Epitaph by Anita Waller


Epitaph by Anita Waller
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 2.9 MB

Anita Waller. Anita Waller was born in Sheffield, South Yorkshire in 1946. She married Dave in 1967 and they have three adult children. She began writing when she was around 8 years of age, writing ‘compositions’ at junior school that became books with chapters.

A letter stirs up the past. A missing person. A gruesome murder.
Pensioner and Private Investigator Doris Lester has taken a well-deserved break from work. She’s planned a holiday with her best friend Wendy on a journey across the Yorkshire and Derbyshire Dales. But before they depart a letter arrives, and the contents stir up trouble and memories of the past.
Soon Doris and Wendy are drawn into the mystery surrounding a troubled family, a missing person and gruesome murder.
When Doris and Wendy join the investigation, intriguing revelations about Doris’s past and present surface, which shock even those closest to her.
Step by step they uncover familial secrets that could tear a family even further apart. Together can Wendy and Doris solve the mystery and if they do, will their lives ever be the same again?

‘I’m taking you somewhere else first. I told you it would be an adventure, and an adventure it will be.’

Doris poured them both a drink, and then sat down in the armchair. ‘You’ve brought your file of paperwork with you?’ she asked Wendy, well known for being a little scatterbrained.

‘Too right I have. I’m planning on having an hour or so every evening filling in my journal, printing off the little photographs, and keeping these dead bodies alive.’

‘They’re dead.’

‘I know they’re dead, but I’m never going to have another holiday like this one, am I? I want it recording, and besides, I like this little Sprocket thing. I’ve bought loads of papers so we don’t run out.’

Doris smiled, remembering Luke’s comments about the tiny printer. She had taken a selfie, printed it and stuck it to his computer in the Connection reception area.

‘What’s this?’ he had asked. ‘Why are you glaring at me?’

‘I’m not good at selfies,’ she had responded. ‘And it’s to let you know that I expect that new course to be finished and submitted by the time I come back to work; my eye is on you at all times.’

He had laughed uproariously, winked at her and said, ‘As if I’d dare have you come back and that course be unfinished. Still, it’s nice to have your picture, I might even frame it and sit it on my desk properly. It’ll frighten all the baddies away, that’s for sure.’

The two women sat almost without speaking, Doris going through her own file which she intended keeping in her laptop bag; she knew every step of the journey, and had toyed with the idea of maybe writing a small travel book about this particular holiday when she returned. It would fill the long winter nights of November through to March, but their journals, handwritten, decorated, ticket stubs stuck in with the glue sticks they had packed, would be her primary focus for the book, and a pleasurable end-of-day activity for them when they returned to their hotel.

‘I went to see Bingo Jen last night. Thought I’d better tell her we were going away, because if I missed two sessions she’d have the police round at mine checking I wasn’t dead.’

‘You tell her where we’re going?’

Wendy nodded. ‘She asked. I said we were visiting dead bodies in cemeteries, famous dead people. I mentioned one or two of the names, but she looked a bit blank.’



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