Tag Archives: politics

The Bluebell Informant – Chapter 11

If you’re not up to speed on The Bluebell Informant so far, the previous chapters can be found here. Failing that, The Bluebell Informant is now available for free through Amazon.comiBooksKoboNookand Smashwords.

Chapter Eleven

Barker walked with the air of a man being sent to the gallows. To the casual observer, he seemed sullen and lacking in energy. He dragged his feet along the ground, kicking up dust and stones as he plodded along the pathway, whilst keeping his hands firmly bound together in front of his stomach. His head was angled down and yet, in the shadows beneath his brow, his eyes darted energetically about him.

The pair of them – Giles and Barker – moved slowly down the pathway. She muttered frantically, her hands jutting out this way and that as she pleaded with him. He said nothing at all.

Up ahead, Harris and the other detective began to cross the bridge. They stopped halfway across to check on Giles’ progress before disappearing over the other side as they emerged into the playing fields beyond.

A few minutes later, Giles and Barker arrived at the bridge themselves. Despite the melancholic plod in his stride, the politician revealed nothing of his emotions or feelings save for a sudden, uncontrollable shiver that seemed to grip his hands. He was jittery – that much was certain – but Giles observed this apparent display of fear with a cynical and professional eye, content in the knowledge that it was little more than an act for her benefit. She might have continued to believe this had it not been for the sudden crack of twigs in a nearby bush, which prompted the politician to yelp in fright and almost around the side of the bridge and into the shallow stream below.

He gripped a tight hold of the wooden barrier and peered nervously into the bracken as the creature – whatever it was – rustled its way unseen through the twigs and leaves. The longer he stared, the paler his face became. His brow was punctuated with small globules of milky sweat and his skin appeared no longer clean and youthful, but waxy and wrinkled as though premature aging had struck him in that very instant. In a moment or two, the rustling became instinct against the gentle swishing of swaying trees and grass, and Daniel Barker relaxed a little.

But the cracks were showing.

He was terrified.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Giles worked hard to control her breathing as her heart pounded ferociously inside her chest. She had been given a finite time. She had the length of the walk back to the cars to get what she needed from Barker – after that she would have to wait her turn. Beyond the footbridge, she knew she had two hundred metres – two hundred metres of rugby and football pitches – before she would have to hand him over.

They would walk across the fields, avoiding the games being played by the Bank Holiday crowd, and head across to the clubhouse where the fleet of police vehicles would wait in readiness. And when they arrived, a squad of constables would descend on him, pin him up against a patrol car and restrain his hands once more.

Giles didn’t know if Barker would cry out, but she supposed he wouldn’t. With such an audience of sporting fans, he would want to retain some element of dignity. He wouldn’t want to be remembered as the corrupt politician who was dragged away in chains. He’d want to be the noble martyr being led to quietly to his confinement. Wrongfully imprisoned but defiant to the last.

The portrait of an English gentleman…

She allowed Barker to step ahead of her on to the bridge. Her hands trembled with trepidation as they gripped the wooden handrail. This would be her chance – she knew it all too well. Harris would never allow Barker to simply go free – she knew that as well. If Barker didn’t talk now, if he didn’t tell her what she knew, she might never get another chance. He might sulk in silence, clinging on to his last trump card – never playing it as long as he was locked away from the world…

Then all this would have been for nothing…

Her mind flitted back to Jason, his face contorted with anger as he ranted about how her job was taking over her life. He had known she was a career woman when he married her, but something had changed in the past few months. All of his friends now had bouncing babies, families – and Jason had become more than a little broody.

But he knew the deal. Giles would work ten years on the force before she stopped to have children, and there were still three more to go. In truth, Giles couldn’t face the idea of bringing children into the world. Not this world at any rate.

‘If you want my help, you’re going to have to give me something,’ she said, pausing on the bridge to watch the stream trickle quietly below.

The water of the weir crashed loudly a short distance away. The easterly wind whipped up harder through the trees, causing them to sway and creak and rustle. Barker stopped to ponder the nature as well. Standing side by side the two were in perfect isolation – no one could hear them speak or catch them off guard. And yet, despite their remoteness, Giles couldn’t help shaking the feeling that they were being watched.

‘You get me out of this and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to,’ replied Barker, taking on the air of the party leader once more. ‘If I end up in a police cell, I will be dead before sunrise tomorrow morning.’

‘I can assure you, you will be perfectly safe.’

Barker scoffed. ‘You don’t even know who you are protecting me from.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I told you, when I’m safely away from here and out of police custody.’

‘Harris’ team are more than capable of protecting you…’

‘And you trust Harris?’

In the distance, Harris stopped and looked back at them, almost as though he’d been beckoned by his own name. He stood watching them for a moment until Giles finally gave Barker a slight nudge and the two descended off the footbridge onto to the perfectly cut grass of the recreation field. The police cordon had long since been removed and already several dog walkers were pacing purposefully across the field in the direction of the bridge.

Barker eyed a Jack Russell suspiciously as it bounded past them, ignoring the curious glances of recognition from its owner. Up ahead, Harris turned again and continued walking, although he continued to throw the occasional glance back at the meandering pair.

‘They have evidence that you committed a murder, Mr Barker. They’re not just going to let me walk you out of here.’

‘Then you have two problems…’

‘So, tell me what I want to know and I will have you in protective custody in a matter of hours.’

Barker laughed again. ‘I spent years relying on other people to protect me. All it ever got me was one great, big, colossal failure on the largest stage in Britain.’ His voice hissed with bitterness:

‘Do you what they told me during the election? They said there was no need to focus on my own constituency – they said it was a sure thing. The public were going to back us to the hilt and all I had to do was focus on discrediting the government.’

