Dark Ice by Dave Stanton - Blog Blitz Extract

Life Of A Nerdish Mum is helping close out the blog blitz for Dark Ice by Dave Stanton. I have an exciting extract to whet your appetite! 

Dark Ice 

While skiing deep in Lake Tahoe’s backcountry, private detective Dan Reno finds the first naked body, buried under fresh snow. Reno’s contacted by the grieving father who wants to know who murdered his daughter and why?

How did the body end up in such a remote, mountainous location? The questions become murkier when a second body is found. Is there a serial killer stalking promiscuous young women in South Lake Tahoe? Or are the murders linked to a different criminal agenda?

Searching for answers, Reno is accosted by a gang of racist bikers with a score to settle. He also must deal with his pal, Cody Gibbons, who the police consider a suspect. The clues lead to the owner of a strip club and a womanizing police captain, but is either the killer?

The bikers up the ante, but are unaware that Cody Gibbons has Reno’s back at any cost. Meanwhile, the police won’t tolerate Reno’s continued involvement in the case. But Reno knows he’s getting close. And the most critical clue comes from the last person he’d suspect.

Extract

1

The cornice stretched three feet over the sheer face below. There was about fifteen feet of vertical drop before the snow-covered slope angled out at forty-five degrees. I inched my skis farther forward, the tips hanging over the void. I was wrong—it was more like twenty feet of mandatory air. And that was the shallowest entry the ledge offered.

I blew out my breath and ignored the sickly sensation of my testicles trying to climb into my stomach. Turning back now would mean a long uphill hike, while the reward for leaping off the cornice was five hundred feet of untracked powder. A slight dip to the left marked the most forgiving launch point. I pushed myself back and sidestepped higher up the ridge. A couple deep breaths, then I released my edges and glided toward the dip.

In a second, I launched over the precipice, my hands thrust forward, my knees tucked toward my chest. As I dropped, I could see the distant desert floor of Nevada fall behind the stands of pine and fir at the bottom of the bowl. I extended my legs in the instant before I touched down and absorbed the shock, blinded for a second by a blast of snow. Then, I cranked my skis on edge, bounced out of the fluff, and made a second turn through the deep powder. It had snowed about a foot last night, but here, the fresh coverage was at least two feet, maybe more. Bottomless under my boots.

Twenty turns to the glade below, my heart pounding, my body disappearing in blasts of powder, the white coating me from head to toe. When I reached the tree line, I skidded to a stop and caught my breath. Then, I looked up and admired the S-turns I’d left on the otherwise unblemished slope. Not bad, I thought, smiling at the understatement. Most of the winter storms that had blown through the Lake Tahoe region came out of the warm Pacific and dumped wet, heavy snow, creating the notorious Sierra cement. But last night’s blizzard had swept in from Alaska, bringing colder and lighter snow. As a result, I was in the right place at the right time.

I skated along the terminus of the bowl and turned into the trees when they became sparse enough to allow passage. This was the Nevada backcountry, unpatrolled, accessible by ducking the boundary ropes at the highest elevation of South Lake Tahoe’s ski resort, right at the California-Nevada border. Before me lay 4000 feet of descent to the high desert floor where I’d parked my truck, near Route 207 outside of Gardnerville.

It was slower going now, the terrain interrupted by tangles of deadfall and icy patches where the wind had scoured the surface. I picked my way through it, my skis alternately between sinking in powder then chattering and scraping across slick bands of ice. Finally, I spotted a clearing—a wide, sweeping snow bank that fell toward a collection of pines hundreds of feet below. I rode the section like a surfer on a wave, turning down off the lip then riding back up, staying high and avoiding a flat area that would likely necessitate a hike.

When I reached the trees below, I entered a broad glade, the trunks spaced at wide intervals, the snow as soft and uniform as a white pillow. The morning sun had just appeared from behind a swath of swift moving clouds, and the snow glittered with pinpricks of light. I took a long moment to take in the scenery, then I picked a line and pushed off into the mild grade. The pristine snow held no surprises, the powder light and consistent, making it easy to find a rhythm. Floating through the trees and leaving a wake of rounded tracks, I became immersed in the splendor of the moment, as if the setting had been created solely for my indulgence.

My grandiose thoughts came to a crashing halt when I came around a tree, and my skis rammed into something solid beneath the snow. My binding released with a loud click, and I flew forward and face-planted in a poof of powder.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, wiping the snow from my goggles. I took a quick inventory of my body and found no injuries. Then, I crawled back ten feet to where my ski lay. When I pulled it from the snow, the edge caught, probably on a hidden stump, I thought. Then, the powder fell aside, and I saw a flesh-colored streak. I froze for a second, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. Blinking, I used the ski to push away more snow.

“No way,” I whispered, my heart in my throat. A bare shoulder revealed itself, then a snarl of blonde hair strung with ice. I reached down with my gloved hand and carefully pushed aside the hair. The face was half-buried, one eye visible, lashes thick with mascara, a blue iris staring blankly. Using both hands like a shovel, I pushed away the bulk of the snow covering the upper body. A sour lump formed in my gut. The body was naked, the skin that of a young woman, perhaps a teenager.

I stepped back and blew puffs of steam into the frigid air. After a moment, I took my phone from my coat pocket and dialed 911. There was no reception. I removed my pack, found a red bandana, and tied it to a branch overhead. Then, I turned in a circle, taking note of the surrounding features in relation to the sun over the granite ridgeline looming to my right.

