Brian’s Comments (group member since Apr 28, 2016)

Brian’s comments from the First Chapter group.

The 11.05 Murders is the second book of The Inspector Sheehan Mysteries Series. Just published in April, it has already received 6 five star reviews on Amazon.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/11-Murders-In...

ONE

October 2014

Woman Detective Sergeant Denise Stewart finally found her
way to the Serious Crimes room that she was to share with a
number of other detectives. She stared at the door and inhaled a
deep breath. First time out of uniform, new job, new role, new
station, a certain amount of tension was to be expected, but she
had not anticipated that Strandtown Police Station would have
been so large. It had taken some time to locate the room, but she
had been hesitant to ask further directions, trying to make do with
what she had been told at the information desk. She was not yet
sure of the reception she might receive, particularly in view of the
manner of her promotion, and was less than keen to draw any
immediate attention to herself. Some detective! New to the job,
maybe, but what kind of genius did she need to be to figure out
that a station with a complement of two hundred and forty fulltime
officers and another forty-eight or so civilian workers was
not going to be a two or three room affair?

Her hands were filled with a large cardboard box containing
her “stuff,” so she reversed into the detectives’ room, pushing
open the door with her back. She turned to examine the room
wondering where she was supposed to sit. The room was quiet,
almost fully unoccupied except for a fat, jowly detective who had
been poring over some papers but who now looked up to see who
had entered.

He leaned back on his chair, putting excessive demands on
the buttons of his shirt, as he gazed at the newcomer. His gaze
became an unashamed leer as he noted the trim figure, the blond
hair, the exceptionally pretty face. Pushing himself awkwardly
from the desk, he stood up. “Name’s McCullough,” he said,
trying without success to suck in his gross paunch. He pointed at
the box she was carrying. “Can I help you with that?”

She gave him a curt nod, irritated by his crude interest.
“WDS Stewart,” she said neutrally. “Thanks, but I can manage.
Can you tell me where I might find Chief Inspector Sheehan,
please?”

McCullough stepped back a bit and waved a vague hand in
the direction of some offices at the far end of the large room.
“Why don’t you try his office,” he said ungraciously.

The woman detective’s lips tightened. Is this guy for real?
He’s miffed because I’m not jumping all over him? With that
comb-over? Good grief! She carried her box to an office, which
she could now see had “DCI J. Sheehan” painted on the door.
She knocked and entered at the muffled “Come!” that issued from
inside. She was struggling to support her box on one arm as she
turned the handle but the chief inspector immediately came from
behind his desk. He seemed to wince as he took the box from her
but offered no explanation. He sat it on one of the chairs at the
wall of the office and offered her another chair in front of his
desk. “WDS Stewart?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Reporting in.”

“Welcome to B District.”

She stared at the intense blue eyes, the darkly handsome
face, and the genuinely friendly smile. Inwardly she relaxed. I’ll
be able to work with this man for sure. She gave him a tentative
smile in return and said, “Thank you, sir.”

He went back behind his desk. “Most of the guys are out, but
you’ll meet them later. A good bunch for the most part ...” He
saw something in her eyes and grinned. “Ah, you’ve already met
McCullough?”

She nodded, choosing to remain silent.

He grinned again. “Don’t worry; he’s not typical of the
team.” He leaned back in his chair and continued, “I’ll show you
to your desk in a minute.” He stared at her, arms folded. She was
remaining mute, waiting to hear what he would say next. He saw
a very pretty woman in front of him, mid-twenties, but he saw
also a woman in control of herself, a woman who was not
intimidated by her situation or his status. He saw no arrogance,
but he did sense a hint of concern, of apprehension. He’d read her
file and knew what was troubling her. “Congratulations on your
promotion to plain clothes, Sergeant.”

Her lips compressed, but she said, “Thank you, sir. I hope I
can fit in here. I’ll certainly do my best.”

“You’ll be fine.” He hesitated. “I have not yet told the squad
about the circumstances of your promotion, but you’re smart
enough to know that word will filter through eventually.
McCullough aside, though, you’re unlikely to face any bile.
McCullough’s old school, a dinosaur. He doesn’t like Catholics;
he hates that he’s PSNI and not RUC; he doesn’t think women
should be detectives. In fact, he embodies just about every
prejudice Northern Ireland has to offer. He only holds onto his
job because he has the wit to shut up when he’s told. Bark at him
a few times, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Stewart listened as the CDI was talking and thought that he
was unlike any of the bosses she had worked for before. Apart
from the fact that she had heard that he had not long been
married, she was sufficiently experienced to recognise that he was
not trying to come on to her, that he was being genuinely friendly.
She had also heard someone say that Jim Sheehan represented the
human face of management in the upper echelons of the force.
She could already see why he had earned that approbation. She
was thus emboldened to ask, “What have you heard about my
promotion, sir?”