Giles shrugged. ‘You needed better advisors…’

Barker scowled. ‘Then, on results day, it was my constituency that didn’t fall into line – myvoters that left me out in the cold. So, I think I’m right in saying that I’ve learnt the hard way that relying on other people leads to nothing but failure. And, when my life is the stake I’m playing for, I don’t much relish the idea of putting my faith of success in someone else’s hands – especially yours…’

‘You don’t really understand your position, do you?’

‘Quid pro quo, Giles,’ he shot back. ‘You need to think of another way to get me out of this mess, because if I’m in a police cell you won’t get what you want. If I’m locked away, my information is locked away with me…’

‘The Bluebell Killer.’

Barker gave her a cold, hard look. ‘You know what? When you killed that boy, he laughed. As he lay dying on the floor, he stared into your eyes and cackled with glee. He was so pleased with himself. – so delighted with what he’d done. He’d played you like a fucking fiddle – and there you were, basking in the triumph of it all…’

It was as though Giles’ whole body shut down. Her feet staggered to a halt as the weight of memories came crashing down around her. She could see him now. Alex Donnovan lying sprawled on the floor, staring up at her as his laughter echoed through the garage. His eyes sparkling with victory.

‘How the hell do you know that?’

Barker turned and smiled. ‘Curious, isn’t it?’

He waited for Giles to take hold of herself and start walking again.

‘Alright, let’s say I believe you,’ Giles muttered. ‘Who is he? Who is the Bluebell Killer if not Donnovan?’

A curious smile crept over Barker’s face. His hand emerged from his right trouser pocket and he waggled a lone finger at the detective, tutting playfully as he did so. ‘Quid pro quo, Giles. You don’t have much time.’

Giles slowed her pace a little more. They passed through the shadow of a rugby post, momentarily flickering their faces into darkness before emerging into the light once again. She stared thoughtfully at Barker. Her hair and scarf fluttered enthusiastically in the breeze as though the wind were strong enough to swoop her right off her feet. And yet, Barker remained perfectly still – his hair didn’t twitch and his clothes didn’t quiver – unmoveable against the elements.

‘You’re not even bothering to proclaim your innocence anymore.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference if I did,’ Barker replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Your situation would still be the same.’ A slight smile crept across his face as his eyes flickered across Giles’ face. ‘They say you Chinese types are good with numbers. Let’s see what odds you can come up with for a successful escape. Tick-tock.

 

Harris came to a halt next to his car and turned back to look across the playing fields. Nearby, a football match had just finished. The players and supporters cheered and applauded each other whilst the two distant figures of Giles and Barker meandered across the far rugby field.

Harris felt Detective Sergeant Parsons slide into the spot next to him.

‘They’re taking their time,’ he observed. ‘Where are they going – a funeral?’

Harris turned to his colleague. Parsons was still relatively inexperienced as a sergeant, but his keen eyes breathed in his surrounding with the air of one who had seen it all. His trimmed muscles bulged beneath his cotton shirt and his neat, short hair spoke of a time before the police force.

Once a soldier…

‘DS Giles is attempting to extract some information from the suspect before he take him in.’

‘Don’t see the point, if you ask me. Anything she gets wouldn’t stand in court.’

‘It’s to do with another case. Giles asked for some time alone with him before he gets lost in a sea of paperwork. I figured it was the least we could do after her work in the pillbox…’

‘We would have got him eventually, sir.’ Parsons’ eyes narrowed on the pair as they made a slight turn towards the bushes at the side of the playing field to lengthen their journey. ‘I don’t like it.’

Harris could see what Parsons meant. Barker was still his prisoner, no matter how much Giles had to do with him getting caught.

His prisoner. His responsibility.

His neck if something went wrong.

He turned to the rest of the team, mostly uniformed officers now, who tried to loiter causally by their patrol cars.

‘Get the rest of the team out of here,’ he ordered. ‘We don’t want Barker clocking our reception committee.’

Parsons barked some clipped orders and the officers clambered into their cars. In a moment, the engines roared into life and the cars disappeared up the lane towards the centre of town. Giles and Harris were still a fair distance away when Parsons returned.

‘How long has Giles got?’

Harris seemed to ignore the question. The footballers were making their preparations to leave the pitch, chanting and singing, clapping and excitedly recalling their own personal highlights.

But, for Harris, the game wasn’t over yet.

nick1Nick R B Tingley is a crime writer from the UK. After several years working as a ghostwriter, Nick released his debut novel The Bluebell Informant– the first in his DS Evelyn Giles series. He is currently working on the second in the series – The Court of Obsessions – as well as a Victorian-era mystery novella called The Butcher of Barclay’s Hollow. 

To stay up to date with Nick’s latest releases, subscribe to his newsletter now. They’ll be no spamming – I promise!

The Bluebell Informant – Chapter 9

If you’re not up to speed on The Bluebell Informant so far, the previous chapters can be found here. Failing that, The Bluebell Informant is now available for free through Amazon.com, iBooks, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords.

Chapter Nine

Giles had lost track of time in all the excitement and confusion. She had assumed it was a little past eleven but, when she finally looked down at her watch, the hour hand was close to the two. Hours and minutes felt all the same to her and the hustle and bustle of the crime scene passed before her eyes as though it were in a world of its own.

At the far side of the field, sat cross-legged close to bramble bush between the watchful eyes of two constables, Barker glared coldly out at her. He had descended from the elegant heights of public politics to the lowest form of criminal in a matter of weeks – though Giles would argue the transition was not as far as some might suggest. Revealed and isolated, there was little he could do but sit and wait. The last hope he had – the final resort – had been his undoing.

A short distance away, Harris finished up with Bellamy and, with a brief shake of the hand, the two parted ways. With the hard work on the crime scene done, Harris took a moment to breathe it all in – his eyes lingering for one more time on the blood stained pillbox and the crumpled red grass where the body once lay.

