‘The Shadow Man’ by Helen Fields

Review by Vic Watson

The Shadow Man – Helen Fields

Looking for an original, compulsive thriller to terrify you during the winter nights? Look no further! The Shadow Man” is a sinister, multi-viewpoint narrative that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go until its nail-biting conclusion.

Elspeth, Meggy and Xavier are locked in a flat. They don’t know where they are, and they don’t know why they’re there. They only know that the shadow man has taken them, and he won’t let them go.
Desperate to escape, the three of them must find a way out of their living hell, even if it means uncovering a very dark truth.
Because the shadow man isn’t a nightmare. He’s all too real.

Helen Fields manages to make a complex psychological complaint accessible to the reader as well as demonstrating the effect it has on innocent victims.

I loved Connie, a brash American sent over to profile the shadow man but my favourite character has to be twelve year old Meggy. She’s fierce, she’s strong and she’s streetwise and I would want her one my side during any confrontation but Helen Fields combines Meggy’s steel core with a vulnerability that made me want to look after her. She’s absolutely pitch perfect as a character.

Although Fields writes shadow man Fergus as utterly deranged and completely terrifying, I did find that there were moments during this story that I felt sorry for him – and that, in itself, is credit to Helen and the nuances she manages to capture in her characters.

As with any Helen Fields novel, there are some beautiful turns of phrase and she juxtaposes this with the horror of the shadow man and his crimes.

I really hope we’ll get to see Connie and Baarda working together again.

For extra creep factor, I recommend listening to the audiobook. Robin Laing’s Fergus is more menacing than anything I could’ve imagined.

My thanks to Avon Books and Helen Fields for the advanced reading copy of this book.

Vic Watson is a writer, Creative Writing tutor and one half of Bay Tales. She reviews books on her blog and can be found on Twitter.

Author Profile

Louise Mumford Profile

Louise Mumford

Louise Mumford was born and live in South Wales. From a young age, she loved books and dancing but hated having to go to sleep, convinced that she might miss out on something interesting whilst she dozed – much to her mother’s frustration! Insomnia has been a part of her life ever since.

In the summer of 2019, Louise experienced a once-in-a-lifetime moment: she was discovered by her publisher at the Primadonna Festival.



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Members Free Fiction

Night Watch

Louise Mumford

I have to wait until Mother is asleep.

I am a prisoner in my own home. Every fifteen-year-old girl feels that way at times, though, don’t they? “You are grounded, young lady,” their parents say with a sad shake of their head. Then they close the door on the carefully decorated bedroom and temporarily halt the pocket money. 

I don’t have pocket money. 

I don’t have a carefully decorated room. I think it might have been, once, before we moved in. Now the flowery wallpaper is faded and peeling away from the wall, the petals that would have once been pretty colours wilting towards the floor. Mother has let me keep the bed, and I have a blanket when it’s cold, but everything else was cleared away years ago.

There is something wrong with Mother. 

The problem is when there is just the two of you, and one of you is only a child, it takes a while to realise something like that. A mother is a mother. What they do is what they do.

I haven’t been able to compare.

There is a rattling at the windows.

School stopped when I was six. “We can’t carry on like this,” is what Mother said when she took me out of there. She said “we”, but what she meant was “I”: “I can’t carry on.” What about me? I would have been happy to stay. I had friends, I think – at least I remember sharing colouring pencils at blue plastic tables and the teacher’s necklace dangling down as she bent to talk to me: big, fat, plastic beads that fascinated. School had smelled of waxy crayons, tuna sandwiches and a tang of something that might have been urine, might have been bleach. 

We home-schooled. Mother bought textbooks second hand from the internet, they still had pencilled notes in them from the old owners, and every morning she sat me down to learn. Except the learning never lasted very long: it soon turned into shouting and me hiding the sharp pointed pencils.

Mother doesn’t have friends; she doesn’t smooth a slick of glossy red onto her lips and spritz a cheap perfume to go out with the girls. She stays at home and watches television, irons, paces, wrings her hands, pulls out bits of her hair and scratches red welts into her skin.

Paranoia. Morbid anxiety. I’m sure a doctor could fix any number of handy labels on her. We don’t see doctors.

She’s nailed my window shut. 

