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Meet Dublin Detective Inspector Jack O’Neill in Today’s Free Thriller Excerpt… Check Out Derick Parsons’ 5-Star Thrill Ride The Journal

On Friday we announced that Derick Parsons’ The Journal is our Thriller of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the thriller, mystery, and suspense categories: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Thriller excerpt:

The Journal (Jack O’Neill)

by Derick Parsons

4.7 stars – 40 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

A young couple have been brutally murdered in their home in a quiet suburb of Dublin and the Murder Squad want to pass on it; they can see this case is a dog. Detective Inspector Jack O’Neill thinks it’s a dog too but with his personal life in a mess and nothing to lose he takes it on anyway…and soon wishes he hadn’t. A suspect is quickly found for the killings and Jack thinks that maybe this one will be easy after all; until he screws up and both the suspect and another young couple go missing. Jack’s career is on the line and he must follow a trail of clues from a madman’s Journal to save the young couple before they too are murdered. But nothing is ever as it seems and soon Jack is floundering in a sea of lies and deceit where his case becomes a personal contest between the detective and a murderous maniac. A contest where life is the prize and the consequences of failure unthinkable.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Prologue

Martine Lowell closed the front door of her small, yellow-bricked Council house and set off up the road, her head bent against the biting November wind and the cold, stinging rain it was flinging into her face. As she walked she huddled as deeply as she could into her coat, wishing she could afford a new, heavier one for the winter ahead but knowing it wasn’t going to happen. Money was tight, as ever, and warm coats for the kids had taken priority over her needs; again as ever. But in spite of the weather she was only too glad to escape from the shouting and squabbling that seemed an essential prerequisite for her children’s getting dressed for school, in the midst of which her pleas for calm were not so much ignored as unnoticed. Her kids –all boys- were eight, ten and eleven, and although she loved them absolutely Martine’s love was not blind and she was quite aware that the rest of the world saw them as undisciplined little hellions. On her worst days Martine was inclined to agree but even at the best of times she was only too happy to abandon them to their own devices and go to work.

Martine left the Ashpark estate she lived on in Ballybrack, South Dublin and walked quickly up the road towards Watson’s, the estate where her friend Sally Carter lived. A private estate that was only a few hundred yards away geographically but which was nonetheless in Killiney, a different area postally and a different world metaphorically. It lay on the far side of an invisible border that Martine would never cross but which her friend had with apparent ease; the dividing line between the working- and middle-classes. Every day as she walked past Tesco’s and crossed this imaginary yet so real divide she tried not to feel jealous, but rather to blame her growing bitterness on the depressing sameness of her daily life. Every day followed the same routine; feed the kids and at least point them towards the right clothes and schoolbags, then scurry out the door to pick Sally up before walking on up to the supermarket where they both worked. Every day try to earn enough to provide the kids not just what they needed but what they increasingly demanded. And try to ignore the little voice in her head that told her the reason her kids were so wild was that she was a single mum, and the reason she was single was that her kids were so wild.

Martine was tall and slim, and always made an effort with her appearance, from her long, now-dyed blonde hair to her knee-high black boots, but in spite of this she looked nearer forty than her actual thirty. The kids again, no doubt. In her youth she had had no trouble attracting men but had lacked discrimination which, allied with an inability to count, had led to her having three kids with three different men. Martine did not consider herself easy, or cheap, but she did consider herself damned unlucky, in that every man she had ever fallen for had turned out to be shifty and unreliable, and utterly committed to the single life. Nowadays, of course, she attracted far fewer men, shifty or otherwise, and the few who were interested tended to run a mile when they met her kids; especially Jason, her oldest, who had appointed himself her bodyguard and who made no attempt to hide his suspicion and bitter resentment of any man who as much as tried to take her to the pictures.

She turned off the main road up into Watson Vale, trying not to contrast her life with that of Sally Carter.  Sally was twenty-six and, being childless, looked it.  No crows-feet at the corners of the eyes or touching-up of the roots for her.  To Martine she seemed one of the golden ones, one of those irritating people who breeze through life without effort, without worrying, and without encountering any sort of trouble.  Oh, there had been that unpleasantness with that weirdo, months before, but apart from that nothing seemed to disturb her pleasant jaunt through life.  Martine’s somewhat thin lips tightened as she focused on the main cause of her…not bitterness precisely but rather ruefulness. Jimmy Maguire was something of a catch, and when Martine had been introduced to him by an arch and clearly preening Sally she had felt a sinking in her stomach that had dismayed her in its pettiness; he was tall, thirtyish, and quite good-looking. He was also pretty successful, being a branch manager for the Western Bank in spite of his youth, but although that had also caused her a pang, what had really burnt her heart was that he was clearly head-over-heels in love with Sally, and had proposed three months to the day after first meeting her.

That was what had rankled most with Martine; no one had ever fallen that hard for her, not in three months nor in three years.  Certainly no man had ever wanted to marry her, though she would have been happy with less of a catch than Jimmy Maguire.  To do her justice her jealousy hadn’t lasted long; she and Sally went back years and she wished nothing but good for her friend.  It was just that it would be nice for a little good to come her way too, now and again.

When she came to number 44 Martine turned in and walked quickly up the drive to her biggest bugbear, the most obvious proof of her friend having landed on her feet; Jimmy owned a nice house on a nice street, and had begged Sally to move in. Begged. No Council rubbish for her. They were to be married soon and then Martine’s bitter cup would be full; certainly Sally would never know the humiliation of picking up strangers in pubs and have them stay over simply for company. Would never have to exchange meaningless sex for the comfort of a warm body in the bed beside you because the loneliness had become too much to bear. With the humiliating part, of course, being that they never came back for a second date. To Martine each new break-up and failed relationship was like climbing out of a swimming-pool; all the life and joy and buoyancy drained away as reality took an iron grip and dragged you back down to the ground. Yet another of life’s little sourballs that Sally had never known, and never would.

Martine ignored the bell and instead jerked the door knocker up and down with unnecessary force, and a couple of times too many, reminding herself grimly that Sally was her friend.  She liked her, and most of the time was pleased at her good fortune and evident happiness. But only a saint could be thrilled for her all the time. She stood shivering for a long minute until a gust of wind sent a needle-like spray of icy rain into her face. Then she turned and plied the knocker again with savage force, putting some of her loneliness and pent-up, formless longing into every crash; where the hell was she? They’d be late at this rate.

She pushed open the letterbox and shouted in, ‘Come on, Sally, get a bloody move on!’ Then, with a flash of her more usual good humor, ‘Put him down, you don’t know where he’s been!’ And you’ll be on honeymoon soon enough. Lucky cow.

There were still no signs of life and Martine stood irresolute for a moment; should she leave her and just go? Was it possible that Sally had left without her? That would be great, if she were to make herself late standing here knocking on the door like a fool, only to arrive and find little Miss Perfect already clocked in. She bent and pushed open the letterbox again but this time she put her eye to it instead of her lips, trying to see through the gloom within. At first she could make out nothing but then the hallway gradually became clear, and then the open kitchen door at the far end of it. Through the doorway she could see a chair, with a figure sitting on it; the figure of a man. Jimmy, no doubt, but why was he sitting at such an awkward angle, with his head tilted so far back?

A cold hand that had nothing to do with the weather gripped her and she bit her lower lip, hard. There was something badly wrong here, though she could not make out what. And then she realized that Jimmy’s hands were clasped together and jutting out behind his chair. Even as she realized that they were tied together she also realized that he was dead, must be dead to be propped so, must be dead to be sitting with his head so far back at that unnatural angle. She realized it with a terrible certainty that made her utter a scream of utter shock and recoil away from the door on suddenly wobbling legs that almost caused her to fall. She tried to tell herself it was just imagination, that it wasn’t a man’s body at all but a deeper, truer voice screamed in her head, Dead! He was DEAD! Who could have done such a thing? To decent, harmless, nice Jimmy? A worse thought struck her and she uttered a second scream through the knuckles she was suddenly biting; Sally! Where is she? Where is she? Oh, God, I can’t see her! Please God don’t let her be dead too!

