David W. Robinson's Blog: Always Writing, page 54

Out Now

It’s been a long time coming… well it felt like it was a long time, but The I-Spy Murders is now available.

Set in the world of reality TV, when Brenda becomes a contestant on Big Brother look-alike show, I-Spy, she gets more than she bargained for when one of her fellow Housies is found dead.

No one could get into the house, no one could get into the Romping Room, so it’s obvious to everyone that it was suicide. Everyone except Joe. He knows it was murder, and all he has to do is convince the police, and to do that, he has to unmask the killer.

It’s a complex and irritating mystery for the middle-aged rockers of the Sanford 3rd Age Club. Are they up for it? Can they solve the impossible murder?

The I-Spy Murders is available for the Kindle from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide and in all e-formats from Smashwords.

I Don’t Have Time For a Heart Attack

 

We’re all geared up for the launch of The I-Spy Murders tomorrow. The publicity campaign which has been gathering some momentum over the last few weeks, was ready to roll by teatime yesterday and then…

At half past seven last night, I got chest pains. Nothing strange about that when you smoke like I do, but at when, ten minutes later, the pain spread to my left arm, it was a full alert. Heart attack! Again!

Paramedics arrived a little after eight, and after running an ECG and others tests, they carted me of to A & E. They ran the usual bloods and weren’t happy with the results so they kept me I overnight and ran a second set of bloods this morning, 12 hours after the first alert.

It was a false alarm. But that’s the fourth such incident in two years and the danger is that one of these days, it will be for real.

I’m home again now, and under orders to take things a little easier. Sure: once I’ve got through writing a novel in a week, I will. I’m also under orders not to stop smoking (I’ve tried every medical and psychological trick in the book without success) but to cut down, and when I’m happy with a reduced nicotine intake, then stop. Stage one has already been implemented by my other half who has now banned me from smoking in the house.

In the meantime, the launch of The I-Spy Murders goes ahead tonight/tomorrow, as planned.

I’d like to thank Maureen Vincent-Northam, the only person who knew of the incident, who was ready to stand in my place tomorrow if the hospital didn’t discharge me. I’d also like to thank Laurence and Steph Patterson of Crooked Cat Books for their good wishes and their offer to stand in tomorrow. It’s almost impossible for me to take a back seat on my own book launch, but others have promised to do their bit to help raise awareness of the novel. I’d also like to thank the hospital staff for their immense patience. It can’t be easy dealing with a cantankerous old sod like me who doesn’t have the brains to learn his lessons.

And the phantom heart attack? Either a touch of serious indigestion or a pulled muscle. No one is sure which, but as long as it’s not the muscle.

I’m gonna take it steady for the rest of today but I’ll see you all tomorrow at the launch of The I-Spy Murders.

Kick the Tyres and Light the Fires

The Olympic flame passes through Oldham today. The missus and I were going to go down to see it, but with the usual masterly timing of the British weather, it’s hammering down, and I’m too old to stand in the pouring rain waiting for a glimpse of a glorified plumber’s blowtorch to pass by. I’ll watch it on the telly later.

Instead there are flames burning in other quarters.

This coming Thursday, June 28th, is my daughter’s (cough cough) birthday. Imagine that, eh? That little bundle of screaming joy is (cough cough) years old. As well as celebrating Angie’s birthday, we’re also celebrating another newborn: The I-Spy Murders hits the virtual bookstands on the same day.

It the 2nd Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery to be released by Crooked Cat Books, and there’s the usual thrash on Facebook, to which you are all cordially invited. It’s an all day event so turn up when you like.

Between now and then, I’ll also have news of a competition with some great giveaways as prizes, so stay tuned to this channel.

Next up, I’m working on the next book in The Handshaker series, The Executioner. That’s grown by 25,000 words this week, and I’m hoping I’ll have more news on that by the end of the summer.

And the excitement doesn’t end there.

From July 9th-15th, I’m about to attempt the impossible… well all right, the improbable. I am going to write a novel in a week.

It’s not a charity event, it’s not a barmpot’s convention. It’s a huge publicity stunt. I take that back. It’s actually a small publicity stunt, but it’s designed to see what can be achieved if one puts in the same hours as a writer as one would if one had a proper job.

