Tag Archives: personal stuff

Old friends, new adventures

lock on Canal St MartinTwo of our good friends from the Isle of Man came to visit us a few days go. This is not Penny or Steve’s first trip to Paris by a long way, so Marie-Danielle and I scratched our heads as to what we could find that would amuse them. Then it came to us… Steve and Penny both like boats and have enjoyed several barge holidays on British canals so what better than to discover a different aspect of Paris in an unusual way, idling down the Canal St Martin through a series of nine locks, two swing bridges, and a 2 mile long tunnel that passes under the Bastille. Problem solved. For 2½ hours, we lazed our way through an almost unknown Paris without a care in the world.

Parmentier de CanardWe’ve wined and dined with Steve and Penny on many occasions, so wanted to come up with something a little different. On their arrival on the Sunday, we did a simple Parmentier de Canard (a shepherd’s pie using duck instead of lamb). In fact, this is a bit of a cheat because we use Confit de Canard which we can obtain easily here in France. All I needed to do was drain the fat from the duck, remove the skin, and pull the flesh with a fork. I peeled and chopped some shallots, browned them gently in some of the duck fat, added some chopped parsley and a little seasoning, then covered with mashed potatoes. A bit of oven time and we ate like kings and queens!

2002 Chateau MartetSteve is a big fan of red wine (so are we!) and duck demands a decent full-bodied red. A few weeks ago, we celebrated some family birthdays and discovered half-a-dozen bottles of dusty but interesting-looking 2002 Chateau Martet. The wine was truly wonderful and, since there remained a few more bottles, we grabbed hold of some to go with the Parmentier de Canard. An excellent choice. A marriage made in heaven even!

Monk Fish Steak with SaffronOn the Monday, when we had our day out on the Canal St. Martin, we ate in a little restaurant in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Tuesday, we dined at home and I prepared Monk Fish Steaks with Saffron, a delightful feast of colour, taste and smell. In addition to creamed potatoes, I braised some fennel which complemented the fish. And to help the meal down, we pulled some bottles of Pouilly Fumé from the cellar.

A great few days with some great friends.

Jasmine’s Journey

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my sixteenth book called ‘Jasmine’s Journey’ has been released. The story is the third in ‘The French Collection’ series. Here’s a bit about it

Jasmine’s Journey

Jasmine's JourneyJasmine Guichard didn’t want Father Barbier touching her. She’s a plucky eight-year-old and she makes a run for it, but finds herself deep under the streets of Paris and lost in a maze of dark tunnels. But for a chance glimpse of her whilst visiting the catacombs, Harry and Tristan would have been none the wiser. Yet what can they do about it? They are eventually helped in their efforts by a young nun who is not at all what she seems. There’s more going on behind the closed doors of the Daughters of Charity of Saint Isabelle of France than meets the eye – a lot more.

Meanwhile, The Vicar is in Paris to complete a contract to terminate a paedophile. His chance meeting with Harry and Tristan could be the trigger they need to dig deeper into Jasmine’s disappearance. D.S. Robbie Allen and D.C. Benedict Blewett have been dispatched from Liverpool to find The Vicar before he strikes again.

Who will win the race?

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JASMINE’S JOURNEY

Jasmine continued downwards, moving her torch from side to side and up and down. She had discovered that thirty seconds winding the handle gave her about 15 minutes of light. The younf girl shivered with the cold. She was wearing only a light summer tunic and the temperature down here seemed to be no more than about 10°C or 12°C. The passageway twisted and turned. The floor of the passage was limestone, the same as the walls, but loose stones and lumps of rock had fallen over time and walking wasn’t easy. In places the roof of the passage was over four metres high. Elsewhere it dropped down to not much more than one metre and Jasmine had to bend low to pass through. It was, she felt, like being in an Indiana Jones movie. Any minute now, she expected to see a great, unstoppable ball of stone rolling down the passage towards her.

And then the passage opened up and she found herself in a cavern that was so vast, her torch beam couldn’t reach the furthest walls. She walked on, touching the walls and examining the marks of tools in the stone. Here and there on the walls were men’s initials, like ancient street tags. It was clear that the space had been hacked out of the rock: there was nothing natural about it. The roof was, she estimated, about five metres high, and several huge columns of limestone had been left intact to support the weight of rock above. As she approached one of the walls, she could see that enormous lumps of limestone had fallen to the floor. There would be a moment in the future when the crushing weight above would collapse the whole gallery, filling it with millions of tons of bedrock. She hoped it wouldn’t happen in the next few minutes.

