had he just remained calm, there’s every chance Crippen would have got away with murdering his wife, his sudden flight convinced the police to search the house again, which they did several times. On their fourth search, the third following Crippen’s departure, the remains of a body was found under the brick floor of the basement.

Although only a small portion of the body was found, the head, limbs and skeleton were never located, it was enough for the pathologist to discover traces of scopalmine.

Had he travelled in 3rd class, it’s doubtful that the discovery would have resulted in Crippen’s arrest, but he chose to travel in 1st, with the result that he was seen by the captain, Henry George Kendall, who wasn’t fooled, either by the beard Crippen had grown, or by Le Neve’s disguise as a boy.

Before the ship sailed beyond range of his transmitter, Captain Kendall telegraphed Scotland Yard to report his suspicions that the London cellar murderer and his accomplice were on board and disguised.

Upon receiving this news, Chief Inspector Dew board the SS Laurentic, a faster ship than the SS Montrose, which enabled him to reach Canada ahead of his susect. He boarded the Montrose in the guise of a pilot, and Captain Kendall, who invited Crippen to meet the pilots, brought the two together.

Crippen seemed relieved to be arrested, saying, “Thank God it’s over. The suspense has been too great. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

He was returned to England for trial, and was hanged at Pentonville Prison on November 23rd 1910.

Le Neve, who was tried separately as an accomplice after the fact, was acquitted. She emigrated to America the morning of her lover’s execution.

Crippen was almost certainly relieved by this outcome since it is apparent that his chief concern throughout his own trial was the reputation of his lover. At his request, he was buried with a photograh of Le Neve.

---

Why such a relatively simple case has endured in the minds of the British public, I cannot say, but the fact that Dr Crippen was the first criminal to be caught with the aid of radio telegraphy certainly makes it worth remembering.

 

A history of crime (England) part 2

I have a a website bookmarked, one which lists a variety of crimes that have taken place in England since the 1800s, to help me with this series of articles, and I was looking through it for this week’s post when I came across the story of Fanny Adams (30 April 1859 – 24 August 1867)

Normally I wouldn’t have done an article on the murder of Fanny Adams, as you can see from the dates of her birth and death, she was only 8 when she was killed, and I’m not keen on child murder stories, especially gruesome ones; one of my criteria for selecting what I’m going to write about, though, is if there’s anything interesting connected to the story, and in this case there is – the murder of Fanny Adams resulted in the birth of the English phrase ‘Sweet F.A.’ which means ‘nothing’.

Sweet Fanny Adams

The murder of Fanny Adams was a relatively simple affair; on 24 August 1867 the young girl was out with her sister and a friend when they encountered Frederick Baker, who worked as a clerk in a solicitor’s office.

Baker gave Fanny’s companions money to go and spend, while he gave Fanny some money to come with him. Fanny took the money but then refused to go with him, Baker’s response to that was to carry Fanny into a nearby field, out of sight of her friends.

When Fanny’s sister and friend returned home around 5, their neighbour, Mrs Gardiner, asked where Fanny was, at which time they told her what had happened. Mrs Gardiner immediately told the story to Harriet Adams, Fanny’s mother, and together they took the girls and returned to where Fanny had last been seen to look for her. They encountered Baker as he returned but because of his position and seeming respectability they accepted his story that Fanny had left to rejoin her friends and he regular gave kids money to buy sweets.

With Fanny still missing at 7 p.m. a further search was made, this time involving more people, and her dismembered body was discovered in a hop field a short distance from where she had last been seen. Harriet immediately ran to find her husband, who was playing cricket, he in turn hurried home to get his shotgun and went in search of his daughter’s killer, but was stopped by his neighbours.

Baker was arrested that evening at his place of his work, blood was found on his clothes and two small blood-stained knife were discovered on his person. A search of the office where Baker worked, which took place in the days following his arrest, led to the discovery of his diary in which the police found this entry

24th August, Saturday – killed a young girl. It was fine and hot

On 27th August the coroner determined that Fanny Adams had been wilfully murdered, her head having been bashed in with a rock found in the field and then dismembered. Following the verdict the police found themselves hard-pressed to protect Baker, who was committed for trial at the Winchester County Assizes, from the mob who were outraged by what had happened.

When it came to the trial, which took place early in December, the defense tried many tactics: they contested the identification of Baker, claimed the knives found on Baker were too small to have been used in the crime, and even tried to claim insanity based on his family history (he had attempted suicide, his sister had died of a brain fever, a cousin had been committed to an asylum, and his father had been violent). The defense also attempted to claim that the phrasing of Baker’s diary entry meant it could not be considered a confession.

In summing up the case the judge, Justice Mellor, said this

‘If you come to the conclusion he murdered the child, you must consider whether it was under such circumstances as would render him not responsible on the grounds of insanity. This must not be used as a means of escape, and you must exercise the greatest care before you give effect to such a plea as that’¹

The jury did not entertain the insanity defence presented by Baker’s counsel and in no more than 15 minutes they found him guilty.

So notorious had the case become that 5,000 people are estimated to have attended the hanging.

Results of the case

In terms of crime prevention and investigation, even of prosecution and defence, the case is unspectaculae. The murder of Fanny Adams, though gruesome and notorious in its time, would no doubt have become little more than an historic footnote in the annals of crime, were it not for an incident that occurred some 2 years after the event.

In 1869 new rations of tinned mutton were introduced for British seaman and, for reasons that are now unknown, the seaman, who were unimpressed by the rations, suggested that the mutton might in fact be the butchered remains of Fanny Adams. Fanny Adams then became slang in the navy, and then elsewhere, for mutton, and then stew, before coming to be slang for anything that was considered worthless, with the phrase eventually becoming Sweet Fanny Adams, or Sweet F.A. intended to mean ‘nothing at all’.

I can’t say that I have used the phrase Sweet F.A. in some time, nor have I heard anyone else using it, but now that I know the origins of the phrase, you can be sure I won’t be using it again.

¹https://iiif.lib.harvard.edu/manifests/view/drs:5792882$1i

Details of this article have been sourced from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fanny_Adams and the Harvard library linked above.

 

It’s coming – April 1st is the day

Okay everyone, this s**t is getting real; I have an awesome cover, some fabulous bookmarks (who doesn’t like a good bookmark) and I’m halfway through the editing. It’s time to announce the release date for my next novel, and that date is

April 1st

Written In Blood is not a part of my Inspector Stone series, book 2 of which will be coming later in the year, but it is set in a village a little outside of Branton, where Inspector Stone works, and the sequel, A Bloody Rewrite (a little play on words for my writer friends) will feature characters from the series, and maybe even Inspector Stone himself, you’ll have to wait and see.

Here for your enjoyment is the cover and blurb for my upcoming release –

A peaceful village torn apart by murder.

In the small, close-knit village of Oakhurst, residents aren’t willing to believe that one of their own might be a brutal killer.

So when young women begin to die – their bodies found with accusatory words carved onto their skin – suspicion falls on the newcomer to the village. Charming Zack Wild, author of violent crime novels and possessor of a dark history, seems like a perfect suspect.

