Born in Yorkshire in England, my permanent home is now in the Czech Republic, where my crime and urban fantasy novels are mainly set.
When not writing I work as a pastoral carer, coach and tutor. I love quirky noir and hand made things.
Death by Barn Owl
Strange, the fierce and wonderful things that can come out of ruins. Or even out of suburbia. Ours was a quiet neighbourhood. We had no knife crime, no guns, no gangs. The most exciting thing that ever happened to us was when the Onion Man came round on his bike. The Onion Man, you may ask? He was from the island of Jersey in the Channel Islands, looked as if he might be in his seventies, wore a black beret and had strings of onions draped over the handle bars of his bike, selling them door to door.
Diggin' in the Dirt
So Uncle Jack was dead. Finally. Here we were, scrimping to make ends meet, and he takes years to drop off his perch. Years of crippling mortgages and groaning credit card bills. Jack was loaded, but he never gave us a dime. Nada, rien, nix. He went to live in that cabin in the woods, to chop wood, write and sketch and walk that dumb dog. Hemingway. I mean seriously, who calls their dog Hemingway?