M.K. Turner's Blog: M K Turner

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We are all guilty of making assumptions, and most of the time we're don't even realise we're doing it, because that's the way things work, or that's what always happens. Until it doesn't. The next Meredith & Hodge novel is based on one such assumption, and that proved to be fatal. The Hawker family assumed it was just another day. Breakfast, work and school, home, bed. They couldn't have been more wrong. Here's the opening chapter of A Fatal Assumption.

A FATAL ASSUMPTION

Chapter One

“Christine Hawker had been preparing her children’s breakfast when she vanished. There were no clues as to what happened to her, except perhaps the smear of blood on the door which led to the back garden. Her handbag had gone, but her keys were still on the hook. Her slippers were on the stand in the hall, and her work shoes had gone but not her coat.

“The children’s packed lunches were made, and the boxes stacked with their water bottles on the corner of the breakfast bar next to her phone. Glasses of orange juice stood next to the bowls and spoons, laid out ready for the porridge, which slowly burned in the saucepan on the hob.

“When husband Mike Hawker got up that morning, everything had been normal. When he came out of the bathroom, the kids were arguing. Christine was shouting at them to come and have breakfast, and he didn’t have a shirt ironed for work. Normal. Silently cursing, he’d gone to the spare bedroom, pulled out the ironing board from the side of the wardrobe, and plugged in the iron.

“A piercing scream had him running into Oscar’s bedroom, only to find out that Charlotte had broken Oscar’s latest creation. He spent a few minutes calming the situation and told them to get dressed, giving the warning that anyone not ready by the time he was wouldn’t be going to the circus that weekend. Then he spent another five minutes helping Oscar find his socks, as Oscar argued that it wouldn’t be his fault if he wasn’t ready on time. Mike ended up getting them both dressed, which took, he guessed, another ten minutes. He was tying Charlotte’s laces when the fire alarm went off.

“Assuming it was the iron, he ran back to the spare room telling the kids to go downstairs. They didn’t. The iron was standing in the holder on the end of the board. He licked his fingers and tapped it lightly. The sizzle told him it was on, but it wasn’t the cause of the alarm. Calling the kids again, he leaned over the banister and shouted down to Christine, telling her to flap the tea towel at the alarm, and asking what she’d burnt.

Christine ignored him, or so he thought, and he went to iron his shirt.

“The alarm continued, and losing his temper, he banged the iron down and ran downstairs. Christine wasn’t in the kitchen, so he opened the back door, cursing as he burnt his hand lifting the now blackened remains off the gas, before grabbing a tea towel to flap at the sensor on the ceiling in the hall.

“Oscar was sitting on the stairs with his hands over his ears. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. Mike went in search of Christine. Quickly establishing she wasn’t in the house, he gave the kids some cereal in front of the television and went next door to Mr Short, their elderly neighbour. At eighty, and recently widowed, Mr Short often came to them for help with things he couldn’t manage, and Mike assumed Christine had popped in there and forgotten the porridge, which he’d dropped into the dustbin on his way to find her. She wasn’t there.

“Back in the house, the kids remained glued to their latest favourite cartoon, and Mike ironed his shirt. He was becoming increasingly irritated with Christine. She was cutting it fine. He had to leave in five minutes. As he came down the stairs, he noticed her slippers on the shoe stand. Christine always changed those as she was leaving the house. He glanced at the key hook. Her keys were there. After a further ten minutes, he called a workmate, explaining the situation, and that he’d have to drop the kids to school so would be late.

“At a little before nine, Mike drove past the frontage of Jacques & Tower, the estate agents where he worked, waving to Simon Clark, who was putting out the swing board. He parked in the carpark at the rear of the building.

“At nine fifteen, Simon went to get Mike, as a client had called and was holding to speak to him. Mike’s car was in the carpark, the driver’s door was open a little, and his phone, which sat in a holder on the dash, was ringing. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Worried about the phone being stolen, Simon took the phone but couldn’t lock the car as the keys weren’t there.

