Breaking News – December 2016

Following issues with my publishers, I have reached an amicable arrangement under which we have parted company and I have had the rights to all my books returned.

 

That is the good news!

 

On the downside, it means that for now, you cannot buy them through bookshops or outlets like Amazon and Kindle. However, I am involved in certain discussions and hope that before long, all the books will become available again.

 

Watch this space!

 

Additionally, in the pipeline is Dead Fix, the follow-up to Hard Place and I plan a proper launch of Tables Turned which never happened last July as planned. More details as things develop will appear on my Facebook page.

 

About Ratso

Ratso

Det. Inspector Todd “Ratso” Holtom
Metropolitan Police, London, UK
– in his own words.

Answer:

Look mate! Nicknames go with the territory in the Met Police. I’m no exception. Yeah, yeah, I get tired of being asked how I got called Ratso. Some of the lads speculate that I was into the little darlings like a rat up a drainpipe. I gotta admit, there was some truth in that. Well, you get opportunities. I mean what red-blooded guy’s going to turn up the chance? But that wasn’t where the nickname came from. No way!  Others, cheeky sods, have said I look like a bleedin’ rodent an’ all. And that’s bollocks too. Truth is, it involved a derelict building, a sick bastard with a sawn-off and years of playing cricket. Nuff said, eh? Not that I’m much of a batsman. I open the bowling – fancy myself as fast-medium but the lads reckon I’m ready for the Zimmer!

Answer:

Me? Wear Armani? Lacoste? Give me a break! Anyway, I’m suspicious of colleagues in snappy suits and designer shoes. You’d look a right berk chasing a drug-dealer on a rainy night.  Worrying about splashing your Hugo Boss! Give me lifestyle shoes suitable for running; no silk ties or button-down collars. I go for leather jackets, windcheaters or black denim.

Answer:

Yeah! I knew you’d ask my age! Well I’ll admit to late thirties and see – no signs of a receding hair-line. No grey neither.

Answer:

Cheeky! I don’t use Just-for-Men. Not needed. ! It’s brown, real and all home-grown! Yeah and I always went for the Caesar  combed forward style ever since I left school in South London. And you’re right, I do like to keep in shape. I’m not a PC Blobby with a 56 inch waist.

Answer:

What? Who told you that? A face like it’s been chiselled by a drunken stonemason? They’d better watch out! Craggy? Okay, I’ll give you that. Manly … that’s what I’d call it.  But it’s never done me any harm – not with the little ravers in the Eldorado or White Satin Club. Or when facing down an evil sod armed with a machete. Give me craggy over pink-and-well-scrubbed any day! Free-wheeling? Yeah, I’d  grant you that. Free-spirit too.  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a loner but I like being alone, time to think, y’know? As a Detective Inspector that’s a plus, I can tell you.

Answer:

Serious? Well if you mean about nicking villains, I’ll drink a Guinness to that. Or maybe a glass or two of Rioja. There was this little number I met in Ibiza. Well, she reckoned  I gave away smiles like they was fifty quid notes! Doesn’t mean I don’t like a laugh, a joke, a party and a right old piss-up after some villains get sent down at the Bailey.

Answer:

No, they were right about that. I don’t rant and shout like a celebrity Chef after somebody’s complained about his over-cooked steak tartare. I’ve never needed to. My eyes give the message.

Answer:

You interested in going out tonight then? Oh! Pity! Nah, I’ve never been married. I always tell ’em –  be warned – I’m married to the job … oh plus there’s  cricket and supporting Fulham down at Craven Cottage. My relationships never last – too many cancelled dates, burnt dinners, sudden nights away.  Especially when I worked undercover. That’s the best and worst of loving the job.  Nearly done are we? Okay. One more then. I’ve a meeting with the AC up at the Yard.

Answer:

That is seriously out of order! ’Course I like a joke – well except for the boss Chief Inspector Arthur bloody Tennant. Piss-poor joke he is. Waste of space. Want a joke? Here’s one for you. A Desk Sergeant says to this cokehead: “How high are you?” The cokehead replies “No, man! It’s … Hi! How are you?”