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KILLING CHRISTMAS an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist
238Overview
PLEASE NOTE THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS "ALTERED EGOS"
DETECTIVE MIKE NASH IS GOING TO HAVE A VERY UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.
In an ordinary terraced house, a family die. Poisoned by carbon monoxide.
Then comes a suspicious house fire, with more bodies at the charred scene.
A drug addict is murdered in the most bizarre medieval manner.
And a scientist's daughter disappears.
THERE'S A KILLER ON THE LOOSE THIS HOLIDAY SEASON.
DI Mike Nash follows the leads of these disparate crimes. One very dangerous person seems intent on revenge.
CAN HE STOP A SERIAL KILLER BEFORE ANYONE ELSE PAYS THE ULTIMATE PRICE?
A BREATH-TAKING CRIME THRILLER PERFECT FOR FANS OF IAN RANKIN, JD KIRK, DS BUTLER or PETER ROBINSON.
WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT "KILLING CHRISTMAS"
"It's highly likely to keep you awake, reading long into the night" Aegeanjan
"I read it in one sitting in full "just another chapter" mode." Elaine
"The plot twists and turns that much that it's literally impossible to put down! Bill keeps you on edge until the explosive climax" G. L.
MIKE NASH
A highly talented detective, he was a rising star in the Metropolitan Police. Following a particularly gruesome case involving a sadistic serial killer, Nash turns down the chance of promotion and heads back to his native county of Yorkshire. He hopes that returning to his roots will bring peace of mind. However, although the pace of life seems gentler, the crimes prove no less horrific. His skills are tested to the limit by a series of violent crimes that threaten to ruin his plans for a more relaxed lifestyle. Nor is his secret ambition to settle down made any easier by his one weakness, a seemingly unquenchable thirst for female company. That is, until . . .?
LOCATION
The books are set in a fictional rural North Yorkshire with a scattering of market towns, many small villages and countryside that changes from high moorland with dramatic crags, mountain tarns and sparse vegetation, to the gentler, lush agricultural land lower down the valley that is bisected by the river Helm. The town of Helmsdale is where Mike Nash and his team are based, in a sub-division of their headquarters in the larger town of Netherdale. Further to the west is Bishopton, also part of the hub our detectives cover.
DI MIKE NASH SERIES
Book 1: WHAT LIES BENEATH
Book 2: VANISH WITHOUT TRACE
Book 3: PLAYING WITH FIRE
Book 4: KILLING CHRISTMAS
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781789312577 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Joffe Books |
| Publication date: | 11/08/2019 |
| Pages: | 238 |
| Sales rank: | 948,857 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 7.99(h) x 0.54(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Along this stretch of the beach, broken revetments jutted out like jagged teeth, giving the appearance of a war zone rather than a place of leisure. He supposed that was what it was, really, a war, increasingly one-sided as the man-made barriers were outflanked, time and time again, by the fierce actions of tide and wind.
The day had begun misty and though the pale threads of fog had burned away inland, here on the beach the mist remained. It clung stubbornly to the breakwaters, settling in heavy pools beneath them and drifting lazily across the beach. At times he lost sight of his dog and at others he could no longer distinguish the wooden teeth jutting so threateningly from the sand.
"Ca–arson," he called and heard the dog bark in reply. Carson's heavy, wolf-like form emerged briefly from the fog. He bounded around him and rubbed his thick flank, beaded with dew, against his hand, before running off to explore. Man and dog knew the score: each had his own agenda on their morning route, checking in with one another between forays and adventures, though Carson's adventures, despite encroaching old age and stiffness, were probably more energetic than his owner's. This early in the morning, he was content to stroll and take his ease, relishing the absence of people and noise.
There was no warning then, no sense of unease, of being watched or of any wrongness, until he heard his dog bark once and then whimper as though in pain.
"Carson?" The man began to run towards the sound, imagining sharp tidal debris which the inquisitive animal might have explored too thoroughly, but Carson was unhurt. Instead, he was crouched in the lee of a breakwater, close to the steps that allowed passage from one section of beach to the next, staring up at something high on the clifftop. The man bent to examine the dog, still looking for a physical cause but there was no blood, no flinching from his touch, no sign ...
