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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! |
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| About the Book |
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| Read an excerpt |
Edinburgh,
December 1936.
Following two grisly murders, Professor Finlay MacBeth and Detective Inspector Callaghan track down a possible suspect:
Leaving their cars along Ashley Terrace, Callaghan
and MacBeth walk down Merchiston Grove, a cobbled road that leads into Daisy
Terrace. Turning into the narrow lane, Callaghan peers up at the houses on the
left-hand side.
‘It’s this one,’ he says,
glancing at the note bearing the address. The building has three storeys and
like many of the dwellings on the street probably houses more than one family.
A shabby Christmas tree decorates the downstairs room in front of the window,
with cut-out paper snowflakes hung across the top of the frame.
MacBeth bangs the wrought iron
knocker. For a moment, there is no response, then a shuffling of feet brings a
middle-aged woman to the door.
‘Aye?’ she says, her head
swivelling between them. ‘Who’re ye wantin?’
Callaghan holds out his warrant
card. ‘We’re looking for Mr Olsen. Is he at home?’
The woman examines the ID card.
‘The polis, is it?’ She shrugs. ‘Well, if he is, he’s awfy quiet. He’s been
ill, ye ken?’ She steps back and waves a hand at the staircase. ‘Top floor.’
‘Thank you,’ says Callaghan,
squeezing past her ample bosom.
On the first landing, the
inspector pauses, craning his neck to look up towards the rooms above. Reaching
the top floor, he waits for MacBeth, then nods towards the door at the rear of
the house. ‘Bathroom?’
MacBeth glances at the
half-glazed door and gives a quick nod. They move along the passage to an
ill-fitting door with peeling paint. Callaghan raps on the wood. The door
creaks open. The inspector gives it a push.
The stench of something rotten
assaults both men’s nostrils and MacBeth takes a step back, grabbing his
handkerchief to cover his nose.
‘Christ,’ mutters Callaghan,
giving the door another shove. Stepping inside, he holds out a hand to prevent
MacBeth going any further.
MacBeth moves sideways so he can
see over the inspector’s shoulder. The room is dark, due to a dirty bed sheet
crudely tacked to the window frame. The sparsely decorated interior tells of
its inhabitant’s lowly life—a bed, a chair and a narrow chest of drawers are
the only items of furniture. A naked man lies sprawled across a faded and
bloodied coverlet, his unshaven neck slashed from one side to the other. The
fingers of his right hand enclose the handle of a sizeable and blood smeared
kitchen knife. But it is the man’s missing eyes that grab the two men’s
attention.
‘Shite,’ says Callaghan. ‘Disnae look like he’ll be making a confession any time soon.’
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