BLEEDING SHAME.

A novel.


Has a world altering invention become temptation for murder?


A vicious killer, an improbable story, and a shattering scientific discovery, mingle to create a cocktail of deceptive intrigue.

A bright young woman's death has been framed to look like an act of rage during a call-girl rendezvous. A tired, disillusioned cop, her only hope of redemption. Layer upon layer unfold to reveal a conniving conspiracy of global proportions; a conjuring of convoluted wicked twists.

Stacey Cornish has been murdered, and her killer has done very little to hide his identity. When his body washes up on the bank of a local river, Detective Frankie Harlow is unconvinced that the man committed suicide. However, when his family come under-fire in a series of vicious attacks aimed at dissuading further interest, Frankie knows that there is more to the murder than first meets the eye. Stacey was a biochemist working on a cure for cancer, perhaps her death had something to do with her research rather than the frame-of-facts posed by the killers.

Bleeding Shame is a compelling story that will grab you at the start, pull you along at a breathtaking pace, and shock you senseless with the questions it poses, and the answers it finds. Heart-wrenching, scary and sometimes humorous, it never fails to impress.

Here is an excerpt.

BLEEDING SHAME

A novel.


PART 1.

A TASTE OF BLOOD.


“I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.”


― Woody Allen.


“Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.” .”


― William Shakespeare, Macbeth.


1..”

Stacey..”

*.”

She remembered that it was very cold and very wet on that day; the rain beating a resounding tattoo against the fragile glass windows of her house. She knew that she would have been far more afraid of the downpour than she was if circumstance had been different. The brass knocker on the front door was sturdy and beautifully wrought, it was also substantial enough to drown out the sound of the weather with its ominous clang.

From her corner of the hall, quiet, secret, and still, she saw him. Big and burly he was, clad head to toe in black, with shiny brass buttons singularly out of place along the front of his jacket. His face, although pasty white, was highlighted by two rosy cherub-like globes on his cheeks. He had a booming voice, and of all the unbelievably nasty things that were that week he was the worst.

She watched as he circled Cook Janie, she saw Janie stare transfixed at the toes of her shoes as he questioned her. She knew, by instinct alone that Janie would tell the truth, to the best of her ability anyway...

Questions echoed around the great rooms, and the constable seemed to swell with each new one, as if the facts, as abhorrent as they were, were somehow of his own making, without ever being his fault. His measure took the weight of it, and multiplied it into a case for his own self-importance. It made much of him and little of her. You would think people would be kind when they came to announce a death to a child, he treated her as if she were the culprit.

Thoughts of that dreadful day were a cloud across her mind, a mind that was swiftly drifting away from the world in a rank anonymous motel room splattered, wall-to-wall, in blood.