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**Out of the Ashes Blog Tour**

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I have known Vicky Newham – author of ‘Turn a Blind Eye‘ and ‘Out of the Ashes‘ – for several years. As regular readers of this blog will know, ‘Turn a Blind Eye‘ was one of my top reads in 2018 and I’m now delighted to be part of the blog tour for the next book in the DI Maya Rahman series: ‘Out of the Ashes‘. 

A flash mob in Brick Lane is interrupted by an explosion. With fire raging through one of the city’s most infamous streets, DI Maya Rahman is called to the scene. With witnesses too caught up in the crowd to have seen anything, Maya must lead an investigation with no leads. And when Maya is faced with a second, more horrifying crime, she knows she is in a race against time to solve the crimes before East London burns. 

Feast on the first chapter of ‘Out of the Ashes‘ here and then order / download the rest of it. I guarantee you will not be able to put this fantastic book down.

Vic x

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Rosa, 2 p.m.

Rosa Feldman stood at the door of her Brick Lane newsagent’s, staring out at the street she’d known since she was four. She couldn’tshake the feeling that something was wrong. It was the shop opposite,run by the young Lithuanian couple. Since first thing this morning, the lights had been off and the shutters down. Initially, she was relieved that for once, the ugly neon sign, with its air of Margate or Blackpool, wasn’t flashing outside her bedroom window, but as the morning progressed, she felt increasingly uneasy.

It wasn’t like them at all. She couldn’t recall ever seeing the shop closed in the daytime.A tap on the glass snapped Rosa back into the afternoon. It was Mr Walker from the off-licence a few doors down. He shouted a cheery greeting and waved as he passed the window. Regular as clockwork, off to get chips for tea. Rosa raised her hand to return the gesture, but the pain in her wrists and knuckles bit again. Damned arthritis.

Mr Walker’s knock was usually her reminder to think about their meal. Today was Friday after all. But without Józef, the Sabbath meal wasn’t the same and she didn’t bother with the rituals any more. In the last year, she’d lost weight and clothes hung off her spare frame. What was the point of lighting candles when there was only one of you? She’d steam a plate of yesterday’s chicken and potatoes. That would do her. Fortunately, she didn’t have to go far to get home, just upstairs to the flat, even if it was still freezing at this time of year.

Over the dusty window display, two men were putting a new shop sign up where Rosenberg’s jewellers used to be. Work had been going on for weeks, and it looked like the place was nearly ready to open. Alchemia, it said. A swanky new Polish bar by the looks of it, slap bang next-door to Mr Hamid’s curry house. He wasn’t going to be happy. So much had changed in Brick Lane since she and her family had arrived, and life moved so fast on the other side of the window, it made Rosa dizzy. The pace was relentless and the change uncompromising. Inside the shop, though, she felt safe. Change there was slow and predictable. Above her head, by the door, the fan heater droned noisily and made little impact on the chilly air, but she didn’t mind. It had always done that. And she barely noticed the crumbling plaster of the ground floor walls, or the mildew which clung to ceiling corners like a nasty rash.

Her thoughts slid back to the shop over the road. The place was usually open all hours of the day and night, selling its fancy five-quid soups to whoever could afford them. She had no objection to people earning a living, but her parents would be turning in their graves. They’d survived the Ghetto on two hundred calories a day. When they left Warsaw, and arrived in London, it was the handouts from the Jewish soup kitchen in Brune Street that kept them alive. It was extraordinary to think that what had been humble subsistence for many families was now a fad-food. She’d been over for a spy at the menu, of course, when they were shut. Apart from some matzo ball soup, she couldn’t find much she fancied and didn’t know what most of it was, let alone how to pronounce it. Keen-war, or something, a youth with a bicycle and a dog had told Rosa.

She sighed. She missed her old neighbours. Those were Sabbath meals to look forward to. They were exactly how her mother described Warsaw before the war. Mrs Blum from the bagel shop would make the challah. Rich, eggy and sweet. It had been ages since Rosa had felt one of those in her hands, soft and warm, in its pretty braid shape. The Altmans would bring the wine. The Posners, candles. And the Rosenbergs, the jewellers, always came with freshly made kugel.

