Mrs Cooke’s Books

About That Night by Elaine Bedell

It’s my stop on the #blogtour for About That Night by Elaine Bedell and I’m very excited to be hosting a tantalising extract for this absolute cracker of a book!

Synopsis

Sometimes it only takes one night to change everything…

Elizabeth Place might have been jilted on her wedding day one year ago, but at least she’s still got her brilliant job producing one of the biggest shows on TV!

But when larger-than-life TV host, Ricky Clough, dies live on air, her life is sent spinning out of control. And with foul play suspected, the spotlight is turned firmly on his colleagues – especially Hutch, the man desperate for Ricky’s job and whom Elizabeth is secretly dating.

As her world comes crashing down around her, Elizabeth realises that perhaps the only person she can really trust, is herself…

Extract

Prologue

July 2017

Elizabeth Place is packing up her life. The protesting screech of duct tape and the thwack and swoosh of folding cardboard corners have been the soundtrack to her day.

She’s surrounded by sealed brown boxes. Two muscular men arrived first thing in a white van with its big red boast ‘We’llMake the Earth Move For You’ and stomped up the stairs to her first-floor flat, Where do you want us, love? Between them they carried a sofa, four chairs, a chest of drawers and her doublemattress – up a bit, right a bit, upsy-daisy, there she goes, easy does it – while drinking twelve cups of tea with twenty-four spoonfuls of sugar.

Now only the boxes to go.

She sits and surveys her empty flat. She’s very tired and a little bit queasy if she’s honest (although she has an unfortunate inclination not to be honest, especially with herself ). Her entirelife has been swaddled, stacked and squashed into eleven cartons: thirty-five years of life, love and loss. Elizabeth isn’t much good at maths, but she knows that thirty-five doesn’t gointo eleven without some leftover bits. What’s happened to the rest of her life? Those bits and pieces that might have caused her to tick another ten boxes?

She’s thirty-five and single. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She reaches for the last empty box into which she’ll carefully stow the few remaining, very personal items. The things she’s left until last. Her National Television Award, still on the mantelpiece, sparkling bronze: Elizabeth Place, Producer: Best Entertainment Programme, Saturday Bonkers; a framed photo of her dear dad waving proudly at her down the years from the deck of a boat that isn’t his; the engraved card from ‘Matthew, Controller, All Channels’ which read ‘Only you could have got us through that show. Well done! X’; a black and white postcard of Paris, on which Hutch had written out an extract from Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy’ along with the words Dear Miss Clumsy, I really miss you bumping into things; Elizabeth and Jamie, framed on their graduation day, carelessly waving their mortar boards in the air. And standing on its spine, propping up the rest, a valuable first edition of Yeats, given to her by Ricky one morning after a terrible night before.

Elizabeth tucks all these mementoes carefully away in the last box and closes the flaps quickly, like a ventriloquist silencing his troublesome puppets. All apart from the Yeats, which she clutches to her chest. She stands for a moment gazing at the empty spaces, thinking of the life she’s leaving behind. A life she has loved. A seductive life: of glamour, of glory, of giddiness. An addictive, adrenaline-fuelled roller coaster of a life, with all its exhilarating highs and exhausting lows. A dangerous life.

She’s independent, she’s strong, she says to herself. She’s really good at her job. She’ll do what her bible says and lean in (she hasn’t worked out exactly what this means, but she imagines it’s a bit like the plank, you just have to practice). She’s done with being caught in tangled webs of secrecy and lies. She’ll heed the warning signs, next time.

Won’t she?

Elizabeth wanders back into the bedroom, avoiding the bathroom. She’ll deal in a minute with the message in there that might change her life, that’s waiting for her in the cabinet, away from the prying eyes of the heavy lifters.

Elizabeth shivers slightly and sinking to the bedroom floor opens up the Yeats, carefully turning the precious pages. And there it is, on the title page, in Ricky’s big black sloping writing: ‘Dearest Elizabeth, I have spread my dreams under your feet’. Crazy, comic, complicated Ricky. His story wasn’t meant to end the way it did, one innocently blossoming day in May.

A Mayday.

Chapter One

Two months earlier

The audience are settling into their seats. They’ve been queueing outside the studio in the May drizzle for an hour and a half, an exercise in patience which might have been more bearable had anyone remotely famous walked by. An Ant. Or a Dec. They weren’t fussy. But one of the regulars, who’d been to recordings of the show at least twice before and had therefore brought a flask of hot chocolate, said that the stars use a secret tunnel entrance at the back of the studio building. Television stars, she explained patiently, don’t use main entrances. ‘Not even the Loose Women?’ asks a girl, shivering in bare legs and high heels. ‘No one,’ says the lady with the flask.

