Diagnosis or Death (Janna Rose Mysteries Book 2)

A Gripping Psychological Mystery

Diagnosis or Death is a gripping psychological mystery set in Oxford, where journalist-turned-therapist Janna Rose returns to confront her most dangerous case yet. Blending crime fiction, psychology, and the unsettling realities of modern technology, this second instalment in the Janna Rose Mysteries explores how truth can be manipulated in the digital age.

Freshly qualified in psychology, Janna begins a new role assessing claimants for welfare benefits. The work is demanding, the pressure to approve cases is mounting, and something about the system doesn’t feel right. When a colleague is discovered dead in what police quickly rule a suicide, Janna’s instincts tell her there is more to the story.

Determined to uncover the truth, she starts asking questions—only to find herself drawn into a shadowy world where artificial intelligence and deepfake videos can destroy reputations in seconds. As online footage begins to surface that appears to show therapists encouraging fraud, careers are threatened and trust begins to crumble. Janna suspects the videos are not what they seem, but proving it could put her directly in the path of powerful people who would rather keep their secrets hidden.

As the investigation deepens, Janna must rely on her understanding of human behaviour and the fragile workings of the mind. With danger closing in and deception lurking at every turn, she uncovers a web of manipulation involving vulnerable clients, hidden identities, and a scheme designed to exploit the welfare system for profit.

Perfect for readers who enjoy intelligent crime fiction, psychological thrillers, and mysteries that explore contemporary issues, Diagnosis or Death combines compelling characters with thought-provoking themes about technology, identity, and justice.

Excerpt from the book

A Master’s in Psychology was supposed to be a feather in my cap. As it turned out, the toil of earning it from Wolves Uni was nothing compared with the trouble it went on to cause.

Was it a warning sign at the graduation ceremony that I couldn’t get the tassel on the mortarboard to stay in place, dangling over the left front edge, without it tickling my nose? Then, the gown reserved for me turned out to be two sizes too big. Maybe it was supposed to billow out behind a broomstick.

You could probably fly one in the venue, cavernous Wulfrun Hall. According to a leaflet I picked up on the way in, bands had filled it for decades, including old favourites like Pulp and Tori Amos. Those same tours probably took them straight on to Reading, where I did my BA in Eng Lit. Back in the day.

I’d sallied forth from my ground-floor flat near Oxford railway station that morning to catch the Wolverhampton train for the first time. Study was all online, completed from go to whoa in a year and a half at the bargain price of just over seven grand.

I could have opted to attend classes on site, which would have meant visiting the city in person, but up to now I’d somehow resisted the temptation. In fact, once I sat down to plan my visit – and shelled out fifty quid for the day return, blimey – I realised I knew virtually nothing about the place.

So to walk from the station through spring sunshine was to enjoy (if that’s the right word) a sudden access of understanding. Brown Victorian brick-piles, the Chubb Lock factory and Britannia Hotel loomed on either side. Further on? Various other distinguished-looking buildings, once shopping arcades, seemingly, but all boarded up. A bronze likeness of Albert, Victoria’s Prince Consort, gazed glumly down from horseback towards signboards announcing an improvement scheme that would deliver “a welcoming and enjoyable environment in the heart of our city.”

For now, it seemed the good burghers would have to make do with a chorus of jackhammers, stripping out a blocked-up road. It would make way for a pedestrian precinct. Sign of the works beginning, at least. In order to create, one must first destroy, isn’t that the proverb?

Queuing through the foyer for entrance to the hall itself, I noticed a big brass cross mounted on the wall above the door. A book, candle and padlock nestled in the crooks formed by the angles, along with some blobby thing I couldn’t identify. “Cometh light out of darkness,” a circular surrounding text proclaimed, as if picking up the general theme. As dusk had fallen on the city’s industrial heyday, the university itself was evidently supposed to cast a ray of economic sunshine.