WHO TOOK OFFICE WORKER SHELLEY CRAIG? Read an extract from Vile City (Volume 1 Detective in a Coma)

#VileCity #detectiveinaComa

#crimethriller #tartannoir 

*****Get the book HERE ***

DI Duncan Waddell is on the brink of a nervous breakdown – he thinks his best pal DC Stevie Campbell, who’s been in a coma since he was attacked by a suspect, is talking to him.

When office worker Shelley ruses to her boyfriend’s aid after he is attacked, she is abducted. She wakes up in a strange room with no memory of how she got there.

On the case, Waddell finds himself in a desperate race against time to uncover the truth behind the abduction.

To do this, he and his team must delve into the seedy underbelly of Scotland’s swingers’ scene and a world where women are tricked into the sex business and traded like cattle.

Vile City is out now, published by Diamond Books in paperback and eBook. 

You can buy it by clicking here

 

~ Read an extract ~

Chapter 1

Stuart was hiding something. Shelley could tell. She was always the one who’d had to wake him because he could block out the shrill of the alarm clock. Nowadays, he was up before her, grabbing the mail whilst she slept. And he’d started making breakfast – nothing much, just tea and toast, more than he’d ever made her in their near three years together.

When she’d ask him if anything was wrong, he’d shrug his shoulders, give her a wee smile and say everything was fine. She knew he was lying because his face went even paler, making his freckles stand out as if they’d been drawn in by a kid with a coloured pencil. She never pushed it, maybe because deep down she was worried that he’d tell her he’d met someone else.

The No.76 bus was empty when they clambered on board – one of the benefits of working until eleven at night in a call centre, was that there was no need to scoot past a sea of legs and become a contortionist to get on and off a bus.

Their cold breath filled the air with ghosts as they walked towards Waterstones, Shelley pausing to peek at the new crime fiction releases showcased in the illuminated windows, whilst Stuart fidgeted with his watch. He was always footering about with something since he’d given up cigarettes and it drove her mad, but at least it didn’t fill his lungs with tar and make the house smell like an overflowing ashtray.

“I need to have a pee,” he announced, as they came to the dimly lit lane off Mitchell Street that reeked of eau de Glasgow: decomposing takeaway, urine and other bodily fluids.

She groaned. “Can’t you wait until we get home, Stuart?” She knew she’d pronounced his name “Stew-art” as she always did when she was annoyed with him. She couldn’t help it.

What made men think it was okay to urinate in public?

Stuart looked pained. “Sorry, I can’t. Too much coffee tonight.”

She let him walk on ahead of her and whilst he scooted down the alley, she stood outside the amusement arcade, pretending to look in so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a prostitute. It’d happened to her once when she’d got off the bus alone. Stuart hadn’t been working that night.

Five minutes later, she was so cold she couldn’t feel her nose and Stuart still wasn’t back.

She turned the corner to look for him, fully expecting to see him ambling back towards her with that jaunty walk that always made her smile. He wasn’t there.

Where was he?

Anger welled up in her chest. Had he started smoking again? He swore he wouldn’t.

There was one way to find out.

She headed down the alley. The sole light was provided from some nearby buildings, so visibility was poor.

She’d walked a few steps when she spotted a bundle of rags on the ground. Was someone sleeping there?

She moved closer, squinting into the dim light. Stuart was lying motionless on the ground. He must have tripped and knocked himself out as he hit the concrete.

She ran to him, calling out his name, the squeezing in her chest waning slightly when she knelt and heard him groan.

She pulled her mobile phone from her bag to call for an ambulance.

She didn’t make it to the third digit. A gloved hand clamped across her mouth and nose, cutting off her airways. The phone fell from her grasp, clattering onto the cobbles. Terror gripped her and she couldn’t breathe.

As she struggled, her assailant pressed his mouth to her ear. He was so close that it occurred to her that if anyone saw them, they would think he was her boyfriend whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

“Your man’s been given a strong sedative. He’ll wake up with a sore head and nothing more. If you scream, I’ll kick him several times in the head and he’ll never get up again. Do you understand?”

