The Bala Lake Killings : A Snowdonia Murder Mystery, page 1
THE BALA LAKE KILLINGS
A SNOWDONIA MURDER MYSTERY
DI RUTH HUNTER #22
SIMON MCCLEAVE
Contents
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About the Author
BOOKS BY SIMON McCLEAVE
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Enjoy This Book?
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Acknowledgments
THE BALA LAKE KILLINGS
By Simon McCleave
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First published by Stamford Publishing Ltd in 2025
Copyright © Simon McCleave, 2025
All rights reserved
Created with Vellum
THE BALA LAKE KILLINGS
By Simon McCleave
A DI Ruth Hunter Crime Thriller
Book 22
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First published by Stamford Publishing Ltd in 2025
Copyright © Simon McCleave, 2025
All rights reserved
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About the Author
Simon McCleave is a multi million-selling crime novelist who lives in North Wales with his wife and two children.
Before he was an author, Simon worked as a script editor at the BBC and a producer at Channel 4 before working as a story analyst in Los Angeles. He then became a script writer, writing on series such as Silent Witness, The Bill, EastEnders and many more. His Channel 4 film Out of the Game was critically acclaimed and described as ‘an unflinching portrayal of male friendship’ by Time Out.
His first book, 'The Snowdonia Killings', was released in January 2020 and soon became an Amazon Bestseller, reaching No 1 in the UK Chart and selling over 400,000 copies. His twenty subsequent novels in the DI Ruth Hunter Snowdonia Series have all been Amazon bestsellers, with most of them hitting the top of the digital charts. He has sold over 3 million books to date.
The paperback rights have recently been bought by Canelo and the whole DI Ruth Hunter series will be re-released with new covers in 2025 and 2026.
‘The Dark Tide’, Simon’s first book in an Anglesey based crime series for publishing giant Harper Collins (Avon), was a major hit in 2022, becoming the highest selling Waterstone’s Welsh Book of the Month ever.
This year, Simon has released the first three books in a new series featuring a new character, retired detective Frank Marshal.
Simon has written a one-off psychological thriller, Last Night at Villa Lucia, for Storm Publishing, which was a major hit, The Times describing it as ‘…well above the usual seasonal villa thriller…’ with its ‘…empathetic portrayal of lives spent in the shadow of coercion and abuse.’
BOOKS BY SIMON McCLEAVE
THE DI RUTH HUNTER SERIES
#1. The Snowdonia Killings
#2. The Harlech Beach Killings
#3. The Dee Valley Killings
#4. The Devil’s Cliff Killings
#5. The Berwyn River Killings
#6. The White Forest Killings
#7. The Solace Farm Killings
#8. The Menai Bridge Killings
#9. The Conway Harbour Killings
#10. The River Seine Killings
#11. The Lake Vyrnwy Killings
#12. The Chirk Castle Killings
#13. The Portmeirion Killings
#14. The Llandudno Pier Killings
#15. The Denbigh Asylum Killings
#16. The Wrexham Killings
#17. The Colwyn Bay Killings
#18. The Chester Killings
#19. The Llangollen Killings
#20. The Wirral Killings
#21. The Abersoch Killings
THE DC RUTH HUNTER MURDER CASE SERIES
#1. Diary of a War Crime
#2. The Razor Gang Murder
#3. An Imitation of Darkness
#4. This is London, SE15
THE ANGLESEY SERIES – DI LAURA HART
#1. The Dark Tide
#2. In Too Deep
#3. Blood on the Shore
#4. The Drowning Isle
#5. Dead in the Water
PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS
Last Night at Villa Lucia
Five Days in Provence
Prologue
Bangor, North Wales
October 2021
Ashwin Choudary raised his hand with a modest wave as his constituents applauded. The warm, bustling sound of applause reverberated through the small but lively venue, Penrhyn Hall, mixing with the scent of salty air that clung to the coastal breeze. He’d been an MP representing this area for seven years now, and each time he spoke, it filled him with a deep sense of pride. Bangor, the oldest city in Wales, had a unique charm to it. Nestled along the coast of North Wales, its streets whispered tales of history – stories of monasteries that once stood where the cathedral now rose majestically. Across the water lay the Isle of Anglesey, visible through the haze, its rocky shore framed by the Britannia and Menai Suspension bridges.
