"Fans of Rowson’s DI Andy Horton books will be delighted with her new series. A likeable, smart, tough, but all too human hero. A tense, terrifying thrill ride that twists and turns with dizzying speed.A cracking-good new series - action fans need Marvik on their radar." Booklist
Read the extract from Silent Running and see one of the settings for this Art Marvik mystery thriller - Newtown Harbour, Isle of Wight
By the time Marvik reached Newtown Harbour the wind had risen but the rain had come to little more than a few threatening and erratic flurries. He secured the boat and made for the cottage feeling troubled. A blackbird flew squawking into the air. On the surface everything looked the same. The cottage door was shut, the windows too; it was exactly as he had left it that morning. But there was something.
He scrutinized the garden and surrounding area. There was a branch of a shrub broken but nothing else. The rear door was locked and the alarm still set. He disengaged it and stood motionless for a moment, listening. Only the sound of the wind and the birdsong came to him. He studied the kitchen. Nothing had been disturbed or defiled. The kettle was exactly where he had left it on the dark blue range, the kitchen cupboards closed and his lap top computer was on the table in the centre of the room. He stiffened. No, that was wrong. It wasn’t exactly how he had left it. It had been moved just perceptibly. Or was that just him getting compulsive, obsessive and paranoid?
He crossed to it and studied the computer and the table around it. The lid was down. It was the same distance from the edge of the table, the chair was in the exact position and yet as he studied both he knew that it was fractionally different. Was it just his imagination? His eyes swung to the door which led into the hall and his pulse quickened. It was ajar as he had left it but he remembered looking back as he had set the alarm before leaving and like a snapshot the image reframed itself in his mind. Having a photographic memory was a gift and he’d developed that to become a skill over the years in combat. The door was open slightly wider than when he had left and Charlotte couldn’t have done that because she had been beside him when he had set the alarm.
Swiftly he went through the rest of the house looking for more signs of the intruder. He found them in his bedroom and in the living room. They were minuscule and would not have been noticed by anyone else but he knew exactly where and how everything had been left. There was a drawer not quite closed, a book slightly at an angle, a tube of toothpaste moved ever so slightly in the bathroom. Whoever had been here had been no common burglar because nothing had been stolen or wrecked. He had no television, no valuables, no money lying around, only his lap top and that was practically an antique. Whoever had entered the house had been expert, but not expert enough. His blood was pumping fast, the adrenalin was coursing through his body – not caused by fear or anger, he swiftly acknowledged, but by exhilaration.
He recalled the flash of light he’d seen earlier through his
binoculars and knew that Charlotte had been correct. Someone had
followed her here and someone had been watching the cottage.