You can track the progress of this marvellous idea on the novel in a week blog.

And I look forward to seeing you there and at the launch thrash this Thursday.

***

The I-Spy Murders is published by Crooked Cat Books on Thursday 28 June, 2012

Don’t Buy The Filey Connection

 

It’s not often you’ll come across an author saying don’t buy my book, but what the hell; I’ve always been an oddball.

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Thursday next week, June 28th, sees the release of The I-Spy Murders, the brand new, never before seen Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery. As usual, there will be a Facebook thrash anyone and everyone will be welcome, but being a virtual party, you’ll have to buy your own booze and goodies.

 

 

 

 

In order to celebrate the launch of The I-Spy Murders, Crooked Cat Books will reduce the price of The Filey Connection to 77p (give or take since the actual amount will be 99ȼ) for the whole of the weekend: that’s June 28th-July 1st.

 

 

You can also win free copies of both books in whatever e-format you’d prefer, simply by commenting on the release party next week (details to be announced when it’s arranged) and telling us which format you prefer. The winner will be drawn at random towards the end of the day.

I’ll also have news of a competition, but it’s so secret right now that even I don’t know about it. I’ll have the details worked out and agreed with Crooked Cat by next Thursday.

Taking of Crooked Cat Books did I tell you what a wonderful range of authors and titles they’re putting together? Aside from me and my alter ego, David Shaw (goes without saying) you can find sci-fi, fantasy, romance, contemporary, historical thrillers, cosy and gritty crime, and humour. Even as I write, there are new releases coming on line.

Brainchild of Laurence and Steph Patterson, Crooked Cat is member of EPIC (the Electronic Publishing Industry Coalition) and destined, we’re all sure, to be at the leading edge of e-publishing. Do yourself a favour, and get across to the Crooked Cat Website, take a look around. You’re sure to find something there you want to read.

That’s it. Keep your eyes peeled for The I-Spy Murders and if you want to read The Filey Connection, wait until next week.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Busy times here at Festung Robinson.

[image error]A week on Thursday sees the release of The I-Spy Murders, the latest title in my popular series, The Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries, in which we see Brenda taking part in the reality TV show, I-Spy, as a consequence of which she’s involved in a suspicious death. Can Joe and the rest of the gang prove her innocent? That’s a tough one. We all know that Brenda is far from innocent, but surely she can’t be a killer?

I’ve also begun work on the next two mysteries for this roving band of 3rd age rockers, but right now I don’t even know what they did, never mind whodunit.

 

Work on a sequel to The Handshaker continues apace, and it’s about 1/3rd done. This is a major project, which I’ve decided to take to a third title over the next year and half. More news on that as and when it happens.

 

 

 

Next, I’ve decided to challenge myself to write a novel in a week. It’s one of those crackpot ideas that spring to mind now and then, this time inspired by a blog post I read a few days ago. Can it be done? Well, I don’t know, and I won’t know until I try, but I’ve already set up a blog for the project and you can follow it here.

The intention is to produce a working first draft in seven days, and I’ll be blogging progress leading up to the week, during it, and the aftermath.

Finally, it’s raining like hell here, and the back garden needs mowing.

As if I don’t have enough to do.

***

The I-Spy Murders, a Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, is published by Crooked Cat Books on June 28th.

The Excitement Builds

The tension is slowing increasing here at The Lazy Luncheonette. There are just two more weeks to the launch of the next Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, The I-Spy Murders.

Have a look at this little video and see what’s in store.

 

Joe insists it was one of the toughest cookies he’s had to crack. “Time was getting short, Keith was due with the bus to bring us all home, and then suddenly everything became clear to me.”

Joe also blames Brenda for getting them into the business in the first place, but Brenda denies any responsibility. “I took part in I-Spy because I fancied winning the big prize. It’s not my fault the local plod suspected me of murder.”

Sheila, too, refuses to acknowledge Joe’s point of view. “It’s entirely typical of him to blame someone else. It’s like that time the steak and kidney pies caught fire. It was Lee’s fault for not watching them. But you have to ask who uses a cigarette lighter and who left the can of inflammable lighter fluid in the kitchen? Joe’s the only smoker in the place.”

