An Excerpt from Weirdo by Cathi Unsworth

Weirdo by Cathi Unsworth

We are delighted to welcome author Cathi Unsworth to Omnimystery News today.

Cathi's latest novel is Weirdo, an atmospheric thriller about a teenage girl convicted of murder in a 1980s seaside town and the private investigator who reopens the case to discover that she may not have acted alone.

We are pleased to introduce you to the book with an excerpt from it, the first chapter.

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March 2003

THEY HAD HIDDEN HER FAR FROM THE rest of the world, deep within a forest. Nearly twenty years she'd been there now, still not long enough to stop the murmurs of hate, nor keep them from turning into a clamour each time her name was recalled. Whenever another case hit the headlines of teenagers killing each other.
  Wicked Witch of the East, the tabloids called her. Killer Corrine, High Priestess of a Satanic cult that had gripped the teenage population of a Norfolk seaside town in the summer of 1984, bringing death in its claws. Social transgressor, female aggressor. Bloody weirdo, the locals said. They'd always known Corrine Woodrow was a wrong 'un. Never any doubt in their minds about her guilt and the need for her punishment to be both severe and eternal.
  Keep her away.
  Sean Ward had read all the files and all the news reports he could lay his hands on from the bloody summer of 1984. Had a teenage face in his mind, a girl with spiked and shaved black hair, thick lines of kohl around what were routinely described as 'the eyes of evil'. The picture of her at her arrest, rather than the smoothed-down, smartened-up teenager that had finally arrived at court, was the one they went on repeating. Usually next to the shot of a bleached-blonde Myra Hindley.
   The forest was dense with pine, branches swaying under the force of the wind and slanting rain. The only other traffic Sean had seen on this B-road through the Cambridgeshire countryside was an ancient Massey Ferguson tractor, driven by a hunched figure in a woolen cap, that had lurched past at the last crossroads and disappeared down a cart track. Sean couldn't help thinking that he had taken a detour from the real world somewhere between here and the M11, got lost in a folk tale instead – travelling through the wild wood to the fortress where they kept the Witch bricked up …
  … The real reason he had taken the case was becoming clearer to Sean with every mile he drove: after long months of inactivity, his brain was crawling. He needed a case, needed a purpose. He could do with a new identity himself — if this really was a folk tale, he would be the white knight on his charger — but he had never been comfortable with the ‘hero cop' handle the press had bestowed on him while reporting his misfortune. Welcomed instead the anonymity of criminal archaeology.
  Sean had been eleven years old when Corrine had committed her crime. He had no memory of it happening. Nor had he ever been to this part of the world before. After his stop here, he was headed further east, to the coastal resort of Ernemouth in Norfolk, where it had all begun, to meet with the man who had headed the original case, the now retired Detective Chief Inspector Leonard Rivett. But first, he wanted to meet Corrine. Wanted to look into her eyes and see what they revealed.
  On the passenger seat beside him, the map showed that beyond the next bend would be the entrance to the perimeter fence of the high-security facility. It was a Victorian institution, as so many of them still were, forbidding brick pillars and arched iron gates guarding a grim stately home for the criminally insane.
  The sentry waved him through with a bored expression and Sean found himself on a pale grey ribbon of road that stretched on through a clearing of heathland, the heather and gorse bushes dripping with rain. He saw no signs of life; not even the murder of crows you might expect to find circling such a desolate location. When the secure unit finally came into view, he understood why.
  It really did look like a fortress with its turrets and towers, its slits of windows reflecting nothing but the iron hue of the sky. Sean felt a shudder of revulsion so deep that it was all he could do not to put on the brakes, swing round and head right back. Hospital had been bad enough, but this …
  How long would it take in a place like this before you became infected too?
  Taking a deep breath, he swallowed his fear and drove on.

This excerpt is taken from Weirdo, copyright © 2013 by Cathi Unsworth.
Reproduced with permission from House of Anansi Press, Toronto.

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Photo provided courtesy of
Cathi Unsworth
Photo credit Allison McGourty

Cathi Unsworth began a career in journalism at nineteen on the music weekly Sounds, and has since worked on for many music, arts, film and alternative lifestyle journals. She is the author of three other novels and the editor of the crime compendium London Noir, all published by Serpent's Tail. She lives in London.

For more information about the author, please visit her website at CathiUnsworth.co.uk or find her on Facebook.

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Weirdo
Cathi Unsworth
A Crime Thriller

Corinne Woodrow was fifteen when she was convicted of the ritualistic murder of her classmate in a quaint seaside town. It was 1984, a year when teenagers ran wild, dressed in black, stayed out all night, and listened to music that terrified their parents. Rumours of Satanism surrounded Corinne and she was locked up indefinitely, a chilling reminder to the parents of Ernemouth to keep a watchful eye on their children.

