Paul Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "murder"

Here's a FRESH extract from The Conchenta Conundrum - One of the murderer's is making good his escape - or so he thinks -

... He pulled in and set the handbrake tight. Clumsily, he dragged the package from his car boot. Straining with the exertion of it all, he rested a moment, regretted the foolish fingers of courage he had found necessary to embrace, and with a mighty heave, threw her into the ocean.
Without remorse, he watched the green plastic suit holder gradually sink through the waves. Concerned things had not gone to plan and the scotch had been a stupid accessory in his plan, he looked out to sea and scolded himself for his ineptitude.
The tide smashed into the cliffs and withdrew. The tide roared and crashed into the cliffs again but left no traces of a lady who had been murdered by ? ? ? ...
With his back to the sea, he guided the car through the leafy lanes. It was as if someone had at last lifted a great weight from his shoulders when he slid his foot heavily onto the accelerator pedal and made good speed towards the house.
His mind soon wandered to a patio that needed checking. Had he washed the area thoroughly? Had the fire in the barbecue burnt out his kimono and swim shorts? Had he cleaned the spade with which he had pummelled her skull into a dozen little pieces? Had he... He did not see the big red two-litre tractor emerge from the meadow and lumber casually into the lane.
There was a rush of adrenaline and a squeal of tyres when he heaved onto the brakes and swung the steering wheel fiercely to his right. There was an almighty crunch of metal and a cloud of dust when the front of his car collided with the rear offside of a farmer’s tractor and a rusting red mudguard crumpled to the ground.
Stunned! He was stunned for a moment but quickly jumped from the car and ran towards the farmer and his tractor.
With a hurried smile a hand was clasped and a head and face were checked for injury. No injury was found and reluctant smiles were forcibly exchanged. There was a quick inspection of a front bumper and a rear mudguard followed by a quick examination of debris and skid marks on the road; and there was recognition of how things might have been worse.
Then there were recriminations.
‘It was your fault,’ alleged the car driver. ‘You didn’t stop. You just drove straight out of the field onto the road.’
‘No, lad,’ retaliated the elderly farmer standing his ground. ‘You were driving too fast. You are at fault, lad.’
‘Too fast!’ snapped the car driver. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you are a typical tractor driver. No respect for anyone. You think you own the road, don’t you?’
‘You were at fault, lad,’ argued the farmer. ‘You been drinking?’
The farmer leaned closer to smell a whiff of alcohol on the car driver’s breath. He stroked his chin then shook his head in disgust.
Suddenly, there seemed to be a cold nip in the air which burnt into the car driver’s skin and kindled his mind.
‘Drinking?’ queried the driver innocently. ‘Of course not; look, there’s no need to bother the police. It’s only a rusty old mudguard.’
‘Rusty?’ challenged the tractor driver, annoyed at such a suggestion. ‘It’ll still cost money. Rusty or not, it’ll cost money to replace.’
Wisdom of a kind intruded and the car driver responded, ‘Yes, yes, of course; perhaps this would help.’ Digging deep into his wallet, he produced a wad of banknotes.
The farmer sniffed again, sensed an odour of alcohol, stroked his chin again, and hinted, ‘Do you think that will be enough, lad? Mudguards for agricultural tractors aren’t cheap, you know, and I’ll need to go to the dealer at Tevington for this.’
‘Well, of course. I understand; how silly of me.’ His hand delved into his wallet again and more notes were delivered.
‘That should do it, lad,’ reacted the farmer with a smile.
‘And we’ll settle on that, shall we? No police, I mean.’
‘Aye, we’ll settle on that, lad,’ replied the farmer. ‘No need to be bothering the police when it’s all sorted, lad.’
Cash changed hands and a big red two-litre agricultural tractor straightened in the lane. A car reversed and then slowly edged passed the tractor. There was a wave and a pip of a car horn and he was gone.
The farmer watched the car disappearing down the lane and examined his brand new banknotes. They were fresh, crinkly, new, and unfamiliar to a man with soil on his hands. He lifted his head again and allowed his eyes to zero into the disappearing vehicle.
Stepping up gingerly to his tractor cabin, he found a biro pen and his magazine stuffed into the side pocket. The car turned left at the end of the lane and moved out of sight as the farmer wrote the car registration number down on the front of the ‘Farmer’s Weekly’.`
‘Funny money is it?’ queried the farmer aloud. ‘Well, I suppose I had a good day on the fields today.’
Tommy Watson, farmer of Crillsea Farm Estates, patted the side of his tractor, brushed away debris from the ground with his foot, and fired up the engine. Not a bad day’s work, he thought, preparing to return to his farm. Not a bad day at all. Smiling, he crumpled the bank notes into his fist, pocketed them, and made for home.

