A Deadly Portrayal by LM Milford
When local crime reporter Emma Fletcher is asked to help identify her friend's blackmailer, she discovers a link to the recent death of a teacher at Allensbury Dance and Drama School.
Meanwhile, a police investigation is uncovering some dark secrets, and it is clear that someone is seeking revenge for past wrongs.
As Emma's list of suspects continues to grow, the discovery of a second body puts her in the killer's sights.
Warned off the investigation by the police for her own safety, Emma decides the best way to save herself is to find the culprit first.
With the help of fellow news reporter Dan Sullivan, Emma must work out who is targeting Allensbury Dance and Drama School before the killer strikes again.
About the author
LM Milford is a crime fiction author who writes the Allensburymysteries, covering the exploits of local newspaper reporter Dan Sullivan.
A former newspaper journalist, Lynne’s experience has influenced her work, although her stories were never as exciting as Dan’s.
Lynne was born and brought up in the north-east of England, but now lives in Kent with her husband and far too many books. She loves cooking, baking and holidays in Spain. She’s partial to a good red wine and plates of cheese.
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As part of the blog tour I have the pleasure of sharing an extract of the book with you!
This extract comes from chapter two of the book. So far we’ve met Travers watching a rehearsal in which dancer Natasha Kent, a student at the school, is making a mess of her routine. Travers appears to have a personal interest in her, but at present the reader doesn’t know what it is. The previous scene ends with a shadowy figure watching both and pleased that they seem rattled.
Extract
Travers stamped back into his office and slammed the door. It had been row after row all day today, and he was sick of it. Everyone was against him. Teaching didn’t really suit him; he’d known that all along. Too much temptation. But needs must when the acting roles dried up. He looked at the signed photo on the wall of the cast of Our Friends. He’d been the star of that show for so many years. Then they’d written him out, told him to leave quietly without a fuss to keep the story out of the media. Somehow, they’d bought off the little bitch and made it all go away. It didn’t feel like six years had gone by. He sighed. There just weren’t parts out there that were meaty enough for him, really. His moron of an agent had suggested taking on a side hustle while the risk of a scandal died down. These things always did, he was assured, but then the man had dumped him.
He’d tried to get his foot in the door of local theatre – thinking his name, his career, his history would count for something – but it hadn’t. It was such a clique, such a closed scene, that he felt his skills were being wasted.
Maybe it was a sign that it was time to move on, move away from everything. He’d already put some plans in place, but he needed money for that. He could have one last try at Sarah, but he wasn’t confident it would bring him what he wanted.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. A vodka, that’s what he needed. Crossing the room to his wooden desk, he pulled out the bottom drawer. It squeaked slightly.
‘Ah, my old friend,’ he said, pulling out a bottle and a glass tumbler. There was just enough time for a cheeky one before he headed home to face the music there. He sighed, walked back across the room to the sofa – his casting couch, he liked to call it – and flopped down. He poured a generous two fingers of the spirit – OK, maybe closer to three – and slumped against the cushions, taking a swig. The vodka felt good as it hit the back of his throat and he felt his muscles relax. He placed the bottle on the floor, close at hand, and swigged back the rest of the measure. Then he felt something, a twinge in the back of his throat, an all too familiar and frightening twinge.
He tried to cough, but it didn’t work. The tightening feeling was getting worse. In fact, he could feel his throat swelling. He sat forward and pulled at the neck of his shirt, trying to loosen his collar, but his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the button. He knew what this meant and reached for his expensive brown leather satchel. But when he pulled open the flap, a quick look inside showed nothing but a notebook, a Thermos mug and a couple of heavily chewed biros. Where was it? He reached inside and ran his hands around every square inch of the interior of the bag. Nothing. He gasped, upending the bag, unable to believe what was happening. He looked around the room and his eye rested on his desk. Yes, there was one in his drawer.
Staggering across the room, he was struggling to get any oxygen. He leaned heavily on the surface of the desk, gasping as he forced his arm to pull open the drawer. But inside, all he saw was stationery. His tongue had swollen to fill his mouth; his windpipe had closed entirely. A hand scrabbled at his throat, a reflex action as he knew it would do nothing. He fell to the floor with a heavy thump. Within seconds, his eyes were wide and sightless.
A face looked through the glass plate in the wooden office door and smiled. Then it disappeared from view.