Twenty years later, private investigator Sean Ward — whose promising career as a detective with the Metropolitan Police was cut short by a teenager with a gun — reopens the case after new forensic evidence suggests that Corinne didn't act alone. His investigation uncovers a town full of secrets, and a community that has always looked after its own.

        

A Sneak Preview of The Shiro Project by David Khara

The Shiro Project
by David Khara

We are delighted to welcome back novelist David Khara to Omnimystery News.

David visited with us last month to tell us about his new "Consortium Thriller" The Shiro Project (Le French Book; August 2014 ebook and mid-November 2014 trade paperback) and today we're pleased to provide you with a sneak preview of it.

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Prologue

Men lie.
Women lie.
Guns always tell the truth.
More or less …


Chapter 1

US Army Base Fort Detrick, Maryland, 1957

THE LOUDSPEAKERS WERE PAST THEIR prime and certainly never intended for blasting rock 'n' roll. They gave off some static, but Elvis Presley's seductive voice filled the entire laboratory and most likely all seven floors of the building. The use of military equipment for these purposes wouldn't have been tolerated during regular hours. But late at night, when higher-ups and other old fogeys from the med school weren't around, such diversions were standard practice — especially since Dr. Philip Neville had joined the staff. The talented English chemist loved the fifties rhythms, which just begged for hip shaking and pelvis thrusting. And he never missed a chance to show off his dance moves.
  At any rate, "Jailhouse Rock" enlivened the monotonous atmosphere of the research center and didn't really bother the few people present at this late hour.
  Professor Jane Woodridge tolerated the rule-bending, as long as it didn't interfere with their work. The biochemist even succumbed to the music on occasion, tapping her foot to the beat when no one was looking. Away from the watchful eyes of colleagues, she could slough off some of the professional veneer and relax a bit.
  For the moment, she was allowing herself to be amused by Neville, who was rocking to Elvis while leafing through the reports on experiments conducted by that day's team.
  "What we're dealing with here is serious enough," she said to herself. "We shouldn't let it get the better of us."
  Neville seemed to read her mind. He picked up a jar of pencils — his improvised microphone — held it to his mouth, and began belting out the lyrics.
  The magic moment was over. The Elvis impersonation had gone far enough. Sure, Neville had the moves, but his resemblance to the King stopped there.
  Jane glared at her colleague. Under the heat of her stare, Neville lowered his voice and then settled for mouthing the words without making any noise at all.
  "Phil, could you please bring me the registration receipt for the new pathogens?"
  Neville skipped toward the tall metal filing cabinets, opened a drawer, and set about searching through the suspended folders.
  "Sorry, I can't find it. It must be in the general's office."
  Jane got up with a heavy sigh. She walked over to Neville and gave the contents of the drawer a weary look. She pulled out a manila folder and waved it under his nose with a condescending smile.
  "If you're more interested in dancing than scientific research, send your résumé to Hollywood," she said, returning to her desk. "Who knows, maybe some producer out there is looking for the next Donald O'Connor."
  The music ended.
  "I'll think about it," her colleague replied as he dropped into his chair. "Life is short, and I don't see myself rotting away here. How can you stand working in this stronghold four nights a week, especially with a kid at home?"
  "That's none of your business," Jane responded. The familiarity offended her. "I love my son, if you must know. I do the best I can to balance my career and family life. Luckily, my husband is remarkable, extraordinary even."
  "He must be, seeing that he puts up with sleeping alone half the week."
  "You're being rude, and I don't appreciate it. Like it or not, I care deeply about my job."
  Neville raised an eyebrow. "Ah yes, we're working for the glory of Uncle Sam. Concocting antidotes for our soldiers and citizens in the event of biological warfare — quite a noble task."
  "Do I sense a hint of sarcasm?"
  "That's not my style. Hey, if the Soviets are capable of using that kind of weapon, what makes you think we wouldn't do the same?"
  "Democracy, communism. The differences seem obvious to me," Jane answered, her lips pursed.
  "Of course, the nation of liberty and justice for all would never dirty its hands with methods so vile and contradictory to the Geneva Protocol, which we haven't ratified, may I remind you."
  The young man leaned back in his chair, visibly satisfied with the correctness of his viewpoint. But Jane refused to let him have the upper hand.
  "What are you trying to tell me? That we're not developing treatments, but weapons? That's absurd! Leave the politics to the professionals, and concentrate on your dancing or, better yet, on your work."
  "Tell me, Jane, don't you wonder why access to certain sections of the two lower levels are off-limits to us?"
  The woman gave herself a few seconds to reflect, adjusting the bun at the nape of her neck. She reinserted two pins in her blond hair and then spoke solemnly.
  "We're studying the reactions of test subjects injected with agents and creating the proper countermeasures. I don't see how access to storage units with viral strains concerns us."
  "The company line, as usual. I'm convinced there's a hidden agenda."
  "Then go complain to the authorities. I'm not stopping you. While you're concocting your dark theories, I'll be in the lab," she said as she glanced at the clock on the wall. "Time for the daily log. The office is all yours."
  "Say hi to the guinea pigs for me."