Only when he was completely satisfied did he walk smartly towards Giles, stopping a few feet in front of her. He didn’t need to speak his gratitude – his smile had already done that for him – but he said it nonetheless:

‘I couldn’t have done this without you, Giles,’ he said.

‘Eve,’ Giles replied. ‘My name is Eve.’

‘All right… Eve.’

He turned his head to follow Giles’ gaze. Barker hadn’t moved for nearly thirty minutes – as still as a statue, he had been glaring straight at her. But it wasn’t intimidating – that wouldn’t be the right word for it at all – pleadingly might be a more apt description.

‘He’ll be taken back to the station,’ Harris explained. ‘We’ll charge him with murder. I could even toss in a ‘wasting police time’ if you’d like?’

‘It won’t make a difference,’ Giles replied sullenly. ‘You haven’t got enough to convict him.’

Harris sucked at his lips. ‘There’s time. Besides it’s not like we have nothing: there’s the discrepancy of the shot range for starters. And the casing – I’m sure it will turn up eventually…’

Giles shook her head.

‘If you haven’t found it now, you’re not going to. More than likely it’s at the bottom of the river.’

‘Yes,’ Harris replied, although he didn’t seem to be in agreement with her. ‘Well, that’s not your problem anymore.’ He held out a firm hand to her. ‘Thank you for your help. I trust you’ll be available for testimony if we need it?’

Giles ignored the outstretched hand. Over the last thirty minutes an idea had been forming in her mind – an unsettling idea that had gripped hold of her and refused to let go. Despite every conscious attempt on her part to brush it aside, the idea had held firm, festered and spread until every single thought of her’s was consumed by it – consumed by a single question.

What if…?

She snapped her head towards Harris, her face set and unyielding as she said:

‘Detective Inspector, I wonder if I might ask a favour?’

Harris was only too happy to oblige until Giles told him what she wanted. The colour drained from his face and a sense of doom seemed to take hold of him.

‘Absolutely not,’ he replied. ‘This is still my investigation, Giles. This man has been arrested for murder. I can’t possibly…’

‘We both know you haven’t got a case,’ Giles interrupted, speaking quietly so that no one else could hear. ‘Any good lawyer will get it thrown out within the hour, and Daniel Barker will be able to get himself a good lawyer.’

‘But what you’re talking about is madness. He’s been manipulating us from the first moment and now he’s got you right where he had me only an hour ago. I can’t allow you to buy into this…’

‘But he knows something about my case.’

‘Then let us take him in, get him locked down and then I can let you talk to him. Just wait one hour until we have him processed and then you can question him to your heart’s content…’

‘Five minutes.’ She held up the fingers of her left hand. ‘Just five minutes alone with him. That’s all I’m asking for…’

‘I’m going to need a damn sight more than that, Eve,’ Harris replied. ‘This man is looking at a murder charge – any hint that we haven’t done this thing by the book and his lawyers will eat us alive. It’s going to be hard enough to explain why I let you help in the first place without you following your own lines of inquiry into a separate case…’

‘Daniel Barker didn’t kill that man.’

To say that Harris didn’t understand would be a gross understatement. He blinked twice and his mouth dropped open slightly, but no sound came out – nothing distinguishable as sound at any rate. When he finally did speak, it almost seemed as though it had come from somewhere else, as his lips barely moved and his whole body was stiffened with nervous tension.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Giles had little time to explain – in truth, she couldn’t really explain it herself. But somewhere in the back of her mind a small voice willed her on.

‘I mean…’ she hesitated, ‘… he might not have killed that man.’

Harris would have laughed if the matter weren’t so serious.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ he spluttered. ‘The whole morning you’ve been on my back, desperate to prove that Barker is a murderer. You’ve finally convinced me and now you’re saying he didn’t do it.’

‘I know it doesn’t make sense…’

‘You even found the evidence that refuted his story for Christ’s sake. You practically got a confession out of him…’

‘But I didn’t, did I?’ Giles fired back. ‘What did he admit to? Nothing? Writing a couple of names on two train tickets and planting them at the scene. That doesn’t mean the rest of his story isn’t true…’

‘It poses a credibility problem if nothing else…’

‘Five minutes. That’s all I need and then he’s all yours, I promise.’

Harris sighed deeply. He had gotten over the shock now and his mind was begging to work. Even now, Giles could see the cogs turning in his brain as the colour returned to his face.

‘You tell me one thing,’ he muttered, moving in menacingly close to Giles. ‘Who is this man to you?’

‘He’s no one…’

‘No, no,’ he interrupted, waggling a rigid finger at her. ‘Don’t give me that. An hour ago you would have made it your mission in life to see Barker ended, now you can’t wait to get him on side. What was it about the Bluebell Killer that made you change your mind?’

‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘Let me talk to him for five minutes. Just to find out what he knows – if he really is who I think he is. Anything about the murder will be strictly off limits, I promise…’

‘And who do you think he is? Clearly not Daniel Barker the extreme politician. Clearly not the man who would have you and everyone like you drummed out of the country…’

Giles smiled warmly back at him. ‘If he is who I think he is, I promise you will have an explanation…’

‘You’ll give me one anyway.’

He turned to look at Barker and then, with a slight swoop of his hand, he finally relented and gestured for Giles to approach. If appreciation could ever be conveyed by a nod, Giles demonstrated it in that moment. She stepped past him and marched quickly up to Barker, aware that Harris was gesturing something over her shoulders. As though on cue, the two constables stepped away from Barker as she arrived and walked a few metres away, giving them plenty of space.

She didn’t want Barker’s approval – but she got it anyway.