Joe remains unrepentant: both on the subject of the errant can of lighter fluid which caused the fire that burnt the steak and kidney pies, and on blaming Brenda for getting him mixed up in The I-Spy Murders.

“If Sheila and Brenda had been taking notice when they unpacked that delivery, they’d have noticed the can of lighter fluid, and if Brenda hadn’t gone off seeking her moment of fame and fortune on I-Spy, I wouldn’t have been pulling my hair out trying to solve the case.”

Whatever, you can read all about it, (The I-Spy Murders, not the flaming steak and kidney pies) in a fortnight’s time.

***

The I-Spy Murders, a Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, is published by Crooked Cat Books on June 28th.

The Handshaker – Excerpt

In the following extract, night has descended upon Scarbeck and The Handshaker is about his nefarious activities.

***

Victoria Reid ceased wriggling. The bough from which she hung creaked in the high winds, swinging her to and fro.

The Handshaker looked up at her and felt nothing now. When she was alive, awake, she struggled against her bonds and that turned him on. When she was confronted with her doom, the noose slung over the branch, slipped around her neck, she screamed and that turned him on even more. Sufficiently to let him jerk off while she kicked and danced on the end of the rope. But now that the last breath had come from her, he lost interest. It was always the same.

He walked away from her, stepping back into the woods a few paces, from where he turned and looked up at the high wall. The branch could be seen from the house on the other side, and he was certain that anyone keen-eyed enough to look closely would see the rope hanging taut from it, but Victoria could not be seen. She was too low down. Her feet were only twelve inches from the carpet of moss.

He drew a flashlight from his pocket, its beam bobbing ahead of him, and trudged back towards the car park.

During the summer months, it would be risky to hang a woman here, even in the early hours of the morning. Many couples used the woods for illicit sex, but the foul weather, the rain beating down through the trees, ensured his solitude. Lovers would be confined to their cars on a night like this and indeed he had ridden Victoria on the back seat of his car before stripping her completely and bringing her into the depths of the copse. She didn’t protest. He smiled evilly to himself. She couldn’t protest.

As always, the job had gone without a hitch. After picking her up from Fenton Road filling station, he had gone along with the rush hour traffic out of town, and by the time he arrived here, it was already dark. Victoria slept in deep hypnosis on the back seat while he listened to PM followed by the 6 o’clock news on Radio 4. By 6:30, when he had had enough of reports from Iraq and Afghanistan, he switched the radio off, climbed into the back seat, and screwed her.

Now, 7:15 and it was all over. The Handshaker guessed it was a record; for him at least. He picked her up sometime after half past four and by a quarter past seven she was dead. Less than three hours.

It was the way of the world, he reflected as he trod the sodden grass back to the car park. Everyone wanted everything now. Instant gratification. No waiting around. And so it was with Victoria. No hanging about in his back bedroom for days and days, she was hooked, fucked and hanged in a matter of hours; quick, clean and simple. If she had been given a chance, he was certain she would have thanked him for his efficiency.

Up ahead, street lighting permeated the forest. He paused. There was another car on the car park, close to his.

Shit! Just what he needed, a couple shagging in the dark. If they saw him, they wouldn’t think twice about it, but when Victoria was found they’d put two and two together and go to the law with what they’d seen, and if he stepped out now, they may very well get a description of him too.

On the other hand, the car showed no signs of movement and normally when couples were fucking, the vehicle would jiggle on its suspension, so maybe it was someone who had pulled in to take a leak or make a phone call.

An alarm bell rang in his head. Suppose the driver had recognised The Handshaker’s Ford Fiesta? That car – not his regular vehicle, obviously – had been used for every abduction and hanging, and was the most wanted vehicle in the northwest. The police had several registration numbers for it, all false, and according to the media there was a general APB out on it, but he had never yet been stopped in it. Why? Because he stuck to the law when driving, that’s why. He did not draw attention to himself, and when he was not using it, he kept it well hidden. But if this pest had seen it and made the connection, could he now be calling the cops to tell them? If so, The Handshaker could not risk driving home in it.

