Kindle Edition Amazon Casimir Greenfield Casimir Greenfield Slow Poison Category:  Crime Publisher: Double Infinity Publishing Type: Fiction Pages: 362 Copyright: October 1, 2012 ISBN-13: 9781465746160 From murder and mayhem on the streets of Amsterdam to quiet vengeance in the pastoral English countryside. Slow Poison is never far away. Slow Poison opens in Amsterdam in the days around the feast of Saint Nicholas in December in the mid 1980’s. The brutal slaying of a British tourist and the subsequent arrest and imprisonment of a young football supporter sparks off an orgy of violence. But the killing is no random act. The boy is innocent. The real killer returns to England to begin the final chapter of an obsessive campaign of revenge spanning several decades. The twisted acts of violence and vengeance are punctuated by the pages of a stolen diary written in the dark days of the second world war. The killer identifies with the unspeakable horrors of the death camp as he coldly wreaks revenge for a series of traumatic events that took place in the mid 1950s on a Gloucestershire council estate. The story culminates in a bloody siege high in the snowbound Cotswold hills. This book contains very strong language and scenes of a sexual nature.        Excerpt Chapter One Amsterdam, December 6th A man was waiting for The Six, huddled in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosa. The red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Snow had not yet fallen, but the night was keen with pre-frost whispers. This was the third night and they were repeating the ragged routine of the past two days, clattering noisily through the back streets toward the plush surroundings of the Victoria Hotel. Bulls they were, looking for china shops. Den, Pete, 'Dog' Barker, Mart, Kev and Richie; careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, yob-high on Mercedes lacquer. On that first evening in the Victoria, they had exploded into the restaurant, destroying his reverie. On an impulse he had followed them into the night. They could be useful. He would need someone like them. He closed the leather-bound diary he was reading to watch the swell and swagger of denim. His chest felt tight, his mouth was dry and he hardened. The city was nervous of them. Wild things, sniffing the cosmopolitan air like rutting beasts. On the morning of the third day, he had watched them spew through the steel exit doors of the Sleep-Inn on the Rozengracht, groping their way into the bright winter sunshine, unwashed and unshaven, a breakfast of beer in progress. He watched them gesticulate and curse at the waves of cyclists teetering through their group, bells clamouring. 'Fuckin' Cloggies! Why don't ya watch where yer fuckin' goin'..? ' When at last The Six emerged from the deep red core of the Casa Rosa, he limped behind them as closely as he could. They roared on before him down the urinous alleyways of The Walletjes, singing their City anthems in tuneless tenors and baritones. Few windows in those dark clefts escaped the lick of their Pentels. He watched them crumble their hash into roll-ups in shadowy doorways. He watched one of them crack the window of a Showarma bar on the Kloveniersburgwal, watched them run from the honing steel of the Israeli owner who chased after them, cursing them in Hebrew. He located them again, homing in on the noise. They stormed the Victoria. The waiters armed themselves with small change and haughty sneers. 'Shit! ', said one of them, built like a flamenco dancer. 'The scum are back!’ They stomped their way into the hotel, rattling the ashtrays and coffee cups in the glazed sidewalk conservatory. 'You don't know nuffin about fucking tactics...' 'Lissen! The fuckin' ref was well out of order.' 'Yeah…yeah... ' So much sarcasm squeezed into two little words. 'Who was there? Well...go on...I was fuckin' well there..!' The man sat at a corner table and felt for the diary in his coat pocket and laid it on the table. The flamenco waiter was suddenly at his shoulder, pen poised. ‘Meneer?’ 'Spa Citroen, alsjeblieft.' The man turned to the diary. He glanced at a yellowed page, at pencil marks that had faded almost to invisibility. In the half-light of the piano bar, it was hard to make out the words. He pulled the decorative candle closer, but not too close. Just near enough to enable reading. 'July 3rd 1939. The summer cottage. The two of us, sequestered in pastoral seclusion. Lowing cattle, bleating rams, sheep. We find green berries ripening in the hedgerow. Behind the cottage, wisps of early mist rise above the clover. Ghosts, listlessly undecided between earthly delights and paradise...’ He struggled over the forgotten words, this disease of a language that none of their droning had prepared him for. His heart slowed to its regular beat as the two couples looked up at the noise. The Six were mobile again, slamming themselves into the outer edge of the Bechstein. The man closed the diary and leaned back into the shadows. He sipped his Spa Citroen and looked around the bar. He lit a Sobranie and blew the smoke into the candle flame. At the other table, two couples were giving their orders to the flamenco waiter. He tapped out a staccato exit into the blaze of the kitchen lights. 'The whole damn place is full of the bloody English tonight’ he muttered to the kitchen staff. It was true. The piano bar was occupied solely by the English. By coincidence and chance.

Slow Poison - Intriguing and raw...
Intriguing, raw, a matching style as far as the overall tone and dialogues as well: very crude yet not offensively so as they go well with the somber ambiance of this story. I found myself wanting to know more, more about The Six, about the little girl, the investigation, the cops and the place with its culture which is unfamiliar to me. One can almost smell the booze and cigarette smoke, leather jackets and wet pavement. I give it a high score if only for virtue of successfully drawing me into this gloomy underworld of violence, prostitution, drugs and intrigues. So well written that it took me a while to escape the revolting world you're painting with words. I went to my kitchen and poured myself a scotch. Was it to get in the mood? Hardly. Your text got me there effortlessly. I was disturbed by the imagery you so craftily flung at me. I'll read more as I had to stop and catch my breath by the 3rd. chapter. In a nutshell? Bravo!

Slow Poison Review by John Breeden II
Slow Poison is an amazing thriller and crime drama. Written with a two fisted, no nonsense style, the intricate descriptions of violence serve to help push the plot forward, whereas in other books I’ve found them to be a distraction. Here, they are the heartbeat that keeps the pulse of the story moving forward. 

There is also a strong element of mystery, which is as good as any story from that genre as you’re likely to find. How author Casimir Greenfield is able to so seamlessly blend genres (indeed there are the strong characterizations of literary fiction too) is pretty amazing. On a whim, I took a peek at Greenfield’s other book on this site, Bloodstones, and found it to be similarly good. I have little doubt that he has the capacity to become a household name, carving out a niche in the literary world that could use a few more gritty thrillers.

I don’t have anything to say in terms of negatives. I suppose some of the sex and violence in the tale is a little over the top. Not for me, but it’s probably outside of the normal book-club type circle of readers. Then again, with novels like Fifty Shades of Grey being super popular these days, perhaps that won’t be such a problem anymore.

Slow Poison is ready to be published right now, and I would line up for it and the many other books from this author that are sure to follow.

John Breeden II

Slow Poison; Edward Lim's Review
From the streets of Amsterdam to the pastoral landscape of the British countryside, the scent of sex and violence never far away, mixed in with football mayhem and Nazi brutality. Your narrative prose is raw and biting, your dialogue unpretentious and unapologetic, showing no doubt as to the intent of your work, to bring harsh reality to the reader in the best possible way, up close and personal. Thank you so much for the intriguing read.
Kenneth Edward Lim
The North Korean