The morning was beginning to warm up. It was close to zero at 8:30 when I had come up the chairlift, and now, it was probably ten degrees warmer. I looked again at the blonde-headed girl curled at the base of the tree. She’d not been there long, maybe only hours. Soon, the creatures of the forest would find her. Field mice, badgers, and mountain lions would make short work of the body, the big cats spreading the bones over miles.

I checked the surroundings again. The mountainside was unfamiliar to me, but I knew from a variety of accounts that as long as I headed downhill on a due east course, I’d not run into any cliffs, gorges, or otherwise impassable terrain. I clicked back into my binding and skied out of the glade, my turns lackluster and disjointed, the exuberance I felt a few minutes ago replaced by a creeping sense of dread.

***

Thirty minutes later, I sat on the hood of my truck and waited for the police to arrive. I’d missed the run-out leading to where I’d parked and had to trudge half a mile up the highway. Dark clouds lolled down from the sky, blotting the sun and shrouding the valley in a dense winter haze. An eighteen-wheeler down-shifted and rumbled out of the fog, chains rattling, a plume of gritty smoke billowing from the pipes above the cab. Streaks of mist lingered in the truck’s wake, floating over the rutted road and hanging in the trees like a cast of ghostly spectators.

A Gardnerville sheriff’s cruiser came along shortly and parked on the icy dirt next to my truck. Two deputies I’d never met climbed out, young cops, one pudgy and baby-faced, the other a studious looking fellow with glasses and mittens on his hands.

“I can’t believe this,” Baby Face said, his cheeks reddened. “The day before Christmas, and we catch a body.”

They began interviewing me while we waited for snowmobiles to arrive. There wasn’t much to talk about. A young, naked female deep in the backcountry, covered by the night’s snowfall. Another foot or so of coverage would have hidden her scent, and she’d have been buried until spring.

The spectacled cop asked for my driver’s license and began taking down the information. Then, he looked up at me. “You’re the PI from South Lake Tahoe?”

“That’s right.”

An SUV towing a trio of snowmobiles labored up the road and crunched to a stop on the shoulder. Police Captain Nick Galanis from Douglas County PD stepped from the vehicle, while two more of his deputies released the straps securing the snowmobiles to a trailer behind the SUV.

“Hey, Dan Reno, right?” Galanis said, flashing his trademark smile, his face tan and handsome. He wore no hat, despite the temperature. His curly locks of black hair were unmoving in the wind.

“It’s Reno, as in no problemo.”

“That’s right, I remember. No problemo, huh? Sounds like we got a problem up there.” He cut his eyes toward the mountainside.

“I’d say so, Captain.”

“So, what happened?”

“I was skiing and ran into a body buried in the snow.”

“Beyond the ski resort boundary?”

“Yeah. No law against it. It’s national forest land.”

He nodded, his expression one of casual agreement, a hint of smile still on his smooth face. Behind his back, local cops called Galanis ‘The Snake,’ a reference to both his habit of seducing college-aged women and his ability to instantly change his frame of reference to serve his personal agendas. I’d also learned in a case some months back that he was corrupt as the day was long, taking kickbacks for building permits, soliciting payoffs from a high-end escort service, and even selling confiscated drugs.

“You know how to ride a snowmobile?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I’ll ride with you, then.” He walked over to where the snowmobiles were staged, one with a body sled in tow.

“Actually, I’m a little rusty, Captain. I’d hate to see you get hurt on my account. Maybe you should ride with one of your deputies.”

Galanis looked back at me, and for an instant, his eyes narrowed. Then, his smile returned. “Okay, we’ll follow you.”

We set out into the woods, and I was able to easily follow my tracks back a mile or so to the scenic glade where the girl lay half buried. I stood aside and watched while Galanis coordinated the crime scene. He made sure his deputies took plenty of pictures before they pulled the stiffened corpse from the snow. Once they lifted her free, I saw her face, her hair falling back behind her ears, an expression of shock and pain frozen on her features. She looked like a macabre Barbie doll, her red lips parted as if her hopes and dreams had died with a final gasp, her eyes wide with the realization that all she’d experienced in her short life had, in no way, prepared her for her final moments.

Galanis also seemed to be studying her face. He knelt and stared at her, his expression incredulous for a moment. I saw his head shake slightly, as if he was denying something. But he recovered quickly, and stood and motioned to the deputies.

“Get the snow off her before you put her in the body bag,” Galanis said. “We don’t want her in a pool of water.”

The deputies began brushing the snow from her flat stomach and large breasts and thighs and scant pubic hair and buttocks and calves. They exchanged embarrassed glances and made quick work of it. I saw she had a couple tattoos, one on her upper thigh and a tramp stamp at the base of her spine.

With considerable strain, they unfolded her stiffened legs. Then, grunting with exertion and blowing steam, they placed her in the bag and arranged the dark folds of plastic until only a thin line of flesh showed. The cops hesitated for a long moment, as if reluctant to finish their grim task, then zipped the bag shut, enclosing her forever in darkness. In a detached part of my mind, I wondered whether she’d been a stripper. A cynical conclusion probably, but even in death, her body made me think of the lyrics to a song, something about shaking your moneymaker.

“Someone must have killed her somewhere else and dumped her here,” one deputy said.