But now her parents were dead, and all her Jewish neighbours were either dead too or had moved away. Except Rosa.

And there was that feeling again, a gnawing emptiness, a sense that life had moved on without her. It was so unsettling. Every fibre of her being was exhausted by the continual need to think about whether to follow her compatriots out of the East End and into the London suburbs.

The sound of voices jolted her back into the present. Yelling. Music. Outside in the street, a thumping bass beat started up. Tremors vibrated through the shop, and a booming noise invaded the silence of her thoughts. Yobbos, probably, spitting everywhere and pumping out music from one of those dreadful sound-systems. They’d pass in a minute.

But they didn’t.

The music got louder and louder, and – oh, typical – the group had stopped outside Rosa’s shop. All guffaws, swearing, floppy hair and hoodies. More voices, bellowing and cheering, and one by one, people were joining them. What on earth was going on? On a Friday afternoon, from lunchtime onwards, she was used to the steady trickle of people down Brick Lane, getting ready for a night on the tiles and a curry, but it was unusual to see so many people together. She edged over to the corner of the shop window to get a

better view. The music had changed, and one by one people pulled black bandanas into masks, over their mouths and noses, and were dancing, if jabbing a finger in the air and screaming counted as dancing these days. Teenagers, by the look of them. Some younger. She wasn’t very good at judging age, and they all wore such similar clothes, but she’d put money on some of them not being a day over ten.

Rosa pressed her nose against the pane of glass. Outside, the street hummed with joy. There was an innocence to their dancing, even if the masks were a bit scary. And they weren’t doing any harm, were they? She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She used to know all the kids round here; knew their families by name, but none of this lot were familiar. There were at least ten of them, dancing in the street, throwing themselves about like acrobats, bending, leaping, twirling each other around. For a moment, Rosa was reminded of the tea room dances she and Józef used to go to before Agnieszka and Tomasz were born. They’d save for weeks, get dolled up in their best clothes. Oh, how much fun they’d been.

There were more than twenty of them now, maybe thirty. Someone was lighting sparklers and passing them round for the kids. She adored sparklers. And before she knew it, her fingers pulled the door handle and she was outside, the bell dinging shut behind her. The sulphurous smell set light to her dulled senses and she felt the day’s irritation shake itself from her shoulders. She was a kid again, at crisp November bonfires and balmy mid-summer street parties, with people passing sparklers round.

Rosa cleared her throat. Coughed. Her lungs weren’t good these days, weakened by years of a poorly heated flat, the damp shop walls, and Józef’s cigarette smoke.

 

She joined the throng of passers-by who were huddled, mesmer- ised by the dancing. Was it a student gathering? She was puzzled. Who was in charge? She couldn’t see any organisers or anyone giving instructions, and had no idea where the music was coming from. People were merging with the group of their own accord and encouraging others to do the same. They all looked so carefree.

 

The music brought a smile to Rosa’s cold lips. Her heel began to tap and she was lost to nostalgia. It was such a relief to forget the pain and drudgery of the last year. To forget her arthritis and money worries. Was that Lulu and ‘Shout’? Her heart leaped. Many a time she and Józef had danced to that tune. Her mind was flooded with memories of all the occasions when they’d danced together, his warm hand in the small of her back, guiding her forwards, the other clasping hers, keeping her safe. She felt a lump in her throat. They were glorious memories, even if they were now tainted by the agony of loss. It had only been a year and she still missed him so much.

A waltz kicked in, floaty and dramatic. Initially, it had been youngsters dancing but now it was people of all ages, lured over by the infectious atmosphere of Brick Lane on a chilly April afternoon. Hearing the waltz start, a Sikh man checked his turban and, with a huge grin, he clasped the hands of a woman in a navy-blue trench coat. She was giggling like a schoolgirl, a small flat bag diagonally across her body, her head tilted back, carefree and stunned, as though she hadn’t had so much fun in ages. Rosa guessed the woman was about her age. Perhaps she was a widow too?

