A New Start: GB Williamns
The last couple of years have been difficult for me for writing, but I finally feel like I’m finding my feet again. In the last few months, I’ve written and published two prequels, Locked Away for The Locked Trilogy, and First Shot for the new series which I’ll be talking about here. I’ve also written Unlocked which is the sequel to The Locked Trilogy and comes in answer to people telling me I didn’t leave Charlie Bell in a good enough place.
But more importantly, I’ve got a new novel ready to go. This one has a whole new cast of characters, in a whole new setting, and a new perspective on things. Set in Merthyr Tydfil, The Queen of Cups Murders, is the first meeting of DI Ruth Atkins and DS Madoc Palmer. She’s observant, but hiding things. He’s nervous, so hiding things. Can they work together to uncover the truth? You should also know that Palmer is a bit different, for a start, unlike me, he can speak Welsh, as you’ll see below.
I hope you enjoy reading the extract, and if you do, the full book will release on November 24th, available from Amazon as ebook or paperback.
Extract of The Queen of Cups Murders:
The gibbous moon looked wonky. Hardly an astronomical term, but it described Madoc’s thoughts. Sitting alone, he watched the glow of the moon through the trees in the lightening blue. Maybe the Goddesses viewed his thinking about the future the same way — wonky.
The cold air carried the refreshing scent of damp earth and fresh-washed living pines. He wore only cargo pants; it was too cold to be skyclad. Aside from the biting temperature, remodelling the deconsecrated chapel behind him left splinters and sawdust everywhere. Those were hard enough on his feet. He wouldn’t risk more sensitive body parts.
Atkins is a frosty-arsed bitch without an ounce of compassion. The words Becca had sneered on his last day working under her rang in his head. Should suit you perfectly.
Maybe it would. At least then his new DI would keep her distance. And at a distance she was less likely to spot what he didn’t want anyone seeing.
His phone rang. But what surprised him most? That it was still in his pocket, that he had signal, or that someone was calling him at 04:37 a.m.?
He recognised the number and answered. “Bore da, modryb Maureen.” Welsh was their second language, but Aunt Maureen preferred it, claimed it engendered a better sense of spiritual connection than the harsher English.
“Beth sy’n bod gyda ti?”
A good question. What was wrong with him? He should be asleep, but such peace had evaded him. That other sense would not rest quietly. “I’m not sure.”
“Why not?” She switched to English because he had.
“Because I’m not.” His uncertainties stretched before him longer than the night, which was nearly over. The next few days would change his life, but the positivity of the outcome was currently unseen. The woman he’d be working with worried him. Moving jobs was advancement and practicality. The bonus being it got him out of Cardiff. Back to his own local area. In all likelihood, nothing would change in real terms, he hoped. New location, new people. Same job. Well, the last training assignment for advancement in his job. A job full of challenge. A job he loved. Besides, today, his first day, was likely to be office based.
“So, why are you staring at a cold lump of wonky rock?”
Sensing the feelings of others clearly enough to echo them was Maureen’s forte. “I like that lump of rock. And she’s not wonky, she gibbous. Why are you even awake?”
“The spirits woke me.”
What could Madoc say? Maureen was different. She had ‘the gift’. Though his own weaker talent proved it was sometimes a curse.
“Why did they do that?” he asked.
“Something’s happened, something bad,” she said. “It’s going to impact on you.”
“Aunt Maureen, I’m a police officer. I deal with bad things every day. Can you be a little more specific?”
“No. You’re watching Mother Moon. Contemplating.” The lyrical quality of her voice danced down the line, then changed. “And drinking.”
He looked at the empty bottle. “The two often go hand in hand.”
“And often go hand in hand into a nosedive.”
There it was again, that uncharming habit of pointing out his foibles. And the even more annoying habit of being right.
“All things are connected,” he said. “As you often remind me.”
He heard guttural annoyance.
“It was one beer, and I don’t have to be at work for hours.”
“Twmffat twp.”
The insult stung. The literal translation was ‘stupid funnel’, but it meant a great deal worse than that. Especially from her. “Diolch yn fawr, anti.”
This time he heard a tut. “You’re being deliberately ignorant.”
“Am I?” His eyes returned to the moon. The Goddess – or lump of rock, depending on viewpoint – didn’t look impressed with him either. “Aunt Maureen, I love you, you know that, but I’m not like you. I don’t see the future or get clear messages.”
“But you do get a sense of things, uncommon things. You can hear them. Echoes of them.”
That was true. He did get a sense of the departed, hazy and indistinct, but a sense. It had served him well in the past and he trusted it would in the future. As long as he kept it hidden. Showing the world, or more importantly, his colleagues, was dangerous, though. Losing his job wasn’t an option, too much of his life depended on it. His son’s face was clear in his mind.
“Iawn, beth wyt ti moyn i fi ’neud?” He asked what she wanted him to do.
“Twmffat. Twp.”
The line went dead.
Two words. Not the insult. The literal translation.
The moon looked down, matching Maureen’s impatience. “Okay,” he said. “Got it. I’m the lump being stupid. I’ll go funnel.”
Stomach churning, he returned inside. The reassuring scent switched to cut dry wood. Dawn was creeping in, granting enough light to see by. He avoided the various building materials and tools, going to the Welsh dresser placed in what would eventually be the kitchen. His hands weren’t as steady as he’d like as he selected his preferred tarot deck, the clearest medium for messages for him. Unwrapping the protective velvet, he shuffled quickly. He wanted only one card, but fumbled it, caught it just before it hit the floor. Well, he hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Crime Cymru 