She looked around helplessly, wildly, almost gagging in fear and horror, and fumbled in her coat pockets for her mobile phone. It wasn’t there so she rummaged through her handbag in a panic, scattering her stuff all over the frosty drive in her panic. Still nothing. She shut her eyes and bit her lip again, this time hard enough to draw blood; Jason! The little bugger! He’s always taking it! I’ll give him Angry bleeding Birds when I get home!

She pulled herself together and ran down the drive and up to the next house on the street, banging on the door and jabbing wildly at the bell with a finger that would not hit its target twice in a row. After what seemed an age an elderly woman opened the door fearfully and peered through the crack below the brass security chain.

‘Can I help…’ she began in a quavering tone that Martine drowned out by shouting, through streaming tears, ‘Ring the police! Quick! And an ambulance! Jimmy, the man next door, I…I think he’s dead!’

The old lady goggled at her but showed no signs of moving and Martine screamed at the top of her voice, ‘Ring a fucking ambulance! Don’t you understand? An ambulance!’

The old lady vanished with a bang of the door and Martine shut her eyes and sagged against the side of the house, hoping that the silly old bitch would ring someone in authority, even if it was only to have her arrested. And as she stood there, immune to the bitter wind and rain, she repeated over and over to herself, like a mantra, Please let Sally be okay. Please let Sally be okay. Please let…

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Jack O’Neill climbed stiffly out of the little blue Ford Ka and stretched hugely and with a grunt of relief. It had been a long drive up from Cork and neither man had felt like stopping along the way, and now his back and knees were protesting at the long, close confinement.

Anno Domini, he thought to himself, pressing the knuckles of both fists into the small of his back, the one enemy no one can defeat. But he thought this without any great bitterness; he still considered himself to be just about middle-aged, and of late he had been working hard enough on his fitness levels to feel at least ten years younger than his actual age of fifty-seven. Well, on a good day anyway; his perceived age fluctuated with his mood, and during this long, difficult week he had occasionally felt very old indeed. And especially last night.

In company with his assistant, Detective Garda Frank Carr, a tall fair, good-looking young man, he made his way across the staff car park to the glass-walled security booth that surrounded the lifts to the offices above. Frank might still be a nonentity in these parts but Jack was about as well known here in the old Garda headquarters in Harcourt Square as any man could be, and the uniformed policeman behind the desk nodded to him in greeting and pressed the electronic door release to let them in. They made their way to the elevators, where Frank had to use his security pass to call a lift down, Jack having forgotten his pass yet again.

Once in the lift Jack hesitated before selecting a button; it would be nice to have a coffee and five minutes in his office before seeing the Assistant Commissioner, but Julie’s desk was strategically placed right outside said office, and things had been strained between them of late. With a sigh he abandoned the idea of coffee –which being from a dispensing machine was generally rank away- and hit the button for the top floor.

Frank noted the hesitation, and the final decision, and smothered a grin; he knew all about the problems in Jack’s personal life -and the reason for them- but in spite of their peculiarly informal relationship he thought it best to keep his mouth shut. He also thought that Jack would eventually lose his battle with the redoubtable Julie, but he had enough sense to keep that to himself too.

They made their way in silence to the office of the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, (Dublin Regional Division), where Jack rapped on the door and entered without waiting for an invitation. This had been his wont with the previous Assistant Commissioner, the late, unlamented Eamonn Rollins, and the habit had persisted. The new incumbent, one Edward O’Neill, no relation to Jack, glared up from behind his immense desk at the intrusion, but when he recognized the interloper his expression relaxed and he closed the file he had been studying.  He said, with fair grace, ‘Come on in, Jack. Have a seat. You, too, Carr,’ He gave a half-smile and added, with just a trace of irony, ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’

Jack heard only the words, not the tone, and dropped into one of the visitor’s chairs with a grunt.  As he sank deep into the soft leather he thought, as he did every time he was up here, that he would somehow have to beg, borrow or steal one of these chairs to replace the battered wreck foisted on him years before. He stretched out his long legs and regarded his namesake with a benign sense almost of ownership; when one meets another person with the same surname one generally either resents the liberty or else feels a kinship, an imagined connection, and Jack was no exception. Besides, Edward O’Neill was well known to him from the old days when they had both been in the Murder Squad, though he was not quite a friend; more a friendly acquaintance. He was a small, neat, precise man with spectacles and a bald, dome-like head. He was also a strict disciplinarian with a reputation for complete honesty and rectitude -not always a given in the Gardaí- which was no doubt why he had been selected to replace Rollins. Even the suit he was wearing was reassuringly cheap and far from new, though it was clean and freshly pressed.

The Assistant Commissioner returned Jack’s stare thoughtfully, reflecting on the ravages of time even as Jack had earlier, though not perhaps as poetically. They had worked together on one or two task forces, many years before, and he still remembered Jack as big and strong and athletic, an intimidating opponent to the ungodly but a comforting ally to his comrades. Particularly in a tough spot. The man facing him now was still big and if anything could be even more intimidating, but he was thin and his face was gaunt and craggy and deeply scored with lines. His hair too was now more gray than black but at least his faded blue eyes were clear and sober. Edward knew he had kicked the booze the year before and was glad he seemed to be staying off it; he had seen more than one good man destroyed by alcohol over the years. It was just one of the occupational hazards facing detectives. He would have liked to have asked about it but it wouldn’t have done; not in front of young Carr. Discipline must be maintained. Instead he cleared his throat and leaned back in his leather swivel chair before saying, ‘So, what’s the situation, Jack?’

‘It’s a shambles,’ said Jack bluntly, twisting his mouth as if the words were distasteful to him. He was in an unusual position in the Garda, being supernumerary to establishment and attached to no particular division. He had been seconded to the Central Records department for years, to keep him out of sight –and trouble- when he was an habitual drunk, but having cleared a series of murders the year before he had more or less rehabilitated himself. He also possessed quite a bit of dirt on the Garda itself, and to keep him quiet had been offered a promotion to Superintendent; he had refused, and had instead asked to keep on investigating murders as the price of his silence. His rationale was that he cared nothing for rank –or the extra pay- and as an Inspector could still be a cop, while as a Superintendent he would be just another paper-pushing bureaucrat.

He would never have revealed the true story behind the killings anyway, but the powers-that-be had not known this and had been glad to shut him up at so cheap a price. Since then he and Frank Carr had been used as a floating, two-man unit handling the cases that no one else wanted, or hadn’t the manpower to deal with. And although opposites in almost everything they had prospered together, clearing eight murder cases in a row. The latest, however, had defeated them; a suspicious death in a remote village in Cork that the local CID had asked Dublin for help with, supposedly due to overwork and lack of local resources. As under normal circumstances no one in Cork would ask Dublin for a drink of water if they were dying in the Sahara O’Neill had dark suspicions of his own; he thought the locals knew well it was a dog and were happy to shove it onto the smartarses up in the capital. Even apart from the usual Irish schadenfreude –and the eternal, bitter Cork-Dublin rivalry- this would also take an unsolved murder off their books.

‘Basically,’ continued Jack in a disgruntled tone, ‘this guy claims he went out for a walk with his wife last Saturday night along the cliffs near their farm. He says she slipped and fell over the edge onto the rocks a hundred feet below.’

‘But?’ said Edward knowingly.

But everyone in the village knows that they hated each other,’ replied Jack morosely, ‘So much so that they didn’t even speak to one another, much less go for moonlight walks together. Which is why one of the neighbors rang Cork CID and said the husband had snuffed her. When we looked into it we discovered that both of them were having affairs and loathed each other, but wouldn’t split up because she wouldn’t go without half of everything he possessed, and he wouldn’t give her half the farm –which had been his father’s- and couldn’t afford to pay her off.’ He looked at the Assistant Commissioner from beneath his heavy brows. ‘We also found that he took out an insurance policy on her fourteen months ago for five million euros.’

Edward O’Neill whistled. ‘So you think he lured her up to the cliff top on some pretext and then pushed her over?’

Jack shrugged. ‘No, I know he lured her up there, and either pushed her off or hit her over the head with a rock and then pushed her over.’

‘The problem,’ interjected Frank, ‘is that we couldn’t find the slightest shred of proof. No witnesses, no physical evidence…nothing.’

