Good Morning, Booklovers!
I have another terrific book spotlight for you this week: Blood Relations, the second DS Ryan McBride mystery novel by Joyce Woollcott. (See the link to her interview at the end of this post.)
Nice to have you on the blog, Joyce. What may I get you to drink?
JW: I wouldn’t say no to a glass of white wine.
Ally: While I grab my coffee mug and your glass of wine, tell us about your featured mystery novel.
BLOOD RELATIONS
Genre: Mystery
Belfast, Northern Ireland: early spring 2017. Retired Chief Inspector Patrick Mullan is found brutally murdered in his bed. Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride and his partner Detective Sergeant Billy Lamont are called to his desolate country home to investigate. In their inquiry, they discover a man whose career with the Police Service of Northern Ireland was overshadowed by violence and corruption.
Is the killer someone from Mullan’s past, or his present? And who hated the man enough to kill him twice? Is it one of Patrick Mullan’s own family, all of them hiding a history of abuse and lies? Or a vengeful crime boss and his psychopathic new employee? Or could it be a recently released prisoner desperate to protect his family and flee the country?
Ryan and Billy once again face a complex investigation with wit and intelligence, all set in Belfast and the richly atmospheric countryside around it.
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Relations-Ryan-McBride-Novel-ebook/dp/B0CFJWF69D
EXCERPT:
MONDAY, APRIL 24, 2017
RYAN
Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride stared into Mullan’s bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill, the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Prisha said. “Have you?”
“No,” Ryan said. “No, I haven’t.”
Fifteen minutes earlier, arriving at the scene, Ryan roared past several patrol cars cluttering up the grass verge in front of Hungry Hall, a decaying country house outside Antrim. A few constables stood talking by their vehicles. He jammed on the breaks, pulled into the driveway then backed up. Saw them glance over, a bit edgy now. A stocky woman officer with short dark hair curling under her cap leaned against a car beside two male constables, both tall and pale. Ryan lowered his window, getting a whiff of country air, manure, cut grass, and peat.
“Word to the wise.” He flashed his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant McBride, Senior Investigating Officer.” He nodded towards the house. “That’s a crime scene. You’re supposed to be protecting it, not standing around chatting like a bunch of schoolgirls. Next time anyone tries to enter this driveway, ask for ID, unless you fully know who it is.”
Their faces closed up with anger and embarrassment.
Ryan held up his hand. “That’s one of ours lying dead up there, a retired senior officer. If you let Chief Inspector Girvan drive past you like I did, it won’t just be a bollocking you get; it’ll be school-safety visits. Understand me?”
The woman broke from the group and walked over.
“Sorry, we just assumed, you know, by the way, you hammered in. But you’re right; we should have stopped you.” She nodded over to one of the constables, shuffling his feet by the car door. “Frank there knows the son, Andrew Mullan. Went to primary school with him. He’s right and upset. We didn’t see the victim, but one of the other fellas up there did and was sick.”
At the house, Ryan’s partner, DS Billy Lamont, was talking to a crime-scene tech while struggling into a white Tyvek suit and trying to tuck his messy brown curls under a hood. Billy stood a little shorter than Ryan at just under six feet. He had light grey eyes in a pale, freckled face. He lifted his hand in greeting.
One of the crime-scene guys threw Ryan a suit and booties. He had his own gloves, and he hopped along, trying to tug on the booties as they headed for the front of the house.
“Grim sort of a place, eh?” Billy said as they approached the door.
Hungry Hall stood four square and solid enough on an acre of land; Ryan noticed the stonework, originally painted white, now had a grey, mossy tinge. A feeling of disuse, almost abandonment, lingered. The day didn’t help, either; overcast and sullen with low clouds.
“Who found him?”
“The cleaning lady. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”
They stopped at the door and looked in. The main hall was large, gloomy, and cold. Crime-scene officers bustled about. Even so, the place felt desolate. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on it. He shivered.
“Jesus, it’s freezing in here.”
“That’s a desperate smell.” Billy unzipped his suit a bit and pulled his hanky out, holding it to his nose.
Ryan picked up the scent of blood, along with rubbish, rotting food, and dust in the air.
“How often did this cleaning lady come?” he asked Billy. Billy, his partner of over three years, was quick to pick up all kinds of information at scenes.
“Not blooming often enough, you ask me.”