LOST IN THE CATACOMBS


Walking round the periphery, her torch illuminated several incoming passages, radiating out all directions. And then Jasmine spotted the bent and rusted remains of a narrow train track. This time, her mind filled with images from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when Indy, Shorty, and Willie were involved in a mine cart chase to escape the temple. But it occurred to her that in reality this is how the miners would have transported the stone to the surface. Following the tracks would maybe lead her to an exit. If the men who created these caves tunnelled their way in, then there had to be a way out.

But what if there wasn’t? What would she do if the tunnel went nowhere? Jasmine felt the panic begin to rise again like a cluster of weasel teeth in her abdomen. She sensed the tension grow in her face and limbs. Jasmine closed her eyes, her mind replaying her panic attack when the lights first went out. She didn’t want it to happen again, but couldn’t stop what was happening to her in this wretched blackness. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. It was like her thoughts were living in a personal hurricane of fear. She gulped. Anything to stop the primal urge to just flee and try to get away from the darkness that surrounded her and suffocated her.

Frozen to the spot, large salty tears darkened her face. She wasn’t crying; they simply rolled out of her closed eyes unbidden. There she stayed, unaware of the passing of time until she realised that the feelings of panic had subsided. She opened her eyes. Though she could still hear each of her breaths, rasping just the same as when she had the flu, she’d made it. She was back in control. Almost.

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2019.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

Travellers

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my fourteenth book called ‘Travellers’ has been released. It’s the tenth book in ‘The Island Connection’ series. Here’s a bit about it.

Travellers

Travellers by Graham Hamer
Travellers arrive unseen and stay hidden for millions of years until their accidental discovery revives their chances of survival. But what will they do with their new-found freedom, if indeed they can escape their prison? The discovery of a mysterious pod that glistens black during the day and glows red at night sets people’s imaginations running wild. Soon, the mysterious object becomes the focus of attention for the world’s media. But does the pod contain anything? And if so, what? What are Travellers? Some people know the facts, but they dare not speak out. “I wonder what people would think if they knew what we were enabling?” she said. “I think they would string us up quicker than you could say ‘traitor’,” the tall man replied. “I don’t suppose that many would realise that we are gambling with the future of the planet.”

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TRAVELLERS

After a further five minutes of digging, Jimmy raised one eyebrow, causing his brow to pucker. Something didn’t sit right. Every time he dragged his bucket back, it scraped on something which, at a glance, didn’t look like metal or plastic, but wasn’t sandstone either. An experienced digger driver like Jimmy was like an artist. He could feel the soil and the rock and the obstructions through the hydraulic levers that he manipulated with just the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t see what was causing the blockage because each time he scooped out sandstone, a stream of crumbled soil ran back into the hole to cover the obstruction. Jimmy jumped down from his cab, grabbed a shovel, and dropped down into the hole. He scraped at the loose earth and shovelled it to one side.

What he found was something with a smooth surface that looked like some sort of plastic, but which shimmered and flashed a little in the sunlight. A bit like glittery unicorn dust when his six-year-old daughter had finished playing with her make-up kit. The only trouble was that this unicorn dust held no bright colours. It was black as night, yet reflected the sunlight. Jimmy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. Flashing black light wasn’t something his brain could unscramble. And whatever the object was, it was rounded. Not a small pipe like a standard 100mm or 150mm uPVC drain. If it was something circular, it was far bigger than that, judging from the slow radius.

“Everything alright, Jimmy?”

The voice belonged to Stitcher, the site foreman. Not many knew his real name, but everyone called him Stitcher on account of the fact that a surgeon had thrown his heart away and given him a new one from a donor in Manchester. When sewing him back up, the surgeon had left Cecil English with a considerable scar and a new nickname.

“Yeah, I guess everything’s okay,” Jimmy said, “but damned if I know what this is, and close up it’s got these dark flashes bouncing round on it to it. There’s some weird shit going on here.”

Stitcher peered down into the hole. He had been a digger driver himself in his day, so knew that there was nothing unusual about getting out of the cab to take a closer look at the dig. “It looks like it’s plastic from here.”