“At nine thirty-five, another call came in on Mike’s phone. The screen showed it to be Chris Work, so Simon answered it, believing it to be Christine. It wasn’t. It was her manager. Christine hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t answering her phone. Simon explained Mike had disappeared, and he didn’t know where either of them was. He suggested the possibility of a family emergency, as Mike had called that morning with problems at home. They promised to keep in touch with each other but didn’t.

“At four fifteen, the phone rang again. It was the children’s school, asking for Mike as the children hadn’t been picked up. Simon called the police.

“That was March 2012, and despite extensive enquiries, neither has been seen since. The case remained open but hasn’t been worked on since 2020. Mike Hawker’s body was discovered three weeks ago, buried on what was then wasteland, and is shortly to be a new supermarket, near Cribbs Causeway. The digger removed the arm of the corpse, and the work stopped while the remains were recovered. Mike Hawker’s remains were found with a length of rope, which may or may not have been a murder weapon. The hyoid bone was intact, but I’m told that it only breaks in a third of victims. At the moment, we have no cause of death. Pathologists had little to work with but are awaiting some results. Given the burial of the body, and the missing wife, it’s assumed he was murdered, probably strangled. His wallet and car keys were in his trouser pockets.”

*****

DS Louie Trump clicked the remote, and a photograph appeared of a happy family group.

“This was taken at Christmas, three months before they disappeared. Mike Hawker, thirty-five, Christine Hawker, thirty-three, seven-year-old Charlotte, and Oscar, five. This was the last photograph of them all together. As of today, it’s our job to find out what happened to destroy this little family. Yes, Will?”

DC Will Kent dropped his hand. “Are you OIC on this one? I take it we don’t know when the guv will be back?”

“On paper, yes. However, Tom and I will work closely, if he requests action you take it. As to DCI Meredith, he has requested extended leave and been granted it. He will be back. We just don’t know when. So, I’m sure you’ll join me in making certain that we get this right, so everything will be shipshape and Bristol fashion if he returns. That includes finishing up the paperwork on the Brandon Farm case.”

DS Tom Seaton got to his feet and distributed folders.

“The headline stuff. You’ll have the detailed files available by tomorrow morning. As Louie said, we’re hoping the video stuff will follow shortly, but—”

“Sorry to interrupt, Tom, but I need to backtrack. Louie, I just realised that despite the ‘he will be back’ opening, you ended on IF he returns. Is there a chance they won’t be back?” Kent grimaced. “What would happen to the CCRT then?”

The Bristol Cold Case Review Team was still a fledgling department. Hastily pulled together following a restructure, it had so far been a success due to the drive and leadership of DCI John Meredith. He’d handpicked his team, one of whom was Patsy Hodge, his wife. Gerry Deacon, a serial killer they had been hunting, had attacked and almost killed Patsy. Suffering from PTSD, she had left Meredith. After several months, Meredith had gone to New Zealand, where she was staying with her brother, to bring her home.

Seaton dropped the file in front of Will. “I’m going to say, yes, there is that chance. For the record, I hope he does return, I hope both of them do. But we all know he was threatening retirement when Patsy was ill. I don’t know how she is now, or even if he’s found her, it might take a while. In the meantime, we have a job to do. I like this job; I’d like to keep it. So, rather than worry about the guv, let’s worry about finding out what happened to the Hawkers. We will be stretched, but we can do it. We’ll prove that this department is viable, with or without them.”

“Well said, Tom. Now, take the files home, have a read through, and let’s hit the ground running tomorrow. Just as we would if DCI Meredith were here. Agreed?”

Trump exchanged a look with Seaton at the half-hearted agreement from the team. Both Trump and Seaton had received the same brief message from Meredith. He’d arrived, he’d yet to make contact with Patsy, and his extended leave had been approved. He had no idea when or even if he’d be back, but they were to carry on as usual, proving the CCRT was both viable and necessary.

With the constant reshuffles, and increasing pressure on police budgets, the department had been given two years to prove its worth, before a review of its value to the public and the police force. They had another eleven months and were now lacking two vital members.

GONE is the latest in the Meredith & Hodge series, and had just completed its blog tour. I think it's safe to say it was well received. Here are a few of the headings from reviews:

Wow! - The best one yet! - Gripping page turner! - GONE and done it again.