“We would have seen snowmobile tracks.”

“No, last night’s snowfall would have covered them,” I said.

“Assuming she was dumped before the storm,” the other deputy said. “Hell, she could have been dropped from an airplane.”

“It’s all mental masturbation until the coroner looks at her,” Galanis said. “Put her on the gurney and let’s go. It’s freezing out here.”

“Hope it’s not me that has to notify next of kin,” said a deputy, under his breath.

“Yeah,” said the other. “Merry freaking Christmas.”

About The Author

Born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1960, Dave Stanton moved to Northern California in 1961. He attended San Jose State University and received a BA in journalism in 1983. Over the years, he worked as a bartender, newspaper advertising salesman, furniture mover, debt collector, and technology salesman. He has two children, Austin and Haley, and lives with his wife, Heidi, in San Jose, California.

Stanton is the author of six novels, all featuring private investigator Dan Reno and his ex-cop buddy, Cody Gibbons.

To Connect With The Author

www.facebook.com/DanRenoNovels

Twitter: @DanRenoNovels

danrenonovels.com/

www.amazon.co.uk/Dave-Stanton/e/B00HLT6BB0/

www.amazon.com/Dave-Stanton/e/B00HLT6BB0/

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Front Page Murder by Peter Bartram - Blog Tour Review

I'm very honoured today to be kicking off the blog tour for the latest novel in the Crampton of the Chronicle series. Front Page Murder, by Peter Bartram. I also have an exciting extract, so stick around after my review to check that out!

Front Page Murder - A Crampton of the Chronicle mystery

It's December 1963 and Archie Flowerdew is sitting in a cell at Wandsworth Prison waiting to be hanged. On Christmas Eve. It's not exactly how he planned to spend the festive season. But, then, Archie was found guilty of murdering fellow comic postcard artist Percy Despart.

It seems there's nothing that can stop Archie's neck being wrung like a turkey's. Except that his niece Tammy is convinced Archie is innocent. She's determined he will sit down on Christmas Day to tuck into the plum pudding. She persuades Brighton Evening Chronicle crime reporter Colin Crampton to take up the case.

But Colin has problems of his own. First, that good turn he did to help out Chronicle sub-editor Barry Hobhouse has come back to bite him on the bum. Then Beatrice "the Widow" Gribble, Colin's trouble-prone landlady, needs him to sort out her latest faux pas - she's accidentally sent a Christmas card to her local butcher suggesting she's available for hot sex. And that's before Brighton cops clap Colin and girlfriend Shirley Goldsmith in jail on the charge of harbouring a fugitive from justice.

And, anyway, the more Colin investigates Archie's case, the more it looks like he is guilty… Pick up the third full-length novel in the Crampton of the Chronicle mystery series to get you in the mood for a murderous Christmas!

My Review

Front Page Murder is another book by Peter Bartram that's kept me up at night just wanting to read the next page and see what happens next! 

Colin Crampton is a fantastic character, I love his sarcasm and sass and I love that he's always getting himself into scrapes just for the sake of a byline. Though he has a jack the lad attitude, he's a softy on the inside and that's the reason he gets in to trouble half of the time. 

The story of Front Page Murder follows the story of Archie Flowerdew in the days before his hanging and his niece who is trying to prove his innocence of the murder of fellow local post card artist Percy Despart. Colin has to think outside the box as to how to prove his innocence as all of Archie's clemency hearings have failed. As usual he does things that are borderline illegal (only just) but anything to provide justice.....and a good story! 

One of my favourite things about Front Page Murder was the description of all the different scathing post cards that Percy Despart had drawn before his untimely death. They were hilariously described and I could really picture all of them. I just wish there has been sketches of them scattered throughout the book. 

Being a crime novel, I can't discuss the story without spoilers, but I can say that it is incredibly well written and plotted out. 

Overall an excellent read and I'm already looking forward to the next in the series. 

I gave this book 5 stars. 

An Extract From Front Page Murder

By Peter Bartram

Colin Crampton crime correspondent on the Brighton Evening Chronicle is investigating a case of murder. Colin has discovered that the victim had a book which included a photograph of a painting called the Avenging Angel. The painting hangs in St Rita's church. But the vicar, Canon Gideon Burke, has a reputation as a randy old goat. Colin visits St Rita's for morning service and afterwards decides to investigate further. He takes up the story…

I made my way to the back of the church and hung around for a bit. I wanted to have a nose about. I fancied a quick look-see at the painting of the Avenging Angel by a pupil of Raphael. During Burke's sermon I'd been looking around. Each of the church's transepts held a small chapel. Most of the artworks seemed to be hung in these chapels. The chapel off the right-hand side of the nave looked the most ornate. I guessed that's where the Avenging Angel would be slinging her thunderbolts.

  I threaded my way through the pews and entered the chapel. I was right. The Angel hung on the end wall above a small altar. After viewing the colour plate in The Art of Sussex Churches, I'd been expecting a large canvas. But this was strangely unimpressive. An ornate, portrait-shaped frame about twenty inches high by fifteen across held a picture that lacked the vibrant colours I'd seen in the book. Old paintings, I knew, gathered dirt over the years and were cleaned by specialists. The Avenging Angel looked as though she were long overdue a spruce up.

  I was mulling this over when a voice behind me said: "Just because she's small, don't underestimate her power."

