Project Petrolhead

You may have noticed that this column seems a bit less… fleshed out than usual. There’s a good reason for that. While I’ve been adamant to maintain my self-imposed one-written-column-per-week schedule, I have been a little distracted.

You see, I’ve written a book. And I’d like to answer some pressing questions about it.

An actual book?

Yes, an actual book. It’s got pages and everything.

What’s it about?

It’s a murder mystery with a dash of political thriller, all set around the 2007 British Grand Prix.

So, not cars then?

Well, sort of. It’s not car centric, but the protagonist does drive a BMW E39 M5, described in exhaustive detail, and there are cameo appearances from a Renault Espace, a Jag XJ and a Vauxhall Vectra GSI to keep an eye out for.

Sounds interesting, where can I get one?

Here. It’s available in Paperback and eBook form on Amazon.

That seems reasonably priced.

That’s not a question but thank you.

Can you publish an excerpt?

Why Certainly. Here you go.

Jack stumbled into the corner shop, trying to refocus his vision so that he could obtain the necessary supplies, making a beeline for the shop’s small, overstocked cooler. There it was, the mythical ambrosia he needed to cure his stonking hangover. Six rashers of wafer-thin bacon, more brine than pork, vacuum sealed in plastic. Just what the doctor ordered. As Jack closed the door on the glass-fronted cooler, his eye was drawn to a reflection. Not his reflection, the reflection of the man stood directly behind him in the shop doorway. The man was tall and well built, wearing a black jacket, navy blue polo shirt and neat trousers. Too neat. Freshly pressed and starched, with a crisp crease running down the front of them. No normal person leaves the house with trousers that neat, not unless they’ve had it drilled into them over a period of years. Without making it obvious that he had noticed the mystery figure, Jack placed the pack of bacon back in the cooler. Suddenly, he didn’t have an appetite for a greasy breakfast. Maybe a Bolognese instead.

Reaching down, Jack scooped up a jar of pasta sauce from an adjacent shelf, tossing it across to his free hand. ‘Yes, that’ll do it’ he thought, as he wandered over to the till. The lurking man’s footsteps followed Jack but remained at a safe distance. Clearly, Jack was being tailed. He’d tailed people before, so he knew how easy it was to be obvious, but this chap? It’s almost like he wanted Jack to know he’s there. Jack placed the pasta sauce down on the counter and rummaged around in his pocket for the requisite change. Anil was a nice bloke who knew Jack by name. He’d owned the shop since the 80s and was well liked by the community (apart from the local secondary school pupils, who were banned from coming into his shop more than two at a time). With the change deposited on the counter, Jack laid out two twenty-pound notes next to it.

“That’s for the damage.”

Anil looked puzzled for a second when, in a blur of movement, Jack picked up the jar, spun around and threw it directly at the head of his pursuer, who cried out and fell backwards into a shelf of chocolate bars. Seizing the opportunity, Jack made a break for the shop door, just as a large, black Jaguar XJ saloon screeched to a halt on the street outside. Three of the Jag’s doors flung open, and its occupants emerged, similarly dressed to the man in the shop but with one important addition, each was training a 9mm pistol directly at the centre of Jack’s chest. Deciding it was probably better for business if he didn’t become Swiss cheese, Jack raised both hands before the fourth man, now sporting a welt over his right eye, grabbed his wrists, forced them behind his back and secured them with a pair of rigid handcuffs. Leading Jack over to the car, the Fourth man grabbed him by the back of the neck, forcing him into the rear passenger seat.

Murder In The Pit Lane – Available now!