The man looked up, peering through the drifting fog to discern what it was his dog had seen. The sense of unease, absent until he'd heard the dog cry out, now took hold. He gazed toward the clifftop, in the grip of a primal, unreasoning fear. Hackles rising, he was no more in control of his impulses than was his dog.
The great black hound peered down at them, crouched as though about to pounce, though the man knew that the cliff was some thirty feet high and there was no way any creature could hope to make such a leap. Though he supposed it could scramble down ...
The local newspapers had been full of it over the past two weeks — reports of a large black dog that had killed three cats and had a go at an equal number of dogs.
Just in case ...
"Carson, come. Come now." He scrambled up the wooden steps and then down the other side, losing sight of the animal on the cliff top as he dropped behind the breakwater. His anxiety seemed to have infected his dog — not that his imposing-looking animal was particularly brave at the best of times. Soft as tripe, that was Carson. As though to prove his point, Carson yelped again, clattering on the steps and then running ahead, desperate to get back to where they had parked their car, his owner giving chase, feet slipping on dry sand as he headed up the beach, heart pounding and breath ragged in a burning chest.
Clear of the breakwater and able to see the way they had come, he risked taking a look back. No sign of anything on the cliff. The mist had almost lifted and he had a good view of where the hound had been.
Relief flooded through him, draining the energy from his limbs. He almost managed to convince himself that he'd been mistaken, that some strange mirage had fooled them both. But then he saw it again, now standing at the top of the breakwater steps, seemingly magnified by the light of the sun behind it. This time it was the man who yelped. He made the final dash up the low break in the cliff, through the cut and to his car. Carson was already there, whimpering impatiently. The moment the door was opened, the dog threw himself inside and crouched on the back seat.
Gratefully, his owner slammed the door and locked it, fumbling the key as he tried to find the ignition. He swung the car around on the rutted path, glancing in the rear-view, afraid of what he might see ...
Nothing. Nothing there.
And then, in his wing mirror, the slightest glimpse of movement. He screamed, no longer caring how idiotic he might feel later when he was safe and could tell himself it was just a bloody dog. Right now, in this moment, he was as scared as he had ever been. He slammed the car into gear and took off far too fast down the potholed lane. And each time he risked a glance, the dog was running parallel to them, tall and powerful, keeping pace without effort, and it crossed the man's mind that it was aiming to get in front of the car to cut him off.
The engine shrieked in protest as he redlined before remembering to change gear. He accelerated towards the gap that led back onto the main road, praying there would be no traffic, not daring to slow down. It was only when he hit the road that the dog dropped back. He found himself laughing in sheer relief at having escaped, and at his own overreaction to an oversized hound. Even a vicious oversized hound.
Carson lay silent. The man risked looking over his shoulder at the big, hairy wolfhound whose heavy body took up most of the rear seat.
"Carson?"
No answering lift of the head, no lazy, contented flick of the tail. He knew, long before he reached home and dared to stop the car, that Carson, old friend and faithful companion, was dead.
CHAPTER 2They had gone into Norwich for dinner and eaten at a restaurant that his friend Mike had recommended on the grounds that Maria liked it. Mike, unlike his wife, was inclined to eat anywhere that the food was not actually bad, and was therefore not to be relied upon to judge.
"Will you come in?" Martha asked as John halted the car in front of the Two Bells B&B.
John smiled. "Better not, it's very late, but I'll be here bright and early tomorrow." He hesitated. "I enjoyed tonight. Very much. It's been ..." What had it been? Strange for a start, bewildering really, that he should suddenly be experiencing those sorts of feelings again. Since Grace, his childhood sweetheart and wife of almost forty years, had died some twelve years before, John had put all thoughts of romance aside. At first because it had been unthinkable — it would have seemed like a betrayal of his love for Grace — and later because he had convinced himself that he was far too old. Then Martha had arrived.
"I'm glad," she said. Her smile was warm, eyes crinkling at the corners, her mouth twitching in amusement at his awkwardness. "It's been nice. No, more than nice. In fact it's all been rather wonderful, meeting you and, well, you know ..."