*
But what happens next - nope, it's not quite as simple as you might think... Real murder investigations never are...

Here's a fresh extract from Behead the Serpent....Another murder mystery thriller that will have everyone out of breath...

There's been a shooting... a crime... a burglary.... There's a chase on and that's where we join the book....

‘There he is,’ yelled Barney. ‘Stop him, Harry.’
Without a moment’s thought, Harry Reynolds reached out to try and catch Conor but the Irishman was too slippery.
Taking a stride into the rain, Harry joined the pursuit.
Pulling his gun again, Conor snapped off two wild shots in the direction of his pursuers.
But Conor didn’t wait to see Barney and Max simultaneously crash to the ground to avoid the bullets.
Screaming!
The sound of gunfire panicked the crowd and a loud scream rent the air as Conor carved through the horde of shoppers and sprinted towards the clock tower.
They were up and chasing again with Barney shouting into his radio, Max pushing his way through the screeching crowd, and Harry Reynolds yelling, ‘Stop him! Somebody stop him!’
On reaching the clock tower cafe, Conor spun round and took aim at his chasers.
Diving for cover, Barney collided headlong into a litter bin cemented into the ground and Max threw himself onto the ground.
A siren sounded as a police car neared the market.
‘Blat! Blat!’ Two more shots from Conor were way off target. Snapping the trigger again, he realised the chamber was empty.
Then there was the sure turn of an engine from somewhere close by and Conor was out of the market and crossing the road with his empty weapon waving aimlessly at his pursuers.
You’re going nowhere, thought Max.
Suddenly, a mast appeared in Max’s vision and he lost his bearings.
One, two, three, four strides and a huge jump saw Conor leap over the harbour wall onto a waiting vessel. In midair, Conor’s arms rotated for speed and length and in those precious seconds, he loosened grip of his gun and it clattered to the ground.
Max didn’t see Conor land but he heard the heavy fall landing on the yacht’s deck.
Abruptly, two outboard motors exploded into life and the long vertical wooden mast moved away from the wall and into the mainstream of the dock.
Max took in the mast; the furled sail, the wooden deck and a yacht bearing the name, ‘SERPENT’, on its hull. Next to the vessel’s name, Max took in the image of a strange looking sea creature which adorned the hull. It resembled the shape of a sea serpent from the tales of ancient mariners long ago.
There was the vague outline of another man in the Serpent’s cabin as the vessel’s wake churned its getaway. Moments later, Conor O’Keefe appeared at the yacht’s stern and cheekily waved to the helpless Max.
A police car, lights flashing, siren wailing, radio blaring, arrived at the harbour side.
Slowly, Max turned from the disappearing yacht and a smiling crook and spoke to the patrol car driver, P.C Jim Temple. ‘Too late, Jim! Too late! He was too quick for us and bloody lucky, that’s all.’
‘I came as soon as I got the call,’ countered PC Temple.
‘At least we know who we’re looking for, Jim. But can you get on the radio and chase up the ambulance,’ suggested Max. ‘We’ve got an officer down and Barney wrapped around a block of cement somewhere!’

The chase is well and truly on - this is the third in the Davies King trilogy, what will Davies think when he catches up with his crew?

More importantly, why are the crew on board the Serpent planning to attack the national grid. The cyber war is in full flight as the lights slowly go out across the UK, Holland, Northern Europe, and North America..... You'll need a torch to read this one.

Paul Anthony