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    Plotting The Play
    Plotting The Play
    Plotting The Play
    Ebook162 pages2 hours

    Plotting The Play

    By Milly Reynolds

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    About this ebook

    When the safe of a TV personality is stolen in a bizarre burglary, Detective Inspector Mike Malone and his Detective Sergeant, Alan Shepherd, find that maybe, this time, they need a little extra help. Enter Dog Dollond, a retired colleague of Mike's from his days in London. As usual, solving the crime is never straightforward, especially as there seems to be a link to a gruesome murder in a nearby town. When a murder occurs on Mike's watch, he discovers a surprising thread running through all the crimes. But does it get him any closer to solving the puzzle?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMilly Reynolds
    Release dateMay 4, 2015
    ISBN9781311749505
    Plotting The Play
    Author

    Milly Reynolds

    As you may have already guessed, Milly Reynolds is not my real name. Like my 'hero' Detective Inspector Mike Malone, I also hide my real identity. Having 'retired' from my job, I was a full-time teacher in a secondary school, I decided to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. So why Mike Malone? I love all things detective and wanted to create my own series. However, I decided not to go for the deep, dark thriller - I could never compete with the masters of that genre, like Jo Nesbo whose books I adore? Therefore I came to the decision that the Mike Malone series would be off-beat. I like to think that there is humour in my books; I don't want to scare people, I want to make them chuckle - there is not enough laughter in the world at the moment. As the series has progressed, I have become very attached to Mike; he is the comfortable pair of slippers that I put on at night. My husband has also become attached to Fi and I am under strict instructions not to let anything happen to her - yet. Living in Lincolnshire, I love the flat, endless landscapes and want these to be seen in my books alongside places that I know and love. Mike Malone has moved from the city to Lincolnshire and has fallen in love with the place; me, I was born here and can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. However, although Mike was my first creation, he is not the only one. I have also created Jack Sallt, another Detective Inspector. Jack is grittier than Mike and there is not the humour in his stories that there is in the Mike Malone stories. I wanted to write a more 'grown-up' detective story. When time allows this will be developed into a series as well. With two male detectives under my wing, I also decided that it was time for the girls to take centre stage and 'Scorpion's Tale', my first novel featuring Liv Harris, a character in the Jack Sallt novels, was published in 2013. I am hoping that Liv will make another appearance at some point in the future. Not content with crime, I have also wandered into the realms of romance; my first stand-alone novel 'The Unseen Sky' was published August 2011. I'm lucky, I enjoy writing and find it just as relaxing to sit and create as it is to read, although sometimes a good book can get in the way of my writing. I read on average 50/60 books a year and always keep my blog updated with reviews. Anyway, I hope you like my novels. I have fun coming up with ideas for Mike -...

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      Book preview

      Plotting The Play - Milly Reynolds

      Prologue

      The young Detective Inspector shivered as he closed the ancient oak door behind him with a heavy echoing clunk. He was not in a good mood. Not only had the roadworks on the main road out of Stamford been a real pain, but he was also cold and wet. January was not a good month for investigating murders, the days were too short and the weather was too gloomy.

      Is it ever going to stop raining out there? he moaned, blowing into his hands and rubbing them vigorously together.

      Morning, Drake! Archie Payne, looking like some ghostly apparition in his white overalls, was walking purposefully towards him down the nave. I know, it's like a fridge in here. Why can’t you find me bodies in nice warm places?

      DI Drake made no comment. Now dressed in similar attire to the pathologist, the two men passed together underneath the fifteenth century carved rood screen, heading for the altar which had been taped off.

      Ok, so what've you got, Payne?

      It isn't pretty, I'm afraid.

      Are they ever?

      Well, the back of his head’s been hacked off.

      Bit nasty.

      You’ll need to be looking for a meat cleaver or something similarly sharp.

      Anything else?

      First impressions are that there was more than one person involved, the victim was probably held down and then … swish! Archie Payne demonstrated the angle of the blow that would have caused so much damage. As you can see, there’s blood and some brain matter just here. And... here.

      Alright, that's enough. Drake turned away, taking a deep breath.

      Bit too much for you, is it, Drake? the pathologist chuckled.

      No, no. I’m fine. Drake took another deep breath. Right, who found him?

      Ah, the guy sitting over there with Tennyson.

      Drake peered around the stone pillar to the pew that Payne was pointing out. The cyclist? he whispered.

      Yes. Local man. He comes here to pray every day apparently. Never misses.