Rosa’s hips started to sway, and she was tempted to go over and join in. What was she thinking? She was being silly. She couldn’t. Who would mind the shop while she was cavorting in the street?

Another crowd of youths piled in, hee-hawing and smoking, in their thin cotton clothing and baseball shoes. Some with their bottoms hanging out of their trousers, others in drainpipe jeans. Didn’t they feel the cold? Several more children were in tow. Why weren’t they all at school? Before Rosa knew it, one of them had taken her hand and led her towards the group. Elvis’ crooning tones wafted down the street and once again Rosa’s spirits soared. The teenagers looked so funny, impersonating the rock ’n’ roll moves of ‘All Shook Up’. It was the most fun she’d had on a Friday afternoon since . . .

Józef would have enjoyed this.

‘Come on, Rosa,’ he would have said in his calm, decisive voice, and he’d have locked the shop, led her out into the street and begun whirling her around with that boyish grin of his.

A quick head count told her there were about fifty people dancing now and a good twenty more hanging around. The street whiffed of whacky-backy. Rosa had forgotten her nagging joints and aching legs; the grimy shelves with mounting dust; the delivery boxes she couldn’t carry. For a few sweet moments, she’d stopped feeling sick to death of the damn shop, of book-keeping and fretting over decisions. She didn’t care about any of it anymore. All she wanted was—

A loud splitting sound tore through the air, followed by a series of cracks and bangs. Rosa gasped as orange flames burst out of the top floor windows of the shop opposite, and billowed upwards. Swirling streams of black smoke inked the pale sky. Fire raged behind the first-floor windows, and the ground floor shop was filled with smoke and flames. She cried out in pain as acrid fumes hit her lungs, forcing her to clamp her hand over her mouth. Everyone was shouting and running for cover as burning timber peeled away from windows. Screams pierced the air as lengths of wood and red-hot embers rained down on the crowd below. Rosa’s legs were like jelly and she felt dizzy. She stumbled over something on the ground in front of her and lurched forwards. She made out a woman, clutching her arm.

 

‘Help,’ came the agonised cry at Rosa’s feet. ‘Please help me.’

Panic engulfed Rosa, and she was transported back to the sensory onslaught of the Warsaw Ghetto, to primitive memories of endless screaming, to the cacophony of bombs and blasts and gunshots. From behind, someone shoved her out of the way and she stumbled forwards. All around her, people were coughing, retching and staggering, scarves and hands clasped over their mouths, desperate to escape the blaze. The air was cloying. Putrid. She was plunged into blind terror, realising she could die. This wasn’t Poland, and it wasn’t the end of the war, but she had to get away from the fire and ring 999 before someone died.

As the blaze ripped through the roof, smoke continued to spiral upwards into the sky. Rosa staggered blindly towards the blue door of her shop, to the step and doorway, arms groping ahead for something to grab. The fumes bit at her lungs and she was gasping for air so much she was retching. Finally, her hands grabbed the handle. She used all her weight to heave the door open and stumbled inside, pushing it shut behind her as quickly as she could.

She sucked in some air. It was like breathing through needles. She had to get to the phone in the back room. Stands and magazine racks flashed past her as she lurched towards the till, gasping for breath and snatching for a hold. She hauled her way round the counter, head spinning, and grabbed the phone receiver from the wall. Her eyes were streaming.

Keep blinking, she told herself. Breathe. She tried to calm herself; to rub away the tears that the fumes had produced; to steady her shaking hands and press the buttons. What should she say? Was it terrorists? Had there been an explosion?

Just say FIRE.

Rosa felt her head starting to spin. Lights flashed, dots appeared and she went floppy. Her mind slipped sideways and everything stopped.

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Review: ‘Critical Incidents’ by Lucie Whitehouse

DI Robin Lyons has been dismissed for misconduct from the Met’s Homicide Command after refusing to follow orders. Unable to pay her bills (or hold down a relationship), she is left with no choice but to move back in with her parents in the city she thought she’d escaped forever at 18. This time, though, Robin has her teenage daughter Lennie in tow. 