“True, but I’m now four feet down in virgin sandstone. How would something plastic get here?”

“You mean it’s not old backfill that you’ve been digging out?”

“No. Apart from a bit of topsoil, I’ve pulled out nothing but unspoiled sandstone so far. There’s no signs of any previous digging and filling. But that doesn’t make sense since plastic has only been used in the building trade for the last fifty years. How does something big and plastic turn up under four feet of virgin sandstone? And what the hell are these flashes of black light?”

“Damned if I know, old son. Black light doesn’t make sense. It was just public toilets here before we began digging, wasn’t it?”

“Toilets, sailors’ shelter, the yacht club, some old garages and a storage yard. Demolition team got rid of them all in a week flat. The sailors’ shelter and the yacht club have been relocated down the side of the marina and they plan building new public loos when this new treatment plant is finished. The demolition guys cleared all the rubble away and left us with a clean site. One of the easiest to work on too, being right next to the promenade. I’ve already ripped out all the drains that served the old buildings. They were less than a couple of feet down.”

“Could it be a septic tank or cesspit?”

“No. Like I say, I’m pulling out virgin rock. Stitcher. Whatever it is, it wasn’t buried here and covered over again. It sort of grew here!”

“You sure of that?”

“Positive. Come take a look yourself.”

“No, I trust your judgment, Jimmy. Why not dig round the thing for the moment? See how far it goes and how deep. That way we’ll get some idea of size and can decide what to do with it.”

Jimmy knelt down and slowly moved his hand towards the object, expecting to get an electric shock at any moment. But his hand passed through the layer of black flashes with nothing more than a slight tingle. He tapped on the plastic. “Sounds hollow. There’s a sort of echo. Do we need to call anyone?”

“No, let’s expose it a bit first, then we can decide.”

“I’ve banged it a few times with the bucket. What happens if I damage it?”

Stitcher laughed. “I’ve seen you get your bucket to within a centimetre of an object, Jimmy. The only reason you’d damage something is if you meant to. Perhaps best we take a bit of care now we know it’s there, eh?”

 

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2018.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

A beautiful butterfly emerges

It seems like only last week that I was working for Imation Corpn in Cergy, 20 miles North-West of Paris. While I was there, my wife’s daughter worked and lived close by. To her delight, she and her husband found they were expecting a baby. I got the news at work one day that a little girl had been born in the nearby hospital. So after work, I drove up the hill and poked my head round the door. What I saw was a perfect face and dark, questioning eyes, already interested in everything going on around her.

Clémence guards her lobsterBut that was twenty years ago. Now, a wonderful butterfly has emerged from that ball of humankind, and her name is Clémence. This weekend, we met up with Clémence at her home in Cléry-Saint-André in the Loiret department of north-central France, near Orleans. Her parents were away and her sister was in Corsica with her grandparents, so Clémence was on her own. We thought it would be a good idea to take her out for a meal somewhere, so that’s what we did. (We don’t usually drive 100 miles for a meal!)

We ended up at La Criée in Olivet, a nearby town. The restaurant was an unassuming building at the side of a busy road, but we were not disappointed either by the welcome, the service, or the food. Our butterfly decided to go for lobster and a glass of dry white wine. And why not? She’s 20 years old and worth spoiling once in a while. (And guess who ended up cracking the claws for her???) Marie-Danielle elected for a seafood platter, which left a large smile on her face too. Well worth the trip!

Marie-Danielle and Clémence at La Criée

Tommy Gee

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my fifteenth book called ‘Tommy Gee’ has been released. I have a nephew called Tommy Gee and he once said that he would love it if someone wrote a book about him… so I did! The story is fantasy, of course, but Tommy loved the idea of owning a book with his name on it. Here’s a bit about it

Tommy Gee

Tommy GeeTommy Gee’s decision to spend a long weekend visiting his mother in King’s Lynn, on England’s east coast, leaves behind eight dead bodies and a suicide. Not that they were all Tommy’s fault, but he seems to be a magnet for chaos and the unpredictable. Add to the mix, Tommy’s sultry pickpocket sister and his gangly deranged half-brother, and you have the recipe for a frenzied few days. When two Romanian mafia bosses are stirred into the melting pot, along with a sexy bank employee with a cunning plan, things are likely to move from complicated to dangerous before you can turn the page.

