by Tom Bale
Finally, a special thanks to everyone who has bought, borrowed, read, reviewed or recommended one of my books. I wouldn’t be here without you, and I don’t take that for granted.
ALSO BY TOM BALE:
SKIN AND BONES
On a cold January morning, a nightmare awaits in a small Sussex village. A deranged young man goes on the rampage, shooting everyone in his path before taking his own life. It is a senseless, tragic event, but sadly not an unfamiliar one.
At least that's what everyone thinks.
Only Julia Trent – believed to be the sole survivor – knows that there was a second man involved. But after being shot and badly injured, her account of the massacre is ignored. Julia cannot let it rest there. Together with Craig Walker, the journalist son of one of the victims, she determines to find out the truth. As Julia and Craig peel back the layers of a dark and dangerous conspiracy, they discover the slaughter did not begin on that bitter day in January. And worst of all, it won't end there...
“This is a mystery and a thriller that is satisfying on every level.”
JON JORDAN, CRIMESPREE
“What truly sells SKIN AND BONES is Bale's almost cinematic storytelling style,
along the lines of what Lee Child does with his Jack Reacher series.”
JIM WINTER, JANUARY MAGAZINE
Introducing Joe Clayton:
TERROR’S REACH
A burning summer’s day explodes into violence. A murderous gang targets the exclusive south coast island of Terror’s Reach, home to rival business tycoons Robert Felton and Valentin Nasenko. The residents are facing annihilation, and only one man stands a chance of saving them.
Four years ago, after an undercover police operation went disastrously wrong, CID officer Joe Clayton lost his career and his family. Forced to adopt a new identity, he drifted from place to place and ended up on the Reach, working as a bodyguard to Nasenko’s wife, Cassie, and her children. Now he must draw upon all his experience and reserves of strength to keep them alive.
But nothing is as it seems on Terror’s Reach, and a long night of betrayal and murder
leaves Joe fighting for his own survival ...
“We didn't know how Tom Bale was going to top his debut novel, Skin and Bones, but
he has triumphed again with a nail-biting thriller. Great action, tense and gripping.”
LOVEREADING
“Bale has a very effective line in suspense. For readers of thrillers, this book should
tick most of the boxes. A thoroughly good read. Recommended.”
THE BOOKBAG
BLOOD FALLS
Joe Clayton thought the dangers of his undercover career were behind him. He was wrong. One grey October morning, while working in a quiet Bristol street, he hears the voice of the man who has sworn to destroy him. Minutes later Joe is running for his life again.
Desperate for sanctuary, he heads for the small Cornish town of Trelennan, and the home of Diana Bamber, widow of a former police colleague. But Diana reacts strangely to his arrival, and gradually Joe discovers that Trelennan is far from the idyllic, law-abiding resort it claims to be.
The town is in the grip of one man. Leon Race doesn’t welcome strangers, especially ex-cops who start asking questions about missing women. Soon Joe is caught up in another undercover role, but as he penetrates the web of secrets that ensnares the town’s elite, his own secret is at risk of discovery. And all the time his old enemy is circling...
“With old-fashioned villains, and a sharp line in dialogue, Clayton is getting better and better. This is a neat British gangster thriller written with elan and substance. “
GEOFFREY WANSELL, DAILY MAIL
“With strong characters, a fast pace and lots of twists and turns, this is a satisfying read, right to the shocking end.”
PETERBOROUGH EVENING TELEGRAPH
Writing as David Harrison (ebook exclusive):
SINS OF THE FATHER
The past comes back to haunt Nick Randall when a celebrity biographer claims to have evidence of his late father's involvement in a terrible crime. If it comes out the tabloids will have a field day: Eddie Randall was a popular comedy star back in the 1960s.
Nick sets out to clear his father's name - or at least to unearth the truth. He is already investigating a major insurance scam, and is taken by surprise when he discovers connections with Eddie’s past. Matters take a darker turn when his estranged wife is found dead, and he finds himself on the wrong end of a murder inquiry.
When his sister's family becomes a target, Nick realises they are all being stalked - by someone intent on destroying the lives of everyone who was close to Eddie Randall. But can they track down their unknown enemy before tragedy strikes again?
“Occasionally brutal, but very readable... this writer seems to me to have real potential. He is not only a capable story-teller, but also has a knack for creating people who are flawed but nevertheless appealing. I look forward to his next book.”
MARTIN EDWARDS, TANGLED WEB
“SINS OF THE FATHER is a wonderful, exciting read full of twists and turns... This is a sterling effort from a new face on the crime scene and I am definitely looking forward to seeing David Harrison as a name to be reckoned with...”
CHRIS SIMMONS, CRIMESQUAD
“SINS OF THE FATHER is a rattling good read... a writer to watch for sure.”
SHARON WHEELER, REVIEWING THE EVIDENCE
EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW
Here are the opening chapters of my current work-in-progress, a standalone thriller with the working title of THE DYING DAY.