He didn’t need to add what the other two men knew already; when it comes to murder, simple is always best, and sometimes unsolvable.

‘We brought him into Garda headquarters in Cork,’ added Jack gloomily, ‘and sweated him for twenty-four straight hours. And we got nothing; not a chirp or a squeak. I tried everything I know, every ploy I could think of, and he just sat there and stonewalled. We had to release him in the end because he stuck to his story like glue.’

‘A story he never varied one iota,’ added Frank significantly, ‘The cracked record, that broken bell/ forms an inward spiral, a road to hell.’

Edward gave him a thoughtful and somewhat irritated look; in his book junior detectives, like children, should be seen and not heard. And not seen all that often either. Plus, although he had heard of the young man’s penchant for dodgy poetry, he thought that Jack had pretty much stamped the habit out of him. But he took the point in spite of his annoyance; genuine witnesses change their story very slightly with every telling, as they forget or recall minor details and use different phraseology, so anyone who sticks to the letter of their statement is absolutely lying, parroting a carefully rehearsed story. He considered what they had told him for a minute before dismissing it with a brusque, ‘Well, if there’s no evidence we’ll just have to forget it for now. A witness may yet come forward. Or if he was religious his conscience might yet lead him to confess. You never know; remorse is a powerful tool. I’ve had people get drunk and confess before now.’

His two subordinates looked at him with almost identical expressions of incredulity and he moved on by saying, ‘Anyway, since you’re stuck I’ve got something else for you. If you want it.’

Again Jack and Frank mirrored each other’s expressions by pricking up their ears and looking at him with renewed interest, and Jack said, ‘I know we’re both due a few days off but this last case has left a sour taste in my mouth; I think both of us would like to wash it away with a win.’

Frank nodded his agreement and the Assistant Commissioner raised a sheet of paper from his desk and said, ‘Fresh in this morning. What looks like a double murder in Killiney. Unusual in a nice area like that.’ He looked at O’Neill, ‘It’s only a mile or so from your house, Jack. Be a handy one for you.’ He glanced back at the sheet, ‘Looks like a young couple murdered by an intruder. Or possibly a Tiger kidnapping gone wrong, since the male victim was a bank manager. We seem to have one of those once a month, these days. By the way, Murder sent a junior out with the SOCO’s to have a preliminary look around but they said they’re up to their eyes and asked if you were around to take it for them.’

Jack and Frank exchanged a look of perfect mutual comprehension; if the Murder Squad didn’t want the case it meant they thought it was a dog; either hard to solve or at the very least time consuming. It might take weeks to track down an intruder in a burglary that went wrong, or a random maniac, and with the end of the year approaching -and budget appropriations time- no one wanted an extra unsolved statistic sitting on their books like a turd on a picnic blanket. Hence their recent trip to Cork. Most murders are committed by a spouse or lover, and these are the cases the Murder Squad covet; they tend to be quickly and easily solved, and give the Squad a clearance rate they can publicly boast about.

Jack shrugged cynically and held out his hand for the Incident Report sheet; what the hell, it made the public feel safer and in these days of government spending cuts he wasn’t averse to making An Garda Siochana look a little more cost effective than they perhaps really were. Even so he said, in a heavily ironic tone, ‘Always happy to help boost Murder’s clearance rate,’ as he took the Incident Report and stood up to leave the room. He nodded genially and let Frank tender a more respectful goodbye to their boss as he walked from the room with his head down, his eyes devouring the scant details on the sheet.

‘Straight back down to the car park, Frank,’ he said with a sigh as they entered the lift.

‘We had an early start,’ hedged Frank hopefully, his finger hovering over the buttons, ‘And it is lunchtime. It wouldn’t take ten minutes to nip up to the canteen and have a quick bite. Sir.’

‘Forget it,’ said Jack dryly, ‘We can get a takeaway coffee and a sandwich on the way. This one is fresh and we need to take it on the bounce.’ And there’s a good chance Julie will be having lunch in the staff canteen, he thought but did not add. Nor did he need to; Frank had made the leap the instant he had spoken, and had regretfully pressed the button taking them back to the car park even before Jack had shot him down.

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

 

 

By the time the detectives reached the victim’s address the Technical Team had finished their preliminary examination of the scene, and the first wave of crime scene investigators had moved on to the next murder scene on their never-ending list. They had, however, left a couple of technicians to go through the house with a fine-tooth comb, as per protocol, to search for foreign hairs and fibers and the like.

When Jack and Frank had signed the admittance log and donned blue plastic booties over their shoes –wondering all the while why there was no media present, not even a reporter from one of the local free newspapers- they made their way into the kitchen. Here they found not one body but two; Martine Lowell’s fears had been realized and Sally Carter was indeed dead, sitting at the kitchen table next to her husband-to-be and in an identical pose; hands tied behind the back of the chair and the head tilted back to allow the throat to be cut almost back to the spinal column.

The two detectives observed the death tableau in grim, contemplative silence. Both were sensitive men, in their own different ways, and although long use had given each a protective coating over their emotions it had not made them totally indifferent to the horror that lay within that blood-drenched kitchen. Both victims had bled profusely, and the clothes of each were covered in a thick coating of dark, dried blood. The table in front of the bodies was splattered with blood that had sprayed across it and dark pools had formed beneath each chair. Not only that but they were blurred partial footprints on the kitchen floor, each carefully circled in chalk, that must belong to the killers.

Trying to ignore the particular reek that only arises from large quantities of blood, Jack wondered if the fact that they were fully clothed was significant; they certainly hadn’t been murdered that morning, if the black, crusted blood was any guide. And they would hardly have been dressed had they been woken in the night by an intruder. The only way the burglary-gone-wrong scenario could work was if they had come home and discovered the robber at work the night before.

Dr. Henry Ryan, one of the Assistant State Pathologists and an old sparring partner of Jack’s, was the examining medical officer and was hunched over Sally’s corpse when the detectives entered the room. He straightened up on seeing Jack in the doorway and said, with a loud sniff, ‘You took your time. The SOCO has already been and gone, though he left some of his team to do the sweep and vac.’

‘O’Halloran?’ asked Jack hopefully, naming his favorite Scene-of-Crime-Officer and, in his view, the best.

Ryan shook his head, smiling a little and always happy to be the bearer of bad news. ‘O’Hare. He’s good too, though,’ he added with far less relish.

Jack nodded noncommittally, ‘I’ve worked with him before.’ It wasn’t bad news but it wasn’t the best possible start to the case either; O’Hare was pretty good but O’Halloran was better. ‘Got a possible time of death for us, doc?’

Ryan pursed his thin lips, ‘Sixteen to eighteen hours ago, by the liver temperatures. I’ll be more exact later but I’m pretty confident in my preliminary figures; no central heating to screw up the rate of cooling, you see, even though it was cold out. I’ll cross-check it with the lividity once I get them back to the lab.’

The detectives stood in silent calculation for a moment before Frank said, slightly diffidently, ‘Between six and ten last night then.’

They moved further into the kitchen, avoiding the blood on the floor, and took a closer look at the bodies. At length Frank said, ‘From the blood spray on the table they were both murdered from behind?’

Jack nodded and Ryan interposed sharply, ‘I’ve looked at the wounds with a magnifying glass and I’m pretty sure both were killed by one sweeping cut, from right to left, consistent with a right-handed assailant. Obviously it won’t be officially confirmed until the autopsy but just between ourselves I don’t have much doubt. They were killed in situ, obviously. No sign of a murder weapon.’

‘The killer will have blood on him though, won’t he?’ said Frank hopefully, ‘I mean, from the amount that’s been splashed around you’d think he’d be covered in it. And his shoes certainly are, if these footprints are anything to go by. That has to help when we find a suspect.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jack heavily, but without any great optimism; like the junior from the Murder Squad before him he already had a bad feeling about this one, and the distinct impression that it would not be solved quickly or easily. ‘Are the footprints from just the one pair of shoes?’

‘O’Hare didn’t say,’ said Ryan sourly. And I’ve enough on without doing your job for you.

‘Take photos of them all, Frank. We’ll do our own comparisons while we’re waiting for the CSI report.’ Frank pulled out his phone to comply and Jack steeled himself to bend over the victims and peer closely at the gaping, naked wounds before saying thickly, ‘What sort of knife did this, Doc?’

