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Robert Craven - Author

Behind the Author

Irish author Robert Craven has always been passionate about writing and storytelling. He is an independent author of seven novels. One was a number one download on KOBO. He's self-motivated and driven to produce quality fiction. His personal blog and stories can be found on ABCTales.com. An active member of the writing community,

he writes regular features for Writing.ie.

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Novels: The Eva series:

(Amazon.com / Smashwords / Kobo.com)

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·(2020) Eagles Hunt Wolves - Winner of the Firebird 2021 book award

·(2016) Hollow Point

·(2014) A Finger of Night

·(2012) Zinnman

·(2011) Get Lenin

Other novels:

(2018) The Road of a Thousand Tigers  – best seller on Kobo.

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(2017) The Mandarin Cipher

(2021) A Kind of Drowning

Anthologies:

Zombie Bites - Red Rattle Books

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https://booksredrattle.co.uk/authors/

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Kobo Writer’s Life Podcasts - Podcast 117.

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**** #TheDoctorWillSeeYouNow  ****

in conversation with Dr Jacky Collins 2020

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUiAxtLfhYo

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The Voice of Get Lenin

https://www.mandy.com/actor/profile/madeleine-brolly

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https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=Madeleine+Brolly&i=audible&ref=dp_byline_sr_audible_2

A KIND OF DROWNING

Purchase here

The man standing at the funeral in bubble-gum pink hair is P.J. Crowe. His career as a detective is in tatters - he's facing dismissal, vilified by the press and his wife's about to leave.  Lying low in a small seaside town he spots a ‘Help Wanted’ ad in the kitchen of a local café. It offers him an escape from the public and his spiralling mental health - and it's where Thea Farrell worked – until she was found dead at sea.

And herein lies the problem: Thea was an Olympic medallist, silver for swimming and Crowe’s burned-out synapses are starting to join the dots – it wasn't his case, but his cop’s senses tell him that Thea wasn’t the drowning kind.

And the suspect may well be in the congregation.

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SAMPLE CHAPTER 

©Robert Craven 2021

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There were two universal truths for Crowe; a newspaper was never worth buying and the only real facts in one could be found between the pages of the sports columns. If you wanted to read a newspaper for free, there was always your friendly neighbourhood turf accountant; they kept longer hours than the library. And, if you wanted to catch a villain, you had to frequent his likely haunts. In his experience, most criminals were gamblers, both calculating and reckless; crime was a game and they always thought they were winners. Criminals like race horses had form and this Teflon D character was notorious for the sport of kings.

Being cut off suddenly from society had its freedoms. Shorn of responsibilities, past the derelict bank and shuttered up businesses, Crowe stepped into the bookies. The first thing he did was grab a handful of the small biros. It was a habit of his, on his days on active duty when those small plastic ball-points would be thrown into the side panel of the patrol car. You could never have enough pens.

He decided to scan the newspapers pinned to the shop’s boards. It was late afternoon and the TVs blared their commentary to empty seats. He selected three meetings: each way on the favourites.

“A ten euro accumulator. The last race is 5:30,” said the girl behind the glass.

“Feeling lucky today,” replied Crowe handing his bet over. “Busy?” he asked.

“Dead,” she replied as she handed him his slip.

“A coffee machine would help,” said Crowe.

“Good luck with that,” she said. Behind the glass her hair was as collapsed as her demeanour. She had the kind of features that could be anywhere between eighteen and forty, “That would involve the boss spending money. Moans about the recession,” she continued.

Crowe suspected she was leafing through a magazine beneath the counter. It suited him; he had a sheaf of blank betting slips out of sight in his other hand.

            “Would lend the place a little je ne sais quoi. Speaking of coffee, the new café in town, The Boogie Woogie? Who is the manager?” he asked.

            “Melanie Fox,” replied the girl.

Crowe wrote her name out on the back of the slip.

            “Is she a hands-on-kind of boss?” he asked.

            “Mel IS the Boogie-Woogie,” replied the girl without looking up.

            “What does she look like?”

            “You’ll know her the moment you see her.”

            “Thanks, one other question?” asked Crowe.

She looked up and around the room, he turned to see the same empty shop with the flat screens alternating between odds, racing cards and horse races. The tacky looking carpet had stains, discarded takeaway cups, and used crumpled slips strewn across it.

Hardly Cheltenham, now is it? Townsend would’ve said.

            “Other than me, I don’t suppose you’ve had any new faces coming in recently? Perhaps over the last few weeks?” asked Crowe.

“Not much passing trade in this town. Just the locals,” replied the girl.

Crowe could at last make out her name on her badge pinned to her waistcoat.

“Thanks, Karen,” said Crowe.

Karen blew a chewing gum bubble. It burst loudly. She seemed to have stopped turning pages. Her expression had turned into a light bulb moment.

“We do get the odd new customer - a student type has come in recently. Haven’t seen him before. Rides a mountain bike, brings it into the shop. Same type as my husband’s.”

“Does this student place his own bets or hand over a list?” asked Crowe.

“List. Mid to short odds, later race meetings, smaller cards. Sometimes he’s in every day, sometimes once a week. Collects winnings close of business.”

“Win often?”

Crowe found himself jotting down the details. He circled ‘smaller cards’, astute betting. An operator like Teflon D would need runners and couriers. A student type: he’s a runner, thought Crowe.

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