CHAPTER 1
Any noise in the night could wake him now. Eight weeks since the birth of his daughter and Harry barely remembered how it felt to sleep for seven hours straight and wake naturally, refreshed and ready for a new day. All the warnings, all the taunts from their friends about the misery of sleep-deprivation had turned out to be spot on.
The sound had come and gone by the time he registered that he was awake, his eyes still glued shut, his heart beating fast. It hadn’t been the baby, he was sure of that. It must have come from outside, perhaps in the alley along the back where urban foxes sometimes prowled.
Harry waited, trying to recreate the feeling he’d had, the sense of a dream interrupted by something that didn’t quite fit. A thud, a scrape; a noise he couldn’t have described except to say it had been surreptitious in nature. A sound that sought to go unheard.
Or maybe it had been part of the dream, after all. But that didn’t explain why his heart rate hadn’t steadied, why he was still holding his breath.
He ought to accept that he was awake and have a look out of the window, at least. Check on Sophie and see how long it was till her next feed, and hope that enough of the night remained to grab a few more hours of sleep.
Harry knew he should do all these things, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t even release the breath that was trying frantically to burst from his lungs.
The reason was simple enough: he didn’t want to face the truth.
There was an intruder in their home.
****
It wasn’t a rowdy neighbourhood by any means, their tidy terraced street. Although modest in size, the houses were highly valued for their proximity to the railway station, to good schools and friendly corner shops and vibrant pubs, to all the colourful array of pleasures that Brighton had to offer. Not quite in the heart of the city, but close to one of its main arteries. The Port Hall district between Dyke Road and Stanford Road was arty, upmarket and conservatively bohemian, which meant letterboxes bore stickers refusing junk mail on environmental grounds, even while the parking bays were choked with 4x4s.
A lot of young families lived here – Harry and Laura’s being one of the youngest – so there weren’t too many people rolling in at three a.m., at least not during the week. A woman across the road worked shifts at the hospital, and several older residents still elected to have their milk delivered
every day. Occasionally some insomniac would neglect to reduce the volume of their music or TV.
In the city beyond there was always the drone of traffic, punctuated by sirens, car horns, slamming doors and screeching tyres. And there was the regular deep rumble of the trains leaving Brighton station, a sound that Harry adored, never minding when his sleep was momentarily stirred by romantic images of express trains racing through the night.
Depending on the season there was birdsong to a greater or lesser degree, most of it charming and rarely disruptive, the exception being the up-close caustic screech of the seagulls – or the bloody seagulls, as they were known to almost everyone around here.
All these things contributed to the soundtrack of his sleeping hours, all were familiar and expected and unthreatening. What he had just heard – or thought he’d heard – was of a different nature altogether.
But no one could have broken into the house without waking him, could they? Even if they had, they’d probably be satisfied with stealing what was on offer in the living room: the TV, the Blu-ray player and the Wii; a bit of cash, maybe a phone or an iPod. Harry couldn’t recall precisely what was lying around, but he was sure of one thing: thieves were opportunists. Realists. No way they’d risk climbing the stairs or waking the occupants of the house. There was nothing to be gained from that.
So why, then, did Harry feel there was someone right here, in the bedroom?
***
He had to breathe. Open his eyes.
Next door’s cat had given him a fair few scares before, leaping on to the dustbin with a sound like the boom of kettle drum. Its plaintive wail could be mistaken for the lament of an abandoned child. Harry willed it to cry out now: one last opportunity to break the illusion of danger.
Nothing.
His focus switched to the space around him. Laura, his partner of six years, was sleeping heavily and so, for once, was the baby. When the time was right they’d move Sophie to the nursery next door, but for now she slept in a Moses basket on a fold-out stand, positioned close enough to Laura’s side of the bed that she could reach out and soothe her back to sleep at the first hint of a restless murmur.
Sophie had her own breathing pattern, an astonishingly rapid rate that brought to mind someone panting to complete a race, and a distinctive snore that remained heartbreakingly cute even on nights when fatigue made Harry want to claw out his own eyes and fill the sockets with concrete.
There was always a smell of milk in the room, Sophie’s signature fragrance, but now he realised it was competing with something else: a sour top note of male sweat and stale clothing that had no place in here.
And other breathing. Was Harry imagining that?
He froze every muscle, devoted his full attention to listening, listening...
Yes. He was sure of it. Slow, steady, open-mouthed breathing, coming from much nearer the door than could be explained by simple echoes. It seemed to be growing louder, as though the intruder wanted Harry to hear it, wanted him to be afraid.
The pressure on his lungs was overpowering. Harry let out his breath in a noisy rush and with his next hungry gasp came a growl of unkind laughter. The voice of a stranger spoke quietly from the shadows:
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
****
Laura reacted with an urgent flailing of limbs and a guttural sound in her throat: “Gnth?” She probably thought she’d overslept and missed a feed, and now Harry was teasing her awake so he could hand Sophie over and get back to sleep.