      Do you know who our body is?

      Yes. Here we are. Payne handed over a plastic bag containing a wallet and some personal effects.

      Drake manoeuvred the wallet open through the plastic bag to locate a driver’s licence. "The Very Reverend Callum Haynes. What is a Very Reverend?"

      No idea, but whatever it is, it’s not going to do him a lot of good now.

      "Still, at least he met his end at the altar in his own church. This is his own church, presumably?"

      No idea, but the vestry has been turned over good and proper.

      Ok, I'll check it out. But first, I'll have a chat with our friendly neighbourhood cyclist.

      1

      Kal McMahon, a fading 1980s Australian rock star, staggered back from The Poetaster pub, with his celebrity academic wife, Beatrice Donnelly, propping him up. It was a typically cold April night and they had been walking for half a mile along the moonless country lane towards Fenview Farm, a six bedroom Lincolnshire farmhouse that Kal had decided they should buy, even though it was in need of renovation. He had been attracted by the several acres that came with it as well as the small flock of sheep and a handful of pigs. He’d always wanted his own sheep to remind of his upbringing, the family farm two hours north of Adelaide.

      When they had moved in a couple of months earlier, this place was going to be their escape from the rat race of London, from a Hampstead set that not only knew each other's business but which competed constantly by means of its conspicuous consumption. It was also an escape from the escalating crime rate which had seen their London house broken into several times during the past eighteen months.

      Hang on, Trix. Something’s wrong.

      A sense of unease had sobered Kal up instantly; he let go of his wife’s hand and headed, cautiously at first, towards the dark silhouette of the farmhouse.

      It's the bloody sheep! he called back to her, running a hand through his his greying shoulder length hair in despair as his wife joined him, her high heels dangling from her fingers. Someone's let them out, they're all over the ruddy place!

      Beatrice Donnelly looked nervously towards the garden. Yes, he was right. She could make out several shapes huddled together against the deep black of the night like a pile of grey sacks. You must have left the gate open, Kal.

      Rubbish! Come on, we can't do anything now, not in the dark. Let's get inside and check that nothing else is wrong.

      Carefully, they fumbled their way along the path towards the front door.

      Damn! McMahon whispered.

      What?

      The door's open.

      Then don’t go in, Kal! Someone might still be in there. Call the police.

      Police? Are you serious, Trix? There aren't any cops out here in the sticks.

      Don't go in, Kal.

      It’s my house!

      Kal, picking up an old spade that had been left leaning against the brick wall, was feeling strangely empowered, a man protecting his woman and his property. Or it might have just been the alcohol.

      Stay close behind me.

      Ok.

      Kal reached inside the lounge door, felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

      Bloody vandals!

      What?

      Kal stepped inside. There’s stuff all over the place – we've been turned over. I thought we’d got away from all this. I thought, here, everything would be different.

      Kal!

      What?

      Kal!!

      Kal McMahon turned and looked at his wife who was standing, frozen, in the doorway to the kitchen. There was something, or someone, in the kitchen. Kal pushed her aside and tightened his grip on the spade. Switching on the light, the first thing his eyes focused on were the red spots on the floor. As he took in more of the scene, he saw that the red spots led to larger red puddles, which led to the large oak kitchen table on which lay... a dead sheep.

      God, Trix! This is .. this isn’t good. Kal let the spade drop noisily to the floor, its metallic clunk echoing through the the silent house like a funeral bell. What kind of maniac...?

      Poor thing. Beatrice was looking over his shoulder, curiosity having finally got the better of her. Are you sure it's dead?

      Look at all the blood! Of course it's...

      Before he could finish his sentence, the sheep’s body jerked violently. It raised its head and a primitive horror filled its eyes on seeing two figures staring at it. Pushing his wife backwards, Kal shielded her as the creature clumsily kicked itself off the table and, with much skidding over the bloody tiles, scampered towards the still open front door. Kal followed, watching incredulously as it disappeared into the darkness and the cold, seemingly none the worse for its experience.

      Blimey! Kal slowly closed the front door and leaned against it while his racing heart rate calmed down. Did that sheep really come back from the dead, or have I had too much to drink?

      Beatrice Donnelly, her hand gripping a kitchen chair for support, looked at her husband. "Now do you want me to phone the police?"

      No, I'll do it.

