A wry, hard‑bitten solicitor with a bad knee and a brave cocker spaniel walks into a bomb, a fake heiress, and a family conspiracy—then fights to get one real woman her life back.
I woke up with one brogue, a dog in my office, and a metal cigar case in my jacket that my gut said would remove me from the gene pool if I pressed the wrong button. That was the start of it. By the time the train reached the Cairngorms I'd got a dead woman on a bed that wasn’t the heiress, a fake identity stitched together like bad theatre, and a solicitor who’d decided law was only a suggestion.
I’m no detective. I’m a solicitor—an ex‑SAS man trying to learn how to do paperwork again. But paperwork doesn’t cover explosive devices, locked cellars, or the kind of men who buy other people’s silence. So I did the only sensible thing: I used the army part when the law wouldn’t do, and the law part when the violence was over. What I didn’t expect was for an heiress to stand in my jacket and tell me to sit down. That’s how you know a case is personal.
