As a general rule of thumb, I think most police officers would agree that, for every minute of excitement experienced during an adrenalin rush on the street, you end up having to complete five-hours’ worth of boring paperwork – and sometimes considerably more.
It takes time to put a solid case together: CCTV can take days to retrieve and weeks to view; forensics can take days, weeks or even months to come back; witnesses can take ages to track down, and they don’t always want to play ball. And don’t even get me started on the rigmarole of analysing telephone and financial data!
The point is, police work is often slow and methodical, and not remotely glamorous. Detectives – especially DCI’s – spend far more time tied to their desks going through files than they do zooming around in fast cars, chasing after suspects and then rolling around on the floor with them. So, while I’ve tried to be as procedurally accurate, and as realistic as possible, with ‘Jack’s Back’, I do confess to having used a liberal sprinkling of artistic license where necessary in order to ensure that the smooth flow and dramatic tone of the book is maintained.
A few people have asked me if Jack Tyler or any of the other characters are based on me, or on other people I have known or worked with over the years. The answer is a resounding no! Every character featured in this book is completely fictitious and a product of my overactive imagination.
Likewise, the sacrificial rituals The Disciple carries out in this story, along with the book containing his source material, are entirely made up and are not based on real occult practices.
Finally, you might wonder why I’ve chosen to set my story in 1999 instead of in more recent times. Well, the truth is that that I actually started writing this book way back in 1999, but soon discovered that having to work extended shifts on a regular basis wasn’t particularly conducive to writing fiction. I eventually gave up trying and decided to shelve the project until I retired. So, when you actually think about it, this book has taken me the best part of twenty years to complete! Don’t worry - I plan to be a lot quicker at writing the next one!
About the author
Mark Romain is a retired Metropolitan Police officer, having joined the Service in the mid-eighties. His career included two homicide postings, and during that time he was fortunate enough to work on a number of very challenging high-profile cases.
Mark lives in Essex with is his wife, Clare. They have two grown up children and one grandchild. Between them, the family has three English Bull Terriers and a very bossy Dachshund called Weenie!
Mark is a lifelong Arsenal fan and an avid skier. He also enjoys going to the theatre, lifting weights and kick-boxing, a sport he got into during his misbegotten youth!
You can find out more about Mark’s books or contact him via his website or Facebook page:
Markromain.com
Mark Romain – author
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 Mark Romain.
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13: 9781731097712
The right of Mark Romain to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Turf War
Coming Summer 2020
Chapter 1
The recruitment
It was a warm Saturday night at the beginning of May, and the City Centre was buzzing with noise, lights, and a keen sense of expectation. There was music, laughter, the occasional blare of a horn or wail of a siren; a feeling that the night was young and full of potential – anything could happen, and probably would.
Already heaving, Cosmopolitan Manchester would only get busier as more people flocked in for a well-deserved night out, all intent on letting their hair down, blowing off some steam, and having a little fun.
The streets felt energised, and a party mood prevailed amongst the customers spilling out of jam-packed establishments onto adjoining pavements.
Although the Haçienda club in Whitworth Street West, on the south side of the Rochdale Canal, had closed in the summer of 1997 there were still plenty of clubs, bars and pubs in which to party away a Saturday night.
Unfortunately, the venue Conrad Livingstone was about to visit wasn’t one of them.
The Gallagher brothers were belting out Wonderwall on the car radio and his idiot driver was singing along, tapping out an irritating drum beat on the top of the steering wheel with the palms of his hands.
For a while, Livingstone sat motionless in the front passenger seat of the car, studying the club’s entrance and contemplating how the evening would pan out.
His brooding was interrupted by a group of drunken girls who stumbled past the car, their off key singing easily drowning out Liam and Noel. Their party frocks were covered in glitter and tassels, and one of them wore a banner that proclaimed her as the bride to be. As Livingstone followed their erratic passage with his eyes, one of the them suddenly lurched into the road and threw up. A couple of girls tottered over to help her while the rest of the group stood on the kerb, laughing and shouting profanities. His driver, Meeks, thought it was all very entertaining, but Livingstone wasn’t in the mood to laugh. ‘Fucking skanks,’ he muttered under his breath.
Linking their arms through hers, the drunk’s friends guided her back onto the relative safety of the sidewalk and the group resumed its unsteady journey along the road.
Stepping out of the car, Livingstone told his driver to go back to the hotel and wait for him there; he didn’t know how long he would be but he would make his own way back after he’d concluded his business.
Livingstone crossed the busy road, nimbly dodging between cars that had no intention
