Adam Ferranti was a talented American journalist, who moved to England to escape the issues surrounding his fall from glory at the Washington Post; only to be thrust back in it when a mysterious serial killer makes him his confidante.
DS Stephanie Walker is a member of the West Yorkshire Police. Whilst tough and results-driven at work, she hides the abuse she suffers at home. She finds Ferranti annoying but he’s her only chance to stay close to what the killer is planning next.
Ferranti reluctantly complies with the Police, but when the killer reveals himself it suddenly gets personal.
Today I’ve got an extract from Deadline, a new thriller from debut author Geoff Major.
PC John Turner was just about to end his shift, which had been remarkably dull to say the least, when his radio crackled into life:
“Come in, 4-7-1-3”, the Control Room dispatcher said.
“4-7-1-3”, Turner replied into his radio.
“Can you attend an address in the Adel area, please. Report of a possible dead body”.
Turner confirmed he could attend and noted the address. He turned on the car’s flashing blue lights and sped towards the leafy and very affluent neighbourhood of Adel; carefully weaving in and out of the late afternoon traffic as he drove. Within minutes, he was pulling into the sweeping gravel driveway of a remarkably beautiful house.
“4-7-1-3 to Control”, radioed in Turner, as he waited for a response.
“Go ahead, 4-7-1-3”, crackled the radio confirmation.
“I’m at the address and am about to enter the property. No sign of SOCO yet, so I’ll just secure the scene”, said Turner.
“Understood, 4-7-1-3. SOCO say they are close – just working their way through some traffic”, came the reply from Control.
“Roger that”, said Turner, and he ended the call.
Getting out of the car, Turner walked towards the double-doors of Andrew Jagger’s home and suddenly found himself feeling apprehensive. The house was modern, yet it had a kind of dark, gothic grandeur. All the windows had thick, heavy curtains drawn in full, and the front doors were huge and imposing; almost eight feet tall and crafted out of the darkest wood he’d ever seen. Turner could see that one of the doors was already slightly ajar, so he rapped on it and called out; “Hello? Police”. There was no response, so he decided to open the door further.
As he entered the property, in front of him was a grand entrance hall. At the rear of the hall was a huge window that looked out onto a football-field sized and perfectly manicured lawn. Two stairways swept in opposing semi circles up to a spectacular balcony, with another huge window behind it, reaching all the way up to a vaulted ceiling. Turner would have been breathless at its magnificence, had it not been for Andrew Jagger’s body, perfectly centred against this magnificent backdrop, suspended by his neck in front of the balustrade of the expansive landing. His arms and legs were held taut by ropes, to create a deeply disturbing star-shaped pose on the balustrade. His trousers were missing, and there was the largest pool of blood Turner had ever seen, gathering on the floor twelve feet below Andrew Jagger’s lifeless body.
Turner assumed the body had been there several hours, as blood was no longer dripping from the open wounds, yet Andrew Jagger’s eyes seemed to be staring right at him; imploring him to help. There was nothing Turner could do, just as there had been nothing Jagger could do in the moments before his death.
“4-7-1-3 to Control”, Turner stammered, with his eyes fixed on Jagger. “Reported dead body, confirmed”.
“Understood, 4-7-1-3. SOCO should be with you in less than one minute”.
PC John Turner clicked off the radio. He looked up at Jagger’s face one more time and then turned away from the morbidly hypnotic scene, and vomited.
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