A brief, and I hope, tantalising glimpse into my novel The Desolate Garden published on the 19th March 2012.
It has been compared to The 39 Steps and North By North-West. A Hard-Back and second edition will be published by the end of June and the novel is to be made into a film beginning early next year.There are 32 places ON-LINE where THE DESOLATE GARDEN can be ordered. http://www.bookbutler.com/compare.html?searchFor=1908775920&amountIn=gbp&shipTo=gb&searchIn=uk&zip
Chapter One. Poison Ivy
The first time I saw her was three days after I was told that my father had died. All the national newspapers had carried the story in their first editions; most describing him as a private banker, others as simply a financier. All had speculated as to why. The majority of the more respectful had suggested pressure, and stress in the current financial world. However, the most popular tabloids had repeated the accusation, for which he had successfully sued them, that his money had come from unscrupulous and tyrannical rulers of various African countries. Only this time they glossed over some previously mentioned names, and added the word ‘alleged.’ They had not known that he had been murdered.
“Tell me a joke,” she said. She was seated at the table nearest the bar in the Dukes Hotel, in London’s St James.
“What?” I replied, in complete surprise.
“I’ve had a really shitty day, and I need cheering up. Come and join me,” she suggested, enticing me in from the lobby. She was about thirty but, in the dim seductive light of the world-renowned Martini bar, I could have been wrong by ten years either way. She had long curly dark hair, penetrating large eyes of an indeterminable colour, and a very attractive face. As to her figure, I had no way of knowing for sure but, from what I could see, she was quite petite. A colourful shawl draped from a glimpse of bare shoulder, and the cut of the red dress she wore was modest and high. What stood out was her perfume. The clear, smoke-free atmosphere carried an array of sweet aromas, mingling with the gin and lemons and the fresh damp air of the outside night, but hers was the sweetest. It reminded me of raspberries ripening on autumn canes, mixed with jojoba oil and honey. I smelt of whiskey and tobacco; not the catch of the night, I supposed