*****
“Kept me guessing right up to the last page!”
*****
“Dinner is now burnt as I could not stop reading!”
*****
“A great subject and some nice plot twists”
Also by David Hatton
The Catfish
Rachel McCann has left the corporate world of law to open her own independent practice. Her first client is a mother whose son has been catfished online by a vigilante group: The Predator Hunters. In a world where a criminal trial is outweighed by the wrath of social media, how far can Rachel go for her client, who will stop at nothing to protect her son’s honour?
Available on Amazon
*****
“A great choice for a book club!”
*****
“Impactful and thought provoking”
*****
“Great read!”
*****
“Started off with a bang and didn’t stop!”
*****
“A timely story”
A preview of The Catfish by David Hatton
The office of Rachel McCann sat in a small terrace on the high street between a pub and a bank. Across the road, a former railway station now formed a children’s play area, however memories of the track and its historic locomotives remained embedded into the green space. A stone cottage formerly housed a local MP, but today was used as a commercial space. Ms McCann had the ground floor, and an accountancy firm utilised the upstairs.
Two maroon leather couches sat parallel, facing each other with a glass coffee table in-between. She took a seat on one and read through her text books, preparing a case for a client who’d visited her a week prior, while she munched on a jam-coated crumpet. The exercise was gratifying to the lawyer who, since setting up on her own after leaving a large international law firm, had had only one customer. The piling bills on her desk beside the window had multiple threats of shutting off her electricity and turfing her out of her office. But as she perused her books, she smiled, enjoying the ample time she could take to really embed herself in the case. She didn’t have that sort of luxury at her previous firm. A team of assistants did all the leg work for her. Although she missed the paralegals’ constant offer of coffee; now she had to make it herself.
What she didn’t miss was the sleazy men who hovered around her desk. She was the eye-candy of the office, and despite the fact that she’d worked so damn hard for her position, there was no doubt as to why they’d taken her on. Her flowing hazel hair, her sun-kissed complexion, slim frame and yet large chest adjusted the necks of her colleagues who gawped as she walked the corporate corridors. They either accused her of sleeping her way to the top or said she was meeting a diversity quota; she could never win. It was surprising how many people who worked in law refused to abide by its basic principles. Then again, who would dare sue a lawyer?
The doorbell rang. She looked towards the window and watched the sun slowly rise. Winter was due and the morning had offered a crisp accompaniment to a robin’s call. Anticipating the postman with yet another online delivery of books, she brushed the crumbs off her plain black A-line dress and made her way to the door. A trail of teal beads ran down her chest from around her neck and a silver pendant was wrapped around her wrist, covered in gems handed to her over several Christmases and birthdays.
Behind a heavy black door making up the entrance to the building, an agitated creature stood fidgeting. She was of average height but appeared short as she hunched over. Her short brown bob had white wisps and her skinny frame hid beneath a green cagoule. The years of strain poured from her eyes like a tree showing its age through its rings.
‘Hi there, are you Ms McCann?’ she asked with a Bolton brogue. The lawyer peered down at the lady before her. Her blue jeans hung loose and her white trainers were worn.
‘The very same,’ Rachel replied, holding out a hand to shake hers. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘I need legal representation,’ she said, her eyes struggling to make contact.
‘You should probably come inside then.’ Rachel moved aside, allowing the potential client in, welcoming her with a slight nod. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Water if you have any.’
She walked towards a cooler beside her desk and poured into a plastic cup, before handing it to the dishevelled woman before her, who was brushing down the seat before taking it. They sat opposite each other and Rachel moved aside her books and dirty plate from the coffee table to make room for her guest.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Karen Irvine,’ she said sheepishly. She peered around the room as if she was weighing up whether Rachel’s credentials were enough for her case. Her framed multiple degrees lined the main wall, and bookcases full of law journals filled the rest. A collection of abstract watercolour paintings from a local artist hung in white frames, placed seemingly slapdash across the white walls.
‘How can I help you, Karen?’
‘It’s my son, Charlie. Charlie Irvine, you may have heard of him?’
‘I can’t say I have.’ Rachel shook her head.
‘You’ve not been in Horwich very long then?’
‘No, I lived in Warrington before I came here. I’ve just moved here and set up on my own. My mum lives down the road. My dad died last year so it seemed like the fair thing to do. I did grow up here though.’
Build rapport, thought Rachel. Give the client something of yourself. It was discouraged in her last place but she wanted to provide a very different service in her new business. Her last job was all
