I know I’ve talked of nothing else for the last two months, but as recently announced, the next instalment of the Dottie Manderson mysteries is due out on 30 April 2018, and is a novella called Scotch Mist.
No doubt you are asking yourself, what is Scotch Mist? I asked myself that question, and I asked a number of other people too. I even asked Mr Google! I had always thought it was a kind of ethereal mist that disappears unusually quickly ie, ‘He vanished away before their very eyes like the proverbial Scotch Mist.’
However I quickly discovered there is no real consensus. Everyone seems to think their ‘definition’ is the true one. It has been used to described the alluring ‘mist’ that rises from the glass when Scotch is poured over ice. It has been used to describe extremely heavy, unremitting rain, that the Scots, hardened and unbroken, dismiss as nothing but a wee bit o’ mist. Whatever it is, it captured a certain something in my imagination and the title had to be applied to this story.
This is a novella, so it’s a lot shorter than a novel, more like a long short story. Hopefully it will keep everyone quiet until book 4, The Last Perfect Summer of Richard Dawlish, appears towards the end of 2018. I needed a little bridge to get Dottie from the end of The Mantle of God to the start of what my daughter calls Dickie Dawlish, and Scotch Mist is just that bridge.
Here is a short extract that is part of the opening chapter. (At the moment – things change sometimes!) I hope you like it.
Anna McHugh glared through the prison bars at the sprawling body. When the figure did not immediately acknowledge her presence, she aimed a kick through the bars at the foot hanging off the end of the narrow cot.
‘Hey, idiot! I haven’t got all day to wait around for you, so let’s get going.’
The figure on the cot stretched and yawned in a leisurely manner, as if awaking from a deep refreshing sleep. He got to his feet and gave her what he clearly believed was a cheeky smile, but she glared at him again and turned on her heels. ‘If you’re no’ in the street in one minute, you’ll have to walk back.’ She returned to the waiting area at the front of the police station, and said to the officer behind the desk. ‘He’s ready to leave now, if that’s all right.’
The police officer gave her a grin as he turned to fetch the keys out of a cupboard behind him. ‘Just out the three days, isn’t it? I know you said he was at home with you all night. But we all know it was him what took that deer from the Hall. And the Laird of the Hall is also a very good friend of the Procurator. So maybe try and keep your man home at night, m’dear, if you don’t want him to go straight back to prison, this time for a wee bit longer.’
She watched him go through to unlock the cell door. ‘He’s no my man,’ she said softly. Her man was at home, behind the bar of his public house, and he would be ready with his belt when he heard she’d given William Hardy an alibi for the previous night. Her heart felt heavy, she dreaded going home. But what else could she do? She couldn’t let Will go back to jail for the one crime he hadn’t committed. She went out into the sunshine to the little car she’d borrowed from the pub.
It seemed everything she did for Will got her into trouble. How could he have given up her name like that, even to get himself out of a tight spot? Surely he knew by now the price she would pay for that? Her mind whispered that her mother would have said a gentleman never betrayed a lady’s confidence. But William Hardy was no gentleman, and she doubted he would say she was a lady, either. Why did she let him do this to her? If she could only get him out of her life—and her heart—perhaps her husband wouldn’t find so much fault in her. Which would mean far fewer bruises.
She sat behind the wheel, waiting. And waiting. She told herself she’d just give him another minute, then it became two more, and then another five. Finally after almost fifteen minutes the man came out, swaggering as he came, proud as punch of his exploits. Along the street someone cheered, and Will raised his fist in a gesture of triumph. Anna sighed. How was another night in the cells anything to be proud of?