But Tommy Gee has never been one to worry too much about risks. Accompanied by Muffin, his chocolate-coloured Labrador whose only purpose in life is to find misplaced burgers or unwanted pork scratchings, Tommy Gee’s long weekend finds him hanging upside-down in his burning car. Yet we shouldn’t be surprised at that. Tommy Gee is, after all, a professional blaster.

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TOMMY GEE

Tommy shouted, “I’m out of here!” and ran towards his Jeep. He started the engine, stalled it, started it again, and began to drive away.
Ruth shouted, “Listen, Sandi, it’s not what it looks like.”
But Sandi wasn’t listening. She had already dived back into her car and was chasing after Tommy. Ruth jumped in front of her, still trying to explain it was all a trick. Sandi ran her down and left her lying face down on the ground, groaning and clutching a broken ankle.
Tommy was crunching the gears and trying to get out of second. It seemed like he’d suddenly forgotten how to drive. Sandi caught him almost immediately. As they neared the gate, she rammed the back of the Jeep and was surprised as it tipped over and flipped onto its roof. She jumped from her car and ran to the other vehicle. Tommy was hanging upside down, held fast by his seatbelt. Flames began to leap from the back of the vehicle. “Christ, get me out of here,” he screamed.
Sandi stared at him. “Where’s the money?”
“It’s in a car in the scrap yard. Get me out of here before this bloody thing explodes.”
“What car?”
“Look, help me get out and I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll tell me first, you arsehole. You and that bitch back there have been double-crossing everyone.”
“It was nothing personal, honest. It was just to get the mob off our backs.” Tommy glanced behind him. “Just help me out of here and I’ll tell you where the money is. For Christ’s sake cut me free or something.”
“Sandi crossed her arms and stared at him. “You know what? You can fucking burn for all I care.”
The flames were spreading and Tommy looked behind him again in desperation. “Yeah, okay, the money’s in a blue Mercedes.”
“No it’s not, you lying scum. I already know you moved it from there. You and your scheming girlfriend back there. Planning to fuck off to Toronto, were you?”
Tommy winced as the flames grew. “Okay, okay, it’s in the red Nissan right next to the fence where I was parked. You can get into the scrap yard through the gate ten metres further up. Now please get me out of here.”
Sandi grinned at him.
“I promise, I’m telling the truth this time. For God’s sake get me out. I’m going to burn to death.”
“That’s right, mister. You’re going to burn to death. Goodbye.” Sandi turned and walked away.
Tommy screamed. “Hey. No. For Christ’s sake no. Come back. I’m telling the truth. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t know you, why would I hurt you? This was all Ruth’s idea, not mine. Please!”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Sandi muttered. She walked back a few steps, reached into her car, pulled out her baseball bat, and kept walking.

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2018.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

Cenotaph for the Living

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my thirteenth book called ‘Cenotaph for the Living’ has been released. ‘Cenotaph for the Living’ is the second in ‘The French Collection’ and the characters move forward into a new adventure. Here’s a bit about it.

Cenotaph for the Living -‘The French Collection #2’

Cenotaph for the LivingIn Cenotaph for the Living, Tristan disappears on his 20th birthday. His family receive a ransom note demanding one million euros. The trouble is, they can’t report it to the police because it’s the police who sent the ransom note. Matters go from bad to worse until an old friend of Ken’s arrives on the scene. He’s been brought in to track down the corruption in the police and gendarme services. But it’s two against dozens. How is that going to pan out? Meanwhile Camille Laurent finds herself talking to a ghost who doesn’t know who he is.

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CENOTAPH FOR THE LIVING

From his hiding place behind the high, elaborate burial chambers, Sparky kept an eye on the whole circle of grass and paths. His eyes locked on like magnets to the strange lady who sat talking to somebody next to her, who wasn’t there. He’d seen plenty of unstable people, usually alcoholics or drug abusers, who talked to invisible friends, but somehow, this lady didn’t quite fit that mould. There was something about her that said she was holding a perfectly normal conversation, not the ravings of someone whose mind was on another planet.

He dismissed the thought and looked back at the package that Ken had thrown over the railings. Unsettling to think there were one million euros in there. As he eased a cramp in his leg, he sensed someone behind him. There was no noise; just the smell of tobacco smoke and stale sweat. Years of Special Forces training made him instinctively reach for his weapon. Then he remembered that those days were gone, and he turned to see a man in his forties wearing a crumpled suit. Though the day was pleasantly warm, it was not unduly hot, yet the man’s face had a sheen of sweat as though he’d just splashed water on himself.