They’ve been herded like soaking sheep into the pens of the audience seating. Their mobile phones have been confiscated and will be returned to them at the end of the show. The lady with the hot chocolate, knowing the form, hangs back a little, watching as they fill the back seats first. She manages to get a seat in the third row from the front and surreptitiously opens up a packet of sandwiches. ‘The warm-up won’t be on for at least another half an hour,’ she whispers to the woman next to her. ‘Cheese and pickle?’

The set is much smaller in reality than it looks on the television. It consists of a shiny steel desk, surrounded by bookshelves laden with leather tomes, and a bright canary yellow velvet sofa. Five wide steps run up to the back of the set which serve as the entrance for the guests of the show. Wrapped around the set are a series of huge screens which display drone-captured scenes of planet earth at night, vast cities pin-pricked with glittering street lights, moonlit oceans and mountain ranges crested by stars.

‘Or tuna and cucumber?’

The audience is mainly female and they’ve come dressed for the occasion, eyeliner and foundation thickly applied, in case, just in case, there’s a fleeting shot of them clapping on camera. They’re hardened, battle-worn fans of the star of the show, the primetime entertainment king, Ricky Clough. They’ve been with him since he was a youthful breakfast DJ, have seen him through his career highs and lows. They’ve grown up through the years of his primetime, live, television show, Saturday Bonkers, watching it faithfully before going out to hit the weekend bars and clubs. But in recent months, Ricky’s audiences have been thinning, along with his hair, and a transplant on both counts has been necessary: he’s now been given his own chat show, The Ricky Clough Show, but not live, not on Saturday nights, and in the graveyard slot of 22.40. The warm-up guy bounds on to the set, dressed in a tartan suit. He’s carrying a stick mic. ‘Right, ladies – and you few brave gents – are we ready to get this party going?’ he says. ARE WE READY?’ The studio lights blaze on his entrance; for a brief moment he’s king of the court. He parades up and down the set, relishing the spotlight. The sound guys turn up the volume to DJ Fresh and the audience begin to shift in their seats, itching to get up and dance.

‘Okay. Five minutes till we start recording the show! Put your make-up on, ladies! Oh? You already have? Sorry, love. Now then. Take a good look at the person next to you. Is anyone here with someone they shouldn’t be? Because you’re about to be on telly – a television studio’s no place for people having affairs!’

Elizabeth Place, Ricky Clough’s producer, allows herself a small smile at this. She’s watching the warm-up from the comforting shadows of the black drapes that surround the studio. The entire audience is up on its feet, dancing along to ‘Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now’. Middle-aged women have shed their coats and their inhibitions and are dancing like teenagers. Elizabeth likes to watch them; she loves to hear the pre-show excitement build to a crescendo of hysteria. She thinks they might be in for a good night: Ricky was in a better mood than usual when she checked on him in his dressing room earlier. A bottle of white wine was open, but still full, and he didn’t drink at all while she went through his script with him. (Nonetheless, she had taken the precaution of hiding another unopened bottle under the sofa when he wasn’t looking.)

She turns to the black-shirted cameraman nearest her, Phil, leaning against his pedestal camera with his arms folded, his back turned firmly away from the disco-dancing divas. ‘How is he this evening?’ he asks her drily with a raised eyebrow. ‘Very lively,’ says Elizabeth with a smile. ‘Think we’re in for a good show?’ Phil asks. ‘Actually, yes.’

She skips up the spiral staircase that leads to the studio gallery, a rectangular box of a room with a long desk facing a bank of television screens, each offering different angles on the studio below. The director, Robin, is sitting in the middle of the desk, with the vision mixer beside him. He’s wearing a silk cravat and a velvet blazer. Elizabeth kisses him lightly on the cheek then takes her seat at the far end, next to the gallery assistant, Lola, who prints all the scripts, does all the timings and entertains the camera crew with stories of her recent breast enlargement procedure. She has platinum blonde hair piled impressively into a beehive on her head and is perfectly made up: heavy kohl eyeliner, white powder, bright red lips (Lola is in a perpetual state of mourning for the 1940s). She’s wearing a tight pencil skirt and a cropped knit sweater which shows off to full advantage her perky new breasts. She has an array of dangerously sharpened pencils in front of her, as well as two stopwatches.

