WALK IN THE NIGHT

Dave's novel, Walk in the Night, is currently seeking publication.

READ THE SYNOPSIS AND AN EXTRACT HERE

 

There’s a Monster on the Loose...

Life is not going smoothly for Aylesbury reporter Claire King.  Her boss and mentor has had a heart attack and his stand-in, Barry Parkes, is on her case.   Her mother has walked out on her father and moved in with Claire.  And footballer Andy Clark, the new man in her life, has been charged with two murders - Andy’s team-mate Vlad Petrov, slain by a wooden tent-peg through the heart, and charity fundraiser Sarah Mather, her head swathed with suffocating cling film and her tongue cut out.

          Andy was Sarah’s lover before Vlad stepped in, and the police are looking no further than jealousy and revenge for motives.  But Claire is convinced that there's a bizarre link between the two deaths and an earlier murder - that of  District Councillor Frank Stone, who was burned alive in his own home.  Encouraged by her movie-buff father, she begins to think of the victims as 'Dead Monsters', their names vaguely related to horror film monsters and their deaths echoing those of their screen alter egos. 

          When Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Gilbert won't take her seriously, Claire is determined to prove Andy's innocence.  With her personal life becoming ever more complicated, she steps up her own investigations and soon finds herself in deadly danger...

Now read an extract: 

I glanced across at the two young coppers again.  I was still four months shy of the big Three Oh, and policemen were already starting to look younger.  These two looked especially wet behind the ears.  If I played my cards right, maybe I could get inside the stadium.

            I adjusted the rear-view mirror and checked myself out.  My mate Katie reckons I've got something of the look of a young Meg Ryan about me, but I can't see it.  Still, I reckoned I looked good enough to blag my way past these two terrors of the criminal classes.  Usually, I prefer to get doors to open through sheer professionalism, but I'm not above using my feminine charms when the occasion demands.  I slid out of the Fiesta, letting my skirt ride up an inch or so, locked the door, and walked up to the boy wonders, slightly exaggerating the sway of my hips. 

A glance at the young policemen told me it hadn’t been wasted.  Their eyes were on stalks.

The younger of the two looked about twelve years old and was cursed with a particularly ugly mug.  I supposed his mother must love him.  His mate wore a crease in his brow that was more like a trench than a frown.  If he’d been a dwarf, his name would have been Grumpy.  He looked about fourteen.  I gave them my sweetest smile and flashed some ID.

“Morning!  Claire King.  I’m with the Echo.”  I made as if to duck under the tape.

Grumpy blocked my way.  “I’m afraid you can’t go in, Miss.”

I pouted.  “What are your names, Constable?”

He shuffled his feet.  “This is PC Pretty, Miss.”  He indicated his plug-ugly colleague.  “I’m PC Nice.”

A guffaw threatened to burst out of me, but he didn’t seem to be joking.  I realised that he probably wouldn’t know a joke if it bit him.  Get a grip, Claire, I told myself sternly as I laid a hand upon his arm.  “Well, Constable Nice. I know you’ve got your orders, but I’m a personal friend of Chief Inspector Gilbert, you see.”

“Put him down, Claire,” said a voice from behind.  I turned to see its owner approaching rapidly, a balding man in his late forties with a waistline that seemed to have expanded another notch every time I saw him.  What is it they say about speaking of the Devil?

“Jeff,” I said brightly.  “I thought I’d find you here.  In fact, I’m surprised to have beaten you to it.  Drag you off the golf course again, did they?”

Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Gilbert halted in front of me, fiddling with his tie.  He has a gorgeous collection of Italian silk ties, but every one of them seems to have a mind of its own.  Most have a mission in life to crawl sideways up their owner’s torso, making him look as if he’d dressed in the dark.

“What do you want, Claire?”  He sounded weary.

“I’m sure that you can work that one out,” I told him.  “I take it it’s true?  Poor old Vlad Petrov’s been murdered, right here at the stadium?”

“I’ve nothing to say for the moment.   No doubt there will be a statement in due course.”

“Come on, Jeff,” I purred.  “Just a few crumbs.”

“Listen,” he said without rancour, “all that sexy voice thing and eyelash-fluttering you do -”

“Sexy voice thing?”

“You know what I mean.  Save it for lads like Pretty and Nice.  I’m impervious.”

“Sure.”  I peeped at him under my lashes.

Gilbert turned to Nice.  “I’m going in.  Keep anyone out who isn’t a copper.  Especially Miss King here.  If she tries to seduce you, arrest her.”

“Do you like your women handcuffed, Constable?”  I enquired in my most innocent tone.  Pretty sniggered.  Nice turned crimson.  Gilbert rolled his eyes, turned away and ducked beneath the tape.

“Two local celebrities killed in a month, Jeff,” I called.  “First Frank Stone, now Vlad Petrov.  Are you sure you’ve nothing to tell me?  Or shall I just splash a serial killer scare over the front page for now?”

He spun round, jaw jutting.  “You wouldn’t dare...”

“Try me.  The last man to give me a dare is still speaking with a squeaky voice.”

He jabbed a finger at me.  “You’re bloody irresponsible, do you know that?”

“I’m a journalist, Jeff.”  And one with more of a conscience than he seemed to imagine.  I’ve held back on a couple of sensational stories in my time because of the harm they’d do, and I probably wouldn’t last five minutes in the dog-eat-dog world of the national media.

But I’m a damn good poker player.  I waited while the cogs turned in his brain.  He pushed his fingers through his thinning hair, leaving some tufts standing on end, pursed his lips, and then gave a shrug.

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters.  I reckon it’ll be in the dailies tomorrow anyway.”

“Go on.”

“Look,” he said.  “There’s absolutely no connection between Vladimir Petrov’s murder and Frank Stone’s.”

“No?”

“No.  You know how Stone died.”

I nodded, suppressing a shudder.

“Well,” said Gilbert, “this is about as different as it could be.  It seems that Petrov turned up for a spot of early morning training, as was his habit, and was last seen alive jogging round the running track.  Half an hour later, he was dead in the centre circle.”

I scribbled furiously in my notepad.  “What had happened to him?”

He looked me square in the eye.  “Someone had put a tent-peg through his heart.”

 

Copyright Dave Sivers