Bangor itself was a place steeped in history, dating back to the 6th century. The city’s name came from an old Welsh word for a wattled enclosure, a fitting metaphor for the way the city had developed into a vibrant, multicultural community. With 15 per cent of the city’s population identifying as ethnic minorities – Asian, Arabic, Black and Mixed Race – Bangor had one of the highest rates of ethnicity in Wales. Yet, this diversity, as Ashwin knew all too well, also brought challenges. Recently, racial tensions had begun to bubble to the surface, with racist graffiti appearing on the sides of buildings and assaults driven by racial bigotry on the rise. But the real danger came from the extremist groups that had begun to make their presence known. Far-right movements like British Action had issued threats, and Ashwin had been at the centre of their hateful rhetoric.
As he made his way to the podium, Ashwin’s heart skipped a beat, but he quickly steadied himself, drawing strength from the applause. He gazed out at the crowd, his eyes tracing the diversity that filled the room. There was a mix of faces – some familiar, some new – but all united by a shared vision. He was here to open the Bangor Festival of Words.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly into the microphone, his voice steady but filled with emotion. ‘Thank you. I hope you know how happy I am to represent a constituency with such wonderful diversity and creative talent. This area, with its deep Welsh roots, history and tradition, has shaped me in ways I never imagined when I first arrived. Home to one of the largest slate mines in the world, docks that were once the lifeblood of shipbuilding, and a university that dates back to 1885. It draws students from all corners of the world, enriching our community and our lives.’
He paused, scanning the faces before him. His words seemed to hang in the air, settling into the hearts of many in the crowd.
‘And,’ he continued, his voice becoming more deliberate, ‘the constituency has been deeply enhanced by immigration and…’
A sudden burst of boos erupted from the back of the room. The unexpected outburst caught Ashwin off guard. He turned, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of two men. Members of a far-right group, judging by their appearance, postures and sneers. They were making loud, derisive gestures, trying to drown him out.
Before Ashwin could respond, the men stood up, their faces twisted with hatred. They began performing Nazi salutes. The crowd’s mood shifted as the men’s chants of ‘Seig Heil, Seig Heil’ echoed across the hall. The air thickened with tension.
Ashwin felt a chill settle in his chest, but he maintained his composure, knowing the police officers stationed around the room would quickly handle the situation.
‘…it is a diversity that we should all celebrate,’ Ashwin said, his voice unwavering, though the hostility in the room was palpable.
Chaos erupted as the police surged towards the men, attempting to escort them out. Shouts filled the air, and a scuffle broke out. A woman’s scream pierced through the noise, and in an instant, the peaceful gathering had descended into turmoil.
‘I’m so terribly sorry that we’ve been disrupted like this,’ Ashwin murmured into the microphone, his voice strained, trying to calm the crowd.
But before he could continue, one of the men lunged at a police officer, knocking him to the ground with a vicious blow.
The man then pulled out a handgun and pushed his way towards the stage, his eyes burning with anger and rage. His cropped blond hair and tattoos – a swastika and a Union Jack on his arms – were unmistakeable signs of his violent, twisted ideology.
‘Choudary, you scum,’ he hissed, the words dripping with venom as he barrelled forward, pushing people out of his way.
Ashwin’s pulse quickened. His mind raced, trying to process the situation. He was in real danger. His legs trembled beneath him, and his heart hammered in his chest. Was this really happening? Was this the moment he was going to die?
The man was closing in, his eyes wild with hatred.
Daniel Orme, a local Labour councillor, tried to step in, but was quickly knocked aside. The man climbed onto the stage, eyes fixed on Ashwin, as if he were prey.
The gunman’s voice rang out, his words filled with conviction. ‘This is a strike for Britain!’
Ashwin’s blood ran cold.
Then, there was a sharp, deafening CRACK – a gunshot.
The world around Ashwin seemed to freeze.
For a moment, he felt nothing, only a numbing shock, as if his body was suspended in time. Then, a searing, white-hot pain shot through his chest. He gasped, clutching his side. Blood began to soak into his shirt.
Another CRACK rang out, this time hitting him in the shoulder and sending him sprawling backwards, his body slamming against the floor.
The room swam in and out of focus.
His head was heavy, his breathing shallow.