On a night like this, he didn’t fancy the walk home, either, and it may be that sterner action was required. He hefted the flashlight in his hand. A rubber-cased, heavy-duty affair, made even weightier by its three large batteries. A cruel smile crossed his lips. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with an interfering male; there was a kid near Bristol ten, no fifteen years ago. He’d tried to intervene, stop The Handshaker taking one of his legitimate victims and what did he get for his pains? A solid fist on the jaw a hard foot to the head and a dip in the Avon … while he was still unconscious. The police fished him out somewhere near Avonmouth a few days later, and the girl had to be strangled there and then.

He did not like spur of the moment, unplanned killings. They were the kind that could get you nicked if you weren’t careful. He preferred the meticulously planned, well-executed murder, which allowed him time to savour and revel in the victim’s abject terror. However, there were times when, in the interest of expediency, instant action was called for, and this could be one such time.

He could feel the tension rising in his stomach. His grip on the flashlight tightened. One more minute and… the driver engaged the gears and drove sedately off.

The Handshaker breathed a sigh of relief. Probably someone stopping to answer a call on his mobile phone. He couldn’t have been talking to the law because if he had reported the Fiesta, he would have been obliged to wait there until the police arrived.

The Handshaker waited a few moments to ensure the driver did not return and that no other vehicles appeared. He prepared the keys in his right hand and then, when he was happy that all was clear, he stepped out into the car park, hurried across to his car, opened the driver’s door, and ducked in out of the rain, out of sight.

He considered the situation. It was always possible that the driver had called the cops anonymously and decided to clear off before they got here, but he doubted it. Such a nosy parker would be in a hurry and there was nothing rushed about the way he had driven out of the car park. The Handshaker was confident in his safety. Security enveloped him like Linus’s blanket.

Using a handkerchief to wipe the rain from his hair and forehead, he congratulated himself. He had done it again. Relieved another woman of the burden of living, ensured that she had enjoyed herself, been sexually satisfied before sending her to meet her god, and he had got away with it. More than that, he had moved his grand plan on one more step.

He reached into the glove box and retrieved a plain brown envelope. It only needed posting on the way home, and the night’s work was done… almost. He needed to check on Sinclair, possibly ride her once more if he could find the energy.

He started the engine, and flipped the wiper switch to full power. Pulling off the car park, he accelerated gently towards Scarbeck and thought about the number of times he had got his rocks off today. If he was not careful he’d have a heart attack.

Joining Huddersfield Road, he smiled at the thought of the police breaking in to find Sinclair starved to death under his dead body. It was the only hope they had of ever catching The Handshaker.

***

The Handshaker is available for the Kindle from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide and in all formats from Smashwords. It is also available in paperback from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide.

Do You Really Want To Know What I Believe?

I stumbled across a blog from a writer asking the question of how much her work conflicts with her personal beliefs and whether the one should interfere with the other.

I don’t understand why it’s a problem. For me the rule is absolute. A writer’s personal beliefs, religious or political should never interfere with the work. Never!

You want to know about my beliefs, I’ll tell you. I’m an atheist and a socialist. That’s an end of it. It’s not up for debate, it’s not up for question. At least not on this blog, it isn’t, and neither is it something I’m willing to hang my stories on.

As a writer it’s your job to entertain your readers; to feed them the big lie, and what is the big lie? The tale you’re weaving. It’s fiction. It’s entertainment, it’s taking them out of the drudge that is the workaday world and into a realm of pure daydreams where your hero(es) and heroine(s) battle against the villains to prevail or not, as the case may be.

You have no business inflicting your moral, religious or political beliefs upon your readers.

Take, for example, my title, The Handshaker. I appear to be arguing on the one hand that a hypnotised subject can passively submit to rape, can commit murder and is willing to commit suicide. On the other hand, I have characters who claim it can’t be done. It involves a serial mysoginist and a “new man”; it involves an oppressed woman and an emancipated woman. How much expresses my personal views on these matters? None of it. Not one word gives vent to my personal evangelism.

