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Lion Hudson - L. Russell S.

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142 pages

English

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'Readers are sure to find themselves captivated by the strength and determination of Anna Milburn in The Thorn of Truth.' - Lauren Brandenburg, award-winning author of The Death of Mungo Blackwell and The Marriage of Innis Wilkinson'An endearing tale of how life does not always go according to plan. S.L. Russell reminds us why it is always important to do the right thing, despite the risk and the cost...' - Les Cowan, author of the David Hidalgo mystery seriesIt was the worst bind, and I felt panic rising up inside me, threatening to steal my breath.Anna Milburn has been a working barrister for twenty years. But when a local drug lord is implicated in the murder of a young policeman, the case shakes her very foundations and threatens what she holds most dear her only child.A thought-provoking and compassionate story that builds from a murder case, yet at its heart centres around the consequences of decisions made in trying times.

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Political

Politics

Thriller

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Publié par	Lion Hudson
Date de parution	21 mai 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781782643562
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

S.L. Russell weaves a legal narrative of suspicion and suspense, successfully pulling the reader into the plight of a single mother fighting to hold on to faith, family, and the pursuit of truth .
Russell writes with such realistic dialogue, readers are sure to find themselves captivated by the strength and determination of Anna Milburn in The Thorn of Truth.
Lauren Brandenburg, award-winning author of The Death of Mungo Blackwell and The Marriage of Innis Wilkinson
The Thorn of Truth is an endearing tale of how life does not always go according to plan. Marriage, career, child-rearing, faith, relationships - sometimes even doing your best may not be good enough .
But in the midst of all of that, S.L. Russell reminds us why it is always important to do the right thing, despite the risk and the cost leading to a dramatic conclusion.
Les Cowan, author of the David Hidalgo mystery series
S.L. Russell masters the contemporary Christian novel in this beautifully compelling story of the consequences of treading the thin line between heart and conscience.
C.F. Dunn, author of Mortal Fire