‘Very nice,’ he said, shifting his weight to get slightly more comfortable. ‘The power you must wield Detective Sergeant Giles. You must be a truly formidable opponent…’

‘You would know. That’s how you got into this mess, isn’t it?’ She let the question hang for a few seconds. ‘Who are you?’

A sly grin etched its way across Barker’s face.

‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ he said soothingly. ‘You have to believe that.’

‘I didn’t ask…’

‘No,’ Barker agreed. ‘But you are curious.’

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Five minutes is never enough time to do anything and, as the silence ate away at it, Giles’ began to feel the strangest sensation of fear and panic – although she had no real reason to be.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘they have all the evidence they need to put you away.’

Barker’s mouth curled with a momentary glimpse of anger. ‘Evidence based on prejudice is no evidence at all.’

‘Coming from a man with your ideological background, that’s really touching…’

Barker paused, took a deep breath and steadied himself. ‘It’s just politics. It’s nothing personal.’

‘Not to you maybe…’

Although she didn’t show it, inside Giles felt like smiling. For the first time since she had laid eyes on Barker, she felt the cautious feeling of triumph moving through her body. Barker, the man who made it acceptable to hate others in Britain, was accused of murder and the evidence was pointing towards a probable conviction. The man who inspired so much ill feeling was facing a lifetime in one of the darkest buildings in Britain…

Good riddance to him…

Deep inside her, a hissing beast wiggled around, willing Giles to turn and walk away.

‘You can’t allow them to take me in,’ Barker protested, crossing his arms and staring confrontationally around at the surrounding officers.

‘I can’t stop them. This isn’t my jurisdiction.’

‘What if I made it your jurisdiction?’

‘Why am I here?’

‘Don’t you understand? It’s all linked together. The killer you’re hunting, the man who tried to have me killed – it’s the same person.’

Giles chuckled. ‘The Bluebell Killer is dead. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Then why does he want us both dead?’

Barker glanced around. The ring of uniformed officers didn’t seem to be listening but he didn’t want to take any chances. He leant forward a little and whispered:

‘You were so close to bringing him down. So close.’

‘I did bring him down,’ Giles replied. ‘I have my scars to prove it…’

She reached up and touched the scarf around her neck. Barker’s eyes narrowed to look at the silk material, but Giles kept it firmly in place. Barker shook his head.

‘You found Donnovan, but that man is not the whole story,’ he muttered, his eyes narrowing on her. ‘You should really have followed the money…’

If there was ever any doubt in Giles’ mind about who Daniel Barker was to her, it had all but gone now. Inside her stomach, the beast wriggled a little and whispered to her.

Is that enough for you?

Giles took a step forward. Had it been any other person, she might have risked a smile. Instead, she stared at him for a moment before giving a short, courteous nod.

‘Hello, Max.’

 

Hidden behind a desk in the Kent Force Control Room, Alison Carew peered subtly over the top of her computer. At the next desk in front, Lawrence Heller was doing his usual tea run, moving from desk to desk to take their orders as he did at this time every morning. As he stopped at the desk before Alison’s, his eyes momentarily flickered up to see her peering out at him. With what she hoped was with a casual demeanour, Alison allowed her eyes to wander around the room before she slinked back into her chair and pretended to resume her typing.

She had hoped that this would be the day when Lawrence would extend his generosity as far as her relegated position at the back of the Control Room, that finally she would be accepted as one of the team. But, as he did everyday, Lawrence merely chuckled to himself and went off to grab the beverages for the rest leaving Alison with the cold, hard feeling of undeserved misery and uselessness.

She had never been one of the team. Ever since they found out who her father was, Alison had been the person to avoid. She was the daughter of the Former Prime Minister; the man who not only successfully led the country blindly in to near bankruptcy, but had also flourished his achievement with a couple of illegal wars that tore the straps of Britain’s communal camaraderie to shreds. For those who didn’t like the current government, Edmund Carew was the target of all their abuse and, as his daughter, Alison was no less a focus of their brutal remarks.

It had been this isolation that had made Alison so eager to run the secretive errands for the top dogs of the Force. Occasionally that meant snitching on the others in her team much to their disgust and irritation but, given her already well-established unpopularity, it had made little difference to her day-to-day existence.

Although, the occasional cup of tea would have been nice…

It had been a slow day so far. The only real incident had been the body found by the River Eden earlier that morning. The Bank Holiday usually brought its fair share of drunken scuffles and domestic disturbances but nothing that seriously strained them. Today there had hardly been any so far. But the day was still young and afternoon rush would soon be in full swing…

Alison listened attentively to the radio chatter coming from the scene at Edenbridge, watching jealously as Lawrence returned with a tray full of teas that he dished out gleefully to the rest of the team. She had little to do after the initial call out save for recovering some contact details for Detective Sergeant Giles for the DI on scene. The waves had been effectively silent ever since.

But now the radio was positively buzzing with activity as the team packed up to head back.

‘Dispatch Control, do you read me, over?’

Alison cleared her throat and adjusted her headset to bring the microphone closer to her mouth. ‘This is Dispatch, reading you clearly, over.’

‘Please advise the station, we are bringing in a suspect, over.’

Alison’s nimble fingers darted over her keyboard as she typed in the information. ‘Copy that. Central has been advised. What is the identity of the prisoner, over?’

‘Suspect’s name is Daniel Barker, over.’

She couldn’t stop herself. The mere mention of that man’s name caused her to freeze and draw a large breath of shock. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard and her mind formed an image of the man they had in custody; the man who’s youthful charm and wit had not only ousted her father but made him the most hated man in Britain. Daniel Baker – the man who ruined her father’s career…

And her life.

Vengeance comes in all forms. For Alison Carrew, the idea of Barker plunged into a jail cell was justice enough for what he’d done. But she was sure her superiors would want to know about it as well – after all, something as serious as Barker being brought in for murder…

‘Copy that. They’ll be ready. Out.’

