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Boldwood Books - Diana Wilkinson

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231 pages

English

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The brand new thriller from Diana Wilkinson, author of 4 Riverside Close

I’m not being paranoid. It’s all there in the crossword clues…in black and white. There’s no doubt the threat is real. Today, the answers spell out my murder.
May Third. Amanda. Silver Birch. Noontime. Assassination.

Is Nathan, my estranged crossword-setter husband, really planning to kill me? Or is it someone closer to home?

I check the door is bolted, slither to the ground, and count down the seconds to noon. There’s nothing left to do, and no one I can call. Who’d believe me anyway? The lady on the ground floor has already left the building, and my new boyfriend is on holiday. Or is he?

A tread of footsteps. A rap at the door, and I close my eyes, hold my breath...

A smart and unsettling psychological thriller, perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, Shari Lapena and Claire Douglas
'A fast paced, edge of the seat thriller that's extremely well executed. I was gripped from the very first page!' L H Stacey

'A beautifully written thriller where even the clues are out to get you!' Gemma Rogers

'Wilkinson delivers with this gripping and original thriller' Keri Beevis

'...this didn't disappoint. Clues upon clues upon clues kept me glued to the story. What a very clever book … not a read for the faint-hearted!' Valerie Keogh

'With a unique plot and superb writing, Ms Wilkinson has nailed this one! I'd give it 10 stars if I could.' J A Baker

See what real readers are saying about Diana’s books:

‘I read this book in less than 24 hours - I was gripped! ’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘Characterisation at its finest… A massive five stars from me.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘Kept me guessing to the end... A great read, full of mystery and suspense.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘A brilliant read, with plenty of teasers to keep you guessing & turning the pages. I would recommend… pure, unadulterated escapism.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘…excellent from start to finish and a good ending. A real thriller.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘Wow!! ... kept me guessing every page, thoroughly enjoyed every chapter. Great read, well written and did everything it promised!! ’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘A really gripping edge of the seat thriller that you will not want to put down… I highly recommend this.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘OMG couldn’t put it down… I spent a sleepless night reading this book because I needed to know who the murderer was… Brilliant absolutely recommend.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘a thriller truly like no other, Wilkinson’s daring style and flare … are on show again. A superb read! ’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘I couldn't put this book down once I started! A must read for anybody who loves a good thriller! ’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘I was reeled in straight away! … Very clever misdirection and extremely well executed. Highly recommended.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘Absolutely brilliant! Gripped from page one.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘I loved this book… had me gripped from the very beginning… AMAZING…’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

‘Absolutely gripping!! I had to read it within 24 hours!! ... a lot of shocking character developments. Great book.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reader review

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Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	16 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781837510030
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0900€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

ONE DOWN

DIANA WILKINSON
To Neil, my crossword buddy in crime
CONTENTS

Prologue

Sunday, May the Third

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Three Years Previously

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Three Months Before May the Third

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

May the Third

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

One Year Later

Chapter 104

Acknowledgments

More from Diana Wilkinson

About the Author

About Boldwood Books

The Murder List
PROLOGUE

It’s been a long time coming, but May third is finally here.
I lean against the fence. Count down from ten. I whisper in a soothing rhythm. Ten, nine, eight, seven… It’ll take me ten seconds to reach the front. That’s how long it takes.
I look down. The pitted driveway, its yawning chasms of neglect, tells me off. Slovenly reproof of my disinterest. A rampaging weed, thick, lush with sharply pointed talons, taunts with a strangulated grip as it waves at me through a crack. I yank it out, fling it aside but not before a prickly coating sears my skin and leaves an angry rash across my hand. My eyes squeeze against the pleasant pain.
I pick my way across the rotting asphalt. Silver Birch, a once majestic home, towers above me. Its carcass has been greedily devoured, deboned by filthy maggots. Beneath the darkened porch, I catch my breath, then nudge the door ajar, flinching as it creaks a rusty welcome.
A vein pulses in my neck. I exhale heavily, the sound like the hiss of air from a deflating tyre, and step inside. A slather of sweat coats my neck, my forehead, and I wipe a palm across my brow before I start a slow ascent.
The stairs creak, they’re familiar, the fourth and sixth risers groaning in irritation despite my attempts at stealth. My damp fingers slide along the wooden rail as I creep upwards. I pause halfway, as my insides rumble with increasing wrath. Volcanic fury builds as mad compulsions knock back the measured rationale.
A few more steps and I’m on the landing, the holding cell between Flats B and C. The airless space suffocates my thoughts, and my body tenses as I turn the key. The unoiled hinges groan.
Inside the flat, the solemn silence of the stairwell fades, replaced by scuffle noises, agitated movement, puffs of rasping breath. I follow the sounds with gentle tread, and through a crack in the bedroom door, take in the scene. All as I hoped.
It’s hard not to smile.

