THE WAIT IS FINALLY OVER!
I have a very exciting surprise for you all too, but you have to stick around until the end of this post to find out what it is...
"How far would you go to find your child?
DS Jan Pearce has a big problem. Her fifteen year old son, Aiden, is missing. Jan draws together the threads of missing person cases spanning fifty years and finds tragic connections and unsolved questions.Bessy Swain, an elderly woman that Jan finds dead on her search for Aiden, and whose own son, Thomas, was also missing, may have the answers. Jan uses Bessy's information and her own skills and instinct to track down the missing boys. But is it too late for Aiden?Set in the North West of England, with the notorious Saddleworth Moor as a backdrop, Random Acts of Unkindness is a story about motherhood, love and loss and how families of missing people suffer the consequences of major crimes involving their loved ones.Random Acts of Unkindness is the first in the DS Jan Pearce series of novels."
Gripped? I told you! It's intense and I cannot wait to share my review with you all so look out for that on my blog soon. Here are some links you can use to find out more about the book and of course buy it!
Today is the release day so GO NOW into the World and buy this amazingness.
So now that we know all about her incredible book, let's learn more about the delightful lady herself, Jacqueline Ward.
Jacqueline Ward writes short
stories, novels and screenplays. She has been writing seriously since 2007 and
has had short stories published in anthologies and magazines.
Jacqueline won
Kindle Scout in 2016 and her crime novel, Random
Acts of Unkindness, will be published by Amazon Publishing imprint Kindle
Press. Her novel SmartYellowTM was
published by Elsewhen Press in 2015 and was nominated for the Arthur C Clarke
Award in 2016.
Jacqueline is a Chartered psychologist who specializes in
narrative psychology, gaining a PhD in narrative and storytelling in 2007. She
lives in Oldham, near Manchester, with her partner and their dog.
NOW FOR THE SURPRISE!
Your amazing surprise is...AN EXTRACT! You are very lucky people so take a look at the first chapter of Random Acts of Unkindness.
"CHAPTER ONE
I
look a little closer and instinctively back away.
Her
eyes are hollow holes where the birds have pecked away at her skull and she’s
covered in tiny soft feathers and greying bird shit. Fragments of silvered hair
lie on her shoulders, pulled out at the roots and exposing pinprick follicles
made bigger by beaks. Her mouth is set in a wry smile showing yellow teeth, as
if somehow, despite the torn skin and the deeply painful twist of her body,
she’s having the last laugh.
The
shock is so deep that it hurts more than it should, and tears threaten as I
gaze at her. A human life ending in such a terrible, lonely way. It hits me
with sadness so intense that I take a moment to sit with her, to tell her
broken shell of a body that someone cares. Then fear oozes through the sadness,
pushing it under and reminding me of why I’m here. Where are you, Aiden?
Where is my son?
I
slump onto a brown box sealed with Sellotape that’s sitting next to a small
blue suitcase. It looks like this old woman was going somewhere. Somewhere she
never got to.
Bessy
Swain, by the looks of post on the doormat. A couple of bills and some takeaway
menus. A letter from social services that arrived too late to make any
difference.
As
well as the boxes there are piles of newspapers and scrapbooks stacked up
against ancient peeling sepia wallpaper. From the state of the house this woman
has been suffering for a while. Poor Bessy.
Outside,
starlings perch on the windowsill, quietly watching, judging me as I put off
the inevitable phone call. Through the open kitchen door I can see a couple of
blackbirds standing on the shed roof, and I can hear their song of accusation.
I know I need to call this in and get Bessy some dignity, but I also need to
finish what I came here to do.
The
day job kicks in and I pull my scarf around my nose and mouth to protect my
senses from the rancid fumes I hadn’t even noticed until now. My phone starts
to ring, forcing me into the here and now.
I
look at Bessy’s body and then at the flashing screen. Shit. It’s Mike. My
partner in crime. Crime solving, that is. Like me, he’s a Detective Sergeant
working on Special Operations.
‘Jan.
Where the hell are you?’
I
pause. How am I going to explain this? I take a big breath and then pull down
my scarf.
‘Right,
yeah. I was just . . .’
‘Looking
for Aiden. Come on, you’re going to get us both sacked. You’re supposed to be
in Lytham Road, attending the Operation Prophesy briefing.’