The voice was cold and emotionless She didn’t recognise it and there was an accent. Not from around here.

She nodded under his hand. Then did something he didn’t expect. Backheeled him in the groin.

There was a satisfying yelp as he released her.

She ran, arms pumping away like Usain Bolt, down towards the café at the end of the alley and safety.

She’d almost made it when he grabbed her arm and hauled her back. An electric shock shot from her elbow to her shoulder as she tried to pull herself free. He was too strong.

He dragged her towards him.

Before she could scream, he punched her in the face and she went down with a thud, jarring every bone in her body, momentarily stunning her.

As she fought to get up, he punched her in the back, and she fell again.

The last thing she saw was the pavement rushing towards her before she blacked out...

WHO TOOK OFFICE WORKER SHELLEY CRAIG? An extract from Vile City by Jennifer Lee Thomson

Vile City tells the story of abducted office  Shelley Craig and Detective Inspectorworker Duncan Waddell's attempts to find her.

Vile City is published by Diamond Crime and is available now in paper⁸ back and in eBook (across a⁸ range of formats). 

~ Read an extract ~

Chapter 1

Stuart was hiding something. Shelley could tell. She was always the one who'd had to wake him because he could always block out the shrill of the alarm clock, but these days he was up before her, grabbing the mail whilst she slept. And, he’d started making breakfast – nothing much, just tea and toast, but that was more than he’d ever made her in their two and a bit years together.

When she'd calmly ask him if anything was wrong, he’d shrug his shoulders, give her a wee smile and say everything was fine. But, she knew he was lying because his face went even paler, making his freckles stand out as if they'd been drawn in by a kid with a coloured pencil. She never pushed it, maybe because deep down she was worried that he’d tell her he’d met someone else.

The No.76 bus was empty when they clambered onboard - one of the benefits of working until 11 at night in a call centre, was that there was no need to scoot past a sea of legs and become a contortionist to get on and off a bus.

Their cold breath filled the air with ghosts as they walked towards Waterstone’s, Shelley pausing to take a peek at the new crime fiction releases showcased in the illuminated windows, whilst Stuart fidgeted with his watch. He was always footering about with something since he’d given up cigarettes⁸ and it drove her mad, but at least it didn’t fill his lungs with tar and make the house smell like an overflowing ashtray.

“I need to have a pee,” he announced, as they came to the dimly lit lane off Mitchell Street that reeked of eau de Glasgow: decomposing takeaway, urine and other bodily fluids.

She groaned. “Can't you wait until we get home, Stuart?” She knew she’d pronounced his name “Stew-art” as she always did when she was annoyed with him, but she couldn’t help it. What made men think it was okay to urinate in public?

Stuart looked pained. “Sorry, I can’t. Too much coffee tonight.”

She let him walk on ahead of her and whilst he scooted down the alley, she stood outside the amusement arcade, pretending to look in so she wouldn’t be mistaken as a prostitute. Around here, at this time of night, unaccompanied women were likely to be mistaken for prostitutes. It'd happened to her once when she'd got off the bus alone. Stuart hadn't been working that night.

Five minutes later, she was so cold she couldn't feel her nose and Stuart still wasn’t back.

She turned the corner to look for him, fully expecting to see him ambling back towards her with that jaunty walk that always made her smile. But, he wasn't there.

Where was he?

Anger welled up in her chest. Had he started smoking again? He swore he wouldn't.

There was one way to find out.

She headed down the alley. The sole light was provided from some nearby buildings so visibility was poor.

She’d walked a few steps when she spotted a bundle of rags on the ground. Was someone sleeping there?

She moved closer. Squinting into the dim light, she realised it was Stuart. He was lying motionless on the ground. He must have tripped and knocked himself out after hitting the concrete.

She ran over to him, calling out his name, the squeezing in her chest waning slightly when she knelt down and heard him groan.

She pulled her mobile phone from her bag to call for an ambulance.