As they investigate, Sergeant Mitchell and Constable Turner are increasingly unwilling to believe that someone they know could be responsible for such heinous crimes. But will this affect their judgement, allowing the real killer to escape?

---

You will be able to pre-order Written In Blood from March, and the book will then be available from April 1st.

A history of crime (England) Part 1

While researching my history of law enforcement articles I realised I was more fascinated (as I’m sure many of us are) by crimes than by law enforcement, so I have decided to do a series featuring (in)famous crimes and criminals, some of which you may have heard of, and others you may not. The series will focus on English crimes and criminals primarily, because that’s where I’m from, but will also feature other countries as I discover them.

First up is what is known as the Bermondsey Horror, which was one of the earliest cases investigated by the detective branch that was formed in London in 1842.

Bermondsey Horror

The name given to this crime by the media of the time suggests multiple victims, yet that is not the case for there was only one victim, Patrick O’Conner, who was murdered on 9th August 1849.

Patrick O’Conner was a ganger at the London docks and a money-lender who made a significant amount of money through charging excessive interest. He was murdered by Marie Manning, with whom he was involved, both before and after she married, and by her husband Frederick.

The exact nature of the relationship between Marie Manning (born Marie de Roux in Lausanne, Switzerland) and Patrick O’Conner is unknown, but O’Conner was not a stranger at the Mannings’. On the evening of the 9th August 1849 he went to the Mannings’ for dinner, during which he was murdered by Marie and her husband and buried under the kitchen floor.

The details of how O’Conner was murdered, and his body subsequently discovered by the police, are unknown now but his body was found by the police on 17th August. At that time a search was begun for the Mannings, who it transpired had killed O’Conner in order to rob him, of money, railway shares and property holdings; Marie went to his house on both the day of his murder and the day following to steal from him.

Following the theft the Mannings double-crossed one another, with Marie coming away in possession of the greater share, and went their separate ways. Marie was captured in Edinburgh, where she was attempting to exchange some of O’Conner’s properties, while Frederick was caught on Jersey.

The trial was unexceptional, as was the case itself; it’s entirely possible that the
Bermondsey Horror would have slipped out of the public’s, and history’s, notice were it not for the presence of Mr Charles Dickens at the public hanging of the Mannings. Dickens wrote to The Times newspaper following the execution to decry the wickedness and levity of the mob that joined him in bearing witness.

 

Obsessed – My latest release

I posted my new short story and its cover recently, and now I’m back to tell you it’s been released and is available for free, or will, from many good ebook retailers. It already has 2 5* reviews on Smashwords, which was absolutely wonderful to wake up to.

When Kirsty is attacked on her doorstep after returning from a party, she is left to wonder who is responsible, and why.

A short story of approximately 8,000 words.

Amazon Not currently free

Smashwords Free

Apple Free

Intekra Free

It will be coming to other retailers soon, and will be free on Amazon as soon as I can get it price-matched.

 

Obsessed – my current WIP

Would anyone like a short story to read? I hope the answer’s yes, because I’ve got one for you. I’m working on it now, this is the 1st draft, with the intention of releasing it in time for the new year, though I haven’t yet made up my mind whether I am going to put it in Select and use the 5 free days it provides to promote it or put it out to as many places as possible and make it perma-free in the hopes that a constant freebie will drive interest in my novels.

Anyway, this is a story of approx 8,000 words. It doesn’t yet have a blurb (it lacks a cover as well, one step at a time, though) but it involves an attack on a young woman returning home from a party, and the events that ensue. I hope those of you who read it will like it.

Before I begin, let me say, I’m open to hints, tips and suggestions, both for improving it and for how I should release it , in terms of perma-free or otherwise.

Okay, without further ado here it is

OBSESSED (working title, suggestions also appreciated)

“Are you sure you don’t want Nick to give you a lift home?”

“You must be kidding, the house is only a couple of streets away,” Kirsty told her friend, unnecessarily since they were housemates. “Even if I did want a lift off someone, I sure as hell wouldn’t take one off Nick. Anytime he does me a favour, he thinks he deserves a reward, and he only ever has one reward in mind.”

“You should be glad he’s interested; Nick’s picky about who he sleeps with, and it’s not like it hasn’t been a while for you,” Paula said with a knowing look. “Just because you don’t want to date right now doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, and you’d have a lot of fun with Nick, trust me. Besides, I sort of hinted that if he made sure you got home alright, you’d make it worth his time.”

“If Nick’s such a stud, why don’t you shag him,” Kirsty suggested.

“I have done, that’s how I know he’s a stud,” Paula told her friend. “I can’t shag him tonight, though, I’ve already lined someone else up, and I doubt he’d be happy if I tried to bring someone else the bed. Not another bloke anyway, he probably wouldn’t mind if it was another woman.”

“No chance, Paula,” Kirsty said, recognising the look on her friend’s face. “I’m going home, alone. I’ll see you tomorrow, assuming you make it home by then.”

“I’m sure I will; one way or another. Don’t forget to wash to my dress before you return it.” Paula called out as Kirsty walked down the path to the gate.

 

The walk home only took a quarter of an hour, even at a slow pace; nonetheless, Kirsty was glad of the fresh air. It helped to clear her head, which was a little fuzzy from the alcohol she had drunk.

Out of habit her eyes darted all around her as she walked down the street. She didn’t really expect to be attacked, but it was late at night and she was sensible enough to be cautious. The street was empty but for herself and one other person. The figure, which she could just make out was male, was on the same side of the road as her and walking towards her, that made her more nervous than if there had been a crowd of drunken yobs. It was too late by then, but she wished she had taken the lift, even if it would have meant fending off Nick.

Kirsty felt a little better when the dark figure turned down the path to the house next to hers and disappeared from sight. She realised it must have been her neighbour, whom she had never seen, despite living at the house for four months; her housemate, Holly, had told her he was an old pervert who kept to himself and liked looking at the young women who walked past. That news hadn’t made her feel very good about moving in, even if the old pervert hadn’t been seen outside by any of her friends.

By the time the figure disappeared, Kirsty was only a short distance from home. Sliding her purse from her shoulder, she rummaged in it for her keys as she covered the remaining few metres and swung the gate open.

Kirsty didn’t see the figure standing in the shadow of the bush that separated the front garden from the pavement. She had no idea he was there until she was grabbed from behind. After freezing momentarily in fright, she came to her senses and struggled to free herself; she was weaker than the person who had hold of her, that was readily obvious, but didn’t allow her lack of strength to stop her. She tugged and wrenched at the arm around her in a futile effort to pull it away, and writhed and twisted against the grip that held her against the stomach of her assailant; nothing worked until she managed to hook a hook around the heel of her attacker.

Throwing her weight backwards, she sent them both tumbling to the ground. She landed heavily on top of her assailant and heard the air explode from his lungs, at the same time she felt his grip loosen; she immediately took advantage of the opportunity afford her and pulled free so she could scramble away and to her feet.