She had celebrated her birthday just the week before, and was eighteen years his junior. John was under no illusions — eighteen years was a considerable stretch of time — but for now he was hopeful. "You could come back to my place," he suggested tentatively, regretting the impulse almost as soon as the words were out.
She looked away, turned back, the smile in place but this time not quite reaching the eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have ..."
"No, I'm flattered that you did. Believe me, John, I want to say yes. I do like you, a great deal. I'm just not sure if ... if I'm ready for anything more, not yet." She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek, then, when he moved to kiss her properly, she accepted the pressure of his mouth on hers.
Disappointed, he drew back, cursing the stupid impulse that had shifted their relationship onto the back foot.
"Well," she said, "I'll see you in the morning. Thanks again for a lovely evening."
He watched her step inside the B&B, turning to wave as she opened the heavy wooden door. The adjoining pub bar was still open and he toyed with the idea of going in, but the scant ten minutes until closing time and the fact that he'd already drunk his allowance for the evening made it seem like superfluous punishment. After all, she was just next door. It might feel as though he was stalking her, hoping she might suddenly change her mind.
Just what had he been thinking? He knew she liked him, but she'd given no sign, no real indication of wanting to get to know him that way.
"Out of practice, you old fool," he told himself. "Too heavy-handed by half." But then, the only woman he had ever had to woo had been Grace, and that was so many years ago he doubted the same rules applied.
He turned the car around in the narrow road and set out for home. The salt tang of the ocean drifted in through the window that Martha had left open and, glancing to his left, he caught a glimpse of moonlight on still water. Emerging from the village, he flicked his headlights onto full beam. At this time of the night, the coast road would be empty, the flat landscape giving him plenty of warning of vehicles headed his way.
Twice, he thought he saw something running along the verge but he could not be sure. Something larger than a fox. But his thoughts were still with Martha and the conundrum that was 'woman', and he paid the shadow scant attention until suddenly it was there, leaping out into the middle of the road, blocking his path and forcing him to brake to a skidding halt that left the car in the wrong lane, square on to the creature.
John stared in disbelief, the hairs on his neck rising.
The animal gazed back at him.
It was tall, Great Dane-like in height but more powerfully built, its neck thick like that of a mastiff but the head lacking the heavy jowls and the ears pricked and sharp so that it looked like a wolfhound on steroids.
The creature snarled at him, baring its teeth and lowering its head. Its eyes gleamed red in the headlamps and some small corner of his brain told him that only a fox's eyes reflected red. John slipped the car into reverse. He was unnerved now, his mind wandering to the old stories of Black Shuck, cursed hound of local legend that roamed these fields. The papers had been full of sightings this summer, mainly from tourists willing to be spooked, or locals playing on the regional folklore to drum up custom. John pushed such ideas aside, concerned with the more prosaic worries about potential garage bills and insurance claims.
The dog circled the car, coming round the front towards the passenger side. John reversed slowly, easing the vehicle back to the right lane and preparing to speed off the moment his path was clear. Preternaturally frightening though it was, he had no doubt that this animal was flesh and blood. But it was large enough to do serious damage to his car should he hit it trying to get away.
It was now at the passenger side and he could hear its padding feet, its deep snarl, the slow regularity of its breathing. Too late, it occurred to him that the reason he could hear these things so clearly was that the passenger side window was still open. It lurched forward to thrust its massive head inside. John stamped on the accelerator. Forgetting for an instant that he was still in reverse, he zigzagged backwards down the lane. Precious seconds were wasted while he stopped, slammed into first while fumbling for the button to raise the passenger window. He didn't have enough hands! He charged at the dog, hoping against hope that it would be the one to give way, but was forced to swerve violently when it did not, mounting the grass verge and praying he didn't end up in the ditch. He accelerated hard, cursing himself for giving in to panic ... over a dog, for goodness' sake. Just a dog.
Looking back, he could see nothing on the road and nothing when he scanned the fields on either side, half expecting the apparition to reappear ahead of him.
