The Blurb:
War is coming to No Man's Land, and Connor Fraser will be ready.
A mutilated body is found dumped at Cowane's Hospital in the heart of historic Stirling. For DCI Malcolm Ford it's like nothing he's ever seen before, the savagery of the crime makes him want to catch the murderer before he strikes again. For reporter Donna Blake it's a shot at the big time, a chance to get her career back on track and prove all the doubters wrong. But for close protection specialist Connor Fraser it's merely a grisly distraction from the day job.
But then another bloodied and broken corpse is found, this time in the shadow of the Wallace Monument - and with it, a message. One Connor has received before, during his time as a police officer in Belfast.
With Ford facing mounting political and public pressure to make an arrest and quell fears the murders are somehow connected to heightened post-Brexit tensions, Connor is drawn into a race against time to stop another murder. But to do so, he must question old loyalties, confront his past and unravel a mystery that some would sacrifice anything - and anyone - to protect.
From Dundee International Book Prize and Bloody Scotland book of the year nominee Neil Broadfoot comes No Man's Land, the first in the white-knuckle Connor Fraser series.
No Man's Land is published in paperback tomorrow by Constable and can be purchased from Waterstones and Amazon. It is also available as a hardback or eBook.
Excerpt:
The following extract is taken from Chapter 2 and introduces us to DCI Malcolm Ford.
From beyond the police cordon, DCI Malcolm Ford heard the soft purr of tyres on cobbles as a car made its way up St John Street towards Stirling Castle. He locked onto the sound, like a shield against the soft, incessant squealing behind him. It was like a grotesque ear worm, a song he kept hearing in his mind. Insidious, maddening. Irresistible.
Look at me, it whispered. Just turn and look. Instead Ford gazed up into the clear August sky, closing his eyes against the sudden memory of what lay behind him, trying to draw heat from the day to banish the bone- deep chill that forced him to clench his teeth to stop them chattering.
Look at me, the squeal sang behind him, louder this time as the wind picked up. Go on. Just one quick look.
Ford opened his eyes and, making a half-turn, forced himself to focus instead on the scene in front of him. He was on a small lane that ran between the Holy Rude Church and the old bowling green that lay behind the imposing frontage of Cowane’s Hospital, which dated from the seventeenth century and backed onto the town walls. At this time of year, the place should have been bustling with tourists, eagerly snapping pictures as they took in the whitewashed stone and grey slate of the hospital and wandered around the gardens that surrounded the bowling green.
Today the area was sealed off – crime-scene tape draped across the gates that led onto the lane, two officers posted there to keep curious passersby away and a growing number of reporters and camera crews in check. Tourists had been replaced by SOCOs, the carefree wandering giving way to an agonizingly slow fingertip search of the area. Crime-scene photographers, using massive lenses and harsh flashes, were capturing every grim detail. In the centre of the green, a large white tent shimmered in the breeze, hastily erected to protect as much of the immediate scene as possible.
A similar tent was being erected behind Ford to preserve the primary crime scene and contain the sheer horror of what was there. But he knew better. Containment was impossible now. They could shield it from sight, but it was too late. The damage was done. He would see that image for the rest of his life, revisit it in countless dreams, dwell on it in quiet moments driving home or sitting up during the nights when sleep would not come. It was branded into his memory. Part of him. And, somehow, he had to try to make sense of it. And the twisted motivation that led to it being there.
He shuddered again, blinking rapidly as his eyes moistened. He coughed once and dug out his notepad, glaring at the pages, trying to fill his mind with the facts, quell madness with the mundane.
The discovery had been made a little after six that morning by a normally spry and vital pensioner, who was now under heavy sedation at Forth Valley Hospital. Ford hadn’t yet listened to the 999 call Donald Stewart had made but, from the edited transcript, he knew it was little more than a stream-of-consciousness rant of horrified disbelief punctuated by snippets of detail.
Stewart had been out for his morning walk with his dog, Minty. As usual, they had made their way up a long, twisting path called the Back Walk, which led from the Albert Halls at the bottom of the town, hugging the old town wall as it snaked around the cliffs on the way to the graveyard and the castle. Making a loop, they would walk back down St John Street and head for home in Abercromby Place, a typical central Stirling street of neat hedges, spotless pavements and Victorian townhouses hewn from granite and sandstone. Stewart was obviously not short of money, Ford thought. A point worth remembering.
But that morning Stewart had never made it home. Walking past the Holy Rude, the dog had slipped his collar, squeezed under the gate and charged into the lane, yapping and barking. Noting the gate was unlocked, Stewart had followed – and stepped into Hell.
Whoa! What about that then? Told you you'd want more!
I'm lucky enough to have read the book, and it's fab. You can read my review here. But that poor dog walker really did step into Hell!
The Author:
Neil Broadfoot worked as a journalist for 15 years at both national and local newspapers, including The Scotsman, Scotland on Sunday and the Evening News, covering some of the biggest stories of the day. A poacher turned gamekeeper, he has since moved into communications: providing media relations advice for a variety of organisations, from emergency services to high-profile sporting clubs in Scotland.
Neil is married to Fiona and a father to two girls, meaning he's completely outnumbered in his own home. He lives in Dunfermline.
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