The radio went silent.

Alison stared at the screen in silence, her fingers slowly reaching for her jacket pocket. From it, she removed a mobile phone that she tucked inside her sleeve as she quietly got to her feet and moved towards the door. From his desk, Lawrence watched her with a mischievous smile as she crossed the office and stepped through the door that led to the kitchen.

It was a cramped little kitchen, barely large enough for more than a couple of people to squeeze inside. She filled up the kettle and turned it on before taking out her phone and typing a text message.

Daniel Barker to be brought in. Suspected of murder in Edenbridge.

            Satisfied, she hit the send button and waited until the message was gone before pocketing the phone. A few moments later, the kettle was boiled and Alison poured herself a cup of tea that she carried delicately back to her desk before continuing with her work.

She had a feeling that today was going to be very satisfying…

nick1Nick R B Tingley is a crime writer from the UK. After several years working as a ghostwriter, Nick released his debut novel The Bluebell Informant– the first in his DS Evelyn Giles series. He is currently working on the second in the series – The Court of Obsessions – as well as a Victorian-era mystery novella called The Butcher of Barclay’s Hollow. 

To stay up to date with Nick’s latest releases, subscribe to his newsletter now. They’ll be no spamming – I promise!

The Bluebell Informant – Chapter 7

If you’re not up to speed on The Bluebell Informant so far, the first five chapters can be found here.

Chapter Seven

‘Mister Barker.’

Barker’s face almost dropped when he caught sight of Giles marching towards him. It was understandable enough – the image of Giles walking intently at you was enough to make any suspect squirm. But Barker was different – he had personally offended Giles long before she had ever met him, and that made her dangerous.

And that made him wary.

‘Detective Sergeant Giles,’ he said. ‘Am I right in thinking you’ve changed your mind about me?’

‘I haven’t changed my mind about anything, Barker,’ Giles spat, coming to a halt in front of the former politician. ‘I just wanted to demonstrate to DI Harris here how I got so far so quickly in the service.’

‘Oh?’ Barker eyed Harris curiously. ‘And what has that to do with me?’

‘One name,’ Giles spat. ‘One name that everybody has heard of. Granted, not everyone would necessarily know mine, but I’m sure a little digging through the headlines would come up trumps for you.’ She paused to look around. ‘I got to hand it to you though, it was a good attempt.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about…’

‘You say you were fighting with the victim over the gun, correct?’

Barker blinked twice before nodding. ‘That’s right.’

‘That’s funny, because the bullet wound in the back of his head says something different. In fact, I’d stake my reputation on that bullet being fired from quite a considerable distance – probably from inside the bunker. The same bunker that you crawled into…’ she pointed at his shoes, ‘… hence the dust and powder marks on your shoes.

‘You probably disposed of the bullet casing, the same way you disposed of John Doe’ wallet, keys and phone – chucking them in the river. But you weren’t quite quick enough to hide the body, were you? You got spotted by…’ She turned to Harris. ‘What was the name of the lady who came across them?’

Harris’s hands quickly plunged into his pockets and pulled out a notebook. Rifling through the pages, he searched for the name whilst Barker stood, quivering and afraid beneath Giles’ icy glare.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Barker announced, his voice trembling a little. ‘I have already said, the man attacked me…’

Giles sneered at him. ‘You’re a politician. Lies are second nature to you…’

Beside her, Harris had finally found what he was looking for:

‘Miss Maisy Dawlish…’

‘And what did Miss Dawlish report seeing, sir?’

Harris read a few words before speaking:

‘She saw Mister Barker crouched over the victim, seemingly going through his pockets.’

Giles raised an eyebrow. ‘Going through his pockets?’

‘I had just been attacked,’ Barker pleaded. His eyes scanned all about him as though looking for a way out. ‘I had to be sure he didn’t have any more weapons on him…’

‘Or maybe you were just gathering his belongings,’ Giles said, turning back to Harris and saying: ‘What happened next, sir?’

‘Miss Dawlish said she recognised Mister Barker straight away. He told her there had been a horrible accident and that she needed to call the police…’

‘Yes, I did,’ Barker replied defiantly. ‘I had been targeted by someone, I wasn’t about to just run and leave a body lying about.’

‘You couldn’t run,’ Giles agreed, letting loose a small smirk. ‘You’d already been identified. Short of killing Miss Dawlish herself, you had to stick around to face the music…’

‘That is a preposterous suggestion…’

‘Careful, Giles.’

Giles felt Harris’ cool hand grasp a loose hold of her wrist. As she turned to him, she saw in his eyes a glimmer of fear. Whatever her convictions, this was still Harris’ investigation. Any fall out from Giles’ actions would land firmly on him – she had to tread carefully.

‘So, you sent Miss Dawlish to call for help?’ she asked, her voice a little softer this time.

‘Yes,’ Barker replied, a moment of relief and mild satisfaction crossing his face as he eyed Harris.

‘That’s a little strange. After all, you did have your own phone.’ Giles smiled cynically at him. ‘Why couldn’t you use that?’

Barker stumbled to a halt:

‘I…,’ he stammered. ‘I… Well, I was…’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ Giles interrupted again, beginning to enjoy herself. ‘Because you hadn’t counted on being seen. A well-known scumbag like you committing a murder – you wouldn’t last five minutes once the police had all the facts. You had to improvise. You found the two tickets in John Doe’s pockets…’

‘No,’ Baker replied shaking his head. ‘No, I never…’

‘And you scribbled a name on each – yours on one, mine on the other – to make it look like some sort of professional hit…’

Something snapped in Barker’s mind. Before them all, his fists curled up into balls and he looked, for just a moment, like he would lash out at them all. As his blazing eyes glared down at Giles, she could feel the hatred and anger that fuelled him and his convictions. He wasn’t a psychopath or a man just born to hate – his environment had created him that way.