Text copyright 2021 S. L. Russell
This edition copyright 2021 Lion Hudson IP Limited
The right of S. L. Russell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Lion Hudson Limited
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Business Park
Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com
ISBN 978 1 78264 336 4
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 356 2
First edition 2021
Cover images: Highwaystarz-Photography / iStockphoto.com
Acknowledgments
Scriptures are from the Good News Translation (Today s English Version, Second Edition). Copyright 1992 American Bible Society. All rights reserved.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people have contributed to the making of this story that I am afraid of accidentally leaving someone out. So I will simply reiterate my warm appreciation of all the help I have been given: from family and friends, readers and reviewers, and the team at Lion. I am truly thankful to you all for your support, perspicacity, and patience. One person, however, I must single out: James Rae, Barrister, for his professional knowledge and expertise, and his gracious willingness to share it and put me right when I was wildly off track .
ONE
L eaman.
The name pierced my unshielded memory, unbidden, unwelcome, a teeth-gritting intrusion from a past that wasn t far enough away. It must have been the river - rolling grey, cold, merciless a few metres below me - that sparked the connection to my poor nephew, and then, inexorably swift, to the man who bore the name. Why had I even come to the riverbank that morning? I couldn t say. With an effort I banished the hated image from my mind, called up the dog, and plodded on.
Gordon is eleven years old and should probably know better; but perhaps hope is hard to quench in the innocent heart. My experience of the male sex is not vast, but I am sometimes drawn to the notion that they are - with the probable exception of my ex-husband - more romantic than females. That was certainly the case with my daughter s dog that damp, dreary, early March morning. Gordon is rotund, black, brown, and white in inelegant random patches, odd-eared, short-legged, and sometimes short of breath as well. So he is not exactly a catch, but of course he doesn t know that. All he saw that morning was the dazzling beauty of the graceful female collie that appeared to his popping eyes on a muddy riverbank. He hadn t been too keen to leave his basket when I suggested a walk, but I m sure in that moment he considered it worth it.
While he and his new friend were sniffing each other, her feathery tail lazily wagging, his stump revolving like a demented windmill, my eyes were drawn to a woman sitting, head bowed, on a nearby bench. She was dressed in running gear: black leggings and long-sleeved top, serious-looking trainers. I couldn t see her face; she had her hands supporting her forehead. I sensed that there was something wrong and approached cautiously.
Hello, um, are you all right? I asked.
She raised her head and looked at me, and I was struck immediately by her eyes: pale blue and piercing. I may actually have taken a step back.
Then she smiled slightly. Thank you, it s nothing serious. Her voice was husky.
I took in the shadows round those strange eyes and the extreme pallor of her face. Are you sure? You don t look well.
I am OK. But thank you. Seeing my doubt, her smile broadened. I m pregnant, that s all. A drop in blood pressure, I imagine. Ran too hard and fast.
Oh.
Then her eyes narrowed and a small frown appeared between her dark brows. Don t I know you from somewhere? You look different. But I think we ve met.
I looked at her more closely and saw the almost-invisible long silver scar that ran from the corner of her right eyebrow across her cheek, stopping just above her lip where there was a tiny nick. Yes, I said slowly, memory battling to summon up the time and place. Yes, you have seen me in court. Wigged and gowned.
Her eyes widened. I m sure you were taller. She winced. Sorry, I don t know why I said that.
Now it was I who smiled. I always wear high heels in court. As you see, I m not favoured with height. It can be difficult in my profession to evoke respect when you are female, short, and blonde.
Of course. You were the defence barrister at Eve Rawlins trial.
I was. But I didn t have too much to do. I shrugged. She refused to let me use any advocacy to shorten her sentence. So it was just a matter of reading out a document we prepared together beforehand.
Suddenly she got up from the bench. She was taller than me by several inches, slim, and lithe. I saw that some colour had come back to her face. She stuck out her hand. Rachel Wells. I was Rachel Keyte then. She nodded towards the collie. And this is Dulcie.
I took the proffered hand. Anna Milburn - and my love-struck mongrel, Gordon. At the mention of his name his stump wagged even more frantically.
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction. Not Anna Milburn, QC?
No. I can t afford it.
She frowned. What? So being a Queen s Counsel isn t something conferred?
I laughed. Like a reward? No, one has to apply. And all the parties and receptions one feels bound to throw cost money. Not to mention that once you take silk, especially in a provincial setting, you are likely to get fewer instructions because you are more expensive. And I need to work. Bills to pay, and all that.
She nodded, obviously pondering what I had said. I remember the trial. You called me as a witness.
I was bound to. But it was pretty much a formality. She d pleaded guilty. It was a serious crime, even though we managed to establish she hadn t actually meant to kill you. And obviously it was traumatic for you. Still, she could have got a shorter sentence, if she d let me do what I wanted to do.
That sounds like her, Rachel murmured, almost to herself. She looked at me directly, and again I felt the impact of her eyes. But I think the jury took pity on her anyway, didn t they? I suppose they would, losing her only child like that.
Probably. You seem to remember it all clearly. Struck by the seeming thoughtlessness of my words, I continued. Forgive me, of course you remember. I imagine it d be hard to forget.
She smiled. Whereas for you it s vanished in a fog of many other cases, I imagine.
There ve been a few, I conceded. And it was more than three years ago, I think. But it s not every day I am involved in such a high-profile case. Most of the time now I am battling with custody issues, employment tribunals, nuts-and-bolts stuff. Not many eminent surgeons attacked by a grief-maddened parent! Not too many bloody crimes at all, come to that.
Rachel laughed. Let s hope that s not prophetic! She glanced towards the dogs, now chasing each other round the bench. I d better get this hound home. She looked at her watch. I ve got to repair someone s aorta this afternoon. Come on, Dulcie. Good to have met you, Anna.
Yes. You too, I said, and watched her as she jogged slowly away, the collie at her heels. Gordon started to follow, but I called him off. He looked positively woebegone. I reached down and stroked his head. Never mind, old chap. I think she was probably out of your reach anyway, a classy lady like that. His sigh was heart-rending.
Gordon seemed weary and disinclined for further exercise, and with the damp air beginning to chill my bones as well, I clipped on his lead and made my way back to where I had parked the car. This was not a part of the river I would normally frequent, since I lived towards the other side of the city, but today I had no court to worry about and had decided to stay at home and catch up on some paperwork. My daughter, normally tasked with walking the dog, had needed to get to school early for some reason, so I d volunteered for walk duty.
As Gordon trudged, disconsolately it seemed, beside me, I thought about that chance meeting and wondered about Rachel Wells. The fact of her pregnancy and her change of name suggested she had married in the time since the trial. I conjured with the name Wells and was rewarded with the image of a tall, quietly spoken man with dark, greying hair and a sombre manner. I couldn t recall what questions had been put to him by the prosecution or myself, but his face I remembered, and his profession. So, injured Rachel had married the plastic surgeon who d put her back together?