What a wonderful evening it was at the June meeting! The Book Fair hosted such an array of published books by HWS published authors, and they each had an opportunity to pitch their books, a new but excellent addition. Della Galton gave an excellent talk with top tips – look out for the report on our website or click the link in the previous newsletter to watch it back if you were unable to attend.
Thanks go to all the writers at the book fair presenting their books for sale, to Della, awesome as always and of course to writer and freelance editor, Natasha Vickery-Orme who kindly adjudicated our competition, for which the brief was:
Write a 300-word story which hooks the reader with a unique, intriguing opening scene for a murder mystery novel
Commenting on adjudication, Natasha said: “We had a lot of brilliant entries and some really creative and intriguing storylines, so thank you to all those that entered. The winners were able to create really compelling stories – which is hard to do with just 300 words.”
And on the night, Natasha’s winners were:
First Place: Body Count by Alison Lacey
Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair
Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans
Highly Commended: Homecoming by Guy Caplin
Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart
First Place: Body Count by Alison Lacey
I love the twist for this one. It actually got my heart racing and was definitely unexpected.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
There was a soft sigh as the wind crept through the trees. My eyesight had already adjusted to the velvet darkness – nothing there. I stepped forward again, each foot placed with care until I reached the gate. It was easy enough to stretch over the top and slide the bolt back. I was in.
It was evident that no-one was up. It was the work of a few moments to open the back door, noting with a perverted sort of pride that it had all been done in the utmost quiet.
Inside I paused; a thick silence meeting my ears. Reaching into the rucksack, I felt around, my fingers finding what was wanted, no need for light. Heading for the stairs, I crept my way to the top, grateful to the carpet for muffling my steps. At the top, a long corridor stretched away to my right and left; I automatically turned left. I was pleased to observe how regular my heart beat was, how calm my breathing. All that training had been for something.
Walking slowly down the corridor, past a bathroom, counting the doors and stopping at the fourth. The door handle turned easily, I allowed myself a momentary grin – here we go! Inside, there were no surprises. A bed, a human form, the sound of soft snoring. A bedside clock showed the time: 2:20. I placed the pillow over his face and pressed the gun nozzle against it. The was a muted ‘phut’. The snoring ceased.
The return route was easy, within minutes I was back at the car, phone on, hand steady as I typed: ‘Mission accomplished 2:27’.
Almost immediately a reply: ‘Confirmation denied. Target seen entering night club five minutes ago’
I watched in horror as my hand began to shake…
Second Place: The Summer of Love by Dave Sinclair
This has some really strong character building and I like how powerful the reveal is.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
It was the summer of love when my brother died. He was just 45. An early morning jogger found his body on the undercliff path between Brighton and Saltdean. A fractured skull, two broken ankles and a dried pool of blood were evidence that sometime in the night he had fallen a hundred feet or so from the clifftop walk. It was the 28th of July 1967, and I was more than four thousand miles away in the Gulf of Aden. It took me three days to arrange compassionate leave, bum a lift on a Hercules and find my way via Whitehall and the regimental headquarters in Kent, to finally arrive in Brighton.
Even though I would never speak to him again, he still had some words for me. I had read them an hour ago in an airless solicitor’s office near the Royal Pavilion. Willmott, the senior partner, had passed me a thin envelope, saying,
“He left this with us last year when he deposited his will.”
The envelope was marked, ‘For attention: Major Granta. In the event of my death.’
I broke the seal and extracted the single sheet of paper. Like the envelope, it was typewritten, brief and impersonal. I read it aloud:
Cremation, not burial. I’d rather get it over with now and forestall any further burning in the afterlife. Henry.
My brother was just trying to be humorous, but neither I nor Willmott smiled. That wasn’t how it worked anyway – it was your soul that burnt in perpetuity not your body.
I was silent for a moment, trying to recall my brother’s face, wondering about his final note and why he had signed his name Henry. For as long as I could remember, he had always been Harry – in our childhood games, in our teenage disagreements and even in our last fractured meeting. There, in Willmott’s office, that was the moment that I knew someone had killed him.
Third Place: Heads You Lose by Philip Evans
It’s a spine-tingling opening and would love to see where it goes!
Natasha Vickery-Orme
The discovery of a human left foot on the local beach caused a flurry of excitement in the small town. It wasn’t really local, just the nearest bit of coastline to the town, about ten miles away, remote, long and desolate.
The foot appeared to have been in the water for at least a couple of weeks and the skin was chalky white and ragged. The ankle bones and about two inches of the tibia were still attached, though the joint was disarrayed and the fibula was missing, apparently torn out the joint. The local police sergeant noticed immediately that the tibia seemed not to have been fractured or severed by an animal bite. It looked as though it had been cut across with a saw, though forensics would have to confirm that. There was no recent report of anyone having gone missing in the area and enquiries at the nearest three hospitals did not throw up any cases of amputation of a foot within the last three months.
Two days later, a right foot was found about a mile further along the beach, caught up in seaweed. It was much the same colour as the left foot and had a similar splaying of the toes. Two or three inches of each of the leg bones were still attached to the ankle and it was clear that both had been severed with a saw.
There were no indications whether the feet had belonged to a male or female. No useful DNA could be extracted from either foot. The police cast their enquiries country-wide, but no leads emerged over several weeks.
Two months later, the torso of a small adult male, without head and arms, turned up on a rocky promontory about twenty miles further south. The thigh bones had been sawn across, about 4 inches down from the groin. A small amount of DNA was extracted, but there was no match found in the national database.
Highly Commended: The Homecoming by Guy Caplin
There’s so much mystery woven into this first page.
Natasha Vickery-Orme
How do you tell the man you are about to marry that you are not the person he thinks you are? Away from the tube station and the rush-hour crowds, Sam could think more clearly as she walked along the quiet road towards the flat. Her palms felt sticky, and her throat seemed dry. She should be overjoyed: the man she adored had proposed.
When they moved in together three months ago, Duncan accepted her story of being an actress: filming on location and working in regional theatres explained her periodic absences. However, Sam hated lying to him: deception was no basis for marriage. What if Duncan found the real Sam Smith’s unorthodox way of earning a living unacceptable and called off their engagement? It would break her heart, but he had the right to know the truth about his future wife.
As she turned the corner, she could see the lights from the building where she lived. Oddly, their flat lay in darkness. Duncan generally worked from home and had made a point of telling her that he would be in this evening.
Keys in hand, Sam made her way up the short path to the front door. It swung open to her touch. A frown creased her brow: it was unlike Duncan to be so lax. Her hand found the switch on the wall. It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the glare — a moment before the gruesome spectacle destroyed all hopes of happiness. Suspended by a cord knotted around his neck, her lover’s body swayed in the hallway. His unseeing eyes and rictus grin confirmed her worst fears. Sam collapsed against the wall, sobbing and retching uncontrollably. In her line of work, she had come across plenty of corpses, but nothing prepared her for this.
Highly Commended: Untitled by Rob Stuart
With just a few lines, I feel like we get a sense of tone, character, story and mystery which is impressive!
Natasha Vickery-Orme
It was, David Weston reflected ruefully, supposed to be the Holiday of a Lifetime for himself and his beloved wife, Penny. Yet here he was, hunting through the jungle on this small tropical island, hot on the trail of a murderer, who had nowhere left to run. How on earth did I get here, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face with his bandaged hand and plunged on through the undergrowth in pursuit of his quarry. I’m really too old for this caper, he decided as he pressed on.