As the author this an excerpt from my favourite review:

"..., As involving as this is, the real beating heart of the book is John Meredith’s personal life. The scene where he meets up with his first true love is brilliantly written, and so, so poignant. They wine and dine, make it back to her hotel and …. I am not going to spoil it for you, but it is the most emotionally intuitive piece of writing I have read for a long time."

You can read the full review here: https://fullybooked2017.com/2025/01/16/gone-between-the-covers

 Here's a little of the opening chapters for you:

CHAPTER ONE

2016 – Brandon Farm

Louise could taste blood, and lifting her fingers to her lips, pressed them softly against the pain. When she pressed her tongue forward, it found its way through her lip to her fingertip, and she cursed. That would scar. Yes, this was a cushy number for the best part, but not cushy enough to put up with this shit. Been there and done that.

As the familiar thumping on the floor above began, Louise lifted her eyes, but instead of releasing a string of abuse as intended, she covered her head with her hands and opened her mouth to scream.

Anyone listening wouldn’t have heard a scream, only the grunt as the hammer smashed into the side of her skull before it was raised again and again.

“What have you done? Stop hitting her. You can see she’s dead.” An odd choice of words, as they couldn’t see, as their eyes were screwed shut against the horror of it.

The thumping stopped and their eyes opened.

“Why? Look at what you did. I suppose you want me to help you clean this up now, don’t you? It’s the last time. I’m warning you. This is the last time. Nothing is worth this. Poor Jasmine. Poor Thomas.”

CHAPTER TWO

2024

DCI John Meredith nodded at Daisy and tapped his spoon against his mug before walking to stand next to the screen in the Cold Case Review Team’s new office. His team fell silent and Meredith pointed at an attractive young woman with curly red hair and perfect teeth who smiled at the camera.

“Louise Marshall. Went missing in 2010. She was thirty years old. A farmer on the outskirts of Reading found her body buried in one of his fields in 2018. She’d been dead for some time, but according to the forensic pathologist, not as long as the eight years she’d been missing. We have their report. You’ll get it later. Their best guess is that she’d been dead for around two years. The soil on that side of the farm is boggy as it’s close to the Thames, and it floods frequently. The boggy condition at the location of the burial site caused partial mummification of the remains. Her skull had been smashed repeatedly with a hard, blunt instrument, probably a hammer. She had a broken arm which had healed in the last year or two of her life, and she’d given birth to a child, probably in the six to nine months prior to her death. That would make her child, assuming it survived, about eight years old.”

DS Tom Seaton raised his hand. “Are we all working on this one, and why have we got it? I’m not complaining, because I think we could do with getting our teeth into something. But surely the Thames Valley team in Reading should have this, shouldn’t they?”

“I’m getting to why, and yes, this will be a team effort because if you hadn’t noticed, we’re a little short of staff.” Meredith pursed his lips and looked at his feet.

CCRT members Patsy Hodge, who was also Meredith’s wife, and Linda Trump, the team’s Girl Friday, were on extended sick leave. A serial killer the team had been hunting had attacked and almost killed Patsy, leaving her with a fractured skull, a compound fracture of her arm, and issues she wouldn’t talk about.

Linda had come to the rescue in the nick of time, and had taken a knife, repeatedly stabbing the man, resulting in his death. Physically, Linda was unharmed, mentally she was learning to accept her actions. Linda was having counselling, Patsy was insisting she was okay. It had been over three months and Meredith knew Patsy was anything but okay. At first, it seemed as if she was coping well and it was just the physical injuries that needed to heal, but now, mentally, she was becoming more and more troubled.

Meredith tutted at his thoughts and looked up. “And, Seaton, if you let me finish, all will become obvious. A few miles up the road, on a different farm, another body was dug up late last year. No mummification, but a hole in the skull. And it was this young woman. Daisy, do the honours.”

The image changed to another young woman of a similar age and appearance. On Meredith’s nod, Daisy pulled the first photograph back, and the two women smiled out at the team.