In Birmingham, sharing a bunkbed with Lennie and navigating the stormy relationship with her mother, Robin works as a benefit-fraud investigator – to the delight of those wanting to see her cut down to size.

Only Corinna, Robin’s best friend of 20 years, seems happy to have Robin back. But when Corinna’s family is engulfed by violence and her missing husband becomes a murder suspect, Robin can’t bear to stand idly by as the police investigate. As Robin begins her own investigation, she realises there may be a link to the disappearance of a young woman, and she begins to wonder how well we ever know the people we care about. 

Having read Lucie Whitehouse’s ‘The Bed I Made‘ several years ago, I was intrigued to read ‘Critical Incidents which seemed a rather different premise to the ‘The Bed I Made‘. 

As I have come to expect from Lucie Whitehouse’s writing, ‘Critical Incidents‘ is a superb story, with sensitive characterisation and an emotional pull that you often don’t get from crime fiction. I couldn’t put ‘Critical Incidents‘ down. It’s a wonderful blend of pacey plot and intrigue with a touch of humour in the darkness.

There are plenty of interlinking stories here which some may dismiss as “convenient” but I actually enjoyed the story so much that I was happy to suspend my disbelief. 

Whitehouse has a real skill for presenting fictional crime alongside domesticity and I really like that about her writing. She really captures familial tensions perfectly – the tense relationship between Robin and her mother adds plenty to the story.

The way in which Whitehouse portrays Robin is pitch perfect. Despite obviously being a competent officer, Robin’s unwillingness to play by the rules consistently gets her in bother. I like that Robin has her problems but her intentions are good. I could really identify with Robin and her well-intentioned missteps. 

Critical Incidents‘ is a must-read. 

Vic x

2018 Review: LJ Ross

Merry Christmas!

I have a very special Christmas gift for you today: the fabulous LJ Ross is here to review her 2018 just for us! One of my greatest pleasures this year has been spending more time with Louise and finding a true friend in her. She really is one in a million. 

I hope you all have a wonderful day. My thanks to Louise for sharing her year with us.

Vic x

Do you have a favourite memory professionally from 2018?
I’ve been incredibly lucky this year: all of the books I’ve published in 2018 have been U.K. #1 best-sellers and I recently surpassed the three million sales mark. However, in November, the first ever ‘dramatic’ production of a DCI Ryan was produced by Audible Originals Studios. I wrote the prequel story to the DCI Ryan series, The Infirmary, and it was scripted into an audio-drama featuring an all-star cast including Tom Bateman (Ryan), Kevin Whately (Phillips), Alun Armstrong (Gregson), Hermione Norris (the Narrator), Bertie Carvel (Killer Narrator) and so many more. It was so fantastic to hear the story brought to life in such an exciting way, especially since I’ve admired so many of those actors from afar!

And how about a favourite moment from 2018 generally?
There have been so many lovely moments, but I think it has to be seeing my son (Ethan, who’s now five) really discover the joy of reading completely independently. He’s enjoying C.S. Lewis’ The Magician’s Nephew at the moment and it’s a joy to listen to him read, or to watch him with his nose between the pages. 

Favourite book in 2018?
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman, or The Afterlife of Walter Augustus by H.M. Lynn. They’re both great, uplifting reads.

Favourite film in 2018?
I’m afraid I don’t watch a lot of television these days but, over the past few weeks, I’ve had a bit more time to enjoy some old movies – I rediscovered To Catch a Thief and The 39 Steps, both directed by Hitchcock, and it felt very nostalgic. 

Favourite song of the year?
Probably 1979 by The Smashing Pumpkins. I think my musical taste stalled somewhere back in the early noughties…

Any downsides for you in 2018?
Unless you count the inevitability of growing another year older…not really!

Are you making resolutions for 2019?
My resolutions tend to be the same at the start of every new day, irrespective of the time of year. They are to try to be kind and tolerant of others (especially in rush hour traffic); to work hard and strive to become better at what I do; to be the best mother, daughter, sister, wife and friend I can and never to take more than I give back to the world. It isn’t always possible to do all or any of these things, but I do try. 