Elizabeth never feels more alive than when she’s in the gallery, producing a show, sitting side by side with Lola. They’ve worked closely together for seven years, sharing every beat of every nail-biting show. Shoulder to shoulder they’ve somehow kept the show on the road, through all the ups and the downs, and have become firm friends. Elizabeth loves her job and she loves these moments just before a show most of all. She loves the precision of the preparation and the execution, the fact that everyone must move in synchronicity. She loves all the little meaningful rituals and habits which bind them all intimately together, like a professional family. She loves the thrill, the adrenaline, the buzz. She loves the way her heart beats painfully in her chest during a show and the fact that her brain never feels clearer.

Lola squeezes her hand as she sits and whispers, ‘I saw him in his dressing room. He seems on really good form. I don’t think he’s been drinking or anything.’ Lola’s eyes are shining, she’s happy. Elizabeth smiles and nods. As far as she knows, she’s the only person on the production team who has any clue as to the true nature of Lola’s relationship with Ricky.

‘Stand by studio floor, coming to you in two minutes.’

Elizabeth puts on her headphones and presses the button of the small console in front of her, saying softly into the small microphone, ‘Hello, Ricky. This is me. Just testing talkback. Can you hear me okay?’

‘Loud and clear, Mrs T,’ comes back the familiar voice of the star of the show in her ear. She can’t see him yet, but can hear from his breathing that he’s walking quickly down the corridor from his dressing room. She knows that his wardrobe assistant will be running along beside him carrying his jacket, which he never puts on until the very last second.

‘They’re a rowdy bunch tonight, can you hear?’

Elizabeth glances anxiously at the television screens that show her wide shots of the studio audience, up on their feet and dancing to ‘The Macarena’. They’re very pumped. She decides to ignore, as she always does, his reference to Mrs Thatcher. ‘See you on the other side, Ricky.’ She puts a smile into her voice.

‘See you on the other side,’ he replies, as he always does. And then, as he reaches the back of the set, before he leaps into the heat and glare of the spotlight, he addresses all the crew. His voice is deep and close into his microphone. ‘Elizabeth? Guys? Let’s make this a show to remember, eh? Let’s rock and roll!’

‘Fifty seconds!’ Lola announces loudly in the gallery.

‘Are the food props all standing by?’ Elizabeth asks and the clipped vowels of her young Etonian researcher, Zander, return in her ear. ‘Yes, ma’am, they’re under his desk.’

Elizabeth gathers the pages of her yellow script together and tidies them into a compact tome, her very own War and Peace. She glances at her mobile phone. There’s a thumbs-up emoji from Hutch and a picture of a double bed with a question mark. A shiver of pleasure and anticipation prickles all the way down her spine, but she puts her phone away. She finds her foot is tapping incessantly underneath the desk.

‘Twenty seconds,’ says Lola, placing her hand reassuringly on Elizabeth’s arm, but never taking her eyes from her stopwatch. ‘Have a good show, everyone!’ Elizabeth says, smiling down the desk at Robin. She gives him a mock military salute, which he solemnly returns. Everyone in the gallery is on the edge of their seats.

‘Ten seconds,’ says Lola, with a new warning note of urgency.

‘9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…’

Eeek. Why do I get the feeling that this is all about to go hideously wrong? What a tense piece of writing! About That Night is out now in paperback and you can buy it here

If you enjoyed my post, please do go check out my others, and also the other stops on the #blogtour (see below). My thanks go to Joe Thomas and HQ Stories for the invitation to the tour and also for my gorgeous proof copy of the book.

Until next time!

@mrscookesbooks

When I Lost You by Merilyn Davies

Its my stop on the #blogtour for When I Lost You by Marilyn Davies and I’m thrilled to be able to share a lovely early extract with you as although this book is currently out in ebook format (a teeny tiny 99p at the time of publishing this post!) the paperback format is not out until late August.

Synopsis

When a young couple are the lead suspects for the murder of their only child, Crime Analyst Carla Brown and DS Nell Jackson are assigned to investigate.

The evidence seems conclusive, but something just doesn’t feel right.

The case is quickly cast into doubt when the lead forensic pathologist starts receiving threatening letters – containing details only the police should know.

Who’s sending them? What do they want? And how did they get hold of the information?

As Carla and Nell dig deeper, it soon becomes clear that this case isn’t the first of its kind.

They must stop at nothing to find the truth – even if it hits close to home.

Extract

DS Nell Jackson looked up at the shabby white- fronted flats with her usual sense of déjà vu – after eight years with Thames Valley Police she felt she knew this stubby block of flats better than she knew her own. Even the fading light couldn’t hide white paint peeling from window frames, or the makeshift clothes lines spanning balconies like decorations on a Christmas tree while toddlers’ bicycles hung from walls in a desperate attempt to utilise what little outside space there was.

