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Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Book of the Day - The Death Game by Chris Longmuir

The Death Game are you ready to play? 
Book of the Day is Chris Longmuir's latest crime thriller, The Death Game

The next day Kirsty went to look at the properties she had seen advertised in the local newspaper but by the time she had inspected all but one of the places on her list she was thoroughly discouraged.
The first place she looked at had been a two-roomed flat at the top of a tenement. The toilet was shared by six flats on the top landing and another six on the landing below, and stank. The door hung off its hinges, and the wooden seat was split into three parts. The flat was no better. The lock did not work, there were holes in the floor, and the bedroom reeked like the toilet on the stairs.
The next three places were in a similar condition, so her expectations were now as low as her spirits.
The landlord of the last place lived on the ground floor in the tenement next door. He looked at her with a gleam in his eyes that made Kirsty uneasy.
‘The rent’s five shillings a week and that’s a bargain. You pay the first week in advance and an extra ten shillings key money.’ He wiped his grubby hands on his dungarees. ‘When d’you want to move in?’
‘Do you mind if I take a look at it first?’
He stared at her as if she were crazy. ‘What d’you want to see it for? The rent’s cheap, it’s well furnished, and it has an inside stair with a cludgie on each landing. It’s in a good class tenement, better than a lot of the other ones with their outside stairs and outside cludgies.’
It was a name she had not heard for years, and for a brief moment she blinked at him in puzzlement until she remembered. She just hoped this cludgie did not stink as much as the toilets she had already viewed.
‘I suppose you can see it,’ the landlord grumbled, ‘although you’re not going to get any better for the rent I’m asking.’
She followed him into the next tenement, up a creaking set of stairs to the first landing and into the two-roomed flat that Dundee folks called a double-end.
Weak sunlight filtered through the dirty glass of the window, picking its way past the grimy sink. A greasy-looking gas cooker was situated to the left of the black fireplace while a gas jet on a swivel arm protruded from the dust-covered mantelpiece. A blue paisley-patterned oil-cloth covered the table in the middle of the room, and two wooden chairs sat close by. A sideboard, and an armchair sagging in the middle with what suspiciously looked like broken springs completed the room’s contents.
A door in the rear wall led to the bedroom. It was sparsely furnished with a bed and a small chest of drawers on the top of which was a saucer with a candle stuck upright in its own grease. The bed looked solid enough, although the brass ends were badly in need of a polish and the blankets covering the mattress looked distinctly unsavoury.
‘It’s a new mattress,’ the landlord grumbled when her eyes returned to the bed. ‘Had to throw the last one out when the tenant left. Dirty bugger.’
Kirsty was tempted to tell him he should have thrown the blankets out as well but did not want to antagonize him. For, although she had hoped for something better, this was the best she was going to get for the price she was prepared to pay. At least there were no holes in the floor or walls, the door was intact, and the smells were only of dust and the lack of fresh air. With a good scrub, new bedding, whitewash and paint, it might not be too bad. Besides, she could easily afford the rent of this place out of her policewoman’s pay of two pounds eight shillings a week.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said. Although a moment after she spoke she realized the assistant chief constable had made no mention of how much she would be paid. She hoped it would be the same as she had been getting in London.
The landlord grabbed her hand and shook it. ‘McKay’s my name, Alfie McKay. You and me, we’ll get on like a house on fire.’
Kirsty looked at him dubiously. She was going to have to watch out for this one.

The Death game is available from:


Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Reviewed: Sometimes It Happens by Pauline Barclay

‘Barclay’s novel is light and fun.’ Says Tanya J Peterson after reviewing Sometimes It Happens…

Life is never predictable. Something that seems logical, predictable, and certain might never happen. And, excitingly, something that seems entirely impossible, far-fetched, and even a bit ridiculous to imagine sometimes does happen. Pauline Barclay, author of “emotional, passionate, beautiful, moving stories” takes readers into that fun, unexpected world with her novel Sometimes it Happens.
In this light-hearted novel, Doreen Wilkinson—a woman who has raised her now-seventeen-year-old daughter in abject poverty, working as a cleaner and barely getting by—unexpectedly finds herself and her daughter at a ritzy, exotic tropical resort/residential community. She is suddenly lavishly and excessively wealthy, for she has won the lottery!

