– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m not on a blogtour, but doing my own advertising for TG Reid, author of ‘Dark is the Grave’, to promote his book which will be out July 1st!
Before I let you read an excerpt, I’ll first post some ‘basic’ information.
About the Author :
TG Reid is a Scottish-born novel and short story writer, now living in exile in Bath, England. His award-winning novels and stories been published worldwide. TG Reid also writes critically acclaimed dark literary thrillers under the pen name of Tom Gillespie.
The DCI Bone series is set in Tom’s hometown, among the the hills and glens of the Scottish Campsie Fells. This is Tom’s first foray into the murky, pulse-pounding world of police thrillers.
A dead cop. A damaged detective. A copycat killer on the loose.
When the chief suspect in the notorious Peek-a-boo cop killer case blew himself up, almost taking lead investigator DCI Duncan Bone with him, the psychologically damaged detective thought his days on the force were over. But when another PC is abducted and murdered in the same deranged Peek-a-boo fashion, Bone is persuaded to return to lead the new investigation. But as Bone and his team hunt a copycat killer, and with time running out before yet another cop is slain, Bone’s terrifying past returns to tear open old wounds and push him to very edge of the abyss.
Can DCI Bone end the killing before the killing ends him?
Set among the dramatic hills and glens of Scotland’s Campsie Fells, Dark is the Grave is the first in a series of edge-of-your-seat crime thrillers that will keep you guessing right up to the nail-biting, heart-stopping climax.
Perfect for fans of J.D. Kirk, M.V. Craven, Stuart MacBride, Alex Smith and David J. Gatward.
Also available in Kindle Unlimited.
Darkness. Pit black, impenetrable nothing. PC Hazel Garvey squeezes her eyelids tight and reopens. Still total blackout. She blinks again and again, hoping for some kind of adjustment or definition to emerge. She tries to call out but there’s something rammed inside her mouth, blocking the escape route for her scream. Instinctively, she reaches to grab at the obstruction, but her hands are locked, restrained somewhere behind and beneath her. She is prostrate, her legs folded in, and knees pushed up against an invisible object. She twists her body to try and free her wrists, but the bonds tighten, forcing her clenched fists to bury deeper into the base of her spine. Panic. Her breathing accelerates. Panting. Hyperventilation.
She diverts her brain to focus on her training, eight years of police experience and hard-earned frontline graft. She inhales deeply to slow her galloping heart. Try to remember. What? Who? The sludge engulfing her mind slides, and scenes slither past in haphazard and tangled succession; the frantic, noisy bar, the Fells Inn, their usual haunt. Her team crowded around a table congested with empty glasses and cigarette packets. Everyone drinking, laughing, taking the piss, the usual banter. A birthday celebration for Fiona. The movie reel judders. What next? Fucking remember! Fiona on her feet, face flushed, happy. A toast. Howls of laughter. I fell off my chair. Was I Pissed? In the loo, retching in the sink. I left early. She racks her brain. Two drinks and then taxi rank. Why was I pissed on only two drinks—why? She remembers the nausea and fleeing before she spewed again. She would never live it down. What next? Nothing. The jittering reel freeze-frames and the screen blackens once more. Only two drinks? And then it hits her. She’d been spiked. Fuck! Somewhere in the bar, somebody loaded her vodka. But who?
She holds her breath and listens. Silence. She twists her neck. Her cheek brushes against something rough, a blanket — or a sack? A loud clack above her head, like a door opening—a pinhole of light appears, a tiny fissure in a deep pothole. She jerks back, trying to see. But something grabs her arms and legs. She hears the wind and the rustle of trees, and in the distance, a solitary crow crying out. And now the crunch of footsteps on gravel, her body bobbing up and down. Someone is carrying her. She kicks out and lunges sideways. But the grip is too tight and the footsteps remain steady and assured. Five, six, seven, eight steps, she counts to remember details that might be useful later, when she escapes and apprehends whoever is doing this to her. The footsteps stop. Breathing. Not just hers. A man. She moans — trying to formulate the word ‘Police’. But something suddenly yanks at her hair, wrenching off whatever was covering her eyes, then the grip around her legs releases and she rolls sideways, tumbling over and over and crash-landing onto a granite-hard bed of rocks and rubble. The impact smashes her cheekbone and pops her shoulder from its socket. Electrostatic, white-hot pain shoots across her chest and roars in her skull. She screams but her agony remains stifled by the gag. She peels open her eyes, but only one complies. Dazzling daylight explodes in her retina. Twisting her head, she forces the lid to open and adjust to the blinding glare. Training. She repeats, ignores the pain. She twists again, to her left a high wall of— what? She squints again—mud and dirt. She turns back to the light. A silhouette emerges, as though from the heart of the sun. A towering figure. A beast. Looming over her like Frankenstein’s abomination. An object glistens in the sun’s rays. A gun or a knife? The beast’s arm shifts left and right. Now she can see. It is her police ID. She moans again and kicks out, but the pain in her shoulder forces her to stop.
The monster disappears. She scans her surroundings again. Wet clay surrounds her, eight to ten feet high. She shifts her weight from her shoulder and slides her body towards the side wall. The roar of an engine makes her stop. A tractor or—No! The muddy pit she has been dropped into is a grave. Her grave. A tyre appears at the edge of the precipice, and a digger’s boom teeters overhead. And with the deafening screech of hydraulic fluid racing through gears, its laden bucket spills a quarter of a ton of excavated mud and rocks onto PC Garvey’s legs.
‘NO!’ Her muffled plea is futile. The tyres retreat, then moments later return. A second load spews from the loader, and a third, burying her chest and compressing her rib cage until it cracks. And as the fatal fourth tsunami of sodden clay and rubble pummel her skull into the muddy ground, PC Garvey sends one final desperate prayer as the last of her shortened life is crushed out of her lungs.
The Magic of Wor(l)ds
P.S. Are you an author (or publisher) who also wants FREE advertising like this? You can always contact me via e-mail!