Here is chapter one of my new WILD INCORPORATED book MADAME MURDER.

Harry Calhoun has had two previous adventures with the mysterious crime fighting team Wild Incorporated. He’s a member of the team but he’s still finding his feet. As usual, though, the action begins several years ago as the seeds of the current adventure are laid in the distant past.

Here is Chapter One:

CHAPTER ONE: HARRY EATS A SANDWICH

Cyprus, 1993

Father came home and Dolo and Lenya were happy until the three strangers showed up

Father had been gone for three days, which was not unusual. Dolo was used to looking after her little sister. Lenya was six and had a collection of dolls that she played with all the time. Dolo was nine and had the radio tuned to a Cypriot station that played Western pop music. What is Love? was playing over the tinny speakers and Dolo danced with her broom as she swept the kitchen floor.

She turned and saw her father standing in the open doorway. He smiled at her.

She stopped and dropped the broom, her face going red, embarrassed that her father had watched her awkward steps.

His smile widened and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Life is for dancing, Dolo. Do not stop for anyone.”

Father made omelettes. Father always made omelettes when he came home happy. He drank wine and the girls drank Coca-Cola. The sun set over the Mediterranean Sea. Lenya fell asleep in the big chair with one of her dolls and father carried her to her bed.

Dolo looked out of the window. In the darkened street outside she saw three men in black suits not moving, just watching the house.

“Father…” she said, but her father was already there, turning out the light.

“Get in the closet, Dolo,” Father hissed.

In the dark she scooted across the floor to the broom cupboard. Her sister and her were used to hiding inside the tiny space. Hide and seek was a favorite game.

But this was no game. Dolo knew her father’s tone and it was deadly serious.

She crouched down behind the broom and the mop. She tried to be as quiet as she could. She carefully leaned forward so she could see between the slats of the cupboard door.

She heard an insistent knock on the door. She saw her father pull out a stiletto from a hiding place and slip it inside his shirt.

Her father turned on the light and opened the door. The three men in black suits were standing outside the doorway. “Ti káneis edó?” Father demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“Business,” one of the men, a white-haired man, said.

“Our business is finished!” Father insisted. “I did what was asked and I have been paid. What more business is there?”

“Our employer has tasked us with the business of tying up loose ends,” the white haired man said. He stepped into the dimly lit kitchen. The two others followed in after.

Father looked at them incredulously. “Do you not know who I am?” he asked. “Do you not know what I am? Do you know nothing of my reputation?”

The white haired man shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. “I only do what I am told to do,” he said.

“You insult me by coming here and treating me like a common hit-man. I have been employed by royalty and by governments. They know that I value discretion above all. You men being here is a violation of the agreement…”

“I have instructions from the man who employs me,” the white haired man said more forcefully. “The same man who employed you.”

“I am not a mere employee!” Father spat. “I entered into a contract. You men are an insult to me and my profession!”

“Awww, that’s enough!” one of the others, a larger man with close cropped black hair, shouted. He had a flat, American accent “You think you’re better ‘n us, is that it?”

“Kristoff…” the white haired man said in a warning tone.

The larger man shook his head. “I’ve had enough o’ this guy. Let’s just kill him and go home…”

That was when Father struck. The knife suddenly appeared from a sleeve and plunged into the bigger man’s thick neck. He stared, uncomprehending for a frozen moment, then uttered a gurgling cry.

The knife was withdrawn and the man fell backwards, his hands clutching at his bloody throat.

The knife flashed again and the white haired man’s throat was opened and his white shirt was quickly stained red. He fell forward.

Father whirled and threw his blade at the third man.

The third man had drawn a gun when the knife appeared. The gun went off with an ugly report. The blade plunged into his chest. He stared dumbly at the knife then dropped the smoking pistol before joining it in a heap on the floor.

Dolo watched all this in utter shock. She knew what her father did, but to her it was distant and abstract. To see it all play out in their own house filled her with terror.

Father fell to his knees. “Dolo…” he called and something in his voice was even more terrifying to the little girl that what she had just witnessed.

She threw open the door, tripping over the fallen broom and dustpans as she clambered to her father’s side.

He slumped in the middle of their kitchen, surrounded by three dead men in suits leaking pools of blood.

“Father…” Dolo said. He turned to her and his face was pale and wan. She looked down at his shirt and she saw a dark stain spreading out from his stomach.

“Take care…” Father rasped. “Take care of Lenya…”

“Father!” She squeaked. “We need to get you to a…”

Her father shook his head. “There’s no time left,” he said. “Look after your sister. Don’t let anyone stop you…”

His eyes closed and he slumped to the floor. Soon he was still.

Dolo held her father, heedless of the spreading blood that were soaking her dress. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to scream, but that would wake her sister.

She would spare her this sight, but Dolo… Dolo would never forget.

Edinburgh, 2013

Trina Spenser read the forensic report with growing excitement. It had landed on her desk mere minutes ago and she had hurriedly pulled it out of the manila envelope and had dug into it.

