Peter Griffin > Recent Status Updates

R with note

“Warten Sie, bitte,” he says. Wait. He’s speaking German but there’s something else in his accent. Dutch? American? I turn to face him and he holds out his hand in greeting.

I just finished Then She Was Gone.

I just finished The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1).

I just finished If You Knew Her: The perfect life or the perfect lie?.

I just finished TALION: a Scandinavian noir murder mystery set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 6).

‘Well, that would work,’ said Elliot, ‘although, to be fair, no-one’s looking to charge him with anything. In fact, with Gundersen off the streets, that’s one less murderous drug dealer we have to deal with. Truth be known, a fair few folk want to pat him on the back.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘She keeps talking about retiring, you know. I can’t tell if she’s doing it for attention or if she’s serious. Either way, I can’t imagine this place without her.’

This New Year marks the end of trying and the beginning of trying to accept we won’t have our own family. I promised David; I agreed eight years of trying is all we can take. It’s over.

No time for a debate now, Johnson thought. Never mind that such reasoning has also, conveniently, enabled these guys to sell a huge amount of gold to a forced buyer who should be in prison, no questions asked.

Erich Brenner, the man who tortured my mother, the man who’s been on my wanted list for so long. How many dozens of dead ends and false trails have I explored over the years in search of that man?

I’ve got the goodies you asked for last night. Meet me at Embankment tube station at 3pm. Don’t ask. xx

“The guard should be up on the third floor,” Diego said. “Let’s wait on the first until he comes to the second.”

‘Yeah. Dumped Poppy on my doorstep. Cleared out her bank account. Abandoned her house, her job. Never to be seen again.’ He picks up his wine glass and takes a considered sip, as if waiting for Laurel to pick up the commentary.

My phone beeps. Twice in quick succession. When I see both voicemails are from Daisy I decide to ignore them. The days when communication from my sister required an immediate response are long gone. Or rather long, long, long, gone, gone, gone, as Daisy once might have put it. Occasionally, there was poetry in her illness, although she would never see it that way.