Love Books Group Tour / Excerpt : Hunter’s Chase (Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #1) – Val Penny

– ‘The Magic Of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

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Today I’m on the ‘Hunter’s Chase (Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #1)’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Group Tour.
To promote Val Penny her book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

Author pic EdinburghVal Penny is an American author living in SW Scotland. She has two adult daughters of whom she is justly proud and lives with her husband and two cats. She has a Law degree from Edinburgh University and her MSc from Napier University. She has had many jobs including hairdresser, waitress, lawyer, banker, azalea farmer and lecturer. However she has not yet achieved either of her childhood dreams of being a ballerina or owning a candy store. Until those dreams come true, she has turned her hand to writing poetry, short stories and novels. Her crime novels, ‘Hunter’s Chase’ and ‘Hunter’s Revenge’ are set in Edinburgh, Scotland, published by Crooked Cat Books. The third book in the series, ‘Hunter’s Force’, follows shortly.

Synopsis :

Hunter's Chase book coverHunter by name – Hunter by nature: DI Hunter Wilson will not rest until Edinburgh is safe.
Detective Inspector Hunter Wilson knows there is a new supply of cocaine flooding his city, and he needs to find the source, but his attention is transferred to murder when a corpse is discovered in the grounds of a golf course.
Shortly after the post-mortem, Hunter witnesses a second murder, but that is not the end of the slaughter. With a young woman’s life also hanging in the balance, the last thing Hunter needs is a new man on his team: Detective Constable Tim Myerscough, the son of his nemesis, the former Chief Constable Sir Peter Myerscough.
Hunter’s perseverance and patience are put to the test time after time in this first novel in The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries series.

Excerpt :

Hunter Wilson sat at his desk on Friday morning. Young Myerscough would not be starting with him till Monday. Pity. It would have been an education to take him to the post mortem. Not to worry. There would be other chances to test the lad’s mettle.
His gut told him the corpse found on his patch was not the result of an accident. Hunter did not like the thought of murder on his watch; it was even worse than this influx of cocaine. As soon as Rachael Anderson arrived they would head over to the Scottish Parliament building, interview Sir Peter and find out what he had to say for himself. Probably more than Hunter wanted to listen to, but he might have some insight into the burial site. After all, even if the man was an oaf, he had over 25 years experience on the force to draw on.
Hunter did not like the Scottish Parliament building. It had been designed by a Spanish architect who died before its completion, probably of shame. The project was completed ten times over budget and nearly three years late. As the DI mused about what would happen within the police force if it tried to proceed on that basis, Rachael walked in.
“Morning, Boss. I got time for coffee?” she asked, clearly more in hope than expectation.
Hunter shook his head and tossed her the car keys.
“Will this take long, do you think?”
“Not if I can help it. Anyway we have to be back for the briefing at 10am.”
Rachael was silent as she drove them to the bottom of the Royal Mile. She pulled up outside the modern Scottish Parliament building, then trotted up the stairs ahead of Hunter as if they were part of a dressage exercise.
Inside, the detectives showed their badges and asked for Sir Peter Myerscough.
“I’m sorry. Sir Peter phoned to say he had had a break-in last night and had stayed at The New Club on Princes Street,” the admittance clerk said. Then she added. “Very nice, the New Club, I believe.”
Hunter grunted.
The clerk ignored him and went on: “He had to go home to supervise repairs. He is to speak to his insurers, I believe. He won’t be in until the joiner has finished work on the broken doors and replaced locks. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Fucking arse,” Hunter said.
“No thanks, no message. We’ll contact Mr Myerscough at home,” Rachael said.
“Sir Peter to you, I think, officer.”

The Magic Of Wor(l)ds

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