Snow in August

By Hannah Howe

As a teenager, Ros McCarthy offered Mark, her baby son, up for adoption. Now, as an adult and a successful author, she wanted to reconnect. With Faye at my side, our task was to locate Mark.

Along the way we learned about Ty Gwyn, a children’s home, and the people who lived and worked there. However, as we probed, some people became nervous and issued threats.

Then, unexpectedly, a murder. Was the murder and our investigation into Mark’s whereabouts connected, or merely coincidence? I suspected the former, then had my doubts as the maze became more complex.

Snow in August, the story of a village and its secrets, a tale of longing and regret, and the realisation on my part that you should always cherish the people you love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Mar 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999370954

Hannah Howe

Hannah Howe is the bestselling author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series (Sam's Song, book one in the series, has reached number one on the amazon.com private detective chart on seven separate occasions and the number one position in Australia). Hannah lives in the picturesque county of Glamorgan with her partner and their two children. She has a university degree and a background in psychology, which she uses as a basis for her novels.Hannah began her writing career at school when her teacher asked her to write the school play. She has been writing ever since. When not writing or researching Hannah enjoys reading, genealogy, music, chess and classic black and white movies. She has a deep knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century popular culture and is a keen student of the private detective novel and its history.Hannah's books are available in print, as audio books and eBooks from all major retailers: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google Play, Kobo, iBooks, etc. For more details please visit https://hannah-howe.comThe Sam Smith Mystery Series in book order:Sam's SongLove and BulletsThe Big ChillRipperThe Hermit of HisaryaSecrets and LiesFamily HonourSins of the FatherSmoke and MirrorsStardustMind GamesDigging in the DirtA Parcel of RoguesBostonThe Devil and Ms DevlinSnow in AugustLooking for Rosanna MeeStormy WeatherDamagedEve’s War: Heroines of SOEOperation ZigzagOperation LocksmithOperation BroadswordOperation TreasureOperation SherlockOperation CameoOperation RoseOperation WatchmakerOperation OverlordOperation Jedburgh (to follow)Operation Butterfly (to follow)Operation Liberty (to follow)The Golden Age of HollywoodTula: A 1920s Novel (to follow)The Olive Tree: A Spanish Civil War SagaRootsBranchesLeavesFruitFlowersThe Ann's War Mystery Series in book order:BetrayalInvasionBlackmailEscapeVictoryStandalone NovelsSaving Grace: A Victorian MysteryColette: A Schoolteacher’s War (to follow)What readers have been saying about the Sam Smith Mystery Series and Hannah Howe..."Hannah Howe is a very talented writer.""A gem of a read.""Sam Smith is the most interesting female sleuth in detective fiction. She leaves all the others standing.""Hannah Howe's writing style reminds you of the Grandmasters of private detective fiction - Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Robert B. Parker.""Sam is an endearing character. Her assessments of some of the people she encounters will make you laugh at her wicked mind. At other times, you'll cry at the pain she's suffered.""Sam is the kind of non-assuming heroine that I couldn't help but love.""Sam's Song was a wonderful find and a thoroughly engaging read. The first book in the Sam Smith mystery series, this book starts off as a winner!""Sam is an interesting and very believable character.""Gripping and believable at the same time, very well written.""Sam is a great heroine who challenges stereotypes.""Hannah Howe is a fabulous writer.""I can't wait to read the next in the series!""The Big Chill is light reading, but packs powerful messages.""This series just gets better and better.""What makes this book stand well above the rest of detective thrillers is the attention to the little details that makes everything so real.""Sam is a rounded and very real character.""Howe is an author to watch, able to change the tone from light hearted to more thoughtful, making this an easy and yet very rewarding read. Cracking!""Fabulous book by a fabulous author-I highly recommended this series!""Howe writes her characters with depth and makes them very engaging.""I loved the easy conversational style the author used throughout. Some of the colourful ways that the main character expressed herself actually made me laugh!""I loved Hannah Howe's writing style -- poignant one moment, terrifying the next, funny the next moment. I would be on the edge of my seat praying Sam wouldn't get hurt, and then she'd say a one-liner or think something funny, and I'd chuckle and catch my breath. Love it!""Sam's Song is no lightweight suspense book. Howe deals with drugs, spousal abuse, child abuse, and more. While the topics she writes about are heavy, Howe does a fantastic job of giving the reader the brutal truth while showing us there is still good in life and hope for better days to come."

Book preview

Chapter One

I awoke to the sound of bugles. On my phone. My morning alarm. Six-thirty a.m. I ask you, what time of the day is that? Whoever invented mornings should be sacked. I rolled over, switched off the alarm and dozed. I would get up in a minute.

