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Book Description
Uncovering a web of conspiracy that intertwines past and present, can Lady Beatrice and DCI
Richard Fitzwilliam catch a killer and unveil the truth of her husband’s death at long last?
BREAKING NEWS Second Senior Police Officer Dies Within a Week
A senior officer from the Protection and Investigations (Royal) Services died unexpectedly yesterday.
His death comes hot on the heels of Detective Inspector Ethan Preece (43) from City Police, who died
of a suspected heart attack last week. Although he’s not yet been named, the dead officer was a
greatly respected public figure, who had served in policing for over thirty years. A PaIRS spokesperson
has confirmed that ‘neither men’s death is being treated as suspicious at this time’.
With the senior PaIRS officer dead, so is any hope of reopening the inquiry into Lady Beatrice’s
husband’s accident fifteen years ago. Unless, of course, there is something that links the two men to
the earl’s fatal car crash?
Can she and Fitzwilliam, along with their friends, work together to unravel the mystery and catch
a killer before the truth is buried forever?
Intro
Lady Beatrice and her business partner Perry Juke are at Gollingham Palace, the official
residence of Lady Beatrice’s uncle, King James, managing the redesign and refurbishment of
several guest suites. Meanwhile Detective Inspector Ethan Preece from City Police is in
hospital recovering from being shot in his side during a failed attempt to kidnap the Duke of
Kingswich, the king’s brother, a month ago…
Extract
The door to his private room opened, and a tall doctor he didn’t recognise
walked in. “Good afternoon, Mr Preece.” The man closed the door, and
moving to the end of his bed, he unhooked the chart from the bottom rail and
raised it to his face. “How are you feeling? Still in pain?”
“Only when I laugh,” Preece quipped.
The man didn’t smile. “Good, good,” he mumbled, walking around the
bed towards the monitor and drips.
What is it with these doctors? They never seemed to hear what you said. It’s
as if they’re robots. He suppressed a smile. Is that how they’re getting around the
shortage of doctors these days, by cloning them? This one looked especially
inhuman as he pressed a few buttons on the machine. It was obvious the
man’s slicked-back black hair had been dyed. When Preece looked closer, he
could tell the man was older than any of the other doctors he’d seen
previously. He must be one of those evasive senior consultants the nurses
discussed in hushed tones. Preece craned his neck to see the doctor’s name
tag. Where is it?
“So I have something for you to help with the pain,” Doctor No-name said,
taking a vial of clear liquid out of one pocket and a needle from the other. He
took the plastic tip off the needle.
Why isn’t he wearing a name tag? Preece glanced at the security pass hanging
from the doctor’s neck. The picture showed a much younger man. That photo
must have been taken when he was a junior doctor…
“This will make you feel a lot better,” the man said, plunging the needle
into the vial.
Unless that’s not him. Preece’s stomach churned. What’s going on? The room
was quiet. Too quiet. A hole opened up in the pit of his stomach. A tightness
squeezed his chest. He tried to turn his head to look at the door, but the pain
in his side shot through his body, and he froze.
“You’ll just feel a sharp prick in your arm.”
“No!” Preece cried. He attempted to lift his shoulder off the bed and roll
away, ignoring the pain ripping through his body.
Fingers grabbed his wrist and pinned his arm to the bed sheet. “Now,
Preece, no need to worry about the injection. It will all be over soon.”
His insides quivered. What had happened to the refined tones the man had
been talking in before? Preece recognised his accent. East London! He swore
under his breath. How could I have been so stupid? Of course they can’t risk me
talking. But I wasn’t going to…
A stabbing sensation in the crook of his arm made him squeeze his eyes
shut. Ouch! He wanted to move, but his limbs were heavy, like they were
made of lead. He screamed, but no noise came out.
“Cheers, detective inspector. Thanks for your service.”
The voice was almost drowned out by the sound of his heart beating out of
his chest. He tried to catch his breath. He gasped. Air. I need air! He couldn’t
swallow. Please don’t let me die like this. He wanted to move, but one side of his
body was now paralysed. I’m going to die. After everything he’d been through
over the last month… It’s all been for nothing…
A picture of his wife dressed all in black flashed in his mind. Her blonde
locks dangled over her shoulders. One hand held a white handkerchief to her
heavily make-upped face; the other was outstretched towards him. Her mean
blue eyes narrowed.
You’re never getting another penny out of me, you greedy cow!
A wave of tremors from his head to his feet overcame him. He took one
last desperate breath, then the tension left his body. He felt light, like he was
floating. There was no pain anymore…
Author Bio
Hello. I’m Helen Golden. I write British contemporary cozy whodunnits with a hint of humour. I live in
small village in Lincolnshire in the UK with my husband, my step-daughter, her two cats, our two
dogs, sometimes my step-son, and our tortoise.
I used to work in senior management, but after my recent job came to a natural end I had the
opportunity to follow my dreams and start writing. It's very early in my life as an author, but so far
I'm loving it.
It’s crazy busy at our house, so when I’m writing I retreat to our caravan (an impulsive lockdown
purchase) which is mostly parked on our drive. When I really need total peace and quiet, I take it to a
lovely site about 15 minutes away and hide there until my family runs out of food or clean clothes
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