“What are you doing here?” the man snapped.

“Trying to find my way out,” Sparky said in his best broken French. “I got lost a bit and ended up here.”

“You are English?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, yes, I remember now. I saw you earlier next to the grave of Oscar Wilde. All English people are crazy.”

“Sorry, can you talk a bit more slowly. My French is not very good.”

“You must go now. It is closing time. We lock the gates at six o’clock and everybody has to be out before that.” The man made a motion with his hand like turning a big key.

Sparky didn’t understand every word, but he certainly got the gist. “And that lady over there?” he said, pointing to the pink woman who was still talking to herself.

“Madame Laurent,” the man said, whirling his finger at the side of his head. “Elle est folle. She is mad. She comes here often and talks to ghosts. She already knows we are closing. She will leave soon.”

Sparky stepped out from behind the mausoleum. The shopping bag was still at the foot of Casimir Périer’s memorial.

“That way is out,” the man said, pointing behind him.

Sparky turned and sauntered away. His cover was blown and he was a great believer in the old addage, ‘if you find yourself in a hole, stop digging’. So he made for the entrance, hoping Ken would be nearby and they could formulate a plan B. He took one last look at the crazy lady and left the scene.

 

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2018.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

Picasso’s Secret

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my twelfth book called ‘Picasso’s Secret’ has been released. ‘Picasso’s Secret’ is the 9th book in ‘The Island Connection’ series. Here’s a bit about it.

Picasso’s Secret -‘The Island Connection 9’

Picasso's SecretPicasso’s Secret begins with the search for a stolen painting, but leads Penny Chakyar and her new partner in the police, Josh Walker, down various paths that eventually expose the island’s biggest drugs dealer. But what of the painting? And who is really the top man when it comes to drugs on the Isle of Man? Could it be that Boris knows more than he is saying? Meanwhile, Maddi Gathercole’s life is getting more complicated by the minute. She’s on a roundabout and can’t get off. But what of Picasso’s Secret? Where is it and who’s got it?

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PICASSO’S SECRET

Boris sat alone in the Greek restaurant in a neighbourhood that you might call middle class if you were using a ghetto as your starting point. He had bought the business to rinse some of the cash he was making from his hard drugs network. The restaurant smelled of lamb and garlic – and chip oil. If Boris had eaten in the Chinese restaurant over the road, it would have smelled of dim sum and fried pork – and chip oil. He would also have been served by a waiter whose default expression was disdain. Boris owned that restaurant too.

The Greek was a small eating place with a few tables and chairs on either side of the long, narrow room, as you approached the counter. The scuffed lino would have benefited from a mop and some hot soapy water. Or maybe some new lino. The menu board over the counter showed pictures of things on sticks and meat that looked long past its sell-by date.

Boris sprinkled his pork gyro pita with salt. Thin slices of seasoned pork, stacked and cooked on a vertical rotisserie, served on a warm pita bread, filled with fries, tomatoes, onions, and tzatziki sauce. Considering the state of the premises, it was surprisingly good. But Boris already knew that.

When two men in dark suits walked in, Boris didn’t bother to look up. “Sit down,” he said, wiping grease off his lips with a paper serviette. “You want anything?”

“No.” From both men in unison.

Boris continued to chow down on his food, chewing with his mouth open and breathing through his nose. He swallowed, straightened up on his chair and punched the centre of his chest. “Fucking heartburn. It’s going to fucking kill me one day.”

The two men looked at him but said nothing. The older of the two had silver hair, wore a tailored navy suit, an expensive overcoat, and a Rolex that would have bought the restaurant outright. Boris looked up and shook his head at the shirts and suit. You can’t buy class off a peg, but he knew that appearances counted for everything, which is why he dressed down and dressed sloppy. His t-shirt contoured around his body like wet Kleenex.

Boris played his cards close to his chest and nobody could ever have guessed his true wealth and the extent of his influence over other people’s lives. The Greek and the Chinese restaurants weren’t the only businesses he owned on the island. Not by a long way. In fact, if the wind was right, a pedestrian could catch the scent of cumin, garam masala, and coriander wafting down the street from the Indian restaurant that Boris also owned.

