infinities by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Scott Nicholson, Garry Kilworth, Eric Brown, John Grant, Anna Tambour, Kaitlin Queen, Iain Rowan, Linda Nagata, Keith Brooke Page B
Authors: Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Scott Nicholson, Garry Kilworth, Eric Brown, John Grant, Anna Tambour, Kaitlin Queen, Iain Rowan, Linda Nagata, Keith Brooke
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enemies – and an old love – in his seaside birthplace in north Essex. And why he won't let himself fall in love again. But first he must prove that he didn't murder his old flame, Geraldine Wyse...
Kaitlin Queen is the adult fiction pen-name of a best-selling children's author. Kaitlin also writes for national newspapers and websites. Born in Essex, she moved to Northumberland when she was ten and has lived there ever since. This is her first crime novel for an adult audience.
Buy now: One More Unfortunate by Kaitlin Queen $2.99 / £2.18.
'There are twists and turns galore before finally the murder is solved... The characterizations are vivid, and in a couple of cases really quite affecting; the taut tale-telling rattles along at good speed; and the solution to the mystery is both startling and satisfying. Recommended.' — 5* Amazon review
novel extract:
One More Unfortunate by Kaitlin Queen
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.
—Thomas Hood, The Bridge of Sighs , 1844
Chapter 1
He had to get going. He had to move .
Sitting at the wheel of his old VW Golf, Nick Redpath tried to pull himself together.
He had to go for help.
To guide him he only had Betsy's vague instructions and his own sepia-tinted memories. It might be a long drive, he thought.
"There's a public house," Betsy had said. His wife insisted he should be called Marcus now, but he'd always been Betsy at school. "Just across the level crossing. Head towards the Ipswich Road. What's it called? Caroline? The name?"
Betsy had drunk a lot this evening and it was clearly a great effort for him to think straight. Even the shock hadn't sobered him up.
"Does it matter, Marcus?" Caroline snapped. "There's a pub. It'll have a telephone."
Nick left them arguing on the uneven wooden deck of the chalet. They'd be divorced in a year, he was certain of that: they'd been at each other's throats all evening.
A soft murmur of voices came from the next chalet. Trevor Carr was in there, comforting his girlfriend. Mandy's response had been erratic: one minute calm and rational, the next verging towards hysteria.
As Nick reached the parking area at the back Ronnie Deller appeared out of the night, still belligerent with drink. "I'm going," Ronnie said. "It's my place. I'm ... responsible."
"Come on, Ronnie," said Nick. He felt tired. He just wanted it all to be out of his hands, but not if that meant passing it on to Ronnie. "We decided," he said. "Will you let me through?" They'd all been drinking and at least Ronnie had been smoking dope. As Nick was the most sober it had been agreed that he should go and make the call while the others stayed together at the Strand.
For once Ronnie backed down, slouching away into the darkness. Before Nick had managed to start the engine, he heard him arguing loudly with Caroline Betts.
Alone with the night at last, Nick felt strangely secure in his old car. He felt that he might just slide down into the seat, wrap his arms around himself and try to forget. The temptation was strong.
He had to get going. He shook his head, slapped his face sharply. Once, twice.
Things seemed a little clearer now. Carefully, he set off, up Strand Lane with the Stour estuary spreading out behind him, all mud and water and drifts of sea-purslane.
It was mid-September, but the air was still peppered with bats and moths, sudden flashes of white in the full beam of the headlights. A long time ago he might have had names for them. Were those little bats called something like Pepperoni? Pipistrani? Pipistrelle?
He slapped his face again and then snatched at the wheel before the hedge could intervene. His mind was wandering. He had to pull himself together.
The lane could only be half a mile long, but it seemed to be taking forever, first surrounded by trees, now with open fields to either side.
Eventually, he came to the level crossing. There would be no trains at this time of
Kaitlin Queen is the adult fiction pen-name of a best-selling children's author. Kaitlin also writes for national newspapers and websites. Born in Essex, she moved to Northumberland when she was ten and has lived there ever since. This is her first crime novel for an adult audience.
Buy now: One More Unfortunate by Kaitlin Queen $2.99 / £2.18.
'There are twists and turns galore before finally the murder is solved... The characterizations are vivid, and in a couple of cases really quite affecting; the taut tale-telling rattles along at good speed; and the solution to the mystery is both startling and satisfying. Recommended.' — 5* Amazon review
novel extract:
One More Unfortunate by Kaitlin Queen
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.
—Thomas Hood, The Bridge of Sighs , 1844
Chapter 1
He had to get going. He had to move .
Sitting at the wheel of his old VW Golf, Nick Redpath tried to pull himself together.
He had to go for help.
To guide him he only had Betsy's vague instructions and his own sepia-tinted memories. It might be a long drive, he thought.
"There's a public house," Betsy had said. His wife insisted he should be called Marcus now, but he'd always been Betsy at school. "Just across the level crossing. Head towards the Ipswich Road. What's it called? Caroline? The name?"
Betsy had drunk a lot this evening and it was clearly a great effort for him to think straight. Even the shock hadn't sobered him up.
"Does it matter, Marcus?" Caroline snapped. "There's a pub. It'll have a telephone."
Nick left them arguing on the uneven wooden deck of the chalet. They'd be divorced in a year, he was certain of that: they'd been at each other's throats all evening.
A soft murmur of voices came from the next chalet. Trevor Carr was in there, comforting his girlfriend. Mandy's response had been erratic: one minute calm and rational, the next verging towards hysteria.
As Nick reached the parking area at the back Ronnie Deller appeared out of the night, still belligerent with drink. "I'm going," Ronnie said. "It's my place. I'm ... responsible."
"Come on, Ronnie," said Nick. He felt tired. He just wanted it all to be out of his hands, but not if that meant passing it on to Ronnie. "We decided," he said. "Will you let me through?" They'd all been drinking and at least Ronnie had been smoking dope. As Nick was the most sober it had been agreed that he should go and make the call while the others stayed together at the Strand.
For once Ronnie backed down, slouching away into the darkness. Before Nick had managed to start the engine, he heard him arguing loudly with Caroline Betts.
Alone with the night at last, Nick felt strangely secure in his old car. He felt that he might just slide down into the seat, wrap his arms around himself and try to forget. The temptation was strong.
He had to get going. He shook his head, slapped his face sharply. Once, twice.
Things seemed a little clearer now. Carefully, he set off, up Strand Lane with the Stour estuary spreading out behind him, all mud and water and drifts of sea-purslane.
It was mid-September, but the air was still peppered with bats and moths, sudden flashes of white in the full beam of the headlights. A long time ago he might have had names for them. Were those little bats called something like Pepperoni? Pipistrani? Pipistrelle?
He slapped his face again and then snatched at the wheel before the hedge could intervene. His mind was wandering. He had to pull himself together.
The lane could only be half a mile long, but it seemed to be taking forever, first surrounded by trees, now with open fields to either side.
Eventually, he came to the level crossing. There would be no trains at this time of
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