She had lost her handbag when she was grabbed, having dropped it out of fright, but still had a firm grip on her keys. Without looking she flipped through them, searching blindly for the right one as she darted for the front door.

“HELP!” she called out loudly as she was tackled before she could go even half a dozen paces.

Hitting the ground heavily, she kicked her heel backwards, eliciting a satisfying grunt of pain when she hit her attacker.

“HELP!” she screamed a second time. Twisting about, she lashed out again with her feet. This time the blow hit her attacker in the stomach, doubling him up. She scrambled to her feet when He let go.

Kirsty was fumbling to get the key in the lock when she was grabbed and slammed into the door. She barely had a chance to realise what had been done to her when she was slammed into the door a second time, leaving her dizzy and disorientated, with blood running down her face. When she was let go she fell to the ground, where she hit her head on the concrete of the path.

The last thing she heard before blackness overcame her, and she succumbed to unconsciousness, was a man’s voice, though she couldn’t make out whose voice it was, or what he said.

 

 

A bright, white light stabbed into her eyes as Kirsty struggled back to consciousness, making her blink repeatedly. The light didn’t diminish, despite the blinking, and she twisted her head, first one way and then the other, to try and avoid it, which she quickly discovered was impossible so long as her eyes were open.

Even when her eyes became accustomed to the light, and the pain diminished, Kirsty found she couldn’t see much. Indistinct outlines were all that were visible to her, including the indistinct shape of at least one person a few feet from her.

Her vision wasn’t the only one of her senses that was affected; she could also hear a ringing sound in her ears. Above the ringing she could dimly hear noises that suggested she was in a vehicle of some sort, and then a voice. “She’s coming round.” It was female and familiar, but her diminished hearing prevented her identifying it.

“Stay down, Miss.” A second voice, this time male, and completely unfamiliar, said when she tried to sit up. A gentle pressure on her shoulder forced her to remain lying down. “You’ve had a bad know on the head, you might have a concussion.”

“Where am I? How did I get here?” Kirsty wanted to know as she continued to try and make sense of the imperfect images she was seeing.

“It’s alright, Kirsty, it’s Laura, You’re in an ambulance, you were attacked.”

“I remember, someone grabbed me from behind.” Kirsty groaned then “My head hurts.”

“I’m not surprised, Miss, you have a couple of very large bumps on your head, both front and back. Does it hurt anywhere other than your head?” the paramedic asked.

“My throat is sore,” Kirsty answered, reached a hand up to touch it. She was stopped by her friend, who caught her hand. “And my face hurts.”

“Well your face is quite badly bruised, as is your throat. I think it would be best if you don’t anything more for the time being, just lay still until we get to the hospital. They’ll want to x-ray you when we get there, and after that the police will want to talk to you.”

“I think I’m going to be…” Before she could finish what she was about to say, Kirsty twisted her head sharply to one side and threw up.

“Thanks, Hon,” Laura said disgustedly. “That was all over my feet.”

“Sorry.” Kirsty’s voice was wear as her stomach heaved. After a few moments, the urge to be sick subsided and she rolled back so she was staring up at the top of the ambulance.

“This has not been a good night for me.” Although she couldn’t see her friend clearly, Kirsty could tell from her voice that Laura wasn’t happy. “First I had to miss out on the party because I was working late, then you wake me up just when I was getting to the good part of my dream about Liam Hemsworth, and now you go and throw up all over my feet. Can this night get any worse?”

“I hope not. I’m sorry, Laura; next time I’m attacked I’ll ask the guy to hold on while we wait for your dream to finish.”

“There’s no need for that, Kirsty, I’m just grumpy. You know I hate having my sleep disturbed. Why don’t you just lay back and think about all those hunky doctors who are going to be queuing up to look after you once we get to the hospital.”

 

 

“Hello Miss Newsome.” The stranger was obviously a police officer, there could be no doubt about that since he was wearing a uniform, as was the man with him. “I’m Sergeant Leroy, and this is my partner, Constable Habib. The doctor tells me you’re up to answering a few questions, do you mind if we ask you about the attack?”

“There isn’t much I can tell you,” Kirsty replied honestly. “I was walking up the path to my front door, and was searching in my purse for my keys when someone grabbed me from behind. I didn’t see who grabbed me, but whoever it was fell over as I struggled with him, and I landed on top of him. He lost his grip on me then and I scrambled away, calling for help. He tackled me before I got very far and I hit my face on the ground. I kicked out at him and he let me go again. When I got to my feet I ran for the door.

“I remember getting to the door, and I remember my hands shaking as I tried to get the key in the lock. Before I could he had me again. He hit my head against the door, twice. “She sounded more shocked by that than by the fact that she had been attacked. “After that I don’t remember much. I think I heard someone calling out but I might have imagined it.”

“You didn’t imagine it.” Laura assured her friend. “Someone did call out.”

“You seem to know something about this, Miss.” Sergeant Leroy turned to Laura, who was yawning repeatedly in the chair she had positioned near the head of Kirsty’s bed. “Would you mind telling us what you know?” he queried.

“I think I need a coffee first, I’m not awake enough to concentrate. I’ll be back in a moment.” Laura got to her feet and tiredly wandered off in search of a vending machine. It didn’t take her long to find one and then she was back, sipping from a gently steaming polystyrene cup. “Okay, now I feel a little more awake, what is it you want to know?”

“Whatever you’re able to tell us about the attack on your friend.” Constable Habib replied.

“Not much,” Laura admitted. “I got woken up when I heard Kirsty call for help. My room is at the back of the house and I’m a heavy sleeper so I don’t know how long she was calling for before it penetrated.

“When I finally did hear Kirsty I crawled out of bed and went to the front of the house to find out what was going on. Looking out of Julia’s window, she’s our other housemate, I saw someone in the front garden. I couldn’t really see much but I could tell it wasn’t Kirsty.

“Since I couldn’t see any sign of Kirsty, when I was positive I’d heard her, and I didn’t like what I could see of the figure outside, I ran back to my bedroom to grab my phone. I was just calling you guys on my way down the stairs when I heard someone calling out. A guy, it was definitely a guy’s voice, but I’m not positive what he said but it sounded something like ‘get the fuck off her’. When I got downstairs and out the front door, Kirsty was on the ground and there was two guys fighting a few feet away.

“One of them looked over when I opened the front door but I couldn’t see his face, it was too dark. The other guy hit him while he wasn’t looking. The one who got hit stumbled back, then turned and ran out of the garden; the second guy ran after him and that was the last I saw of them. If I’m honest, I didn’t even think about them after that, I was too worried about Kirsty and went to check on her. She was still breathing but I was worried about the blood on her face.

“It wasn’t long after that when you guys arrived, and so did the ambulance. And now we’re here. I don’t suppose any of that is very helpful to you, is it.”

“That’s hard to say, Miss. We’ll file a report and pass everything on. I imagine a detective will visit you tomorrow, or I should say later today, to take a more detailed statement,” Leroy told her. “Don’t worry, Miss, we’ll catch the person who attacked you,” he assured Kirsty.