  I turned. Burke was standing there in his canonical gear. He had the kind of grin gangsters use when they're collecting protection money but want to keep it friendly.

  I said: "Size isn't everything - for women or men."

  Burke took that in his stride. "I haven't seen you at divine service before."

  "It's my first time. I just felt it might help me think out a worry on my mind."

  I'd had an idea which might help me discover whether the rumours about Burke and the virgins were true.

  "Would you like to talk about it, my son?"

  "It's difficult. Very personal. And a bit embarrassing."

  "Embarrassment is only your conscience talking to you. Listen to it."

  "The thing is it involves a girl."

  "Really?" Burke flicked a lizard-like tongue over his lips. He moved closer.

  "Yes, it's my girlfriend Shirley."

  "Does it involve your feelings for Shirley?"

  "In a way, but it's more her feelings for me."

  "You are both wondering whether you should consummate your love, perhaps? I have to tell you I do not believe in sex before marriage."

  I grinned. "Especially if it delays the ceremony, vicar."

  "This is not a matter for misplaced levity."

  "I'm sorry. To come to the point, Shirley wants me to make love to her - and I'm not sure it's right for me to do what she wants."

  A fleck of spittle had appeared at the side of Burke's mouth. "And what does she want?"

  "She wants me to dress as a vicar while I'm giving her the benefit. Well, actually, not the full gear. She wants me to skip the robes and all that and just wear the main item."

  "The main item? I don't understand."

  "The dog collar."

  Burke's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Let me get this right. Your girlfriend wants you to make love to her wearing only a dog collar."

  "That's about the size of it. Of what she wants. Not the size of the dog collar. I expect they come in different sizes. Do they?"

  Burke's jowly cheeks had become red. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. "Yes, they do come. I mean in different sizes. But that is not the point."

  "What is the point, vicar? That's what I want to know."

  Burke took a guilty glance at the Avenging Angel.

  "I think you should bring your girlfriend Shirley to see me. It's clear the girl needs divine guidance."

  "You really think that's the answer?"

  Burke harrumphed. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. Perhaps his conscience was talking to him. Or, more likely, he'd just told it to shut up.

  "I could manage a short interview with her at about half past seven this evening," he said. "After the evening service."

  "That would be very helpful, vicar."

  "I shall call upon the spirit of St Rita to guide me."

  "I'll let Shirley know. I think she knew a Rita as well. I believe she was a hostess in a nightclub. More of a sinner than a saint."

  I turned to leave. Looked back over my shoulder. Burke had taken a handkerchief from somewhere in his vestments and was wiping sweat from his brow.

About The Author

I was lucky enough to interview Peter Bartram when I reviewed his previous full length novel, Stop Press Murder, which you can check out here. 

Peter Bartram brings years of experience as a journalist to his Crampton of the Chronicle crime mystery series, which features Colin Crampton, crime correspondent of the 1960s fictional newspaper the Brighton Evening Chronicle. Peter began his career as a reporter on a real-life local newspaper not far from Brighton. Then he worked as a journalist and newspaper editor in London before becoming freelance. He has done most things in journalism from door-stepping for quotes to writing serious editorials. He’s pursued stories in locations as diverse as 700 feet down a coal mine and Buckingham Palace. Peter's "Swinging Sixties" murder mysteries combine clue-solving with comedy - the laughs are never far from the action. Other books in the series, which has already logged more than 100 5-star reviews on Amazon, include Headline Murder and Stop Press Murder.

Front Page Murder e-book is on special offer until the end of December for 99p/99c

For readers who want to start the series at the beginning, there's a deal which includes Headline Murder, Stop Press Murder and Front Page Murder in e-book formats for £4.97/$4.97. This offer also closes on 31 December.

Front Page Murder on Amazon.com

Front Page Murder on Amazon.co.uk

Crampton of the Chronicle 3-book series on Amazon.com

Crampton of the Chronicle 3-book series on Amazon.co.uk

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The Shield (The Finder Series Book 1) by C.J. Bentley - Blog Tour Review

Life Of A Nerdish Mum is hosting the blog tour for The Shield (The Finder Series, Book 1) by C.J. Bentley and I have both my review of the book and a super extract. 

The Shield

People lose their belongings. That is a fact of life. It can happen by accident, but sometimes it can happen when you put them in a very safe place and forget where that safe place is. Not many people are good at finding them again.

A young, gutsy girl with a kind heart, who’s searching for her own identity growing up in the 1960s, just happens to be very good at finding things. Can she be the one to help return whatever is lost – anywhere and at any time - to its original owner? 

With the help of a beautiful yet mysterious wise woman and a chivalrous knight she does just that. She finds and returns his shield, lost in battle, which unbeknown to her holds a secret that is important to his King, the safety of the Kingdom and the life of the daughter of his best friend.
The Shield is the first story in The Finder Series, taking our heroine on extraordinary journeys back in time. Her first adventure takes place in Medieval England in 1340 where she meets King Edward III, his wife Philippa and their son, who will later become the Black Prince.

Purchase from Amazon UK

My Review

The Shield took me right back to my childhood in the way it was written. The way the characters talk and the way the group of children interact, especially at the beginning remind me so much of books that I read as a child, such as The Famous Five and The Secret Seven. This meant that the story was a bit slower paced to start off with than I'm used to with more modern styles of writing, so it did take me a couple of chapters to get into it, but once I did I was hooked. 

