This is a sneaky peek of my new trilogy continuing the Friendship Can Be Murder saga. The new trilogy will be called Families can be Murder. I’m currently writing book 1 which will be called Dirty Work.

Book 1 is Dirty Work, hopefully appearing in Autumn 2026.

(Warning – contains lots of naughty words…)

Friday 2^nd June. 2.25pm

In the front of my wife’s old diaries, there’s always some romantic, sweet dedication, full of love and promises of devotion. I did one for her, years ago, but her first husband Thomas, did loads of them, and they were all flowery and romantic, the kind of thing posh blokes always do, and in really expensive diaries, too, you know the sort of thing, designer stationery. She still keeps them in a drawer of her bedside table and she gets them out now and again and sits there all emotional and lost in the past, and…

Erm, where was I?

Oh yes. So now I’ve got my own diary, and all it says in the front is ‘99p from Last Chance Book Bargains: your last chance to buy ’em cheap!’ Really cheap too, there’s a calendar in the front, and there’s two 27^th Februaries. Is that for Groundhog Day, or in case I need a do-over?

But instead of sitting in comfort in the sunroom at home like she does, here I am, stuck in the cab of my van, writing a quick sneaky note as I wait to find out what my dad is getting up to.

‘Matt,’ he said to me one day last week, ‘Could you give us a lift to the New Mills Industrial Park? I’ve arranged to see someone about something next Friday afternoon, ’bout twoish.’

Well, I don’t mind doing things for my dad—we get on really well, he’s not as young as he was, and he’s always been there for me, even when I was in prison—but he was acting dead cagey, so naturally I was onto him.

‘What’s it about?’ I asked him.

He just tapped the side of his nose. ‘No need for you to get involved, mate. I just need a lift, and don’t for the life of you go mentioning it to your mother.’

Nothing sets off alarm bells like my dad telling me he’s up to something I can’t tell my mum. What’s the old bugger getting up to now? At first I thought it might be some kind of birthday surprise he’s got planned for her. But to be honest, I doubt he even remembers when her birthday is, after only forty-two years of wedded bliss. It’s like the pin-code on her phone. He needed to use her phone, and it was locked. So he asked her for the code, and she (very cleverly as it turns out) said, ‘Just tap in the code. It’s our wedding date.’

So obviously he was completely stumped. Not big on remembering anniversaries or birthdays, or… just anything really. He only ever knows approximates. He knows when my mum’s birthday is, but that’s about it. To be honest, I reckon he’d be hard-pressed to tell you when Christmas day is, or even Valentine’s.

Speaking of which…

…Must get some flowers for Cress. It’s our 12^th anniversary next week. Twelve years! Bloody hell! Where did the time go? I’ll get her some nice ones, not some half-dead cheap job from a garage or budget supermarket. Posh ones for a posh lady.

And she is still so gorgeous. I can’t believe my luck. Sometimes I just look at her and think…

‘What the arse, Matt. Get a move on, mate, me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

Dad, ruining the moment as usual. He looked pretty pleased with himself, but I didn’t say anything. I’m not going to ask again. If he doesn’t want me to know, then I just don’t care what he’s getting up to.

Later:

So as I started off saying, ‘I’m writing in a diary, just like Cressida used to, or maybe still does. I don’t know, it just seems good to be able to get stuff out of your system, you know? Get it off my chest. When things bother you. Therapy, that’s what it’s called innit, and we all need that these days, what with world politics, climate change, everything.’

And it’s been a tough few years. My mum’s been poorly, though hopefully with this new medication and everything she’ll be all right, they said her prognosis, her outlook is good, so…

Then there’s the kids. They take it out of you, even when they’re good. You have to run them around, taking ‘em to this thing and that thing. Sports things, maths stuff, science this and amateur dramatics that, and to their friends’ houses. Practically every night of the week someone has to be dropped off somewhere. Cress has a big planner on the wall in the kitchen to keep track of it all. It’s like some kind of military campaign or a manoeuvre, planning where to be at a specific place at a set time. We’re just two extra sessions away from having a campaign board on the dining-table, with headsets and long poles to push everything around on a giant map of our local area.

They’re all at secondary school now, too, they won’t be kids much longer. And they’ve all got way too much attitude. Cress is the only constant thing in my universe—she don’t seem to change much. She’s a bloody sweetheart. Best thing that ever happened to me.

So coming back to Dad. What the hell is he getting up to? I need to know. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking him again, though you can bet he wants me to. That grin of his says it all. He’s up to something, and like as not it’ll be a bit dodgy.

Me and my mate Posh Tim are off fishing in the first thing in the morning—really first thing. I mean, who wants to get up at 4am on a Saturday? Me, apparently, like an idiot.

‘Get ‘em when they’re biting,’ says Tim. At least he’s driving; I can snooze in the passenger seat of his brand new Land Rover till we get there. Usually Paddy goes with us, but not this time.

‘Get up at four?’ he said. ‘In the morning? I won’t even have been to bed by then!’

Up all night gaming, I should think. I don’t even know what game it is anymore, they’ve all changed and moved on without me. I can remember when playing a computer game meant chasing a plumber up a ladder or clicking on a picture to find missing stuff to get to the next level. You just stared for a really long time at a jam-packed picture of a room, and you had to find a list of random stuff: fir cones and pearl necklaces, or flowery old-lady-teacups or one of those Hawaiian dancing girls with a lei only just covering her boobs up. Now it’s all squid this or mortal dungeons that. I don’t know. It’s all war-based and about stealth and espionage or problem-solving. Don’t see the appeal myself, it doesn’t seem much fun anymore.

So yeah. I needed a way to just offload it all, like Cressida used to in her diaries or notebooks or whatever. Or maybe she still does. I haven’t noticed her scribbling furiously away for a while now. Maybe she doesn’t get so wound about stuff anymore? If it worked for her, it might work for me.

Oh, the shower’s just gone off, she’ll be coming to bed in a minute, all warm and softly scented. I won’t be writing anything else tonight!

Mustn’t forget them flowers.

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