BLOG TOUR: The GrassTrail - Book 3 by A.A. Abbott [Excerpt Included]
Blurb
Shaun knows who put him inside – and he wants to make her pay…
Shaun Halloran wouldn't be in prison if glamorous Kat White hadn't taken his gun. Pictures of the stunning blonde are plastered all over his cell. As soon as he can escape, she's dead. But with his criminal empire crumbling, he can’t trust anyone.
Kat, panicked by poison pen letters, has nowhere to turn. Her parents are dead and her brother's ill. Even her sexy new business partner may not be what he seems. When she receives life-changing news, vodka is the only answer...
A tense crime thriller with plenty of twists, "The Grass Trail" races through Birmingham, London and the former Soviet Union - tempting you to turn each page.
English thriller writer AA Abbott’s real name is Helen Blenkinsop, but like JK Rowling, she wanted to . She loves city life, having lived and worked in London, Birmingham and Bristol. Her crime thrillers, set in Birmingham and London, sizzle with suspense, twists and the evils of office politics.
Helen’s books are available in a dyslexia-friendly large print as well as standard paperback and Kindle editions.
Her Trail Series follows the fortunes of glamorous blonde Kat
White, a party girl who finds her purpose making vodka, shrewd
businessman Marty Bridges, and manipulative East End crime lord
Shaun Halloran
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Excerpt:
Chapter - 1
Shaun
Shaun
Shaun
focused on the pictures fixed to his scuffed
white wall: ten photographs, almost identical. Blonde hair, voluptuous bosoms
and green eyes beckoned. He would see her again, he told himself, and this time
she wouldn’t be pointing a gun at him. Licking his lips, he switched off the
light and climbed, alone, into his bunk. Early though it was, he needed to
sleep, to shake off the flu that was rocketing around the prison. A man in his
position had to stay on top of his game. At least Bazza had been shipped out
earlier; the bottom bunk was empty, and Bazza’s snores would no longer disturb him.
Dreams came quickly, returning him to a
familiar world: roulette wheels, sharp suits, flashes of fifty pound notes and
flimsy dresses, the blonde blowing a perfect curl of cigarette smoke at him.
The grinding of a key in the lock and the
clang of an opening door were simply part of his night-time fantasy at first. The
heavies were throwing an irate punter out of the building. Shaun turned back to
the blonde. Then, as his cell flooded with light and a screw’s voice said,
“Meet your new padmate,” he snapped awake.
Despite the fever, it took seconds to
recognise the man who strode into the tiny cell. He’d featured on TV news a lot
recently, albeit clad in Savile Row’s finest rather than the faded maroon tracksuit
he was wearing now. The bald head and reddened, fleshy face were unmistakable.
With an expletive and a groan, Shaun swung
himself out of bed. “A Tory MP?” he said contemptuously. “Do me a favour.”
The screw, one of the older sort who
thought he was a hard man, laughed in Shaun’s face. “This isn’t the Ritz,
Halloran. You want a nice ensuite room to yourself, you shouldn’t go around
killing people.” Evidently spotting the horrified expression on the MP’s face,
he added, “And you’d better not expect a hotel either, Jenner. You’re in prison
now. Get used to it.”
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