B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree - Award-winning Mystery Books
The first in a series of quick-read, cosy mysteries set in the 1970s
Eighteen-year-old library assistant Jan Christopher’s life is to change on a rainy Friday evening in July 1971, when her legal guardian and uncle, DCI Toby Christopher, gives her a lift home after work. Driving the car, is her uncle’s new Detective Constable, Laurie Walker – and it is love at first sight for the young couple.
But romance is soon to take a back seat when a baby boy is taken from his pram, a naked man is scaring young ladies in nearby Epping Forest, and an elderly lady is found, brutally murdered... Are the events related? How will they affect the staff and public of the local library where Jan works – and will romance survive and blossom between library assistant Jan Christopher and DC Laurie Walker – or will the brutal murder intervene?
"I sank into this gentle cosy mystery story with the same enthusiasm and relish as I approach a hot bubble bath, (in fact this would be a great book to relax in the bath with!), and really enjoyed getting to know the central character..." Debbie Young bestselling cosy mystery author
"Jan is a charming heroine. You feel you get to know her and her love of books and her interest in the people in the library where she works. She's also funny, and her Aunt Madge bursts with character - the sort of aunt I would love to have had. I remember the 70s very well and Ms Hollick certainly gives a good flavour of the period." Denise Barnes (bestselling romance author Molly Green)
“A delightful read about an unexpected murder in North East London. Told from the viewpoint of a young library assistant, the author draws on her own experience to weave an intriguing tale” Richard Ashen (South Chingford Community Library)
“Lots of nostalgic, well-researched, detail about life in the 1970s, which readers of a certain age will lap up; plus some wonderful, and occasionally hilarious, ‘behind the counter’ scenes of working in a public library, which any previous or present-day library assistant will recognise!” Reader's Review
“An enjoyable novella with a twist in who done it. I spent the entire read trying to decide what was a clue and what wasn’t ... Kept me thinking the entire time. I call that a success.” Reader's Review
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| (image, courtesy Debbie Young) |
READ AN EXCERPT
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Alone In The Kitchen
Laurie wanted me to sit in the
car while he ran to the police telephone box situated beyond the cinema, on the
island crescent where the buses terminated. I had refused.
“I
can’t leave her on her own!” Tears were starting to prick my eyes, and I was
shaking. He was right, the car would be a better place, but despite the
obnoxious odour I couldn’t, just couldn’t, leave Mrs Norris lying on her
kitchen floor with no one to – to, what? Comfort her? Protect her? She was
beyond both, but I could not bear the thought of leaving her.
I
think Laurie understood, because he took his jacket off and draped it around my
shoulders, sat me in one of the wooden chairs next to the kitchen table and
told me, firmly, to, “Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.”
When
I looked up at him, my face half-crumpled into grief, half into bewilderment. He
kissed my forehead and said, “It’s a murder scene, love. The entire place will soon
be crawling with coppers and SOCO – Scene of Crime Officers – looking for
evidence of who did this.”
I
nodded. I knew that, but until he’d said it, it hadn’t registered properly. “I
know what SOCO means. My uncle is a Detective Chief Inspector,” I said
unnecessarily tartly. I immediately apologised. “I’m sorry, that was very rude
of me. I’ll stay put,” I promised.
“No
need to apologise, you’re in shock.” He didn’t kiss me again, but he touched my
cheek with a forefinger. “I won’t be long.” And he was gone.
I
heard vomiting outside the open front door, partially rose as I guessed it was
Laurie spewing his insides up, but thought better of going out to him. One: he
had told me to stay put. Two: he would be embarrassed. Three: I would be
embarrassed.
I
was shaking again. I clutched my arms around myself and rocked back and forth,
a sound between a groan and a sob leaving my throat, awful memories returning.
It was not the first time for me. I’d seen my dad, my own dad, shot dead with
three bullets right before my eyes. I’d been upstairs in bed, had heard someone
knock, loud and insistent at the front door. Heard Dad answer it, exclaim,
‘What the...?” and then scuffling and shouting.