At this resort community known as Villas Bonitas, Doreen encounters quite a cast of characters. She brings to this eclectic mix something some of them have never seen: authenticity. Doreen is simply that: Doreen. Her “poor” mannerisms and speech are met with varying degrees of tolerance, acceptance, or lack thereof. The interactions are often amusing, although thankfully not outlandish and absurd, and this is part of what makes Sometimes it Happens an enjoyable read.

Doreen isn’t the only star of the story. The people with whom she interacts have stories of their own. It was fun to follow each and every one of them, even one who was such a despicable person I would normally ignore. But Barclay makes this woman’s antics amusing to read.

Barclay’s novel is light and fun. The silly and serious things that go on at Villas Bonitas are truly quite believable because, as they say, Sometimes it Happens

Sometimes It Happens... is available in Kindle and paperback from ALL Amazon sites including

Find out more about Tanya by visiting her web site

Monday, 15 September 2014

This Reviewer Says, “Fantastic”

My Life in a Nutshell: A Novel is the story of two people who don’t quite know how to live in the world—the man, Brian, because of debilitating anxiety, the girl, Abigail because of instability and abuse—and their journey to learn from each other. Very slowly but surely, the novel is beginning to emerge from its own shell and get out into the world.

As it does, I’m tempted to hide in my own nutshell! I’m always anxious about whether readers will enjoy what I write. As a “parent,” my wish for Brian and Abigail is that they be welcomed into people’s hearts.

From time to time I check for review comments. I share with you a recent Amazon review by Madam Librarian “Erin”:

“It's hard to write about anxiety disorders and mental health in a novel and make it believable but Tanya J. Peterson has managed to do it... again. Her first novel, "Leave of Absence," dealt with the effects of grief and schizophrenia, "My Life in a Nutshell" deals with extreme anxiety. Peterson crafts together an emotional, gripping tale of severe debilitating anxiety that gets you so worked up and involved, that it's as if you are personally suffering through it. It's almost painful, but it's so eye opening and humbling to realize that thousands of people have to deal with these types of emotions daily and there isn't always a happy ending for them. People suffering from anxiety are seriously misunderstood lonely souls and Peterson deftly brings their plight to readers.

Brian is a lonely soul. His beloved pet dog has just died and he is now on his own. Getting out of bed and going to work was hard enough before, but now without his trusty companion the depression, anxiety, and panic attacks threaten to overtake Brian completely. Solitary by nature, Brian works the night shift as a custodian to a local school and avoids human interaction whenever possible. A trip to the store is enough to cause a panic attack, talking to people is downright painful for him. Brian is perpetually scared he will say the wrong thing, look stupid, or be socially awkward. As if things couldn't get worse for Brian, his mother has insisted he see a counselor and a troubled child at the school has taken to following Brian around. Perhaps, both of these new people in his life can help him address what is holding him back from having a happy fulfilled life?

Another great novel from award winning author, Tanya J. Peterson. She humanizes anxiety and makes it easier for readers to understand just how horrific it is by portraying the story through Brian's eyes and having the reader suffer through all the panic attacks and insecurity that he is dealing with. Truly eye opening and well deserving of the Kirkus star it received.”

Saturday, 13 September 2014

HUG A BOOK with Forever Fredless by Suzy Turner

Hug A Book is sponsored by

It’s HUG A BOOK and this weekend it’s with Suzy Turner


Forever Fredless

Meet Suzy

Suzy Turner has worked as a journalist, assistant editor, features editor and magazine editor. Early in 2010 however, she began writing full time and has
since completed six books for young adults (the Raven Saga and The Morgan Sisters series) and one chick lit novel, Forever Fredless.
Although Suzy is a Yorkshire lass at heart, she left her home town of Rotherham, UK, to move to Portugal with her family when she was ten. The Algarve
continues to be her home, where she lives with her childhood sweetheart and husband of 15 years, Michael, and their two neurotic dogs and a cat who thinks
she's a princess.

Blurb for Forever Fredless

Kate Robinson has spent the past two decades yearning to find her soul mate, the boy she found and then lost during a family holiday.
Shortly after her twenty-eighth birthday, however, she inherits a fortune from an old family friend and becomes something of an overnight celebrity. Can her new-found fame lead her to him after all this time?