This book is full of action and adventure and I know my step daughter is going to absolutely love this. The story is clever, and is on the perfect level for the age it's aimed at without talking down to them, which is definitely good to see. 

I loved the prologue and I thought it was really well written, a knight has to deliver an important message that is hidden in his shield but he is gravely injured after an ambush. I really got sucked into this and I really wanted to find out what was happening, what the message was and if the knight was ok, which I think is a really great start to a book. 

I thought it was a really nice touch at the end to have some historical facts at the end of the book s that children can learn a bit more about the time period that is covered in the book. Especially as York has such a rich history. 

Overall a really great book and I will now be passing on to my step daughter and I will definitely be keeping my eye out for the next books in the series. 

I gave this book 4 stars. 

Extract

The Past…..

The shield releases its secret and Sir Kay and the girl are taken back to 1340 and the time of King Edward the third a lawless time where the barons are planning to overthrow the King and the French are planning to invade the country. Peggy, brought back in time to become the Lady Eleanor questions everything and everyone, even the wise woman who seems to control time…….

Sir Kay dismounted and held my pony’s head while I did the same he then tied both sets of reins to the garden fence, allowing both mounts to graze on the grass growing outside of the garden.  We opened the gate and as we walked together up the garden path the door opened and a lady greeted us.  Not the ugly, grim witch like person I was expecting, far too young and quite pretty with long dark braided  hair and a big smile.  She was dressed in a blue dress like me so I immediately liked her.

“You have brought her then Sir Kay?  She looks well”, she addressed this to Sir Kay but her eyes were on me as she spoke in a light lilting voice.

“Er, excuse me but I am here, in front of you so please address me.”  I was not going to be ignored.  “I hope you are going to answer all of my questions because I have many and I am not playing along with this charade until all of them are answered”.  I spoke with authority but I didn’t really feel brave, I was more than a little worried about this meeting and knew I had to keep on her right side if I wanted to see my friends and family again.

We entered the cottage, it was gloomy inside but I could make out various herbs hanging from the ceiling beams which gave the inside a perfumed smell and the fire blazing in the hearth gave an orange glow to the rough wooden chairs either side of the fire.  A black pot was hanging over the fire with interesting smells coming from it which made me remember I had not had time for breakfast.  I was waved towards a chair and I sat down readying myself for the interview I was ready to give this wise woman but she handed me a spoon and not taking no for an answer she ladled contents of the pot into a wooden bowl which she then handed to me with a nod of the head for me to eat.  I didn’t need telling twice, it was a savoury stew, not sure what was in it but it was absolutely the most delicious meal I had eaten since arriving wherever I was, so I tucked in.  When I finished I really looked at her, (not being very good at telling ages I didn’t try to age her but I would have thought around my mum’s age, so between thirty and forty I guessed).  She had dark coloured hair which was braided like mine but her eyes were what drew me in, they were a very light blue but had darker blue centres, very strange indeed, different but having looked into them you would not forget them in a hurry.  I took a deep breath and launched into my speech.

“Right, I take it you are the wise woman Sir Kay has told me about and that you arranged for my being here, wherever here is and more importantly when, I seem to have been brought back in time somehow, so how and when and why?”  As usual it all came out in my usual sudden rush of words.  I looked at them both as they glanced at each other before their eyes rested on me again.

About The Author

Originally heralding from the North of England, C.J Bentley has travelled extensively and enjoyed living in a variety of countries across the world from Dubai to Doha, Qatar and now the countryside in the South of France. A background in teaching and childcare she has always enjoyed creating adventure short stories. However, it was when she became a grandma and with her grandchildren growing up  that she discovered that books seemed to contain only stories of vampires, zombies and farts that she decided seriously to take matters into her own hands and put pen to paper which today she calls The Finder Series.

Website - https://www.cjbentleyonline.co.uk/

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/CJBentleyAuthor/

Twitter - https://twitter.com/CJBentleyAuthor

Don't Forget To Check Out The Rest Of The Blog Tour

Poor Hands by Oliver Tidy - Extract

As part of the blog tour for Poor Hands by Oliver Tidy, I am sharing an exciting extract which will definitely make you want to pick up Poor Hands to see what happened next, I know I want to!

Poor Hands

In a big old building on the south coast of Kent, David Booker runs a book-themed coffee shop and Jo Cash operates a private investigation business. They live there, too. But not like that.

Jo needs help with tracing a mystery client's living relatives. David needs help with his staffing problems. Will they both get what they are looking for?

Sometimes two heads are better than one. Sometimes a poor hand is better than none. But not always...

Extract

‘So which are you and why is it important?’ said Jo, sipping her usual.

The white mocha left a milky residue on her top lip – something innocently childish. Using her tongue like a windscreen wiper to remove it she shattered that illusion, seemingly oblivious to the effect on me.

‘Why is it important?’ I said. ‘You’d better keep your voice down unless you want trouble from locals with pride in their roots.’

Jo raised one eyebrow and the dimple on her right cheek appeared as she gave me one of her stock looks – the one she reserved for fools and flannel.

‘There is a long and bitter history involved,’ I said. ‘Less so now as we’ve become more interconnected, more joined, more … united. But things have not always been so amicable in the Garden of England.’