“Jasmine Jones. Jasmine was twenty-five when reported missing in 2002, and the pathologist’s best guess is she died approximately ten to fifteen years before being found last year. There wasn’t much left to go on. For the purposes of the investigation, we’ll assume she died between 2008 and 2013 but keep an open mind. So, in answer to your question about why us? Louise lived in Bristol and Jasmine in Worle. On the day they went missing, they had both purchased a ticket from Bristol Temple Meads to London Paddington. Neither of them made it to London because they both got off at—”

“Reading,” George Davis announced. “Who dealt with the misper files?”

“Swindon,” Meredith finished his sentence.

Too Many Times #3 in the JJ Jenson series will be off to the proofreader at the weekend, and I thought now would be a good time to share a sneak preview. Bernadette Wiseman is a well-respected barrister, a strong character and not easily spooked. What did that message say to cause that outcome? Published on 20th October 2024, Too Many Times is available to pre-order.

Chapter One

The noose was quite obvious, secured as it was to the upstairs banister and dangling over the centre of the stairs, but such was her hurry to feel safe, Bernadette Wiseman didn’t notice it as she stepped into her home. Because once in, she spun back to the door, closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool glass. The door clicked shut, and eyes still closed, she fumbled for the security chain and slotted it in place with her free hand. She was sure she was being followed, and she had an idea who it was, but if right, she knew there was little she could do about it.

Lifting her head, Bernie tapped out the code to set the exterior alarm, and throwing the handle of her bag over the newel post, the noose remained unnoticed because as she dropped her keys into the olive wood bowl, her attention was on the flashing light on her answer machine. Placing the shopping bag on the floor and tutting, she hit the play button.

“Hi Bernie, it’s me. I tried your mobile, your messages are full again.” There was a pause, and Bernadette could hear the finger tapping away, a sure sign that what was coming wouldn’t be palatable. “You won’t like this, but—”

Bernadette hit the pause button. She wasn’t interested in what had come in, who had called, or whatever other issue may have arisen at work. She had bigger problems, and she needed time to think. To work out whether she was being dramatic by giving it such credence or if indeed she should be worried. But there was no one to help her do that, not really. Why should anyone else worry and be looking over their shoulder? Work could wait until she had time to consider her options properly.

Kicking her shoes under the telephone table, she shrugged off her raincoat, hung it up, and went to collect her shopping. She looked at the answer machine and felt a twinge of guilt. It might have been important, and not what she thought. Relenting, she raised her hand to push the play button when a movement caught her eye. She froze as someone stepped forward. Her eyes widened as she recognised them, and she moved backwards towards the chained front door. Despite the pounding in her chest, from somewhere she found the resolve to pull her shoulders back, remembering that attack was said to be the best form of defence.

“You? What the hell do you think you’re doing in here? Get out! Is it you who’s been following me? There are cameras. You must have seen them. I am not prepared to discuss this again. Get out of my home.”

“Hush.” A gloved finger drew her attention to the very obvious noose.

“What the…Is that what you thought? Don’t be ridiculous.” Bernadette barked out a laugh with a confidence she didn’t feel and released the door chain. “Leave now and I won’t call the police.” Her heart pounding, a shaking hand took hold of the doorknob.

“You should have listened. It would be all over.”

The harsh whisper delivered through gritted teeth made her skin crawl, and Bernie shook her head. “Listened to what? Your imaginings again, I—”

“This.” Stepping forward, they tapped the answer machine and Bernadette listened to the rest of the message.

Bernie pursed her lips. It would appear it was indeed all over. Well, thank God for that. She gave a curt nod and considered her immediate options. She could put up a fight and then accept the consequences, or she could accept this offer. Neither appealed to her.

Climbing the stairs, she lifted the noose and fitted it around her neck. She hesitated for only a moment before jumping forward.

I love reading and writing about people. I’m not too fussed about the scenery surrounding the story, death defying stunts, fights or car chases, as long as the people are real – people I might bump into, or wish to avoid. People with hopes and dreams, or bad habits and fears. They can be mean, or kind, or perhaps be timid and hope to fade into the background. But I want to ‘know’ them. With my writing, they usually get caught up in a murder or some other crime. With my reading, I really don’t mind what they're up to.

