London and the South West of England are the hunting grounds of a serial killer. The brutal killer, nicknamed The Clock, hunts men in their thirties, kills them and turns their bodies into macabre clock faces at each crime scene.
Detective Chief Inspector Paul Webb, a tired middle aged policeman with a failed relationship still haunting him, investigates the series of murders with the help of Dr. Kirill Fedorov, a man who believes he can spot potential serial killer behaviour in children and cure it. Webb also persuades the now fully-grown Luke Wind, the only British boy that Dr. Fedorov cured to help him find the killer.
Fedorov convinces Luke that he should still be able to understand a serial killer's mind, but when Luke looks into himself he begins to doubt that he's been cured after all, especially when the killings begin to look personal.
Reader Reviews:
“A clever and truly surprising crime thriller.”
“So good it made me a crime novel fan.”
“Gripping, clever and original. This is a cracking good read.”
“A must read. Absolutely gripping.”
Mark Yarwood was born in Enfield, North London (scene of the recent London riots), but now lives in Plymouth, Devon. He's been writing stories for a long time and started his first novel when he was about nineteen. He's got a back catalogue of about 25 books and plans to upload most of them onto Kindle over a period of time. Writing is his life and he would keep doing it even if he didn't have a readership. He's so glad that Amazon Kindle's Direct Publishing has allowed him to find an audience.
His next two books on Kindle should be UGLY THINGS and LAST ALIVE. Last Alive is set in the same police station as Murderson and Spider Mouth, and featuring some of the same characters.
Links to Murderson:
Murderson on Amazon UK
A Sample from Murderson:
MONDAY, 13th APRIL 1981
The policeman stared at the eight year old boy and the bloody handprints all over his clothes. He had never seen such anger in a child’s blue eyes before. All the time the officer stared, Doctor Kirill Fedorov was crossing the living room, his long arms outstretched. The doctor approached the child from behind as if he were a wild horse. It was a stupid thing to do, the policeman thought to himself, while the child’s mother tutted and lit another cigarette.
The doctor did not remain silent. He began to calmly whisper the boy’s name. The child spun around and fixed the doctor with his twisted eyes, but did not flinch, just bared his teeth and turned to run away.
The policeman watched as the doctor swept the child up into his arms and held him to his chest, ignoring the nails that clawed his face. He turned away from the two figures as they waltzed around the room, to look out at the front garden where two cats lay side by side. They would have looked peaceful if they didn’t both have their guts hanging out of their bellies. He turned back to the child, who now lay quietly in Doctor Fedorov’s arms, and noted the blood all over his tiny hands. The policeman shivered and turned away.
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