It was another mile or two before he decided he could slow to a more normal speed. He decided too that he had a duty to alert someone before the dog caused an accident, or bit a child ... or scared someone properly witless instead of just halfway there. He was aware of reports that cats had been savaged, dogs attacked in their own gardens and the body of a badger found ripped apart by something with very big teeth. Now he'd seen it, he could well believe that this animal might take on a badger and not come off worst.
He pulled into the entrance to a field and found his mobile phone. Long retired he might be, but ex-DI John Tynan was still well remembered, and he had no difficulty getting through to an officer he knew.
"It's about that black dog you keep getting reports of," he told the amused desk sergeant.
"Oh aye. Don't tell me you've succumbed to the mass hysteria too?"
John laughed, but it sounded a little shaky. He hoped his former colleague wouldn't notice. (He would, of course.) "As a matter of fact, I think I have," he said. "On the coast road about a mile outside of Happisburgh, heading Cromer way. It's a big bugger, came bounding out of the field and across the road. I nearly hit the bloody thing."
It felt good to swear about it, albeit mildly. Though the words he'd really have liked to use might well have placed him in the hysterical category and he wasn't prepared to be considered that.
"Scared the pants off me for a moment," he admitted. "It's got a temper on it and a lot of sharp-looking teeth."
"Oh aye, dogs do go in for them. All right, John, I'll see if I can rustle up a dog van, maybe a patrol car. You're the second today, by the by."
"Oh? Who else has sighted the bugger?"
"Businessman, Norwich bloke, taking his German shepherd for a walk. Reckons he saw it on the beach. Reckons as how it chased him, and his Alsatian ran away faster than he did." He laughed. "So much for man's best friend."
John laughed with him, feeling more relaxed now he had shared the experience. He hung up and set off again for home, knowing that he'd done all he could. He was still disturbed by the events of the evening and, even while he chided himself for his foolishness — dogs not generally being gifted with the ability to use bolts and keys — he double-locked the door and kept his downstairs windows closed.
CHAPTER 3It was early Monday morning, too early to go and collect Martha, but John had been unable to sleep and had risen early. He had parked his car on the clifftop, beside the as-yet-unopened tea rooms, and walked back into the village. Outside the village shop an A-frame advertised the local paper. Black Dog had the front pages yet again. John reckoned it must be the third or fourth time this month. Still, it made a change from the bad weather, the economic downturn, the cliff falls and the very real threats to the lighthouse, which had dominated the landscape for years, but was now uncomfortably close to the cliff edge. Oh, and not to forget the toing and froing of local — and Occasionally national — government officials sent to assess the damage and argue about what, if anything, they could do. There was talk about abandoning the village to the sea, but the locals had mobilised and John knew they would not give up the fight just because the distant government thought they should.
The early sun, already hot, glared startlingly bright off the whitewashed walls of the shop. Inside it was shadowed and dark and small, the shelves stacked high and deep with tins and packets and notepads and toilet rolls. John bought the morning paper, intending to sit on the beach and read, and picked up some mints and a roll of wine gums, the jewel colours suddenly attracting him.
He walked back to the beach along the cliff path, past the lighthouse and down the steep flight of steps built to avoid a precipitous scramble down a section of crumbling cliff. He stood on the steps and studied the landscape, examining the latest devastation — the mudslides and the remnants of what had once been homes leaving their tell-tale trail of brick and tile wedged in the marl and sand.
Slowly, he made his way down onto the beach and, finding a gap in the revetments, wandered onto the sand, damp from the receding tide. He poked about with the toe of his shoe, looking for shells and belemnites. Occasionally he had struck lucky and found odd pieces of amber too. Grace had started the collection years before, depositing her finds into a wicker basket beside the fireplace. Once the basket was full she kept the most precious things and used the rest to mulch the pots on her kitchen windowsill or the containers in the garden. She'd done it ever since they first moved here and John had teased her — blaming her, playfully, for contributing to the beach erosion. Now, in the long years since her death, he continued to search.
He had loved his wife with a passion he found hard to put into words and he was still in love with her, always would be, even if someone else took her place at his side or in his bed. It was this, far more than his awkwardness or the lack of opportunity, that kept him from looking for a new companion.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Liar"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Jane Adams.
Excerpted by permission of Joffe Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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