On
the worn kitchen worktop that separates the lounge from the kitchen a dead
starling stares at me, its dried eyes condemning me from the pits of death.
A
small metal toaster holds the remains of two slices of bread, which have been
pecked right down to the toaster elements. The dead bird is lying close to the
toaster, its feathers puffed from electrocution.
How
many birds are there in here?
In
my hurry to get inside I hadn’t registered anything apart from needing to know
if Aiden was here. But now, sitting here with my mobile hot against my cheek, I
realise I am sitting in a house covered in bird feathers and faeces.
The
back door slams shut in a gust of wind. A few stray starlings are flying about
in the kitchen, but most of the birds are now outside, my entrance breaking
open their jail. What I can’t understand is why the windowsills are covered in
them, their wings and curled up feet scratching at the dirty glass.
Then
I realise they want to get back in.
‘Jan?
Jan? Are you there?’
I
nod at my mobile phone.
‘Yep.
Look, I’ll just finish off here. I got a tip off about there being a funny
smell coming from a house and I thought . . .’
Mike
sighs deeply.
‘I
know exactly what you thought. But this has to stop. Or you have to do it in
your own time. It’s not just your own life you’re fucking up here. I’m your
partner and I’ll back you up, but there’s a line. There’s a fucking line. Where
are you anyway?’
The
secure safety net I have in Mike has started to fracture recently and it
shatters a little more now with the pain in his voice. I desperately want to
put it right, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to deal with this.
‘57
Ney Street, Ashton.’
‘Connelly’s
rented houses, aren’t they? I’m telling you, you’re heading for trouble.’
I
end the call there. He’s right. I’m heading for trouble. But put any parent in
my position and try telling me they’d do differently. I have a good reason.
Mike knows that, but he also knows that everyone else’s lives are moving on and
he’s trying to drag me on with him.
I
push the phone into my bag and I pull my scarf back up against the smell. It’s
invaded my hair, clothes and skin, but the action gives me a bit of
comfort and control.
There’s
a sudden noise from upstairs and my heart skips. The memory of Aiden calls me
back and overpowers the sensible part of my brain urgently screaming that maybe
poor Bessy wasn’t alone after all. Maybe someone killed her. Maybe I shouldn’t
be here on my own. Maybe I shouldn’t be here at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I
tread the worn stair carpet and creep up, nudging open the first door on the
right. It’s a boy’s bedroom, all red and white, Manchester United. So she has
children. Or grandchildren? But no one is in here now.
Slowly
I move on to the next door and there’s a flash of feathers. Two starlings fly
past and circle the landing. Another flies at me as I step inside, hitting the
side of my head. It’s a dull thud on the temple that causes a slight flash,
then turns into a sickening stinging sensation. The shock bursts the tears that
have been waiting to be shed since I found Bessy and not Aiden. I slump on an
old double bed and touch my forehead, feeling for the dampness of blood, but
luckily there is none. I shift my weight onto a pretty pink quilt and pillows
for respite.
Suddenly,
sitting alone in the empty house, I feel so very small and wish someone would
tell me what to do next. Tell me how to find my son.
The
thought that he could be captive, suffering, or dead suffocates me, and I feel
my body begin to panic. Large hands squeezing my lungs. And then there’s
another bird flapping, this time in a large wooden wardrobe. Sounds loosen the
squeeze and I can breathe again. I need to finish this.
I
open the double wardrobe door and duck out of the way this time as the bird
escapes onto the landing, joining the others.
‘How
did you get in there, little guy?’
They
fly round and round, looking for a way out, some kind of escape, and I know how
that feels. This release calms me somehow and I take an enormous breath and
find raw comfort from the material of my scarf as it sucks into the crevices of
my mouth.
There’s
a chest lodged at the bottom of the wardrobe, like a forgotten treasure. It’s
against regulations, it’s against everything I thought I stood for, but I open
it anyway. I need to find out more about Bessy.
Inside,
there’s another box and some papers, on top of a rolled-up baby shawl. Pink.
She must have a son and a daughter.
I’m
not sure what I’m searching for. A way to avoid it happening to me? What not to
do. How to not die alone.
I
open the inner box and there are bundles of twenty-pound notes. My fingers
trace the smooth paper and lines of thick rubber bands. It isn’t often you see
money like this, all rolled up and waiting for something important. My thoughts
switch back to Aiden.