“Hello.” A slim woman in her fifties approached them. A CSI in a blue suit, she carried a metal case and had shoved a pair of plastic glasses on top of her hood. She had dark, almost black eyes and sallow skin. In need of a bit of sun, Ryan thought. Like me
.
“I’m Prisha Hill,” she said, nodding behind her as she spoke. “I oversee this bunch. I was just on the phone to my boss, and he said you two were a couple of comedians. Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing. You won’t be laughing when you get upstairs.” She hesitated. “DS Calvert, the local detective sergeant here, has been called away, but he got things started before he left.”
MONDAY, APRIL 24, 2017
RYAN
Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride stared into Mullan’s bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill, the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Prisha said. “Have you?”
“No,” Ryan said. “No, I haven’t.”
Fifteen minutes earlier, arriving at the scene, Ryan roared past several patrol cars cluttering up the grass verge in front of Hungry Hall, a decaying country house outside Antrim. A few constables stood talking by their vehicles. He jammed on the breaks, pulled into the driveway then backed up. Saw them glance over, a bit edgy now. A stocky woman officer with short dark hair curling under her cap leaned against a car beside two male constables, both tall and pale. Ryan lowered his window, getting a whiff of country air, manure, cut grass, and peat.
“Word to the wise.” He flashed his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant McBride, Senior Investigating Officer.” He nodded towards the house. “That’s a crime scene. You’re supposed to be protecting it, not standing around chatting like a bunch of schoolgirls. Next time anyone tries to enter this driveway, ask for ID, unless you fully know who it is.”
Their faces closed up with anger and embarrassment.
Ryan held up his hand. “That’s one of ours lying dead up there, a retired senior officer. If you let Chief Inspector Girvan drive past you like I did, it won’t just be a bollocking you get; it’ll be school-safety visits. Understand me?”
The woman broke from the group and walked over.
“Sorry, we just assumed, you know, by the way, you hammered in. But you’re right; we should have stopped you.” She nodded over to one of the constables, shuffling his feet by the car door. “Frank there knows the son, Andrew Mullan. Went to primary school with him. He’s right and upset. We didn’t see the victim, but one of the other fellas up there did and was sick.”
At the house, Ryan’s partner, DS Billy Lamont, was talking to a crime-scene tech while struggling into a white Tyvek suit and trying to tuck his messy brown curls under a hood. Billy stood a little shorter than Ryan at just under six feet. He had light grey eyes in a pale, freckled face. He lifted his hand in greeting.
One of the crime-scene guys threw Ryan a suit and booties. He had his own gloves, and he hopped along, trying to tug on the booties as they headed for the front of the house.
“Grim sort of a place, eh?” Billy said as they approached the door.
Hungry Hall stood four square and solid enough on an acre of land; Ryan noticed the stonework, originally painted white, now had a grey, mossy tinge. A feeling of disuse, almost abandonment, lingered. The day didn’t help, either; overcast and sullen with low clouds.
“Who found him?”
“The cleaning lady. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”
They stopped at the door and looked in. The main hall was large, gloomy, and cold. Crime-scene officers bustled about. Even so, the place felt desolate. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on it. He shivered.
“Jesus, it’s freezing in here.”
“That’s a desperate smell.” Billy unzipped his suit a bit and pulled his hanky out, holding it to his nose.
Ryan picked up the scent of blood, along with rubbish, rotting food, and dust in the air.
“How often did this cleaning lady come?” he asked Billy. Billy, his partner of over three years, was quick to pick up all kinds of information at scenes.
“Not blooming often enough, you ask me.”
“Hello.” A slim woman in her fifties approached them. A CSI in a blue suit, she carried a metal case and had shoved a pair of plastic glasses on top of her hood. She had dark, almost black eyes and sallow skin. In need of a bit of sun, Ryan thought. Like me
.
“I’m Prisha Hill,” she said, nodding behind her as she spoke. “I oversee this bunch. I was just on the phone to my boss, and he said you two were a couple of comedians. Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing. You won’t be laughing when you get upstairs.” She hesitated. “DS Calvert, the local detective sergeant here, has been called away, but he got things started before he left.”
Author Bio:
J. Woollcott is a Canadian author, born in Belfast, N. Ireland. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and BCAD, University of Ulster. Her first book, A Nice Place to Die won the RWA Daphne du Maurier Award, was short-listed in the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence in 2021 and a Silver Falchion Award finalist at Killer Nashville 2023.
Website: https://www.jwoollcott.com
Twitter: @JoyceWoollcott
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