‘And why do you think I wrote your name, Giles?’ he bellowed, snarling wildly at her.

As the last echoes of his voice disappeared into the distance, the scene fell silent. Everyone, from Harris to the escorting constables, stared motionlessly at Barker as he breathed heavily in and out. For some the realisation was instant, for others it took a little while. From behind her, Giles felt Harris take a step forward to examine Barker.

‘You admit it then?’ he said quietly. ‘You wrote those names on the tickets?’

Barker was the last to realise what he’d done. Even as he glared down at Harris, his eyes seemed to soften as the implication of what he had said planted a seed of terror in his mind. He took a few steps back, his eyes scanning wildly from Giles to Harris as his fingers quivered – ready for a fight.

‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, I didn’t mean…’

Giles took a step towards him.

‘Like I said, it was a very good attempt; the bluebell fields, my name on the ticket, the brief mention of the Bluebell Killer to Harris here. Had you been anyone else, I might have been convinced.’ She leaned a little closer. ‘But the thing is I don’t like you. I despise what you stand for and nothing will give me greater pleasure than watching you fall…’

She took a step back away from him.

‘The Bluebell Killer is dead, Mister Barker,’ she said loudly for everyone to hear. ‘He isn’t coming back.’

Barker shook his head.

‘How close were you, Evelyn?’ he asked quietly. ‘Did you even know what you were looking for before I gave you a hand?’

Giles’ mind stopped. There was no anger, no disgust, no excitable logic. It was as if all conscious thought had been replaced by a moment of sheer shock and awe. Without even thinking, she stepped a little closer towards Barker, her face no more than a few inches from his. With a hushed whisper, she said:

‘What are you talking about?’

Barker smiled.

‘You think this all ended with Donnovan. You haven’t got the faintest idea what is still out there.’ For a moment, Giles thought he might kiss her as he leant forward – his lips barely an inch away from her face. ‘You were warned before. And if you want to know the rest, you’ll have to get me out of this…’

A flurry of questions rippled through Giles’ head. It forced everything about the day out of her mind. She forgot the body. She forgot the tickets. She even forgot her victorious unmasking of Barker. She forgot it all in the wake of a thousand thoughts and memories – images she had spent the last year trying to force into the back of her mind.

In the midst of the silence, Harris placed a gentle hand back on Giles’ arm and gently pulled her back from Barker. She didn’t resist, she just let herself be led back until Harris was left alone in front of Barker.

Barker – for his part – continued to stare pointedly at Giles. He barely reacted as Harris read out his rights and two uniformed officers cuffed his hands behind his back. And when Harris had finished, he allowed himself to be led over to the side of the clearing where he was sat down whilst Harris held a hurried discussion with his colleagues about what to do next.

But all that was a blur for Giles.

In her mind, she pictured tens of dead bodies. She remembered months of fruitless paperwork. She recalled the lost man-hours chasing shadows through the streets of London.

And through it all, her mind settled on a mental image of a man.

A man sat alone in the dark.

A man making furtive phone calls and collating secretive packages.

A man completely unknown to her – and yet he was closer to her than many others in her life.

But the man she imagined looked nothing like Daniel Barker. He didn’t even sound like him or speak with the same calculated intelligence. There was nothing about him that related to that vile excuse of a man that she watched sitting at the side of the field.

Everything she knew, or thought she knew, of this man shattered into a thousand pieces. Everything she assumed was gone save one thing…

A name.

A single, fake name.

Max…

nick1Nick R B Tingley is a crime writer from the UK. After several years working as a ghostwriter, Nick released his debut novel The Bluebell Informant– the first in his DS Evelyn Giles series. He is currently working on the second in the series – The Court of Obsessions – as well as a Victorian-era mystery novella called The Butcher of Barclay’s Hollow. 

To stay up to date with Nick’s latest releases, subscribe to his newsletter now. They’ll be no spamming – I promise!

Win a Free Paperback Copy of The Bluebell Informant – Entries close in 12 hours!

A very brief one this time.

For those of you who may have missed the initial announcement, I am in the process of putting together a paperback version of The Bluebell Informant. To celebrate the end of the first week since launching The Bluebell Informant for downloads, I am offering one lucky person a paperback copy of the book.

All you have to do to be in with a chance of getting a free copy is to subscribe to my New Releases mailing list before Midnight on Friday 14th April (GMT). That is in twelve hours time!

The winning name will be drawn over the weekend and announced at some point next week.

So get subscribing! 

How do you catch a killer who is already dead?

One year ago, the Bluebell Killer killed his last victim. He was shot and killed, leaving behind a legacy of twenty corpses and a name that people will fear for years to come…

A year later, a man is shot in the back of the head and left in a field of bluebells.
Is it a mugging gone wrong? A copycat killer? Or is the Bluebell Killer still out there, waiting to pounce on his next victim?

For DS Evelyn Giles the solution is simple – it’s just another dirty politician caught committing an unforgiveable crime. But with the evidence stacking up against him, Giles’ suspect has one more surprise in store for her…
And his words will throw everything she knows into question…

‘It’s not over yet.’

The past is coming back to haunt DS Giles. She’s already sacrificed much for the lie. The only question is how much more will she suffer for the truth?

An ingeniously, gripping thriller, The Bluebell Informant is a dark, unexpected and emotionally charged debut.

First Lines: The Ghost – Robert Harris

The moment I hear how McAra died I should have walked away. I can see that now. I should had said, ‘Rick, I’m sorry, this isn’t for me, I don’t like the sound of it,’ finished my drink and left. But he was such a good storyteller, Rick – I often thought he should be the writer and I the literary agent – that once he’d started talking there was never any question I wouldn’t listen, and by the time he had finished, I was hooked.

