''Can of Worms' is a full length (80,000 words or so) crime thriller, based on my experience as a Scenes of Crime Officer. Think CSI UK: less glossy, more gritty.
To get you started, the prologue is posted below.
Reviews from the first edition:
Comments on the first edition, from Amazon:
"As a operational CSI myself it was really nice to read a realistic book about police investigations."
"This is a cracking British crime thriller, with a believable female lead in Marcie, the SOCO who can't seem to resist getting involved, despite being thwarted at every turn. I thoroughly enjoyed this. Good solid investigative details against a clever plot that culminates in a thrilling finale. "
"The tension builds expertly throughout the story and I was on the edge of my seat. The plot twists keep you engrossed and the peak of the story is explosive! I would definitely recommend this book."
Available as an ebook or paperback from most major distribution sites.
See the full list here - books2read.com/u/4EjoYg
Prologue
Someone once told Ben Drummond that he was ‘too bloody cantankerous to die’. It wasn’t meant as a compliment but Ben, being Ben, took it that way. Ironic, really, since it was his sheer cussedness, his awkward, obstructive, cantankerous nature that killed him. That, and a 9 millimetre bullet.
Standing at the far end of the duty garage, Ben felt even more belligerent than usual. He’d been stuck here doing cars all day: and Ben hated doing cars. Some Scenes Of Crime Officer’s liked cars: you could recover some good stuff from cars. There was a lot of shiny metal and glass to take fingerprints, there were often cig ends in the ashtray, or bottles under the seats. You had a good chance of bringing something back if you went and did some cars.
Ben didn’t give a shit about bringing anything back – not for a crappy little stolen car job. Twenty-five years he’d been in the job, and he shouldn’t be spending his time on piddling small stuff. In Ben’s not very humble opinion, anything less than an aggravated burglary was a waste of his time and experience. But Slippery Mick had come over all officious that morning, and started on about sharing jobs out equally: so Ben was here doing cars, while kids with 10 minutes in the job were on burglaries and assaults. Stuck in a damp, cold, badly lit garage, bugger all good for any sort of proper forensic exam anyway, on a damp, cold badly lit day at the arse-end of October, looking at his sixth car of the shift. And this one wasn’t going to lift his mood either, because it was a burnt out wreck. Waste of time, the dimwit PC who had the case shouldn’t even have requested Scenes Of Crime.
Unless, perhaps, this was something a bit special? Involved in something serious perhaps – kidnapping, armed robbery? Please, at least a GBH! With a flicker of interest, Ben looked through his paperwork, dug out the incident log, and swore. Just a bloody Taken Without Owners Consent. Bunch of kids had TWOC’d it for a joy ride, torched it for fun. The owner hadn’t even reported it until it had already been put out by the Fire Brigade. It was that important.
Well, he wasn’t going to waste any time on this one. Not even worth getting his kit out for.
Ben dumped his file on the fire-blackened bonnet, began scribbling on a report form. Ten minutes for this one, he thought, then back to the station for a cuppa and maybe a sausage cob.
Behind him, there were footsteps on the damp concrete, which he ignored. Garage staff, he presumed. Probably brought another one in. Well, if they were thinking of asking him to do it before he left they’d think again bloody damn quick.
‘Hum – make, Vauxhall Cavalier.’ Ben frequently muttered to himself whilst working. ‘Condition – severe fire damage, engine and passenger compartment, all windows out: boot…’
‘That’s my car.’
Scowling, Ben put his pen down and turned round. The man standing a few yards away was hard to make out: the random failures of the strip lights had left him in a pool of shadow, back lit by the bright halogens further down.
‘What?’ Ben growled.
‘Are you Police?’
‘Scenes of Crime Officer. And this is a forensic examination area. Not open to the public. Garage office is over the other side.’
The man stepped a bit closer, more into what light there was. Ben saw a dark beard, chunky dark coat, eyes shadowed by a baseball cap. ‘That’s my car there.’
‘I’m nearly finished with it. Go over to the garage office, you can sort things out with them.’
‘Did you find anything in the car?’ The man spoke sharply, demandingly: Ben almost smiled. He loved the chance to be truculent, obstructive, and downright rude if possible.
‘Like I told you, this is a forensic examination area. Contact the Officer in the Case if you’ve got any questions. Now bugger off!’