What are you hoping for from 2019?
Continued health and happiness for all my friends and family  – in fact, for as many people as possible. There’s a lot of suffering and negativity around the world stage at the moment and I hope 2019 brings with it a more calm, measured and kind approach in politics, communities and nations.

**The Last Day Blog Tour** Guest Post and Review

Last Day Blog Tour

I am absolutely delighted to welcome Claire Dyer to the blog today as part of her blog tour for ‘The Last Day‘. 

Claire is here to chat to us about Beginnings and Endings today which, given the subject of ‘The Last Day‘, is very apt.

Thanks to Claire, and The Dome Press, for allowing me to be a part of this tour.

Vic x 

Claire Dyer

Beginnings and endings
By Claire Dyer

Every ending starts with a beginning …

One of the creative writing classes I teach at Bracknell & Wokingham College is on beginnings and endings. We start by talking about some of the most notable beginnings from the literary canon: ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ (Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier); ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’ (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens); ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,’ (Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare) and we analyse what has made them memorable. It’s not an easy exercise because everyone has their own take, their own set of memories and expectations.

What’s also interesting in this section of the class is when I tell my students that most writers will not keep the original first few sentences of their novel; they will go through many iterations and, in some cases, whole opening scenes and chapters will be deleted.

We then look at endings and again, I pick a few favourites: ‘Reader, I married him,’ (Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë); ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ (The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald), etc.

And we talk about why these endings work. Is it because they bring the story arc to a satisfactory conclusion? Or, is it because they don’t? Do they leave the reader alone with their own emotions, casting their gaze into the future lives of the books’ characters with their own take on hope, regret, sadness, joy? Or, as in the case of one of my favourite recent reads, Together, by Julie Cohen, the ending is the beginning?

Again, it’s hard to tell. Whatever the case, there is a certain alchemy at work with both beginnings and endings and I’ve learned a lot about this particular type of magic from working on poems. One brilliant piece of advice I’ve been given is to look carefully at the first and last stanzas of a poem and ask whether they are necessary. Do they serve a purpose for the poem or are they just a frame in which the poem sits? This discipline has, I hoped, helped me with the beginnings and endings of my novels.

So, we can study the theory and practise our own but, in the end, our beginnings and endings are at the mercy of our readers, all we can do is make them the best we can.

And so, I try. The first paragraph of The Last Day came very late in the writing process. The ending crept up on me and when I realised I’d got there I had to step away from the keyboard and not risk that last, lone brushstroke which may have ruined everything. Whether my own attempt at alchemy will work will, of course, be up to others, but I have loved every minute of trying.

Review: ‘The Last Day’

by Claire Dyer.

Boyd moves back into the family home with Vita, his estranged wife, to get his finances back on track. Accompanying Boyd is his beautiful, young girlfriend, Honey who is running from her past. The unlikely housemates manage to make their living arrangement work despite all the odds but memories are never far away and the ghosts of the past threaten to derail the new normal in Albert Terrace.

When I first read the premise, my interest was piqued because of the unusual situation of a man living with his estranged wife and new lover.

Claire Dyer manages to make the reader suspend their disbelief and accept this peculiar situation by creating nuanced characters that readers can empathise with. Everyone is afforded a compassion and understanding which is often lacking in fiction and in life. 

The language used in this book is beautiful and adds to the poignancy of the storyline. It’s obvious why Claire Dyer is an award-winning poet thanks to her thoughtful turn of phrase and rich descriptions. 

Long after I’d finished reading ‘The Last Day’, I found myself thinking about Vita, Boyd, Honey and Boyd’s mum. This beautifully written, observant novel will stay with you long after the final page has been turned. 

Vic x

Review: ‘Good Me, Bad Me’ by Ali Land

Teenager Annie reports her mother to the police in order to put an end to her hideous crimes. Annie may have a new name – Milly – and new family but she is still haunted by memories of the past. As she is prepared for the upcoming trial by a team of experts, Milly has to not only deal with her feelings about the things she witnessed when living with her mother but she has all the other trials of being an adolescent girl to contend with. 

