Mind Over Murder (Janna Rose Mysteries Book 1)

An historic city. Greed leading to murder. A reluctant sleuth.

When Oxford journalist-turned-therapist Janna Rose is called to identify the body of her old flame Daniel, she has a feeling that something doesn't add up.

Daniel's death came right after he led an eco-protest against a controversial development. As police drag their feet, Janna investigates the killing herself. Following a trail of cryptic clues from their last conversation, she uncovers a conspiracy, which reaches all the way into her consulting room.

Digging deeper, Janna realizes that she and her dear ones are in peril. With lives at stake, she must risk everything to outwit her ruthless adversary and expose the truth.

Mind Over Murder is the gripping first instalment in the Janna Rose Mysteries series by Jake Lynch and Annabel McGoldrick, blending sharp wit, layered characters, and page-turning suspense.

Excerpt from the book

As I parked my bike outside West Oxford Community Centre that day, crows perching in the bare beech tree overlooking Botley Park rose in unison, as if responding to some hidden disturbance.

I watched the dark shadows melting into a rare glimmer of March sunshine, then turned to lock up. At that moment, a taxi, a silver Toyota, drove into the car park. A faintly audible skid as the brakes were slammed on.

Joining several already there, I now noticed, from the same firm, Regal Cars. Attending some kind of trade convention? Or collecting a big group from across town?

The driver, slight and middle-aged, in grey flannels and a dark-blue zipped cardigan, jammed a flat cap on his head while striding towards the single-storeyed red-brick building. I slung my helmet by its chinstrap on Bertha’s handlebars and followed him inside.

Drawing out the small poster from my bag, advertising as a friendly female neighbourhood therapist, I stopped at the cork wallboard in the foyer and searched for a space, or an expired notice I could legitimately remove.

But voices from just ahead in the Centre’s main hall were growing louder. I pinned up my flyer, pre-cut strips with my email address protruding below for would-be clients to tear off, and stuck my nose through the open door.

“This whole bloody city is grinding to a halt – and you want to stop us getting even one more road?!”, the newcomer was shouting.

“What is this really about, man, huh?” another said. “We’re all good Muslims, we drivers, you know? We just want to make a living, and you’re stopping us, you Greenies.” The word was shot through with contempt. “It’s Islamophobia!”

“This is racist!”, a third chipped in, quivering with rage.

Beyond them, I could see signs being created with paints and cardboard, protesting against the Osney Mead plan. Bits of a nearby industrial estate had long been sliding into disuse. I’d read about the scheme to redevelop it in my old paper, the Oxford Mail.

Taking pride of place in the colourful array was a banner with a choking anthropomorphised Planet Earth and the words, “Stop the Bridge of Doom.”

Sarah, the Centre manager, stood between the antagonists, trying to lower the tension with the classic palms-down gesture. Beyond her, a handful of “Greenies” watched impassively. They’d made a booking, she was explaining, so were entitled to use the space. “We all share the same planet, mate,” I heard one of them call out. “Muslims and everyone else.”

Flat-cap man darted further in and wrested a placard from the hands of its startled maker, flung it to the floor, hawked audibly and spat on it, then just as quickly darted back. A volley of “heys!” from her comrades, and the official raised her voice.

“Right, that’s enough. I’m going to ask you to leave, or I’ll have to call Security.” Turning reluctantly, the drivers began to file back out. One treated me to a scowl as I stood aside to let them pass.

I was due for a meeting later with Kevin, a City and County Councillor who’s also my landlord and upstairs neighbour. As a side-hustle, I help with his correspondence and comms. He’d know why the proposals were generating such strong feelings.

Before moving on, a pair of dark eyes at the back of the hall briefly met my gaze. Their owner lifted a hand to the side of his head in the shape of a telephone and mouthed: “Let’s talk.” But that could wait. It was time for sustenance.