Finally, to my wife, Jo. Where the hell do I begin? As well as being my best friend, you’ve been my companion on this journey from day one and my most important adviser in everything. Your belief alone has seen me through the hard times and I can’t stress enough how fundamentally important your input is. Priest just wouldn’t be Priest without you to steer me. Look how far we’ve come since those days sat in the Sicilian sun listening to the tapping on the keyboard! Love you always.

About the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Before turning his hand to writing, James Hazel was a lawyer in private practice specialising in corporate and commercial litigation and employment law. He was an equity partner in a regional law firm and held a number of different department headships until he quit legal practice to pursue his dream of becoming an author.

He has a keen interest in criminology and a passion for crime thrillers, indie music and all things retro.

James lives on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds with his wife and three children.

Also by James Hazel

The Mayfly

If you enjoyed The Ash Doll, read on for an extract from James Hazel’s debut novel,

Available now

Extract from The Mayfly

1

December. Post-festivities. The frozen earth was veiled in a thin covering of snow that crunched under Detective Chief Inspector Tiff Rowlinson’s boots. In a glade, the log cabin looked as though it had come out of a fairy tale, complete with a tall stone chimney and heart-shaped etchings above the door. A local landowner had built it for his daughter as a summer house sixty years ago, but it had long since been abandoned, and was now swathed with climbing plants and moss. A sanctuary built out of love and innocence, defiled in the most grotesque manner.

Rowlinson slowly circled the little wooden structure, his hands behind his back and his coat collar turned up inside the white plastic overall. The crime scene investigators mingled uncertainly, watching where they trod. They had established a perimeter with reams of blue-and-white plastic tape around the glade. Rowlinson had been here before, too many times. He had seen too many bodies, too many weeping loved ones and too few prosecutions. He didn’t feel much anymore. The endless cycle had anaesthetised him.

Except in these woods.

In these woods, Rowlinson felt again.

He approached the entrance to the cabin and ducked through the doorway. Inside, the air was stale and heavy. He fumbled for the inhaler in his coat pocket. Felt a little relief at feeling the familiar plastic tube and the tip of the metal canister. He no longer noticed the bitter cold.