 

 

Looking around furtively, the darkly-dressed figure left the street. His eyes darted everywhere as he walked up the path to a house that was virtually identical to the more that two dozen others on either side of the street. Instead of ringing the bell when he reached the front door he turned away and followed the path around to the side gate.

He was not a tall man, and had to stand on tiptoe to reach over the gate and lift the catch. The hinges creaked as he swung the gate open and he cringed at the noise, though he didn’t stop, nor did he turn back.

Walking quickly down the path at the side of the house he made his way to the back, where he did stop when he reached the kitchen door. Despite his concern for the noise made by the creaking hinges on the gate, he didn’t react at all as he took out a large kitchen knife from his jacket pocket and smashed it through the window in the door. Knocking out the remainder of the glass with the point of the knife blade He reached through and gropped around for a moment until he found the catch, he then swung the door open so he could walk into the kitchen.

Even with the moon out there was little light for him to see by, and after just three paces he bumped into the table. Since his eyesight wasn’t the best, even in daylight, he groped his way around the table, knocking over one of the chairs in the process. The chair fell to the floor with a loud clatter he was sure would have disturbed everyone in the house, and as he walked along the passage he heard hurried footsteps as someone came to investigate. Tightening his grip on the knife, he stopped before he could be seen by whoever was approaching.

With the knife at the ready He waited, and waited.

It seemed like he was waiting forever, though it was really no more than thirty seconds, before the footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. When they did, He moved. His victim was caught by surprise and had no time to react, or make any move to defend himself, as he was pushed against the wall.

He saw his victim’s eyes widen in pain as he stabbed him in the stomach, but the hand he had over his mouth kept his scream from being audible. Pulling the knife out, He stabbed again and again. By the time he stopped, he had stabbed the man more than half a dozen times and there was blood on the wall, and the carpet, and all over his clothes.

Breathing heavily, He stepped away from his victim and let him fall to the floor, where he continued to bleed. He made no attempt to check that his victim was dead, he didn’t care, he just stepped away and started up the stairs to the bedrooms. As He ascended, his pace unhurried, he held the knife at his side, the blood that coated its blade dripping to the carpet to form a trail that revealed where he had been and where he was going.

He had been to the house before so he knew where to go, and when he reached the top of the stairs he turned to his left. In just a few steps he reached the main bedroom; the door was ajar and he pushed it wide, before stepping through and into the bedroom. The young woman He was after was cowering naked on the bed, her mobile phone in one hand and the quilt clutched in the other to cover herself as she stared fearfully at the doorway. She gave a little scream when he came through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Julia demanded when the figure moved further into the room and his face became visible in the light from the lamp. He was someone she had not expected to see, ever again, let alone in a bedroom. “Where’s Gary?” He moved slowly closer and she saw the bloodstained knife in his hand. “What have you done?” she asked, a note of panic in her voice.

He didn’t say anything as he stalked across the room, enjoying the fear that was written on her face. Instead he raised the bloody knife and darted to his left as Julia tried to scramble off the bed in that direction. He darted to his right as she reversed direction so he could again cut her off.

While Julia, the bedclothes abandoned and her nakedness forgotten, looked all around for a way to escape, He took the initiative. Jumping onto the bed, He ignored her screams as he stabbed the knife down viciously; the blade caught in the arm she raised instinctively to protect herself and he had to wrench it free so he could attack her again. The knife penetrated Julia’s chest that time, but he didn’t stop there.

In a frenzy that contrasted with the expressionless mask on his face, He stabbed her again and again, paying no heed to the blood that spurted and then fell to soak through the quilt to the mattress. He didn’t stop his attack until his arm began to ache and it was almost too much of an effort for him to lift the knife.

Looking down at the body at his feet, He saw that he had stabbed Julia so many times it was almost impossible to count the number of individual wounds. He felt no remorse over what he had done as he stared down at what had, only a short time before, been an attractive young woman. As far as he was concerned she had deserved it.

 

 

“Are you sure the police haven’t found out anything about my attack and Julia’s murder?” Kirsty asked, looking around nervously as she walked up the path to the front door.

“I’ve already told you everything the police told me,” Laura said. Unlike her friend, who was looking all around her as if she expected to be attacked again at any moment, she just walked straight up to the front door. She didn’t spare the shadowed front garden even a single glance. “Don’t worry; whoever attacked you isn’t going to come back. It was probably just a random thing; he grabbed the first girl that came along. You were just unlucky enough to be the first girl.”

“He didn’t attack me at random,” Kirsty said insistently. “Even the police agree with me. He was waiting behind the hedge; he was waiting for someone who lives at this house. That could only be you, me, or Julia. He might be back to attack me again.”

“If you are right and he was after someone from this house, then doesn’t it seem likely he was after Jules, especially now she’s been murdered,” Laura remarked. She didn’t mean to sound heartless, though she realised from the look on her friend’s face that that was how she came across, she was just trying to be as practical as she could. “If that is the case, I don’t think you need to worry about anything, he won’t be back.”

“Can’t you at least try and sound like you’re sorry Jules is dead?” Kirsty wanted to know. She had been horrified when told her best friend, and Gary, had been murdered barely twenty-four hours after she had been attacked. “She was my best friend.”

“I know she was your best friend, she was mine as well. Of course I’m sorry she’s dead, I’d never have wanted her to die, especially the way she did.” Unlike Kirsty, Laura had heard the news on the radio, which had included a report on the murders. The report had given more information than had been provided by the police when they questioned her about the murders of Julia and Ben, so she knew how brutal the murders had been, while Kirsty remained ignorant of just how her friends had died.

Both friends had been shocked when they heard about the murders, but they had different methods of dealing with the bad things that happened in their lives. “We have to get on with our lives, though, and we can’t go jumping at shadows,” Laura remarked as Kirsty continued to nervously search the small garden for anyone who might be hiding there. “The police will find the person who attacked you and murdered Jules.”

“What if he comes back for me?”

“You’re worrying about nothing, Kirsty,” Laura assured her. “Why would he come back for you?” He was after Jules. No-one would ever want to hurt you? You’re the nicest person I know.”

“But you think someone would want to hurt Jules?” Kirsty fiddled with her keys till she found the right one and unlocked the door.

“Obviously someone wanted to hurt Jules, they killed her.” Laura stepped past her friend and moved into the house. Despite her unworried attitude, she felt a small shiver run up her spine as she entered the dark house, though it was quickly dispelled when she turned the lights on in the passage and the living room.  “You know I loved Jules as much as you, but let’s face it, she never treated guys very well. How often have we heard guys swearing at her and threatening her?”

“I’ve had guys swear at me, and threaten me, in the past too, that doesn’t mean they’re really going to do anything. Besides, it doesn’t matter how Jules treated guys. That’s no excuse for someone to murder her.”