‘Morse, it is not.’ DC Paul Mackintosh’s tone was flat and Nell didn’t bother to agree. Two weeks into a heatwave that smothered Oxford like a duvet, she saved her words for lessobvious observations. Besides, she was long past being surprised by the city. At first, fresh out of Wales, she’d found it laughable drunks urinated in shop doorways on Friday nights past closing, when only the kebab vans remained open; that the homeless hung remnants of past lives in century-old doorways, grand pillars marking the boundary to that night’s home.

She’d soon learned that Oxford’s estates pumped out the same old crimes they had in Wales. Same problems, different view. So, Oxford for Nell was now not so much spires as shitholes. Populated not by worldly professors, but by people whose weekly income didn’teven match what some students spent on a night out – all existing under the watchful gaze of Oxford University, which managed the city in a way that would have put the Corleones to shame.

Unbuckling her seat belt, Nell nodded towards an open door on the second floor. ‘Best let’s go up then.’ Reluctantly tucking a dog-eared notebook in her back pocket, she prepared for a blast of late-night air and pushed open the door.

‘Are the parents still in situ?’ She slammed the car door and as the heat hit her she resisted the urge to take off her jacket. This wasn’t the type of case you went into half dressed.

Paul nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Any sign it’s not natural causes?’ Nell asked as they climbed the open-air stairwell, the smell of urine heavy around them, cigarette butts and broken bottles nestling at the edges of each step.

‘Not yet, but the pathologist has only just arrived.’She hoped it was Eve, then they might stand a chance of getting out of there before midnight. Fishing her warrant card out of her jacket, she flashed it at the uniformed officer standing discreetly beside the open door: ‘DS Nell Jackson and DC Paul Mackintosh.’

The uniform nodded and tipped her head down the hall. ‘Parents in the front room, second on left,’ she said, her voice low.

‘Deceased on right, directly across from them.’

‘Pathologist?’ Nell asked. Her heart pumped a little faster, adrenalin and nerves kicking in.

‘In with the child.’

‘OK, thanks.’ She looked at Paul, who gave a weary smile.

‘Child first, parents second, OK?’

He nodded, then smiling her thanks at the uniform, Nell said, ‘Right, let’s go and get this over with.’

Doesn’t it sound fantastic?! When I Lost You is out now in ebook and out on 22nd August in paperback and you can buy/pre order it here

My thanks go to Rachel Kennedy and Arrow Publishing for the invitation to the #blogtour and my proof copy of the book.

If you enjoyed my post, please do check out my others and also the other stops on the #blogtour (see below).

Until next time!

@mrscookesbooks

Don’t Tell Teacher by Suzy K Quinn

I am delighted to be a stop on the #blogtour for Don’t Tell Teacher by Suzy K Quinn and super excited to be sharing the prologue and first chapter with you today!

Synopsis

School should have been the safest place…

For Lizzie Riley, switching her eight-year-old son Tom to the local academy school marks a fresh start, post-divorce. With its excellent reputation and outstanding results, Lizzie knows it’ll be a safe space away from home.

But there’s something strange happening at school. Parents are forbidden from entering the grounds and inside, there are bars across the classroom windows.

Why is Tom coming home exhausted, unable to remember anything about his day? What are the strange marks on his arm? And when Lizzie tries to question the other children, why do they seem afraid to talk?

Tom’s new school might seem picture-perfect. But sometimes appearances can be deceiving…

Extract

Prologue

We’re running. Along wide, tree-lined pavements, over the zebra crossing and into the park.
‘Quick, Tom.’
Tom struggles to keep up, tired little legs bobbing up and down on trimmed grass. He gasps for breath.
My ribs throb, lighting up in pain.
A Victorian bandstand and a rainbow of flowerbeds flash past.Dimly, I notice wicker picnic hampers, Prosecco, Pimm’s in plastic glasses.
No one notices us. The frightened mother with straight, brown hair,wearing her husband’s choice of clothes.The little boy in tears.
That’s the thing about the city. Nobody notices.
There’s a giant privet hedge by the railings, big enough to hide in.
Tom cries harder. I cuddle him in my arms. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ I whisper, heart racing. ‘Don’t make a sound.’
Tom nods rapidly.
We both clutch each other, terrified. I shiver, even though it’s a warm summer’s day.
Tom gives a choked sob. ‘Will he find us, Mum?’
‘Shush,’ I say, crouching in my flat leather sandals, summer dressflowing over my knees. ‘Please, Tom. We have to be quiet.’
‘I’m scared.’ Tom clasps my bare arm.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ I whisper, holding his head against my shoulder. ‘We’re going away. Far away from him.’
‘What if he gets me at school?’
‘We’ll find a new school. One he doesn’t know about. Okay?’ Tom’s chest is against mine, his breathing fast.