And so are we.

Robert Harris’ political thriller, The Ghost, was truly a story of its time. The tale of a ghostwriter uncovering the secrets of a former prime minister, resonated well with the British public as news of Tony Blair the Iraq conspiracy hit the headlines. Written and released within months of Blair’s resignation, the story tapped into many of the conspiracy theories that were floating around at the time and, for that reason alone, guaranteed that it would be read by a wide audience…

But it is the opening lines that really launch this story.

In the first instance, we are hit with a horrible revelation. Macro – whoever he is – is dead. We don’t know who he is or what he does, whether he has a link to our main character or not – all we know is that he’s dead and, by virtue of being mentioned in the very first line, we know it has something to do with the rest of the plot.

From the very first sentence, we are set up to expect a thriller where murder is on the cards.

More than that though, we also learn something about our main character in these first words. ‘I should have walked away’ – our main character can sense the danger he is in from the very first line and yet curiosity keeps him from walking away. It doesn’t surprise the reader later on that the whole story is driven by the investigative instincts of this character (who incidentally is never named) and the reason why the reader accepts it so readily is because the detail is there right in the opening line.

As an introduction to the themes of the book, the opening passage does it quite well (and subtly).

 

The entire story of The Ghost revolves around the main character attempting to pick apart the various stories that the main characters have. All of them – whether it is the Prime Minister or his PA or his wife – tell tales throughout the novel, masking the truth behind a veneer of good storytelling. Even the main character himself spends the vast majority of the first part of the novel attempting to do precisely the same thing – weaving a convincing story about the Prime Minister’s life that would entertain readers whilst forwarding the politician’s agenda…

And that theme is right here in the opening paragraph.

Sure, there is no mention of politics at this stage, no talk of corruption or double dealings – even the death of McAra is explained so briefly that the reader is unsure of whether it was an accident or murder. But the unnamed ghost writer’s musings on how good a storyteller Rick is – how he manages to weave a convincing tale in order to get him interested – is not unlike the actions of the characters in the rest of the story. Right from the beginning, Harris sets the precedent – anyone will tell a story to get what they want. And that idea follows through the whole novel right up to the final pages.

In little more than a few sentences, Harris has us hooked – and the rest of the book is just as intriguing…

Now it’s your turn.

What does this opening do for you? Does Harris get you hooked or do you still need a bit more convincing? Is the introduction of the themes of this book too subtle for your liking? Have you read The Ghost? Did you enjoy it?

As always, if you like what you’ve read (and I would hope if you’ve read this far that you did), press that like button at the bottom of the post. Or, if you’re not a blogger, share it on Facebook, Twitter and whatever else you can think of.

Don’t agree with me? Didn’t like the post? Leave a comment down below and let me know why. Anyone can comment so don’t be shy.

And if you have a suggestion for a future First Lines book? Leave your suggestion below.

Keep on reading.

The History Behind The Butcher of Barclays Hollow

The Butcher of Barclays Hollow follows the story of an unlikely policeman who is called upon to solve a murder in a small, rural village. Set in a time when the police force in the UK was sporadic at best, the novella explores the difficulties of solving a large scale crime as well as the general public’s distrust of police.

But where did the idea come from? What prompted me to journey back to the very beginnings of the police force to write a new crime story?

In today’s post, I’m going to take you back in time to 1855 to explore what influenced me to write The Butcher of Barclays Hollow and the unfathomable world in which it is set.

Where did the idea come from?

bobby1Like most of my ideas, I stumble across the concept for The Butcher of Barclays Hollow when reading another book.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher is a factual account of the murder of a toddler at Road Hill House in 1860 and the subsequent investigations by a Scotland Yard detective, Jonathan Whicher. Whilst reading this book last summer, I became intrigued by the constant references to the inefficiency of the local police forces in rural areas. In particular, I was interested by a comment from the author, Kate Summerscale, who suggested that a large number of constables in the years leading up to 1860 were not only volunteers, but also unpaid.

The concept for The Butcher of Barclays Hollow sprang to my mind almost immediately. I had often wanted to write a story set in England during the Crimean War (1854-56) – don’t ask, it was just a time period that I found interesting – and I was keen to find another story premise where I could follow a detective who wasn’t really a detective. The idea of have a local villager volunteering as a police officer to investigate a murder was one that ticked all the boxes and so I set to work bringing the idea to life.

What sort of state is the police force in at the time?

In 1855, the police force is in a bit of a rough state. Whilst there was a relatively large police force in London (having been established in 1829) and a provision by which local magistrates could create police forces for individual areas, there were very few constabularies in rural areas. In fact, by 1855 there were only 12,000 policemen throughout the whole of England and Wales and only 36 counties out of the 54 that had seen fit to establish constabularies.

In Dorset, where I decided to set the village of Barclays Hollow, the Dorset County arrestConstabulary was only established in 1855 – but the existing law did not require counties to set up such police forces.

However, in 1842 something had happened that would be a huge influence on my story. The Parish Constables Act was passed in response to the Chartists Movement – a working class movement that aimed to extend the right to vote beyond just those who owned property – who presented a petition to the House of Commons, which was then rejected leading to widespread unrest.

The Parish Constables Act allowed Justices of the Peace to appoint local parish constables. It was of these parish constables that Kate Summerscale was referring to in The Suspicions of Mr Whicher. Apart from being part time, these constables were also appointed and poorly paid – if they were lucky to be paid at all. For the most part, these posts tended to attract those people who weren’t prepared to risk their lives to protect others and, in some instances, were easily corruptible.

Why was the police force so slow to build?