I attend a local book club. We meet at the pub up the road from where I live, and the landlord allows us to hog the bay window on a Monday evening once a month, to talk and laugh (a lot!) over our (usually) one drink, because we’re too busy talking to go to the bar, so we will never make them rich, and give our points of view over the latest book, together with recommendations on other books to read and films to watch. This week I described the book we read – The Bee Sting by Paul Murray – as literary country music. Every character was miserable and wanted to be anywhere but where they were, all led lives they hated or at best accepted as their lot. There was no happy ending for any of them. And yet another reader loved it and hoped they’d make it into a film. But if it was all about people, why didn’t I enjoy it? Probably because I couldn’t believe that not one person in that little Irish village was happy. I wanted just one of them to do something to make their lives change – they did, and it just got worse for all of them. I found it depressing. But my fellow reader simply loved it, and there were, of course, those who fell somewhere in the middle.

But books, and life, are like that. One man’s meat etcetera. We are all different.

We met this Monday evening, and on Tuesday morning, I received a one star review for The Making of Meredith it said:

“This was a major disappointment. I had hope when reading the young Meredith taking responsibility for caring for his mum and sisters. The adult character John Meredith grows into an excellent detective but a POS human being . Reading this prequel was like watching a trainwreck in super slow motion. Adding to this misery are the many female characters (his mother, his ex-wife Karen, a female detective that wants to shag him, a TV producer that shagged him) that exhibit seriously evil duplicitous behaviour to the point of becoming a plot device. I lost whatever interest I had in reading the Meredith & Hodge series.”

(Confession: I had to look up POS – for those of you like me: Piece of Sh*t.)

Oh dear. But the reader was right. That was how they felt. Meredith had become a person, and a person they really didn’t like. So, I’ve lost a reader. Would they have felt differently had they read some of the series first? Would ‘grown up’ Meredith have redeemed himself? I’ll never know. But some readers see a totally different man. Here are some extracts from five star reviews:

“In addition to providing Meredith’s backstory, there are several mysteries to be solved. I almost wish I would have read this one first, and then the rest of the series. It would have made me like Meredith even more .”

OR

“The Making of Meredith tells us the story of our favourite detective from being a small boy, through his school days, adolescence and young adulthood, right through to the point where he meets Hodge. We are privileged to be witness to many of his escapades and adventures that have made him into the man we know and love .”

 

Who’s right? All of them! We are all different.

But now I wish there was a way of bringing the readers of the Meredith & Hodge series together so I could sit back and listen to them discuss what they like or dislike about the people in the series. For instance, I know some readers love Peggy, but she absolutely irritates others. But most importantly, I’d love to know their feelings about - you’ve guessed it - Meredith.

I’ve had emails tearing me off a strip for writing about a sexist bully, and emails thanking me, because ‘I’m a little bit in love with Meredith’. How I’d love to get them all together and listen to their arguments for and against, even if it wasn’t in the little pub up the road.

What are your arguments for or against Meredith? We know he’s been naughty (I use that word lightly), but he always tries to put his wrongs right - doesn’t he? And he’s very settled now that he’s with Hodge. Dare I say veering towards boring these days? Has he redeemed himself? Is he boring? Would you give him a wide berth or want to have a chat?

This review has certainly given me food for thought. Perhaps I should throw a spanner into his works. What do you think? Please comment below, or drop me an email to share your views.

Oh, and before I go, I’m going to ask again: Are your reviews up to date? You can see how they spark an author into action. Go on. Make an author happy today, particularly if you enjoyed their book.

Happy reading!

To Kill Two Birds, the second in the JJ Jenson series, is live! A week early too. Thank you to everyone involved for helping get it over the finish line. I love the covers, and was delighted to receive my printed copies earlier in the week. I was a little more adventurous with the formatting of this one and used a line drawing of a camera as a scene break. What do you think? I love it.

To Kill Two Birds is off on a blog tour shortly, and I'm hoping it travels as well as An Ill Wind did.

My family of beta readers has provided invaluable support, some from their sick bed, others while recovering from operations. I hope you are all fighting fit once more. Thank you. Your suggestions, comments and critiques are gratefully received and much appreciated.

