This week, despite life hurling curveballs at me and laying obstacles in my path, I completed the first draft of A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE, the 21st book in the DCI Jack Logan series. I am by and large happy with it – as happy as I ever am with a first draft – and will now set about it with a sledgehammer and a pair of sharp scissors.

Or, more accurately, some tea and biscuits.

The book is published in July 2025, and as soon as I get the edits done, I’ll be pinging the completed manuscript over to Angus King to start working on the audio version. You can pre-order the Kindle edition right now, with other formats available to order soon.

To celebrate completing draft one, I’ve decided to share a short excerpt from the opening of the book. Before I do, though, I want to talk briefly about where story ideas come from.

Sometimes, it’s a twisty-turny plot that gives me the idea for a novel. Other times, it’s a particular character, or a scene that pops into my head, almost fully formed. Occasionally, it’s a theme or vague concept – like with my Audible Original, HIM, for example.

And very, very rarely, it’s a first line. Once in a blue moon, a line will appear in my brain from apparently nowhere, and I’ll immediately know it’s the first line of a book, even if I don’t yet know what the rest of the book is about. That’s what happened in the case of A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE. I was driving to Inverness, and – from nowhere, like I was channeling it – I thought of the opening line.

From there, I developed the opening scene, and the characters involved. And that led to me coming up with the entire story. All from a first line that I personally believe is the greatest one I’ve ever written.

And now, I’m sharing it with you. So, settle down, strap in, and enjoy this short excerpt from A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE.

CHAPTER ONE

She could stick Art Garfunkel up her arse.

Reginald had been by Elsie’s side for over fifty years now, man and boy. They’d been through thick and thin together, more than their fair share of ups and downs, and  a few ins and outs along the way. Although, not enough of the latter for Reg’s liking.

If you’d asked him yesterday—hell, if you’d asked him five minutes ago—he’d have sworn they knew everything there was to know about one another.

He’d have been wrong.

Because that was before his wife had dropped the bombshell, out of the blue, that she believed—no, that she was labouring under the misapprehension—that Art Garfunkel was the talented one out of legendary 1960s folk duo, Simon and Garfunkel.

And Reg, quite frankly, wasn’t having it. Everyone knew that Paul Simon was better. Of course Paul Simon was better! That was a hill he’d die on, if it came to it.

In fact, You Can Call Me Al was very possibly Reg’s favourite song of all time, even if, admittedly, he didn’t have the first bloody clue what it was about.

Why anyone would choose to address the multi-Grammy Award-winning singer songwriter, Paul Simon, by any name other than his own—much less jump through hoops in order to do so—remained an enigma. There was no denying, though, that the song was an all-time classic.

Reg knew all of them, of course. You Can Call Me Al. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. That maudlin one about hobos. All the hits.

Granted, he’d felt somewhat misled by 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, given that the song featured only five unique methods with which to end a relationship, none of which were particularly helpful or informative.

Especially the parts where he told Roy not to be coy, and suggested that Gus simply ‘get on the bus.’ In what world was that practical, actionable advice?

Still, what had Art Garfunkel ever done? Ridden on a great man’s coat tails, that was what. Reg doubted Elsie could name even one of the bastard’s songs, let alone nearly three.

He was prepared to bet that she only liked him for the funny name. Yes, that would be it. That was the way her mind worked. This was Engelbert Humperdink all over again.

And, to a lesser extent, Tanita Tikaram.

He’d told her as much a few minutes ago, when they’d been walking down the hill from the car park. And, of course, she’d been giving him the cold shoulder ever since.

It was times like these, of which there were plenty, that he wondered if the last five decades had been a mistake. Particularly since they hadn’t really been intimate for four of those, except for that one night after Auntie Jeanie’s wedding in the autumn of 1992.

And, the less said about that, the better.

As they plodded in stony silence down the uneven hillside towards the darkness gaping at the bottom, Reginald wondered what advice Paul Simon might offer a man in his position.

If past evidence was anything to go by, it’d be something along the lines of, push her in a hedge, Reg.

And, tempting an idea as that was, he didn’t think it wouldn’t help the situation in the slightest.