‘Well, yes, kind of.’
‘Brian Scott told my mate he was an inspector and you were his sergeant.’
‘Really? That bas … that swine …’ he said, quickly correcting himself.
‘I wasn’t joking about my dad, mind you.’
‘No?’
‘But who cares what he thinks. The man’s a dinosaur. There’s not a man on earth he thinks is suitable for his lovely daughter. Be prepared for a hard time in that department.’
‘You mean you want to see me again?’
‘Oh, I want to see a lot more of you, Jim Daley.’ She winked at him. ‘You’re not left-handed, are you?’
‘No, right-handed, actually. Why?’
‘Aw, pity. If you were left-handed and your hand was out of commission all of this time, I’m sure it must have been very hard.’
‘What?’ Daley’s throat was dry. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Could he be feeling slightly faint, even? ‘My flat’s not far from here, Liz,’ he said hopefully.
‘Good-oh.’ Liz winked at him, a large grin spread across her face. ‘But let’s have another glass of wine first, eh? Chop, chop, Jimmy boy.’
The D.C.I. Daley thriller series
Book 1
Whisky from Small Glasses
ISBN 978 1 84697 321 5
When the body of a young woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland, D.C.I. Jim Daley is despatched from Glasgow to lead the investigation. Far from home, and his troubled marriage, it seems that Daley’s biggest obstacle will be managing the difficult local police chief; but when the prime suspect is gruesomely murdered, the inquiry begins to stall.
As the body count rises, Daley uncovers a network of secrets and corruption in the close-knit community of Kinloch, thrusting him and his loved ones into the centre of a case more deadly than he had ever imagined.
Book 2
The Last Witness
ISBN 978 1 8697 288 1
James Machie was a man with a genius for violence, his criminal empire spreading beyond Glasgow into the UK and mainland Europe. Fortunately, James Machie is dead, murdered in the back of a prison ambulance after his trial and conviction. But now, five years later, he is apparently back from the grave, set on avenging himself on those who brought him down. Top of his list is his previous associate, Frank MacDougall, who unbeknownst to D.C.I. Jim Daley, is living under protection on his lochside patch, the small Scottish town of Kinloch. Daley knows that, having been the key to Machie’s conviction, his old friend and colleague D.S. Scott is almost as big a target. And nothing, not even death, has ever stood in James Machie’s way . . .
Book 3
Dark Suits and Sad Songs
ISBN 978 1 84697 315 4
After a senior Edinburgh civil servant spectacularly takes his own life in Kinloch harbour, D.C.I. Jim Daley comes face to face with the murky world of politics. To add to his woes, two local drug dealers lie dead, ritually assassinated. It’s clear that dark forces are at work in the town, and with his marriage hanging on by a thread, and his sidekick D.S. Scott wrestling with his own demons, Daley’s world is in meltdown.
When strange lights appear in the sky over Kinloch, it becomes clear that the townsfolk are not the only people at risk. The fate of nations is at stake.
Book 4 (available April 2016)
The Rat Stone Serenade
ISBN 978 1 84697 340 6
It’s December, and the Shannon family are gathering at their clifftop mansion near Kinloch for the AGM. Shannon International is one of the world’s biggest private companies, with tendrils reaching around the globe in computing, banking and mineral resourcing, and it has brought untold wealth and privilege to the family. However, a century ago Archibald Shannon stole the land upon which he built their home – and his descendants have been cursed ever since.
When heavy snow cuts off Kintyre, D.C.I. Jim Daley and D.S. Brian Scott are assigned to protect their illustrious visitors. As an ancient society emerges from the blizzards, and its creation, the Rat Stone, reveals grisly secrets, ghosts of the past come to haunt the Shannons. As the curse decrees, death is coming – but for whom and from what?
Read an extract from The Rat Stone Serenade, the fourth D.C.I. Daley thriller.
The beach at Blaan, near Kinloch
He loved this beach, even though it was always winter, always cold, when he was here. He watched a gull riding the wind above the green storm-tossed sea - as though dangling from a string like the model planes on the the ceiling of his bedroom in London.
Sometimes he could see ships on the horizon, but not today. The sky was slate-grey. At the far end of the stretch of fine yellow sand, the promontory thrust out into the sea like a rocky finger. He always imagined it had the head of a lion, big and bold. His father had told him stories of the castle that had once sat on the clifftop, facing the cold depths from its tall perch fearlessly. The boy was bewitched by thoughts of the olden days; to think that his ancestors had once lived there, on the high rock, in a time when men had swords and fought battles. Now, there were only a few stones left, an earthly reminder of times past.
When he had asked how many men their ancestor had in his castle – conjuring up in his mind the kings and princes he had read about in books and seen on trips to the big cinema in Kensington – his father had smiled indulgently.
‘We weren’t rich then, Archie. We fought for the clan chief, but we were strong and fierce.’
When Archie looked towards the other end of the beach, up to the high cliff on which the great house stood solid and indomitable, he couldn’t imagine his family having ever been anything else but rich. He’d seen some children begging in the streets near home, just before Christmas. His mother told him they were poor. He’d studied one miserable little boy with a dripping nose and in ragged clothes, and decided that he never wanted to be poor.