She read it through once to get the gist and then she read it again more carefully to make sure there was no mistake.

There was no mistake.

She stuffed the report back in the envelope and carried it to the Super’s office. On the way she saw Beggle enter the front doors.

She stopped, shocked at the man’s broad smile, his glad handing of the uniformed officers, sharing a joke and laughing as if he was on some sort of campaign stop and not being called in to answer for his crimes.

His victim’s body was downstairs in the morgue and here he was as if this was all just part of a routine day.

Trina felt an anger burning inside of her at the sight of him. The only balm for that anger was the contents of the report in the envelope she held in her shaking hands.

She tore herself away from the display in the station’s front lobby and headed towards Superintendent Bakewell’s door. She knocked once, then opened and came in.

Bakewell looked up at her with his heavy lidded eyes.

“We’ve got him,” Trina said.

“Sit down, Spenser,” Bakewell said, indicating the chair opposite his desk.

Trina handed him the manila envelope. “Lab report on the mistress. We got him.”

Bakewell took it but did not open it.

“Rory Beggle’s DNA is all over the victim. Semen. Saliva. Skin under her fingernails. Even on her teeth. There is absolutely no doubt that they had coitus, then he beat her mercilessly. She fought back. He killed her. No question,”

Bakewell looked at the unopened envelope in his hands. “I think you’ll find that this is inconclusive,” he said.

Trina let out an incredulous laugh. “Inconclusive? Hollins did the labs. His work is impeccable. There couldn’t be a more conclusive report. He’s guilty. He’s even here. He just walked into the station. Arrest him and we’ll send him down for…”

Bakewell shook his head. “I’m afraid this report is just not thorough enough,” he said. He opened a drawer in his desk and slid the envelope into it. Trina watched in stunned silence as the report slipped out of the fluorescent light and into the darkness.

Bakewell regarded her with his perpetually tired looking eyes. “We’re going to have to let him go.”

Trina said nothing for a moment. She could not believe that this was happening. “You can’t be serious…” she managed. Her voice sounded small in her ears.

Bakewell dropped his eyes to the mess of reports on his desktop. “That’ll be all, DI Spenser.”

Trina stood up, her body vibrating with outrage. She placed her hands on the back edge of his desk. She wanted to shove everything on the desk forward – his mess of reports, his half eaten packets of biscuits, his paper cup full of stone cold tea, his computer, keyboard, pens and pencils – all of it she wanted to shove into his lap, knocking his chair back into the wall. She wanted to scream at him and pummel his sagging face with her fists.

“He’s guilty…” was all she said. “He killed her. He raped her. He beat her. It took her hours to die and it was his hands that finally choked the life out of her and you’re just going to let him WALK OUT OF HERE?”

She was shaking now and Bakewell had the decency to give her a guilty look before he sat back and regarded her seriously. “Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off, DI Spenser.” he said.

“The day off?” Trina said, her face red.

“Perhaps starting now, so you can think about what you are about to say,” Bakewell said. “Before you say something that might result in a suspension.”

She stared at him, incredulous for what seemed like a very long time. Before finally turning away, out the door, slamming it behind her.

She walked past the interview room where Beggle standing outside with a couple of uniformed officers, still laughing and joking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

As she passed, the bastard turned his head and looked at her. Locked eyes with hers.

And he smiled.

The bastard smiled like he knew what had just happened in the Super’s office.

Trina turned her head away and she pushed through reception and out the door to the car park. She felt the tears on her cheeks and feeling them made her even more angry, but she would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her wipe them away.

She kept her head down and walked the length of the car park, passing her beat-up Vauxhall, crossing the street and walking through the entrance to a cafe where she spent most of her lunch hours.

She sat heavily in her usual chair, her back to the window that faced the station. She pulled a napkin from the holder and wiped her cheeks as surreptitiously as she could.

“You all right, Love?” a voice startled her. She looked up and saw a sandy haired man in a business suit regarding her solicitously.

Trina was still angry. “Fuck off,” slipped from her lips before she could even think.

The man’s face darkened. “Just trying to be friendly,” he said, anger in his voice. “No reason to be a bitch about it!”

Trina stood up suddenly, her fists clenched, her face contorted with rage. The man stepped back, an alarmed look on his face. She had practiced arrest techniques until she could do them in her sleep, and she found that she wanted to take it all out on mister business suit in front of her.

Before she could move a woman stepped in front of her, facing the business suited man. “Find a place to sit down,” she said. She spoke with an accent.

The man regarded her in confusion, then turned and left the cafe, abandoning his tea and cake.

The woman turned around to face Trina. She was short and compact, but Trina could see that she was tightly muscled. She looked to be in her thirties, with dark hair drawn back in a single braid.

“I know you’re angry,” the woman said. Her accent sounded Mediterranean. Greek?

“You have no idea…” Trina began.