“I know that. We may never know why she was killed, but it isn’t going to help us to dwell on it. It’s depressing enough without thinking about it anymore than we have to. Do you want some wine?” Laura asked as she made for the kitchen. “I need something to help me relax, how about you?”

“Maybe one glass. I need to get changed before I do anything else though,” Kirsty called back as she headed up the stairs to her room. She was still wearing the dress she had been attacked in since Laura had been working all day, and hadn’t been able to pick her up from the hospital until late evening. She had been declared fit to leave at lunch time, but had refused to go home alone; fortunately, the doctor had understood her concerns and allowed her to remain at the hospital until she could be picked up. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Kirsty was standing in the bathroom, examining the bruises on her throat in the mirror above the sink, when she heard the doorbell ring. She immediately looked around fearfully, though there was no-one for her to see. “Who is it?” she called out to Laura.

“How would I know? I haven’t made it to the door yet,” Laura yelled up to her friend. “Stop worrying, do you really think someone who wants to attack you is going to ring the doorbell?” As she walked down the passage towards the front door she sipped from the glass in her hand. Though she hadn’t wanted to admit it, her nerves were a little frayed, with the result that her first drink had been finished almost as quickly as she had poured it out. Her second drink was almost finished as well, and she had every intention of pouring herself a third when the glass was empty again.

There was no reply from upstairs but Laura didn’t really expect one.

While she opened the front door with her free hand, she raised the glass to her lips with the other. She was going to be pissed in no time at all, given the speed she was drinking at, but she didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing here, Patrick?” she wanted to know when she saw who was at the door.

Patrick didn’t answer, instead he brought his hand out from behind his leg, revealing the knife he was holding. Without saying a word he thrust the knife into the stomach of his ex-girlfriend’s best friend, who barely had a chance to realise he was holding a weapon before she was stabbed.

When Laura folded over the knife in his hand he grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her backwards off the blade. His face showed no more emotion as he kicked her feet out of the way and stepped into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, than it had the previous night when he murdered his ex-girlfriend and her lover.

“Who’s at the door?” Kirsty called the question as she walked down the passage from her bedroom. She came to an abrupt stop when she reached the head of the stairs and saw her friend on the floor, Patrick standing over her.

She came to her senses and screamed when Patrick started up the stairs and she saw the bloody knife he was holding. Running back down the passage to her bedroom, she grabbed the door handle to slow herself and almost ended up falling over. She just managed to keep her balance, though she did trap her hand between the handle and the door; swallowing a yelp of pain she untangled herself and slammed the door behind her before turning the key in the lock.

Even with the door shut, she could hear Patrick making his way up the stairs. The noise sent her to the bed, where she had dropped her phone when she got changed. She tried not to listen to the sound of approaching feet as she frantically dialled the emergency operator, but she couldn’t block them out.

“Please, I need the police,” she told the operator in a terrified voice when her call was answered. “There’s someone in my house, and I think he killed my friend.” She almost dropped her phone when a heavy crash made the door shudder alarmingly. She knew the house was old and well-built, and the door was solid, nonetheless she doubted the door would hold forever.

Fearfully, Kirsty watched the door shudder twice more as she gave her address to the police officer she was put through to. Finally, she tore her eyes from the door so she could look around for something she could use as a weapon; there weren’t many possibilities, but she did see her tennis racquet leaning against the wardrobe, that, and the balls on the floor next to it, were the best she could come up with.

Dropping the phone, she clambered off the bed and darted over to the tennis equipment. She was just grabbing it when the door burst inwards. The noise of the door exploding open and slamming against the wall made her jump in fright and drop the racquet. Keeping her eyes on the doorway, and the figure that appeared in it, she bent and blindly fumbled for her makeshift weapon. She found a tennis ball before she found the racquet, and of their own volition her fingers closed around it.

Patrick’s momentum carried him halfway across the room after the door burst open. Stopping himself before he collided with the bed, he spun around and searched the room for Kirsty. He spotted her as the first o the tennis balls flew from her hand to strike him with deadly accuracy in the stomach, causing him to double up with a grunt of pain.

The second ball that Kirsty threw his Patrick in the side of the head, dazing him. He recovered in time to dodge out of the way of the third ball, and it sailed past him to smash through the bedroom window and disappear into the evening’s darkness.

A second or so after the ball vanished Kirsty thought she heard the sound of more glass breaking. Without being conscious of what she was doing, she dismissed the noise as her imagination for there was nothing close enough to be broken; the ball should have landed in either the garden of the house she shared with Laura and Julia, or the garden of the house next door.

Seeing that Patrick had ducked out of the way in case she had more balls to throw, Kirsty abandoned her fumbling search for more weapons and raced for the door. Once she reached the passage she sprinted along it to the stairs, moving as fast as she could. She wasn’t fast enough.

She was about to descend the stairs, in one giant leap if necessary, when she felt a sharp pain in her lower back. Instinctively she arched her back away from the pain and the weapon, and in doing so she lost her balance; unsuccessfully, she grabbed at the banister to try and keep herself from tumbling down the stairs.

Kirsty heard a sharp crack and felt an explosion of pain in her arm when she landed at the bottom of the stairs. She was sure she had broken her arm, but had little time to think about the injury as both the pain from her arm and that from her back were smothered by the darkness that crept into the edge of her vision. It was a repeat of the other night that she would have quite happily lived without.

As her vision faded, and everything slowly disappeared into the fog that was engulfing her mind, she dimly heard footsteps on the stairs above her. Patrick was coming to finish what he had started, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Before unconsciousness overtook her completely she heard a crashing sound, and out the corner of her eye she saw someone burst through the front door. The man, whose identity she couldn’t even guess at, though she was certain the figure was male, barely avoided falling over her and Laura as his momentum carried him almost to the foot of the stairs. He recovered quickly and jumped over them both to run up the stairs.

From her position on the floor, which she couldn’t change without so much pain it was almost unbearable, Kirsty had very little idea of what was going on. All she could do was strain her ears, and fight against unconsciousness, which was a losing battle, to listen to the struggle on the stairs above her.

The struggle didn’t last long, as least not as far as she could tell, her sense of time was far from uncertain. After a few moments, she heard someone tumble down the stairs; she had no idea if it was Patrick, or the man who had burst through the front door, but they landed heavily on top of her. That was the last she knew as an unidentified body part collided with her head.

 

 

Kirsty woke to darkness, with no idea where she was. All she could tell, from the little she could make out through the darkness, was that she wasn’t at home. She tried, briefly, to push herself up into a sitting position so she could look around better and figure out her location; she quickly decided that moving was not a good idea, however. The attempt only increased the pain, which was radiating through her body from three distinct locations, to an almost unbearable level, and led to her discovering that her left arm was encased in plaster and secured to the side of the bed.

“Good morning, Miss Newsome,” a voice said from somewhere above her as Kirsty tentatively opened her eyes, some hours after she first woke, and saw a strange woman standing over her. “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Kirsty managed to reply. “Where am I?”

“Thank God she’s awake.” Another voice spoke up from the other side of the room. “That snoring was driving me round the bend.”

