Author: Andre Spiteri
Publisher: Maverick Words
Pages: 500
Genre: Crime/Police Procedural
How far would you go to protect yourself if the truth is too hard to swallow?
DI Brian Brandon’s first murder investigation after a forced leave of absence seems open and shut. A love triangle gone horribly wrong.
But, the more he digs into the life of the victim — freelance cybersecurity consultant Ray Higgins — the deeper he’s drawn into a complex web of greed and betrayal.
With bodies piling up and the press baying for blood, Brian faces a race against the clock. What he hasn’t planned on is that his own demons are also hot on his heels.
Can he uncover the killer’s true identity before they catch up with him, or is he doomed to pay the ultimate price?
Three weeks of forced leave, and he didn’t recognise himself anymore. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair was frizzy, thinning on top, and appeared far heavier on the salt than it had been that morning when he’d checked himself in the hallway before leaving for East Strathburgh Police Station to plead his case. His face was pasty and puffy. Careworn. The face of a man who has had too much time on his hands and far too little to fill it with for much longer than is healthy. The knot of his blue paisley tie constricted his fleshy neck, which was spilling over the collar of his white poplin shirt. A shirt with a tailored fit that, through some process he vaguely understood but couldn’t quite fathom, had become too tailored in all the wrong places.
He closed his eyes and held onto the sink with both hands, a captain steering his ship through a thicket of fog.
‘I’m fine, sir. I assure you,’ he’d told – practically begged – DCI Lowe five minutes earlier. ‘Champing at the bit. Raring to go.’
What he hadn’t told Lowe was that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could trust himself to keep his head without work to occupy him. His thoughts were racing at breakneck pace, taking him places he’d rather not visit for fear he’d want to remain there. Permanently.
Lowe had given him a long, appraising look from beneath his legendarily bushy black eyebrows and leaned forward in his faux-leather office chair. Brian, standing in front of Lowe’s cluttered glass and brushed-aluminium desk, had shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, like he needed to go to the lavvy.
‘It’s too soon, Brian,’ Lowe had said, steepling his fingers under his non-existent chin.
‘It’s been long enough,’ Brian had insisted. ‘I’m polis. It’s what I do. This kind of thing… it’s…’ He’d waved his hand around, looking for the right words. ‘It’s par for the course in our line of work,’ he’d ended flatly.
Lowe had raised his eyebrows. One of the hairs was sticking out at an obtuse angle, giving him an oddly comical look.
‘Have you spoken to somebody?’ Lowe had asked. His tone was gentle. Fatherly. But there was steel in his eyes. ‘It helps. What you’ve been through—’
‘I’m fine,’ Brian repeated, a tad more forcefully than he’d intended.
He’d stopped, then. Taken a breath. Held Lowe’s eyes with an earnest gaze.
‘Look,’ Brian had said. ‘Try me. That’s all I’m asking. If I can’t hack it, I’ll be the first to tell you. No need to worry about that. We’re understaffed as it is. So what do you have to lose?’
Lowe had sighed then. A deep, heavy sound that Brian hadn’t been sure what to make of. Was Lowe about to relent? Had he managed to wear him down?
‘Let me think about it,’ he’d said at last, weighing every word.
‘But—’
‘I said, let me think about it,’ Lowe snapped. ‘Take the win.’
Brian had pushed down several smart retorts and nodded deferentially.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he’d said finally, trying not to grit his teeth.
Now, standing in front of a rust-spotted mirror in the lads’ lavvy across the hall from Lowe’s office, a grey shadow toyed with the edges of his field of vision, and he opened his eyes before it could take on a more substantial form. His thoughts turned to home. To the bottle of Monkey Shoulder in the cupboard under the sink. He pushed them away. Opened the cold tap. Splashed his face. The freezing water jolted him.
Aye, that was better. Once he got back to his flat and peeled off this ill-fitting suit, maybe he’d go for a run. Clear the cobwebs. Put himself on the road to well-being and prove to Lowe he was walking the talk.
He turned the tap off, pulled a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser and patted his face dry. Then he took a deep breath. Steeled himself. Walked out of the lavvy, through the corridor, toward the carpeted stairs that led to the station’s entrance, and the parking area outside.
‘DI Brandon!’
Lowe’s voice, calling him from his office doorway, stopped him mid-stride. Brian’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Come back here, will you?’ his senior officer added and strode back into his office without waiting for a reply.
Brian followed, his stomach clenching. ‘Sir?’ he asked from the doorway.
Lowe gave him another one of his appraising looks. His unblinking stare made him feel vulnerable. Naked.
‘Fine,’ he said, after a pause that felt like it had gone on for hours. ‘You’re right. We’re stretched thin and I can’t spare one of my more experienced DIs.’
Brian’s knees almost buckled with relief. His lips curved into a smile.
‘Does that mean—?’
Lowe lifted a hand, palm outward, in a silencing gesture.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ Lowe continued, ‘I’ll be watching you like a hawk. The second I sense you’re not up to the job, I’m putting you back on forced leave, you hear?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Brian said, with feeling.
A brief memory flashed. 3 a.m. Two days earlier. A half-empty bottle of Monkey Shoulder standing on the coffee table. Hunched on the sofa in a frayed terry-cloth robe, counting out how many Nytol one-a-day tablets he’d managed to scrounge from his medicine cabinet and wondering what would happen if he took them all. Washed them down with long gulps of the water of life.
Something prickled behind Brian’s eyes.
‘I won’t let you down, sir,’ he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.
‘Let’s hope so, Brian,’ Lowe said, turning his gaze to his laptop – a sign Brian was being dismissed. ‘Let’s hope so.’
– Excerpted from Vanity Project byAndré Spiteri, Maverick Words, 2024. Reprinted with permission.
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