Jo shook her head. ‘Sometimes it would be nice if you just answered a simple question … simply.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Why do you think all conversations need to be fun, David? I have to tell you, I can find that quite trying, especially when I’m not in the best of moods.’

‘They don’t. I don’t,’ I said, skating around the ‘outing’ of her mood. ‘Maybe fun was the wrong word. Maybe I should have said that to give a simple answer to a simple question might, in some cases, be to deny an opportunity for social intercourse.’

‘And that would be a bad thing because?’

‘Because … because I was brought up on BT ads. They’ve had a deep and meaningful psychological impact on my interpersonal skills.’

Now she was frowning at me. Like her raised eyebrow look, it was not something I was unfamiliar with. She said, ‘I know I’m going to regret this but: BT ads?’

‘It’s good to talk.’

Jo closed her eyes for a long moment, breathed in and out deeply. But there was something else, something to make my heart strings strum a melodious chord, something to suggest a thawing of her ‘mood’ – a twitch at the corner of her mouth giving me a glimmer of hope she was about to brighten up the room and my day with a smile. A crumb from her emotional table for my fantasies to feed upon.

I was in love with Jo. Truly, madly … unrequitedly. I’d tried fighting it. Tried to understand how my feelings for her risked the special friendship we were developing. My fancies were foolish and I knew it because Jo had been clear with me from early on in our odd relationship – we were not to be. But as Will once famously remarked: the course of true love never did run smooth. And I was ever the optimist.

I sensed it would be wise to provide explanations. ‘I am a Man of Kent, not a Kentish Man. You want details?’

‘Depends.’

‘On?’

‘You being simple …’ She waited a beat, ‘… with your explanation.’

I turned up the heat on her morning thaw with some of that direct simplicity she craved. ‘The traditionally accepted dividing line that separates Men of Kent from Kentish Men is the River Medway. North and west of the Medway are Kentish Men. South and east are Men of Kent. You want more?’ She had her mouth full so could only nod for yes. ‘Jutes settled in the east of the county about fifteen hundred years ago, while Saxons settled in the west.’

‘What’s a Jute?’

‘Jutes were one of the three main Germanic peoples of the time. The others were the Saxons and the Angles. Jutes invaded and settled southern England during the Age of Migrations in the fourth century.’

She said, ‘How do you retain this stuff? And why?’

‘It’s my history. History matters. Understanding the past shapes the way we view the present. And it’s important to know where we come from.’

She showed me what she thought of that with her neatly plucked raised eyebrows.

‘As for why?’ I said. ‘I can’t help it. Some things you learn you can’t unlearn.’

‘Unlearn? You mean forget. Unlearn isn’t a real word.’

Jo had developed a liking for finding fault with my English. I put it down to an inferiority complex.

She said, ‘Getting back to your sermon on local history …’

‘It’s not a sermon. Sermons address biblical, theological, religious or moral topics. It’s an … explanation.’

She said, ‘Well, you are starting to sound a bit preachy.’

I used my free hand to make a sign of the cross at her that finished with a karate chop in the general direction of her neck.

‘Getting back to your lecture,’ she said, ‘and the Saxons settled above the Medway.’

I was impressed with her grasp of the rudiments and let her know it with a smile. ‘Yes.’

She said, ‘So between them the Saxons and the Jutes had all the Angles covered.’

Her laugh at the expression I had for that encouraged a couple of nearby customers to turn and look in our direction. Because I owned the place I smiled nicely back.

Jo said, ‘What you’re saying essentially is the south-east of England is largely populated by people of Germanic descent?’

‘Maybe that’s why the south-east is so much more efficiently run than the rest of the country,’ I said, with a wintry smile. ‘For the sake of historical clarity, I should also like to add that the Men of Kent – my side of the Medway – resisted William the Conqueror in 1066 to the extent they were able to achieve an honourable peace settlement with that invader, which in turn led to them being granted certain rights and privileges. The Kentish Men of the day just surrendered to him – capitulated without a fight. And got nothing.’

‘So Men of Kent think they’re better men than Kentish Men for that, do they?’

I made a face indicating my reluctance to comment, while at the same time agreeing with her. It’s not an easy face to pull.

Jo said, ‘And that’s why the distinction is important? Because of something that happened a thousand years ago? Why does that strike me as pathetic?’

‘Remind me, where do your ancestors originate from?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t particularly care. One thing I remember from somewhere I’ve forgotten is what Henry Ford said: the only history that matters is the history we make today.’

‘He was an American; what do you expect? They’re just jealous because they haven’t got anything to be proud of in their short time on the planet. That’s why they’re always flocking over here, desperately searching for someone in their family tree to lay claim to.’

Jo gave me a strange look. It was the kind of look to have me reaching for a paper napkin and blowing my nose.

‘What?’ I said.

‘How weird.’

‘I hope you’re referring to your thoughts and not what you’re looking at – me.’

She did smile then. Something squirmed in my guts. Why couldn’t she have felt the same?

She took another sip of her coffee before saying, ‘Wait there. Don’t move and don’t let them take my drink. I’m not finished.’

Before I could say, where are you going? she was on her way. My gaze never left her retreating backside, perfectly formed and tightly wrapped in faded denim. Again, why couldn’t she have felt the same?

With a sigh I returned my interest to my newspaper. A shadow fell across the table. It was Linda, one of my ladies. She said, ‘When are you two going to stop pretending?’

