Under Construction: A DI McNally Detective Thriller, page 1
Contents
Under Construction
Other publications from Bradd Chambers:
Readers are loving books by Bradd Chambers.
Praise for ‘Our Jilly:’
Praise for ‘In Too Deep:’
Praise for ‘Daddy’s Little Girl:’
For my wee goddaughter, Miyah.
Prologue:
Chapter One:
Chapter Two:
Chapter Three:
Chapter Four:
Chapter Five:
Chapter Six:
Chapter Seven:
Chapter Eight:
Chapter Nine:
Chapter Ten:
Chapter Eleven:
Chapter Twelve:
Chapter Thirteen:
Chapter Fourteen:
Chapter Fifteen:
Chapter Sixteen:
****
Chapter Seventeen:
Chapter Eighteen:
Chapter Nineteen:
Chapter Twenty:
Chapter Twenty-One:
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Chapter Thirty:
Chapter Thirty-One:
Chapter Thirty-Two:
****
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Chapter Thirty-Four:
Chapter Thirty-Five:
Chapter Thirty-Six:
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Chapter Thirty-Nine:
Chapter Forty:
Chapter Forty-One:
Chapter Forty-Two:
Chapter Forty-Three:
Chapter Forty-Four:
Chapter Forty-Five:
Chapter Forty-Six:
Chapter Forty-Seven:
Chapter Forty-Eight:
****
Chapter Forty-Nine:
Chapter Fifty:
Chapter Fifty-One:
Chapter Fifty-Two:
Chapter Fifty-Three:
Chapter Fifty-Four:
Chapter Fifty-Five:
Chapter Fifty-Six:
Chapter Fifty-Seven:
Chapter Fifty-Eight:
Chapter Fifty-Nine:
Chapter Sixty:
Chapter Sixty-One:
Chapter Sixty-Two:
Chapter Sixty-Three:
Chapter Sixty-Four:
Chapter Sixty-Five:
****
Chapter Sixty-Six:
Chapter Sixty-Seven:
Chapter Sixty-Eight:
Chapter Sixty-Nine:
Chapter Seventy:
Chapter Seventy-One:
Chapter Seventy-Two:
Chapter Seventy-Three:
Chapter Seventy-Four:
Chapter Seventy-Five:
Chapter Seventy-Six:
Chapter Seventy-Seven:
Chapter Seventy-Eight:
Chapter Seventy-Nine:
Chapter Eighty:
Chapter Eighty-One:
****
Chapter Eighty-Two:
Chapter Eighty-Three:
Chapter Eighty-Four:
Chapter Eighty-Five:
Chapter Eighty-Six:
Chapter Eighty-Seven:
Chapter Eighty-Eight:
Epilogue:
Under Construction
Copyright © Bradd Chambers 2020
Published in 2020 by Kindle Direct Publishing, Amazon
All rights reserved to the author. Strictly no distribution or reproduction of any of the content without written permission from the author.
All events and characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any correlations between real places or people, dead or alive, are purely coincidental.
Front and back cover slightly altered. Original © Copyright Scott Willoughby / Creative Commons / Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/94157272@N06/29834137475/in/photostream/
Other publications from Bradd Chambers:
‘Someone Else’s Life’
Released June 2017
Available now on Amazon
‘Our Jilly’
Released November 2017
Available now on Amazon
‘In Too Deep’
Released February 2019
Available now on Amazon
‘Daddy’s Little Girl’
Released January 2020
Available now on Amazon
Readers are loving books by Bradd Chambers.
Praise for ‘Someone Else’s Life:’
“With this dark, gritty debut, Bradd Chambers marks himself out as one to watch in crime writing.”
Brian McGilloway.
'Enthralling,' 'Awesome' and 'Would make a great movie.' 'A book for every thriller novel lover.'
MCXV Reviewer.
“A great first novel by Bradd Chambers, very well written with an enticing storyline and I was shocked when I found out the killer. Was certainly kept guessing until the end. Excellent read.”
5* Reviewer.
‘Fantastic debut. Excellent plot with believable characters. Look forward to more from this author as I literally couldn't put this one down.’
5* Reviewer
Praise for ‘Our Jilly:’
“Brilliant book. I was hooked from the first page, truly would be a fantastic gift for the Sherlock in your life.”
5* Reviewer.
“This is the second book I have read by this author and was not disappointed! Could not put the book down and read it all in a day, [I’m] looking forward to reading more from this author and would 100% recommend this book to anyone looking for [a] great read!”
5* Reviewer.
“Another 5-star book from this stand-alone author, and again I would highly recommend. As a fan of murder mystery, I still thoroughly enjoyed this book despite the reveal of the murderer from the offset. You will turn each page craving justice for Jilly wondering will the murderer get away with it!”
5* Reviewer.
Praise for ‘In Too Deep:’
“This is the first book I’ve read by Bradd but won’t be the last. It was well written with solid believable characters. It tackles issues such as suicide and mental health issues in a very real way. I read this book in just one sitting as I was enthralled with the main characters and couldn’t put it down. I would thoroughly recommend this book to everyone.”
