TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME BACK OUR GUEST AUTHOR, JOHN SAXTON, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO OF HIS NOVEL, 'IN BLOOD STEPPED DEEP' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

Chapter 1

Joseph Sledmire’s senses were overwhelmed by darkness and nausea, his mind submerged in an abyss of black. A sickening taste soured his mouth. Something cut into his wrists and ankles, as a monster headache pounded the walls of his skull.

Memories oozed into his groggy mind. He remembered leaving his office. Stepping into the dimly-lit street. Locking the door. Peering down at his phone to check messages. Becoming aware of hurried footsteps approaching from behind. Then a sickening blow that rattled the back of his head.

Adrenaline flooded his veins at that thought, and he became suddenly alert. Forcing his eyes open, he stared into darkness. He tried to stand but found himself fully restrained; the pain in his wrists and ankles surged through shredded nerves like slivers of glass. Panic overtook him; something was bound tightly around his head, pressing into his cheeks and gagging his dry mouth.

Heart punching against his ribs, he realized that something covered his eyes. He felt the sturdy chair beneath him, heavy and obstinate. He tried to speak but the wet rag prevented anything more than mumbles and moans.

Footsteps approached. Sledmire drew in a short, sharp, breath and held it.

Rough hands tugged at the gag, pulling it downwards to rest beneath his flabby chin. He gasped for air like a drowning man, slurring a few syllables before managing to speak.

‘Where… am I? What’s happening?’ His tongue was sticky, his mouth parched. Tilting his head to one side, he listened for a response which didn’t come. Blindly, he turned his head from side to side, striving desperately to see something, anything, through the blindfold.

The footsteps moved away. ‘Wait! Please, don’t leave me. I have money – I can pay you!’

The steps abruptly stopped, and Sledmire felt a flicker of hope; perhaps that was it! Do they want money?

A heavy object was dragged across the floor. Something inside it sloshed noisily. When it stopped, he heard the unscrewing of a cap and smelt the unmistakable reek of petrol.

Hope turned to blind terror. Cold liquid splashed over his head and shoulders, drenching him from head to foot. Sledmire screamed like a small child, then blurted out, ‘No, no, no! Please! Let me go, please don’t burn…’ He cut himself short as the starkness of his own words echoed the unthinkable. He screamed again.

A thud, as the empty container dropped onto the hard floor. A pause. In the silence, Joseph Sledmire’s breath came in heaving sobs. He sensed his captor moving behind him.

Suddenly, the blindfold was wrenched away and, as he blinked rapidly, Sledmire’s world slid into focus. A large room. Stone floor, high walls, a ceiling with banks of harsh strip-lighting. A warehouse?

A shadow fell across the floor from behind, growing gradually shorter as his assailant moved leisurely around to stand before him.

Sledmire’s red-streaked eyes widened as he saw the silver lighter and the thumb poised over the striking flint. The flame erupted and the lighter flew the small distance to his torso. Screeching replaced any attempts at speech as he was consumed by flames. His flesh reddened, blistered and bubbled within seconds, and he writhed in unspeakable agony. With the stench of his own burning flesh filling the air, unconsciousness enveloped him.

Sledmire slumped forwards, death fast approaching. Blackened chunks of flesh fell from his body, hitting the ground where they continued to smoulder. Watching from a safe distance, the figure nodded, satisfied, and reached for the extinguisher on the wall, to approach the burning remains of what had once been Joseph Sledmire. 

Chapter 2

DI Dan Sutton loosened his tie and flicked open the top button of his shirt. It was just a stone’s throw from the police station at Sessions House Yard up to Cornmarket in the centre of town but already his shirt was starting to stick to his back. Alongside him, Detective Constable Gift Bastian was busy pointing out places of interest. Sutton nodded absently, slung his jacket over his shoulder and cursed the fact that his relocation had dropped on the hottest day of the year so far.

He already knew the streets of Pontefract very well, having been born and bred just down the road in Featherstone. But he noticed how the high street had changed in the fifteen years or so since he’d left his childhood home, in favour of a faster pace of policing in Leeds. Most obviously, the ubiquitous coffee bars and charity shops that seemed to pop up everywhere these days.

As Sutton glanced across at the old Magistrates’ Court, now an antiques emporium, complete with café, Gift cut into his thoughts. ‘Pontefract’s altered a fair bit over the years, sir,’ he ventured, as if reading his superior’s mind. ‘I bet you’ve noticed a few changes.’

‘Aye, you’re not wrong. There’s a few more pubs than there used to be. Even back when I was a teenager, Ponty held the record for the most bars per square mile in Yorkshire.’ At least, he’d heard that said on more than one occasion.

Gift nodded. ‘It can definitely get quite lively when the locals have had a few beers. I’m sure you’ll have seen a lot worse in Leeds, though. If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what brings you back here?’

‘Don’t mind you asking, at all.’ Doesn’t mean I’m ready to tell you. ‘It was the lure of the liquorice factory. I just love me a good Pontefract Cake.’ The last part, at least, was true; he’d often grazed through a whole bag of the circular black liquorice sweets that the town was famous for. ‘I like the little picture of the castle they stamp on them.’