Voices is another case in point. Chris Deacon is a lefty atheist, his wife is a more moderate Christian. Which side do I fall on? Perhaps I favour Chris’s point of view more than Jan’s, but you won’t find me saying so anywhere in the text. His taste in music coincides with mine, but that’s for the sake of convenience. I can write more freely about the music I listen to than that which I don’t, but I’m not tryng to sell you the music.

I set out to tell a tale, not to persuade people of my views. I reserve those for the door-knockers who can’t see the sign in my window advising them that if they don’t like being told to “piss off,” then don’t knock.

Rant over. Back to the Footy fest of Euro 2012.

The Party’s Over, Now For A Launch Party

Joe wants to know if the Jubilee is over. He wants to get back to the serious business of making money, and the Lazy Luncheonette has plenty of hungry truckers and shoppers all demanding food and drink at modest (Joe’s choice of word, not mine) prices.

“It’s all right you lot partying but it costs me a small fortune in lost trade,” he complained when I asked. “I had to close most of Monday and Tuesday, meaning I’m down three hundred breakfasts and a coupla hundred dinners. And did the street party organisers come to the Lazy Luncheonette for their sausage rolls? They did not. What with the price of bunting, I’m severely out of pocket on this deal.”

His angst is not all due to the Jubilee, as Sheila explained over a cup of Lazy Luncheonette tea.

“The account of The Filey Connection is out there, holding its own, and the story of that business at Gibraltar Hall, The I-Spy Murders, comes out on the 28th of this month. It was a stressful time and I think the launch is giving Joe nightmares. There was a danger the killer could have targeted him, you know.”

Turning to Joe’s other assistant (he uses the word antagonist) Brenda, I said, “you were a contestant on I-Spy. What exactly happened?”

“Sorry, but I never kiss and tell,” Brenda replied with a cheeky wink. “But if you watch the trailer, you’ll get a few hints.”

 

After watching the trailer, I finished my tea and commented, “That looks intriguing. And it’s launched on the 28th?”

“Assuming I haven’t been bankrupted by then, yes,” Joe called from the kitchen.

At that, I put on my hat and coat and left.

***

The Filey Connection is available for the Kindle from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide and in all formats from Smashwords.

The I-Spy Murders, the second Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery from Crooked Cat Books is launched in all e-formats on June 28th.

Jubilee Day at the Miner’s Arms.

With a growing thirst, Brenda Jump watched Mick Chadwick top up a glass of Campari with a dash of lemonade.

“Joe’s had you working today, then?” Mick asked.

“Tight old sod,” she complained with a scowl towards the podium where Joe Murray was busy setting up the disco. “The dray men were working this morning, so he insisted on opening the Lazy Luncheonette. The drivers were in for breakfast from seven o’clock onwards, and by half eight, the place was empty. It stayed like that all morning. After the dray men, we had about two customers, and one of them was a woman who just wanted to use the toilet. He finally locked up at twelve.”

Mick grinned. “Serves the tight old sod right. He’ll be outta pocket by the time he’s paid your wages and other overheads. Okey-dokey, Brenda; half of lager for his lordship, lemonade for Sheila, and a Campari and lemonade for you, let’s call it four fifty for cash.”

Brenda handed over the money, picked up the drink and crossed the floor to the podium where Joe was untangling leads and jacks for his equipment. Sheila Riley sat alongside him, casting her eye over the assembled members of the Sanford 3rd Age Club.

“Good turn out,” Sheila commented, “and look, Les Tanner has put on his uniform for her Majesty.”

Tugging a Gordian knot of cables to the point where he threatened to break one or two, Joe grunted. “Daft old twonk.”

Sheila frowned. “It’s respect for the monarch, Joe.”

“It’s an excuse to relive his glory days as a part time chocolate soldier,” Joe retorted. “He loved the Brasso and bullsh… bullshine.”

“He served his country,” Sheila maintained.

“Playing toy soldiers on the outskirts of York every weekend?” Joe threw the bundle of cables down and reached for another from his equipment bag. “He’s like all the Territorials. A waste of my taxes.”

“The one thing we can be thankful for is you were never Minister of Defence,” Brenda told him. “You’d have them fighting with catapults and then they’d have to find their own elastic.”