Ryan shrugged, ‘Wait for the autopsy.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘Something big, I think, but thin, and very sharp.’

‘Not a hunting knife then? Or a combat weapon?’

Ryan shook his head, ‘I can’t be certain yet but if you want a guess I’d say a carving knife. I’ll know more after the post mortem.’

Frank was busily rummaging through the kitchen drawers and cupboards and now said, ‘There’s a set of carving knives here, but it seems complete. Not very sharp, and not particularly good quality either.’

‘Bag them and tag them for examination anyway,’ instructed Jack, ‘They might be playing clever buggers, and washed the murder weapon and put it back with the rest of the set.’ He said it without any conviction, however, and Frank, though he obeyed, shook his head and said, ‘I think they brought the murder weapon with them, and came to kill, not rob.’

Jack had already reached the same conclusion but even so he said, ‘Or just threaten to kill, if it was an attempted Tiger robbery.’

Frank pursed his lips doubtfully and shook his head, ‘Would bank robbers bring a knife rather than guns?’

‘The scare factor?’ suggested Jack, ‘A knife at your wife’s throat might be a more graphic threat than a gun. Might keep you in line once you’re out of the robber’s sight, opening the bank or whatever.’ He checked the sheet the Assistant Commissioner had given them. ‘Sorry, fiancée, not wife, according to the woman who called it in.’

‘Perhaps, but it looks like they were killed last night. Surely if it was a Tiger robbery they would have come here first thing in the morning? At like, 5am or something? First of all to be sure of finding them in, and secondly so the raiders wouldn’t be here all night? After all, the longer they were here the better the chances of something going wrong, or of someone calling round.’

‘You could be right,’ conceded Jack unwillingly, though similar thoughts had already crossed his mind.  Frank was coming on as a detective, and at his current rate of progress would soon be ready to move on and start running his own cases.  And Jack hated change almost as much as he hated criminals. He would never dream of holding the younger man back, but by God he’d miss him when he was gone. ‘After all, if one of their mums was ringing all evening and no one answered, or answered their mobiles, they might have rung the police.’

‘Or called round and banged on the door ‘til they got in?’ offered Frank, ‘Both sets of parents live within walking distance, sir.’

Jack nodded, ‘And both sets of parents probably have emergency sets of keys and could let themselves in if they were worried.’ He paused, ‘Though, as it happens, no one did call round. And it could still have been a burglary that went wrong. Come on, let’s check the perimeter for signs of a break-in. You take upstairs and I’ll take down.’

There were no signs of forced entry anywhere, as the Technical officers had already noted in their report -though it would be days before Harcourt Square got a copy of it- and the two detectives returned to the kitchen in pensive mood. ‘They let the killer in themselves,’ said Frank glumly, ‘Architect of your own despair/ evil invited in, looking fair.’

Jack had had a year or so to get used to this sort of thing and he just nodded, hardly even hearing it anymore. Then he said, ‘I don’t like the looks of this one, Frank; I think it’s going to be a pig. I also think you’re right about it being a deliberate murder rather than a Tiger robbery that went wrong.’

Natural optimism and belief in the essential triumph of good over evil stopped Frank from agreeing, but he knew better than to argue either. A diplomatic silence seemed the most sensible course and he just nodded in turn, though in fact he had boundless confidence in Jack’s ability to solve almost any case, pig or not. The older man was no one’s idea of a deductive genius but he was dogged and stubborn and dedicated, and if the killer had made the slightest mistake he would have him.

After a moment’s thought Jack continued, ‘I mean, this Maguire guy wouldn’t have refused to cooperate with a Tiger kidnapping, would he? Not with a knife at his girlfriend’s throat.’

‘Bank staff are instructed to cooperate in these cases,’ agreed Frank.

Jack nodded, ‘Exactly, so why kill them? No, it can’t have been a Tiger robbery. And it can’t have been a disturbed burglary because once they were tied up they were no threat, the burglars could have escaped. There was no need to kill them. And that only leaves deliberate murder.’ He carefully bent down beside Sally’s corpse to check what she was tied with and said, ‘Standard blue clothesline, new-looking.’

Frank had already leapt towards the sink and was rummaging busily in the cupboard under it when Ryan said sourly, ‘Save your energy; O’Hare already searched the house for the rest of the coil. Nothing there. He thinks the killer brought it with him, and took away the rest. They don’t have a clothesline in the garden, apparently.’ He added inconsequentially, ‘Mind you, if they tumble-dry everything they must have more money than sense, with the price of electricity these days.’

‘They might have been planning to put one up,’ offered Frank but Jack, who was still crouched down, gingerly examining the corpses, shook his head and pointed to a torn piece of wrapping-paper under the table, ‘That’s the wrapper off a clothes-line. Or a bit of it. Looks like O’Hare was right. Bag it and tag it, Frank; if they were dumb enough to buy it on their way here we might track one of them down through the purchase. And if they’re really dumb we might get a fingerprint.’

His tone made it clear he wasn’t expecting any such windfall and he straightened up, with a slight grunt of effort, and said, ‘We need to go through all their effects, find out everything there is to know about this couple. To me this has all the hallmarks of a deliberate, premeditated murder, which means they knew their killers, which means we can find a connection to the killers.’ At least I hope so; let’s pray that this wasn’t a random killer by some loony, because if it was we won’t even know where to start looking. ‘We need a full background check on them both, Frank, including their financial records.’

‘Er, we have a financial officer now in all murder cases,’ said Frank awkwardly, for he hated to expose Jack’s ignorance about new developments in law enforcement, especially in front of the always hostile Ryan, ‘She’s upstairs now, going through their computer and paper records. I should have told you that I spoke to her while I was checking the upstairs windows.’

‘Great,’ said Jack unenthusiastically; another report we’ll have to wait days for. And even when they finally got it he’d want to check it himself anyway, never trusting anyone else to be as thorough in these matters as he. As he and Frank, he mentally amended; he had come to trust his young assistant in these matters almost as much as he trusted himself. He shrugged and said, ‘Means we can focus on their personal background, I suppose. Says in the report that the body was found by one Martine Lowell. It also says that the uniformed officer who first responded to the call found her in the next-door neighbor’s house, in a state of semi-collapse. Let’s go see if she’s still there, and then we’d better start talking to all the neighbors, on both sides of the street. No doubt someone saw and recognized the killer, and is just waiting for us to stop by.’

And with that the two detectives left the house, ignoring Ryan’s openly mocking sneer as they went.

Continued….

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The Journal (Jack O’Neill)

by Derick Parsons

4.8 stars – 32 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

A young couple have been brutally murdered in their home in a quiet suburb of Dublin and the Murder Squad want to pass on it; they can see this case is a dog. Detective Inspector Jack O’Neill thinks it’s a dog too but with his personal life in a mess and nothing to lose he takes it on anyway…and soon wishes he hadn’t. A suspect is quickly found for the killings and Jack thinks that maybe this one will be easy after all; until he screws up and both the suspect and another young couple go missing. Jack’s career is on the line and he must follow a trail of clues from a madman’s Journal to save the young couple before they too are murdered. But nothing is ever as it seems and soon Jack is floundering in a sea of lies and deceit where his case becomes a personal contest between the detective and a murderous maniac. A contest where life is the prize and the consequences of failure unthinkable.

5-Star Amazon Reviews

“I enjoyed the Ireland setting, the twists and turns, and the surprise ending. Excellent storytelling. Enjoyed the contrast between the two detectives.”

“A powerful book that grips you right from the start. It is refreshing to find wonderful prose and a gripping story together…”

“Brilliant read! Loved the plot and character development, I couldn’t put it down. Highly recommended – a real page turner from start to finish.”

