Death in the Mooragh by Judith C Davis

Author:Judith C Davis [Davis, Judith C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
Publisher: Troubador Publishing
Published: 2022-06-22T00:00:00+00:00

Charlie Peake stared grimly at the empty horizon. The wind, always strong at the Point of Ayre, the most northerly tip of the Isle of Man, buffeted his car, spatters of sand blasting at the immaculate paintwork. Charlie’s eyes were screwed up, glaring at the misty haze that was Scotland, a mere fifteen miles away. Charles wished he were there. In fact, he wished he were anywhere but where he was. His insides were queasy with anxiety and the aftereffects of over-indulgence. Foolishly he’d gone to the golf club. He’d imagined that after a few holes he might have worked off his ill temper and tension. But the atmosphere had been unpleasant; there were rumours afoot. He could tell by the way people glanced and looked away as he’d entered the members’ bar. He had one drink and left. He’d got himself into a mess all right and this time he wasn’t sure that he could bluff his way out of it. He eased his neck, which was rigid. His eye was giving him jip too. That dratted tic had started up again. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t used to a bit of strife; he usually had some deal on the go which wasn’t entirely above board. Such speculations were a necessary spice to a life that rarely came up to expectations. But this was different. This time he’d got himself in a real fix, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Besides, the realisation that what he’d done might put his future as a commissioner at risk made him wish to God he had acted differently. Being impulsive had always been his downfall, and this time…

“Bloody hell,” Charles murmured, running his stubby fingers through his thinning hair.

He knew he was not as bright as some; occasionally this bothered him. Mostly it didn’t. He believed he made up in animal cunning what he lacked in intelligence. It was his lack of forethought that sometimes caught him out. He’d not got mired in anything like this before, though…

Oh, cripes. He put his arms on the steering wheel and lay his head on it. “Blast Fenella Kelly,” he groaned, banging his head harder than intended so that the horn sounded. He winced and jerked upright. This unwise movement in turn wrenched his neck. Charles groaned loudly, glared at his reflection in the mirror, then, deciding on a course of action, he leaned forward and switched on the ignition. He reversed, too fast, off the shingle parking area so that the car skidded. He fought with the steering wheel, corrected the steering, rammed the car into forward gear and headed back along the narrow track to the main road as though seven devils were after him, which, in his mind, they were.

The route from the Point of Ayre to Bride village snaked between alluvial sandy hills. In the distance the central spine of the Manx mountain range rose in an undulating purple spine of gentle peaks and troughs, with the highest of these peaks being Snaefell, the only Manx mountain.

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