Page 1 of Written in Scars

Chapter One

The interview was scheduled for seven-fifteen. Logan Crawford arrived promptly at the TV studio at six-thirty. He was greeted in reception by Amy, a good-natured production assistant who escorted him to the green room on the seventh floor.

“Help yourself to anything you like,” she said, showing him the TV and coffee facilities in the corner of an overly warm room. “I’ll come back for you five minutes before you’re due on and run through what to expect. Not nervous, are you?”

“I’m good,” he replied with an easy-going smile.

Amy paused for a moment, staring him full in the face, her eyes wide, captivated. A redness crept up her neck and coloured her cheeks. She looked down at her tablet, breaking the spell she’d been momentarily caught in, seemingly embarrassed. “Great. That’s, er, great. So, just relax a little while and I’ll be back for you soon.”

As she left the room, she turned once more to offer a hesitant smile.

Logan was used to the effect he had on some people. He wasn’t vain and wouldn’t deliberately use his looks to his advantage, but knew he was attractive. Tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome were words often used by journalists to describe him. His flashing jade eyes and wide smile drew more press coverage than the books he wrote.

In the green room, a massive TV screen showed the program currently broadcasting, a regional news bulletin which proceeded North-East Tonight, the current affairs show he was due to appear on. The volume was far too loud. Logan searched the glass coffee tables and red leather couches for a remote to mute the sound. Finding none, he ran his fingers along the underside of the screen until he located the manual control and reduced the sound. He didn’t need the distraction. He wanted quiet to prepare for his appearance.

There was nothing he could do about the temperature. The windows were fastened shut. He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair and took a mineral water from the fridge. At least that was cold. Logan was used to situations like this. When he had a new book to promote, he worked tirelessly, touring the country, appearing at local TV and radio stations to give interviews, book signings, readings; not always the greatest fun but a necessary way to get his book noticed.

Now this, the last stop on his current book tour. A four-minute interview on North-East Tonight. A decent slot with good coverage. Best of all it was close to home. There’d be no hotel or six-hour drive afterwards, just a twenty-minute journey from the studios in Newcastle to his house in rural Durham. All being well, he’d be sitting on his sofa and drinking beer by eight o’clock tonight.

Logan crossed to the windows. Seven storeys up, the floor to ceiling glass offered stunning views across the River Tyne and Gateshead Quays on the opposite bank. Dusk had coloured the sky in shades of indigo, gold and grey, which were reflected on the still water of the river. Logan was a not a city man. He preferred the wild, remoteness of the country to high-rises and huge crowds, but he had to admit the view here tonight was truly beautiful.

He leaned one arm against the pane and quietly took it in. There was an influx of traffic in and out of the city, as people left work and headed home, while others came inwards to enjoy the theatres, cinemas, restaurants and bars Newcastle was famous for. He’d been guilty in the past of saying one big city was much like any other. He knew that wasn’t true. Each place had its own spirit. Newcastle especially so. He had a fondness for this city. Growing up in Durham, Newcastle was the top destination when it came to family days out, or shopping trips. And for a while, in his late teens, the night-life was a major draw. Not so much now. At thirty-nine, Logan’s nightclubbing days were all behind him. A good thing too.

His quiet musing was interrupted by voices from the hall. He turned as Amy lead another two guests into the green room. A man in his fifties and a younger guy, late twenties. Logan tried not to stare but the young man was exceptionally good-looking. He had brown wavy hair, thick on top with a full, but tidy beard. His face was perfectly handsome with high cheekbones, level eyes and a straight, broad nose. Dressed in jeans and a well-fitting brown leather jacket, he moved with confidence.

Instinctively Logan straightened his shoulders and tightened his core muscles. He forced himself to look at the older man, who wore a police uniform. He was dashing enough in his own way, but faded in comparison to his companion, despite the uniform.

Amy gave them her spiel about refreshments and collecting them five minutes before they were due on air and left without making introductions.

Never shy, Logan walked confidently towards them, hand outstretched. “Hello,” he said, addressing the police officer first. “I’m Logan Crawford.”

“Inspector John Watt,” the man answered, taking Logan’s hand in a firm grip. He had a broad, clean shaven face, with rough looking skin and thick lips. He regarded Logan with steady grey eyes. His breath and uniform smelled of cigarettes.

“Pleased to meet you.” Logan withdrew his hand to address the real object of interest.

“Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Radcliffe,” the younger man said, taking his hand.

Beneath naturally arched brows, his eyes were large, predominantly brown in colour with flashes of amber and copper. Unlike the Inspector his skin was smooth and blemish free. There wasn’t a fleck of grey in that beard. Logan guessed his age as twenty-seven, twenty-eight. No older. Under the open leather jacket, he wore a dark cotton T-shirt and a few curls of chest hair peaked above the neck.

Logan was six-foot-one, and Sam a couple of inches shorter than him, no more than that.

He’s gorgeous. Logan, dangerously close to losing composure, released Sam’s hand and stepped away.

“Are you guys appearing on the show?” he directed his question to Inspector Watt.

The older man gave a curt nod. “We are.”

“We’re promoting an amnesty on knives that’s currently running in the area,” Sam explained when the Inspector fell silent. “I represent the charity Supporting Victims; Inspector Watt is here to give the police’s response. We hope to encourage as many people as possible to hand in their weapons.”

Sam’s eyes considered Logan’s when he spoke, and it was impossible not to give them his full attention. He tried to focus on his words, but Sam’s beauty was overpowering. Get a grip of yourself.

“Knife crime. Sorry if I sound ignorant, but is that a big problem in this area? I know it’s an issue in London, Birmingham, and those huge cosmopolitan cities, but I didn’t think it was such a crisis in the north. The gang culture and all that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sam answered.

“It’s an issue everywhere,” Watt exclaimed. “Newcastle isn’t some little North-East backwater. We’ve got our own problems. As big as London or anywhere else.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Logan said placatingly. “I guess it doesn’t get as much press coverage as those other places. What I mean is, you don’t hear about it as often.”

---