I
remember his dark hair and angry teenage skin. I remember that I will do
anything to get him home. And somehow, at this moment, the realisation of
something happening to my son makes me stoop down and contemplate the unknown
territory of stealing.
I’ve
worked in the police force for almost two decades; I know how criminal minds
work. I know that whoever has Aiden could come knocking any second, minute,
hour, day now demanding money. I’m surprised they haven’t already. Time I have,
but money I don’t and, as I realise the weight of a potential ransom, an
intense panic prickles in my fingers. Before I can refuse this primal urge, I
push the notes into my deep shoulder bag, along with the papers.
I
know it’s wrong, of course; even as I’m doing it I sense my own desperation.
I’m a member of the police force. I’m the most honest person I know, committed
to catching the scum who do this sort of thing. Yet I can’t help myself. This
is different. This is for Aiden. This could be the only way I will ever see my
son again.
I’ve
been involved in missing person cases before and I’ve looked at the mother,
desperate and determined, and wondered how far you would go to find your child.
Now I know. All the way Aiden, I’ll go all the way to find you, son.
I
unravel the pink shawl, hoping I will, for a moment, lose myself inside someone
else’s memories or pain instead of my own. No such luck. My hand touches
fragile bone, and a tiny skeletal hand falls into mine.
I
almost scream, but aren’t I Detective Sergeant Janet Pearce, Surveillance
Specialist? Aren’t I hard? Tough? Impenetrable? I close the lid with shaking
fingers and replace the box, hurrying now, fighting back tears. This is all
wrong. It’s all too much and I rush downstairs.
My
phone rings just as I’m standing in front of poor Bessy. Mike. Again.
‘Jan?
Have you left there yet? You need to be here. We’re starting the briefing in
half an hour and if you don’t make this one . . .’
The
bag is heavy on my shoulder and pinching at the skin under my cotton T-shirt. I
need to get it to my car before I ring this in, but now I have no choice. If I
don’t say anything to Mike someone will suspect further down the line. I check
my watch. I’ve been here ten minutes.
‘OK.
I’ll be there. But I need to ring in a suspicious death.’
There’s
a silence for a moment. I can hear him breathing. Mike knows what I’m going
through. He gets it. He’s probably my best friend in the whole world right now.
He speaks again.
‘Not . . . ?’
‘No. An old woman. Looks like natural
causes, but a bit gruesome. Anyway. That’s what I found when I got here. I’ll
wait until someone arrives, then I’ll be right with you.’
I sound composed, professional, but I’m
still shaking. I hang up. He’ll be pleased, because I’ve got a legitimate
excuse to miss the briefing. I hurry through the kitchen, out the door, and
through the yard. The birds scatter then regroup on the telephone wires above.
My
car’s in the back alleyway. I take the money and push it under the front seat.
I push the letters into the elasticated pocket on the side of the door and pull
my bag back onto my shoulder. Oh my God. What am I doing? I know this is so
fucking wrong and I try to tell myself again that it’s necessary. But away from
the drama of the house sense creeps in. If there was going to be a ransom from
Connelly wouldn’t it have come weeks ago?
No.
I can’t do it. I can’t. I pull out the money and push it back into my bag and
hurry back to the house. What was I thinking? This isn’t me. The birds just sit
there, their heads turning as they watch me rushing around. I try to shoo them
away, because they are witnesses to my uncharacteristic misdemeanour, but they
won’t go.
I
move past Bessy, running now, and toward the narrow stairs, silently
apologising for disturbing her secret.
But
it’s too late. I see a blue flashing light against the darkness of the room and
hear the back door open. Two uniformed police officers appear and someone is
banging on the door.
Hugging
my bag and shame to my chest, I fumble with the lock and open it. DS Jack
Newsome, one of my opposite numbers in the regional police, pushes past me,
followed by two uniformed officers.
‘Jesus
Christ. That’s awful. How long’s it been here?’
I
don’t like Jack. He hasn’t got a compassionate bone in his body. I find myself
moving protectively between him and Bessy.
‘She,
Jack, she. This is a person. A woman. She deserves a little respect.’
The
word sticks on my tongue, heavy with mockery. Respectful, unlike me, who has
just stolen her life savings. I’ve never felt guilt like this before, and I
wonder how people can live with it. He smirks.
