Publisher Description

'This novel bears all the hallmarks of a great thriller. It not only deals with huge issues like greed, guilt, evil and revenge, but with Anna's deeply personal search for justice, reconciliation, forgiveness and trust. Her journey takes her to the very limits of herself but, at its heart, The Truth Waits is also a story about love in its best forms and I defy anyone not to get swept up in it' Claire DyerAnna has everything worked out - a successful company, all the comforts she needs and no ties. But when she stumbles across the body of a young girl on a deserted beach in Lithuania, everything changes.Anna is compelled to uncover the story behind the tragedy, despite concern from her partner, Will. Everything points towards sex trafficking, but as she searches, her own deepest secrets start to surface.When Will disappears without a trace, Anna is pulled further into the murky world of organised crime. Time is running out for them all, and there's a killer out there who will stop at nothing.Beard enthralls the reader in this fast-paced psychological crime thriller. Anna serves as the perfect power-house protagonist, her daring escapades leaving the reader questioning: how far should one go to solve a murder?'I very much enjoyed reading The Truth Waits. It is taut and tense and builds to an electrifying conclusion' Kirsten Hesketh`Articulate and gripping - an impressive achievement' Shelley Weiner'I enjoyed Susanna's emotive and thought-provoking novel - I thought it was an engrossing mystery and loved the Lithuanian setting. She dealt with some dark themes and created great three-dimensional characters, especially Anna, who was complex and engaging. I wanted to go along with her in her journey for finding the truth' Sam Carrington

Author Biography

Susanna is a psychological crime writer who lives in Marlow, Buckinghamshire. Her day job in PR both demands and celebrates writing and she's helped promote everything from websites to wine. She writes every day, all the time: news, articles, speeches, websites, blogs - and now novels.

Long Description

'This novel bears all the hallmarks of a great thriller. It not only deals with huge issues like greed, guilt, evil and revenge, but with Anna's deeply personal search for justice, reconciliation, forgiveness and trust. Her journey takes her to the very limits of herself but, at its heart, The Truth Waits is also a story about love in its best forms and I defy anyone not to get swept up in it' Claire DyerAnna has everything worked out - a successful company, all the comforts she needs and no ties. But when she stumbles across the body of a young girl on a deserted beach in Lithuania, everything changes.Anna is compelled to uncover the story behind the tragedy, despite concern from her partner, Will. Everything points towards sex trafficking, but as she searches, her own deepest secrets start to surface.When Will disappears without a trace, Anna is pulled further into the murky world of organised crime. Time is running out for them all, and there's a killer out there who will stop at nothing.Beard enthralls the reader in this fast-paced psychological crime thriller. Anna serves as the perfect power-house protagonist, her daring escapades leaving the reader questioning: how far should one go to solve a murder?'I very much enjoyed reading The Truth Waits. It is taut and tense and builds to an electrifying conclusion' Kirsten Hesketh'Articulate and gripping - an impressive achievement' Shelley Weiner'I enjoyed Susanna's emotive and thought-provoking novel - I thought it was an engrossing mystery and loved the Lithuanian setting. She dealt with some dark themes and created great three-dimensional characters, especially Anna, who was complex and engaging. I wanted to go along with her in her journey for finding the truth' Sam Carrington

Excerpt from Book

Prologue On a strip of sand by a northern sea, saltwater caresses pale skin. Bare legs are washed clean, buffed by gentlewaves and a million grains of sand. A single shoe, its skinny heel pointing tothe sky, lies lonely. Fabric swirls in the backwash, its pattern of leaves andflowers fading in the bri≠ yellow hair curls and curves like soft seaweed.The eyes, blue as the sky, stare out at the world, which has turned away. Chapter 1 TheBaltic Sea, at last. She's never been asfar as this, never seen this vast stretch of white sand, this huge horizonbeyond which lies Scandinavia. The hotel is flanked by sand dunes, eachroom overlooking the sea. It's off-season, the winter dragging on, but even insummer people come here to escape everyday life. No children here, no tours, nolive entertainment. Just views of the huge grey sea and the lowering sky, along spit of sand that seems to go on for ever, birds screaming. No need totalk to anyone. She feels the cold blast of sea wind on hercheek as if for the first time, relishes its beating and buffeting as shewalks, takes deep gulps of oxygen until her head aches with the freshness ofit. She breathes in the icy air. Gradually her mind empties of chatter, herbody starts to recalibrate. Until a small, energetic volcano far awayinterrupts the gentle flow of the hours.