He heard shouting – yelling – but it all felt distant. The pain in his chest was unbearable, and his thoughts grew foggy. The sound of rushing footsteps, the harsh grip of hands pulling him aside – all of it faded as his mind drifted away.
The world tilted as Ashwin lost his grip on consciousness.
As darkness took him, the last thing he saw was the glow of the ceiling lights, their soft vanilla hue casting an ethereal glow on the chaos below.
Chapter 1
Detective Inspector Ruth Hunter turned off the ignition of her car, her eyes momentarily lingering on the view before her. She had just pulled into her space at Llancastell Police Station. Well, it wasn’t technically ‘her space’. But it was where she parked every day, and anyone who dared to take it would hear about it, regardless of rank or title. The small ritual of parking, the routine of it all, grounded her. There was something comforting about predictability, especially in a life that seemed, more often than not, to be filled with uncertainty and chaos. She supposed that most people did crave routine. It freed the mind to focus on more important things. Where to park, which way to walk up to CID, the humdrum of others’ chatter. Those were decisions that didn’t require thought.
Ruth’s mind drifted, as it often did, to her time in London. She remembered when she’d been seconded up to Scotland Yard, the gruelling four-month period spent travelling from Balham to Victoria every morning. The rhythm of her commute had become second nature. She stood in the same spot on the platform, entered through the same doors of the same tube carriage, and always took the same seat. The monotony had brought its own kind of peace. Routine was a comfort, a way to escape the noise of London’s rush hour.
Ruth then glanced at her watch, noting the time. The craving for a cigarette surged again, stronger than ever. Despite her best efforts to quit, despite Daniel’s pleading and Sarah’s concern, it remained a constant companion. Ruth had tried everything: patches, gum, even hypnotherapy, but nothing worked. Deep down, she knew why. She just loved it. There was no other way to explain it. The slow burn, the rush, the long deep drag of smoke. No matter how much harm it caused, it was a part of her.
Pulling out a cigarette, she smiled to herself as she lit it, inhaling deeply. The smoke curled in the air, dissipating quickly into the gusty autumn wind. The trees around the station had begun to change colour, their leaves shifting from gold to deep chocolate brown to rust. Ruth couldn’t understand anyone who didn’t appreciate this change, the transition from summer into autumn.
Ruth took another drag, leaning back against the car, allowing herself to simply be for a moment. It was rare, this sense of peace. Her life had been tumultuous in recent years – filled with cases, family drama and near-death experiences. She’d nearly lost her life after the shooting, and the subsequent months had been a blur of recovery, both physical and emotional. Still, things had settled now. Sarah and she had officially adopted Daniel, and the family had found a rhythm. Their trip to Paris for Daniel’s birthday had been the highlight – a moment of happiness Ruth had never imagined possible after everything they’d endured. But there was a dark shadow in the back of her mind, an unspoken fear that her happiness was fragile and fleeting. That it would all come crashing down around her at any moment.
Her phone rang, breaking her train of thought. It was Georgie. Ruth smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly at the familiar voice.
‘Hi, boss,’ Georgie’s voice crackled over the line, warm but tinged with exhaustion. Ruth had become something of a maternal figure to Georgie, especially after her daughter Sylvie’s birth.
‘How are you guys doing?’ Ruth asked, concern lacing her words.
‘We’re fine,’ Georgie said, her voice lighter than usual. ‘Better than fine, actually.’
Ruth raised an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Sylvie slept through,’ Georgie said, her pride evident.
‘What?’ Ruth spluttered. ‘She’s only three months old!’
‘Well, she had a feed at two but then slept until seven. I feel amazing,’ Georgie added, her relief palpable.
Ruth chuckled. ‘Five hours. Good girl.’
‘I was going to bring Sylvie in to meet the team today,’ Georgie said, her tone casual but eager. ‘A few of them have been pestering me. Is it okay if I pop in around two?’
Ruth grinned, the prospect of seeing Georgie and her baby brightening her mood. ‘Yes, of course. It would be lovely to see you both.’
‘I just wanted to check there wasn’t much going on,’ Georgie said, a hint of hesitation in her voice.
‘No, we’re…’ Ruth paused, half-grinning. ‘God, I nearly said the “Q” word.’
Georgie laughed. ‘Never, ever say the “Q” word, boss.’
