The Impersonator (Hannah Tree: Private Detective Book 2)

A New Case. A Relentless Enemy. And a Darkness That Follows.

Hannah Tree’s career as a private detective is hanging by a thread. After a near-disastrous first case and the emotional fallout of confronting her past, she's ready to call it quits. But when an old client begs her to help a friend trapped in a dangerous marriage, Hannah agrees—reluctantly. She needs the money. And how hard could it be?

What begins as a simple welfare check quickly escalates into a psychological battle against a manipulative and dangerous man. Crispin Kennedy, a successful barrister with a chilling past, is used to getting his way—and when Hannah interferes, he marks her for destruction. To survive, Hannah must match his cunning move for move and confront her own growing darkness in the process.

Set against the vibrant backdrop of a drag theatre company and layered with psychological tension, The Impersonator is a gripping mystery that explores the minds of those without conscience—and the cost of fighting them.

Available now – start reading The Impersonator today.

Excerpt from the book

`Step, pause, step, kick, turn. Together! Jesus. I’ve never seen so many fucking prima donnas in my life. You’re supposed to be a fucking chorus line, so now, all together…’

Gary, our dance master’s profanities finally penetrated my reverie as he tore new ones in the lads as they rehearsed Starr Follies’ new show. The one we had to have ready for Gloria when she arrived back from her gender reassignment surgery in two weeks. I felt quite proud. It was my more spectacular exploits as a detective that ginned up enough profits for her to afford the extortionate fees that paid for her surgeon’s new house in Sorrento. Italy, not Victoria.

Gloria was a towering figure, literally, at six-foot-five, and, at her best, a kind and thoughtful boss. But since the surgery, she hadn’t been at her best. Far from it. She was cranky, short-tempered, and all up a proper pain in the arse. From her hospital bed, she’d tried to dictate every last detail in the new show. She listened to no one, not even placid old Charlie with his fringe of wispy grey-blond hair and crinkly, no colour eyes, my immediate boss and our stage manager. Nothing we could conceive of was good enough. We patted her hand, told her to get well soon, and ignored her. We put it all down to pain and hormone therapy, sent chocolates, and hoped it would be good enough in the end to pass her very critical eye.

And she did have a very keen eye for the theatrical, honed over her years in court as a Queens Council. Or so she said. I guess there’s a theatrical element in the court system. The judges who peered at me with the intention of making me cringe in fear and shame, and the social workers who nodded sadly were surely acting. They never showed any concern anywhere else.

The police threatening hellfire and damnation and giving me a clip on the head to go on with were serious, though. They all failed to make me contrite for one second. Mainly because I never did anything to anyone that wasn’t thoroughly deserved. Even if it was illegal.

What they did do was instil in me a bottomless need to see justice done, no matter what. In spite of them.

`Back, step, turn, kick—What the fuck are you doing, Marky? This is a chorus number not a showcase for your megalomania. Get back in the fucking line. Christ. Break, everyone, back in ten. Marky, my office, now.’

I grinned at Charlie. Gary’s `office’ was a corner of the storeroom behind two stage flats held in place with sandbags. It had a tiny trestle table with his computer, and a whiteboard on a stand. But with this little bit of technology he created magic. It wasn’t just my shenanigans that brought the paying audience. Gary’s superb dance numbers had the punters drooling in the aisles, begging for more.