And now a treat: an extract!

Synopsis

Edinburgh, 1936. People are disappearing. The police are clueless. Can Finlay MacBeth track down the perpetrator before someone else goes missing?

Haunted by his recent past, Professor Finlay MacBeth returns to his home town to take up a new post at the university. Within hours, his reputation for solving the occasional murder prompts the police to ask for his help. Four men—seemingly unconnected—have vanished into thin air. MacBeth must find whatever it is that links the men before the kidnapper strikes again. 

But the police aren’t the only ones interested in MacBeth’s activities, and the amateur sleuth soon discovers that finding the missing men is the least of his problems…

In this thriller series set in Edinburgh, Metropolis is book #1 in the Finlay MacBeth Thriller series.

Extract

Now settled in his new accommodation, Finlay MacBeth wakes up during the night. We are given a hint of whatever it is from his past that haunts him, as well as his concerns about the mysterious man in the trench coat…

The need to relieve himself is what wakes Finlay MacBeth. At least, he thinks that’s what it is. Opening his eyes, he stares at the ceiling, its ornate plasterwork conjuring weird shapes in the gloom. It takes him a moment to recall where he is. But before he becomes fully aware, he senses movement. Twisting his head, he stares into the corner of the room. A dark figure crouches there, watching. 

Finlay tenses, balls his fingers into fists, ready to fight. The figure in the corner seems to be waiting for something. Waiting for his intended victim to move, perhaps? For him to fall asleep again? For a moment, nothing happens, then the shape shudders, sliding sideways. 

MacBeth grabs the object on his bedside table and leaps out of bed. ‘Don’t fucking move.’

The curtains waft in the breeze, allowing a shaft of moonlight to illuminate the corner of the room. The mysterious figure is nothing more than MacBeth’s own suitcases, the spare blankets piled on top creating a humped shape. MacBeth laughs at himself and sits back on the bed, replacing the Webley revolver on the cabinet. The remnants of a dream—the usual one—no doubt contributed to the idea of someone lurking in the shadows. And it’s ridiculous, he reminds himself. It’s not as if that person is even alive. 

Switching on the bedside lamp, he pulls out a drawer and slides the revolver inside, concealing it under a book. Best if his landlady doesn’t stumble across the weapon. Not if he wants a quiet life. Pulling on a dressing gown to cover his nakedness, he steps out into the passage and walks down to the bathroom on the lower floor. 

Back in bed, MacBeth wonders about the man in the trench coat. He curses himself for not taking more care. Probably the appearance of the boy distracted from his usual practice of observing everyone and everything. If Trench Coat is tailing him—has possibly followed him all the way from London—then MacBeth will have to deal with it. What really bothers him is not knowing the man’s identity. It’s possible the events in Muswell Hill did not go unnoticed, that someone—maybe Trench Coat—witnessed part of what occurred. MacBeth had been careful, but you can never be one hundred percent certain. 

A door opens on the floor below, causing him to sit up straight. Footsteps along the landing, then another door. He relaxes. Just Mrs Blackie going for a wee. He smiles at the thought of her sitting on the pot, nightie hitched up, shivering in the cold. A minute later, he hears the gurgling of the flush, then more footsteps and a door closing. Then silence. 

Switching off the bedside lamp, he rolls over onto his side, the image of Mrs Blackie still in his head. It’s odd she didn’t mention a husband, while at the same time making it clear she is to be known as Mrs Blackie. Perhaps her old man took a bullet in the last war. She can’t be much past forty, he thinks, but might’ve been a young bride. The image of her on the toilet is still there. He forces himself to push it away, but all that happens is that the picture changes to one where Mrs Blackie is still sitting on the toilet but is now stark naked. The idea of such a thing prompts a stirring in MacBeth’s loins.

He lets out a groan. ‘Oh, Christ…’