“Laura,” Kirsty said the name in surprise, smiling automatically at her friend’s comment. “Where are we?”

“Where do you think we are, dummy?” Laura wanted to know. “We’re in hospital, just where you’d expect to be after surviving a knife attack. Unless you think we’re both dead and this is Heaven, in which I case I really have to question your choice of nurse. I know if it was me, I’d have picked someone a bit hotter to look after me.”

Kirsty was used to the way her friend spoke, and so didn’t let her comment bother her. “So what happened? The last thing I remember is someone landing on me.”

“I know about as much as you. I answered the door and found Patrick there. I never expected to see him on our doorstep after he and Julia broke up. When I asked him what he was doing there he pulled out a knife. He stabbed me and then shoved me back into the house so he could close the door.

“The police didn’t say anything when they told us Julia and Ben had been murdered, but I heard on the news they were both stabbed repeatedly…”

“We were hoping that wouldn’t be reported.” The comment, coming so unexpectedly, made both girls turn quickly to see the speaker in the doorway; despite the pain it cost them to do so. “But you can always rely on the media to report the lurid details of any crime.

“Good morning, ladies. I’m Detective Sergeant Fuller.” The middle-aged man in the much-wrinkled suit introduced himself as he moved further into the room. “I apologise for interrupting, you were telling your friend what you know of last night’s events, please, continue.” He helped himself to a seat from the side of the room, which he positioned squarely between the two beds.

A little nonplussed by the detective’s arrival, and the break in her train of thought, it took Laura a few moments to get back to what she had been saying. “The news said both Julia and Ben were stabbed repeatedly,” she continued finally, “and I thought for sure he was going to do the same to me. I just lay there on the floor, hoping he’d kill me quickly or go away, and I’m not sure which I was hoping for the most. I’ve never felt pain like I did then, I could barely think, but I remember being relieved when you called out, asking who was at the door, and he forgot about me to go after you. I’m sorry, Kirsty.” She felt terrible over the relief she had felt when Patrick left her to chase her friend. “I wanted to call out and warn you, I started to, but I was scared. I thought if I called out, he’d realise I wasn’t dead and he’d stab me again.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” Kirsty forgave her friend, had she been able, she would have gone to her friend. Just the thought of moving ramped up the pain she was feeling, however. “I’d probably have been the same if it was me. I wouldn’t have wanted him to know I was still alive either.

“I guess I know what happened after that,” she said after a few moments, when they had themselves under control. “I ran back to my room and called the police, and when Patrick broke through the door I threw tennis balls at him. After that I ran back out of the room and tried to get away. He caught me at the top of the stairs and stabbed me.

“Everything’s a bit fuzzy from then on. Was it the police who broke in and fought with Patrick on the stairs? I know someone burst through the front door and fought with Patrick, and one of them fell and landed on my head. That’s the last thing I know.”

“No, it wasn’t a police officer who tackled your attacker,” Detective Sergeant Fuller answered Kirsty’s question, though it had been directed at her friend, not him. “It was your neighbour, Jason Greendale.”

“The old pervert who lives next door?” Laura queried.

“I think he might object to that description,” Fuller remarked, “since he is only twenty-eight, though he does live next door to you so that does make him your neighbour.”

“So he’s a young pervert, not an old one, he’s still a pervert. I’ve lived there for six months, and never once seen him outside. He’s always at the window, watching whenever one of us walks past though.”

“As I understand it, Mr Greendale has a rare skin condition that makes it painful for him to be out in sunlight, consequently he spends most of his time indoors. As for his always being at the window when one of you goes past, according to his statement, he works from home as a software developer. You’ve probably seen him working at his desk.”

“So he rescued us?” Kirsty asked, ignoring the disbelief on her friend’s face. “How did he know we needed rescuing?”

Fuller answered the question by taking a tennis ball from his pocket and tossing it onto Kirsty’s bed. “That smashed through Mr Greendale’s conservatory. When he investigated the sound of breaking glass he found that tennis ball and saw your broken bedroom window. Since he had already rescued you the other night, and had heard about the murder of your housemate on the news, he realised you were in trouble again, and this time your attacker was in the house. He raced round to your house and kicked in the door in time to find Patrick O’Herlihy descending the stairs, bloody knife in hand.”

“He’s the one who rescued me the other night?”

“He admitted as much when we took his statement during the night.”

“Then why did he disappear after he chased off Patrick? I assume it was Patrick who attacked me the other night.” A nod answered the question. “Did he kill Jules?” Another nod. “Oh God! Why? I know he wasn’t happy when Julia finished with him, but that was months ago.”

“Unhappy, he was pissed off,” Laura remained her friend. “He threw a glass at her in the pub and had to be dragged away by David.”

“If you ladies will permit me to continue, I’ll answer your questions shortly Miss Newsome. Mr Greendale entered your house in time to see Mr O’Herlihy descending the stairs holding the knife he stabbed you both with.” Fuller took up his narrative again. “Jumping over you both, he raced up the stairs and tackled Mr O’Herlihy without hesitation. A very brave act, if you ask me. They fought for a short while, until Mr O’Herlihy fell down the stairs, landing on your, Miss Newsome. Despite receiving a rather nasty cut to his arm, Mr Greendale didn’t hesitate to chase after Mr O’Herlihy when he ran from the house. He caught up with him in the street, where they fought again.

“I’m afraid to say your car suffered during the fight, Miss Newsome. It now has a rather large dent in the passenger door. Mr Greendale hit Mr O’Herlihy against it until he was unconscious. I shouldn’t really condone such violence, but given the confession Mr O’Herlihy made when I spoke to him after he woke up, I can’t say I’m inclined to make an issue of it. And that brings me to your questions. I’ll start with the easiest, the reason Mr Greendale didn’t stick around the other night. Because of his skin condition, Mr Greendale has spent the greater portion of his life indoors, and generally away from anyone other than family and doctors, with the result that he has never learned how to deal with people. He’s uncomfortable with strangers, and when he heard you, Miss Cutler, looking after your friend when he returned from chasing off Mr O’Herlihy, he decided there was no need for him to stick around, so he returned to his own home out of the way.”

Kirsty found it hard to imagine being uncomfortable around people, meeting and getting along with people, even strangers, was second nature to her.

“Why did Patrick kill Jules?” Laura asked, she was far more interested in knowing the answer to that question than in understanding her mysterious neighbour.

“Because he’s a nut-job.” Fuller gave a succinct answer, which explained nothing.

Laura looked at the detective as though he was a nut-job for a moment. “Is that an official description?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Well it certainly isn’t a medical one, but it should be, based on the conversation I had with him during the night,” he remarked. “When he woke up, which, fortunately, was before midnight, he was quite eager to tell me why he killed your friend Julia. In his words, she was a lying, cheating, whore, who got what she deserved.” Fully paused for a moment. “I apologise, but, as I said, those were his words. When I was able to get him to clarify, Mr O’Herlihy revealed that he recently discovered Miss Lincoln cheated on him while the two of them were involved.”