First Chapter

The Baltic Sea, at last. She''s never been as far as this, never seen this vast stretch of white sand, this huge horizon beyond which lies Scandinavia. The hotel is flanked by sand dunes, each room overlooking the sea. It''s off-season, the winter dragging on, but even in summer people come here to escape everyday life. No children here, no tours, no live entertainment. Just views of the huge grey sea and the lowering sky, a long spit of sand that seems to go on for ever, birds screaming. No need to talk to anyone. She feels the cold blast of sea wind on her cheek as if for the first time, relishes its beating and buffeting as she walks, takes deep gulps of oxygen until her head aches with the freshness of it. She breathes in the icy air. Gradually her mind empties of chatter, her body starts to recalibrate. Until a small, energetic volcano far away interrupts the gentle flow of the hours. "Good morning, madam," the man on reception says. "Have you contacted your airline yet?" His English is immaculate. A small brass badge indicates his name. Anna''s break is close to an end. "No," she says. "A couple more days." "But - haven''t you heard?" His eyes are round with concern. "There''s been a volcanic eruption. Flights all round Europe have been affected. Would you like me to check for you?""Lithuania has a volcano?" As far as she knows, there are no mountains at all here. "No, madam, not here - in Iceland. There''s a big cloud of ash. A lot of flights to the UK are delayed or cancelled, and many others around Europe.""I hadn''t heard. When was this?""Yesterday, madam. It was on the news last night."She''d gone upstairs early, read for an hour or so and then slept. She''s been avoiding the news, consciously cutting herself off."Yes, I would like you to check my flight for me, please. How long are the delays?""Not delays, mostly now cancellations. Nobody knows for how long. Which airline are you booked with?" She gives him the name and waits while he stares at the screen in front of him. A couple approaches; the man waves at the receptionist, who ignores him, engrossed. "This is ridiculous," the man says, glancing briefly at Anna. His neck is thick; an angry flush creeps up towards his cheeks. He taps impatiently on the wooden top. "Apparently planes were getting through fine at first, then someone panicked and now they''ve cancelled everything, without even knowing what the risks are. Idiotic." The woman holds melodramatic fingers to her forehead, bracelets jangling. "Christ, we could be here for days - weeks." She''s right, Anna realises with a sinking feeling. If the ash cloud is dangerous for aircraft, they won''t be taking any chances."Do you need to be back urgently?" she says to the woman."Well I certainly don''t want to stay much longer in this dump," the woman says, her voice rising in complaint. "I knew we should have left yesterday, but he wouldn''t listen." The man looks away, an expression of disgust on his face. Anna realises this is the first time she''s spoken to any of her fellow guests. Strange how a crisis brings people together. She leaves them waiting by the desk and goes through into the lounge, where a stove spreads its woody fragrance around the room. Soft sofas are scattered around, warm blankets on their seat backs, furred footstools beside them. Wooden coffee tables sit on textured carpets and a rack of glossy magazines hangs from a wall. The impression is stylish, opulent, warm. There''s no-one else there. Anna takes a seat by the window and dials the office. A familiar voice on the end of the line. "Jane, it''s me.""Anna - I was expecting your call. I hope you''ve had a good break?" Anna''s cheered by the businesslike voice, the sound of the real world. "I have indeed, thanks to you. It''s been really good, I''ve managed to relax, as you wanted me to. But now I''m keen to get back - and I can''t.""I know - what bad luck.""It is. Listen, can you do some checking for me please?""Of course I can. Fire away.""Can you book the first available flight home, if you can find one, please, and maybe look a couple of days ahead as well? We may need to take what we can get, so look at interconnecting flights too - maybe via Sweden? And it might be useful to keep an eye on all the updates from your end." "Okay. I''ll get onto the airlines now. I''ll call as soon as I have something to report." "Great - oh, and I''ll go to Vilnius tomorrow, anyway. I want to be closer to the airport, and I won''t get much done here. Can you find me a hotel please?" She checks a couple of news sites to get the latest. It''s not looking good. The volcano is top story, speculation rife about the fallout. There are images of the plume, dark and billowing. Europe''s airlines are in chaos. People all over the world are hysterical, booking any number of flights over the next three weeks, aiming to travel as soon as the flight ban is lifted. It''ll be chaos for much longer than that, with the nightmare of insurance claims and refunds. She