The police force in London had been so successful in cutting crime and increasing the detection of criminal acts that it is a wonder that the idea of a large police force didn’t come to the rural communities sooner.

But, despite the successes of the police force, many people didn’t look to fondly on the new crime fighting organisations. Some saw the police constabularies as an arm of the government, aimed at enforcing the new Poor Law – a law that created the disgusting workhouse scenarios that we know from such literary classics as Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist – or for beating down the Chartists Movement.

Others saw the idea as an expensive waste of time whilst others just couldn’t be bothered to co-ordinate between boroughs and counties to get the service up and running. All of this was compounded by the fact that there was no governmental oversight to ensure the inspection or regulation of these constabularies, which led many to not bother or create a token force.

What changed?

That was until 1856, the year after my story. The 1856 Police Act addressed this lack of oversight in the constabularies and the County Borough Police Act essentially forced the whole country to set up police forces that reported directly to the government.With these new acts came new money – grants that were awarded based on the efficiency of individual forces – and a shift of focus from the prevention of crime to detection.

bobby2In the wake of these changes, 239 police forces were set up and the Modern Police Service was born.

So, there you have it, the police force of Britain in 1855 was a very lax, complicated and inefficient beast, but little more than a year later changes were about to happen that would create the police force that we know today.

 

I can’t think of a better time to set a story…

 

The Butcher of Barclays Hollow is due for release later this year.

 

What influences a writer?

Over the last few weeks, I’ve had a number of people asking me the same (or at least a very similar) question…

Why are you suddenly so politically active?

And they don’t just mean on my blog. Recently I’ve been talking a lot more about politics, specifically the political landscape in Britain, and on one or two occasions I have even poked fun at the political state of the country. I’ve been talking on Facebook, I’ve been talking in person to individuals…

And a lot of people are wondering, ‘Why now?’

Well, the simple answer would be to simply say that what is going on in Britain at the moment had touched a nerve of some description – that the current shambles that is British politics and the recent vote to Brexit is something that I just happen to feel passionate about.

But that wouldn’t quite be true…

It’s not untrue, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.

For one thing, I always like to think I’m making a point in my writing.

Whether I am telling a story about Jack the Ripper or telling a tale about how an Irish baker is forced into becoming a detective in a secluded, Victorian village, all of my stories have some point that I am trying to put across. And, now that I have people asking about my sudden outcry over Brexit and British politics in general, I feel that the time has come to talk a little about what motivates my writing and what you can expect when you tuck into a Nick R B Tingley story…

For the past three years, my writing has been bound by similar threads and themes. Like most writers, I have found myself falling into a genre that I enjoy writing (in my case crime fiction) but I have also carved out a little niche for myself within that genre. It is not enough for me to tell a tale about a brutal murder and a detective’s attempt to solve it – I much prefer to delve deep into our own mindset and pluck out what I perceive to be the fascinating aspects of our society…

If you have read any of my stories, you may well have noticed the major themes already – although a closer look at my tag-line may have also given it away…

The Dark Corrupts Us All

Simply put, I tell stories about the lies that people tell each other. In the case of Dressed to Deceive, the story explores the lies told on an individual level but also addresses the backdrop of the time where the newspaper men who covered Jack the Ripper’s crimes were doing everything and anything to keep him on the front page and, as a result, fuelling the fear that swept across the country.

In the case of The Butcher of Barclay’s Hollow, the lies are a little simpler. I won’t reveal too much as I haven’t even finished the story yet, but I can tell you that one of the driving forces of this tale is the idea that the detective character is an Irishman who has been nominated to be the village policeman against his will. In a time where being Irish wasn’t exactly a cause of joy for small town, Victorian England, the Irishman spends the vast majority of his time trying to sift through all the lies he is told by others in a torturous attempt to find even the tiniest scraps of relevant information.

In the DS Giles stories, the subject of lies is developed even further as I begin to investigate the idea of politicians lying to each other. Although it is very rare that a politician actually appears (or will appear) in a Giles novel, the decisions they make and the lies they propagate run through the background of every event that shapes Giles’ life and with each new lie, a new evil emerges from the shadows.

But lies are not the only thing that influence my writing. There is something a little deeper than that.

In a large proportion of my stories, my leading characters are at a complete disadvantage to everyone else. In the case of The Butcher of Barclay’s Hollow, the character of Conroy is an Irishman living in Victorian England. He is viewed by many with suspicion and the main reason why he becomes the village policeman in the first place is because some of the other villagers are desperate to reveal him as the idiot, barbarian that they think he is.

In the case of the DS Giles novels, Giles takes on this role. Like Conroy, she is treated with suspicion. But, whilst Conroy belongs to a time gone by, Giles is a detective of Asian descent living in a modern Britain – a Britain where a far right political party has taken control and are systematically trying to remove or destroy all immigrants from their lands…

And maybe now you begin to see it – why the whole Brexit question and the state of British politics has prompted me to become more vocal about it all. It is all, in some way or another, relevant to my writing – I just hope that what I create in my mind doesn’t come to pass…

In the film, Chaplin – a biopic of Charlie Chaplin made in the early 1990s – Robert Downey Jr. (who plays Chaplin) makes what I think is a rather apt comment. I have no idea whether the real Charlie Chaplin ever said it – a quick glance through various internet search engines didn’t come up with anything to suggest he did – but I like to think that he might have at least thought it. It is a sentiment that I strongly agree with and, for that reason I shall repeat it to you now…

‘If you want to understand me, watch my movies.’

Of course, in my case, I should probably paraphrase it slightly.

So if you ever find yourself wondering why I am suddenly taking an interest in certain aspects of the world that I haven’t necessarily drawn much attention to in the past, just remember this one little phrase and, with any luck, it might make things a little clearer…

If you want to understand me, read my stories.