I can’t remember when she cleared my room, maybe I’ve blocked that out. Too painful. I’d had toys and dolls, a wicker chair that was too small for me to sit in anymore, posters on the walls, a bookshelf with books. All gone. She probably didn’t sell them. She probably gave them to the church.

It’s the only place we go. 

Sunday morning, hands fixed in prayer, eyes skyward. The place itself is a miserable enough block of concrete just off the high street, something that looks more like a council building than a place of worship. There isn’t even any stained glass. 

She holds my wrist the entire time. Not my hand, because that would look affectionate, no she doesn’t want that, instead she grips my wrist hard enough for me to know. “We do not court speculation, Nia.” We do not want to be noticed.

Oh, but I notice. I notice the boy my age with floppy brown hair and eyes I easily snag. Mother cannot stop me from looking, and from being looked at. And, when she trots up to greet the priest, dragging me in her wake, the brush of his fingers against mine are a static jolt. 

I am sixteen soon. I know birthdays mean cake and a present wrapped in shiny paper with one of those bows made of coloured foil. It means singing and candle blowing and cards in envelopes sent by distant family. We don’t have relatives. Last year Mother gave me a new copy of the bible and a sprinkling of sugar on my morning porridge. 

I tiptoe to my door. There is no point trying the handle, it will be locked. It is always locked after eight in the evening. But, in the dark (Mother unscrewed the bulbs) I feel the rough wallpaper under my fingertips, my hands brushing over unseen roses, and I come to the wall that separates my room from hers. It is a thin, plasterboard thing, easily dented with a fist. Easy to listen in on the next room. I press the side of my face to it.

I will know when she is asleep. 

Sweet sixteen. That’s what the cards say. I know, I’ve seen them in the shop windows. And sweet is what I want. Anything. Life here is just grey, from the porridge, to the walls, to Mother’s complexion. Stale. Dust in my mouth. I can’t live like this. I shouldn’t have to.

There is another life out there for me. I’ve seen it, briefly, at church, in-between the eyes skyward, palms held together. 

Eyes can do other things than look for God. 


I have to wait until Nia is asleep.

I am a prisoner in my own home. Every middle-aged mother feels that way at times, though, don’t they? “What happened to my life?” parents ask with a sad shake of their head when they finally understand that their child’s life has swallowed their own. 

That’s what she did. She gulped me down whole.

Such a beautiful baby. Good. She would sit quietly, her eyes following me as I cheerfully went about my little household tasks, because I was cheerful then. I thought her to be docile, a placid baby, not easy to smile but not easy to cry either. I was wrong. She wasn’t docile. She was watching.

There is something wrong with my daughter.

I don’t like to think of her up there in that room. She’s nearly sixteen, she should have a room with posters of pop stars on the walls, clothes strewn on the floor, a dressing table with pots of glittery eyeshadow on it and a teddy still somewhere, because even when you’re nearly sixteen you still need your teddy. I should have been yelling at her to keep the place tidy.

I yell. But it’s not about that.

Her things had to go. I have discovered, through painful experience that, in her hands, most objects can turn into a weapon when I let down my guard. Better to allow her nothing to work with. Bare walls, bare floor. Bed.

I remember the day they called me into the school when she was six, the look on that teacher’s face, though it wasn’t her face we were there about. She told us what had happened, haltingly, as if she herself was still trying to piece it together, like the broken beads from her necklace. She wore it all the time: a long dangling thing that would have easily brushed the desk when she bent to speak to Nia. 

We don’t know why. All we know is how. 

Before the woman had had a chance to take a breath Nia had gripped onto the glossy necklace and twisted hard, pushing those big acrylic beads into the soft part of the woman’s throat, twisting with such a fierce and sudden force that the woman had started to choke, and the other children began to whimper. I can picture the scene, even now. The teacher stumbling backwards, the child – my child – latched onto her like a parasite, her face inches away from the woman’s, teeth bared. A thing from a nightmare.

I cannot blame the school. They offered us therapy and specialist teaching, safely away from the other children, of course, but I was adamant: I told them we had another school lined up.

That was merely the start. 

I turn off the lamp in the living room after my television programme has finished and brush the new hair I’ve pulled from my head onto the floor. I don’t even notice I’m doing it now, all I notice is the little pops of relief it gives me as each new clump comes away in my hand. I deserve the pain.