“Well, you know there’s nothing secret in the ranks of the
PSNI, Sergeant, but there’s always the question of interpretation.”

She raised her eyes ceilingwards and shook her head slightly
from side to side.

“Depends on whom one talks to,” Sheehan went on, “but
you got promoted either for betraying a colleague, or ridding the
force of a corrupt police-officer.”

“I have had some stick about it, sir.”

“Sergeant, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You discovered
the corruption in your station, you ferreted out the culprit, and
you were unafraid to bring your findings to your superiors. Good
detective work allied to integrity. Any cop who questions your
actions would need to look into his own heart. When are you
testifying?”

“Tomorrow, sir. But I have a meeting with the Crown
Prosecutor this afternoon.”

“Right. I knew it was soon. Okay, we’ll not put you on duty
until you’ve got that business squared away.” He hesitated. “I
think I’ll go round the members of the squad individually and see
that they get the truth about you. Don’t want any uncertainty
cluttering up the place.” He stood up. Again, that slight
awkwardness. He must be in pain with something, she thought.
“But come on out to the room now, and you can unload that box
on to, or into, your desk.” He lifted the box from the chair. She
stood up and waited at the door for him to pass, but he said,
“Ladies first, Sergeant.”

The feminist in her wasn’t sure how to react to that, but here
was a man she could forgive easily. She gave him a quick smile
and went out before him although she had to wait immediately for
him to lead her to the desk that had been cleared for her,
fortunately a comfortable distance away from McCullough’s.
As the chief inspector was setting the box on Stewart’s desk,
the door opened, and a tall, well-built young detective came into
the room. “Oh, Tom,” Sheehan called to him. “I’d like you to
meet our new colleague, Detective Sergeant Denise Stewart.”

Detective Allen came over, hand proffered while he was still
a few steps away. “Tom Allen,” he said. “Welcome to the squad,
Sergeant.” Then, with a grin, he added, “You’ll certainly brighten
up this dreary place.”

Denise accepted the handshake but said, unsmiling, “I’m not
altogether sure that that is my role here, Detective.”

The young detective’s handsome face reddened, “Of course,
Sergeant,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean ...” He waved his hands
defensively. “I’m sorry.” He backed away, embarrassed, and went
to his own desk.

Seeing the young detective’s confusion, Denise felt a
moment of guilt. If he had been less good-looking, would she
have reacted differently? She caught Sheehan’s somewhat
puzzled eye and said, “Shouldn’t have said that, sir. Instinctive
reaction. I get that sort of thing a lot, and I’m a bit fed up with it.”

Sheehan nodded. “Okay, Sergeant, but keep it outside.
Morale in the squad-room is important to me. You’re going to
have to get along.”

“Sorry, sir. I will.”

Sergeant McCullough, an interested spectator, looked at
Tom and raised his eyebrows. Tom made a face, and with a quick
glance at the new team member to see that he was unobserved, he
mouthed the word, “Prickly.”

The chief inspector went back to his office as Denise
unpacked the cardboard box and made her desk habitable. She
heard a low voice and looked up. Tom Allen was speaking into a
desk phone. His eyes were on her, but he looked away hastily
when she caught his gaze. Denise hesitated. She would need to
get to her appointment with the crown prosecutor, but ... She
looked at Tom Allen again. Even with this slight acquaintance
she sensed something straight and honest about him. The last
thing she was looking for right now was any kind of relationship,
but perhaps she had been unnecessarily harsh in response to his
welcome. Pursing her lips and straightening the rather formal jacket
she had worn for her first meeting with the DCI, she walked over
to the young detective’s desk as he was putting the phone back on
its cradle. Young detective? He was no younger than she was.
“Excuse me, Tom.” She hesitated. “I might have been a bit
brusque earlier. Thank you for your welcome. I hope we can
work together.”

Allen’s face showed surprise, but he quickly recovered and
said with a quiet smile, “Not a problem, Sergeant. DCI Sheehan
wouldn’t have had you on his team if he didn’t respect you.
Welcome again.”

Not quite smiling, she replied, “Thank you.” She turned back
to the door, acknowledging McCullough with a brief inclination
of her head as she left. Tom Allen’s eyes never left her retreating
back until the door was closed.