“That’s hardly news. Jules is, was, a lovely girl, my best friend, but she couldn’t stay faithful to save her life,” Laura remarked. “We all knew it, Kirsty,” she said, responding to the look her friend threw her. “Patrick was the only one who didn’t, and I don’t know how he did, she wasn’t exactly discreet.”

“Miss Lincoln’s lack of discretion aside, Mr O’Herlihy only recently found out about her infidelities when his brother let slip that he had slept with her. Upon hearing that his brother had slept with his girlfriend, Mr O’Herlihy lost the plot and attacked him. We found the body of David O’Herlihy in his flat in the early hours of this morning, as his brother told us we would. He had been dead for several days.”

Kirsty was so shocked that almost ten seconds passed before she was able to speak. “So, Patrick murdered Jules and his brother because they cheated on him together? That’s crazy.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that score, Miss,” Fuller commented as he shifted himself on the uncomfortable chair. “I’ve investigated several murders during my time as a detective, but these were the worst.”

“I take it Gary was murdered because he had the misfortune of being with Jules when Patrick came for her.”

“Regrettably, yes. If he had not been there, Mr Turner would still be alive.”

“Okay, so I get why Patrick killed his brother, and Jules, and even Gary, even if his reasons are crazy. But why did he attack me?” Kirsty wanted to know. “I had nothing to do with Jules cheating on him with David.”

“That was a case of mistaken identity as far as I could gather. At this point in his story, Mr O’Herlihy became less coherent, mumbling something about the right dress, but the wrong girl.”

“He must have been talking about the dress I was wearing the night he attacked me, Jules lent it to me, and if I remember right, Patrick bought it for her. He bought her lots of things, I suppose it would have been easy for him to mistake me for Jules in that dress, people do say we look alike, from the back.”

“Well that explains that.” Fuller seemed relieved to have that cleared up. “And it brings us all up to date. The two of you now know everything that happened, not to mention why it happened, and I have the answer to the one thing Mr O’Herlihy didn’t clear up for me.”

“What happens now?” Laura asked. “You said Patrick confessed, does that mean he’ll go straight to jail? Or will there still need to be a trial?”

“Given the nature of the murders he has committed, Mr O’Herlihy will be examined by a psychologist, who will make a determination as to whether he is fit to stand trial. I think it likely he will be found unfit and sent to an institution; most probably he’ll spend a significant portion of his life there. I’ll keep you both informed, as and when I know anything.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Kirsty shook her head. “No, thank you, detective. I think we need to be alone for a bit.”

Detective Sergeant Fuller nodded his understanding and got to his feet, quietly closing the door behind him as he left.

 

Shall We Gather At The River? – An Honest Review

Shall We Gather At The River?

Jane Jago

*Disclaimer*

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for an honest review.

…for a moment the silence was blissful. Then the screaming started…

The body of a young woman is found floating in a Devon river; she has been beaten and tortured, then strangled and discarded.

Finding out who she was, and why she died, is only the beginning of an increasingly violent and disturbing trip into a world of vicious sadism and routine abuse.

Writing team Leo and Mike Johnson will be lucky to get out of this one with all their fingers and toes.

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This is a book with more twists and turns than the most winding of rivers; just when you think things are settling down and becoming more understandable, new surprises crop up to keep you on your toes, and I like that.

Nothing makes me happier in a book than a lack of certainty, I want to stand a chance of figuring out what is going on, but I like it when I’m wrong.

The pacing of this book is not what I prefer, it was too fast, I’m generally more in favour of a slower pace and some more description in the scenes, but I know there are plenty of people out there who like fast-paced action, and the pace in Shall we gather at the river moves at the speed of sound, if not faster.

Ignoring the pace, and the occasional use of more complex words than I felt was necessary, the book has a great and wonderfully complex plot that reaches beyond sunny Devon where it begins. It also features an eclectic array of characters, about whom you’re constantly learning, and who drive the story forward well; there was only one character who I felt was unnecessary, all others fitted into the story and suited their roles well.

If I could make one suggestion to Jane, it would be that a different cover might attract more readers

An apology

Some of you may have noticed that I’ve been a little lax in posting the last week or so, compared to previously, and I’m here to apologise. I’ve been struggling with my various mental health issues recently and that’s made it difficult to find either the energy or the enthusiasm to provide regular posts while keeping up with my writing and editing.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m cringing at every loud noise from the TV and it’s taken me all day to recover from a trip to the shops this morning where I nearly had a panic attack and was left almost in tears for most of the afternoon.

To make up for this lack, I’ve decided to give you all a preview of my new book, Written In Blood, it’s been quite a while since I did so, I hope you like it.

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Emily was on her bed, reading a book, one eye on the clock on her bedside cabinet so she wouldn’t be late putting the potatoes on, when she heard the vehicle pull into the yard outside. Pushing herself up, she craned her head round to look out the window to see who it was; it was too early for it to be her dad or her brother, they were unlikely to get home until just before dinner was ready to be served.

The moment she saw the Land Rover in the yard she leaped to her feet, pleased that Zack Wild had returned. As pleased as she was, she was also more than a little nervous. She knew she had caught Zack by surprise earlier, she had caught herself by surprise as well, to such an extent that she had forgotten to grab her bag when she got out of his car; she had now had enough time to think about what she had done and realise what a fool she had made of herself.

On her way out of the bedroom and down the stairs, Emily imagined the possible reasons for his return: he could be there to return her bag, or he could be there to make sure she was not going to tell anyone what had happened between them; he might even be there because he had changed his mind about what he had said earlier.

She hesitated with her hand on the front door catch, a little reluctant to open the door and discover how her next encounter with Zack Wild was going to go. After almost half a minute had passed, she took a deep breath, summoned her courage, and opened the door so she could step out into the yard.

Zack was nowhere to be seen. Emily had thought to find him outside the front door, about to ring the bell, but he wasn’t there. She looked around the yard, but couldn’t see him, which made no sense to her; she couldn’t think where he might have gone. She walked to each corner of the house to see if he had gone round one of the sides for some reason, but there was no sign of him. Bewildered, she walked to where the Land Rover had been parked in the middle of the yard.

She wasn’t normally the sort of person to go rummaging around in someone’s car without permission, it wasn’t polite, but on this occasion she thought herself justified in doing so since she was after her bag. Her bag wasn’t where she had left it, though. It should have been in the foot-well in front of the passenger seat, but it wasn’t there. Not sure why the bag wasn’t there, she leaned further into the vehicle so she could search under the passenger seat, where she found a number of items, none of which were her bag.

The desire to find out more about the man who lived down the road, and with whom she had made such a fool of herself, made her take out each item in turn so she could examine it. She discovered little, other than that Zack Wild was messier than she had previously thought, at least initially; the first few items she pulled out were a road map of the county, an empty crisp packet, a couple of chocolate wrappers, and a hammer – she had no idea why he had a hammer under the passenger seat, it seemed a strange thing for him to have there, but it wasn’t as strange as the next thing she pulled out, a pink mobile phone.

