Grave Injustice - Netta Newbound

About the Book

Title: Grave Injustice

Author: Netta Newbound

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Geri and James return in their most explosive adventure to date.

When next door neighbour, Lydia, gives birth to her second healthy baby boy, James and Geri pray their friend can finally be happy and at peace. But, little do they know Lydia’s troubles are far from over.

Meanwhile, Geri is researching several historic, unsolved murders for James' new book. She discovers one of the prime suspects now resides in Spring Pines Retirement Village, the scene of not one, but two recent killings.

Although the police reject the theory, Geri is convinced the cold case they’re researching is linked to the recent murders. But how? Will she regret delving so deeply into the past?




My Opinion from reading an eARC supplied by Enchanted Book Promotions is this is an enjoyable well written book. There is sufficient depth into the characters and a plot that I didn't find too complex. I would recommend this to murder/crime readers.

Author Bio

Netta Newbound is the author of twelve popular thriller novels/novellas to date including the Adam Stanley Thriller Series and the Cold Case Files. Her debut psychological thriller, An Impossible Dilemma, shot up the charts in 2015 in both the UK and US reaching #1 in several thriller and horror categories. This rapid success gained Netta a name for herself in the thriller genre. The Watcher, another of her bestsellers that reached the top 20 in the Amazon chart, was published through Bloodhound Books, who will also publish her next book, Maggie, in October 2017.

Originally from Manchester, England, Netta has travelled extensively and has lived and worked in a variety of exciting places. She now lives in New Zealand with her husband. They have three grown up children and four grandchildren.

Book Excerpts


Dalton Lloyd closed the shutter on the serving hatch just as a doddering old woman appeared pushing her walking frame towards him.

“Am I too late?” she asked. “I only want an apple.”

“Do you see the sign? Kitchen’s closed,” Dalton barked.

The woman stepped backwards. A look of total shock played out in the deep wrinkles of her face, and her already watery eyes welled some more.

“Don’t look at me like that, you old witch. I do have a life, you know, unlike you lot sitting around here waiting to die.”

Another old codger, who had been sitting towards the back of the dining room, suddenly jumped to his feet and rushed towards them. “How dare you speak to her like that!” he cried, shaking his fist towards Dalton menacingly.

“And you can shut up, and all. What are you going to do with that? Beat me senseless?” Dalton boomed out a laugh as he turned off the light and exited the side door to where his dilapidated truck was parked. Climbing in, he turned the key and headed out the main gates of the Spring Pines Retirement Village.

Relieved to shake off his day’s work, he headed to his local pub to play on the fruit machines, something he did every night—or on the nights he could afford to, that is.

The White Hart had been his local since leaving school. He didn’t like change and was perfectly happy to go about his daily routine until the day he popped his clogs. He didn’t like working at the retirement village—it did his head in. But the feeble-minded old people more than made up for it with their gullible attitudes and more money than they could possibly spend before they carked it.

He had a few favourites that he’d groomed over the past few months. Befriending the needy bastards had been a doddle—offering to pick up a bit of shopping worked every time and would always culminate in the offer of a cup of tea, leaving him to have a good mooch about their bungalow.

No matter how many times they were told to put their money into a bank or building society, they never seemed to listen, and he would always find a stash of notes either under the mattress, in a large old teapot in the kitchen, or in a shoebox in the wardrobe. They wouldn’t have a clue how much they had and, better still, they would add to it every week. So long as he wasn’t greedy, and didn’t take the lot, they were none the wiser. It was easy pickings to top up his wages with.

Pushing his last pound coin into the slot, he prayed for a win. It was much earlier than he usually left for home, but he’d have no choice if he didn’t win any money. And that would also mean no dinner as he hadn’t a scrap of food in the house.

When the last of the credits spun away, he slammed the heel of his hand on the play button and kicked the front of the machine. “Fucking rip-off piece of shit!”

“That’ll be all for tonight, Dalton, buddy.” Wayne, the hefty barman, lifted the hatch and shuffled his paunch through it. “Come on—or you’ll give me no choice but to bar you. Again.”

Dalton shrugged Wayne’s hand from his arm. “Get your stinking paws off! I’m going. But you wanna get someone out to look at that fucking machine. It’s rigged.”

“You don’t complain when you clear it out though, do you, Dalton?” Wayne grabbed his arm again and shoved him towards the swinging door.

