Rogue Flamingo
LA Kent
Author Bio
The novel Rogue Flamingo is written by Louise Harrington and Andy Sinden, under the pen name L A Kent.
Having graduated in Comparative Literature and French from the University of East Anglia, Louise has worked largely in the Information Technology industry as programmer, trainer, salesperson and sales manager. She travelled extensively when a global account manager, working in Europe, the US, South Africa, Australia and Canada. She has lived and worked in the UK, France and South Africa, and now lives in Cornwall. She is currently marketing manager of a small management consultancy. She has always enjoyed writing, and whilst before embarking upon Rogue Flamingo she had not written anything fictional since university, it is rare that a day goes by without her putting pen to paper to create web pages, marketing mailings, sales proposals and consultancy reports.
Prior to graduating in Psychology from Manchester University Andy had already taken an interest in ‘disturbed’ people and visited the Kingston murderers’ prison in Portsmouth twice and he had spent many hours in discussion with therapists and patients undergoing psychotherapy in clinical situations. His interest in people undergoing psychotherapy was maintained as an undergraduate when he practised as a therapist and had ongoing discussions with psychiatrists and patients, including those in closed psychiatric wards. As a member of staff at a battered women’s hostel he worked with women who had suffered repeated violent domestic abuse, their husbands and children. He also trained social workers in how to deal with psychologically disturbed individuals. After graduating Andy’s career developed along business lines, with his interest in people and their motivations serving him well as he progressed in sales focused roles to senior positions in a multinational company. This involved travelling across the globe, managing and motivating more than 200 staff working in more than 25 countries. He currently works in business consultancy.
Description
A lawyer’s body is found on the beach in the small Cornish village of Porthaven, staked out with a tarred bag over its head, just as the peak summer season gets underway. When a second body is found bizarrely fixed to the floor of a nearby building not long afterwards, the laconic police surgeon remarks ‘Well, psychopaths need holidays too’. Detective Inspector Treloar, a maverick to some bosses but a driven, committed investigator to his fellow officers, takes charge. When more bodies turn up, Treloar and his team are at first unsure – accident or murder?
There seems to be no connection between the victims whose murders are violent and unusual with escalating viciousness. What is going on? Could they have brought their fate with them; festering secrets from the past?
Could either of the two mysterious men staying at the camp site be involved? Is it one or more doing the killing? What about the rabble of students in the big house or the local recluse and his enigmatic brother? What about the embittered locals resentful of incomers buying up the village? And who is the extraordinary female, institutionalised in the South of France as a child, who reflects on her past as the story unfolds?
Then a brutal attack on one of their own shocks Treloar’s team, switching their focus in an unexpected direction and a long-held grievance based on a heartfelt, perceived injustice surfaces.
Book excerpt
‘Porthaven has a sheltered sandy beach offering safe bathing protected by a stone quay, with properties clustered along the steep narrow streets of a wooded valley and stretching along the cliffs to east and west. Excellent scenic cliff walks for the intrepid. There are facilities, toilets and a large car park 300 yards from the beach. Found on narrow minor roads with passing places south of Truro. A traditional, peaceful anchorage.’
Cornish Cove Guide
But not that July morning.
18 July 06: 00
As Marianne Temple walked down the lane past the closed surf shop and Porthaven Stores at 6: 00 that Sunday morning, she hummed softly to herself: Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. She loved the village at this time of day at this time of year; too early for visitors, too early for most locals. She crossed the road that ran parallel to the shore, passed Crabbers café, and stepped onto the dimpled sand at the top of the beach where the tide does not usually reach. Flashes of sunlight were reflecting off the wave-tops like hundreds of signal lamps. Breathing deeply she gazed at the sea which was rolling gently over the few pebbles and strands of seaweed strewn along the waterline.
‘OK my beauties,’ she said quietly, unleashing two greyhounds who raced off to the west towards the quay. Since her husband’s death she had assumed the task of walking the rescue greyhounds Shadow and Max, and what she had once thought would be a terrible chore had become a cherished opportunity for solitude.
Marianne turned and headed east, strolling along the length of the beach on the hard damp sand left by the falling tide. Above her to her left she could see the blank windows and deserted terraces and gardens of the large houses which skirted the cliff edge curving off towards Point End. The sky was the palest of blues, tinged primrose at the horizon and the only sound other than the sea was the occasional cry of a gull. Perfect.
Ahead of her at the far end of the beach she could see a shape on the sand. At first she thought it was some lost sail washed in and abandoned by the tide, but as she got closer it took on the unmistakable shape of the human form. Someone was lying, spread-eagled on the beach. Sod it. Simultaneously surprised and annoyed, she braced herself for an encounter with some summer visitor sleeping it off.
Before retirement Marianne Temple had been a paediatrician at The London Hospital, and whilst not overly familiar with adult patients she was aware that something about this individual looked wrong. As she closed upon the prone figure she saw a naked man with a black bag over his head. He was lying with arms and legs outstretched, all four limbs tied by some kind of coloured cord to the summer-laid mooring ropes which stretched into the sea to anchor the lane marker buoys which separated swimmers from boat users.
Marianne ran towards him calling out ‘hello’ but already convinced there would be no answer. Kneeling in the damp sand she reached out to take a pulse. He was icy cold and very dead. She pulled back her hand and covered her mouth gasping, then stood, pulled out her mobile, and dialled 999.
‘Police please, no, no ambulance will be needed, just the coroner’s undertaker.’
As the dogs raced towards her, she knelt again calling them and much to their disgust reattached their leads.
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