* * *
Blood spatters appear as aftershocks, and dot my skin and clothes like measles. I fall backwards as her eyes spring open on hearing the crack.
I gulp, swallow down the nausea, and put a hand across my mouth. My tongue has a bitter tang, a metallic taste. But I keep my eyes locked on hers. I think she’s trying to speak. I lean closer.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Hmm.’ She giggles, in conspiratorial mirth, and replies, ‘What’s the noise?’
She doesn’t scream, although I wonder why. The crack was like a crash of thunder. I’d expect a reflex yelp at least. But she slips away into unconsciousness, and thanks me with her glassy eyes. It’s gratitude enough.
Claret-coloured plasma seeps like soft-boiled yolk across the bedding, an Ebola flow of death. It’s quite startling.
I freeze when I hear a phone but puff out my lips, release the air, when I remember it’s the timer on my mobile. Ten minutes is up. I need to move, get out before the cavalry arrives. I spin, check behind me. Boo. I jump. But there’s no one there.
I check out the scene, the final curtain. It was a convincing script if I say so myself, and the players have more than lived up to expectations. But I’ve one more thing to do, before I tidy up, clean my hands, and wash my face. I glance down at my black top, smug at the forward planning, its darkness mingling with the bloodied scarlet hues.
I gently unfold her fragile fingers, rigid to the touch, and thread the implement inside them. It’ll be enough. Shakespeare at his best.
I move away, and by the door unlace my trainers, peel off my socks, and slip them in a bag. My feet are cold, numb like climbers’ feet. But the pallid whiteness is clean. Pure. No trace of guilt.
I skip lightly back down the stairs. In the hall I prick my ears, picking up a restless spirit. I hear ghosts laughing through the flimsy walls, their skeletal fingers beckoning. It takes a second to realise the gentle hum is mine.
Outside, I pull out my phone, check the time, look heavenwards. Thank God it’s all over.
My bare feet weave left and right, back the way I came, playing dodge with the thorny weeds that laugh through the fissures. They’ll not catch me out again.
Up against the fence, I take out my socks and shoes and prepare to drive away.
Once out on Brewer’s Hill, I don’t look back.
SUNDAY, MAY THE THIRD
1
AMANDA

A metal bundle of twigs for a tree (6,5)
I’m fast, flipping across the cryptic crossword puzzle grid, my terror ratcheting up with each conundrum. The clues could be random, a sneaky theme weaved through the teasers like fine thread in tapestry, delicate, subtly telling a mystifying tale. Perhaps it’s some smart-arse cruciverbalist, a crossword-puzzle setter, new on board with worth to prove. Someone I’ve never met. But I know that’s not true.
Sweat globules bobble round my neck, pale beads of panic. They tell me otherwise. Who am I trying to kid? I’m the target of an online stalker, a word-troll maniac, who’s been methodically toying with my sanity for six months now, give or take.
My bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as I get up and circle the lounge. By the window, my gaze dips from the London skyline with its smoky early-morning outline to the dense communal undergrowth below. A rampaging weed-infested wilderness is steadily advancing, a determined army, towards the fortifications of Flat A, soon to cover the walls like a serial killer’s lair, the rendered surfaces invisible to the naked eye.
My arms circle my upper body, a futile hug of comfort, until a shiver pulls me round and I slump back into the chair, biro poised and chattering against my teeth.
Paranoia grips with every new clue. The Christmas Day Giant Crossword Puzzle is full of seasonally themed clues and answers: mince pies , crackers , plum pudding , Noel , stuffing and cranberry jelly … words evoking festive magic with simplistic formula, but for one day only.
Perhaps today the subject is death.

* * *
Each morning as I sip my coffee, from the lofty heights of Flat C, Silver Birch, I wait for my neighbour to wake up. Get ready for work. On autopilot, I listen for movement beneath the floorboards, of Flat B coming to life. But today there is no welcoming death rattle from the pipes. The daily violence that shakes the building like the precursor to a seismic earthquake, and heralds my neighbour’s shower time, is eerily missing.
Agaves is my neighbour. His real name is Edward Heath, Teddy to his friends, but mine and Nathan’s nickname for the guy in Flat B will forever stick. Nathan, my estranged husband, came up with a whole host of belittling nicknames for our handsome neighbour, who is now my lover, but my choice of sobriquet finally won the day.
Today the silence screams, a loud reminder of my absent lover who has gone away for the weekend. I miss the juddering crescendo of metal which then crashes to a halt as the power shower springs into action and spikes the frustrated fantasies which grip my thoughts daily. I imagine Agaves’ tanned and rippling biceps as I listen to the cascading deluge. But today the comforting sounds of life are absent, replaced by the morgue-like atmosphere and a biting fear.
I peek at the crossword puzzle through slit eyes and carry on, my morning sourdough breath gaining strength as my gut gurgles and churns. On my scribble pad, I scrawl, checking, reading through my thoughts as I study the clues, the tiny equations of perfection.
‘Keep a pad close, don’t deface the newspaper. That’s sacrilege.’ Nathan’s voice would join me in our speed of calculation. Solving the daily puzzle became a gladiatorial battle between us, fought to the bitter end. But now I face the clues alone.
So far today, each clue is linked to death and menace. And to me.
The bare walls echo my laugh, a nervy noise of disbelief as the sound, tinged with mania, bounces back at me.
‘Alcohol does that, Manda. It feeds paranoia.’ Nathan would admonish me with holy certainty that my psychosis was down to drink.
The clues have Nathan’s stamp all over them. Dark humour laced with payback. I stare at the words, swivelling the pad