I felt myself colour. Chuckling to herself, she moved on to clear tables.

We were about half full, which was fairly good and fairly typical for my coffee shop business for the time of day. After a stuttering and shaky start Bookers was becoming celebrated locally and regionally. We’d been featured in local papers, a couple of glossy Kent-based lifestyle mags, and I’d even done a short interview on Romney Marsh FM. Word of mouth, too, had spread news of our little oasis of culture in a seaside town characterised by honky-tonk tourist tat, and everything with chips to the extent that we were now ‘known’. We’d also enjoyed appreciative visits from foreign tourists who’d heard about the place on the tourist grapevine and dropped in for a look, some coffee and cake. People were driving good distances to Dymchurch, a little seaside village on the south-east coast of Kent with the intention of making coffee and cake in Bookers part of their jaunt. That made me prouder than anything I’d ever achieved in my thirty-something years. And I’d been a teacher.

The coffee was good. The cake was very good – all homemade and bespoke locally with ingredients to do the recipes proud. Truth was I didn’t make much profit on the cake, but it got people coming back. However, I believed the main reason Bookers attracted a certain kind of person and then encouraged them to return was the ambience.

The place used to be a second-hand bookshop. It had been run by my uncle and aunt forever. I’d inherited it after their untimely and nasty deaths at the hands of a trio of psychopaths. As sole beneficiary of their estate, instead of cashing in all assets and retiring to the sun I’d given up my day job, invested a significant amount of their stocks and shares money and turned the place into a book-themed coffee shop. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. These days it seemed like a better one. I don’t know that either of them would have approved but I know a lot of my customers did. Floor to ceiling books in glass fronted cases, thoughtfully arranged groups of seating, carefully considered lighting, the odd rampant and luxuriant green-leaved plant, soothing colours and, usually, a relaxing strain of jazz or classical music seeping quietly out of the sound system’s speakers. I saw Bookers as a refuge in a busy, noisy, stressful world. Somewhere people could come and be calmed by the atmosphere and their surroundings, take some time out to recharge their humanity and civility before once more stepping unto the breach of the real world. That was the theory anyway. It worked for me.

It’d been suggested, half-jokingly, that we have a visitors’ book. I’d laughed the idea off and then gone out and bought one. It sat on the far end of the counter and was almost full – a written testament to the growing success of the venture. Of all the thousands of books in the place – some of which would easily fetch several hundred pounds on second hand book sites – it was my most valuable. And so it was quite ironic that while all the others were securely locked away behind glass-fronted bookshelves from those with sticky fingers – in both senses of the expression – the visitor book was lying where anyone could knock coffee over it, smear it with greasy fingerprints or just pick it up and walk out with it. Wilde would have something pithy to say about it.

A young woman pushing through the front door in a hurry caught my attention. She shut it behind her and gave a long look down the high street in the direction she’d come from. Something about her struck me as odd. Maybe it was her clothes – they looked like they needed a good wash, or replacing. Maybe it was her restless body language. Maybe it was the itinerant look her grubby holdall gave her. And she was wearing an overcoat. It was summer. I continued to regard her as I sipped my drink.

She turned to see where she’d stumbled into. She looked like she could’ve done with something to eat and drink but had other things on her mind, like seeking sanctuary. Her face was lined and shadowed with anxiety. She was pasty and furtive. I recognised in her a fear of something, or someone. My interest increased a notch.

From behind the counter, Mel, another of my ladies, had also taken an interest in the visitor. Hers was centred on what she wanted to order. Mel had to address her twice before the young woman – she was looking more like a girl to me by now, I guessed it was her troubles that put the years on her – realised she was being spoken to. She flinched and shrank a little.

A bit louder and a bit slower, Mel said, ‘What can I get you?’ I caught the impatience that often infected Mel’s manner when dealing with the distracted and dithering that crossed Bookers’ threshold. We called them our ‘Twiglet Zone’ customers.

The girl blinked rapidly a few times. Her head twitched as her eyes darted between Mel and the window. ‘Coffee,’ she said. ‘Small, black.’

Mel turned to make it. Cautiously the girl approached the front window. Again, she looked down the high street in the direction she’d come from. She saw something that disturbed her. Pulling away from the window, almost colliding with someone on the way out but seemingly oblivious to it, she turned back to the room. She looked paler still and her eyes had widened. She seemed frightened.

‘You have toilet, please?’ she said.

With her back to the girl as she made her drink, Mel pointed to where they were at the rear of the premises. The girl hurried away from the counter clutching her holdall to her chest.

Mel called after her. The girl did not respond. Mel made a face, mumbled something, and set the drink down on the counter.

My attention strayed to the large picture window that gave on to the high street. A steady trickle of people drifted aimlessly up and down. I’d seen some of them more than once already – a sure sign the tide was in.

In the continuous flow of human traffic a man stopped. He was big, broad and bald. He made me think of a boulder dropped into a stream and the pedestrians were the water that had to find a way around him. He cupped his hands against the window and took a good unselfconscious look inside.

After several long seconds he turned back to scan the road, left and right, up and down – this was not difficult for him because he was a head taller than anyone else I saw – but he didn’t move away. His big barrel chest rose and fell, like he’d been hurrying and wasn’t used to it.