Goodreads Reviewer.
“Thoroughly enjoyed this book. I was gripped from the first chapter and just could not put it down. The plot was clever and every twist had me hooked. The book has a large focus on mental health and suicide, particularly in Londonderry, with the main character running a charity and running campaigns to help raise money and awareness to help [the] prevent[ion] of suicide. Massive praise for Bradd for writing about such a difficult subject and for helping to raise awareness himself. Please read this book! Highly recommended.”
Goodreads Reviewer.
Praise for ‘Daddy’s Little Girl:’
“Very well written characters and the story definitely gave me the creeps more than once.”
Goodreads Reviewer.
“A solid police work with deeply flawed characters, it’s a fast-paced plot that builds to a tension filled chilling climax.”
Amazon Reviewer.
“If you like your mysteries creepy and dark, this might interest you. I wasn’t sure whether to love the writing or hate the cruelty. Highly recommend it.”
5* Reviewer.
“A chilling read, covering loss in many forms and how it affects people’s perceptions and behaviour. A breath-taking psychological read.”
Amazon Reviewer.
For my wee goddaughter, Miyah.
Prologue:
Pulling my handbrake up, I let out a deep sigh. Thankful for the downpour as the chances of running into someone will be slim, but aware that visibility will be even harder now. I should’ve come an hour ago, when it was dry, instead of driving about half the Waterside in procrastination. How was I to know what time would be the perfect time? The time with less, or better yet no, onlookers. Not that they’d be looking at me… Too consumed by their own grief. But I need to keep a low profile.
I watch the rain batter the windows and lazily flick the wipers on. The smooth left to right motion followed by the soft squeak makes my eye twitch irritably. Surrounded by grass, flower displays and erected headstones displaying eternal short descriptions of the remains buried there. A relic to the person who once lived and breathed. I wonder if half of them even deserve to be remembered.
Where do I even begin? I’ve never even been here before… It’s huge. I guess I should be thankful that I’ve not had to go to Derry City Cemetery, the one over in the Cityside and the biggest in the town. I’d need a map to find my way out of there. I’ve never gone near it, never had to, but memories of staring, mesmerised at its grandeur from the backseat of my parents’ car whilst they migrated around the tiny roundabout at the Top of the Hill creep back into my memory.
Why couldn’t he be buried in the one beside the Glendermott Presbyterian Church? That can’t have more than a dozen rows. Last time I was there, for a wedding five or six years ago, there were talks of extending it. I guess
Bringing out my phone and blowing out apprehensively, I click on the Google app. ‘How do you find someone’s grave?’ I search. Worth a try, right? A few websites come up boasting and advertising about how they’re the best at chasing your ancestry before I click on one that looks legit. I enter his name and search Londonderry. ‘No results found.’ Fuck. After a few more frustrated attempts, I pocket my phone once more. Maybe they don’t have it on the internet in case someone would defile it? Lifting my hood up, I step out into the cool air, the rain now reduced to a light drizzle, but one that will leave you soaked right through. I best be quick.
Turning a full circle, I question where’s best to start. Spotting a white within all the black gravestones, I decide that is as good a place as any. As I get closer, I see the elements have made it more of a creamy colour and struggle to see the writing through the bird shit. This Ernest McBride has been dead for over thirty years. Looking from left to right, I decide to follow the incline up as the stones look a bit newer here. I meander down a random row and see that I must be on the right track, these ones are all from the late 2000s. Pushing my face deeper into my coat, the zip rubs aggressively against my chin. Looking at my new shoes going darker with the damp; I take five long strides before trying the next row on my left. 2013, much better.
I continue my journey before I halt suddenly. Two lights make their way towards me in the form of a Subaru. Shit. I face the ground once more and take the next row on my left. I count to six and turn with my back to the car, pretending to be observing a small charcoal grave. This little girl didn’t even make it past her fourth birthday. How sad. The sodden teddy bear battles with the wind as it presses its right side against the stone, threatening to fall over. I’m just about finished half reading the short bible verse engraved at the bottom when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the car creep past, but the driver’s attention is straight in front. When they reach the T-junction at the bottom of the hill, they indicate left and crawl past my car. It’s a tight enough squeeze. They’re almost at the end of that road too, before they unexpectedly park up. I don’t recognise the car or number plate, and from over there I’d be hard to distinguish anyway. I continue down the path and keep my back to them.
Now I’m at the very edge of the cemetery, with five or six rows left. I must be getting close. I’ll snake my way through each row with a customary glance at each name before – Oh, poor Stevie. My old driving instructor. I didn’t know he’d passed. Two years ago, awk bless him. A memory of him parking up outside my house and lighting a fag whilst demanding for me to book my theory test through his clenched teeth pops up. He was a lovely man. I pay my respects to him before continuing, my neck getting sore from checking every grave from left to right. Two rows later, he presents himself. I gaze around me at the car, but the driver is nowhere to be found. Probably perched in front of a gravestone yards away. Minding their own business. Turning back to his grave, I read the short paragraph with distain.