  Jane left the room and headed toward the elevators. She waved to the two military police officers patrolling the hallway. They always looked so creepy, more the punch-in-your-face sort than the type inclined to give a respectful salute. The elevator doors slid open, and she scurried inside.
  Neville's skeptical nature was borderline eccentric. But he was right about life being too short. And working at the US Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases had been weighing on her since her son Sean's birth. Her husband supported her career and did his part at home. She felt privileged. Most other women were stuck being housewives, not because they had chosen the life, but because it was expected, and there were few alternatives. Jane hoped that she could serve as a role model for other women who yearned for more independence and opportunity. But she missed her son, and she could not wait for the workweek to end so that she could go home and enjoy those three days with her boy and her man.
  As the elevator sank into the depths of the building, she pondered what to do about Neville. If he continued to carelessly speculate about their work, she would have to notify her superiors, because the base wasn't just conducting research; it was involved in the production of biological weapons. For now, Neville's security clearance denied him access to such sensitive information. In light of his comments, she would recommend that he be denied that access permanently and be put under heightened surveillance.
  The elevator finally stopped, and the doors opened onto a long room whose walls were lined with cages. A musky smell saturated the air, and shrill screams rose from the pens, where monkeys were jumping wildly against the sides of their cages. Practically every night, she would come down to the lower levels to look for any curling up in the throes of death.
  The shrieking from the cages intensified as she walked toward them.
  "Don't worry, my sweethearts. I'm not coming for you this time, but for your friend," she said as she continued past the cages.
  At the end of the room, there was a reinforced metal door equipped with a large handle. Jane opened a small hatch in the wall to reveal a lock. She inserted the key that she jealously guarded in her pocket.
  With a loud mechanical click, the door opened. Behind it was a large room with sad green walls. Those with creative imaginations might have seen some esoteric meaning in the asymmetrical pattern on the floor. Jane, however, saw sturdy institutional tiles, which were practical for supporting the carts that held the instruments she used in her experiments. Two of those carts were waiting beside a small bed.
  A man in his twenties — the reason for her visit tonight — lay there, covered in a blue sheet. He moaned faintly. The sedatives were wearing off. From the pocket of her lab coat, Jane pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. She examined the patient's face.
  Pus trickled from blisters around his discolored lips. Along the sides of his inflamed nostrils were clusters of ready-to-burst boils. The exposed part of his chest was similarly disfigured.
  Jane was pleased to note the normal progression of symptoms and scribbled her observations in her notebook.
  "Hang in there a little longer," she said. "Two or three days from now, we'll initiate treatment."
  The only response was an agonized groan.
  After injecting the young man with more sedative, Jane headed back. She had what she needed. She wished her monkey sweethearts a pleasant night and found her way to the exit. Just two more hours with Professor Neville, and then her shift would be over.
  Jane stepped into the elevator, eager to wrap things up. But when she arrived at her floor, the doors refused to budge. Jane cursed the incompetence of the maintenance crew. Breakdowns occurred often, too often for her liking. She was about to pick up the elevator's black telephone to tell off the orderly, when the base loudspeakers started blasting an ear-splitting siren.
  Jane pressed her hands over her ears to muffle the excruciating noise. Then the wailing stopped. It was replaced by a man's voice, which Jane identified as that of the duty officer.
  "Attention, all personnel. Due to a security breach in sector four, we ask that you calmly make your way toward the emergency exits."
  Jane's eyes widened with surprise. She felt her heartbeat speed up and her scalp tingle with sweat. "This is no time to panic," she said to herself. "Think fast."
  She took a deep breath and held it. The elevator doors finally opened. Jane frantically pushed the button for one floor up, where her designated exit was located. The elevator didn't move.
  Then she saw the guards sprawled on the floor. Their dogs were lying all around them, vomiting and shaking. The virus was already spreading throughout the facility. The alert had been broadcast too late. There was not a moment to lose.
  "You breathe, you die," she told herself as she rushed toward an open door on her right. She entered the stairwell and heaved herself up the steps two at a time. An object was falling toward her. A jar of pencils. She stepped over Phil Neville, who lay dying on the steps. He stretched out a hand in her directions but was unable to grab her ankle. Jane thought of her husband, her son, her flaming lungs and repeated over and over, "You breathe, you die."
  She found the corridor. A little more effort and she'd be out of this hellhole. Jane grabbed the metal door handle and pushed. It didn't open. She thrust with both hands, using all the strength she had. Nothing happened. She couldn't hold out for more than a few seconds. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she pounded and kicked.
  Those bastards had locked the exits shut! As soon as the sector had lost its airtight seal, the virus had been released. Now, the brick-and-steel building was one big tomb.
  Jane Woodridge leaned against the door and slid to the floor. She closed her eyes, visualized Sean's sweet chubby face and filled her lungs a final time.