As many of you know, immediately I send one book off to be edited, proofed and tested by readers, I immediately start on the next one. But this time I didn't much like the plots I was coming up with, so I forced myself to take a break. It didn't last long, as Sharon Kelly, my lovely sister, (and editor) asked what I was working on. When I told her I was stuck for a decent plot, she said she thought she might have something she'd considered writing that I could adapt. True to her word, later that day, I received several photographs of her outline, and I had my next case for JJ Jenson, so now I'm working on Too Many Times. The third JJ Jenson mystery. Thank you, Sharon!

In my next post I'll tell you more about it, and will be asking for character suggestions. There will be prizes!

I'll be back soon!

To Kill Two Birds, the second in the JJ Jenson series, is live! A week early too. Thank you to everyone involved for helping get it over the finish line. I love the covers, and was delighted to receive my printed copies earlier in the week. I was a little more adventurous with the formatting of this one and used a line drawing of a camera as a scene break. What do you think? I love it.

To Kill Two Birds is off on a blog tour shortly, and I'm hoping it travels as well as An Ill Wind did.

My family of beta readers has provided invaluable support, some from their sick bed, others while recovering from operations. I hope you are all fighting fit once more. Thank you. Your suggestions, comments and critiques are gratefully received and much appreciated.

As many of you know, immediately I send one book off to be edited, proofed and tested by readers, I immediately start on the next one. But this time I didn't much like the plots I was coming up with, so I forced myself to take a break. It didn't last long, as Sharon Kelly, my lovely sister, (and editor) asked what I was working on. When I told her I was stuck for a decent plot, she said she thought she might have something she'd considered writing that I could adapt. True to her word, later that day, I received several photographs of her outline, and I had my next case for JJ Jenson, so now I'm working on Too Many Times. The third JJ Jenson mystery. Thank you, Sharon!

In my next post I'll tell you more about it, and will be asking for character suggestions. There will be prizes!

I'll be back soon!

What do you do when you finish work on the latest project? Me? I usually jump straight in to the next one, if I haven't already started it. But this time, I'm going to take a break and fly off to the sunshine (I hope) and have a think. That means good weather for the UK. The sun always comes out when we leave the country! I have lots of ideas for all the series currently underway and even have some outlines written. But I can't decide, so if you have any preferences let me know in the comments, or drop me an email to let me know who you think I should visit next. Will it be Meredith to see what complications life has yet to throw at him? Maybe the Bearing Women, who must have solved a few more cases by now, or perhaps Tom and Liz, to see if they've sorted themselves out. What do you think?

But back to why I'm here. The second in the JJ Jenson series, To Kill Two Birds, will be published on July 16th and is available to pre-order. To celebrate, the ebook of An Ill Wind, the first in the series, will be on offer from 3rd - 10th June 2024. ONLY 99p! So, grab your copy now.

There's an excerpt from To Kill Two Birds below. I hope you enjoy it.

Before I dash away to pack, for those of you who have yet to catch up with Meredith & Hodge, the boxed set 1-9 is on sale at the moment. Nine books for less than a fiver!

To Kill Two Birds

JJ Jenson brushed away the soil with his fingertips, noticing the tremor he’d fought to control. He’d been right. This was the shallow grave of seven-year-old Daniel Boyd. JJ stared at the two little fingers and the tiny thumb he’d revealed and composed himself. It would be no good for the investigation if he became emotional. Knowing the recent rain, still covering the grass, was soaking into his trousers, he knew he should move. Daniel’s parents needed to know, and Daniel’s body needed to be recovered. But he couldn’t, and now he knew why. The little fingers moved.

“Help me,” JJ screamed. “He’s alive. He’s alive.” Still unable to move, he looked around for someone to help Daniel. There was no one. Only him and he couldn’t move. Not even to dig Daniel free. “Help me!” he bellowed at the cloudless blue sky.

A hand gripped JJ’s shoulder, and he flinched. “JJ. It’s okay. It’s a dream. Wake up, please.”

JJ curled into a ball and sobbed. It was his fault.