For several long moments, Emily simply stared at the phone in her hand; the phone was familiar to her, she was sure she had seen it before, but she knew it wasn’t Zack’s. She couldn’t work out where it was she knew the phone from, and that annoyed her because she was sure it was important; it came back to her in a flash, whose phone it was and where she had seen it before, when the voice sounded from behind her.

“What are you doing?” The voice that uttered the question was curious, but evidenced no concern, not until she turned round and its owner saw the phone in her hand. “Where did you get that? Give it to me,” he demanded, holding out a hand insistently.

In an instant Emily knew who had killed Georgina Ryder, and Lucy Goulding, and it was the last person she would have thought of. So great was her shock that she was left frozen to the spot, unable to react to her discovery except by standing there and staring at him in slack-jawed shock. Only when he lunged at her, demanding, “Give me that phone, you nosey bitch,” did she recover the ability to move.

At the last second, right before his grasping hand closed around her wrist, Emily twisted away. She felt a small amount of satisfaction when his momentum carried him into the side of the Land Rover, which he collided with heavily, but didn’t allow that to stop her racing across the yard to the still open front door. Once she was through the door, she slammed it closed and, with fumbling fingers, dropped the catch; she didn’t suppose that was going to keep him outside for long, but any delay was good.

When the front door, against which she was leaning, shook under the impact of something heavy, Emily left it and hurried up the stairs. Her fingers continued to show little willingness to properly obey the commands they were being given by her brain as she sought to unlock Georgina Ryder’s phone – she had seen it previously in the hands of her brother’s girlfriend, which was why she had found it familiar from the moment she picked it up – and call her father. She was beginning to think the phone was dead, after all it was more than a week since it must have been lost, when the screen lit up; unfortunately, that was as far as she got for Georgina had her phone secured with a password.

She was struck by a moment of inspiration as she closed the door to her bedroom with a bang and twisted the key in the old-fashioned lock.

The relief she felt when Georgina’s birthday unlocked the phone was amazing, she had never felt anything so powerfully before. That relief quickly disappeared, however, when she got no answer from her father’s number. Again and again she tried to get hold of her father, while she listened with one ear to the front door being smashed open, followed by the thunder of footsteps on their way up the stairs.

“Come on, dad,” Emily pleaded to the phone she had pressed to her ear so hard it was liable to stay there even after she let go of it. “Pickup, pickup, pickup. Where are you when I need you?” When the thunderous footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped, only to be followed by a crash as something heavy slammed into the door of the bedroom, Emily abandoned her efforts to contact her father and instead dialled the number for Oakhurst’s police station. She hoped, while dialling, that the solid, and old, oak door that she had always hated would prove to be strong enough to keep out Georgina and Lucy’s killer; so far it had stood up to the job – it shook and shuddered within its frame, but remained secure.

More than she feared being murdered, if it was possible for her to fear something more than that, she feared what he might do to her before he killed her. As she had told Zack on the drive back to the village, she knew what Sergeant Mitchell believed had been done to Georgina and Lucy before they were killed. Until about five minutes ago, she wouldn’t have believed that someone she knew so well could be capable of either rape or murder, and she certainly wouldn’t have believed Him capable of doing committing either act on her; having seen His face when he tried to get the phone from her, though, she found herself scared that he was prepared to do anything, to anyone, including her.

Sturdy the door might be, sturdy enough it wasn’t. Once, twice, three times, He threw his body against the door, and on the fourth time it burst open in a shower of splinters that made Emily duck for fear of being struck. When she straightened up, she saw the menacing figure of the man she had cared about approaching her through the ruins of her door. His face was a twisted, barely recognisable, mask of rage that made her tremble so badly she could barely keep hold of the phone.

“Gimme the phone,” he demanded in a voice that was so harsh and full of so much hatred that  it combined with the look on his face to give him an air of insanity.

Emily could only wonder how it was that she had not seen before how crazy he was. It didn’t seem possible that he could have concealed what kind of person he was from her for so long; not only from her, but from everyone who knew him. Someone should have seen through the act he was putting on, she thought during the millisecond or so where she was able to think with some semblance of clarity.

“I said gimme the fucking phone.”

Emily twisted away as he lunged for her and the phone she was holding. She tried to slip past him and out of the room, thinking that she if she could get out of the house without getting caught, she stood a chance of making it to the village – once there she would be safe. The idea was good, but it failed at the first hurdle; she was caught before she could even get out of the room. She was almost at the door when she was brought short by a sharp jerk on her top, the back of which had been grabbed by the killer she was trying to elude.

“Where the hell d’you think you’re going?”

The question, which was all but shouted in Emily’s face, was accompanied by a yank that sent her spinning and stumbling across the room. She hit the bed and fell over it, landing heavily on the floor on the other side of it; unaware that her call to the police station had been answered, Emily lost her grip on the phone, it bounced from her hand and slid out of sight under the bed. Being far more concerned with protecting herself from the maniac who was obviously intent on causing her serious harm, and most likely on killing her, Emily struggled to her feet, at least she tried to, before she could make it further than her knees she was grabbed and thrown onto her back.

“What the hell were you doing looking around in my car?” he demanded, punching Emily in the face as she tried to sit up. “Why are you so fucking nosey? I said, why are you so fucking nosey?” Grabbing Emily by the front of her t-shirt, he pulled her up so he could punch her again, as a punishment for not answering him, not that she could have done so for the first blow had rocked her head back so that it struck the bedside cabinet behind her.

Again and again he repeated his question, voicing it in different ways, and again and again he hit Emily when she didn’t answer him. Finally, it sank in that he was not going to get an answer because Emily was incapable of providing one. Once he realised that, he let go of her t-shirt, leaving her to drop to the floor with a thud. While the thud echoed around the bedroom, the madness that had overcome him began to fade and sense, or some semblance of it, began to return to his mind, though not before he was struck by a last – for the time being – burst of open insanity.

“Look what you’ve made me do. Look at the mess you’ve made me make.” He kicked Emily in the stomach; he was tempted to kick her again, but forced himself to hold back. He couldn’t afford himself the luxury of wasting any more time; now that the madness was gone, and he was thinking a little more clearly, he realised that he had to move quickly if he wanted to avoid getting caught.

He had no idea how much time he had before Zara got home, and he had to get Emily’s body out of there before she did, before she could see what he had done. He didn’t know where he could take her – he certainly couldn’t dump her body where he had dumped Georgina and Lucy, that would be the first place the police would look, but having a destination wasn’t half as important as getting her out of the house.

He looked out of the window quickly, to be sure the yard was clear, then he bent to grab Emily by the front of her t-shirt. With a heave, He lifted her up from the floor; he had a good set of muscles, but it took all his strength to get the dead weight of her to his shoulder, even though she was not all that heavy, and he staggered a little as he made his way out of the room.

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The above is still in the rewrite stage and hasn’t gone through editing, so I hope you will forgive any mistakes there might be.