‘Aaron Parker,
Devoted daddy and loving husband.
Taken too soon.
Sleep well Papa Bear.
Your dream will be a reality one day.’
I sneer, upturn my nose and trod off in the direction of my car. Realising I felt more for my driving instructor than I did for him. What a waste of time. The hollowness in my chest hasn’t dispersed like the counsellor said it might. If anything, I feel more… Empty? As I reach my car, the back of the other visitor’s head pops up from behind rows of gravestones. I panic, rushing the last few steps and pull the door handle, cursing when I realise it’s locked. Scrambling around my coat for the keys, keeping my back to the driver, I drop myself into the seat and push the car into gear even before the key is twisted.
Whizzing back up the hill towards the entrance, I don’t even bother to give the row his remnants rest in a second glance as I turn the wipers back on as the rain worsens and comes down in sheets.
Chapter One:
2019
_____
“Ma, will you tell her to keep to her side the wee bitch?”
Nuala glances into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch Michelle sticking her thumbs in her ears, the other four fingers of each hand wagging and her tongue stuck out to annoy her sister.
“Michelle!”
Seeing she’s being glared at, she returns her hands to beneath each armpit and pouts, turning her attention to the window. Shaking her head at her immaturity, Nuala resumes her gaze to the road ahead. You’d never believe she’s turning 17 next month. Ever the baby of the family, they’d all spoiled her for too long. Now she can get a job and will be learning to drive. Maybe that will give her the kick up the arse she needs? She’d calmed down a good bit after starting big school, but since leaving in June, and Danielle’s return from uni for the summer, it’s like they’ve been transported back ten years. With one massive missing piece, of course.
Just as he springs to mind, she checks to make sure no car is following her too close behind and rests a foot on the brakes, slowing the car down to just below 40 as they approach their old house. Her old house. The house she grew up in with Ma and Da and her brother, Kealen. Living on the busy Glenshane Road always irritated her mother, but she found the whoosh of cars flying past in both directions at all hours of the morning soothing as she rested her head to go to sleep. Better than counting sheep.
She narrows her eyes in disgust as she sees the exterior wall of what used to be their kitchen sporting an underground organisation’s name and slogan. That wasn’t there last week. An impressive bit of graffiti regardless. Wasted talent, she thinks, trying to put a positive spin on it as she spots a car approaching in her rear-view mirror and speeds up again.
“Ma, what’s a fenian?” Michelle obviously had the same idea as her, observing the skeleton of their old home and the sectarian slur.
“Michelle!” Danielle gasps.
“Never you mind, and don’t let me hear you saying that word again. Especially in sch… Tech,” Nuala coughs.
“Why? Is it bad?”
“Oh, grow up, Michelle,” Danielle rolls her eyes, resuming her attention to her phone.
“What?”
“Just leave it, Michelle,” Nuala spits.
Michelle frowns, her mouth open in astonishment, before exhaling frustratedly and lagging her head back until it hits off the headrest.
Nuala and their father had done well to raise their children neutral. Something extremely hard to do, in Derry especially, what with the history and ongoing peace process. Of course, they knew of the different religions, but didn’t feel any animosity towards either community. Living on the outskirts helped, and although it was against their father’s wishes, they had gotten into catholic grammar schools. The city not having a diverse choice of mixed schools anyway, Nuala had heard bad things from her nieces and nephews who attended the few that were available, so decided the catholic grammars were the lesser of two evils.
Two members of separate religions themselves, having to have a civil ceremony in a hotel for their wedding, Nuala and their father didn’t bring their children up under either practice. So, when they returned from those schools in the first few days, they were astounded to find they had to say prayers and sing hymns. Their father was a devout atheist and so informed them they didn’t have to do anything they weren’t comfortable with. Nuala’s proud of the way their children were raised, unlike toddlers in some of the council estates and other areas of the city where the slurs were probably one of their first words, raised by ignorant and unyielding parents set in their ways.
Feeling at fault somehow for, what she hopes to be, Michelle’s innocent question, she informs her youngest daughter that it’s a hateful and derogatory term for a catholic.
“Are they talking about us? Sure, we aren’t catholics and Da was fighting to change all the hate.”
The girls’ father was a politician who was breaking the mould. Bang in the centre of both wings, he took all views in his stride and was determined to overshadow the two opposing leading parties. One right-wing, the Ulster Jacks, more commonly and casually known as Jacks for short, their name derived from the Union Jack. The other left-wing party called Ardóimid, Irish for ‘we will rise.’ Both with lasting reputations and rumours that couldn’t be ignored, but both communities voting for them regardless to keep the opposing party from power. He campaigned for his independent party which took religion out of the equation. Young people were starting to vote for him, getting them interested in politics was the main problem. Of course, he had death threats from both sides and even a stone through the living room window one evening at the beginning of his political career, but it wouldn’t stop him, despite Nuala and their children’s protests.