Ten minutes later, the bugles sounded again. I hadn’t switched the damned thing off properly. Instead, I’d hit snooze. This time, I did manage to press the off button. However, in the process, I dropped my phone on to the bedroom carpet. I would retrieve it in a moment. First, I had to tune myself into the day, a difficult task because my dial appeared to be broken.

As you might have gathered, I’m not a morning person. I was born at ten o’clock at night, and I reckon that’s the reason why I don’t switch on until the latter part of the day.

Yawning, I rolled on to my back. Marlowe, our bruiser of a cat, had stretched out beside me. He’d adopted a sideways position, nudging me towards the edge, occupying three-quarters of the bed.

Alan was away, completing his television series about psychology and its relevance to the modern day. The final episode would focus on narcissism and how, in the modern age, narcissists had obtained positions of power.

The warm August sun streamed in through the open curtains. The glare hurt my eyes. My head throbbed. I tried to make sense of my headache. A hangover. Too much wine before bed. At 11 p.m., I’d become engrossed in a bottle of wine and an online chess game. Despite my opponent’s higher ranking, I’d managed to beat him. Three cheers for the power of Chardonnay.

Ten more minutes, I promised myself, then I’d get up. Unfortunately, after only five minutes the wine, or rather its after-effects, came calling; the ache in my bladder told me that I needed a wee.

After fumbling for my dressing gown, I staggered into the bathroom. There, I did what a gal has to do. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I stared into the mirror. My hair was a mess, all over the place. It had been a restless night, a night of tossing and turning. My mind was agitated with too many thoughts swirling around.

I missed my husband; I missed our intimacy. I felt annoyed with him, although I knew that wasn’t fair. After all, I’d pushed him into the filming; left to his own devices, he would have rejected the opportunity.

I washed my hands and face, cleaned my teeth then dragged a brush through my hair. The brush revealed strands of grey amongst the auburn, nothing too shocking, just a gentle reminder that the clock was ticking, time was moving on.

Returning my hairbrush to the bathroom cabinet, I spied a pregnancy testing kit. I’d conducted a test two days ago. Negative. Again. Should I conduct another one? What was the point? While I pondered that question, my heart beat twenty to the dozen and a fine film of perspiration coated my forehead. The pregnancy testing had become an obsession. Even though I knew it was futile, I decided to test myself again.

Negative. I perched on the edge of the bath, bit my lower lip and ran my fingers through my hair. It wasn’t going to happen. Enough time had passed. I should have been pregnant long before now.

Time was ticking, the day was developing. Moping in the bathroom wasn’t going to get me anywhere. So, I returned to the bedroom, dressed then wandered downstairs into the kitchen. There, I found Marlowe sitting beside his bowl, the cantankerous look on his face demanding breakfast.

I duly fed the cat then went in search of some fruit juice. I couldn’t find any. However, I did spy a bottle of wine, nearly empty. Oh well, I reasoned, I might as well finish it off. The hair of the dog, and all that.

Wine and muesli, not ideal. However, my breakfast did offer a degree of satisfaction. Certainly, the wine hit the spot and produced a smile. I was still grinning as I stepped out to face the day.

The smell of freshly cut grass delighted my nostrils. Or maybe my senses were playing tricks with me because no one would cut the grass at that time of day.

Climbing into my Mini, I opened the window. The winding mechanism jammed and it took a fair amount of effort. Note to self: I really must buy a new car. However, for now, my Mini would transport me along familiar roads to my office houseboat at Cardiff Bay. As I travelled, a Bill Withers song graced the radio. After such an inauspicious start, could it really develop into a lovely day?

Chapter Two

Who sang, ‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66?’ That’s right, Chuck Berry. Certainly, ‘Get Your Kicks on the A4232’ doesn’t have the same ring to it. Indeed, today, thanks to roadworks and a jack-knifed lorry, the only things frustrated drivers could kick were their heels.

With the traffic static, I leaned back, closed my eyes and enjoyed the breeze. Then my phone rang. It was Alan.

How are you? he asked. He sounded bright and cheerful. Given the hour, he sounded impossibly bright and cheerful. For some perverse reason that annoyed me, although I knew, deep down, that I was being unfair.

Fine, I said.

You sound half-asleep.

A restless night, I complained. It was too hot. I couldn’t settle.

Hmm, Alan said. Then, after a pause, Where are you?

On the A4232, near the Caerau Fort, stuck in traffic.

I glanced across to the fort. A large triangular Iron Age construction, the hill fort developed on a Neolithic site into one of the largest settlements of its type in Wales. In the thirteenth century, the Normans added a church, St Mary’s, and a ringwork. Although long gone, it’s possible that a castle stood within that ringwork. So much history on our doorstep. So much we often ignored or took for granted.