The Doom Murders is the first novel in The Inspector Sheehan Mysteries series. It's a straightforward mystery set in Belfast and has received 40 4/5 star reviews on Amazon.com. It is aimed at adults but has no content that would be particularly upsetting...I think!

The Doom Murders

ONE

Detective Chief Inspector Jim Sheehan studied the mutilated corpse. “Something about the body doesn’t seem right,” he muttered.

Detective Sergeant Kevin Doyle looked at him askance. His inscrutable face almost registered surprise. “It’s naked, sir!” he said. “The tongue is pulled some three inches out of its mouth. It’s lying sprawled on the floor on its back. It’s got knife wounds all over the place. Why wouldn’t it look not right?”

The chief inspector stared again at the dead body of the Most Reverend Charles Loughran, until today Bishop of the Diocese of Down and Connor. His sergeant was right, of course. This was a brutal murder. The wounds had been inflicted with considerable ferocity but, while there was plenty of blood, it was clear that the victim’s clothes had been removed post-mortem. The bloodied garments were lying in an untidy heap against a far wall, slung there as if to distance them as far as possible from the body. But how did the bishop finish up lying on the floor on his back, his right knee bent, twisted almost, and tucked under his left leg, his handsnstretched backwards above his head? Did he simply fall like that after the killer had undressed him or had he been posed like that? And the tongue? How did that happen?

Dr. Richard Campbell, Deputy State Forensic Pathologist, a stout man, balding, was kneeling by the body. He had rolled it half-over to examine the back and sides, feeling around the back of the head for bruising or lacerations. Returning the body to its original position, he struggled to his feet, almost losing his balance. He
righted himself, breathing rather more heavily than he should. He flicked a glance at Sheehan’s trim, efficient shape as he peeled off his latex gloves and said, somewhat testily, “I really am going to have to start going to the gym.”

The corners of Sheehan’s lips twitched but he simply said, “Well, what’s the story?”

“I won’t be sure until I see the body back in the mortuary but I’d say the knife wounds did it.”

“Y’ think!” It wasn’t a question.

“Come now, Jim. I’ve learned a long time ago not to jump at the obvious. But this time, yes, I think!”

“Any other injuries? Signs of a struggle?”

“None that I can see. The infra-red photos might show some latent bruising but I can’t see anything at the moment.”

“No trauma to the head anywhere?”

“No.”

“He’s a big man. Gave in without much of a struggle, did he not? How did the killer overcome him so easily?”

“Hard to say right now …”

“Ah, come on, Dick. You can hazard some sort of a guess. It’ll be at least a couple of weeks before I see your report.”

“Well, don’t hold me to anything, the autopsy could change things entirely, but I’d say the first blow from the knife probably came as a surprise. If it didn’t kill him right away, it certainly would have immobilised him.”

“Pretty lucky, what? I mean, the heart is well protected by the sternum and the ribs, isn’t it?”

The doctor nodded but said, “Might have been more than luck. There’s a severe wound in the middle.” He pointed. “There, just at the top of the abdomen. Looks like it might have done the trick. If the blade was aimed at just the right angle, it could have hit the heart immediately. If you knew what you were doing, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”

“Medical knowledge?”

“Maybe, or combat training, perhaps.”

“Time of death?”

The pathologist consulted his pencilled notes. “Liver temperature relative to room temperature, rigor mortis well started, one and a half degrees an hour …” He muttered some figures, brows furrowed as he did some mental calculations, and said, “I might have to change my mind about this but I’d guess roughly between ten pm yesterday and four o’clock this morning.” He clicked shut his brief case and looked at his watch. “Nearly ten o’clock and I haven’t opened the office yet. I’m outta here.”

“What about the tongue? How did it get like that?”

“Oh, it was obviously pulled out deliberately. Judging by the bruises I’d guess a pair of pliers.”

“Why?”
The pathologist shrugged. “Absolutely no idea.”

“Okay! I might call in to see you in a day or so.”

“Ah, come on, Jim. I’m already up to my eyes. Any suspicious deaths near the Royal always have me doing a Force Medical Officer’s work as well as my own. Gimme a few days.”

“I know, Dick, but this was a bishop.”

“All right, all right.” He spent a moment in thought. “This is Thursday. Call in to the mortuary at the Royal Victoria sometime next week. I might have something.”