I can only blame myself. People say that when they say sorry, “I blame myself” they say but they don’t mean it, it is merely a cue for someone else to jump in with, “No, no – it’s not your fault” and pat their hand.

There is no one to pat my hand. I am to blame. I am her mother. I did something wrong, in the raising of her, or before that, in the womb. There are labels, I am sure. Syndromes, conditions, something to pin on her and stand back to see if it fits. But the responsibility is mine, and mine alone. I created her, I grew her there in my core and so my core, my very soul, must be corrupted for it to have produced… her.

That is why I cannot give up church. I hold on tight to her wrist the whole way through, determined for no one else to end up choking on their own necklace. I wish I could put a hand over her eyes because there are too many other young eyes around. But I have to pray. Of course, I pray alone for hours here in the house, on my knees until I cannot feel them anymore and have to massage my legs to get them working again, but I cannot shake the feeling that prayer is more powerful in a place of worship. Maybe I think some of the calm, the peace of the place, might rub off on her. 

I’ve tried everything else. We avoid over-stimulus, we keep our diet plain and free of additives and sugar, we keep to a routine, we read the bible and rote learn parts to repeat like meditation. This I do with her, for this is my penance as much as hers. This is my eternal five Hail Marys and an Our Father on a rosary, my very own choking necklace. I keep faith. I keep hope. Something will work. Though she is now nearly as tall as me. And cleverer. 

I go to my room with the bed I never sleep in. I know she is locked in but still I sit by the wall that connects my room to hers and I press the side of my face to it. In her head I must be the troll under the bridge, standing in her way, stopping her from crossing over into an exciting new world she could try to manipulate and then destroy, like everything else. She destroyed my marriage, my friendships, my job… me. I crumbled to dust under her gaze. 

I doze and in my dreams there is a faint rattle. 

I wake to the sound of the window opening. A window I’d nailed shut. And I’m out of my seat, the last fog of sleep making me wobble, through my door and across to hers, the keys in my hand, and all the while I’m thinking, thinking: which mistake did I made this time? What did I do wrong? 

I stagger into her room and the curtains flap in the cold air, stroking over the nails so painstakingly worked free without my notice. My hands reach the windowsill and I barely hold myself up as I see two figures running in the pool of light from a streetlamp. Nia and a boy I vaguely recognise from church. 

I blame myself.

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A Special Preview of ‘Sleepless’

Louise Mumford

Chapter One

There was already a gridlock of cars stretching away behind the accident. Her accident. Thea felt a weird ownership over it, like a cat licking at her poor dead kitten.

Her fault – no doubt.

It had to be. In total, she’d probably only slept for four hours . . . that week.

Behind her was the three-vehicle sandwich in which her car was the crushed metal filling. She staggered back and tried to close the mangled door.

Someone pulled at her elbow: a man, dragging her back from the road where she stood gazing into the traffic. He was uninjured but shouting something, and Thea couldn’t focus, her mind slipping off him in the same way his glasses slid down his sweaty nose.

The actual moment of impact had been strangely soothing. Thea couldn’t remember any sound really, so there had just been this lovely, pillowy-white cushioning as the airbag deployed and then – whoosh! – like a fairground ride, she was spun around.

She hadn’t done it on purpose. She’d thought about things like that quite a few times, in those dead, red-eye hours of the night when she felt like the only person left on earth who was still awake. Ironically, as her car smashed into the one in front, she had actually been congratulating herself that she’d got through the day, that she could do this living thing, even without any sleep, with just a cold sponge for a brain and sandpaper balls for eyes.

She could do it.

But clearly, she couldn’t.

How many years of sleeplessness? Too many. Too many achingly long nights that then smudged themselves into joyless, grey, listless days before lights out and another eight hours of frantic panicking. Too many nights etched into the bloodshot spiderwebs in the whites of her eyes.

There was a woman with the man now and Thea looked for blood on her, expecting broken limbs and jagged wounds, but there was nothing, not even a torn blouse. The both of them worked their mouths madly, like gulping fish, expectantly looking at her and then the cars and then back to her again. She should respond, she thought, but she didn’t know what to say. The words were there, but they were busy dancing in her brain, enjoying themselves – shaken loose by the impact and free to partner up however they chose.

Her car was concertinaed. It was a shock, how impressively the whole thing could crumple, yet keep her whole as a seed inside its tattered fruit.