Available for Kindle


Forever Fredless

Thank God for anti-perspirant, I thought as I sat on the couch and waited for the countdown to begin. I clutched at my hands until they were white and looked across at the two people sitting opposite, both completely at ease in front of the cameras.
Five, four, three, two, one...
'Welcome back to this morning's edition of Good Morning GB,' announced Ireland Rothschild, the blonde-haired, blue eyed darling of morning TV.
'I'm here with Fergus O'Reilly and we've a special guest with us this morning. None other than Britain's love-struck multi-millionaire, Kate Robinson.
Welcome, Kate,' she said with a dazzling smile aimed more towards the camera than at me.
As my cheeks began to heat up, I was so grateful to the make-up artist, who had insisted on caking on the foundation before the show had started. In fact, I had so much make-up on that I was hoping once I'd removed it, nobody would recognise me when I headed to the airport in my now rather stupidly chosen car. I couldn't exactly blend in driving a pink Mini could I?
'Good morning,' I whispered shyly.
Fergus grinned back at me, tilting his head as if he was about to speak to a child. 'Now, tell us, Kate dear, how does it feel to never have to worry about money ever again?' he asked, his toothpaste advert  teeth twinkling beneath the heat of the studio lights.
'Erm, well, I guess it's... erm, kind of... erm,' I felt so bloody stupid. Great time for my brain to stop working. 'I - erm. Great,' I nodded. 'Great, really great.' Idiot.
Ireland glanced across at her grey-haired colleague and pouted before nodding. 'Tell us how you knew this man. This,' she glanced down at the iPad on her lap and continued, 'Samuel?'
I cleared my throat and lifted my head, feeling like my brain was back in action. 'He was a very good friend of the family, some years ago,' I answered.
'Just a friend? Why did he leave you all his money and his property?' asked Fergus.
'He didn't have any family and I guess you could say that my mother and I were the closest he ever had to a family.'
'Isn't that lovely?' pouted Ireland. 'You certainly are a lucky woman. But what about your mother? Didn't she receive any of his inheritance?'
'No,' I said before swallowing hard. 'My mother lives a rather... nomadic lifestyle, in Africa. She doesn't want any of it. All she asked of me was to donate a sum to charity which, of course, I have done.'
'She lives in Africa? A nomadic lifestyle? That sounds intriguing. Perhaps we should interview her one of these days,' laughed Ireland and Fergus together.
'Have you splashed out on anything since receiving your inheritance back in June?' they asked, leaning forward eagerly awaiting my answer.
'Yes I have actually. I bought a car and a new house.'
'Well good for you, Kate. But now, most of us are curious about this boy you lost. Tell us about him?'
Oh no. Why did I agree to this?
Taking a deep breath, I knew I had no choice. Several articles had been printed since the one in Liberty; everyone wanted to know more and nobody was going to leave me alone until I told them everything.
'He was just a boy who I had a connection with when I was much, much younger. It was at Skegness. At an afternoon disco for kids. I was dancing and I felt someone touch my back and when I turned around there he was.  The most beautiful boy I'd ever seen,' I said, stopping and smiling as I reminisced. ‘It was one of the happiest memories of my life.'
Sighing, I continued, 'We just looked at each other and it was like everything else just disappeared into the background. We stood staring, for what seemed like ages. I could barely move. And then, almost as soon as it had begun, my dad appeared and took me away. I couldn't do anything as we walked to the car. I looked around for the boy but he was gone. And then, just as we were driving away, I turned around in my seat and there he was. He had a daffodil in his hand. I always assumed he'd gone to pick it for me, but that's just a childish fantasy, I guess. The whole thing is probably nothing but a childish fantasy, really.'
Ireland was very carefully dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, pretending to be moved, while Fergus smiled sadly.
'What a beautiful story, Kate. I don't believe for one second that this is a childish fantasy. It's romantic and beautiful,' Ireland said.
'Now, tell us, Kate. Why did you call him Fred?' asked Fergus.
Smiling, I explained about the Right Said Fred song, just as the music began in the background.
'What a wonderful tale. Thank you, Kate, for joining us today. It's been a pleasure having you with us to share your story,' said Fergus.
'Thank you,' I whispered before the camera moved back to Ireland as she straightened her skirt and looked alluring. 'Do you remember this moment in time?'
she asked. 'Are you the elusive Fred? We'd love to hear from you. You can contact us at...'
Before I could hear anything else, I was ushered off the couch and back behind the scenes where Jo stood, waiting patiently for me, with open arms.