      2

      I was in the best place in the world on a cold April night, under the duvet with my gorgeous wife in my arms. Poor Fi had been exhausted and was already asleep. Instead of her usual Friday routine of sitting with her feet up, a glass of wine in her hand to celebrate the end of a working week, she had not only spent all night making meringue nests for David’s christening on Sunday, but she had also made the christening cake itself.

      Alan and Cat’s little lad, the apple of my eye, was a real charmer. Even at eleven months old, he was becoming a real character and his giggle was to die for. He was always so happy. The christening had already been postponed once as Cat’s mother had suffered a minor heart attack, but she was now fully recovered and Cat was picking her up from Peterborough station tomorrow tea-time. Knowing how she always liked to fuss, and not wishing to tire her, Cat had enlisted Fi’s help with the catering. Our freezer was full of mini quiches, vegetarian and sausage rolls and many other things wrapped in foil. Tomorrow was cake icing day and Alan and I had already been given our orders. We were to take David out while the two women got on. The weather forecast wasn’t promising, so Alan had suggested taking David swimming. Swimming! The last time I had been in a public pool, I had been a teenager trying to impress Sandra Grant with my ability to dive from the top board. I’d failed. The dive was ok, pretty good in fact, she just hadn’t seen it. She’d been too busy snogging John Carlton in the deep end. These days, the shape I was in, I wouldn’t even be able to impress a paper bag. I was not looking forward to tomorrow one tiny bit.

      I could feel sleep rolling in, gently taking me in its arms and wrapping me up. I took a deep breath and surrendered myself, only to find all thoughts of sleep shattering as my phone rang. Gently releasing Fi, I reached out.

      Malone.

      It’s Grayson, Sir. A Kal McMahon has reported a break-in at Fenview Farm.

      A break-in, Grayson? You’ve called me for a break-in?

      Not quite, Sir. He also said that a dead sheep came back to life.

      What?

      That’s what he said, Sir.

      I groaned. Ok, give Shepherd a ring. If I’ve got to go, he can come with with me.

      I disconnected the call and leaned over to kiss the top of Fi’s head. She mumbled something and snuggled down even deeper under the duvet while I swung my legs out of bed. Truth be known, I was quite curious. I knew who Kal McMahon was, I’d even seen him in concert once. It was going to be interesting to see the legend up close.

      So, you were a bit of a groupie, were you, Sir? Even in the darkness of the lane, I could see Shepherd’s grin.

      No. I said that I had seen him in concert once. Penny Long thought that Kal McMahon was sex on legs, so, to impress her I got us tickets to a concert at the Hammersmith Odeon. I remember he had shoulder-length dark hair, matching chest hair and tight jeans. Penny went absolutely mad, I thought she was going to try and rush onto the stage.

      And did you get a reward for getting her the ticket?

      Yes, she dumped me the next day. I pulled up outside the farmhouse next to a very sleek looking sports car that would be bright red in daylight. Why were Ferraris and red synonymous when it came to rock stars? I just knew he’d have a car like this. Come on, let’s see if he’s still forgotten how to button a shirt.

      The man that answered the door, his denim shirt fully fastened, looked all of his fifty something years. Kal McMahon’s hair might still have been shoulder length, but it was now grey with age, his lined face, however, was the result of years of excess. But, I noticed with a smile, the torn jeans were still eye-wateringly tight.

      Mr McMahon. I extended my hand. Detective Inspector Mike Malone and this is my Detective Sergeant, Alan Shepherd.

      On another, happier occasion, Kal McMahon might have smiled, I might even have caught a glimpse of the young man that I had once seen on stage. He didn’t even greet us, he just stood to one side to let us into the house.

      "Everything is as you found it, Mr McMahon?" I enquired, looking over the blitz which was the living room.

      Pretty much, except for the sheep in the kitchen.

      What about security cameras?

      We don’t have any, at least not yet.

      I held his gaze, waiting for him to tell me more about what had happened. He just looked at me, silently. Then his expression changed to one of annoyance.

      Something the matter, Inspector? he suddenly snapped at me.

      No, Mr McMahon, nothing. I was shocked at the outburst and looked at Shepherd who just shrugged. Let’s go to the kitchen and you can tell me everything. Is that all right with you?

      Sure. I wasn't planning on getting any sleep tonight, anyway. Sarcasm had arrived in the room. Fancy a drink? What’s your poison?

      I’m on duty, Mr McMahon.

      Of course you are.

      Kal McMahon poured himself a large whisky while I reached for my trusty notebook, my sword and shield. Once in the kitchen, Shepherd started examining the smears and pools of red liquid.

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