As he left the room, Sheehan called after him, “Thanks, Dick.” He turned his eyes once more to the crime scene, focusing particularly on the crime scene unit, dressed in tyvek white hooded coveralls and facemasks, as were he and Doyle. Some officers were dusting doors and windows for fingerprints, some crawling on the floor searching for fibres or any small item that might later prove significant. He spoke to one of the officers on the floor. “Anything?”

The man shook his head, “Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?” Sheehan said.

The man shrugged. “Apart from the blood spatter, sir, clean as a whistle. Even the ordinary stuff you’d expect to be lying around; nothing.”

Sheehan turned to the man dusting the edges of the door. “Fingerprints?”

Again a laconic shrug. “Some, but they’re not fresh. I’d guess the victim’s, maybe some staff.”

“Bloody hell!” He turned to the photographer who had been flashing for several minutes. “All right, that’ll do.” He glanced at his sergeant who was standing above the body. Doyle was a large man, early fifties, a confirmed bachelor like himself. Normally dressed in a dark sports jacket, he looked huge and awkward in thenvoluminous biohazard coveralls. Awkward? Strange how misleading impressions can be. Nobody was more effective or more reliable in a tight corner than Doyle. But right now he was being neither effective nor reliable. He was just standing there, staring down at the corpse. “What are you doing, Doyle?” he called to the sergeant.

Doyle seemed nonplussed. “Uh … saying a wee prayer for his immortal soul.”

Sheehan felt a stab of guilt. Concern for the victim’s eternal destination had not brushed, even remotely, against the fringes of his own mind. Doyle, of course, was probably still thinking about his father. He had asked for a week off a couple of months before to bury him. Somewhere abroad. His parents had moved abroad after they retired. But where? Who knew? Somewhere in Europe, probably. Doyle was not profligate with information. Sheehan dismissed his feelings of guilt and said, “Aye, right. There’s time enough for his immortal soul.Right now we have to try and find out what’s happened to his mortal body. Go and find a sheet somewhere and cover him up. That’s no way for a bishop to be lying.”

He stared around the crime scene. He was in a large, well-appointed sitting room, or study perhaps, leather armchairs, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a heavy, polished oak desk facing away from the window, a fireplace with the embers of the previous evening’s fire still warm. A large crucifix hung on the wall over the fireplace. Sheehan’s eyes rested on it before flicking guiltily away. His Catholicism, unlike Doyle’s, had lapsed some years before but he still had trouble confronting the images of his childhood faith.His eyes ranged the room once more. Everything seemed normal, in place. Nothing to indicate a struggle. No forensics. No weapon. This perp seems to know what he’s doing. His eyes strayed back to the body. “Who would want to kill a bishop?” he muttered.

Doyle had just re-entered the room with a sheet from the forensics van. “An atheist?”

Sheehan gave him a withering glance. “Aye, right. How did the perp get in?”

“Don’t know,” Doyle said. “Doors all locked. Windows securely fastened. No sign of a break-in. Maybe the victim knew the killer and let him in?”

Sheehan didn’t respond. He was looking at the CSI officer who was fingerprinting the desk. The man was focused on something at the side of the desk, staring at it, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Sheehan strode over to him. “Found something?”

The officer made a ‘maybe-maybe not’ waggle with his right hand and pointed to some small scratches on the side of the desk. “There’s a letter and some numbers here. They feel fresh, scraped in with a pin, or something with a sharp point.”

Sheehan, and Doyle who had followed his boss, peered over the investigator’s shoulder. Sheehan said, “Can you make them out?”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “It’s a capital E followed by some numbers … 3 … 4 ... 1 … 0.”

“Have you any idea what they mean?” Sheehan asked.

“Not a clue. Probably nothing.”

“Maybe it’s an auctioneer’s lot number,” Doyle suggested.

“Bit vandalistic that, on that lovely desk,” Sheehan mused. “They usually put wee stickers on their lots.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “Photograph the numbers anyway. And Sergeant, just to be sure, check out where the desk came from.”

The CSI officer stood up and began packing up his gear. The other members of the unit were doing the same.

“You guys finished?” Sheehan said.

The officers nodded.

“Okay, Doyle,” Sheehan said. “Have the body removed.” He began to struggle out of his own coveralls,having trouble, as always, with the zip. “Hate these bloody things,” he muttered. He handed the coveralls to Doyle who had just divested himself of his own. “Here! Get rid of these.” He looked at his watch. “After ten. Most of the staff will be in by now, I expect. Round them up. Maybe one of them can throw some light on this. I’ll start with the woman who found the body.”