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Hidden

by Derick Parsons

112 Rave Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Why has a beautiful young woman been committed to an insane asylum? What is the truth behind a shadowy past containing drug use, promiscuity and murder? What secrets does she hold that others will kill to keep HIDDEN? These are questions that psychologist Kate Bennett must answer if she is to save her patient’s sanity…and both their lives. But Kate has secrets of her own, and a dark past of her own that will come back to haunt her.
HIDDEN is a thriller, set in Dublin, but it is also a voyage of self-discovery for Kate, as she uncovers not just the truth about her patient but some truths about herself.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter One

 

Kate Bennett quickly crossed the inner quadrangle of Trinity College Dublin, her high heels clicking sharply on the grimy old cobblestones.  The expression on her face was grim and her eyes were blank, her thoughts far away.  After yet another uninspired lecture –during which few of her students had bothered to hide their boredom- it was becoming painfully clear to her that teaching was not her forte.  She bit her lower lip as she walked and frowned down at the cobbles; she was not used to failure and it rankled.  Failure in professional matters, that is; spectacular failures in her personal life were her forte, and always had been.  Which was why she had returned to Dublin from England in the first place, some months before.  But she was used to relationship breakdowns and could handle them, more or less; failing in her work was a new and unpleasant experience.  On paper it had seemed the ideal solution to her troubles; being a part-time lecturer would give her time to work on her latest book, as well as giving her generally chaotic life a little much-needed structure.

In practice things had not run so smoothly.  In spite of her deep knowledge of psychology, both the theoretical side and the practical experience she had picked up working in the field, her career as a teacher was in danger of foundering after just a few short weeks.  She just couldn’t understand why it was all going so badly wrong; even aside from her expertise she loved psychology, loved the unending search into how the human psyche worked.  And yet she was unable to convey any of her enthusiasm to her students.  Information, yes; passion, no.  Her lectures were so dry she wondered how much of them her students actually absorbed; certainly none of them ever seemed to be listening.  Yet the harder she tried to make her discourses interesting the more she floundered on a sea of verbosity.

She shook her head dismissively, putting the problem to one side; she would worry about it later.  Pushing problems aside for later resolution could also be considered her forte.

Kate was slightly above medium height, but her weakness for ultra-high heels made her appear taller, as did her slender build.  Her appetite naturally inclined her towards plumpness but an unrelenting program of diet and exercise, both of which she loathed, kept her slim and even elegant in the slightly severe, tailored suits she favored.  Her hair was dark brown with a hint of natural red in its depths and, with her pale, narrow face set off by big hazel eyes and full lips, she made a striking figure, and one which turned heads everywhere she went.

She attracted attention now in the form of the head of the History Department, Dr. Julian Symons, who hurried across the quad to catch up with her before she reached the door that led up to her second floor office.  Symons was an aging, would-be rake who delighted in his dubious reputation as a ladies’ man and who gave Kate the creeps, not least because she suspected that he started the rumors about his amorous adventures himself.  He was a short man and rather stout, given to wearing pink bow ties and silk shirts with his tweed suits, and just looking at him generally made Kate want to laugh aloud.  Not that she ever would; the funny little man really seemed to believe that he was a born lady-killer, and although she could never like him she hadn’t the heart to disabuse him of his delusions.

‘Katherine, my dear,’ he began in his high, nasal voice, offering her a wide, patronising smile, ‘How delightful to see you!  For a change.  You’re becoming something of a recluse around here.  Why, I go days sometimes without spotting your pretty face.  Not the way to win friends and influence people, my dear.  To say nothing of winning tenure.’

Kate’s lips tightened and she pulled her jacket closed; he did appear delighted to see her, but she didn’t much care for the parts he was so pleased to see.  She nodded and, wishing that he would raise his gaze to eye-level just once in their conversations, said in a neutral tone, ‘Julian.’

He did eventually look up from her breasts, which were in fact quite small and hardly demanded such close attention, and smiled at her slyly before saying, ‘I’m having a little soiree tonight and I was hoping you might grace it with your presence.  Badinage aside, we really don’t see enough of you, you know.’  His gaze dropped again and he said suggestively, ‘And I really would like to see more of you, my dear.’

‘The feeling is far from mutual,’ replied Kate dryly, partly irritated and partly amused by his elephantine attempt at flirtation; he was like a reject from an old Carry-on movie, and impossible to take seriously.  In fact, so labored was his act that she occasionally wondered if he were secretly gay.  ‘College social life leaves me cold, I’m afraid, and although I’m new to teaching I’ve been here long enough for the idea of tenure to fill me with horror.’

Symons raised his brows and cocked his head to one side, reminding her irresistibly of a sparrow looking for breadcrumbs, and looked at her in a pitying fashion.  College life –and particularly tenure- loomed so large in his own mind, in his own life, that he clearly didn’t believe her.  Couldn’t believe her; the college was the center of his universe.  His artificial and rather yellow smile never wavered as he said, ‘Well, come or not, just as you please.  Don’t let my importance on the faculty board influence you at all.’

‘I won’t,’ said Kate even more dryly, and with complete honesty; she wouldn’t, though many would.  She flashed him a brief, perfunctory farewell smile and turned to go, whereupon he said archly, ‘Well, play hard to get if you must.  But remember; the faster the quarry runs, the harder the pursuers chase.’

In fairness Symons had meant it in a purely social sense but Kate’s past had left her highly sensitive to any hint of women being viewed as prey, or aggression toward them, and her smile vanished as she said in a tight, angry voice, ‘If you try pursuing me you’ll regret it, I promise you.  Stick to chasing the girls you teach who are desperate for grades.  And I do mean desperate.’

Symons’ smile vanished and this time he did not stop Kate as she entered the old building but stood staring after her, a savage look on his face.  He was not used to such treatment, was indeed used to being courted by very new, very junior staff like Kate, and he had come to view his invitations as tantamount to royal commands.  Although she did not realize it, Kate’s utter lack of interest in the college social scene gave her a certain cache among the other lecturers, resulting in her receiving invitations that similarly junior members of staff would have killed for but never received; Symons had not been kidding when he said that the more she ran, the harder she was pursued.

Kate marched angrily up to her office, not relaxing until she was seated behind her ancient, leather-topped desk, as much annoyed at herself for losing her temper as she was at the silly little man for provoking her.  Then she thought; Well, I guess I’m no longer invited to his party.  Sorry, SOIREE.  She slammed down her briefcase, her lips a tight white line, but then she giggled, unable to help herself, at the thought of Symons’ expression if she now actually turned up at his party.  Somehow she doubted he’d be quite so effusive, or that future invitations would be forthcoming.  Oh well, it was no loss; to her Trinity was simply the place where she happened to be working just then, and she had no wish to involve herself in its hidden depths.  Nor had she any interest in tenure; her lack of the teaching gift was becoming so painfully obvious that she was in fact sorry that her one-year contract would hold her there until the following summer.

Besides, even apart from lacking the teaching bug she didn’t much like the place; Trinity, like all Universities, contained two very separate personas.  One was the crowded and hectic but still beautiful old center of education which everyone in the outside world perceived.  The other, murkier facets of college life that only insiders saw were the rigid cliques, the petty jealousies, the bitter feuds and hatreds that lasted for years on end, and the tight, even claustrophobic social life.  If one did not mix with the right people one simply did not exist.  An elitist and somewhat childish view, but one which most of the faculty did not just subscribe to but regulated their lives by.

She was packing her notes into her case when she saw the Post-it stuck to her lamp, no doubt left there by Sally, the secretary she shared with another junior lecturer, before she had left for her lunch.  It read; The Director of Deacon House rang, would like to see you out there at 3pm if you can make it.

Kate raised her thin, shaped eyebrows; why would the head of Deacon House want to talk to her?  She had heard of the place, of course, as had everyone even peripherally involved in the mental health field in Ireland; it had long been famous for its progressive approach to treating the mentally ill.  And for being the most luxurious and expensive private asylum in Europe.  It was the kind of place where she and her fellow students had dreamed of working, back when they were permanently broke and generally hungry, still struggling towards their degrees.  But as she had only been back in Dublin a couple of months, after an eight-year absence, she had no idea who the current director was, or what he could want with her.  Her books, of course, had brought her a modest amount of fame in her own little circle, as well as less modest royalties; perhaps the current director had heard she was back in Ireland and wished to offer her a job?