But, if she was fruit, then she was the rotten kind, she realised with a gulp that turned into a choking gasp. She could have hurt that man and woman staring at her now. She could have killed them. Up until that point, the only damage her insomnia had done had been to herself – her social life, her concentration, mood, skin, memory and general joy in living. It had never affected someone else, never nearly crushed them in a smoking metal box.

There was pain now. Her nose, a tender, pulsating blob, her knees suddenly shakier than they had been, blood on her collarbone where her seatbelt had taken a bite.

Abruptly, she sank to the cold ground at the roadside. Soon there would be flaring emergency lights and sirens; there would be gentle fingers prodding at her and questions asked and, dimly, she realised she would have to get herself together for all of that. More people gathered, but from her viewpoint sat on the ground, they were just feet, their voices so far above her they may as well have been stars.

There would be so much to do after something like this, Thea thought: the forms and phone calls, appointments and claims. The effort. She didn’t have it in her. She felt so light there was nothing left of her and dealing with all of this needed solidity; it needed heft, a person who felt like they left a footprint when they walked. If someone blew on her she would simply dissipate, like dust on the wind.

Idly, she watched liquid seep from under her car and with the same blankness with which she’d thought of everything else, she wondered if the liquid was flammable, or if it was merely water.

She should have cared, one way or the other.

At that moment her hand buzzed. She blinked. Maybe it was an injury of some kind, she thought slowly. She would probably need to get it checked out, once she got up from this really rather comfortable bit of damp ground. It buzzed again and this time her eyes managed to get the message over to her brain that she was still clutching her phone. Looking down at it, a notification flashed up, some advert from one of her apps, something she’d probably seen a thousand times before. At first, she thought it was the universe’s idea of a cruel joke. But then, as she sat there amongst the twisted metal and shattered glass, she came to think of it more as salvation:

Morpheus. Dream your way to a better you – one sleep at a time.

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The Retreat – Part 2: Into the Darkness

Chris McDonald

Please note: this is the second part of a story featured in Noir from the Bar but it can be read alone.

For John, it had been a strange day so far.

Not twelve hours ago, he and his boss, Simon, had left New York in high spirits, excited for a team building weekend at Simon’s ranch. Only, the team that were supposed to have arrived by now hadn’t ever been invited and Simon had somehow found out about the million or so dollars John had been siphoning out of the company over the years… he hadn’t been happy.

John scrambled through the trees, his mind trying to make sense of the horror that had just unfolded. His thoughts drifted to the words his boss had uttered fifteen short minutes ago.

I’m going to give you an hour to disappear into the woods.

The appearance of a knife as long as John’s forearm had put paid to the idea that this whole trip had been organised as some sort of practical joke. Apparently, the area of trees contained within a tall, circular chain link fence that John was currently hurrying through was some sort of arena Simon used for enacting revenge on those who dared wrong him.

Their conversation earlier had hinted at three things. Firstly, that John was not the first person to have been brought here. Secondly, that his boss was pretty handy at finding his way around this forest and, finally, he didn’t greet his prey with a warm embrace upon finding them. 

John shuddered and picked up the pace, keen to put as much distance between Simon and him as possible.

The alarm clock on the folding table beeped to signal that John’s head start had come to an end. Simon smiled and stood up, twisting this way and that in order to stretch his back. He loved this bit – the anticipation of the hunt. It was almost better than the actual kill.


He gazed into the tree line and was glad to see that John was not there, muttering apologies as some of the others had. He’d been disappointed with those guys. He’d taken his time with them, keen to make them pay for wasting his time.

John was different – he was an animal at work. He didn’t care who he upset or climbed over, as long as it pushed him up one more rung on the career ladder. Simon was pretty sure that John was going to give as good as he would get in this forest, and that excited him.

None of the others had.

He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and grabbed the knife. This was going to be fun.

At least it’s not raining, John thought.

He glanced down at the forest floor, content that he wasn’t making it easy for Simon to track him. The mossy carpet ensured that his footprints wouldn’t linger and he’d made sure not to break or bend any branches. If he was being forced to flee and fight for his life, he was going to make a good go of it.

He emerged from a dense patch of trees into a clearing. Tree stumps littered the ground and in the middle was a small log cabin.

