I should have moved house on May 23 but, on May 22, when everyone had sorted things out with utilities companies, cancelled phone/broadband, etc., the solicitors announced a ‘slight hitch’. We were then told we’d move on June 9. Living out of a suitcase soon loses its appeal so I was relieved to hear it. However, that date was also dismissed. We’re now hoping to move on June 12. Fingers crossed!
It’s been ridiculously stressful but the plus side is that, because all my belongings, apart from my trusty MacBook Air, are packed away in boxes, I’ve had nothing to do but work. Also, as I’ve struggled to get an internet connection for most of the time, I haven’t been distracted with social media. Our house is cleaner than it’s ever been, and I even completed the first lot of edits for Dead Simple in record time - yay.
On the rare occasions I’ve been able to get online, I’ve been looking on Amazon where Dead End, coming to a device near you July 7, is available for pre-order. I love seeing that a new book’s available. Until that moment, the story is just a file and not a real book. But yes, Dead End is a real book. Official. :)
Here’s an excerpt:
“Someone wants me dead.” It still sounded ridiculous. Hell, it was ridiculous. It had to be. “I’ve had a couple of phone calls at the office from some jerk saying it’s payback time and that I’m going to die. I know it’s a long shot but I wondered if you had any ideas.”
Pikey’s eyebrows had risen with each word. His fork hovered level with his mouth. “You’re kidding. What else have they said?”
“Nothing. The calls have been brief and to the point. No background sounds that I could make out. No clues as to an identity. Nothing. Just a quick ‘it’s payback time and you’re going to die.’”
“Payback time? Who have you upset recently?”
“How long have you got?”
Pikey mopped up egg yolk with a piece of fried bread. “When was the first call?”
“Two weeks ago. Before then, though, Bev took three odd calls at the house. No one said anything but she had the feeling someone was on the other end, listening.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can give you the name of someone recently released from prison. Someone who threatened to get you—and me, come to that.”
“Come on then. Out with it.”
“Leonard King. Remember him?”
“Oh, Christ. How could I forget?”
Dylan could remember every detail of the night he and Pikey had thought they were about to sort out a domestic dispute. It was one of the last things they did together as coppers.
They’d been on their way home, their stint finished for the day, when they’d heard that a huge fire at a furniture factory and two bomb scares were keeping uniformed officers busy. London was in chaos, and as he and Pikey had been less than two minutes from the property where the domestic was supposedly in full swing, they’d agreed to go and sort it.
From the moment they arrived, they’d known something was wrong.
The front door to the three-storey terraced house was open and, when they’d stepped inside, expecting to find a husband and wife in the middle of an alcohol-fuelled tiff, they quickly realised it was a setup. There was no domestic dispute.
Instead they’d stumbled into a professional drug factory where millions of pounds’ worth of heroin had been processed. It was one of the biggest Class A drugs seizures the U.K. had seen.
Of course, they hadn’t known that at first. They’d been too busy relieving Max Rickman, one of the U.K.’s most violent, of the samurai sword he’d been wielding...
“Two weeks ago. Before then, though, Bev took three odd calls at the house. No one said anything but she had the feeling someone was on the other end, listening.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can give you the name of someone recently released from prison. Someone who threatened to get you—and me, come to that.”
“Come on then. Out with it.”
“Leonard King. Remember him?”
“Oh, Christ. How could I forget?”
Dylan could remember every detail of the night he and Pikey had thought they were about to sort out a domestic dispute. It was one of the last things they did together as coppers.
They’d been on their way home, their stint finished for the day, when they’d heard that a huge fire at a furniture factory and two bomb scares were keeping uniformed officers busy. London was in chaos, and as he and Pikey had been less than two minutes from the property where the domestic was supposedly in full swing, they’d agreed to go and sort it.
From the moment they arrived, they’d known something was wrong.
The front door to the three-storey terraced house was open and, when they’d stepped inside, expecting to find a husband and wife in the middle of an alcohol-fuelled tiff, they quickly realised it was a setup. There was no domestic dispute.
Instead they’d stumbled into a professional drug factory where millions of pounds’ worth of heroin had been processed. It was one of the biggest Class A drugs seizures the U.K. had seen.
Of course, they hadn’t known that at first. They’d been too busy relieving Max Rickman, one of the U.K.’s most violent, of the samurai sword he’d been wielding...
Dead End, the latest Dylan Scott mystery, will hit the virtual shelves on July 7. Oh, and did I mention it was available to pre-order from Amazon? :)
Meanwhile, I’m getting back to the most disastrous house move ever. If you can’t get hold of me, you’ll know I’m fighting my way out of a pile of boxes. Wish me luck!