It seemed the only possible scenario, and the prospect of being back in private practice immediately excited as well as frightened her.  She hadn’t had a patient since… well, since the Incident.  That was the way she always thought of it; as The Incident.  And generally in capital letters.  She closed her eyes to help shut the sudden crowd of hurtful memories out of her mind; perhaps a new patient was exactly what she needed.  After the Incident she had gone into retreat, living on her then meager savings and Peter’s far from meager earnings whilst she wrote her first book on psychology.  Not a textbook; she had wanted to de-mystify the workings of the human mind and make the whole subject more accessible to the average person, while at the same time avoiding the kind of trite psycho-babble filling the self-help shelves in every book shop.  She had wanted to show why people become the way they are, how a human personality develops, and how and why people react to different situations.  And she had succeeded.  How she had succeeded.  Her book had been a hit, particularly in the USA, and had led to her being offered her present post in Trinity.  It had also filled her coffers; she was not rich but in these recessionary times she was also well clear of the poverty line.

Her second book, showing how childhood events shape the adult, had not scaled the same heights as the first, receiving fair critical acclaim but only modest sales.  And her third book, on criminal psychology, had pleased no one, it seemed; as well as being ignored by the critics it had not sold well, in the end barely covering the publishing costs.  Her planned fourth book, on the development of aberrant sexuality and how sex offenders are formed, had stalled some time ago on only the third chapter and showed no signs of moving again in spite of the wealth of potential subject matter at her disposal.  Perhaps the topic struck her a little too close to the bone for comfort.

So where was she?  Washed up at thirty-four?  Unmarried, childless, and with her writing career dead in the water?  Was she destined to become a frustrated old spinster teacher?  She sat back in her old-fashioned wooden swivel chair and laughed aloud at the thought, her gloom dispelling as suddenly as it had arisen; a spinster she was not.  She had never considered herself anything special in the looks department but she had never had any trouble attracting men either, and had no fears of being left on the shelf.  And time was not her enemy as she had never been particularly broody.  She had never had more than fleeting urges to have children, urges she had not encouraged and which had just as quickly disappeared.  And if she was honest she had quite enough personal problems of her own to deal with without trying to raise kids as well.  The thought of children brought one of these problems, Peter, crowding back into her mind but she pushed it firmly away; she would not think about him now.  He was back in England with all the rest of her old life and there he would remain.

That’s the past! she reminded herself firmly, think of the present, and the future, but never look back.  A future which might well include having patients again, if she really were about to be offered a job in Deacon House.  Dealing with the mentally ill, with life’s casualties, had been her first love, and her later, varying careers as a police consultant, an author, and now as a lecturer had perhaps obscured but never quite destroyed that love.  Maybe it was time to get back in harness.  After all, what was the alternative, to sit here desultorily reading barely literate essays churned out by lazy slobs with no interests in life beyond sex and partying?  She relaxed back in her seat, laughing at herself; no doubt all lecturers –including her own, back in the day- had been saying the same thing about their students since education began.  God only knows what Aristotle had made of the young Alexander.  But it said much about what her life had become that she would gladly leap into the unknown rather than go home to face an empty flat and yet another night in alone.

Kate got to her feet suddenly and made for the door; Deacon House was a good ten miles away and if she was to be there by three she would have to get moving.  And as she went she pushed any thoughts of how empty her life must have become for her to be so desperate to seek change.  Any change.  She also repressed the thought that running away from problems was becoming a way of life for her; she could worry about that later.

 

Chapter Two

 

The sleek red TVR crawled down the winding country road, annoying those held up behind while Kate searched for a sign that would reveal her destination.  There were many driveways and rutted lanes leading off the main road, and the thick, encroaching greenery and overhanging trees meant that at anything above twenty miles an hour she would miss the turn.

At last Kate spotted a sign proclaiming Deacon House to the world in large black letters and quickly swung her powerful but twitchy sports car into the entrance.  Waving an apologetic hand to acknowledge the beeps from the irate motorists streaming past behind her she stopped in front of the massive, wrought iron gates that separated the mental hospital from the outside world.  She paused, a frisson of excitement running through her; all her professional life she had heard stories about this place and now, about to see it in person at last, her curiosity knew no bounds.  However, between the huge black gates and the massive granite walls Kate could see little beyond a glimpse of white gravel driveway and overhanging tree branches.  Her initial impression was of isolation and unfriendliness, even secrecy, and overall was not encouraging.  She had been invited there, however, and now rolled down her window and pressed the intercom button mounted on a low post set at a distance from the old gates.

A crackling, metallic but unmistakably female voice immediately responded, ‘Deacon House, how can I help you?’

No mention of its full title, thought Kate with a touch of amusement, nor its present function.  The sign outside was the same; just the name, no description.  ‘My name is Kate Bennett.  I have a three o’clock appointment with…er, the director.’

She was hoping for a clue as to who her mysterious host was but was destined to be disappointed as, after a moment’s hesitation, the voice replied, ‘Yes, you’re expected, Dr. Bennett.  Please wait until the gates are fully open, then follow the driveway up to the house.’

It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to say, it’s Ms. Bennett, not Doctor, but before she could speak the heavy gates shuddered and began to swing open, making a suitably eerie creaking noise as they did so.  Wondering what effect this would have on the more nervous night-time visitors, Kate put her car in gear and rolled forward, crunching slowly onto the spotless gravel drive.  Behind the high stone wall the grounds were extensive and well tended, though the immense chestnut trees lining the driveway created a slightly gloomy atmosphere in the dull autumnal light.  The driveway itself was almost long enough to be considered a private road, causing her to wonder just how large the place was; these were not just grounds, this was a park.  Large as it was, however, as she rounded the very next bend she was afforded her first glimpse of the old house through a gap in the trees.   She slowed almost to a halt as she drank it in, suitably impressed.

Deacon House Rest Home –far better than Insane Asylum!– had in the past been the country seat of a famous Irish nobleman, and although now reduced from its former glory it still retained something of its old air of grandeur.  It was solidly built of large gray granite blocks but in the current watery sunshine the old stone looked warm and inviting rather than forbidding.  And the broad flight of stone steps that led up to the immense double-doors, flanked on either side by high, fluted pillars, lent the mansion a graceful air in spite of its massive dimensions.  The house was at pleasant variance with the rather forbidding outer wall and gate, and all in all was a far cry from the grim Bedlam of public fancy.  Some of the many glittering windows were encased by iron bars, it was true, but nonetheless Kate could almost see the graceful carriages rolling up in front of those broad steps, and the pink of society alighting in their finery for yet another grand ball.  Almost see it.  In another century.  Beautiful though it was, and imposing, Deacon House was now an insane asylum, and no coy phrases like Rest Home could alter that cold fact.

As she rounded the final curve of the long driveway her heart was pounding with excitement at the possibility of entering private practice again.  That bastard Straub had soured her joy in connecting with other damaged souls, but before him she had always had a gift for therapy, had been able to establish an instant rapport with most of her patients.  Her own past suffering and emotional frailty had given her an empathy and insight that helped her to win their trust and get them talking openly and freely, which in turn helped them to eventually reach the source of their problems.  In fact, thinking about it now she wondered why she had ever given it up for the fascinating but darker, more sordid world of forensic psychology, which in turn had led to a career as a police profiler.  Which she had also given up, post Straub.  She bit her lip, not wanting to think about him at all, much less all he had cost her.

Of course, in recent years treatment of the mentally ill had come full circle again, had switched back from seeking the cause of problems to simply treating the symptoms with drugs, wherewith the patient could be returned to at least a semi-functional state but never actually cured.  Kate was not a psychiatrist and this approach was anathema to her, and she preferred to concentrate on trauma-related problems that generally could be cured.  Searching for the often hidden causes of emotional problems was what she had always done best, and she believed that for trauma afflicted patients at least the only way to real recovery was through self-exploration, which would eventually lead first to understanding, and then to acceptance.  Which in turn would lead to healing.

She parked in front of the sweeping entrance and slid out of the low-slung car before trotting up the worn granite steps; a trim, slender figure in her black woolen suit and white blouse, with the red scarf around her neck adding a spark of life to her otherwise dark, even drab outfit.  This touch of color, allied to the shortness of the skirt, which revealed quite a lot of leg, saved her outfit from being too severe by imparting to it a touch of femininity.  And although she only wore the faintest traces of make-up two orderlies exiting the building looked at her appreciatively as she passed, and followed her with their eyes into the building.