Two steps led to a narrow porch upon which a camp chair, covered in bird dropping and insects, rested. John passed by the chair and tried the door, which was thankfully unlocked. Inside, the cabin was basic but clean. He supposed that Simon came regularly to keep the place in order. A camp bed sat in the middle of the room with a red blanket tossed over it. A chest of drawers rested against one of the walls and a wide window filled most of an other. Framed pictures of men who looked a lot like Simon adorned the walls, staring down at him with evil in their eyes.

John launched into action. He flung drawers open, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon, but came away empty-handed. He tossed the bed onto its side and felt around inside the canvas, but again, there was nothing to be found. Frustrated, he began kicking holes in the wooden walls. Once his anger had abated, he slid to the floor and let the tears flow.

What sort of punishment is this? Whatever happened to a good ol’ fashioned, not to mention legal, tribunal?

He sat there for longer than he meant to, before a sudden thought forced him to cut his wallowing short.

He imagined that the others who had been brought here had probably stumbled upon the cabin, just as he had. There hadn’t been a path, per se, but the vegetation had been cut back enough to hint at one.

Had he subconsciously been led here?

Just as that thought entered his mind, he heard a twig snap from outside.

He was trapped.

Simon walked through the woods, at ease in his surroundings. He reminisced on the justice that had been doled out under the watch of these ancient trees to those who had thought that taking advantage of him would be a good idea. Each corner of the forest held a bloody, special memory.

And right now, he was about to make more of them. He pushed the last branch out of the way and the cabin that his grandfather had built with his bare hands came into view. Every time he saw it, he imagined the man himself, sitting on the porch after a day’s work, sipping a beer or simply watching the world go by around him.

He slowed his approach to make sure that he had the element of surprise on his side. He realized that he was holding his breath. He could imagine John inside, trying to keep an eye on the front and back door; his breath catching in his throat at the hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves.

A snigger caught in his throat as he picked up a branch and snapped it. To hell with surprise – psychological warfare was much more fun! With the wheels set in motion, he tossed aside the snapped branch and ran at the cabin, knife grasped tightly in his right hand.

He barged open the door with his shoulder and was met with disappointment when he realized that John was not cowering where he thought he would be.

John had been safely ensconced in the crook of a tree, about seven feet up, for about forty minutes. Pins and needles were taking over the lower half of his body, and he was about to jump down to have a stretch, when Simon entered the clearing.

He watched his psychopathic boss suppress a giggle as he bent down and picked up a thin stick before snapping it in two. He then ran at the cabin’s door and slammed into it, before disappearing inside. He emerged from the back door a minute later, swearing and casting his eyes around the forest.

At ground level.

John’s plan had arrived fully formed as he’d left the cabin. He reckoned that Simon would assume the role of hunter and that he would expect his visitor to become the prey.

So, what would happen if the prey became the predator?

John was about to find out.

He watched Simon stalk around the back of the cabin, peering into the falling darkness in the hope that John would reveal himself. A few minutes of fruitless searching later, Simon walked around the front of the cabin and as he passed under the tree that hid John, John leapt into action.

Or to be more precise, fell into action.

He dismounted from the tree, feet first, and made solid contact with Simon’s shoulders. He felt the bones under his boots crack. Both men fell to the floor, though, having initiated the contact, John was first to his feet, ready for the fight.

Pain shot up his elbow as he stood over his boss, who was attempting to crawl away. The forest seemed to have closed in around them, creating some sort of natural arena, though John was not in the notion of letting this become a fair fight.

Instead, he picked the knife up that had fallen to the floor when he had ambushed Simon, and held it aloft.

Simon turned on the floor and settled on his back, looking up at the man who had just attacked him. His eyes locked onto John’s before moving to the silver bladed knife.

Time seemed to slow. John considered his options.

‘You don’t have the balls,’ laughed Simon from the ground, disturbing John’s thoughts.

John barked a hollow laugh which seemed to knock some of the bluster from Simon. Gone was the look of certainty that John would not use the weapon, replaced with a sense of doubt.

Before Simon could say anything else, John pounced, plunging the knife through Simon’s thigh and deep into the ground.

John was surprised at how easily the blade passed through the fatty thigh muscle. And at how quickly the blood began to pour.

Simon’s howls filled the darkening sky, causing birds to flutter away en masse, like a black cloud passing overhead. Blood was pouring from the wound in earnest now – the sickly metallic smell flooding the air. Simon looked on in horror as the scarlet puddle spread and clutched at the handle, unsure of what to do.

