Digging Deeper into Hiding in Plain Sight by Eoghan
Egan
Blurb
A vicious serial killer roams the Irish
Midlands, with his sights set on the next victim.
A successful businessman has found the
perfect recipe for getting away with murder.
No bodies, no evidence.
No evidence, no suspect.
High art and low morals collide when
graduate Sharona Waters discovers a multi-million euro art scam in play. She
delves in, unwittingly putting herself on a direct trajectory with danger as
the killer accelerates his murder spree.
When Sharona gets drawn into the killer’s orbit, she peels away his public persona and exposes the psychopath underneath. Suddenly, the small town has no hiding place…
This extract is
a scene at a charity ball, and it’s the first time we meet the art dealer
(serial killer) in a group setting, when he’s introduced to other
individuals...
A tall, lean, broad-shouldered man stood, straightened and fastened the bottom
button on a tailored charcoal-coloured dress suit jacket. He had a high
forehead, piercing Dresden-blue eyes and blond hair slicked into a
businessman’s cut.
‘Good evening. I understand you
solved the mystery. Much ado about naught. So easy to misplace items.’
‘Do you find that happens often?’
Hugh asked.
The art dealer stared. ‘Every other
week. Collectors forget they’ve locked pieces away for protection, and the
initial reaction is: “stolen.” In reality, that’s rare. Nowadays, even ordinary
houses have too much security for criminals.’
‘Unless it’s an inside job,’ Sharona
said. ‘No quantity of high-tech security can hold out against that.’
‘Indeed.’
Hattinger’s are a well-established
company.’ Hugh broke the silence.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you involved in the business
long?’
‘Sixteen years.’
‘Any advice for a novice?’ Ferdia reeled
forward, slapped the art dealer’s shoulder, then grasped his arm and shook
hands with his wrought-iron grip.
Hugh watched the man wipe his palm
on a trouser leg. ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘If you’re in the market to buy and
you find a piece that fills a void in your life, grab it. Drop in to one of our
galleries and talk to a consultant.’
‘Argh, to you, it’s another day,
another Dali,’ Ferdia staggered back a step. ‘Me? I’m not great around the
whole arty lark.’
‘Our consultants will be happy to
guide you.’
‘A fool and his Monet, eh? Still, might
take you up on that offer. Chances are I’ll need a birthday present sooner or
later. But none of this modern shi … stuff, though. It’s gotta be …
recognisable. Can I tell you a secret?’ Ferdia leaned closer and belched. ‘The
few galleries I’ve been in, half the time I don’t know what the feck I’m
lookin’ at.’
‘I see. Well, galleries aren’t for
everyone. As I said, our consultants—’
‘Gotta business card handy?’
The gallerist paused. ‘Of course.’
He drew out an engraved Burberry leather card holder and handed Ferdia a
gold-embossed card.
Ferdia searched
pockets, hadn’t one of his own to exchange, but found a dog-eared envelope and
he tore off a piece. ‘Anyone got a pen?’ He asked Hugh to write the mobile
number.
Hugh handed over Ferdia’s number and the man doubled the square of paper and folded it again. ‘Nice to meet you.’ His smile was as brief as the nod. He moved away and Hugh watched him flick the wadded-up phone number into a corner.
…..
In this next piece we follow Hugh Fallon as he goes to confront the killer…
Wispy clouds clothed the moon.
Hugh shuffled along the lane,
struggling to walk in the tyre track groove. Above him, a canopy of sagging tree branches arched and joined. The timber
creaked and groaned under the weight of snow and ice. Slivers of moonbeams
filtered between the gaps, giving faint shape to objects. Underfoot, frozen snow and rough ice crunched like crisp
cornflakes. Hugh craned his neck, forcing his eyes to adjust. Except for
the distant growl of a Harley with its modified pipes and kamikaze rider
puttering along the main road, the night was still. The cold penetrated his bones. He shuddered. What had seemed bright from the comfort and
warmth of the car, now became dingy and menacing.
Something rustled in a hedge.
A fox howled. An owl hooted a
rejoinder. Icicles dripped from
naked branches, their plops, eerie whispers. The hair on Hugh’s head bristled
with tension, as mangled nerves and stress ramped up his heartbeats. Eyes wide open, searching the tree-line, a
snow pellet dripped on his face, making him jump. He didn’t see the pothole. Ice splintered, a gunshot in the stillness.
His left ankle twisted and bolts of pain rippled up his leg. The runner acted
as a sponge, soaking in weeks of slush.
Hugh shuffled on, each step
producing a paroxysm of
agony. He’d lost all feeling in his toes. To his right, through the trees, he made out the shape
of a large structure. On the left, a machine sat hunched in a gateway. The
invasive, cloying stench of silage hung in the air. It clung to clothes and
stuck in his throat. The tree-line ended. A two-story house materialised out of
the gloom, a grim and cheerless dark silhouette. The muted glow of an
artificial light shone from the rear of the building and bounced off the glistening
snow.
Every
fibre in Hugh’s body hummed with fear. His heart rattled against ribs, thumping
trip-hammer fast, and nerves jangled, screaming at him to turn and run. The
thin light beam hindered rather than helped lessen the intimidating atmosphere.
He crouched and crab-walked to the house, inched around the gable end, and
sensed movement behind him. He straightened, spun, and raised his arms for
protection. A faint buzz. The side of Hugh’s neck burned and he got hurled
backwards by an invisible force. His skull drummed against the concrete wall. A
ball of white pain flashed. Then, like a blown fuse, everything faded to black.
Who would you choose to play each of them in a film or TV series?
Quick story… A few years back
I was at a Bruce Springsteen concert, and 6 or 7 rows ahead of me, a girl
turned abound, and I said to myself, “that’s exactly how Sharona Waters looks.” I wanted to take a photo of her,
but that would be creepy. She looked a little
like singer Carrie Rodriguez ... but
different. Isn’t it amazing where we get inspiration from? Anyway, to answer
your question. As it’s set in Ireland, I’ll have to go with Irish actors: Hazel
Doupe or Lara McDonnell would play Sharona. Lee Cronin would be a fantastic
Hugh, and I’d cast Aisling Franciosi as Ruth. I believe Michael Fassbender
(grew up in Ireland) would make a great antagonist. There is another character
in the book called Ferdia Hardiman (who you met briefly in one of the extracts,
and he plays a major role in one of the storylines that’ll get teased out more
in the next novel) and Brendan Gleeson is a dead ringer for Ferdia. The role,
the man, the dialogue is made for him. Whenever I’m writing Ferdia into a plot,
Brendan Gleeson is the person I have in mind. In fact, Brendan’s son, Domhnall
Gleeson would also be perfect for Hugh…
What is the creepiest action taken by your antagonist?
He’s a psychopath, so
we’re dealing here with a two-faced individual. One day he humiliates and
destroys an employee’s reputation in front of a roomful of people, just because
he can. Next day he can be nice as pie, before staking out a house and invading
the owner’s personal space. He uses a cattle prod (Taser/stun gun) to kill
people.
Many thanks for the great questions, Lorraine, and for allowing me an opportunity to introduce your readers to Hiding in Plain Sight. Available now at:
UK https://amzn.to/2F6nCS3
US https://amzn.to/2FdSIH4
Next time y’all are on social media, pop by and say hello.
https://www.facebook.com/eoghaneganwriter/
https://twitter.com/eoghanegan
https://www.instagram.com/eoghanegan/
Take care and stay safe,
Eoghan
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