She didn’t make it to the third digit. A gloved hand clamped across her mouth and nose, cutting off her airways and the phone fell from her grasp, clattering onto the cobbles. Terror gripped her and she couldn’t breathe.

As she struggled, her assailant pressed his mouth to her ear. He was so close that it occurred to her that if anyone saw them they would think he was her boyfriend whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

“Your man’s been given a strong sedative. He’ll wake up with a sore head and nothing more. But, if you scream, I’ll kick him several times in the head and he’ll never get up again. Do you understand?”

She didn’t recognise the voice, but there was an accent. Not from around here. His voice was cold and emotionless.

She nodded under his hand. Then she did something he didn't expect: she back-heeled him in the groin.

There was a satisfying yelp as he released her.

She ran, arms pumping away like Usain Bolt’s, down towards the café at the end of the alley and safety.

She'd almost made it when he grabbed her arm and hauled her back. An electric shock shot from her elbow to her shoulder as she pulled herself free. He was too strong.

She could offer little resistance as he dragged her towards him.

Before she could scream, he punched her fully in the face and she went down with a thud jarring every bone in her body, momentarily stunning her.

As she fought to get up, he punched her in the back and she fell again.

The last thing she saw was the pavement rushing towards her before she blacked out...

TO BE CONTINUED...

How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks heads from Shotgun Honey Out Dec 28th, 2018

Kirsty's loosely based on Rose McGowan's character Cherry Darling

I'm delighted to announce that I've just signed a deal with kick ass publisher Shotgun Honey to publish How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks.

You can read about the awesome Shotgun Honey here.

The novella introduces you to one-legged Glasgow barmaid Kirsty who goes on the run with a gangster's safe load of cash and gun after killing one of his security men with a stiletto heel to the skull.

Why should you want to read How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks?

It’s got a kick ass hero in Kirsty. She may have one leg - the other one was amputated after an accident - but she knows how to kick some serious butt.

She's loosely based on Rose McGowan's character Cherry Darling in Planet Terror and in Grindhouse.

There's an amazing cake that you jump out that features in a major scene in the book. Click here to read more on my blog about these pop up cakes.

There's enough twists and turns to bend your mind.

When will it be published?

How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks will be published on December 28th 2018.

Stay tuned for more details.

Great things about being a writer

 

One of my books, Living Cruelty Free at the Frankfurt Book Fair

Okay, I hold my hands up. There has been some complaining of late from me about how tough it is to be a writer with publishers giving your books away free without telling you and creepy people cyber stalking you.

So, I reckoned it was about time to look at the good stuff.

1. You can look up any website and claim its research. Last night I searched for 'how to kill someone and get away with it.' If the police think I'm up to something, I have a ready-made excuse, 'I'm writing a book' even if I am plotting murder:) Only kidding.

2. You get to develop multiple personalities without ending up on medication.

3. You can sit doing nothing for ages and still say you're working. Well, you can't expect those plot knots to unknot themselves.

4. If you're life is depressing you can create a better one. Become a character you’ve created. Immerse yourself in it. Live in it.

5. You can get revenge on anyone you like by having something awful happen to them in your book, and there's not a thing you can do about it. A dentist who was horrible to me, was eaten by his dogs, penis and all. I did change his name.

6. You will never be alone. You have all those characters to keep you company.

7. You can change the world; mould it into whatever you want. Create happy endings. Make sure the bad guys (or girls) get their comeuppance. Things you don’t get to do in real life.

8. There is no better feeling that a parcel coming containing the books you have lovingly crafted.

Publishing hits rock bottom

As writers we all struggle to get published. We toil all through the night when all sensible people are sleeping.

Our characters tug at our sleeves and lead us on a merry dance when we’re meant to be concentrating on something else: life stuff like paying the bills and taking the rubbish out.

We don’t have leisure time because we’re too busy scribbling away.

We end up with back problems (from sitting hunched over our laptops or notebooks), relationship problems (‘you care more about your writing than you do about me’), drink problems (there’s a reason I’m teetotal) and some of us even end up relying on heavy duty narcotics (I’m not there, yet, but give me time).