Unreeling one cable, Joe hooked a radio pick-up into the console, then took his mike and tested the head with a few light taps. Satisfied that it was working, he put it to one side. It rolled across a tray and clinked against a couple of empty glasses. A high-pitched whine emanated from the speakers. With an irritable frown, Joe snatched the jack from the console.

Charlie, the barman, picked up a tray of empty glasses nearby. Sheila hurried to finish her first glass of lemonade before dropping the empty on the tray, then turned her most determined eye on George Robson. “You are not having the Sex Pistols and God Save The Queen.”

“Why not?” George demanded. “It’s the Jubilee.”

“Yes and if Joe plays that, half this room will mutiny.” Sheila waved at the club members gathered around the room. “We’re all monarchists.”

“Well, I’m a republican,” George snapped. “The monarchy is an outdated institution.”

“So is the Conservative Club in this town,” Brenda pointed out, “but it doesn’t stop you enjoying the cheap beer there. And you’re not complaining about taking the day off for the Jubilee are you?”

“Who won the bloody Civil War, eh?” George wandered grumpily off.

Joe sat down and sipped at his lager. “Just about ready,” he said. “Pass me the microphone, will you, Sheila?”

She looked around. “Where is it?”

“There on the table. Next to you.”

She shook her head. “No it isn’t.”

Joe whirled round to look at the barren table. “Well, where the hell is it?”

Sheila and Brenda shrugged. “Joe, if you…”

“One of these thieving sods has had it,” he interrupted.

“Well it wasn’t George,” Brenda said. “Joe, why not…”

He waved her into silence. “This lot think they can con me? The best private detective in Yorkshire? Think again.” He got to his feet. “Right, listen up everyone,” he bawled. “One of you has nicked my microphone and I want it back. Remember this, whoever you are. I’ve solved murders by people who had twice the brains you have. If you think you can get away with it, you’ve another think coming. Bring it back. Now.”

“Only if you promise not to sing, Joe,” Alec Staines called out.

Joe glowered. “If you’ve had it, Alec…”

“I haven’t touched your bloody microphone. Have you checked your wallet? It’s probably in there.”

Sheila tugged at Joe’s sleeve. He half turned to scowl at her.

“Sit down and stop making a fool of yourself,” she insisted.

“That microphone cost me four hundred notes,” Joe protested. “I am not letting it go.”

To the background rumble of members’ discontent, Brenda said, “You don’t have to. The microphone was switched on. Plug the jack into your control board and listen to it.”

With a puzzled frown Joe did as she ordered.

The clinking of bottles came through the speakers, followed by a low humming of Land of Hope and Glory.

Suddenly, the voice burst into song.

Lager, bitter and Guinness Vodka and Bacardi It all adds up to a profit Loadsa money for me.

Silence engulfed the room. Attention focussed on the bar area where Mick, on his knees filling the chillers, went into a second impromptu verse.

Brandy, whisky and Pernod Gordon’s and Lamb’s Nay-vee I am making a fortune To keep me in the gray-vee.

While Mick began the third verse, Joe hurried from the podium and strode across the dance floor.

I don’t care if they order One pint, two pints or three The silly buggers keep spending All for the Queen’s Jubilee La-la-la Silly buggers keep spending All… for… the… Queen’s… Jubi…lee.

“Er, Mick.”

Mick’s head appeared above the bar. “Oh. Hiya, Joe, didn’t see you there.” His voice bounced round the room. “What can I do you for?”

“I can’t fault your profit drive, but could you just check your tray? I think Charlie cleared away my microphone with the empty glasses.”

Mick stared beneath the bar, then reached down and picked up the microphone. “Were you lot listening to me just then?”

Joe nodded and a loud cheer went up around the room. Face glowing bright crimson, Mick handed over the microphone.

On the podium Brenda shook her head, and with a wry smile said, “Another Sanford 3rd Age Club mystery solved, and on the Queen’s Jubilee too.”

***

The Sanford 3rd Age Club can be found solving the mystery of The Filey Connection and coming soon, they will be faced with the problem of the I-Spy Murders