He understands that we can’t be found. Olly is capable of anything.

Lizzie

Monday. School starts. It won’t be like the last place, Tom knows that. It will be hard, being the new kid.

‘Come on, Tommo,’ I call up the stairs. ‘Let’s go go go. We don’t want to be late on our first day.’

I pack Tom’s school bag, then give my hair a few quick brushes, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror.

A pale, worried face stares back at me. Pointy little features, a heart-shaped chin, brown hair, long and ruler- straight.

The invisible woman. Olly’s broken ex-wife.

I want to change that. I want to be someone different here. No one needs to know how things were before.

Tom clatters down the polished, wooden staircase in his new Steelfield school uniform. I throw my arms around him. ‘A hug to make you grow big and strong,’ I say. ‘You get

taller with every cuddle. Did you know that?’ ‘I know, Mum. You tell me every morning.’

I hand him his blue wool coat. I’ve always liked this colour againstTom’s bright blond hair and pale skin. The coat is from last winter,but he still hasn’t grown out of it. Tom is small for his age; at nearly nine he looks more like seven.

We head out and onto the muddy track, stopping at a blackberry bush to pick berries.

Tom counts as he eats and sings.

‘One, two, three, four, five – to stay alive.’

‘It’s going to be exciting,’ I coax as Tom and I pass the school playing field. ‘Look at all that grass. You didn’t have that in London. And they’ve got a little woodland bit.’ I point to the trees edging the field. ‘And full-sized goalposts.’

‘What if Dad finds us?’ Tom watches the stony ground. ‘He won’t. Don’t worry. We’re safe here.’

‘I like our new house,’ says Tom. ‘It’s a family house. Like in Peter Pan.’

We walk on in silence and birds skitter across the path.

Tom says, ‘Hello, birds. Do you live here? Oh – did you hurt your leg, little birdy? I hope you feel better soon.’

They really are beautiful school grounds – huge and tree- lined,with bright green grass. Up ahead there is a silver, glim- mering spider’s web tangled through the fence wire: an old bike chain bent around to repair a hole.

I wonder, briefly, why there is a hole in the fence. I’m sure there’ssome logical explanation. This is an excellent school … But I’ve never seen a fence this tall around a school. It’s like a zoo enclosure.

I feel uneasy, thinking of children caged like animals.

A cage is safe. Think of it that way.

The school building sits at the front of the field, a large Victorian structure with a tarmac playground. There are no lively murals, like atTom’s last school. Just spikey grey railings and towering, archedgates.

A shiny sign says:

Steelfield School: An Outstanding Educational Establishment

Headmaster: Alan Cockrun, BA hons Semper Fortis – Always Strong

The downstairs windows have bars on them, which feel a little sinisterand an odd paradox to the holes in the fence. And one window – a small one by the main door – has blacked-out glass, a sleeping eye twinkling in the sun.

The playground is a spotless black lake. No scooter marks ortrodden-in chewing gum. I’ve never seen a school so clean.

We approach the main road, joining a swarm of kids battling for pavement position.

Most of the kids are orderly and well-behaved. No chatting or playing. However, three boys stand out with their neon, scruffy shoes, angry faces and thick, shaggy black hair.

Brothers, I decide.

They are pushing and shoving each other, fighting over a football. The tallest of the boys notices Tom and me coming up the lane. ‘Who are you?’ He bounces his football hard on the concrete, glaring.

I put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Tommo. Nearly there.’

The shortest of the three boys shouts, ‘Oo, oo. London

town–ies’.

I call after them, ‘Hey. Hey! Excuse me—’

But they’re running now, laughing and careering through the school gates.

How do they know we’re from London?

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Tom.

My hand tenses on his shoulder. ‘I should say something.’ ‘They don’t know me yet,’ Tom whispers. ‘That’s all. When

they get to know me, it’ll be okay.’

My wise little eight-year-old. Tom has always been that way. Very in tune with people. But I am worried about bullying. Vulnerablechildren are easy targets. Social services told me that.

It will be hard for him …

As the three black-haired brothers head into the school yard, aremarkable change takes place. They stop jostling and pushing each other and walk sensibly, arms by their sides, mouths closed in angrylines.

