Interview with John Nicholl, Author of Portraits of the Dead

portraitsofthedeadbannerToday, I’m delighted a feature an interview with John Nicholl, author of Portraits of the Dead. His other books include When Evil Calls Your Name and White is the Coldest Colour. John is always happy to hear from readers, bloggers, or anyone interested in proposing a joint creative project. He can be contacted through his author website: www.johnnicholl.com.

Barbara: What is your favorite ice cream flavor?

John: Chocolate.

Barbara: Which mythological creature are you most like?

John: What the ….? My wife says I’m like a bear with a sore head. Does that count?

Barbara: First book you remember making an indelible impression on you.

John: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Barbara: How do you develop your plot and characters?

John: I start with the key characters in mind and let the story develop from chapter to chapter.

Barbara: Describe your writing space.

John: I write with family life going on all around me.

BLURB: Emma didn’t know how long he hid, silent and unmoving, in the large Victorian wardrobe to the side of her single bed. She didn’t know how long he peered out, salivating and drooling, between the two heavy dark oak doors, and watched, mesmerised, as she slowly drifted into fitful sleep. She didn’t know what time he pushed the doors open and crept towards her in the drab grey darkness of the night.

Detective Inspector Gravel finds himself floundering when a local nineteen-year-old university student is abducted and imprisoned by a sadistic serial killer, who has already tortured and killed five young women.

A gripping page-turner of a serial killer thriller packed with suspense. If you like Rachel Abbott, Robert Bryndza and Karin Slaughter, discover John Nicholl’s chilling new thriller today.

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

John Nicholl, an ex-police officer, child protection social worker, manager, and lecturer, has written three dark psychological suspense thrillers, all of which are Amazon international bestsellers, reaching # 1 in multiple categories in the United Kingdom, France, Spain, Australia, Canada and the USA. John is always happy to hear from readers, bloggers or anyone interested in proposing a joint creative project. He can be contacted via his author website at:

 

http://www.johnnicholl.com

https://www.facebook.com/john.nicholl.988

https://twitter.com/nicholl06

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13795294.John_Nicholl

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Portraits-Dead-John-Nicholl/dp/1786972670/

One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $50 Amazon/BN.com gift card.
a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Excerpt:

Chapter One, 2:20 A.M. Saturday, 2 May 1998

Emma didn’t know how long he hid, silent and unmoving, in the large Victorian wardrobe to the side of her single bed. She didn’t know how long he peered, salivating and drooling, between the two heavy dark oak doors and watched, mesmerised, as she slowly drifted into fitful sleep. She didn’t know what time he pushed the doors open and crept towards her in the drab grey darkness of the night. But he did. She knew that he did.

Emma woke with a start, tense, alert, and opened her bleary eyes, telling herself insistently that the dark silhouette slowly approaching her was the nightmare construct of her subconscious mind. But initial anxiety became blind panic as the inky shadow took on an obvious human form that suddenly gained pace and loomed over her. And then a hand, a large hot clammy hand, pulled the bedclothes over her head, clamped her mouth tight shut and silenced her scream before it materialised.

A myriad unwelcome thoughts invaded her troubled mind as he pinned her head to the pillow and raised his free arm high above his head, before closing his fingers tightly, forming his hand into a formidable weapon and bringing it crashing down, again and again and again, with all the force he could muster, rendering her unconscious and bleeding.

She didn’t know how long she remained senseless, or what he did to her while she slept. She didn’t know what time he lifted her from her bed and carried her from her student bedroom, down the creaking wooden staircase and out into the Welsh city street. But he did. She knew that he did.

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