Up at the big house, he could see his mother on the terrace from time to time; no doubt checking to make sure that he hadn’t strayed too near the sea. Like him, she was wrapped up against the cold.
He wanted to play a trick on her. He looked around. There, between two dunes, a small burn trickled over soft sand. As he followed its course backwards, away from the sea, he could no longer see the cliff, the house, or his mother.
The young woman shivered as she looked out from the terrace and to the beach below. She breathed deeply. The cool moist air was so fresh, so different from London. Glancing at her watch and deciding it was time that both she and the boy were out of the cold, she looked for her son.
She had seen Archie what seemed like only moments before as he skipped and played on the sand, but she was dismayed to note that, so engrossed had she been in her novel, more than twenty minutes had now elapsed since she had last checked on him. Now, there was no sign.
She rushed to the balcony railing, a slight dizziness making her aware of the sheer drop on the other side. Leaning as far out as she dared, she could see nothing of her son on the beach, or the steep path that snaked up the cliff towards the mansion that loomed behind her.
‘Archie! Archie!’ she called, her heart pounding, face stinging against the cold. Some primeval instinct was pricking her. She craned her neck out further, terrified that she would see her son struggling in the crashing surf. But there was no one there; and the cold green sea went about its relentless business.
The boy stopped in his tracks. When he looked back, he could still see the beach between the cleft of the large dunes, but as he made his way along the burn, the grey light seemed to darken, and the sound of the waves grew muffled, as though he had his woollen bobble hat pulled over his ears. The smells were different, too; the salty tang of the sea gave way to something earthier, a rotting smell, like on his father’s compost heap, only stronger. He wrinkled his nose. This was the stench of something old, something decaying.
Startled by a faint rustling noise, he looked ahead.
‘Hello?’ he called, his voice dampene
d by the rough clumps of machair that clung to the sides of the dunes. ‘Oh!’
There, standing only a few feet in front of him was a figure, still and silent, dressed like the monks he had seen on holiday in Italy. The hood of the man’s dirty white cloak covered his bowed head.
‘Hello. I’m Archie Shannon,’ the boy said, accustomed to meeting strangers and raised to be polite. He turned around, wishing he could see the cliff, the big house and, most of all, his mother. Was this one of the boys from the village he’d played with on holidays? It was too big. But there was something intriguing about the hooded figure, something that compelled him to take a few steps closer . . .
Also available from Polygon by Denzil Meyrick
WHISKY FROM SMALL GLASSES
http://amzn.to/1E1cKLP
When the body of a young woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland, D.C.I. Jim Daley is despatched from Glasgow to lead the investigation.
Far from home, and his troubled marriage, it seems that Daley’s biggest obstacle will be managing the difficult local police chief; but when the prime suspect is gruesomely murdered, the inquiry begins to stall. As the body count rises, Daley uncovers a network of secrets and corruption in the close-knit community of Kinloch, thrusting him and his loved ones into the centre of a case more deadly than he had ever imagined.
The first novel in the D.C.I. Daley Thriller series, Whisky from Small Glasses is a truly compelling crime novel, shot through with dark humour and menace.
THE LAST WITNESS
http://amzn.to/1Jm4Xba
James Machie was a man with a genius for violence, his criminal empire spreading beyond Glasgow into the UK and mainland Europe. Fortunately, James Machie is dead, assassinated in the back of a prison ambulance following his trial and conviction. But now, five years later, he is apparently back from the grave, set on avenging himself on those who brought him down. Top of his list is his previous associate, Frank MacDougall, who unbeknownst to D.C.I. Jim Daley, is living under protection on his lochside patch, the small Scottish town of Kinloch. Daley knows that, having been the key to Machie’s conviction, his old friend and colleague D.S. Scott is almost as big a target. And nothing, not even death, has ever stood in James Machie’s way …
DARK SUITS AND SAD SONGS
http://amzn.to/1MLV86r
When a senior Edinburgh civil servant spectacularly takes his own life in Kinloch harbour, DCI Jim Daley comes face to face with the murky world of politics. To add to his woes, two local drug dealers lie dead, ritually assassinated. It’s clear that dark forces are at work in the town. With his boss under investigation, his marriage hanging on by a thread, and his sidekick DS Scott wrestling with his own demons, Daley’s world is in meltdown. When strange lights appear in the sky over Kinloch, it becomes clear that the townsfolk are not the only people at risk. The fate of nations is at stake. Jim Daley must face his worst fears as tragedy strikes. This is not just about a successful investigation, it’s about survival.
DALINTOBER MOON
http://amzn.to/1DsWTRy
When a body is found in a whisky barrel, buried on Dalintober beach, it appears that a notorious local crime, committed over a century ago, has finally been solved. D.C.I. Daley discovers that, despite the passage of time, the legacy of the murder still resonates within the community, and as he tries to make sense of the case, the tortured screams of a man who died long ago echo across Kinloch.
Two One Three: A DCI Daley Thriller Short Page 7
