A Death to Remember
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Fifteen months ago Cliff Summers was brutally assaulted.
Recovered, although still suffering from memory loss, Cliff returns to his hometown with no job, no home and no prospects.
Also newly returned is Tony Clayton, a local garage owner who’s just been released from prison after serving time for the attack on Cliff.
Cliff’s plan to forget the assault and rebuild his life is scuppered when the two men meet.
Not only is Clayton adamant that he’s been wrongly accused – his wife has gone missing, and he wants Cliff’s help.
It soon becomes obvious that Cliff’s lost memory is the key to this and several other mysteries.
And with the help of pretty Nicola Waldon – who has replaced him in his role as Social Security Inspector – Cliff starts to investigate the events of that fateful day.
But Cliff’s memory is patchy, and as he isn’t even sure of who he really is he can’t be certain of his level of involvement in the crimes that emerge.
Faced with murders, disappearances, drug-dealing and blackmail, Cliff and Nicola soon find themselves out of their depth…
And very quickly 'A Death To Remember' Becomes Impossible to escape.
'A Death To Remember' is a chilling mystery story that is perfect for fans of Nikki French and Peter Robinson.
Praise for Roger Ormerod:
‘The story gallops along with an irresistible momentum...always fascinating...the shape is near perfect. The characterisation is splendid, the situations dramatic and compelling, the style economic and energetic. What more can a book offer, or a reader ask?’ - Reginald Hill
"Eclectic, underrated Ormerod can be relied upon to come up with the startling goods" Sunday Times
"I am glad to announce that the detective novel is still alive and well in Mr Ormerod's skillful hands " The Spectator,
"Fast-moving, with well-orchestrated jiggery-pokery; not unlike an early Dick Francis in tone and method” Times Literary Supplement
Roger Ormerod (1920-2005) was a prolific writer of ingenious and densely plotted crime novels - some 35 in all - which were published in the UK and the USA. He lived in Wolverhampton and amongst other things worked as a civil servant and as a Social Security inspector – backgrounds which he made full use of in his fiction, as he did with his hobbies of painting and photography.
Endeavour Press is the UK's leading independent publisher of digital books.
any threatening, but I let it go. I was feeling more relaxed. One of my memories had been confirmed as fact. I knew Charlie Graham, and I’d met him. I didn’t want to pursue the rest at the moment. ‘Let’s get back to the car,’ I said. ‘What’s the gripe? I don’t see it.’ ‘You said it wouldn’t start, so I left it here. Right?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What was wrong with it?’ ‘For heaven’s sake!’ He raised his palm at my expression. ‘All right! But how can I say, now? We didn’t get to it till yesterday. By
should have come to me.’ ‘You’ve got it?’ ‘No. But I could have told you. The man from HQ took it with him. It could have been...’ ‘Evidence?’ ‘Useful. In re-creating what you’d done that day.’ ‘That’s just why I was looking for it.’ ‘You don’t know?’ ‘Almost a complete blank.’ ‘Ah...yes...’ He held out his arm. It was the professional shuffling gesture, the one that eased you out of doors. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry. There was nothing. Nothing worth remembering.’ He had me out in the
Tony came out of prison...well, somehow it seemed the right time. So I came here to wait for him.’ I’d noticed that she thought of Tony Clayton as George’s father. Perhaps Clayton had thought on those lines, too, and wouldn’t have hesitated before taking the blame for my beating-up. I moved round to the kettle and twisted it on the ring. It at once settled into contented song. Something she had said had set me thinking. I wondered how to lead round to the thought. ‘But no need for that, surely.
about to die, and that it would have been my fault. That was my fear, and it would have haunted me all my life. But mine went away with the reality; hers was still with her. It had simply graded itself from fear to resolution, then to resignation. She made no objection to going down and sitting in the police car, where names were taken and the radio was brought into use. The presence of both of us was requested at the station. At once. This necessitated the use of both the winking lights and the
said, a strange intimacy in her voice. It was ridiculously like a meeting of lovers. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t know there was anybody here – didn’t see your light.’ ‘I was catching up on the bookwork.’ Her voice was cautious, searching. She was lying; she’d been in the dark in the office upstairs, otherwise I’d have noticed her light. ‘And what is it you want?’ she asked. I moved towards her. She threw a switch, and blinding light pressed down on us from floodlights high in the