The man had kept his hands in his pockets, seemingly casual, but there was no doubting the aggression in his voice or in the way he leaned forward as he spoke.
‘Tell me what you’ve found in my car!’
And for a brief moment, Ben was tempted to say ‘Sod all mate. Sorry, it’s a negative.’ But that would have gone against a lifetime’s habit, and instead he snapped back: ‘Can’t tell you that. Police business. Now piss off out of it!’ And for the first time that day, he felt almost happy. He was staring straight at the man, glaring in joyful fury, and so was barely aware of the hand that came out of the pocket, or of what it was holding, or of the muffled thud.
But he felt the massive impact in his chest, the tremendously powerful blow that flung him back against the scorched metal of the car: flung him back and spun him round, so that he was grasping at the roof, trying to pull himself up, but he had no strength left, none in his arms, none in his legs, and he couldn’t stop himself slipping to the floor. He thought of his radio, but he couldn’t move to reach it, and already it was very dark, even darker than normal…
And then it was utter black, and Ben Drummond hadn’t even had time to realise what had happened to him.
*
The shot seemed to echo for a long time, the acoustics of metal walls and concrete floor extending it’s lifetime beyond the normal. The man with the gun stood listening while they faded – not looking at the body, but at the entrance to the garage. He did not expect interruption from the garage staff, who were watching telly in their portacabin on the other side of the yard. However, just in case, he looked and listened for a while longer, with his pistol hanging casually from his hand.
Finally satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to the body, slumped face down on the dirty concrete.
He had certain business to conduct here, business made more difficult by Ben Drummond’s intransigence. Which, in the man’s mind, was reason enough to shoot him. Even now, the business did not go well: he swore several times in frustration. But he was a practical person, and did not linger pointlessly. When he had done as much as could reasonably be done, under the circumstances, he left. The whole thing was something of an irritation, especially as his intervention now seemed unnecessary. But at least he’d made sure if it. It might not have been the best solution, or the ideal outcome, but it had been dealt with quickly, and on the whole, satisfactorily. He took some pleasure in having tied up all the loose ends.
*
In the garage, nothing moved. Even the pool of blood from beneath the body had stopped spreading. In the poor lighting it was hardly distinguishable from the oil stains nearby as it slowly congealed on the wet concrete.
If you enjoyed 'Can of Worms', then you'd probably like my 'Local' series of crime novels. Different but linked stories, featuring a varied and varying cast of characters all set in the same (imaginary) English town and all having the same authenticity. Start with 'Local Poet' - sample chapter here!
Someone once told Ben Drummond that he was ‘too bloody cantankerous to die’. It wasn’t meant as a compliment but Ben, being Ben, took it that way. Ironic, really, since it was his sheer cussedness, his awkward, obstructive, cantankerous nature that killed him. That, and a 9 millimetre bullet.
Standing at the far end of the duty garage, Ben felt even more belligerent than usual. He’d been stuck here doing cars all day: and Ben hated doing cars. Some Scenes Of Crime Officer’s liked cars: you could recover some good stuff from cars. There was a lot of shiny metal and glass to take fingerprints, there were often cig ends in the ashtray, or bottles under the seats. You had a good chance of bringing something back if you went and did some cars.
Ben didn’t give a shit about bringing anything back – not for a crappy little stolen car job. Twenty-five years he’d been in the job, and he shouldn’t be spending his time on piddling small stuff. In Ben’s not very humble opinion, anything less than an aggravated burglary was a waste of his time and experience. But Slippery Mick had come over all officious that morning, and started on about sharing jobs out equally: so Ben was here doing cars, while kids with 10 minutes in the job were on burglaries and assaults. Stuck in a damp, cold, badly lit garage, bugger all good for any sort of proper forensic exam anyway, on a damp, cold badly lit day at the arse-end of October, looking at his sixth car of the shift. And this one wasn’t going to lift his mood either, because it was a burnt out wreck. Waste of time, the dimwit PC who had the case shouldn’t even have requested Scenes Of Crime.
Unless, perhaps, this was something a bit special? Involved in something serious perhaps – kidnapping, armed robbery? Please, at least a GBH! With a flicker of interest, Ben looked through his paperwork, dug out the incident log, and swore. Just a bloody Taken Without Owners Consent. Bunch of kids had TWOC’d it for a joy ride, torched it for fun. The owner hadn’t even reported it until it had already been put out by the Fire Brigade. It was that important.