I
had run from my bedroom and peered through the spindles of the banisters. There
had been three very loud bangs, and Dad had staggered backwards clutching at
his chest, knocking over the telephone table with the vase of fresh flowers on
it, sending it crashing to the floor. Daffodils. Bright yellow daffodils that I
had helped Mum pick from the garden that afternoon. The telephone itself
tinkled as it, too, fell, the Bakelite casing cracking as it smashed on to the
floor. Dad tried to grab the post of the banisters as he toppled onto the
bottom two stairs. There was blood everywhere, all over him, on the carpet, up
the walls, red splatters and dribbles spoiling the new floral wallpaper. The
only other thing I remember of that night was screaming. I stood at the top of
the stairs, and I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I had been five years
old.
I
felt a scream crawling up from my stomach into my mouth now, but gulped it down
and clutched Laurie’s jacket tighter around my shoulders. I swallowed, hard,
again, suddenly desperately wanting the loo. I crossed my legs and squeezed my
thighs together.
“Think
of something else!” I murmured aloud.
I
looked at the space where the mirror had been, a distinctive lighter patch
against the cream-painted wall. The mirror must have been ripped off in anger,
or frustration, for the nail, hook or screw – whatever it had been hanging on –
had been yanked out of the wall, leaving the plaster cracked around a large
hole. I looked again at poor Mrs Norris. She was facing away from where the
mirror had been, had she turned from someone, not expecting such a vicious
attack? Had there been an argument? Had she known the person who had killed
her?
Unlike
the dining room, and the front room, come to that, this kitchen looked lived in,
bright and homely. There was nothing modern, most of the furniture and fittings
reflecting the fifties: a cream-painted wall cabinet, and matching cupboard and
drawers. A stove with a red kettle on one of the gas rings, its conical whistle
in place. Corner shelves with three cream-coloured tins with green lids,
labelled tea, coffee, sugar. A square, white metal bread bin. Pale blue chequered
curtains, drawn across a window above the sink, with blue and white china on
the draining board washed up and left to dry. A matching chequered curtain on a
wire rod beneath the sink. The table I was sitting at had a blue Formica top
and was pushed against the wall, the flap on that side folded down. Above, the
doors of the serving hatch into the dining room. Apart from the washing up, and
the blood on the floor, all was clean and tidy.
I
felt beneath the striped, knitted tea cosy that covered a teapot sitting on its
wooden stand on the table. Cold. Then I remembered that Laurie had told me not
to touch anything. I sat back in the chair and folded my arms. It didn’t seem
right that Mrs Norris was lying there, abandoned. Maybe I could cover her with
something? I started to get to my feet, sighed, sat down again. Laurie would be
back soon; he would take care of her dignity. Then I noticed something. I bent as
far forward as I could without leaving the chair, to peer closer. Something was
clutched in her hand. A piece of paper, the corner of the front page of the Daily
Mirror poking through her clenched fingers. I could see its distinctive white
lettering on a red background. Footsteps coming down the hall! I gasped, sprang
to my feet. What if the murderer had come back? Felt stupid as I heard Laurie
call out.
“Only
me!”
He
walked in through the door, and I ran to him with a gulped sob, throwing myself
into his arms. I buried my head into his home-knitted, woollen cardigan and
cried. For Mrs Norris, for me, for the memory of my dad? I don’t know, all I
knew was that with Laurie’s arms round me, holding me tight, I felt safe.
 |
The Jan Christopher Cosy Mysteries set in the 1970s |
Thoughts from a Devonshire Farmhouse
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Historical Stories of Exile by 13 popular authors Cryssa Bazos, Anna Belfrage, Elizabeth Chadwick, Cathie Dunn, J.G. Harlond, Helen Hollick, Loretta Livingstone, Amy Maroney Alison Morton, Charlene Newcomb, Elizabeth St.John, Marian L Thorpe, Annie Whitehead. With an introduction by Deborah Swift |
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