Charlie’s latest newsflash

A brief newsletter just to say if there’s radio silence from me on various fronts for a few weeks, panic ye not, because we’re off to sunny Cali-for-ny-ay to see our middle daughter. For some of that time we’ll not have much in the way of wifi or 4G so if you need any answer from me about anything, chances are it will be delayed, I’m afraid.

News

The next Lindenshaw has a cover (sorry I can’t share it yet, but I have to wait for the official cover reveal) and is in edits. For fans of Campbell—or other fictional dogs—you might be interested in an article I wrote along with Antony Johnson about the pooches you might find in crime books. And how you have to look after them like they’re made of glass.

I’ve also got a new adventure for the Cambridge Fellows—set all the way back in 1912—the first draft of which is almost done so that’ll go out for initial beta. Always a nail biting time in case someone says, “Charlie, you’ve lost your touch.”

Don’t forget that The Deadliest Fall is out now, in both print and e-book, from all the usual outlets.

Some truths can’t be left buried.
The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, there’s a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fate’s been cruel.
A chance meeting with Patrick’s sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his father’s motives and long-unanswered questions around the death of Fergus Jackson. The worst of a group of disreputable pre-war friends, Fergus was a manipulative rake who allegedly fell on his own knife in a training accident. An accident for which Patrick was apparently the only witness.
Leslie’s persuaded to meet Patrick again, and the pair easily fall back into their old dynamic. They uncover connection after surprising connection between their hedonistic old friends and not only Fergus’s murder, but Mr. Cadmore’s abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrick’s bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasn’t Fergus’s killer.

And here’s another sneak peek…

The hotel bar turned out to be Monday-evening quiet, but it was warm, welcoming, and neutral territory, at least for Leslie. Although, for all he knew, it could have become Patrick’s favourite haunt, giving him the advantage of home turf. Unready as yet to settle himself with a drink, Leslie perched on a chair, feeling the need to be able to spring into action.
Patrick arrived exactly when he was due, almost to the second, striding purposefully into the bar, giving Leslie a nod, and extending his hand.
“Leslie.”
“Patrick.”
They shared a brief handshake, like two company directors meeting to discuss a deal might, not like two men who’d been long-term lovers and whose fingers knew every inch of the other’s body.
“Would you like a beer?” Patrick asked briskly.
“Pint of best bitter, please. I’ll find a quiet table.” That would allow Leslie a few moments to regather his thoughts. He’d been tense in anticipation of that first physical contact in years, but the touch of palm on palm hadn’t provoked the same spark it had when first their hands had met. Maybe their intimate knowledge of each other had taken them past the tentative chemistry of the early steps in a courting dance. Or possibly the spark had truly gone, never to be recaptured.
Or is it simply that there’s no chance of taking a single pace down that road while your questions remained unasked?
Patrick brought the beers to the table, carefully laying the glasses down. As Leslie’s mother had said, he’d always been clumsy and as he’d grown older, he’d learned to take extra care to compensate. “It’s been too long.”
“It has.” Leslie raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Patrick took a long draught. “How’s work going?”
“Busy but enjoyable, I’d say. You?”
“Potentially more work than I can deal with solo.” Patrick nudged his head to one side, a gesture that had always indicated deep thought. “I’ve taken another vet into the practice to ease the burden. Good-looking lad, so he’ll probably generate enough new business of his own to ensure his time’s filled.”
If this had been when they were still lovers, Leslie would have made some riposte about women—and men—beating a path to Patrick’s door with their sick animals for exactly the same reason, but the time didn’t feel right yet for such remarks. This conversation was completely bland and transactional. Was that a necessary part of their reconnection, keeping things light to overcome the awkwardness they both must feel? Or was it a sign, like the handshake, that things between them had changed irrevocably?
Isn’t that what you came to expect while you tossed and turned half last night away?
It might have been what Leslie expected, but it wasn’t what he’d hoped, although he would have denied it. The love he bore Patrick had never disappeared, and seeing the man walk into the bar had reawakened other feelings—lust, anger, fear—that were making a mess of the plan he’d been wrestling over all day about confessing his own stupidity and confronting the bloke about Fergus. There’d be no bloody point if it didn’t give him a chance of getting Patrick back.
They shared a couple of pleasantries about work and family, Patrick asking about Mrs. Cadmore with what appeared to be genuine interest rather than mere politeness. Finally, Leslie could hold back no longer. He laid down his pint and faced Patrick square on. “I really don’t think we came here to talk about our families. We can hear that news from home.”
“So, what did we come here to discuss?”
“You tell me. Marianne said you wanted us to meet up but she wouldn’t elaborate.”
To Leslie’s surprise, Patrick broke out laughing. “The devious little cow.” The insult was spoken with affection. “She told me that she’d been to yours for tea and that you were the one who wanted to talk to me. We’ve been had, Leslie Lad.”
The unexpected use of that nickname—one that had graced their tenderest moments—momentarily wrong-footed Leslie, although he grinned at how he’d told his mother that Marianne wouldn’t do anything underhand. Still, she’d always been a problem-solver. “It appears we have, Patrick.”

Happy reading!

Charlie