I bought ‘Good Me Bad Me‘ on impulse and I’m delighted I did. Reading it in the last days of 2017, this fascinating novel sneaked in as one of my top reads of last year. I devoured this book within a couple of days thanks to its compelling characters and intriguing story. 

There will be some people who find the subject matter too difficult to read but I found ‘Good Me Bad Me‘ impossible to put down. 

Vic x

*Hydra Blog Tour* Guest Post and Review.

Author Matt Wesolowski joins us today as part of his ‘Hydra‘ blog tour. I’m really happy to be part of this tour as I am a huge fan of Matt’s writing, he combines crime with something much darker.

Today Matt is here to chat about fear which seems appropriate seeing as his novels have given me some sleepless nights…

Vic x 

The Difficult Second Book
By Matt Wesolowski

I thought I knew fear. I deal in fear. Creating fear is my only talent (or not – depending on your opinion). I’ve been plenty scared in my life, like the other day when there was a spider in the bath that was so big that even when I brought in the expert to deal with it (my cat) – she ran away.

Like I say, I know fear.

The fear of writing a second installment of Six Stories didn’t really hit until I was about half way through. Suddenly, the words of every one star review (I’ll tell you I don’t read them but I do!) gathered together above my head in a storm cloud of mocking dissent. The nasty part of my brain began to prod me with its savagely pointed fingernail and tell me that I couldn’t do this again, that writing another one was impossible. I was a flash-in-the-pan.

I felt there was expectation where there had been none before. What if Hydra was terrible?

A deep, gut-churning fear assailed me as if from nowhere as I ploughed on through the manuscript. Writing has never been a place of fear, at least not the actual writing process. Writing has always been catharsis or solace.

Writing a prequel to Six Stories was, in theory, easier than writing Six Stories itself. The structure was there, the idea was blinking its corpse-light from somewhere in the folds of my brain, but the fear of expectation hung in the air like some ghastly fog.

The way through this fear was tough, like hacking through a jungle of self-doubt. Yet after a while, a path began to emerge.

First off, I knew it would be difficult to set anything after Six Stories – the implications at the end would be too complex. I also like loose series. Take the magnificent author Thomas Enger for example; his novels all stand alone yet have a loose threat running through them so can be enjoyed as a series or indeed not. To be able to do that is true talent. I had to at least give it a shot.

So instead of thinking about writing, I started thinking about podcasts again instead.

I love discovering a podcast which I can listen to its latest episode and then trawl back through its archives – same presenter, same style, different cases. This appeals to a creature of habit like me.

So why not apply the same sentiment to Hydra? After all, Six Stories was only supposed to be one book, a prequel was never on the cards until an idea appeared in my brain when I least expected it, just like that terrible bath-spider, but with fewer legs.

I allude a few times in the first book to there being previous series of Six Stories – old graves that Scott King likes to rake up.

Using that sense of trawling back through the archives to an unknown time before Scarclaw Fell appealed to me. I didn’t want to write another whodunnit about the woods, I wanted to use that old anonymous adage:

The writer’s job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.

I wondered how Six Stories would feel in an urban setting, where place didn’t play so much of a role. I also indulged my own fascination with true crime – why rather than who. I also wondered about the ramifications for raking up these graves – would it impact the podcaster at all? Why does Scott King wear a mask? I thought that this might be something fun to explore.

All these questions and notions became my machete, hacking the murky undergrowth of fear and doubt. I began to construct something that wasn’t like Six Stories save for its structure. The horror element showed itself in the early ideas of Hydra but something a million miles from the rustic folktale of Nanna Wrack, something less cosy (Nanna Wrack has her cosy side, you just don’t know her well enough!). I felt like having a more modern story needed a more modern horror…enter the BEKs…

Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a crime writer at all, that maybe this expectation comes from some perception I have of myself. I think I’ve decided I’m not a crime writer in the traditional sense (too much horror), nor am I a horror writer (too little horror, too much crime).