Tom and I walk alongside the railings, approaching the open gates.

It’s funny – I’d expected this new academy school to be shiny andmodern. Not to have grey brick walls, a bell tower, slate turrets andbars.

I sweep away thoughts of prisons and haunted houses and tell Tom, ‘Well, this is exciting. Look – there’s hopscotch.’

Tom doesn’t reply, his eyes wide at the shadowy brickwork. ‘This ismy school?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘It looks like an

old castle.’

‘Well, castles are fun. Maybe you can play knights or some- thing. I know it’s different from the last place.’

‘Castles have ghosts,’ Tom whispers.

‘Oh, no they don’t. Anyway, big nearly-nine-year-old ghost- busters aren’t afraid of ghosts.’

We move towards the school gates, which are huge with spikes along the top, and I put on an even brighter voice. ‘You’re going to dogreat today, Tom. I love you so much. Stay cool, okay? High five?’

Tom gives me a weak high five. ‘Will you be okay, Mum?’ he asks.

My eyes well up. ‘Of course. I’ll be fine. It’s not your job to worry about me. It’s mine to worry about you.’

Tom turns towards the soulless tarmac and asks, ‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’

‘Parents aren’t allowed into the playground here,’ I say. ‘Someone from the office phoned to tell me. Something to do with safety.’

Two of the black-haired boys are fighting in a secluded corner near a netball post, a pile of tussling limbs.

‘Those Neilson boys,’ I hear a voice mutter beside me – a mother dropping off her daughter. ‘Can’t go five minutes without killing eachother.’

The headmaster appears in the entranceway then – an immaculately presented man wearing a pinstripe suit and royal-blue tie. His hair is brown, neatly cut and combed, and he is clean-shavenwith a boyish face that has a slightly rubbery, clown-like quality.

Hands in pockets, he surveys the playground. He is smiling, lipsoddly red and jester-shaped, but his blue eyes remain cold and hard.

The chattering parents spot him and fall silent.

The headmaster approaches the corner where the boys are fighting and stops to watch, still smiling his cold smile.

After a moment, the boys sense the headmaster and quickly untangle themselves, standing straight, expressions fearful.

It’s a little creepy how all this is done in near silence, but I suppose at least the headmaster can keep order. Tom’s last school was chaos. Too many pupils and no control.

I kneel down to Tom and whisper, ‘Have a good day at school. I love you so much. Don’t think about Dad.’ I stroke Tom’s chin-lengthblond hair, left loose around his ears today. More conventional, I thought. Less like his father. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m scared, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day. What if Dad—’

I cut Tom off with a shake of my head and give him a thumbs-up. ‘It’s fine. We’re safe now, okay? He has no idea where we are.’ ThenI hug him, burying my face in his fine hair.

‘I love you, Mum,’ says Tom.

‘I love you too.’ I step back, smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on then. You’ll be a big kid – going into class all by yourself. They’ll call you Tom Kinnock in the register. Social services gave them your old name. But remember you’re Riley now. Tom Riley.’

Tom wanders into the playground, a tiny figure drowned by a hugeTransformers bag. He really is small for nearly nine. And thin too, with bony arms and legs.

Someone kicks a ball towards him, and Tom reacts with his feet – probably without thinking.

A minute later, he’s kicking a football with a group of lads, including two of the black-haired boys who were fighting before. The ball is kicked viciously by those boys, booted at children’s faces.

I’m anxious. Those kids look like trouble.

As I’m watching, the headmaster crosses the playground. Mr Cockrun. Yes. That’s his name. He’d never get away with that at a secondary school. His smile fades as he approaches the gate.

‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You must be Mrs Kinnock.’

The way he says our old surname … I don’t feel especially welcomed.

‘Riley now,’ I say. ‘Miss Riley. Our social worker—’

‘Best not to hang around once they’ve gone inside,’ says Mr Cockrun, giving me a full politician’s smile and flashing straight, white teeth. ‘It can be unsettling, especially for the younger ones. And it’s also a safeguarding issue.’ He pulls a large bunch of keys from hispocket. ‘They’re always fine when the parents are gone.’

Mr Cockrun tugs at the stiff gate. It makes a horrible screech as metal drags along a tarmac trench, orange with rust. Then he takes the bulky chain that hangs from it and wraps it around three times before securing it with a gorilla padlock. He tests the arrangement, pulling at the chain.

‘Safe as houses,’ he tells me through the gates.

‘Why the padlock?’ I ask, seeing Tom small and trapped on the other side of the railings.