He watched the expression of mild amusement on Gift’s face. ‘That’s not the main reason. I’m here for a secondment; cross-ref’ing city methods with small towns, that sort of thing.’ Sutton preferred to keep the real reason for his location to himself for now, recalling how his DCI had insisted it was “in his own best interests” to have more direct support from Normanton for a while, considering the events that had taken place in Leeds.

He turned the questioning back on Gift. ‘I’ve worked with Detective Chief Inspector Flint, over in Leeds, and I understand he’s back in this neck of the woods now. Have you met him?’

Gift raised his hand to a stall-holder who cheerily greeted him by name, before answering. ‘We know of him, sir, but we haven’t seen much of him since he came back to HQ at Normanton. He spends most of his time there.’

‘Well, you’re not missing much.’ Sutton could have said a lot more but decided against it. At least the jumped-up little pillock wasn’t here standing over him – yet. As they wove their way through the crowds, he changed tack. ‘I met with DS Fox earlier, and your opposite number. DC Rathbone, is it? Anything I should know?’

Gift raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, you know, Rathbone’s a solid colleague, despite his weird sense of humour sometimes.’

‘Well, if he works as hard at the job as he does at that quiff of his, he’ll go far.’

‘Oh, you noticed that?’

‘Couldn’t bloody miss it, son.’

‘He is pretty proud of it, sir,’ the younger officer grinned. ‘DS Fox keeps us all hard at it. She’s really approachable and knowledgeable – a great role model. He skirted round a juggler who was busy spinning five wooden clubs, before adding, ‘If we’re ever unsure about procedure, she’ll have the answer. Always well-briefed on professional standards.’

Sutton turned the phrase “professional standards” round a few times in his head and decided not to comment on it. ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said.

Gift Bastian had seemed a good choice to catch him up on the hot-spots and local wannabes on a tour of the town. Back in the day when Sutton was a uniform PC, with a new wife and a mountain of a mortgage, he remembered the Bastians moving into Featherstone. Gift had joined the local junior rugby league team, quickly establishing himself as a powerful forward, playing for the county and then eventually, semi-professionally. By the time he joined the police-force, Gift was a minor celebrity in the area, and as a result, knew just about everybody.

‘So, tell me, what’s with Gift as a name? Doesn’t exactly sing out Yorkshire, does it?’

‘Oh, I think my mum probably wanted to give me away to someone as soon as she could,’ he quipped. ‘No, it’s a kind of tradition in our family, sir. Goes back to my great-grandparents in Jamaica. The name gets handed down, even though I’m as Yorkshire as flat caps and racing-pigeons. My sister got it worse, though. Blessing has had a lot to put up with.’

Sutton managed a faint smile, as they approached the war memorial opposite KFC. The town’s annual Liquorice Fair was in full swing, with both live and canned music blaring out at ear-splitting volumes; kids were being dragged around by red-faced, stressed-out parents, and stall-holders hollered and yelled to attract the next mug to buy some of their overpriced crap.

‘Christ, it could only happen to me,’ Sutton grumbled, as they elbowed their way through the hubbub; he was tall, and powerfully-built, his superior height enabling him to take in a good view of the crowd.

Gift sauntered on, pointing out individuals of interest and exchanging pleasantries with people – the guy really did seem to know everyone – all the while looking as cool as a cucumber. Sutton sweated and muttered as he shadowed the younger man, wishing he could be beamed up and plonked in a shady beer garden with an ice-cold pint of John Smith’s Extra Smooth.

He grumbled as he dodged a bad-tempered chihuahua on a string, on the other end of which was a miserable-looking woman who seemed to think that he was the problem. Gift tried to hide his amusement and, quite wisely, guided Sutton away, towards a stall selling cold drinks, which stood in a welcome slab of shade.

‘Could I have a Diet Coke, please?’ The younger officer rummaged in his pocket, but Dan put a hand on his arm.

‘I’ll get these,’ he said, delving into his jacket and peering into a refrigeration unit. Seeing nothing stronger, he added, ‘I’ll have a Coke – hold the Diet.’ He needed a sugar rush and a cooler. He waved a debit card at the stallholder, a pot-bellied guy with a Bobby Charlton haircut and round sunglasses.

‘Cash only, mate,’ the owner drawled. ‘Fiver, please.’

Before Sutton could respond with a disgusted ‘How much!?’ Gift handed over a ten-pound note to the seller’s outstretched palm, receiving a crumpled fiver in return. He steered the DI back into the crowd. Spying a nearby bench, whose sole occupant was a greasy-skinned youth donning a beard resembling shaven pubes stuck onto his chin with a glue stick, Gift strode over and sat down. The youth did a double take, stood up and disappeared into the crowd.

Sutton took the vacated seat. ‘He looked like he’d seen a ghost; either that or he hates your aftershave.’ They fizzed open their drinks, Sutton taking long gulps as Gift sipped at his.

‘That was Luke Bailey. He’s been pulled for shoplifting too many times to count. Does it to feed his drug habit.’ He didn’t seem to notice Sutton’s expression darken at that last sentence. ‘Yeah, we’ve met a few times,’ Gift said, gazing into the crowd in the general direction that Bailey had dashed.