A Kindle copy of Forever Fredless is up for grabs, please leave a comment below so we can get in touch and you could be reading this book soon!

Suzy’s Links

(more coming soon

Thursday, 11 September 2014

Chris Longmuir’s Top Ten


A recent request for my top ten favourite books set me thinking, because I’m not sure that I have a favourite top ten. My favourite book is usually the one I’m reading at the time, but only if it’s good. so my top ten this week is bound to be different from last week’s top ten, or even last month’s or last year’s top ten. An easier task for me would be the top ten authors who impacted on me during my journey through fiction.

1. Enid Blyton who introduced me to the world of children’s fiction. I remember having a Sunny Stories annual that I treasured, and then of course there was her Famous Five series when I was slightly older. Maybe I should explain, I’ve been an avid reader since the age of five.

2. Agatha Christie, my first foray into the world of adult fiction and my introduction to the crime genre which I’ve been addicted to ever since starting to read her at the age of fourteen.

3. Hank Jansen, the pen name for a horde of British writers including Bob Monkhouse. They wrote pulp fiction featuring American gangsters, gangs and gangsters molls. Definitely not literature, but fascinating to a girl of sixteen. I used to sneak copies of the Jansen books from my father’s hiding place, read them, and return them.

4. Bram Stoker, whose classic novel Dracula was my introduction to the horror genre. I loved the book (not so keen on Frankenstein though) and I think I watched scores of the old Hammer horror films – remember them?

5. Stephen King, I graduated from Stoker to King, as well as James Herbert, Clive Barker and several others. It was King’s horror books I preferred rather than his fantasy quest books.

6. Stephen Koontz, I found him during my horror phase. He writes the most fantastic horror stories, but he also writes nail-biting suspense, and these are the books I now seek out, because of course, I’ve graduated from horror to suspense.

7. John Connolly, an Irish writer who sets his books in Maine, which is also Stephen King’s setting for his books. John writes crime thrillers with an element of fantasy and horror interwoven, and he is a master at creating suspense.

8. Ken Follett, I’ve diverged from suspense and horror here, but I do love his writing, particularly his historical novels which are so huge they could act as doorstops. But you know, I can read one of his books of 900 plus pages just as fast as any shorter book, mainly because the story really pulls you in.

9. Jonathan Kellerman, an American writer who uses a psychologist as the main character. It’s the psychology I love in his books which gives a real insight into why his killers are the people they are, plus he writes a rattling good mystery that keeps you guessing.

10. Jeffery Deaver, I’ve kept the best until last. Deaver writes brilliant mystery novels, and is the master of the multiple twist. I can usually work out whodunnit in most books by following the clues and paying attention to the red herrings, but I can never do it with Deaver. Just as you think you’ve cracked it and know who the killer is, he gives it another twist, and that can happen three or four times before you reach the end of the book.

So there you have it. I’ve taken you on a journey through my reading life, and how it developed over time. But that’s not to say I would still read the writers on the early stages of my journey. For example, Hank Jansen was a teenage phase, and I’ve no doubt I would class those books among my rejects now and wouldn’t even bother opening the pages.

 I’ve enjoyed sharing my thoughts with you.


Chris Longmuir

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

Book of the Day - Satchfield Hall by Pauline Barclay

Set in 1943 it will be 1986 before it will end.
One mistake, two people in love and four decades.
 Satchfield Hall is a beautiful moving story of love and betrayal.


Celia stood alone in the shadows of the sweeping boughs of a willow tree. From her vantage point, she could clearly see the four people huddled together by the open grave, their heads bowed as they carried out the solemn ritual of bidding their last goodbyes. Despite it being no more than twenty yards from where she watched, the gathered mourners could not see her. She need take only a few steps forward to be visible to them, but Celia had no desire whatsoever to be seen.

Unlike the small party, she was not dressed in sombre clothing, nor was she weeping. For her, it was not a day to mourn; she had done that years earlier. Wept at the loss of the man she once believed had cared for her.  He had, but not in the way she had hoped. Like everything in Henry Bryant-Smythe’s life, he had viewed her as an asset, an investment, and when she had deprived him of what he believed was his insurance with a healthy dividend, he had made her pay, The price had been high; very high.

