05 August 2026
* FROM THE AWARD WINNING AUTHOR OF YOU’D LOOK BETTER AS A GHOST *
‘The gold standard of twisted crime fiction’ – JANICE HALLETT
‘Dark humour at its absolute finest’ – J.M. HEWITT
‘Literature’s most relatable serial killer’ – JO FURNISS
MURDER IS HER MASTERPIECE.
What use is a part-time serial killer who doesn’t want to kill people? Once the terror of rude and irritating people everywhere, now Claire has lost her murderous mojo. Not even the overly chatty woman in the supermarket or the man who stole her neighbour’s dog can motivate her to get out the zip ties.
Then a lucky break and a new job in the local pub gives Claire the perfect target: someone is spiking drinks and causing mayhem. But as Claire closes in on the culprit, punters start dropping like flies – and for once she’s not the one doing the killing. Is someone else murdering on her patch? Claire has questions. And she’s not afraid to use her hammer to get answers…
When you think about it, nobody ever knows anything for certain, and nothing ever makes any sense. How can it? Our home in this universe is a massive spinning rock, circling an even bigger, hotter rock, and while we’ve completely cluttered up the place with inventions and opinions, we still haven’t figured out why we’re here. Where were we for the billions of years before we got here? Where do we go after we’ve gone? Does anyone know? Not us. We’re too busy imprisoning ourselves in an almost constant state of distraction. Occasionally – and only in the event of a national emergency – we feel panicked enough to put our phones down and do something truly important, like stockpile toilet paper, before going back to staring at our screens. Vacuous celebrities have become the gods we worship, and while all the evidence would appear to point towards a global plummet in intelligence, we remain remarkably knowledgeable when it comes to discussing what everyone else is doing wrong.
As a part-time serial killer, my spinning rock experience is somewhat different to most, and considerably harder than you’d think. Because it’s not just the hoarding of toilet paper or celebrity worship that confounds me – irritating people find new ways to be irritating every day. And, with so many to deal with, I often wonder: why am I doing this only part-time?
The problem is, I have rules. One rule, really. The Rule. I only kill people who look like ghosts just before they’re about to die. I know it’s all in my head – a trick of the light perhaps – but it’s always felt like my gift. The permission to kill. I see them fading before they’re gone, and that’s when I know it’s time. Ending the life of anyone else would feel unnatural. And wrong.
For years, the system worked. The ghosts appeared, I sent them on their way, and got on with my true passion: art. Then my dad died, and grief did something to my gift. Broke it. Suddenly, too many people looked ghostlike, and I got reckless. Almost got caught.
And now? Nothing. A three-month dry spell. No ghosts, no kills.
Which would be fine – except people seem even more annoying than ever. Case in point: the woman I met yesterday in the supermarket, who appeared to be sane until she started talking to me about avocados. About how she’d tried to make herself like them but just couldn’t get used to the texture or taste. Why did I need to know that? Why does anyone need to know that? Is it any wonder that I look forward to getting into bed each night? It’s my favourite time of the day, those moments when I quietly anticipate the uninterrupted hours stretching out ahead of me, free of contact with ordinary people.
So you can imagine my irritation when someone bangs on my front door, waking me from blissful sleep.