Chapter 2

The outskirts of Pardubice, Czech Republic, 2011

THE RADIO WAS PLAYING A REMAKE OF A FOUR SEASONS TUNE FROM the sixties, "Beggin'." It was a pretty decent version by Madcon, a Norwegian hip-hop duo. Branislav Poborsky pounded along on his car's steering wheel as he sang the English words — at least the ones he recognized. The catchy beat gave him a shot of much-needed energy.
  He was heading into familiar territory as he drove along the narrow road that snaked through the forest — so lush and dense at this time of year. Each mile racked up on the dash took him that much farther away from Prague. This was all he needed to feel relieved. There was nothing better than a week of vacation with his parents in Pardubice.
  True to form, his mother would pamper him with homemade goodies.
  "With your demanding job, plus all the stress of living in a big city, I'm sure you're not eating properly," she had said to him time and again. "You're so pale and stick thin. To think you had such chubby red cheeks, like apples, when you were little."
  Just for fun, he would argue a bit, but he didn't want to get into a full-fledged fight. He would never change her set-in-stone Polish opinions.
  His dad, in turn, would subject him to an all-out interrogation. He would want to know everything about his pride and joy's career. It was the workaholic's way of staying connected to the demanding world he had left three years earlier. As production director at the Paramo factory, Branislav's father had provided his family with a more than comfortable lifestyle in communist Czechoslovakia. The Velvet Revolution hadn't hurt their finances at all — just the opposite. With democracy came unbridled economic liberalism, and foreign investors rushed to a new market that offered excellent growth prospects. Vladek Poborsky had left Paramo and become a consultant for big companies that wanted to locate in the Pardubice region. It was a profitable career change. Vladek was able to buy a luxurious home for his family on the shores of Sec Dam, and because his new line of work was much more leisurely than his old one, he could relax and call himself semiretired.
  Branislav couldn't dream of a better place to forget his distress. His marriage was foundering, and divorce seemed inevitable. Maybe he should have spent less time at his job and more time with his wife, who was herself caught up in a career as a television makeup artist. But in the end, what did it matter? It was obviously too late to dwell on what had gone wrong. He needed to focus on the future. Thank God they didn't have any kids. That would have made the legal proceedings and emotional recovery a whole lot messier.
  Branislav glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. His thick chestnut-brown hair complemented his gray-brown eyes. At the moment, however, he looked much older than his thirty years. His eyelids were drooping, and the five-o'clock shadow on his pasty-white cheeks was growing darker by the mile. He sighed.
  Just as Branislav was fixing his eyes on the road again, something flashed in the mirror. A headlight was looming up from behind. A motorcycle. It came within inches of his bumper before swerving over to pass. Mr. Hot Wheels slowed down a bit and then shot off without any concern for safety.
  "Jackass. You think you're invincible?" Branislav shouted, shaking his head. "Could've killed us both. Motocross season hasn't even started yet, dickhead."
  Branislav glanced at his GPS. Another twenty minutes, and he would be at the family manse. In half an hour, he would be enjoying a nice glass of wine, lounging in a comfortable deck chair, and admiring the rippling reflection of the trees on the crystal-clear surface of the lake.
  A jarring noise from above shook him out of his daydream. He leaned against the steering wheel and stared at the sky through the windshield. Two low-flying helicopters. They were large carriers displaying the Czech Republic colors: white, red, and blue. A smaller aircraft was close behind. It bore the NATO insignia.
  Branislav's journalist instincts kicked in. Something was going on. He had been so intent on getting to his haven, he hadn't reacted to his car being the only one on the road. Sure, he wasn't driving on a major highway, but to be so completely isolated — with the exception of that crazy motorcyclist — for such a long distance? And what about that biker? Where was he racing off to? Where were those helicopters going? Branislav slowed down and parked on the side of the road. He got out of the car, lit a cigarette, and took out his cell phone. He entered his parents' number.
  The phone rang three times. Then an automated voice responded, "Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again." This time he tried calling the newsroom. Again, three rings and the same recorded message. He tried a bunch of other numbers, all yielding the same result.

