Hello, my friends!
Today I have the pleasure to take part in Peter Morfoot’s blog tour for his latest thriller, Box of Bones. This amazing thriller was published on April 3-rd, 2018. Today I have an exclusive extract from this book just for you. Many thanks to lovely Philippa Ward and the amazing team at Titan Books for the chance to be part of this blog tour. I’ll be sharing my review soon. Don’t forget to visit all the other stops of this amazing blog tour. Have a great time! xxx
Madame Yvette Halevy was a slender, bitter-faced blonde with a style of grieving all her own.
‘Carl was a waste of space.’ She took a deep drag on her Gauloise. ‘Oh, I don’t mean he was incompetent. He did well enough in his job. But it’s typical of him that he would wind up… like this.’ She gave the air an offhanded slap. ‘Typical.’
The apartment was a well-appointed duplex in Cagnessur-Mer with an uninterrupted view of the château at Haut-de-Cagnes. A simple crenelated box surmounted by a flag-festooned tower, the château had the look of a toy fort.
‘Madame,’ Granot said, scarcely able to conceal his incredulity, ‘I don’t think you understand the situation. Your husband tried to murder someone. In the coldest of cold blood. And then in fleeing the scene, he was killed in a car crash. He’s dead, madame.’
‘Haven’t I just identified his body? Idiot.’
Whether Madame was referring to her husband or to him, Granot wasn’t sure. ‘Alright, let’s start with the shooting.’
‘The shooting, madame.’
‘I can’t imagine why he did it.’
‘Did your husband have any enemies? Can you think of anyone he might have wanted out of the way?’
‘What part of “I can’t imagine why he did it” didn’t you understand?’
‘This attitude isn’t helping, madame.’
Another deep drag. ‘Carl had no enemies. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Does the name Sylvie Galvin mean anything to you?’
He handed Madame Halevy his mobile.
‘There’s a face to stuff food into. Who’s this – your daughter?’
Granot’s jowly chops reddened. ‘It’s Mademoiselle Galvin. Do you recognise her?’
She handed it back. ‘Never seen her.’
Granot continued with a description of the man in the black coat.
‘It could be anyone.’
‘This man, the man your husband shot at…’ The possibility he was entertaining seemed remote to him but he had to pursue it. ‘Is he your lover? Your husband found out and decided to act?’
A deeper drag. ‘I don’t do lovers, monsieur.’ She stubbed out her cigarette emphatically, as if the prospect of it rekindling was a clear and present danger. ‘And they don’t do me.’
‘About the gun he used…’
The interview dragged on for ten further fruitless minutes.
‘Right, that’s that,’ she said at the end of it. ‘Are you driving back into Nice, now, Lieutenant?’
‘Then you can give me a lift. I need to make the funeral arrangements.’