Well, he wasn’t going to waste any time on this one. Not even worth getting his kit out for.
Ben dumped his file on the fire-blackened bonnet, began scribbling on a report form. Ten minutes for this one, he thought, then back to the station for a cuppa and maybe a sausage cob.
Behind him, there were footsteps on the damp concrete, which he ignored. Garage staff, he presumed. Probably brought another one in. Well, if they were thinking of asking him to do it before he left they’d think again bloody damn quick.
‘Hum – make, Vauxhall Cavalier.’ Ben frequently muttered to himself whilst working. ‘Condition – severe fire damage, engine and passenger compartment, all windows out: boot…’
‘That’s my car.’
Scowling, Ben put his pen down and turned round. The man standing a few yards away was hard to make out: the random failures of the strip lights had left him in a pool of shadow, back lit by the bright halogens further down.
‘What?’ Ben growled.
‘Are you Police?’
‘Scenes of Crime Officer. And this is a forensic examination area. Not open to the public. Garage office is over the other side.’
The man stepped a bit closer, more into what light there was. Ben saw a dark beard, chunky dark coat, eyes shadowed by a baseball cap. ‘That’s my car there.’
‘I’m nearly finished with it. Go over to the garage office, you can sort things out with them.’
‘Did you find anything in the car?’ The man spoke sharply, demandingly: Ben almost smiled. He loved the chance to be truculent, obstructive, and downright rude if possible.
‘Like I told you, this is a forensic examination area. Contact the Officer in the Case if you’ve got any questions. Now bugger off!’
The man had kept his hands in his pockets, seemingly casual, but there was no doubting the aggression in his voice or in the way he leaned forward as he spoke.
‘Tell me what you’ve found in my car!’
And for a brief moment, Ben was tempted to say ‘Sod all mate. Sorry, it’s a negative.’ But that would have gone against a lifetime’s habit, and instead he snapped back: ‘Can’t tell you that. Police business. Now piss off out of it!’ And for the first time that day, he felt almost happy. He was staring straight at the man, glaring in joyful fury, and so was barely aware of the hand that came out of the pocket, or of what it was holding, or of the muffled thud.
But he felt the massive impact in his chest, the tremendously powerful blow that flung him back against the scorched metal of the car: flung him back and spun him round, so that he was grasping at the roof, trying to pull himself up, but he had no strength left, none in his arms, none in his legs, and he couldn’t stop himself slipping to the floor. He thought of his radio, but he couldn’t move to reach it, and already it was very dark, even darker than normal…
And then it was utter black, and Ben Drummond hadn’t even had time to realise what had happened to him.
*
The shot seemed to echo for a long time, the acoustics of metal walls and concrete floor extending it’s lifetime beyond the normal. The man with the gun stood listening while they faded – not looking at the body, but at the entrance to the garage. He did not expect interruption from the garage staff, who were watching telly in their portacabin on the other side of the yard. However, just in case, he looked and listened for a while longer, with his pistol hanging casually from his hand.
Finally satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to the body, slumped face down on the dirty concrete.
He had certain business to conduct here, business made more difficult by Ben Drummond’s intransigence. Which, in the man’s mind, was reason enough to shoot him. Even now, the business did not go well: he swore several times in frustration. But he was a practical person, and did not linger pointlessly. When he had done as much as could reasonably be done, under the circumstances, he left. The whole thing was something of an irritation, especially as his intervention now seemed unnecessary. But at least he’d made sure if it. It might not have been the best solution, or the ideal outcome, but it had been dealt with quickly, and on the whole, satisfactorily. He took some pleasure in having tied up all the loose ends.
*
In the garage, nothing moved. Even the pool of blood from beneath the body had stopped spreading. In the poor lighting it was hardly distinguishable from the oil stains nearby as it slowly congealed on the wet concrete.
If you enjoyed 'Can of Worms', then you'd probably like my 'Local' series of crime novels. Different but linked stories, featuring a varied and varying cast of characters all set in the same (imaginary) English town and all having the same authenticity. Start with 'Local Poet' - sample chapter here!