“Alright. Take it easy. I’m going.” Dalton scowled at the much larger man, and then at the pub full of people who had all stopped what they were doing to focus on him. “What the fuck are you lot looking at?” He slammed through the door and out into the chilly night air.

As he approached his vehicle, he dropped his keys in the gutter and, after picking them up, he was startled by a man standing beside him.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The man didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward and punched Dalton on his chin.

Dalton laughed, and then began choking. The punch hadn’t been hard, and yet something was seriously wrong. He lifted his hands to his chin and gasped when he saw the amount of blood covering his fingers. He looked back up at the man before falling forwards to his knees and sprawling in slow motion to the gutter.

The last thing he saw was the man’s brown leather shoes as he walked away.


Bill Featherstone was fed up with his life.

After thirty-five years of marriage, his wife, Marianne, told him she didn’t even like him anymore, and moved out of their family home. Now, less than three weeks later, he found he was poorer than he’d been in his entire fifty-three years on the planet. Not only had she left him, but she’d systematically cleared out their savings in the months leading up to her declaration. Then, she took off with her fancy man.

As a self-employed electrician, Bill needed to take on extra jobs simply to pay the mortgage this month, a mortgage that had steadily increased over the years while he thought it was being paid off. It turned out Marianne had re-mortgaged several times, forging his signature. The crux of it was she’d screwed him, big time.

Zooming into the retirement village at just after 4pm for his fifteenth job of the day, he almost mowed down a bent up old man on a Zimmer frame. He was crossing the road as though he had all the time in the world.

Bill slammed on the brakes and wound his window down. “Get out of the way, you idiot. You’re gonna cause a fucking accident.”

The old man carried on, completely unaware of him.

Bill slammed the heel of his palm on the horn which made no difference to the situation, but brought plenty of nosy old codgers out from their bungalows.

Once the man had climbed up onto the curb, Bill zoomed off and parked his van a few hundred meters away. Then, he grabbed his toolbox and rushed to the address.

“Mrs Jones?” he asked the pleasant-faced lady who answered his urgent door rapping. She reminded him of his grandmother.

“Have you come to fix my oven?”

“I certainly have, love. Can you quickly tell me what keeps happening?”

“The problem began a few weeks ago when my niece and her boyfriend came for a visit. I wanted to make them some scones—they love my scones—I won awards for them back in my younger day...”

“That’s all very lovely,” he interrupted, “but can you get on with it. I’m a busy man.”


The stupid old woman seemed shocked and although he felt a little awful, he knew what these old people could be like. She’d probably drip feed him her life story before getting down to the problem in hand.

“The fuse keeps tripping when I turn on my oven.”

“Okay, lead the way.”

In less than a minute he located the fault. “Bloody hell,” he barked.

“What’s wrong?” Her trembling voice irritated him.

“Basic common sense, love. Look at this? Tell me what you see?”

She began trembling so badly she appeared to be shaking her head at him. “I-I don’t see anything.”

“This!” He jabbed at a piece of foil lying in the bottom of the immaculate oven. “Would you shove a knife in the toaster?”

“No, of course not.” She gripped the work surface as though to steady herself.

“Then why shove a load of foil into the bottom of the oven? It’s touching an element and shorting out.”

“I’m sorry. I only had gas in my last house. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Well you know what thought did, don’t you?”

“Is there a problem, Gloria?” An equally doddery old man appeared in the doorway.

“No. It’s my fault, Eddie. Go back through to the lounge and I’ll make another pot of tea.”

The man eyeballed Bill before stroking the woman’s arm. “Don’t worry, love. I told Sandy I’d take him for a game of dominoes. Are you sure you’re alright?”


Bill ripped the foil out and tested the element before turning the oven on.

The woman returned from seeing her friend out. “Is it okay now?”

“Should be. When does the fault happen? As soon as you switch it on or after a few minutes?”

“Pretty much right away.”

“Well it seems to be working alright now. I’ll leave the oven running while I pack up my van and fetch my invoice book.”

Out at the van, he shoved his tool box into the back and sat just inside, his right foot resting against the open door. He looked up, startled when a shadow fell over him.

“What the—?” Bill wasn’t able to say anything else. A searing pain that began under his chin, exploded in the back of his head.

Then nothing.