Maybe we writers should be sending pictures of our bums to publishers instead of head shots

So nothing sticks in the craw more than reading that the publishing industry, who hand out meagre advances to writers (if they hand out advances at all) can somehow come up with bucket loads of cash to hand to ‘celebrities’ to supposedly write books.

Pippa Middleton is the latest to be given a book deal. According to reports she’s been given a 400k book deal by Michael Joseph, an imprint of Penguin books to tell us how to be the perfect party hostess.  

According to these reports, Pippa who’s never so much as had an article published will write the book herself. It’s up to you whether you believe that or not as most celebs get ghostwriters.  

Ms Middleton is just the latest in a long line of ‘celebrities’ to get huge book deals and she won’t be the last.

Footnote - If you have no idea who Pippa Middleton is, lucky you. She’s the sister of Kate Middleton who married Prince William. She became famous because apparently she has a nice bottom.

The dreaded author photograph

The updated version of my bullying book is out and I hate the author picture. I wanted to look authorative, stylish, approachable.

Instead I look like none of those things. My head is so big I look like a Gonk* (a small, furry soft toy).

I read somewhere that readers like authors to look friendly, so you should smile in the picture. I tried that and ended up looking like a grinning buffoon.

I took the smile down a notch and realised I looked like the kind of woman who buried men under her patio. 

Not my author photo

Speaking to other writers I know I’m not alone in dreading that author picture.

The autors who actually seem to like theirs, or, at least feel okay about theirs, have:

1. Gotten their photo done professionally.
2. Or been born looking like a model.

How did my photo turn out? Guess you’ll have to buy the book.

But, I will tell you one thing – the picture was taken on a bad day and from my bad side not my good side. And, oh, since it was taken I have morphed into Jennifer Aniston.

To read more about Gonks, visit the Gonk Appreciation Socity on Facebook.

Why you need an agent

I found this great piece on why you need an agent that I think is a must for any writer - http://editorialass.blogspot.com/2008/09/why-you-should-never-submit-unagented.html

As someone who hopes to get one soon, I found this piece made me even more motivated to become a represented writer. Not least of all because I am terrible at this contract stuff.

I have probably have signed one giving my soul to the devil and not noticed!

Here's another good piece I found on the pet peeves of literary agents - http://www.redroom.com/blog/ninaamir/agent-reveals-pet-peeves-so-writers-can-avoid-them

Do you use certain words too much?

I read about author Jane Lovering putting her writing through the wordle.net site in this month’s Writing Magazine. 

Wordle creates a word cloud of your writing with the words you use the most highlighted and is a brilliant site. 

When I used it, the words it highlighted were – like, one, even, know, feel, away and smile.  Guess it’s time to comb that manuscript. 

Sometimes successful writers suck too…

Sometimes it’s so hard when you are struggling to get your first novel published to remember that even successful writers had their doubts too and weren’t always as good as they are now.

Take Harlan Coben for instance.  One of the best selling authors in the world, and the creator of the fantastic Myron Bolitar, I recently had the misfortune to read a book he wrote in his twenties and just recently had published.  Called Play Dead, it’s simply one of the worst books I have ever attempted to read.  I say attempted because after huffing and puffing through 100 pages, I decided life was way too short and put it down.

What was wrong with it?  I wouldn’t say it was badly written, but the main character the most beautiful woman in the world and her sports star husband, were too cardboard cut out for me.  I couldn’t empathise with them. 

Another book I simply could not finish, was one of Jeffery Deaver’s first.  Called Mistress of Justice, it was appalling.  This was meant to be have been ‘reworked’ some 13 years after it was published.  Yet, it was the first book of his I had to put down without finishing. 

As a writer, what have I learnt from reading bad books by good authors?

First off, you need believable characters.  They need to have a degree of likeability if they are people you want to suceed in whatever their chosen goal is.  Whether its finding a missing husband or child, running a marathon or solving a murder case.

Second of all, maybe even good authors need to get all the garbage out of their systems before they get to the good stuff.