‘Right,
Jan. She. How long has she been here?’
I
see Bessy with fresh eyes. As Jack does, as any policeman would. Her faded
dress is sagging in odd shapes against the decomposition of her body, and brown
lace-up shoes sit the wrong way round, her ankles ballooning awkwardly in the
crossed position they must have rested in as she died.
‘I
don’t know, Jack. But I arrived fifteen minutes ago. Had a tip off about a bad
smell and was just passing.’
He’s
nodding and grinning. Yet underneath I can see his annoyance as he sighs and
wipes his hand through his dark hair, then wipes tiny beads of perspiration
away from his forehead. And, of course, the giveaway twitch at the corner of
his eye that always tells me when Jack thinks he’s onto something.
‘Just
passing, were you? A little bit out of town, isn’t it? Away from your usual
place of work? So who was the tip off from?’
I
smile now and wonder if it covers up my devastation.
‘Member
of the public. In a public place. Just on my way to Ashton Market buying some
bacon for the weekend when I heard two women talking about this property and the
smell. Simple as that.’
He’s
shaking his head.
‘OK,
Jan, if that’s how you want it. I suppose all’s well that ends well.’
We
look at Bessy. She’s someone’s mother. Like me.
‘Not
for her, though. Which is why we’re here, not to find out the ins and outs of
my shopping habits. No?’
Jack
turns away now. He’s looking toward the kitchen. As he approaches the door, I
hear a flutter of wings and beaks tapping on glass.
‘What
the bloody hell? Get those birds out of here. And search the house. Get
forensics down here, and we need a coroner’s wagon for the old bird here. Cover
her up, John. She’s giving me the creeps.’
So
the police machine swings into action. I stand there for a moment, wondering if
there is a way for me to put the money back, but the two uniformed officers are
upstairs now, battling with angry starlings.
I
don’t mention that they will need two coroner’s vehicles, one for poor Bessy
and one for the tiny baby. God only knows why she’s got a dead baby in her
wardrobe. That poor woman must have had a terrible life if the state of this
place is anything to go by. Without a word I leave by the front door and walk
around to the back alley.
The
houses are well maintained and I feel a little easier now the neighbours are
out and I have a reason for being here. I get in my car and, with the bag still
over my shoulder, drive off. In my rearview mirror the birds still watch, their
heads cocking.
Two
streets away, I pull up outside an old peoples’ home. I know this is a safe
spot away from CCTV. My phone hasn’t even got a signal here. I’m a surveillance
expert, latterly of the Communications Department, more lately promoted to DS
in Special Operations. It’s my job to know these things.
Even
so, guilt overwhelms me, and I remember when I first became a police detective;
so full of goodwill and always on the side of the person who had been harmed. I
spent hours poring over mind maps and evidence boards, midnight sessions in the
operation room and endless visits to witnesses.
Sometimes
when I lie awake at night thinking about Aiden, I wonder if I would have
shuffled events in a different way this wouldn’t have happened. That always
leads to me swearing that from now on I’ll do the right thing, be good,
anything, as long as I get him back. Holding myself bolt upright, smiling,
being polite, saying thank you; are they all little combinations to finding out
what has happened?
In
the clarity of daylight it all seems different. No hippy thinking will get me
through the day. Action is needed. And, after all, in this game it’s almost
impossible to be good all the time. The deeper you get into something, the more
complex the relationships, the situations. Everyone’s got something on someone,
and they’re going to use it at some point. Until now I’d kept my fingers out of
the till, been good as gold. But this is different. This is personal.
I
count the money. There’s forty-four thousand pounds. Jesus. I
automatically scan the horizon for the signs I know are there, at the root of
my suspicions of where my son is. Connelly. I see the scarves and shoes hanging
from the telephone wires, silent messages in an unspoken world and my heart
turns back to stone.
I
push the money under the seat, still distraught that I took it, more distraught
that I couldn’t put it back, and seeing no way to return it now. I decide that,
in return for it, I’ll do what I can to see Bessy Swain’s case resolved. I’ll
do what I can to find out why she had to hide a baby. Someone owes her that, at
least."
A big thank you to Jacqueline for providing me with an extract to share with you all! Thank you to YOU reading this post and supporting me and the lovely Jacqueline.
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