I wrote my first book on a typewriter, an Amstrad word processor, and a first edition Apple Macintosh. The following books were written on a Mac Classic and every successive iMac, all of them published in the '90s by Headline, London. They're out of print now but can probably be unearthed somewhere online.

To all appearances Dominic Bain was the model citizen. He worked hard, kept himself to himself and cared for his ageing mother. All perfectly normal. Until the day a demon from his past came back and triggered off memories which would have been better left buried. For suddenly revealed beneath the passive veneer lay nobody's fool - a killer as ruthless as he was mad.

Detective Inspector Frank McMorran was also nobody's fool. Suspended from duty pending a Fatal Accident Inquiry, he finds himself temporarily reinstated and instructed to capture The Hangman, a particularly vicious psychopath. Obstructed by Chief Inspector Kettle, a superior who would rather see him fail than succeed, McMorran must race against time to salvage his sinking career. He must find The Hangman before he kills again - and be the first to find him.

As murder follows murder, McMorran's investigation takes him headlong from the backstreets of Edinburgh to the forested hills of Perthshire towards a confrontation that will reveal once and for all just who is nobody's fool

"Superbly plotted and set against a vivid Scottish background, Nobody's Fool is an excellent crime novel marking the debut of a talented new author."
— Scotland on Sunday

"A terrific find-the- psychopath."
—The Times

Deep in the Scottish Borders a cartel of riparian landowners are conspiring to restock the Tweed's dwindling resources with genetically-engineered salmon they hope will re-establish the river's global reputation and put it firmly back on the angling map. Only one small estate stands in their way — Craikmuir — and a self-styled eco-warrior called Fin, fighting the feudal inequities of riparian fishing rights.

Duncan Ker thought the days of Borders bloodfeud were long gone. But when his brother — the Laird of Craikmuir — is fished comatose from the Tweed, he's forced to give up his aimless ex-pat existence and return home to confront the corporate wolves at the castle gates. Which is when the bodies start to fall.

Brother Lox Lennox is used to falling bodies. But then he's no ordinary monk. Ex-SAS and with a bullet still lodged in his skull, his convoluted past is a minefield of contradictions best avoided in the sanctuary of the cloisters. Now he's out on the river with shotgun and grenades, hunting down Fin and looking for redemption. When he finds it in the strangest place it's at a price he can't afford.

It was snowing that night too, gusting off the railway behind us, blustering in tight little eddies along the graffitied courtyard walls. Allet gut kommt von oben. Or from behind you. Wilson was in his late twenties and full of himself, thought he knew it all but I'd noted the precision with which he'd parked the Merc and the way he kept glancing in his wing-mirror and when I saw the second man approach across the footbridge something about his gait triggered a response deep in my subconscious and I realised then that I had no other option. I drove the knife deep into Wilson's throat, gave it a twist because I didn't like his taste in music, then waited for his feeble struggles to cease.