Kate noticed their gazes but only on a superficial level; her mind was focused on the meeting ahead, and on trying to ignore the butterflies clamoring in her stomach.  She went in through the wide-flung oaken doors and paused on the marble-flagged floor of the vestibule, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside.  There was a long wooden counter to her left which ran the length of the high-ceilinged entrance hall, and behind this counter sat the neat figure of a young woman dressed in crisp nurse’s whites.

Kate smiled and moved forward through the gloom, her heels echoing loudly on the old flagstones, ‘Good afternoon, I’m Kate Bennett.’

The receptionist, a young and pretty blonde, smiled back, revealing annoyingly perfect white teeth, ‘Of course, Dr. Bennett; Dr. Jordan is expecting you.  If you take a seat in the waiting room I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Dr. Jordan?  The name rang no immediate bells, was not on her mental list of the dignitaries of the psychiatric world, but she simply said, ‘Fine.  But in fact it’s not Doctor, it’s just plain Ms. Bennett.  Or better yet, Kate.’

The receptionist hesitated, though her professional smile never faltered, and Kate said, with a smile, ‘I have a Ph.D., not a medical degree, and I hate Ph.D.’s who call themselves doctor.  I despise that petty pretentiousness, don’t you?’

The receptionist smiled back, with less professionalism and more warmth and replied, ‘Of course, Ms. Bennett.  Please take a seat while I ring Dr. Jordan’s office.’  Her smile broadened, ‘Or perhaps I should say Mr. Jordan’s office?’

‘You bloody well better not if you want to keep your job!’ boomed a deep voice from behind Kate’s back, ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not one of these damned quack psychologists, and I earned my medical degree.’

That voice was almost as familiar to her as her own, and with a warm glow of joy suddenly suffusing her Kate turned and smiled at her old friend and college mate before saying sweetly, ‘No, you didn’t, Trevor; you cheated on your finals, remember?’

 

Chapter Three

 

 

Trevor Jordan strode across the great, vaulted hallway with his long, gangly arms outstretched in welcome and a broad grin splitting his face.  He was a tall, thin, red-haired man, slightly balding on top, with a lust for life and an unquenchable optimism that few could resist.  In college he had been about as unlike the rest of his classmates as it was possible to be; loud, open and warmly human where most of his fellow students had been pallid, intense introverts.  He was interested in people rather than subjects, and his humor and bright outlook on life had cheered and encouraged Kate through some difficult times even after their brief affair had ended.  Or rather, after she had ended it and left him for another man, a minor betrayal for which he had never reproached her and which he had quickly forgiven.  Indeed, in hindsight it had soon become clear to him that they worked better as friends than as lovers.

Now, looking at the genuine pleasure in his sparkling blue eyes and on his contentedly ugly, freckled face, Kate was glad she had come, though still astonished that the penniless student she had once dated now held perhaps the most coveted position in Irish psychiatric circles.  But then so many of her contemporaries now held positions of authority; a sign of approaching middle age, no doubt, like the fact that most of her old girlfriends now had children.

It was obvious from the expression on Trevor’s face that he was delighted to see her, and obvious too that if they had not been in full view of some of his staff -and if he had not been the Director of the Institute with a position to consider- he would have hugged her.  Kate just had time to think this and extend a hand in greeting before she was scooped into his vast embrace and had all her breath emphatically hugged out of her body.

I should have known! she thought, fighting to breathe, a little dazed but also amused.  Trevor practically made a career out of doing the unexpected, and cared little for the opinion of anyone save his closest friends.  Having thoroughly hugged her, he kissed her cheek and said softly in her ear, ‘Welcome home, Kitty-cat!’

Kitty-cat!  She had all but forgotten his private name for her, and it conjured up a host of happy memories, along with just a tinge of guilt.  Although she had been home for some time now she had not yet hooked up with any of her old friends and seeing him now, and so unexpectedly, made her feel pleasantly nostalgic.  And emotional.  She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes at the warmth of his greeting and hugged him back fiercely, surprised by the depth of her emotions at this unwonted human contact.  And with a start she realized again just how lonely she had become, and how starved of any real human contact since returning to her native city.  She blinked away the nascent tears gathering in her eyes and covered her raw feelings by gasping, ‘Welcome home, my arse!  I’ve been home for months!  Now let me go before I suffocate, you big oaf!’

He released her, still grinning, and over his shoulder Kate saw the beam on the receptionist’s face and the shine in her eyes as she looked at Jordan.  It was always the same; ugly or not, women liked Trevor, and more often than not were attracted to him too.  As indeed she had been, once upon a time.  Until he got too close, became too demanding.  Or, more accurately, until her own fears had made her flee in panic at the prospect of someone getting inside her carefully constructed defenses.

He stepped back and looked her up and down before saying appreciatively, ‘You look incredible, Kate.  A scruffy schoolgirl wearing too much eye make-up went to England; a beautiful woman returned.  Their loss, our gain.’

She couldn’t help smiling even as she protested, ‘I was not a scruffy schoolgirl!  I was twenty-six when I left!  And I’m hardly beautiful now.  But thank you anyway.’

His smile faded and a faint frown knitted his heavy, reddish eyebrows, ‘I hate to spring this on you but there’s someone here you have to meet.  I didn’t plan it; he just turned up out of the blue.  But since he’s here I think I have to introduce you to him.  Reluctantly.’

He turned away and Kate stood still in confusion, ruefully thinking that life was always like that when Trevor was around; nothing was ever straightforward, and surprises lurked around every corner.  Maybe it was this unpredictability that had made her leave him all those years ago; because of her disrupted childhood she had always prized peace and stability.  But even as she thought this she knew that she was lying to herself; it was her fear of commitment that had made her run.  In the end it always triumphed over her need to be loved.

A man almost as tall as Trevor but heavier in build had just left the conference room and was walking slowly towards them, his features obscured by the dim light and many shadows of that vast, dark hallway.

‘Ms. Kate Bennett,’ said Trevor formally, his face and tone expressionless, as the stranger approached, his footsteps echoing on the stone flags, ‘This is…’

‘Michael Riordan,’ she finished for him as the man drew close enough to be recognised, ‘The Minister for Trade and Industry.’  She smiled and held out her hand, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Minister.’  Then she added, in a slightly mocking tone, ‘Or should I say, messiah?  It’s not often one meets a miracle worker, the hope of an entire nation.’

‘Delighted to meet you, Ms. Bennett.  Call me Michael, please,’ replied the Minister in a well-modulated voice, ‘And I’m hardly a messiah, or a miracle worker.  You have to allow for election exaggeration, as well as media hype.  But I’m confident, now that the world-wide recession is ending, that Ireland’s economy will rise again too.  I’d like to think that any recovery will be at least partly due to my efforts, but so long as the recovery occurs I don’t much care who gets the credit.’

He took her hand and she felt a light thrill run up her arm at his touch, even as she was dismissing his words as being too pat to be genuine, as being too much like a media sound bite.  Although in his late forties Riordan was still an attractive man; tall and well built with light brown hair and very pale blue eyes.  Apart from his even-featured good looks -which his graying hair if anything intensified, lending him an air of distinction- he had an instantly appealing magnetism that she could feel as an almost physical pull drawing her towards him.  He smiled warmly into her eyes and the light thrill spread until her whole body seemed to be covered with tiny goose bumps.  And he said lightly, ‘Though I must admit I’m happy to have a beautiful woman consider me a miracle worker.  Or to consider me at all.’

He’s flirting with me, Kate thought in surprise, amused but a little flattered too, and aware of a certain attraction of her own towards him.  In fact, she was more attracted to him than to any man since she first met Peter.

Riordan finally let go of her hand but did not step back as he continued, ‘But in your case I’m doubly glad I have your approval, since I understand that Dr. Jordan has just hired you as a consultant in my daughter’s case.’

‘You understood wrong,’ interrupted Trevor shortly, before Kate could reply, ‘I told you I invited Kate today here in the hope of persuading her to conduct therapy sessions with Grainne, but I have not yet discussed the case with her, or made any formal offer.’

He spoke coldly, for him, and with a start Kate realized that he did not like his patient’s father.  Or perhaps he simply did not like being pre-empted like that.  After all, he hadn’t yet had time to work his magic on her and convince her to work for him.  ConvinceIf only he knew how desperate I am for a change in my life!  ANY change.

