Mer om deckare

Aftonbladet skriver om om utländska deckare.

Fredrika Spindler skriver "Trots smarta Da Vinci-kopior är deckarhjälten fortfarande en försupen polis."

Tror jag ska hem och befria min mamma i julhelgen, som är deckarslukare av gigantiska mått, från någon halvmeter. Innan hon slänger dem och jag får gå och köpa dem. Jag inser att jag totalt missat att förlagorna till Mord i sinnet av Val McDermid.

Förresten varför inte pröva Vals Authormatic - Bestseller generator!

Min berättelse

Första kapitlet A great Night


CHAPTER ONE
After a while the torch beams of the other searchers turned into distant flashes of light and the voices became an occasional call carried on the wind and not definitely identifiable as animal, let alone human. Inspector Wicks looked up from the boggy ground in front of his feet as the moon came out from behind a black scurrying cloud.
"My God!" His boot slipped sideways pitching him forwards. Not only did he now have wet knees and a wet sock but he had managed to hit the only rock between here and Sheffield and he struggled to his feet ruefully rubbing his sore eye. He was dog-tired. What a night, what a really great night, one which had actually started well, on his settee with a takeaway and a can of lager in front of the TV and should have ended a couple of hours later in bed with a large tot of his favourite single malt on the bedside table. Instead here he was tramping a particularly inhospitable part of the moor, looking for a lost kid called Lars whose most recent school photo had covered the front pages of all the papers for the last two days. He groaned; damn this job; damn Crimewatch; damn the busybody public with their farfetched anonymous tip-offs. If only he was in bed, if only he was lodge, if only he was anywhere else.

Another thick curtain of cloud was drawn across the leering face of the moon, accompanied by a high-pitched whistle. Was that the signal? Had something been found? He struggled to avoid imagining what that something might be, instead his mind produced a sudden image of the short goat that had stalked his night hours in childhood, he squashed that thought too, a childish terror but not one to conjure up in the present circumstances. He deliberately formed an image of his own small son fast asleep in that terraced house in South London, under the blue dolphin duvet cover that …… blue, something had been blue. He swung back the torch beam, retracing the path it had taken, a child’s blue scarves. Probably been there for weeks, blown away on a summer picnic. It looked new. Reluctantly but methodically he directed his torch over a 6 metre circle surrounding the blue scarves. This time white, the white curve of a small bent leg, a tangle of arms, neck twisted sideways, life-sized but not life-like, surely an abandoned doll, let fall and forgotten at the day’s end: and beside the doll, incongruously, partially obscuring its face, an all too real-looking spear.

OVER TO YOU DEAR READER (I suggest 29 Chapters!)