But I’m ok with that.

What it does mean is that giving birth to horrors like Hydra is always going to be difficult.

Review: ‘Hydra’
by Matt Wesolowski.

Well, where do I start? It’s no secret that ‘Six Stories‘ was one of my favourite reads of 2017 so I was delighted to be getting another in the series so soon. It is worthwhile saying that, although I’m a fan of the series, you can read the books as standalones or out of the order they were published in – they are self-contained stories.

A family massacre
A deluded murderess
Five witnesses
Six Stories
Which one is true?

In November 2014, 21-year-old Arla Macleod bludgeoned her mother, stepfather and younger sister to death with a hammer, in an unprovoked attack known as the Macleod Massacre. Now incarcerated at a mental-health institution, Arla refuses to speak to anyone but Scott King, whose Six Stories podcasts have become an online phenomenon.

As he digs deeper into the case, Scott begins to wonder whether Arla’s capacity for murder was played down by her legal team. Interviewing Arla and five witnesses, Scott finds himself down the rabbit hole of deadly online games, trolls and strange black-eyed kids. Will he survive to tell the tale? 

Matt Wesolowski manages to blend horror and crime effortlessly – he has a real talent for combining potentially supernatural horror with terror that is all too real. Delving into the deepest recesses of human capability, ‘Hydra‘ is a story about the ills people can inflict on one another. 

Capitalising on the success of new media, Wesolowski presents his narrative in a unique way – that of a serialised podcast. Not only is this a form I haven’t seen used before, it’s clear Wesolowski is very familiar with the conventions of podcasts and how ambiguity prevails through many online investigations.

In addition to this, Wesolowski writes about so-called ‘outsiders’ particularly well. Where other authors may be afraid to shine a spotlight, Wesolowski excels. Whether it be an overweight teen who is bullied, or someone who is scoffed due to their home life or taste in music, Wesolowski really nails the ‘outcast’. However, he also manages to capture the psyche of the “cool” and popular kids. To me, this is a true skill – he creates balanced, empathetic characters.

Will ‘Hydra‘ become one of my top reads of 2018? Only time will tell but it is certainly a front runner. 

Vic x

Review of 2017: KA Richardson

Today is a Bloodhound Books bonanza on the blog! Not only have we had Owen Mullen reviewing his 2017, we now have KA Richardson to tell us all about her year. 

As regular readers of this blog will know, I have been friends with Kerry for several years and she is one of the nicest people I’ve met. My thanks to Kerry for taking the time to review her year. 

Vic x

Do you have a favourite memory professionally from 2017?
Publication of Watch You Burn in May 2017 was amazing but also, I was asked to speak at a luncheon for the Darlington Soroptimists in November. The luncheon was to raise money for Shine which is a charity for people with hydrocephalus and spina bifida. Speaking was nerve wracking but I thoroughly enjoyed it and sold 30 odd books. I donated my fee to the charity – they raised £773 in those few hours! Absolutely fab.

And how about a favourite moment from 2017 generally?
Being able to move part time at work in January 2017 due to my royalties from writing.

Favourite book in 2017?
Monster in the Closet
by Karen Rose – but also Nameless by David McCaffrey. Both were brilliant reads.

Favourite film in 2017?
Ooooo tough one – so far probably Kingsman 2 though haven’t seen Thor or Justice League yet so it may change!

Favourite song of the year?
Despacito
– begrudgingly as I’m not a massive fan of Justin Bieber. And also Black Tears by Jason Aldean  – one of my absolute favourites of his.

Any downsides for you in 2017?
My rheumatoid arthritis has been flaring and worsening – luckily my rheumatology team are fantastic and taking steps to change meds etc. Everything else is grand though so not worrying too much.

Are you making resolutions for 2018?
I don’t really make resolutions as I don’t stick to them – but I intend to have book 5 in the North East police series published in April – and intend to finish and hopefully get a contract for my new romantic suspense series.

What are you hoping for from 2018?
Book sales (haha poor author here!!) and happiness. The simple but meaningful things.

You can find Kerry on Facebook and Twitter.