Born in Scotland, Made in Bradford sums up Liz Mistry’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’ whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.
Struggling with severe clinical depression and anxiety for a large number of years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real. One of the nicest things about being a published author is chatting with and responding to readers’ feedback and Liz regularly does events at local libraries, universities, literature festivals and open mics. She also teaches creative writing too. Now, having nearly completed a PhD in Creative Writing focussing on ‘the absence of the teen voice in adult crime fiction’ and ‘why expansive narratives matter’, Liz is chock full of ideas to continue writing.
In her spare time, Liz loves pub quizzes (although she admits to being rubbish at them), dancing (she does a mean jig to Proud Mary – her opinion, not ratified by her family), visiting the varied Yorkshire landscape, with Robin Hoods Bay being one of her favourite coastal destinations, listening to music, reading and blogging about all things crime fiction on her blog, The Crime Warp.
UNBOUND TIES
When the past unravels, all that’s left is death …
Liz Mistry
First Published in 2020
By MB Publications
Copyright © Liz Mistry
Liz Mistry Has asserted her right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual person living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
A CIP Catalogue Record for this book is available from the British Library
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
Print ISBN: 978-1-8381821-0-6
Dedication
For my family
And to everyone out there who is struggling with the world as it is now.
DI Gus McGuire books
Unquiet Souls
Uncoiled Lies
Untainted Blood
Uncommon Cruelty
Unspoken Truths
Unseen Evil
Unbound Ties
DS Nikki Parekh books
Last Request
Broken Silence
Dark Memories
Praise for Liz Mistry
'Liz Mistry is a terrific crime writer who knows how to keep her readers on the edge of their seats and frantically turning the pages desperate to find out what happens next.' ★★★★★ Bookish jottings blog
'Right from the first page the story is hugely entertaining and fast paced.’ ★★★★★ Waycat
‘Liz tells a story and makes the characters, places and plot come alive. More please’ ★★★★★ The Glamizon
‘Liz Mistry manages to produce books that are not just cracking reads but also a social commentary on life.’ ★★★★★ M Jay
‘I hope there's more to come from DI Gus McGuire, in my view he can stand shoulder to shoulder with Alex Cross and Lincoln Rhyme’ ★★★★★Y O’Hara
Prologue
Then
Scotland
I’m confused. This isn’t right. I know it’s not right. I don’t like it, so I focus on her feet. Don’t need to look up. Not if it upsets me. Chipped red nail varnish on her toenails and a trickle of some liquid moving down her foot, gathering in a drip, ready to join the pool on the floor beneath her. I draw closer, puzzled, wondering what she’s up to now. With my index finger pointing, I capture the drip on my fingertip and sniff it. It smells weird, so I flick out my tongue and taste it – still weird.
Backing off, I sit on the top stair where I can see her. I breathe in the smell – Lavender.
‘Lavender’s Blue Dilly Dilly, Lavender’s Green.’
I hum because I don’t like the noises she makes or the way her fingers scrape at the rope round her neck and her feet kick out like she’s trying to dance.
‘When I am King, Dilly Dilly, you shall be Queen.’
Why would she put a rope round her neck, anyway? I put that thought out of my mind and open my schoolbag. I have a biscuit leftover from my packed lunch – Chocolate Digestive – my favourite. I hid it from the others in my desk till home time. That way at least the bullies won’t take it – if it’s not in my lunch bag, they won’t know about it, will they?
Nibbling it, making it last, because I won’t get another – she’ll have scoffed them all by now – I take out my sketchbook. Drawing her is easier now she’s stopped moving about. I start at the puddle beneath her feet. Something else is joining the liquid now. It stinks as if she’s pooed herself. Yuck. Granny won’t like that. Nope, she won’t like that one little bit. Still, I keep on drawing – that’s what life drawing is all about, or so my teacher says. Little snippets of life. She says the more I practise the better I’ll get, and Miss is right. I’m getting better every day – Miss tells me so. I’m onto her feet now, with that horrible polish on the toes. It’s ugly, but she thinks it’s nice. They’re only swinging a little from side to side now. I look hard at them. They’re all veiny on