Celia shuddered. Her reason for standing silently in the cover of the willow was to witness the end of his life on this earth. She had waited for more years than she could count to see this day. She had heard it said that only the good die young: well here was evidence indeed that the evil stay on this earth for a very long time. He had celebrated his thirtieth birthday not long before she was born and she was a grandmother twice over now. You did not need to be a mathematician to work out that he had lived for many more years than his allotted three score years and ten, she mused, her lips curving in a wry smile that as quickly disappeared.

‘Justice!’ Celia hissed, almost screaming out the word, until she remembered where she was. But there was no justice, she thought with bitterness. Nothing could bring back what he had stolen from her. Even when he knew he was dying he had not uttered her name, nor repented. In the end nothing had changed. Instead, in a voice thick with loathing, he had told her his reasons for what he had done, confirming for Celia that he had no regrets for the pain and suffering he had caused. She recalled he had smiled at her, a sardonic smile that changed his face from haughty to malicious. Even his eyes had sparkled with malevolence, boring into her like laser beams.

‘I just want you to know,’ he had snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip that had cut just as deep, ‘that because of your behaviour, I lost everything. You, with no sense of morality or filial duty, despite your lavish upbringing, were the catalyst for all that happened. You should be begging my forgiveness.’ Celia remembered that in the corners of his mouth spittle had foamed as his anger mounted, his lips tightening with his deep resentment. ‘But don’t ever bother to ask for it,’ he had added, ‘because I will never give it. Now get out of my sight.’

Despite her mature years, his presence and tone had sent a shiver of fear down her spine and she had felt like a child again. Now, standing in the shadows of the willow tree, even though she knew his life was over, Celia could still feel his presence. To her horror, she realised that despite all that had happened, even in death her father still had the ability to chill her blood. Even knowing he was gone, she could not remove the hatred she had in her heart for him. It had been there for so long it was like another organ. It was part of her. It had shaped her life and the lives of all of those around her.

Her father: Henry Bryant-Smythe, the Squire of Satchfield Hall, powerful and evil, had destroyed so many and so much and had ultimately destroyed himself. Only now, as the words he had spoken echoed through the passage of time, did Celia feel a kind of pity: pity that defied all logic; the fear, the pain and suffering. She knew the words he had snapped at her as he lay dying meant that to himself, he had rewritten the past and in his own deluded mind had seen himself as the victim.
Her mother, who had suffered at his hands, had gone to an early grave. Had she only had the fortitude to stand up to the man who had taken her as his bride when she was barely sixteen, then maybe all their lives might have been different and so much pain avoided. But somehow Celia did not think so: despite Muriel Bryant-Smythe’s great beauty, she had been powerless against the depredation of her iniquitous husband.