“Nice watch,” Boris said. “You buy it or nick it?”

“I don’t steal.”

“Of course not. I’m paying you so fucking much, you could probably afford a second one.”

“I have a second one.”

Boris laughed, showing the remains of his unswallowed pork gyro pita. “Christ, you are a bloody tart, Marcus. God knows how you’ve got the courage to walk down dark alleys wearing all that gold. When they see you coming you must look like a mugger’s pension scheme.”

“A mugger would get a nasty shock then, wouldn’t he? Is this what the meeting is about? A couple of knock-off watches?”

“No, gentlemen, I don’t give a monkey’s toss what you steal in Liverpool. Just keep off my patch, that’s all.”

“The Isle of Man isn’t a patch,” the other man said. “It’s an allotment. There’s nothing worth anything over here.”

Boris knew otherwise, but let the comment go. He guarded information such as that like a dog guards a well-chewed bone. “Okay,” he said, “it looks like your warning to Nathan Owen has worked. He’s now buying from me. Or at least he will be when he learns to walk again. You did a good job there. You also did well with Dean Glover. I don’t know what you did, but he’s already phoned me to apologise and he sounded way too scared to lie. But I need you to up the ante with Jim. He’s not come up with the money yet and I think he’s taking the piss.”

 

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2017.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

  

The Platinum Pirate

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my tenth book called ‘The Platinum Pirate’ has been released. Here’s a bit about it.

The Platinum Pirate -‘The Island Connection #8’

The Platinum PirateJoseph Adebayo is looking for investment money for The Foundation when he is savagely beaten by his fellow diners. The incident sees DI Sarah Flemons and DC Penny Chakyar investigating at The Foundation where a previous mystery is solved but a new mystery comes to light. Meanwhile, Al Callow leads a group of people who steal £15 million of platinum. But all is not as it seems, and Al’s wife, Paula, has other ideas. The owner of the platinum wants his precious metal back and hires The Vicar to get the information he needs. However, he misjudges events and finds that his platinum has taken on a strange new shape. Meanwhile, Craig, a hard-drinking, hard-hitting Australian tries to steal the platinum but Al is wise to him as Craig soon discovers. And while everybody is chasing their tails, Al and his new love, Carla, are having a ball.

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THE PLATINUM PIRATE

After a few moments, two cars approached. Al recognised the lead car as Tyler’s flashy Jag. The angle of the sun and the tinted windows turned the men inside into dark shapes. It was impossible to see if anybody was in the back: there could easily be another guy or two back there. Both cars turned onto the cobbled surface of the breakwater and drew to a halt a few metres from him. Tyler and a heavy-built man with a shaved head and a tattoo curling behind his right ear and rolling down his neck stepped from the first car. Mr Tattoo stood with legs apart then shuffled forwards like a boxer preparing to spa. The rear doors opened and two more heavyweights emerged.

Stan Clague and Al’s wife, Paula, stepped out of the smaller car behind. Nicholas Tyler approached Al.

“Well now, Mr Callow, what do we make of this then?”

“Make of what, Tyler?”

“What do we make of the fact that you are outnumbered?”

“Numbers count for nothing, Tyler. Agility, strength, speed: they all count for something though. And what are Marty Feldman and my ex-wife doing here? They have nothing more to do with this.”

Paula said, “I needed to come to some agreement with you, Al, but you’ve cut me off completely—”

“Well what the hell do you expect, you stupid bitch. You were double-dealing me. I have copies of all the emails between you, Tyler and Clarence the Cross-Eyed Lion here. So I simply planned and executed a double-cross of my own. Now, let me try again. What the hell are you doing here?”

Paula looked down at the ground. “I came to try and talk you into giving Mr Tyler his platinum back. He’ll pay you according to the original deal, and there’ll be no ill feelings.”

“You’re bloody joking aren’t you? You wasted your time coming here to say that?”

“I also came to apologise for Bruce.”

“What? What’s with Bruce?”

“He’s dead,” Tyler said. “Which is how we knew that you’d be here now, waiting for your fellow criminals.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t want anything like that to happen,” Paula said.

Al shook his head. “You played with the big boys, Paula, and you got your fingers burned. Tough shit. Anything else you want to say to me?”

