Monday, February 3, 2020

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The Lyme Regis Murders by Andrew Segal - Book Tour



THE LYME REGIS MURDERS

By Andrew Segal

Crime Thriller

Can innocence ever be an incentive to murder?

A quiet seaside town is thrown into turmoil. Tammy Pierre, London
based private investigator, accompanied by her sometime lover, Israeli
art dealer and martial-arts coach, Dov Jordan, has just been brought
close to tears by police photographs shown to her by an hysterical
Eleanor Goldcrest, at the home of three innocent toddlers whose brutally
murdered bodies have been found on the beach at Lyme Regis.

Wealthy financier, Eric Goldcrest, alarmed that his partner of three
years, together with the local police has him nailed as guilty of
murdering the children, now retains Tammy to prove his innocence and
find the real culprit. But has his involvement in all this been
misinterpreted?

In this investigation, with no apparant motive or forensic evidence,
Tammy’s skills will be tested to the limit. In a twist that muddies the
waters, Eric Goldcrest, laments that he’s simply never made it clear to
Tammy about his position in the family and his relationship with the
children, all of which have been assumed by the investigation.

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Tammy was left in no doubt about what was happening when

the interior of the Porsche was lit up by a blaze of lights from a third

following vehicle reflected in her rear-view mirror.

Her pulse raced and a vein throbbed in her neck. The

flanking vehicles gently closed in on her, bumping the sides of the Porsche,

shunting it this way and that. Gila screamed. Caleb swore under his breath.

Tammy’s palms remained dry and she gripped the steering wheel firmly as the two

grey SUVs moved ahead of her so she could neither drive through them nor round

them.

Something like bits of iron junk was thrown from the

windows of both leading cars. The Porsche crunching over the gritty debris,

lurched unsteadily, quickly regaining its poise. Caltrops, she thought.

Four-pronged, palm-sized steel teeth for bursting tyres. Problem: she’d have

thirty miles at best before the run flat tyres gave up on her. Far less if she

pushed the car hard, which was just what she was aiming to do.

The vehicle following moved closer till it touched the tail

of the Porsche, which seemed to literally stagger under the impact. Tammy could

no longer be certain they’d get away. She’d thought the emailed warnings had

been directed at herself. But the situation was more confused than she’d

reckoned. Things were becoming unpredictable.

Junction 10 led to the A3, which they’d aimed for, but

would now be too slow for them to outrun the SUVs. There was no time to

consider options. Gila was screaming hysterically and banging on her side

window as though trying to escape the vehicle. Caleb had pulled what looked

like a plastic gun from the inside of his bomber jacket.

“Put that bloody thing away,” barked Tammy, in the next

moment reaching forward for the switch to the rear fog lamps.

“What the fuck’s she thinks she’s doing now?” scowled

Caleb.

The flash of the rear reds looked like she was braking and

the following motor immediately hauled back, giving her a window to stamp on

the brakes, adding to the eruption of light at the tail-end of the Porsche and

allowing her to fall back herself, out of the clutches of the two big greys.

Now, dragging the wheel left and forced unwillingly onto

the exit slip, with the two SUVs running on her offside wing, she immediately

swung the wheel to the right again, swerving in front of the two big motors and

back onto the main body of the motorway, then she floored the throttle. The car

responded like a SpaceX rocket, roaring ahead of the three following motors,

leaving them stuttering in her wake as she approached 180 mph. Now her palms

ran wet. The tyres could go at any second, and with that, all control of the

car.

Gila was still screaming, Caleb cursing, as Tammy said

softly, “We’re about six miles from Junction 9. There in two minutes. At say,

half our speed they’ll be there in four, that’s three miles behind us. I’m

guessing, or hoping, they’ll reckon we’ll use our greater speed to take us

further round the motorway. But we’ll come off at 9 anyway, then find the A244

to Oxshott.

“And this is us, now,” she said almost at once, and braked

hard. “Dov? Anything?”

“Nothing behind,” said Dov, with obvious relief, looking

over his shoulder. “You should maybe slow down a bit Tammy? The tyres are gone,

you know.”
“I know, Dov. Let’s try to get home first.”
“If you can,” he said quietly.

She was on the rims, sparks flying as the Porsche careered

along the last mile of the A244 to Oxshott village. If she stopped now they’d

not be able to move again, the car simply being carried forward at this stage

on its own momentum and a silent prayer. Tammy suddenly realised that the

wrought-iron gates to the cul-de-sac would need to be opened and that’s where

their journey would end. If they were still being chased, their pursuers would

be with them in no more than a couple of minutes.

As she swung the car left towards where the gates should

have been, her confidence now failing, she saw that the housekeeper had

thoughtfully left them open together with the up and over doors to the double

garage in the safe house, an eight-bedroom red brick mansion at the end of the

cul-de-sac. In the distance could be heard the growl of fast-moving motors.

Through the iron gates, the pair starting to close

automatically behind them, the sounds of the other cars came ever nearer.

They’d be just too late. Glaringly clear. Now, in the

double garage, the up and overs closing agonisingly slowly, the sound of the

other three SUVs screamed at them, then whispered past, just as the doors

clicked shut. Tammy breathed. “Home.”





 


______________________


A contract killer changed my life

The encounter inspired me to become a Crime Thriller writer.

He was a contract killer, and he was in my car!

I’d been lost, looking for West Thurrock in Essex, and asked a little
old man in a shabby coat, on the opposite side of the road, the way. He
offered to show me if I gave him a lift, and whilst I make it a rule
never to give lifts to anyone I don’t know, I reasoned, he could hardly
be a contract killer, could he. Could he? Of course not.

As we drove he casually informed me that he’d, ‘Done it for the
Kray’s, mate.’ That would have been the notorious East London gangsters
he was referring to, known to kill, or have killed, without conscience.

Once I’d dropped him off and recovered my composure, I realised I was
looking at fodder for a short story. What then followed was a raft of
short stories, including, ‘I am a Gigolo,’ something I told my wife when
I first met her, and which almost ended our relationship before it had
begun. That title is now the heading for a book of short stories.

Jokingly, over lunch, I told a fellow professional I’d once been a
contract killer, and devised a story. He believed every word, and left
me at some pains to disabuse him. That title, I am a Contract Killer,
now heads a further collection of short stories.

Writer of scary short stories and full-length novels like The Lyme Regis Murders.

It’s been a fascinating journey… I hope you’ll want to share with me.

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