Now, wondering idly who the mourners were and having witnessed all that was necessary, Celia made to leave. Silently thanking God that it was over, she turned her back on the scene being enacted in the graveyard, but as she stepped away from her hiding place she felt a hand touch her arm. It took all of her will power not to cry out. Heart thumping, she swung round, joy and relief flooding her veins as she saw who it was.
‘Jack! You startled me,’ she gasped, smiling up at him and asking in a loud whisper, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It looks to me, much the same as you, making sure he really has gone.’
Celia nodded, ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ she said, linking her arm with his and wondering why she should be so startled when she’d had a feeling Jack would turn up today.
Arm in arm they walked through the concealed exit of the memorial gardens, the same one she had entered by earlier. Neither of them looked back. No doubt, thought Celia, her father was spinning somewhere between Hell and Heaven. She knew Heaven would have difficulty in taking him; there had never been an ounce of good in him. Even Hell might sniff at accepting him! Wherever he was, he would not be pleased with what in the end had been achieved. He had believed he was all powerful and had used his power to destroy and crush. It had taken the Second World War and a country desperate to rebuild and recover from its wounds, before the power he wielded was weakened and eventually removed. Yet despite being stripped of what he valued most: status, power, reputation and above all wealth, he continued to haunt those he had sought to destroy.
As Celia and Jack walked the few steps that took them to her car, she smiled, thinking that at last the chapter was closed. Her step was lighter: she was a woman who had come through it all; she had succeeded in the end, and looking up at the tall, handsome man at her side, Celia knew that despite everything, she had been blessed.
Her driver, Tony, was waiting for them in the lane. As they appeared through the thick hedge that concealed the little gate into the cemetery, he smiled and opened the rear passenger door. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked.
Unperturbed by his familiarity, Celia returned his smile, for whilst she was his employer and had been for more years than she cared to remember, he was also her friend. ‘Thank you, Tony. Never better,’ Celia stepped into the rear of the car and made herself comfortable.
Tony shook Jack’s hand, ‘Delighted to see you, Jack, and no doubt Celia is too. Today is a big day for her.’
Jack nodded, ‘For us both,’ he murmured, patting Tony’s shoulder before climbing into in the car.
Once Celia’s seat belt was locked into its snap, she rested her head on the headrest and closing her eyes, breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, a tear trickled down her cheek. Even though it was over, the images sprang to life in her mind: the voices and even the smell of fear were about to consume her again. Feeling the tight squeeze of Jack’s hand she pushed the memories away and
looked up into his handsome face. No matter how many times she gazed at him, it would never be enough. She counted her blessings every single day. He was the image of his father; thank God there was not a trace of his grandfather in him.
As if reading her mind, Jack squeezed her hand again and smiled down at her.
‘No regrets?’ she asked him.
‘Millions, but none anyone can change.’
Celia knew what he was referring to and he was right. If they were to list their regrets then the list would be long enough to strangle them both. She smiled at him and then laughed out loud, the memories, which only moments ago had been about to consume her, evaporating in the warmth of  his smile.
‘Everything ok in the back,’ called Tony, looking in the rear view mirror at the sound of Celia’s laughter.
She smiled at the face reflected in the mirror, ‘Nothing could be more ok, Tony. I’ve waited a long time for this day and I intend to savour it, even if it means spontaneously breaking into maniacal laughter for no apparent reason!’
He chuckled, ‘I’m glad to hear it. In your shoes I’d feel exactly the same. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you deserve to laugh after all you’ve been through because of him.’
Approaching the T-junction at the brow of the hill, Tony slowed the car at the give-way sign before turning off to the left. As he skilfully manoeuvred the big car into the lane, Celia remembered that the road sign had not been there all those years ago when she had been driven away from Satchfield Hall. Once again, despite her exuberance, the memory slipped unbidden into her mind. She saw herself as a young woman – not much more than a girl - hunched in the back of the car and felt again the despair and misery of that day.
‘Stop it,’ she told herself, ‘it’s over!’ But her mind continued to replay those dreadful scenes and tears again welled in her eyes. She had never stopped wondering how one person could create so much pain and suffering in so many people’s lives. She should be feeling some inner peace now, after all, in the end she’d had the last word, but she did not hear that. Instead, all she could hear was her father’s voice as it thundered through Satchfield Hall all those years before.

Satchfield Hall is available in Kindle and Paperback

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Night Watcher on Air


I’ve just listened to an episode of the Books Rock radio programme on Siren 107.3 fm, described as Lincoln’s first community radio station, and I was delighted to hear J B Johnston talking about the first book in my Dundee Crime Series, Night Watcher. J B Johnston is the first person interviewed by Nicky Wells in this episode, and for those of you who don’t know J B, she publishes the popular book blog Brook Cottage Books, so she is someone who knows all about books, and to have her choose one of mine to talk about was an honour. Here is the link to the page on SirenOnline

In the programme JB starts out by talking about her blog experiences and how surprised she was when the blog took off. She mentions Sheryl Browne’s book Edge of Sanity, which reminded me I have it in my Kindle and must make time to read it. Then she goes on to talk about Night Watcher which she say is a very atmospheric book which will have the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, and will have you looking over your shoulder. High praise indeed! But it gets even better when she says Night Watcher is professionally written, is well researched and draws the reader in. Her rating was an uneqivocal 5 stars.

So, you can see I’m highly delighted that she shared her view of the book on air, and I’m so glad I listened to the programme. Oh, and if you take time to listen, although JB is the first person interviewed and Night Watcher comes up about 5 minutes into the programme, the rest of the programme is very interesting as well. I certainly listened to the end.


Books Rock is introduced by Nicky Wells, someone who is very knowledgeable about books, therefore her programme is well worth listening to. Click the link for the radio station website


Chris Longmuir

Amazon Author Page
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