“There is nothing I can say that you will want to hear, so I think it’s best if I don’t say anything,” she sighed.

“How convenient,” Al snorted. “I’d hate to make you feel uncomfortable in any way for being a double-crossing bitch.”

Nicholas Tyler addressed himself to Stan Clague. “Get her out of the way, Stan. I only let her come because I thought it might convince Callow to change his mind.”

“That plan’s not working too well then, is it?” Al said, as Stan and Paula reversed their car along the breakwater. “So you’ve killed Bruce and now you plan to kill me too, eh?”

“Certainly not,” Tyler said. “You wouldn’t be standing there brazen and bold if you didn’t have information about me somewhere – to be found only in the event of your untimely death of course.”

Al nodded and smiled.

“So I’m here simply to take back what belongs to me. My three associates are here to ensure that you don’t stop me from boarding your boat.”

“Go ahead,” Al said. “Knock yourself out.”

Nicholas Tyler nodded to the three heavyweights. “Keep an eye on Mr Callow for me. If he tries to follow me, please use force to detain him.”

 

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2016.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

 

Web of Tangled Blood

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my eleventh book called ‘Picasso’s Secret’ has been released. ‘Picasso’s Secret’ takes a move away from my ‘Island Connection’ series and is the first in a new series called ‘The French Collection’. Here’s a bit about it.

Web of Tangled Blood -‘The French Collection #1’

Web of Tangled BloodWeb of Tangled Blood stretches the nerves as Florence and Ken rekindle old feelings and old desires while they search for their lost son. But there is more than one elephant in the room as they struggle to understand their past. Meanwhile, Florence’s brother is making life as difficult as he can and it is only by bringing Harry (Harriet) Lewis over from her home on the Isle of Man that Florence and Ken can begin to make sense of the mutitude of problems that beset them. But Harry has her own issues to deal with.

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WEB OF TANGLED BLOOD

The heat of the sun had died a little as Florence and Ken set off for Montmartre, the highest point in Paris. Florence had suggested they get out of the apartment for an hour for some fresh air. “Clear the fug of wine,” she had said as she put the empty bottle into the bin for glass recycling.

It was like a village within a city and, at the beginning of the twentieth century, many well-known artists had studios or worked in or around Montmartre. People like Salvador Dalí, Modigliani, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Mondrian, Picasso, and Vincent van Gogh. Little wonder that it had become a magnet for today’s ‘bobos’ – bourgeois bohemians. These were the caviar socialists who wanted to be seen to ‘feel’ the hardships of the working classes. They could never pull it off, of course, because everybody knew they were today’s affluent yuppies. You had to be, to be able to afford to live in the Montmartre ‘village’.

Despite it being a tourist trap, there was a certain welcoming atmosphere to Montmartre. It didn’t take long to get there in Florence’s red Mini Cabriolet. She found a parking spot at the foot of the hill and dived into it before anybody else could grab it. Then they took the funiculaire, the little cable railway, up the steep slope to the top. Facing them was the white basilica of the Sacré Cœur. It was an ornate building which, in style, would have been more suited to Red Square in Moscow. It was a building that Florence disliked, nicknaming it ‘The Wedding Cake’. So she turned her back to it and stood at the top of the steps, staring out over Paris.

“I love the view from up here,” she said. “It’s like you can see Paris with its pants down.”

“You like seeing things with their pants down don’t you?” Ken said, smiling.

Florence huffed and shielded her eyes from the sun, which was just beginning it’s long downward trajectory in the West. The water on the river Seine looked as thought it was stationary from up here. The late afternoon sun stretched its sparkly fingers across the long, twisting ribbon of water with promises of more good weather to come. A good day for friends, wine and lunches on the terraces of the brasseries.

Standing behind her, Ken rested his hands on her shoulders. He lowered his head so his line of sight was level with hers. Their cheeks touched. Florence was aware of their closeness and found it difficult to concentrate. She pointed to the Eiffel Tower but was thinking that, if she leaned back, her head would be in the crook of his shoulder.

Ken continued to point out various landmarks, seemingly oblivious to the intimacy of their bodies. “If you look this way,” he said, leaning in and turning her body, “you can see that bloody awful Pompidou Centre. And over there, there’s Montparnasse Tower; another monstrosity that blights Paris. But when you block those out of your mind and take in the whole vista, you’ve got to admit that Baron Haussmann made a damn good job of redesigning and rebuilding the city.”