“JJ, do not go back to sleep. Wake up. Sit up. Go and pee. Have a drink, but wake up.” Sharon Elliott, JJ’s partner, shook him again.

JJ opened his eyes. No field, no mud, and no little fingers. Another dream. He drew in a deep breath.

Davie George entered the couple’s bedroom and looked at JJ curled up like a child with Sharon stroking his arm. “Bloody hell. What was that all about? Is he dreaming? He told me it was bad, but not like this. JJ, wake up and I’ll tell you what a bloody idiot you are. We both know what brought this on, and it wasn’t one too many.”

JJ unfurled and rubbed his hands over his face. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes. He saw Davie first and frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Where else would I be? Certainly not sleeping, not with you shouting and bawling.” Davie looked at Sharon. “How often is he like this? Has he seen a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor. I need to catch Bryn Jenkins.”

Sharon threw her arms into the air. “Right. That’s it. Get up. Get up, now. Davie put the kettle on. I know we said we’d wait until tomorrow, but we’re technically there, even if it is still dark. I told JJ I’d give him my blessing to go off hunting for this man if he told me what happened, and he’s going to tell me now. Don’t just stand there, I won’t change my mind. Kettle.”

Ten minutes later, three bleary-eyed people sat around the kitchen table. Sharon squeezed JJ’s hand. “I know this is going to be tough. I’ve been with you for five years and you’ve not said a word about Daniel Boyd. You’ve bellowed and sobbed, and every other noise in between. Now you’ve decided you’re going to go after the man who killed him. Perhaps talking about what happened will help ease the pain.”

I've had my first report back from a Beta reader, and she's very excited. Here's an extract from what she had to say:

Q: If you had purchased An Ill Wind, would you want to buy and read the next in the series?

A: "Oh yes, can’t wait. Hope this becomes as long a series as M and H. I’m never going to love JJ the way I love Meredith, but I know I’ll become very fond of him as the books continue, I can envisage running like M and H, I hope so anyway. ,As, you’ve probably worked out. I loved it. It’s a real winner."

This put a huge smile on my face. Here's a snippet for you:

AN ILL WIND

Chapter One

They say it’s an ill wind that blows no good, and for Amber Wilton it was. But it went unnoticed because she was happy. She didn’t know that the breeze lifting her hair from her face was an ill wind, and that as she laughed, her companion’s hatred of her had reached the point of no return.

After an amusing evening socialising with friends, and aided by a little too much alcohol, she giggled as she struggled to climb onto the low stone parapet of the bridge. It took a while, her short stature and top-heavy figure hindered her, causing a few false starts. Once finally upright, she adjusted her clothes and embracing the breeze that lifted her tangled curls, she held her arms aloft.

“I’m so bloody happy,” Amber yelled into the wind. “Oh, that’s cooled me down. Told you I could do it. Be quick, I can’t look down. I don’t think I should have drunk so much.” Amber saw the flash from the phone and leaned forward, her hand held out. “Thanks. One photo will do. Help me down before I go off the edge. I can jump down if you hold my hand.” She giggled as her companion grunted disbelief and stepped closer. “Don’t doubt me. I can do it. But brace yourself because I might make the earth move. I’m good at that,” Amber warned, wiggling her eyebrows in jest.

Her merriment wasn’t returned, and her laughter faltered before stopping abruptly, as the hand that should have helped her flew forward and banged hard into her thigh. It caused her to step back into the nothingness behind her. Amber’s scream was short and shrill as she lunged forward to grab them, grab anything, but her efforts were futile. There was nothing to grasp.

Amber plummeted backwards towards the stream below. The fall might not have killed her if the water level had been higher, but it had been a dry June and the stream was little more than a trickle. Amber landed on a rocky relief in the centre of the scant stream, her skull cracking open as it met the edge of a rock. She was dead before the water could find its way into her trainers as it ebbed gently past her feet.

Her assailant didn’t even bother to look, but hurried away into the shadows.