He tried to speak, wanting to find a way to keep her silent and still, because it had occurred to him that her best hope of safety – survival – was if the intruder believed that Harry was alone in the room. But the words wouldn’t come, and anyway it was a ludicrous idea: the weak light filtering through the curtains was more than sufficient, once you’d adjusted to it, to see how many people were present.
Three.
And that thought, the knowledge that his daughter was here too, a potential victim, made him sit up in a rush, his muscles unresponsive at first, then overcompensating, pitching him forward as the adrenalin caused his whole body to spasm. The bed trembled and Laura groaned and stretched, turning towards the Moses basket.
“Harry...”
“Ssshh.”
He rubbed gummy sleep from his eyes, trying to see clearly in the murk. There was something just to the right of the door: a shadow, a shape, which rose up and took a step towards the bed. Six or seven feet away.
Laura, twisting back in his direction, said, “She’s sound asleep. Why—?”
“Look.”
It was all Harry could think to say. He lifted his arm to point, wondering as he did whether he was seeing a ghost, and Laura would laugh and tell him there was no one else in the room.
But Laura didn’t laugh. She sucked in a breath, as if to scream, then choked it off, acting on what must have been the same instinct that had governed Harry’s response: to keep Sophie asleep, to protect her, no matter what else happened.
And still the figure waited at the end of the bed, its silence, its immobility both puzzling and terrifying. The shape was of a man, that much was clear. He was tall and broad, but there were no features apparent, no ears or hair visible in silhouette.
“Get out of here.” Harry had found a voice, but it didn’t sound much like his own. He was ashamed of the fear in it, and the futility of the words. As if such a feeble command would send a burglar packing.
In response the man turned slightly, seeming to check over his shoulder. There was another trickle of harsh laughter. For Harry, the intruder’s scorn was bad enough, but not as bad as having to confront the fact that this wasn’t a burglary at all.
It was something much, much worse.
CHAPTER 2
In what seemed to be an act of dark sorcery, the bedroom door swung open. The intruder hadn’t moved an inch.
Then the overhead light snapped on – a cold dose of reality that was unwelcome enough at 3.38 on any Thursday morning in November, but hideous in these circumstances.
A second man had entered the room. He was shorter and thinner than the first, but otherwise identical in appearance. Both men wore black overalls with gloves and beanie hats and plastic face masks – a silver robot face on the first man; a white hockey mask on the second. Their footwear was covered with black plastic bags, secured around the ankles with rubber bands.
Harry’s terror jumped to a whole new level. To cover not just their hands and faces but their shoes spoke of something far more serious than a drug-fuelled robbery. Their entire bodies were wrapped up to avoid leaving traces of DNA. These men weren’t amateurs or small-time criminals. They knew exactly what they were doing.
****
If Laura had reached the same conclusion, it was one she chose to ignore.
“There’s a, a jewellery box. Dressing table. Behind you.” The words came out between gasps, heart and lungs stifled by fear. “Just. Take it. And go.”
The second man snorted, the noise muffled by the mask into a weak impression of Darth Vader. In her crib Sophie gave a snuffle, as if keen to play a part in the conversation, and the man turned his head slowly in her direction.
Harry tensed, ready to throw himself across the bed if either of the intruders took a step towards his daughter.
The first man said, “Where is he?”
Dumb silence.
Harry cleared his throat. “What?
“Renshaw. Where is he?”
Laura shook her head, the way you do to dismiss something ridiculous. “Who?”
“Renshaw. Edward Renshaw.”
The tone was impatient, with an undercurrent of anger, but not tense. Not scared. A more educated voice than Harry had expected: Home Counties rather than the gruff estuary accent he’d instinctively thought he would hear.
Harry and Laura stared at the two men, then exchanged a quick baffled glance. It was almost a comic moment, and it flashed through Harry’s mind that years from now
this might indeed earn the status of a humorous anecdote. They’d make new friends on holiday, and in the course of a long boozy evening Laura would say, “Tell them about that time those gangsters invaded our house in the middle of the night, and it turned out they’d got the wrong address!”
Right now he thought: Oh, thank God. This can be explained. Survived.
Surfing a wave of relief, he said, “We don’t know anyone of that name,” and Laura overlapped with: “Never heard of him.”
The first man looked at them in turn. His eyes were barely visible behind the mask but the intensity of his gaze was unmistakable.
“A man named Edward Renshaw. He’s in his sixties. Looks middle-eastern, a swarthy complexion. Dark hair, though it might be grey. He dyes it.”
“He’s a fat little fucker,” the other man said, his voice much coarser than his partner’s. He held his hand up at shoulder height. “About this tall.”
“He uses other names,” the first man added. “Grainger. Miller. Sometimes calls himself Doctor, not Mister.”
“No, we don’t know him,” Harry insisted. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Silence. Harry waited, sick with the desire to be believed. He’d never in his life wanted anything as much as he wanted these men to accept his word and leave the house.
“How long’ve you lived here?” The second man’s tone was uncompromising, aggressive: the voice of a man who resolved problems with violence.
