A murdered recluse. A property empire. A disinherited family. All the ingredients for murder. No one gave much credence to the man when he was alive. In fact, most people never knew who he was, although those who had lived in the area for many years recognised the tired-looking and shabbily-dressed man as he shuffled along, regular as clockwork on Thursday’s at seven in the evening to the local off-licence. It was always the same: a bottle of whisky, premium brand, and a packet of cigarettes. He paid his money over the counter, took hold of his plastic bag containing his purchases, and then walked back down the road with the same rhythmic shuffle. He said not one word to anyone on the street or in the shop. Apart from the three-storey mansion where he lived, one of the best residences on one of the best streets in London, with its windows permanently shuttered, no one would have regarded him as any other than homeless and destitute. Just a harmless eccentric, until the morning when he was found dead in his front garden.
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Phillip Strang was born in the late forties in England; his childhood years were spent in a small town seventy miles west of London. He has been an avid reader since childhood.In his early twenties, the author, with a degree in electronics engineering left England for Sydney, Australia. Now, forty years later, he still resides in Australia, although many intervening years spent in a myriad of countries, some calm and safe – others, no more than war zones.Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/PhillipStrangWriter/