AN ILL WIND to be published on 31st March 2024

When I start a new story, I have a rough sketch of the main characters’ backgrounds. Some are more detailed than others, depending on where the story is going. But for most of the characters, I usually only have the basics. Age, appearance, attitude, connection to the main characters, etc. Davie George is a main character in ‘An Ill Wind’. I knew how he met JJ Jenson, because that’s important to the story, but I also needed a more detailed background, because what happened in the past usually dictates how you are in the future, and it may be needed for the storyline. Has this character become a miserable and disgruntled being with a chip on his shoulder, a bigger and better person, or perhaps one of those who just stumbles along, rolling with the punches? This is what I came up with for Davie. I think he’s going to be one of my favourites.

Davie George

Davie George is an incorrigible thorn in the side once he’s got the sniff of a story. Back in the day, he was a dedicated journalist. His favoured topic was politics. Davie hates politicians. All of them, whatever party they belong to. He believes however well-intentioned and dedicated politicians start out, the longer they hold their seat, the more their principles crumble. The higher they climb the ladder, the further away they move from the reality of life in their constituency and, most importantly, honesty. That matters to Davie, which is a huge contradiction, as he’s spent most of his life spinning tales and lying to get what he wanted.

Davie is a likeable ‘cheeky chappie’ to most. He has an easy way about him that most people trust. Unless, of course, they know it’s them he is investigating. Davie can be charming, witty or sarcastic, and usually knows just what to say, whatever the situation. It’s difficult not to like him.

The growing use of the internet, and the drop in sales, meant Davie’s days at the top of his career were numbered so he moved to Bristol, his wife’s choice, and slowly the word ‘journalist’ faded into the background when people spoke of him. He refers to himself as a reporter. Others call him a hack. Davie still chases the big local stories, but more often than not, he’s looking for dirt. The more salacious and nasty the story, the better the financial reward. And Davie needs the money. Because there are no proper jobs for the likes of Davie anymore, he lives from story to story.

Davie’s life is much like one of his scoops. It’s rarely calm, often traumatic, and full of revelations.

At the age of fifty-three, Davie’s world upended. His wife announced she was leaving him, taking what little savings they had, and as a bonus, left a stack of unpaid bills in the kitchen drawer. Davie found he was months away from having his house repossessed by the bank. Davie accepted the news with stoic good grace. It miffed him he’d not picked up on her affair, and that on top of everything else, he was going to have to find somewhere new to live. But he didn’t blame her, and on reflection, he wondered why she’d not gone years ago. Things might have worked out differently had it been the day before, but on that day, he had more important things to worry about. Things that were a matter of life and death. His life. His death.

Cancer. Davie has lung cancer and only that morning had agreed on the date to start his treatment. He’d come home to tell her, but couldn’t see the point once she’d told him she was going. So he watched her load her bags and boxes into the van driven by her lover, and called the bank.

We meet Davie, looking much older than his fifty-five years, sitting on a wall outside the home of a woman whose death was unexpected. Amber Wilton.

Davie lights another cigarette and considers his current situation. A lot had changed in the last few years, a lot of things had gone. His wife, his home, a steady income, his health, part of his lung, and his hair. But there was nothing he could do about that. He had to deal with his immediate problem, and that was how to put petrol in his car, which was also his home. He only had a couple of pounds in his pocket. Hopefully, the Amber Wilton story might provide a bit of intrigue and therefore a better payday.

Davie had already written the opening. He didn’t believe anyone threw themself off a twenty-foot high bridge into water and hoped to end it all. The police were saying nothing, but the locals were screaming murder. That’s what the story would be. What really happened to Amber Wilton? Although, of course, he’d exaggerated the screaming locals. It had been one phone call. All he needed now was the gossip about the deceased and her family to play with, and he'd have his story.

Davie looked up as a neighbouring door opened. A tall, barefooted man was walking towards him.

“Do you live here?” Davie slid off the wall. “Do you know the Wiltons?”

And Davie and JJ Jenson meet again.

Do you think you’ll like Davie? I’ve scoured the internet looking for a photograph of the Davie I had in my mind whilst writing. This is the closest to the man I imagined. So now, when you read An Ill Wind, you’ll know what he looks like - to me at least. You might see a different version of Davie.

An Ill Wind is published on the 31st of March 2024 and is available for pre-order.

Photo by Vlada Karpovich ,pexels.com