risks a look at Facebook, finds a barrage of stories and dramas from people in far-off places. Some are happy: "Yessss! We''ve got to stay!" Many, though, are stressed and anxious. Friends and acquaintances all over the world are stranded. Still, if anyone can get her out, Jane can. All the benefit of the last few days has gone up in smoke - literally. With nothing to do but wait, she grabs her coat and boots and sets off for a last long walk along the beach. There are no people here, no animals, just a few hooded crows hopping at the shore line in the distance, a seagull coasting on the swell of wind high above, mewling at the empty sky. No plants to be seen, no trees, though beyond the white sand dunes on her left soft, fragrant pine forests flank the length of the spit. She walks, leaning into the wind, hood pulled down over her ears, eyes half-closed. She watches her feet, one following the other, as if they are separate from her, marching alone to a secret destination. Beneath her feet the sand forms exotic patterns, fashioned by the sea breeze into whorls and ridges. Pure white shells stand proud like markers, each pushed upright into a tiny drift of sand by the relentless wind. When she turns to look behind her, as her hair whips around her face, there''s nothing for miles but hard white sand and grey shoreline. Her footprints are already barely there, her presence wiped out. Ahead of her is more of the same. She revels in the open sky, the vastness of the sea. She stops, tastes the sea, plunges her hands into the cold water and cups them to her mouth. It''s not salty, as they said. She wonders why. When she turns, the crows have landed close by. One, hopping delicately among shells and pale grey twigs along the waterline, cocks its head and contemplates her, its eye knowing, intelligent. What does it know? Its partner - friend? - brother? - follows, mimicking its movements and for a moment they move in harmony together, hop, look, peck, hop. When she starts to walk again, they fly up in formation, flapping their wings, balancing on the breeze, and land again ahead, keeping a sharp eye on her. She wonders what they''re hoping for. Further on, more birds arrive, investigating a pile of washed-up detritus, twigs and seaweed, chattering and calling to each other. Close by there''s a casualty, a dead bird lying with its feet upturned. But it''s not a bird, it''s a woman''s shoe, black and shiny, its sharp heel pointing towards the sky. It''s out of place here, a landscape unsullied by human garbage. The crows stay with her as she walks, her hands plunged deep into her pockets for warmth, her feet tramping on, until the weather closes in for real and the rain starts to batter her face and the skin on her legs turns cold under the wet denim of her jeans. When she turns to go back, the wind pushes her from behind, urging her on. She can barely see in the driving rain. She has no idea how far she''s gone, and when she gazes back in the direction of the hotel, blinking against the drops which cling to her eyelashes, she can see nothing but grey sea and white sand - no sign of where she''s come from, where she''s been. Half an hour passes and she''s still not sure how far she has to go. Cursing herself for not taking more notice of her surroundings, she tramps on until with relief she recognises, again, the pile of detritus. The crows have gone now; the wind has sent them off to calmer waters. The shoe still lies, incongruous, a pointer to the grim sky, the sand beginning to mount around it, claiming it along with the shells and the seaweed. She''s about to hurry on when something catches her eye. She hesitates, her feet catching in the wet sand. There''s something odd about the ebb and flow of the seawater in and around the pile of seaweed. It sucks and pulls at a shape in the sand. She steps forward to take a better look, fighting to keep her hood in place, her hair tearing at her eyes and face. Leaning down, she pulls the brown slime of the seaweed away - and recoils in horror. Underneath, part-hidden in the sand, is the white curve of a human leg. For a moment everything stops. The wind seems to settle, the gentle rhythm of the sea slows. She can''t breathe. Though she''s never seen one, she knows immediately that this is a dead person - the skin is translucent, there''s no colour at all, it''s as if the life has drained away, into the sea. Steeling herself, she crouches down and pulls the slimy weed away. The eyes of a young girl stare out at her, empty, lifeless. Reeling, she collapses onto her knees on the wet sand, hands over her mouth, stomach churning. She reaches out a trembling hand and feels for a pulse on the alabaster neck. At the touch of the ice-cold skin she snatches her hand away as if scalded, scrambling backwards, her feet slipping and stumbling, away from the pile of seaweed, running, running through the icy rain. At the hotel she moves through the hours that follow lik

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