Mr Cockrun’s cheerful expression falters. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why have you padlocked the gate?’ I don’t mean to raise my voice. Other parents are looking. But it feels sinister.

‘For safeguarding. Fail to safeguard the children and we fail everything.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Mrs Kinnock, this is an outstanding school. We know what we’redoing.’

I pull my coat around myself, holding back a shiver. It’s a very ordinary wool coat, bought while I was with Olly.

I was a shadow then, of course. Hiding behind my husband.

I’m hoping that will change here.

‘It feels like I’m leaving Tom in prison,’ I say, trying for a little laugh.

Mr Cockrun meets my eye, his hard, black pupils unwaver- ing. ‘There is a very long waiting list for this school, Mrs Kinnock. Thanks to social services, your son jumped right to the top. I’d have thoughtyou’d be the last parent to criticise.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘We usually pick and choose who we let in.’ The politician’s smile returns. ‘Let’s make sure we’re on the same page, Mrs Kinnock. Not start off on the wrong foot.’

He strolls back to the school building, and I’m left watching andwondering.

When I get back to our new Victorian house with its large, wraparound garden and elegant porch pillars, I sit on the front wall, put my head in my hands and cry.

I try not to make a sound, but sobs escape through my fingers.

Things will get better.

Of course I’m going to feel emotional on his first day.

Sounds excellent! Don’t Tell Teacher is out now in both ebook and paperback format and you can buy it here

My thanks got to Joe Thomas and HQ Stories for the invitation to the tour and my proof copy.

If you enjoyed my post, please do check out my others and also the other stops on the #blogtour (see below).

Until next time!

@mrscookesbooks

Come Back For Me by Heidi Perks

I am delighted to be a stop on the #blogtour for the new Heidi Perks book; Come Back For Me! The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that today isn’t my stop on the #blogtour and that this post is in fact over week late! I do apologise – I have been away and am currently catching up on multiple posts. I do hope that the plethora of beach photos (and the fact that I loved this book) make up for my tardiness!

Synopsis

A SHOCKING DISCOVERY.
A COMMUNITY WRAPPED IN SECRETS.

A tiny island community is stunned by the discovery of a long-buried body.

For Stella Harvey the news is doubly shocking. The body has been found in the garden of her childhood home – the home her family fled without explanation twenty-five years ago.

Now, questioning her past and desperate to unearth the truth, Stella returns to the isolated island. But she quickly finds that the community she left isn’t as welcoming as she remembers – and that people in it will go to any length to protect their secrets.

One thing rings true…
You can’t bury the truth forever.

My Thoughts

Wow. This was a read and a half! Opening (to my audible delight!) with a map, I knew I was going to love this book. So many secrets, so many lies; this addictive family mystery kept me furiously turning the pages way past my bedtime.

Come Back For Me is set on a remote (and frankly creepy) island whose silence and isolation gives the whole story a very sinister edge. An island where people escape to, but also escape from; this book had secrets whispering through the pages and had me racing through this fast paced and beautifully atmospheric thriller at top speed.

The narrative consists of short, sharp chapters and ducks back and forth between 1993 and the present day. Full of frighteningly believable characters and with guilt and honesty reverberating around the pages, I was totally consumed by this book, obsessed even, and was breathlessly turning the pages til the end.

This was a deeply thought provoking read where I was left wondering; if everyone had been honest from the start, would any of this have happened? The story explodes with a crescendo of revelations between the two sisters and just when you think you have it all figured out and you assume you’re on the home stretch of the story, Perks slaps you around the face with an artfully placed curve ball which leaves you floundering in deep water and struggling to breath.

Full of mystery, suspense and a horrible sense of foreboding; this secretive saga is not to be missed this Summer!

Come Back For Me is out now in both hardback and ebook format and you can buy it here

My thanks go to Rachel Kennedy and Arrow Publishing for my lovely proof copy and also for the invitation to the #blogtour. If you enjoyed my review, please do check out my other posts and also the other stops on the #blogtour (see below).

Until next time!

@mrscookesbooks

Our Little Secrets by Peter Ritchie

I’m so thrilled to be able to share an extract of the latest Peter Ritchie offering with you today, as my (slightly belated) stop on the #blogtour.

Synopsis

At a dark place in Edinburgh’s heart, secrets refuse to lie dormant.

At Police Scotland HQ, Grace Macallan has pitched up in Counter Corruption. But the demons of her past are never far behind.

Meanwhile, Edinburgh’s gangland is in turmoil. As a new breed of upstarts challenges the old criminal order, their battle for territory causes serious havoc.