I miss you, Alan said.

I miss you too, I said, the words, the emotion, lodging in my throat. After a cough, I added, How’s the filming?

It’s nearly complete. We need to film a few more exterior shots, pieces to camera, mainly outside government buildings as I discuss the quest for power and narcissistic personality disorders.

You need to be mad to be prime minister, I said.

Alan laughed. It’s not too difficult to find proof of that statement.

The road lights changed and the traffic crawled along the A4232 past a patchwork of brown, yellow and green fields towards the ruins of a Roman villa.

How’s Marlowe? Alan asked as I eased my size fives on to the brake.

Fine.

How’s the weather?

I glanced up to the cloudless sky then along the road to a heat haze. Hot and sunny.

It’s hot and sunny here too, Alan said. I’ll be home by the weekend. What would you like me to cook for Sunday dinner?

I don’t know, I said; maybe something simple; a salad.

Are you all right? Alan asked.

Of course I’m all right, I snapped back. It’s the heat. It’s this damned traffic. We’re stuck again. And I don’t have much of an appetite.

I’ll prepare a salad then. Maybe a barbeque. We could invite some friends around.

Just us, I said. I don’t feel too sociable.

Okay, Alan said. A barbeque it is, just for the two of us.

I’ll buy the meat, I said, veggie burgers and fresh food, from Shindler’s. Shindler’s was our local family store.

I’ll get it, Alan insisted, on my way back from London.

I can buy the food, I said. I’m not an idiot.

Silence on the phone. Meanwhile, the traffic crawled along the road as a bead of sweat trickled down my forehead.

What’s on your mind? Alan asked. His tone was placid, even-tempered, though I sensed a frown on his forehead.

Nothing, I said.

I glanced into my rear-view mirror, to check the traffic, and caught sight of my reflection. It was not a pretty sight. Indeed, I fully expected to see the word ‘idiot’ emblazoned in lipstick across my forehead. Withholding the truth from Alan was never a good idea. Furthermore, withholding my emotions from Alan was a waste of time because he knew me better than I knew myself. Although it pained me to do so, I had to tell him, I had to tell him about the pregnancy tests.

Actually, I said, there is something on my mind.

I waited, quietly, for his reply, only for silence to greet me. Then I realised that my phone had died. I’d forgotten to recharge it overnight. In my frustration, I thumped the steering wheel, only to hurt my wrist.

Damn! I swore. Then, Ouch! I cried as I rung my wrist.

The traffic was moving faster now, at a regular pace. However, instead of fresh air wafting into my Mini I could smell alcohol. Automatically, I reached into my shoulder bag for a packet of mints and popped one into my mouth. I was sucking on my second mint when I arrived at our office houseboat.

On the houseboat, I found Faye sitting at her desk. Dressed in her standard work clothes – a white shirt, tan waistcoat and blue jeans – she looked fresh and radiant. Her golden ringlets shone like hair in a shampoo commercial while her blue-green eyes sparkled with vitality.

Hi, she smiled.

Hi, I said, dumping my shoulder bag on to her desk.

You look awful.

Thanks, I sighed. That’s really cheered me up.

A rough night? Faye frowned.

Too hot, I said. I couldn’t sleep.

Blake stayed over, Faye grinned. It was hot in my place too.

Fifty Shades of Faye, I said.

She giggled. Something like that.

While I leaned against Faye’s desk – the support was welcome – she straightened my shoulder bag, aligned it with the other items on her desk. In the past, depending on her anxiety levels, a similar task could extend into several minutes, even half an hour, and only end when I offered her the necessary reassurance. These days, her obsession was still evident. However, the tortuous aspect had disappeared: Faye still kept everything neat and tidy, but she no longer succumbed to the devil who insisted upon perfection.

When are you going to move in with Blake? I asked.

I’m not sure, Faye said.

Why the doubts?

No doubts, as such. Except that my neatness obsession irritates him, it drives him up the wall.

But, you’ve improved, I said.

I know, Faye said, even so, my little quirks still drive him up the wall.

I nodded. Blake was a bohemian, a bodyguard, a hunk. A renaissance man, he was into the finer things in life and casual living – wherever he discarded his shirt that was his home. Like Faye, he’d need to adjust and get used to the idea of a discarded shirt finding its way into a wardrobe. Compromise, the bedrock of any relationship.

The course of true love, I said, and all that.

If we lived together, Faye said, maybe I’d drive him batty.

I shrugged. I’m sure you’ll work something out.

With the seagulls squawking outside, I leaned over Faye’s shoulder to study the image on her computer.