Sutton drained his Coke and crushed the can in his fist, as he scanned the crowd for where the youth had slithered off to. Something further down the road caught his eye; some kind of fracas was building up. A small, raucous crowd had gathered in the entrance to the Malt Shovel pub.

Gift followed his gaze. Sutton checked his wristwatch; still only mid-afternoon; the townsfolk were getting oiled-up early today.

The DI was up on his feet and pushing his way through the browsers, buyers and drunks, moving as fast as the crush would allow, with the younger officer in tow. The throng at the pub’s entrance blocked his view of the doorway but as he drew closer, Sutton saw a splash of bright yellow spilling out of the front entrance; a figure standing head and shoulders taller than the surrounding mob. This was quickly followed by another huge figure, this one bright green. Given the colours on display, Sutton thought it no surprise that the air had turned blue with the language the two of them exchanged.

‘Go on lads, give it some!’ a voice yelled.

‘A tenner says Shrek batters him,’ another voice hollered.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Sutton muttered, elbowing his way through, binning the Coke can and pulling out his warrant card. ‘Grown bloody men.’

The sight of the badge had an instant effect on a bunch of the loiterers, thinning out the group. With the arrival of Gift by the DI’s side, still more sidled away. Shrek, the village idiot in the foam costume, held up his hands, turned away and blundered off, shaking his head and chuntering.

The occupant of the yellow costume was not so compliant. ‘S’nice badge, mate! Why don’t you stick it up your arse?’

Sutton glanced at the DC. ‘Who the hell is this bloody idiot?’

Gift couldn’t hide a smile. ‘Oh, this?’ he gestured towards the listing drunk who was currently dripping with sweat inside the chunky yellow costume. ‘This is Jackie Morton. Likes a bit of a drink and can get a bit boisterous at times. Come on, Jackie, calm down and get on your way now.’

Morton frowned, tilting his thumbs at his own costume. ‘I’ll thank you to call me by my proper name!’ He swiped out with an oversized arm. Gift ducked and Sutton took half a step back, feeling the draft on his face.

Simultaneously pocketing his warrant card and grabbing the blundering oaf’s arm, he spun Morton around and locked his arm up his back. ‘Spongebob?’ Sutton sighed, ‘You look like a block of Swiss cheese. What’s more, you’re drunk and disorderly in public – and nicked.’

Much to the audible annoyance of the bargain-bucket Squarepants, Sutton spun the man around and, with jeering and laughter receding into the distance, frog-marched him back to Sessions House Yard.

The constable on the front desk quickly hid a half-eaten flapjack beneath the counter, as Sutton stood Morton at the desk. ‘Get him processed for D and D, then stick him in a cell to have some beauty sleep – if you can tear yourself away from your cake, that is.’

PC Albert ‘Albie’ Green reached for the correct form, murmuring a quick, ‘Yessir, right away,’ through a shower of crumbs. Sutton remembered Green from the old days. Following a knee injury, he’d been given the desk job on a temporary basis. He’d obviously spun it out for as long as possible, as he was now only two years from his full pension. But, he knew the job inside out, shortcuts and all, and Sutton would trust him with anything – he just needed a prod now and then.

‘Kiss arse,’ Morton hissed beneath his breath. Albie Green smiled and returned to his flapjack, just as the security door to the main offices was yanked open, and DS Fox appeared in the doorway.

‘Sir, I need to speak to you; there’s been an incident up at the castle.’

‘I’ll finish up here then?’ Gift suggested, taking Spongebob Squarepants by the arm.

Sutton nodded his thanks and followed Fox through the door, slamming it shut behind him, a new purpose in his step.

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Author John Saxton

AUTHOR BIO

John Saxton is a UK writer, born in the heart of Yorkshire, near the ancient and haunted town of Pontefract, where he still lives today. ‘In Blood Stepped Deep’ his debut crime thriller, is set in Pontefract and its surrounding areas. The setting brings a vibrant and authentic sense of place to the story, allowing it to become a character in its own right. The inspiration for DI Dan Sutton’s character didn’t come from any one person; he is, in part, inspired by a whole host of people that John has met over the years whilst also being drawn from the author’s own imagination. Sutton is a detective who has learned the lessons of life the hard way and, as result, leaves no stone unturned to see justice done for those who need it.

When John isn’t writing, he enjoys nothing more than exploring the beautiful Yorkshire countryside, walking the hills, and discovering new locations to feature in his books. Luckily, he isn’t spoilt for choice, so readers can expect lots of surprises and places they may recognise in this and in future titles. There are so many lovely places to hide bodies!

The second in the series, ‘Murderer’s Gibbet’ will be available soon.

John can be contacted via his Facebook page (John Saxton – Crime Writer), his Instagram page @johnsaxtonwriter, on Bluesky @saxtoncrime.bsky.social, where you can keep up with all his news on future projects.

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COMING SOON: On Sunday 5th July, we are thrilled to welcome back our guest author, Annie Carlisle, who is sharing Chapter One of her novel, 'FLASHOVER'.