Cover

Praise

Praise for

‘James Hazel grabs you from the off and doesn’t let go until the very end’

MARTYN WAITES

‘A compelling mystery that has you tearing through the pages. Charlie Priest is a genius creation. He’s brilliant and border-line dysfunctional but you can’t help liking him. Highly recommended’

J. S. CAROL

‘Shiver inducing . . . irresistible, The Mayfly is really top notch. Intelligently constructed, characters to die for and a truly sterling opening’

LIZ LOVES BOOKS

‘Addictive . . . wonderfully macabre . . . With this marvellous cast, Hazel’s thriller certainly keeps rolling along at a cracking pace . . . You will be guaranteed to be on to a winner with The Mayfly’

CRIMESQUAD

‘A compulsive and engaging read’

BIBLIOPHILE BOOK CLUB

‘Dark, gory and compelling . . . I was hooked from page one and didn’t put it down’

BREAKAWAY REVIEWERS

‘A heart thumping page-turner’

THE BOOK CLUB CAFE

‘A strong debut’

REVIEWS REVUES

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Grace, who once asked if I was a bald man with glasses. For the record, I am not (at least, not yet).

Epigraph

‘Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.’

Romans 12:17–19

‘Eye for eye . . .’

Exodus 21:24

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

1 November 1989

Rose scrambled up the last few feet of hillside where the incline banked sharply, and mossy turf gave way to a stone ledge running across the cliff. The light was fading and the air was cold and damp. She hurried over the crest but knew that she had to watch her step. As the path narrowed, only a series of rotting fence posts joined with wire separated her from the waves crashing on the scree below.

There was a small gathering of people ahead of her where the path widened out before it disappeared altogether as the cliff ended abruptly, falling away at an almost perfect right angle where it would eventually meet the flatter coastline. As she approached, one of the figures broke from the group and hurried to meet her.

‘Thank goodness, Rose,’ the woman gasped. Rose recognised her as the tall widow who kept the flower shop in the nearby village of Tome, but the name eluded her.

‘I came as soon I could,’ Rose explained, sensing the panic in the flower-woman’s voice.

‘Not a moment too soon.’