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Welcome to my Blog! Wander through worlds real and fictional, meet interesting people, visit exciting places and find good books to enjoy along the way! |
Crucial Black
A brace of corpses. A bone-crunching machine. A new recruit.
Now employed by an Inverness organised crime gang, former petty thief Relic Black is teamed up with hitman Ali McKay, the man he almost killed a few weeks earlier.
As the team tidy up the loose ends after the shooting, gang member and bent cop DI McKenzie must investigate the disappearance of two people, knowing Relic and Ali have already disposed of the bodies.
Meanwhile, Rebecca’s unpopular colleague DI Swinney, suspects her of involvement in the shooting. Knowing one of the bodies currently taking up space in the mortuary remains anonymous, he discovers the man’s identity. Can Swinney uncover the truth, dig the dirt on McKenzie and regain his former status with the DCI, or will the gang step in to stop him?
Warning - strong language and adult situations throughout.
Crucial Black is book #2 in the Relic Black Thriller series set in Inverness, Scotland.
NB. book #2 is not a standalone – the series must be read in order.
Purchase Link
AMAZON https://geni.us/gXeQFS
Author Bio –
Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate.
His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in Northeast Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.
He also makes rather nice vegan cakes.
Social Media Links –
Twitter
Instagram
Website
Bookbub
Facebook
TikTok
https://www.tiktok.com/@colingarrowauthor
(contains adult language)
Certain that the flat on Gordonville Road will reveal evidence of whatever DI McKenzie is up to, DI Swinney decides to go back and search the place…
Gordonville Road, Inverness 11:27pm
Having had three pints in the Castle Tavern, he should know better than to head back to Gordonville Road. But Swinney isn’t one for knowing better—Swinney’s one for taking chances, and as no-one’s home at Chez Lesbos, he might never get another opportunity like this. Stumbling across the road, he slides into the doorway and runs his finger down the list of tenants. That’s her—M Snaith, top flat, left. Taking out his little tool kit—always handy on these occasions—Swinney separates the ones he wants. Levering the L-shaped tool into the lock, he slides the hook into place above the wrench and jiggles it back and forth. Two seconds later and its open.
Turning the knob, he pushes it a few inches, stops and listens. Silence. Opening the door fully, he creeps inside. Clicking the latch into place so there’ll be no problem getting out quickly, he closes the door and starts up the stairs.
There are no lights on the staircase which is fine as the window halfway up is enough to see by. Reaching the top landing, he looks at the two doors. Top flat, left. But which left? The one on his left now or the one on the left when you’re standing at the front door. Fuck.
He turns around so his back is against the front wall. Left. Must be the one on the actual left. If not, he’ll find out soon enough. Crouching at the door, he takes out a hanky and puts one corner in his mouth. Then using the wrenches again, he gets to work. This one is more troublesome and it’s almost three full minutes before the lock finally clicks.
The door opens soundlessly, no creaks or unexpected metallic whinges. Stepping inside, he allows the door to swing back, wedging the handkerchief over the lock so it doesn’t close and, again, allowing himself that sharp exit if the need arises.
Standing still, he listens. It seems as if something is making a shitload of noise, then he realises it’s his own heart—banging so hard it might burst through his chest like that freaky alien in the movie of the same name. He takes a few deep breaths before moving along the darkened passageway. There are five doors. Bedroom, lounge, kitchen, bathroom…second bedroom? He stops by the nearest door and tries the handle. Inside, it’s dark but the curtains are open, and he can see the glow from the streetlight further along the road. Leaving the door open, he moves to the next one. This time it’s the bathroom—nice big one for a flat this size. Fancy bath, posh shower—plenty room for two lesbians to soap each other up—couple of gaily-painted cabinets. Funny thing, though, the toilet seat is up.
For one long moment he thinks he’s in the wrong flat, but no, there’s a pack of tampons on the side, and in the sink the sort of soap only a woman would use. Maybe she’d squirted bleach down the bog and left the seat up to remind her so she wouldn’t splash her dainty little minge. Aye, that must be it.
But there’s something else. A pungent aroma. And it isn’t bleach. Taking a step forwards, he peers into the toilet. Too late he realises his mistake. The blunt force trauma might’ve finished him off if the whispered swish of the heavy object hadn’t given itself away. It catches the side of his head knocking him off balance and he tumbles over, almost falling into the roll-top bath.
‘Aye, ye fuckin arsehole,’ says a familiar voice.
Colin Garro |
(note: Helen has not yet read the book herself)
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