Excerpted from The Shiro Project by David Khara.
First published in French as Le Projet Shiro, © 2011 Editions Critic.
English translation © 2014 Sophie Weiner.

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Photo provided courtesy of
David Khara

David Khara studied law, worked as a reporter for Agence France Press, was a top-level athlete, and ran his own business for a number of years. Now he is a full-time writer. Khara wrote his first novel — a vampire thriller — in 2010, before starting his Consortium series.

Learn more about the author and his work on the Le French Book website.

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The Shiro Project
David Khara
A Consortium Thriller

Reporter Branislav Poborsky is running away from a bad marriage, when he witnesses the Czech army covering up the extermination of an entire village. Saved in extremis by the gentle-giant Mossad agent Eytan Morgenstern, he is thrown into a troubling race to defuse a larger-than-life conspiracy. After Eytan's mentor is kidnapped, he must join forces with his arch-rival to put an end to a mysterious group that has weapons of mass destruction.

Once again, the atrocities of World War II come back to haunt the modern world. What links exist between Japanese camps in China in the 1940s, a US Army research center in the 1950s, and the deadly threat Eytan faces today? From Prague to Tokyo, with stops in Ireland, yesterday's enemies become today's best allies and mankind seems on the verge of repeating the errors of the past. What can a lone man do against the madness that is bound to follow?

    

Today Only! Save Up To $130 on a Kindle Fire HDX 8.9" Tablet!

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This deal is for today only and while supplies last, so if you've been interested in a large-format Kindle Fire HDX 8.9" Wi-Fi tablet, now is the time to pick one up at up to $130 off!

Pieces of Ivy by Dean Covin is Today's Fifth Featured Free MystereBook

Omnimystery News is pleased to feature …

Pieces of Ivy by Dean Covin

A Paranormal Thriller

Publisher: Carson Cove Publishing

… as today's fifth free mystery ebook.

  

This title was listed for free as of August 05, 2014 at 7:40 AM ET. Prices are subject to change without notice. The price displayed on the vendor website at the time of the purchase will be the price paid for the book. Please confirm the price of the book before completing your transaction.

For a summary of all of today's featured titles, plus any that may have appeared before and are repeat freebies, visit our Free MystereBooks page. This page is updated daily, typically by 8 AM ET.

More on today's free book, below.

A horrific murder. A town with secrets. A forest with far worse. And nowhere to run.

After breaking free from her powerful father and a paralyzing childhood terror, Vicki Starr makes a hard-fought name for herself at the bureau. Only to step away from the most sensational serial-killer case of her career when a stolen glance at an incoming file unravels everything. The brutal slaying of a small-town schoolteacher draws Vicki in, coerces her to partner with the disgraced Special Agent Hank Dashel and traps her in an inescapable paranormal snare — ever more immersed in the young victim's grisly fate as forces outside and inside New Brighton, California, threaten to destroy Vicki and the world she thought she knew.

Are some truths simply too hard to bear? Are some fates so terrible that death can't come soon enough?

— Pieces of Ivy by Dean Covin

Something in the Blood by Jean G. Goodhind is Today's Fourth Featured Free MystereBook

Omnimystery News is pleased to feature …

Something in the Blood by Jean G. Goodhind

A Honey Driver Mystery

Publisher: Accent Press

… as today's fourth free mystery ebook.

  

This title was listed for free as of August 05, 2014 at 7:30 AM ET. Prices are subject to change without notice. The price displayed on the vendor website at the time of the purchase will be the price paid for the book. Please confirm the price of the book before completing your transaction.

For a summary of all of today's featured titles, plus any that may have appeared before and are repeat freebies, visit our Free MystereBooks page. This page is updated daily, typically by 8 AM ET.

More on today's free book, below.

Honey Driver runs a hotel in Bath. She also collects antique underwear. As boss, she's in charge one day and washing dishes the next, resisting her mother's match-making attempts and managing multiple responsibilities - mundane, safe, and unexciting. Then one day things change. Honey lands the job of liaising with the police on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. No worries, she tells herself. Nothing will happen; then an American tourist goes missing and Honey is called in to help.

Despite the on/off hostility of her police opposite number, DCI Steve Doherty, she sticks to the task. In the process Honey finds out that there's more to work than washing dishes, and more to murder than malice aforethought.

— Something in the Blood by Jean G. Goodhind