“Oh, but I do,” the woman said. “Sit and listen to me for ten minutes. If you’re not interested in what I have to say then you can walk out of here and you will never see me again.”

Trina sat and the woman sat opposite her. The woman began to speak.

Two hours later, Trina was still listening.

TODAY

It was Thursday and Harry Calhoun bit into his second sandwich of the day, his third since yesterday and his fifth since Monday.

“You must really love our sandwiches,” the woman behind the lunch counter said as she poured him another coffee. The woman had flawless brown skin and silky black hair and when she smiled in his direction Harry’s mind seemed to go somewhere else, leaving him alone with just a goofy grin and nothing to say.

“These are great sandwiches,” Harry said, trying to keep his cool and come across as suave and interesting while chewing on his Pastrami on Rye. “Best in New York.”

“Best in New York?” the woman, Adriana, (so Harry had learned the first day he saw her. Her name tag said ADI but the other woman who seemed to run the shop called out her employee’s full name several times an hour, and Harry was nothing if not attentive to details) said in mock surprise. “We only opened two weeks ago and we’re already the Best in New York? We’ll be run off our feet by Friday.”

“Well,” Harry said around a mouthful. “I think it is.”

“That’s good,” Adriana said. “Because you’ve been single-handedly keeping us afloat this last week.”

The bit about the Best in New York was a lie. The Empire Club’s sandwiches were not the best in New York in Harry’s opinion. Not even the best in North America. There was a restaurant in Hamilton, Ontario called Pinky’s that made the absolute best Reuben and Monte Cristo sandwiches that Harry had ever tasted.

But Pinky’s didn’t have Adriana.

There were a few other customers in the Empire Club, but not many. It was a small place, one of the smallest venues that was available in the lobby level of the Empire State Building, and it was new. Since discovering it on Monday and ascertaining that Adriana had the most adorable smile that Harry had ever seen, he had eaten here every day. Sometimes (like today) twice a day.

At first he’d been content just watching her, but had soon struck up a conversation. He had tried to be smooth, telling her that he worked for a very important International company (which was somewhat true, though the actual nature of Wild Incorporated’s work was not, strictly speaking, business) and telling her the intimate details of the tower’s secret lower levels, the vault, the observation deck and how it was the perfect place to watch a sunset (or sunrise) in the entire city.

She seemed interested in his anecdotes. At least, she smiled a lot when he spoke, and that was good enough up until now.

He had determined that today would be the right day to suggest going somewhere for coffee, or maybe a drink. He had screwed his courage to the sticking place and was about to float his oh-so-casual suggestion, when…

“Harry!” Fergus called to him from the entrance. “Get it to go. There’s a meeting!”

Harry turned and saw Fergus. The tall, handsome black man was wearing a grey pin stripe suit, Oxford shoes, his usual short dreads and black Ray-Bans.

Harry gave the lawyer a casual wave. “Be right there,” he called.

Fergus nodded and headed for the elevator. Harry turned back to Adriana.

“Is that your boss?” Adriana asked.

“No,” Harry replied, trying to stay calm. “Just a guy I work with.”

He had to be at that meeting. Morrigan Wild, his actual boss and the leader of Wild Incorporated, would expect him to be there and he would not dare disappoint her. If he was going to ask Adriana out, he would have to do it soon or perhaps miss his chance. He waited until she had finished pouring a coffee and taking another order. He cleared his throat.

“Oi! Harry!” a voice boomed.

Harry turned to see Bulldog, the towering British man with the hugely oversized hands, standing in the entrance. He wore his usual grey trench coat and dark suit. “Make it a takeaway. Meeting’s in ten!”

“Be right there,” Harry called, his voice not as suave as he’d wanted it to be. Bulldog turned and strode to the elevator.

“You want me to pack that up for you?” Adriana asked. “Looks like it’s time to get back to work, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, reluctantly. “I guess so.”

Adriana grabbed a paper clam shell and placed the half of the sandwich that was left into it. She handed it to him. Harry grasped the other end, then looked up into her eyes. She was looking into his, still holding the other end of the paper container.

“Listen,” Harry began. “Maybe… if you’re interested… maybe we could get together after this place closes. I’ll buy you a coffee. I know a little place a couple of blocks away…”

“Let me guess,” Adriana said. “Best in New York?”

Harry laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “We could…”

Suddenly his view of Adriana was obstructed by an apple cheeked woman with freckles and an upturned nose. Her red hair was cropped boyishly close. She wore a leather jacket over a white tee shirt and a baggy pair of black trousers.

Chaplin (for it was she) snatched the clam shell from Harry, taking a peek inside. “Pastrami on Rye?” she squealed in her broad southern twang. “That’s my favorite! I’m flattered you remembered, sweetheart! I’ll eat it during the meeting. You’re just the best boyfriend a girl from Georgia could ever have!”

Chaplin then leaned in and planted a kiss full on Harry’s lips.

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