‘You could try pulling it out,’ John said. ‘Though, judging by how much blood there is, I’m pretty sure I severed the artery. You’re going to die very soon one way or the other, I guess it’s up to you how painful your final moments are.’

Simon’s face was pale as he glared into John’s eyes.

‘Oh,’ said John, as he began to leave the clearing. ‘Like you told me at the start of the day, no one knows where this place is or that you own it and no one knows that we were going away together so I guess… I’m in the clear.’

John sauntered out of the forest, wondering what he would spend a million dollars on.

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Chris McDonald Profile

Chris McDonald

Chris McDonald grew up in Northern Ireland before settling in Manchester via Lancaster and London.

He is the author “A Wash of Black“, the first in the DI Erika Piper series, as well as the forthcoming second – “Whispers In The Dark“.

Chris has also recently dabbled in writing cosy crimes, as a remedy for the darkness. The first in the “Stonebridge Mysteries” will be released in early 2021.

He is a full-time teacher, husband, father to two beautiful girls and a regular voice on The Blood Brothers Podcast. He is a fan of 5-a-side football, heavy metal and dogs.


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An Author Reviews: ‘Hyde’ by Craig Russell

Margaret Kirk

If Edinburgh didn’t exist, you have to wonder if crime writers would find it necessary to invent it; there are few cities more perfectly suited to exploring the dark facets of human nature. And there are few writers more perfectly suited to re-imagining one of the city’s most chilling fictional inhabitants than Craig Russell.

Quite simply, “Hyde” is a stunning piece of work. On one level, it’s a gothic masterpiece, using all Russell’s considerable skill to paint disturbing images of a dark and brooding city in our minds. As you’d expect from an international bestseller and McIlvanney prize-winner, it’s also an intricately plotted and expertly crafted crime novel.

Russell’s “Hyde” is the superintendent of police, an ex-Army officer haunted – perhaps literally – by his role in the British army in India. Suffering from lengthy blackouts and what appear to be hallucinations, he has so far managed to conceal his condition from everyone but his physician. But when he’s tasked with investigating a series of gruesome murders with links to ancient Celtic blood rituals, the walls between his ‘otherworld’ and reality start to crumble.

The disappearance in broad daylight of a young woman from Edinburgh’s upper classes adds to the growing pressure on Hyde from all sides. And when his condition is revealed, his presence at one of the crime scenes places him under suspicion. Is he simply a man tormented by the decisions of a traumatic past, or are his blackouts a symptom of something more monstrous at play? 

The book’s finale is a disturbing journey through bloody myth and twisted psychology that acknowledges the darkness at humanity’s heart but somehow still finds its way towards hope. 

And honestly? This feels like a very brief summary of an incredibly complex and multi-layered novel. There is gothic detail aplenty here, there is a compelling crime plot set in a Victorian Edinburgh that feels undeniably authentic, a painstaking, near-forensic examination of the duality of human nature in general and some aspects of the Scottish condition in particular, all delivered in Russells’ confidently fluid prose.

Look, I’m running out of superlatives here and my own prose is getting dangerously overblown. TL:DR? It’s a great book. Go buy.

Hyde” is published by Constable (Little Brown/Hachette) in February 2021.

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Margaret Kirk Profile

Margaret Kirk

Margaret Kirk writes ‘Highland Noir’ Scottish crime fiction with a gothic twist, set in and around her home town of Inverness.

Her debut novel, “Shadow Man“, won the Good Housekeeping First Novel Competition in 2016. Described as ‘a harrowing and horrific game of consequences’ by Val McDermid, it was published in 2017 by Orion.

Book 2 in the DI Lukas Mahler series, “What Lies Buried“, was published in June 2019, with book 3, “In The Blood“, to be released in April 2021.

Margaret is also the writer of several award-winning short stories, including “The Seal Singers”, which has been published in translation in Germany and Switzerland.


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Susi Holliday Profile

Susi Holliday
Susi Holliday

Susi Holliday grew up near Edinburgh and worked in the pharmaceutical industry for many years before she started writing.

A life-long fan of crime and horror, her short stories have been published in various places, and she was shortlisted for the inaugural CWA Margery Allingham Prize.

She is the bestselling author of eight novels and one novella, several of which are written as SJI Holliday.


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