For several minutes, they stood together admiring the view, saying nothing. Florence was enjoying being in such close proximity to Ken, who had one hand raised to shield his eyes from the startling reflection of the sun. The last time they had been so intimately connected was the day before Tristan had disappeared.

As Florence turned to face him, Ken took a small step back as if to distance himself from her. “Shall we grab a coffee?” he asked, as if realising that he had broken his own self-defined personal space. “As I remember there are loads of cafes in the streets behind the church.”
She nodded and followed as Ken marched off without her.

 

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2017.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist

 

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Chicken Rock

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my ninth book called ‘Chicken Rock’ has been released. I love scuba diving so I used my knowledge of the sport to create a scenario for the book. Here’s a bit about it.

Chicken Rock -‘The Island Connection 7’

chicken_rock_3DChicken Rock doesn’t figure in Sarah and her police partner Penny’s thoughts when they go on an advanced drift dive. However, they are separated from the other divers by whirling currents and find themselves lost at sea in a thick mist. Their only chance of survival is to get to Chicken Rock, a tiny reef surrounded by vicious tidal surges and whirling vortexes. Can they survive the experience? Meanwhile, at The Foundation, Joseph Adebayo has broken the rules and his punishment is to spend two weeks in solitary confinement. But Joseph is tempted by a possible escape route that is more dangerous than he can imagine – as he discovers when the water covers his head.

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CHICKEN ROCK

She stopped and looked to her left. Then she blinked, pushed down her mask, and looked again. The mist was rolling across the sea in great clouds but, between the clouds, she thought she had seen a high tower. If that were so, it could only be the Chicken Rock lighthouse.

Penny followed her gaze without saying anything and suddenly, there it was, about one hundred metres in front of them, but they were being relentlessly swept past it by the strong current. Sarah shouted, “Swim Penny. Swim for all you are worth. It’s right there.”

Both women found a new resolve, but the tidal flow was fighting them every second and they were no match for it as the lighthouse began to slide away to their right. Yet many extremely strong and complex currents met at Chicken Rock – a criss-crossing of thundering waters, forever merging and parting. And without realising it was happening, they were being swept in a wide circle that looked likely to take them close to the jagged rocks. “Keep going,” Sarah yelled, “We can do it.” And suddenly, without knowing how, Penny was in front of her, being dragged through the water like a piece of lightweight flotsam by a massive whirlpool.

Sarah was dragged along too, both by the whirlpool and by the buddy line attached to her wrist that linked her and Penny together. She struggled to try and catch up but she was rolled to one side over the edge of a huge upsurge on the outside limits of the vortex. She was bowled over by the angry, churning waters and knew she wasn’t going to make the rocks: the spinning waters were pulling her in to the centre and down. Then her sideways progress was halted with an abruptness that made her gasp. She found herself held solidly in place with the whirlpool pushing the swirling waters over her face.

When she managed to lift her head enough to gasp a quick breath and look above the churning water, she could see that Penny was gripping a small outcrop of rock with just one hand. Her other hand, the one with the buddy line attached to her wrist, was outstretched towards Sarah who was being relentlessly sucked towards the centre of the maelstrom. Sarah kicked her legs as hard as she could with one last massive expenditure of energy. Centimetre by painful centimetre, she seemed to make progress towards the smaller woman. Then a wall of water pushed her backwards towards the heart of the whirlpool and she went under.

Sarah couldn’t breath. She thrashed beneath the surface, choking on the icy cold water and trying desperately to reach the surface. She clawed at the water and forced herself up, but the vortex had a different plan for her and pulled her back down again. Just as she thought she must inhale, her head broke into the daylight and she gasped for breath. Penny was still holding tight to the rocks with one hand.

“BCD,” Penny screamed. “Inflate your BCD.”

The buoyancy control device, worn like a vest, was normally inflated from the air tanks that Penny and Sarah had jettisoned. Sarah grabbed the manual mouthpiece and took a deep breath, just as she was sucked below the surface again. At the same time that she blew the full contents of her lungs into the tube, she kicked as hard as she could with her legs, knowing that her life depended on it.

Book cover design by Bruno Cavellec, Copyright © Bruno Cavellec 2016.
Image used and published according to the licence granted by the artist