Riordan blinked and then smiled apologetically, ‘Pardon me, Kate…may I call you Kate?  I misunderstood, but I hope that won’t cause you to refuse to treat Grainne.  She desperately needs your help.’

Before she could reply Trevor again interrupted, saying irritably, ‘I am Grainne’s psychiatrist, Mr. Riordan, and if you don’t mind I’d rather acquaint Kate with your daughter’s case history myself.  And not in a hallway but in my office, where we have at least a modicum of privacy.’

Once more addressing himself solely to Kate -and it might have been just a politician’s trick but when he looked at her with those pale eyes she suddenly felt as if she were the only person in the entire world- Riordan said gravely, ‘Of course.  I apologize again.  Please don’t let my precipitance offend you into refusing to treat my daughter.  She means the world to me and it would break my heart to think that I had spoiled her best chance of becoming well again.’

Kate warmed to him in spite of herself, in spite of an inward voice warning her that it was his job to appear sincere and caring, and she replied, ‘You can be sure you haven’t alienated me.  But I’m afraid I’m no miracle worker either, and even if I agree to treat -er, Grainne?- there’s no guarantee of success.’

He smiled again, ‘I understand.’  He might have spoken further but Trevor made an impatient noise and looked at his watch, whereupon Riordan stepped back, ‘I won’t intrude any longer, but I do hope to meet you again, Kate.’

Before she could reply Trevor took her by the arm and ushered her across the hall to his book-lined, wood paneled office.  Once inside she detached herself from his grip and said angrily, ‘For God’s sake, Trevor, let me go.  I’m not a sheep and you’re not a bloody sheepdog!’

He looked startled for a moment before smiling sheepishly and releasing her.  Putting his hands in his trouser pockets he said, ‘Sorry about that, Kitty, but that man just rubs me up the wrong way.  He’s constantly in my ear, looking for progress reports and details of each phase of Grainne’s treatment.  He was grilling me again today about her progress, or lack of it, which is the only reason I mentioned that I was trying to hire you as a therapist.  Besides, he shouldn’t have butted in like that before I’d made my pitch and convinced you to work with me.’

Kate’s fleeting irritation had passed and now she smiled and said, ‘Well, you didn’t have to be so rude to him.  Or are you so secure here that you can afford to insult government Ministers?’

He grinned imperturbably, ‘Well, yes, I am, actually!  And I don’t like or trust politicians, you know that.  I never did.  Especially handsome, would-be miracle workers.  Remember old Archie’s lecture on the “Pursuit of Power”?’

Kate smiled at the recollection and said, ‘Of course I remember!  How could I forget?’  Her voice deepened to a pompous bass, ‘The desire for power should disqualify from power.’  She laughed and continued in her normal; voice, ‘Poor old Professor Archibald, mad as a hatter and twice as paranoid!  And he was supposed to be a psychiatrist!  Talk about the blind leading the blind.’

Trevor smiled back and said, ‘Sure the reason he gave up private practice in the first place was that he was more disturbed than most of his patients, and never cured any of them!  So what did they do?  Made him a lecturer, of course!’  He seated himself behind his huge, leather topped desk and waved her toward a chair, shaking his head in amusement as he said, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’

He recollected Kate’s current position and coughed to cover his embarrassment before saying hurriedly, ‘Er, I wasn’t including you in that…’

Dimples appeared on Kate’s face, taking years off her age, as she smiled to herself in secret amusement; in spite of the passage of years he was still the same awkward, often annoying, yet strangely endearing Trevor.  She made a dismissive gesture and said, ‘Obviously you weren’t including me in that bracket, or you wouldn’t have invited me out here today, would you?’

‘Er, no, I suppose not.  Sit down, please.  Would you like some coffee?’

Kate shook her head as she sat down, ‘Not right now, thanks.’  She smiled again, with growing warmth, ‘You’re still the bossiest, most irritating man in the world, Trev, and I’m so glad to see you again.’

He smiled, ‘The same words could be applied to you, my dear.  Well, not the man part, obviously but definitely the irr…’  Before he could continue a faint sound caught both their attention and he froze.  Muffled and distant though it was, the sound was undoubtedly that of a woman screaming.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Trevor expressionlessly, picking up his phone.  He spoke briefly into the receiver before getting to his feet and heading for the door, his face inscrutable, ‘I won’t be long, I just have to attend to something.’  He opened the door but then paused to say, ‘It’s your new, or should I say, prospective patient.  She seems to be having an…episode.’

And with that he was gone, but through the open door Kate could more clearly than ever the desperate, terror-filled screams of Grainne Riordan.

Continued….

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by Derick Parsons

112 Rave Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Why has a beautiful young woman been committed to an insane asylum? What is the truth behind a shadowy past containing drug use, promiscuity and murder? What secrets does she hold that others will kill to keep HIDDEN? These are questions that psychologist Kate Bennett must answer if she is to save her patient’s sanity…and both their lives. But Kate has secrets of her own, and a dark past of her own that will come back to haunt her.
HIDDEN is a thriller, set in Dublin, but it is also a voyage of self-discovery for Kate, as she uncovers not just the truth about her patient but some truths about herself.

5-Star Amazon Reviews

“This book was really, really good. You find yourself enthralled and wanting what’s best for the main characters and envy their strength…”

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About The Author

Visit my website at www.derick-parsons.com

I was born in Dublin, Ireland, on the 27-03-1966, which makes me both old and an Aries; I do not believe in either but I seem to be stuck with the former at least.

I have travelled extensively and as well as living in various parts of Ireland I lived for years in London, Holland, Germany, Poland and the USA.

I returned to Dublin and married Eimear (a top litigation lawyer but a good person nonetheless, I swear) in 2001, which effectively ended the travelling, though we still like to roam the world on holidays.

We have three magnificent (if mental) boys whom I wouldn’t swap for eternal life and shares in Apple.

I don’t remember deciding to be a writer; ever since I can remember I have considered myself one, and after writing various poems and short stories I completed my first full-length novel at the ripe old age of 10. Alas, I no longer have that story, which I would dearly love to read again, if only for a good laugh.

HIDDEN is the first novel I have written for the public, with all my previous writing being intensely personal and for me alone. A second, REDEMPTION SONG, is now also for sale on Kindle.

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Hidden

by Derick Parsons

64 Rave Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

Here’s the set-up:

Why has a beautiful young woman been committed to an insane asylum? What is the truth behind a shadowy past containing drug use, promiscuity and murder? What secrets does she hold that others will kill to keep HIDDEN? These are questions that psychologist Kate Bennett must answer if she is to save her patient’s sanity…and both their lives. But Kate has secrets of her own, and a dark past of her own that will come back to haunt her.
HIDDEN is a thriller, set in Dublin, but it is also a voyage of self-discovery for Kate, as she uncovers not just the truth about her patient but some truths about herself.

5-Star Reviews From Amazon Reviewers

“Loved the book, grabbed my interest from the start and I hated having to put it down. Fast paced with heart pumping moments yet had sweet moments too.”

“It was suspenseful with a surprise ending. Kept me turning those pages and couldn’t quit until I had finished the book.”

About The Author

Visit my website at www.derick-parsons.com

I was born in Dublin, Ireland, on the 27-03-1966, which makes me both old and an Aries; I do not believe in either but I seem to be stuck with the former at least.

I have traveled extensively and as well as living in various parts of Ireland I lived for years in London, Holland, Germany, Poland and the USA.

I returned to Dublin and married Eimear (a top litigation lawyer but a good person nonetheless, I swear) in 2001, which effectively ended the traveling, though we still like to roam the world on holidays.

We have three magnificent (if mental) boys whom I wouldn’t swap for eternal life and shares in Apple.

I don’t remember deciding to be a writer; ever since I can remember I have considered myself one, and after writing various poems and short stories I completed my first full-length novel at the ripe old age of 10. Alas, I no longer have that story, which I would dearly love to read again, if only for a good laugh.

HIDDEN is the first novel I have written for the public, with all my previous writing being intensely personal and for me alone. A second, REDEMPTION SONG, is now also for sale on Kindle.

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