A young couple came in chatting loudly. The man approached the counter while the woman found them a table. Mel served him. I watched the man outside. He turned to look back into Bookers and I made a decision. I left my table and went to stand behind the counter with Mel. She shot me a look that said, what are you doing working? Sarcasm as well as impatience.

The man came through the front door. He took a long moment for his vision to adapt from the glare of outside to the shaded interior. His eyes roamed the tables. I felt my heart working. I wondered if, since working with Jo on her private investigator business, I was developing a radar for trouble. The man oozed it.

He turned his big head in my direction. I forced myself to smile a welcome.

He took two big strides towards me and said, ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

His voice was low and raspy, his accent not local. He smelled – a sour unwashed stink. I put him in his late forties. His face had a purple tint to it – booze and outdoor living. His bald head and his stubbly right cheek were lightly scarred. His hard little eyes, like polished black stones, peered out from beneath his jutting brow. I’d seen eyes like that before – the reptile house at Port Lympne zoo.

‘Sorry, we only serve drinks and cake,’ I said.

No reaction.

‘About this tall,’ he said, indicating with his hand the height of the girl in my toilets. ‘Blonde, scrawny. Wearing a green coat and carrying a bag.’

This was a man, I understood, who didn’t value the ‘fun’ of social intercourse, who wanted answers to his questions quickly and didn’t appreciate people wasting his time or lying to him.

‘A blue holdall?’ I said.

Like a wrecking-ball in slow motion, his big head swung round to face me. His beady eyes locked onto mine. I felt the unsettling intensity of his rigid stare bore into my skull like an electric drill-bit.

I said, ‘I just saw a girl who looked like that get into a van. It went that way.’ I pointed in the general direction of Hythe.

His jaw tensed and his nostrils flared. For a long and tense moment I thought he didn’t believe me. If the girl were to break cover now thinking the coast was clear, if Mel, was to contradict me and tell him where the girl really was then I could see him reaching across the counter with one of his well developed arms – they had the muscle tone of a professional athlete’s legs – grabbing me by the throat and choking the life out of me without much effort.

I found some bravado. ‘You want something to drink or not, mate? I’m busy here.’

He looked me up and down, letting me know he shit bigger things, scowled and turned to go. His hand on the door handle, he turned back as I was letting out the breath I’d been holding.

‘What was the make of van?’ He really did give the impression he asked questions for answers.

I shrugged. ‘Didn’t see.’ I turned away from him hoping he’d just leave.

‘Colour?’ he said.

‘It was white,’ said Mel.

Jo had to stand back or risk being knocked down as he went out. She scowled after his back. The big man hurried away – a boulder dislodged and on the move. The immovable object turned unstoppable force. I sincerely hoped I’d never see him again.

‘What a charmer,’ Jo said. ‘You really need to up the quality of your clientele.’

I said, ‘He wasn’t a customer, thank God.’ I smiled at Mel. ‘Thanks. What made you say that?’

Mel was still looking out of the window. Her top lip had developed a bit of a curl. ‘That was a bad man.’

‘You know him?’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘I know his type.’

Jo said, ‘Someone going to tell me what’s going on? What did I miss?’

Still talking to Mel, I said, ‘You want to tell her he’s gone?’

‘Tell who who’s gone?’ said Jo.

‘A young woman came in right after you left. She looked frightened. I think she was trying to avoid him. She hid in the loos and then the missing link walked in asking if we’d seen her.’

‘And you lied to him?’

I nodded.

Jo made a face. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t come back then.’

‘That’s what I was thinking when you walked in.’

The door opened. We all looked round a little too quickly. It wasn’t him.

Jo said, ‘You want me to speak to her?’

‘Thanks,’ said Mel, pinning a smile to her face for the new customers.

I went back to our table and my coffee. I was sweating. Jo headed for the toilets. She was back in seconds.

‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Where is she?’

‘Gone. Bogs are empty.’

We both looked towards the doors that gave out onto the gravel parking area at the back of the property and then the public car park beyond that. One of the fire doors was open and swinging in the light breeze.

‘That’s that then,’ said Jo.

‘Seems so,’ I said.

‘So, you want to know why I went upstairs?’

‘Sure,’ I said, but I was still looking at the open back door.

Jo waved the paper in front of my face, encouraging me out of my trance and to pay attention.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m worried for her.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘No, but she looked so … lost and lonely, vulnerable and afraid.’

‘You want to go and look for her?’

I studied Jo’s face to see if she’d asked the question in earnest. I smiled and shook my head. I took and released a big breath. ‘Go on then – what are you so excited about?’

As Jo unfolded a piece of paper half my attention drifted back to the girl and her haunted look as she’d hurried past my table. I hoped that wherever she’d disappeared to she’d been able to evade the beast pursuing her.

About The Author

Oliver Tidy was born and bred on Romney Marsh, Kent. After a fairly aimless foray into adulthood and a number of unfulfilling jobs he went back to education and qualified as a primary school teacher.

A few years of having the life sucked out of him in the classroom encouraged Oliver abroad to teach English as a foreign language. The lifestyle provided him the time and opportunity to try his hand at writing.

Oliver's success as a self-published author has led to his Booker & Cash series of books, which are set mainly on Romney Marsh, being signed by Bloodhound Books. 

Oliver is now back living on Romney Marsh and writing full time. 

Connect With Oliver Tidy 

Twitter - @olivertidy
Website - https://olivertidy.com/
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