Into the war steps DI Janet Hadden. Ambitious, hardbitten and addicted to risk-taking, she knows how to throw opponents off balance. But when she’s thwarted, Hadden seeks help from a notorious underworld fixer, a man who keeps secrets but always extracts a price.

Beset by violence and double-crossing, Grace is soon embroiled in a savage game of cat and mouse with colleagues and criminals alike. With all sides driven by dark desires, theirs is an endgame that will take Grace down unless she holds her nerve.

Sounds great to me! Here’s an extract to whet your appetite further!

Extract

Tonto ignored the car horns and various threats from motorists burning their brakes to avoid him. As often as the Pole repeated his threat to slice him up, Tonto would say ‘Oh God!’ – as if the big man in the sky had any intention of helping him – or could hear him, for that matter. Unfortunately, his leg muscles were starting to burn, and what energy had been available in this young man whose main exercise of the day was pressing lift buttons was fast draining away. The Pole was gaining as Tonto gasped his way down Wheatfield Street towards the gates of Tynecastle Stadium, the hallowed or hated ground of Heart of Midlothian Football Club, depending on which side of the city you saw as yours. By luck, and certainly not by design, the Jambos were playing a midweek game in an hour and the few fans who had started to mill around the area took in the drama. Some were horrified; a couple of the more pished variety screamed encouragement to Tonto and the Pole.

‘Ah hope the boy in the front’s a Hibee!’ was one of the more unsympathetic shouts, although Tonto wasn’t taking it in. Instead, he was concentrating on the Police Scotland uniforms gathering at the main gate, who were thinking they were in for just another night as glorified doormen.

Tonto tried to scream for help, but nothing came out except a feeble ‘Huuuph’. Sadly, the decibel level was way below what would have alerted the forces of law and order, who were probably his only chance of surviving.

Unfortunately for Tonto the two uniforms at the gate were probably the least likely in all of Police Scotland’s ranks to give a Donald Duck what happened to him. The older of the two PCs was Billy Denholm, or FT as he was better known to his long-suffering colleagues. The handle ‘FT’ didn’t come from a passion for following the business news in the Financial Times but from his attitude to every order or request he received. ‘Fuck that’ was his standard reply, sometimes under his breath, depending on the rank of the officer giving it out. In a way, it summed up his whole wasted life. He was one of those characters who’d made an art form out of avoiding work and yet talked himself up as Edinburgh’s version of Taggart. Those stories were strictly for his civilian friends because the job knew exactly what he was made of.

The second and much younger cop idolised FT, thought that his teachings were gospel and was busy morphing from a promising recruit to someone who just carried a uniform. It wasn’t Tonto’s day, and there was worse to come.

The potentially violent drama moving quickly towards the stadium gates seemed to create an invisible shock wave that raced ahead, rippling over the alarm senses of the early-bird fans, a few locals and the polis. Many of them felt it before they saw it: the change in noise level some distance from them as jaws collectively dropped and a hundred conversations stopped mid-sentence. Some people froze at the passing drama, transfixed not so much by Tonto sprinting in a way unique to the hunted animal but by the shiny axe that every cell in the fleeing man’s body was trying to avoid.

The sight of the Pole, almost naked apart from his Mickey Mouse boxers, would have been comical had he not intended to spill his target’s brains all over the outer perimeter of Tynecastle Stadium. No one really noticed the pants, but a neutral and safe observer would have been interested in the varying reactions of the dozens of witnesses ahead of and behind the two men, who were now no more than five metres apart and closing. Some people turned into living statues: one man had a handful of greasy chips halfway to his gob and stayed like that for almost twenty seconds till his brain switched on again. There were people who dived for cover as a natural reaction to danger, and there were a few mercenary characters who saw an opportunity when it came their way. They whipped out their iPhones to capture an incident that would tickle their pals on social media and might even bring in a few bob from one of the news outlets. The ones that started videoing were in for a real treat, because no sooner had Constable Denholm sensed then identified the fast-approaching horror story than he made the decision that a tactical withdrawal was in his best interests.

Denholm didn’t wait for his young partner. For someone at least a couple of stone overweight and whose idea of aerobic exercise was walking to the boozer rather than getting a bus, he took off with remarkable pace, yelling, ‘Get tae fuck,’ as he went.

Our Little Secrets is out now in paperback and you can buy it here

My thanks go to Black and White Publishing for my invitation to the #blogtour and for my beautiful finished copy of the book.

If you enjoyed my post, please do check pout my other and also the other stops on the #blogtour (see below).

Until next time!