It’s just six weeks until Them Without Pain is published. It’s a twisting tale with its foundation ir real Leeds history, and by the end, one of the main characters will have their life changed completely.

Intrigued? Good. Come on, take five minutes and read a very short extract. You can pre-order it at all the usual places (and indie bookshops are alwasy best). For online, Speedy Hen has the best price with free UK delivery. See it here. I know many can’t afford new hardbacks, but ask your library to get it in for you (and others). It all helps.

Thank you – and enjoy

Jane spotted Simon, dressed in a good suit, and Constable Porter in his best swallowtail coat, with a fresh, crisp stock tied around his neck. Mrs Shields had been right to insist that she wore her best dress; she fitted in. Another man stood with Simon and Porter, someone older, with a sprawl of grey hair and expensive, unfashionable clothes, an eager expression on his face. She touched the gold ring on her right hand that Mrs Shields had long ago given her for luck.

‘This is Miss Jane Truscott’, Simon introduced her. ‘Mr Armistead.’ The man had fine manners, taking her hand and bowing.

‘It’s time,’ the constable said as he glanced at his watch. He picked up a heavy hammer and started to lead the way up the creaking wooden stairs to the galley. Eagerly, Armistead skipped ahead of him.

Jane had been up here before; she knew every crevice of Leeds in her pores. Yet never inside any of the workshops. She watched as Porter selected a rusty old key from a heavy ring of them looped over his arm, and turned it in the lock.

Simon kept his eyes on Armistead. The man was full of anticipation, shifting from one foot to another as the constable opened the door, then scurrying to be first into the room.

He paused, feeling the tiny sliver of fear return at the edge of his mind. Stupid. It was a bright morning, an empty room with others around; there was no danger here.

The workshop was almost bare, only a scarred old wooden table under the dirty window that looked out over Briggate. A thick layer of dust covered everything, cobwebs across the glass and in all the corners. He breathed in the smell of neglect and dereliction, years of scents piled on top of each other. Simon watched Porter gaze around, unimpressed.

Armistead was running his hands across the dirty wooden panelling on the far wall, his face so close to it that he looked to be studying the grain. Very lightly, he tapped his fist against the wood. Simon heard. So did the constable; he raised his head. Hollow. There was space behind there.

‘I can’t see any catch to open it,’ Armistead said.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s going to come down, anyway. Stand back.’ He was reluctant to move until Porter brought the hammer down close to his hands and he slid away to safety.

The first blow fell like thunder, dry wood shattering as splinters flew around the room. Simon realized his throat was dry. He was holding his breath in anticipation. From the corner of his eye he saw Jane, standing, silent, gaze fixed on the scene. He’d done right to ask her. Neither Rosie nor Sally had seemed too interested, but she was rapt.

A second blow, then a third turned into a rhythm of booming. By the fifth he’d made a small gap, enough for an arm. Finally, sweating from the effort, the constable lowered the hammer. Space for a man to wriggle through.

Armistead was the first. That was only fair; he was the one who’d been so certain this hidden room existed. A small shout of delight became a wail of horror.

Simon looked at Porter, then squeezed through the hole.

The secret workshop ran the width of the room. No windows. No light beyond the little that came through the gap. Four feet wide at most, hard rat droppings all over the floorboards. A small wooden bench held two rusted pairs of shears and a tarnished silver coin.

The body was sprawled face down across the floor.

Not an ancient wastage of bones and dry, leathery skin. This one was fresh, barely the start of a high summer stink. The rodents and insects had begun to feast on him, but he guessed the corpse hadn’t even been here a full day.

Simon squatted. In the gloom he could make out two pale lines about an inch apart on the back of the corpse’s left hand.

He knew of one man with scars like that. He’d read about them just the day before.