Read an exclusive extract from A Degree of Murder by Maz Evans

It’s been 25 years since they graduated… but revenge never gets old.

The Class of 2000.
The Actress. The Techie. The Bimbo.
The Sportsman. The Bad Boy. The Writer. The Singer.
The Lecturer. The Musician. The Mature Student. The Weirdo.
But who is The Murderer?

It’s Bathory University’s 25-year reunion. The Class of 2000 reassemble – and old flames and old feuds are quicky reignited.

Laurence still loves Diana. Mags still hates Bill. Tillie wants Ed. Ryan wants revenge. Rob turned out good. J.D. turned out bad. Lilah’s not the same. And as for Marty…

But when murder strikes, the clues to the killing can be found a quarter of a century ago on Graduation Day 2000. As the secrets, tragedies and betrayals from years gone by play out at the reunion, someone is taught a deadly lesson.

Eleven witnesses – or are they suspects? – from the Bathory students and staff recount events in the years 2000 and 2025 while the murder trial unfolds before us. But who is the victim? Who is accused of being the killer? And is the right person even on trial?

The murderer will be revealed… but only by degrees.

Start reading an exclusive extract from A Degree of Murder

Tillie, 2025.

The new Fortescue-Smythe Performing Arts Centre is to be built on the foundations of the old one now those ghastly men in hazmat suits have finally left us alone. It’s 6pm and a small crowd has gathered, but I only have eyes for Ed as he poses with a shovel for the local press. He’s still so dreamy . . . so he has a bit more tummy and a bit less hair – who amongst us doesn’t? But, as he stands there, preparing to break ground on the theatre that will bear his family’s name, Edward Fortescue-Smythe is still the star of the show.

Diana bimbles up next to him, of course. She can’t let him have his moment; she always did like to steal the scene. Photos taken, Ed holds up a hand to silence the gathering, which works immediately. He’s so very commanding like that.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, ‘Bathory College has shepherded generations of Fortescue-Smythe men through its ranks. We’ve fielded seven captains of the rugby team, five for the cricket, we boast an Olympic rower and a world champion show-jumper. Rumour has it that my grandfather actually got a degree here – but every family has its black sheep . . .’

Everyone bursts out laughing. But no one louder or longer than I. Eddie always was so, so funny. Although what’s that noise . . . ?

‘But Bathory also brought me love,’ he lies, taking Diana’s hand and kissing it. He’s having to speak more loudly over the growing buzzing up above. ‘And my love’s great love is performing. So, when the college informed us they needed a new theatre, it seemed the perfect use of the trust my forefathers bequeathed this university.’

There is a smattering of applause. Then everyone stops. Apart from me. And that infernal noise.

‘The Fortescue-Smythe Performing Arts Centre will put Bathory on the map as a centre for artistic excellence!’ he pronounces, and my allergenic arm hair stands on end. ‘So it is my great honour to be the warm-up act for what promises to be an exciting new story for our school! So without further ado . . .’

The buzz that has been growing in the background suddenly crescendos to a deafening roar, the accompanying hurricane blowing up bits of building site everywhere. It’s a helicopter. And it’s landing on our lawn.

Ed’s trying to get everyone’s attention, but it’s no use. All heads are facing the helicopter except mine – even the photographer has turned round and started snapping. So curiosity quickly gets the better of me. The door opens and a tall, tanned, chiselled man jumps out. A gasp goes up. We all recognise him, of course. Barely a day goes by without his face all over the papers – I suppose that comes with the territory when you’re a gazillionaire. He comes towards the gathering and the crowd parts for him. He smiles warmly at everyone – but he’s making a beeline.

He’s making a beeline for me.

‘Tillie,’ he says softly. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s wonderful to see you.’

He takes off his sunglasses and there he is – the boy we all knew. He leans over and gives me a kiss. He smells like heaven itself.

‘You smell nice,’ I say to him for reasons that aren’t clear – note to self, lay off the Pimm’s, Tipsy Tills . . .

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

I don’t know if he’s lying or not.

But Ryan Connors knows all the right things to say. ‘Um  – if I could just have your attention,’ says Ed, waving his shovel and looking a teensy bit grumpy. ‘Let’s get this show on the road!’

‘Catch up later?’ Ryan whispers, and I go a bit peculiar. I turn back to Ed before I make a silly of myself.

With impressive manliness, Ed stabs the shovel into the ground and removes a great sod of earth. I lead a thoroughly deserved round of applause.

‘Sorry, mate,’ the photographer said. ‘Shutter didn’t go off. Can you do it again?’

‘Ha  – an encore already!’ Ed laughs. ‘What an auspicious start for our new theatre! Here we go . . .’

He digs another impressive mound and poses for the camera. The photographer slaps his lens.

‘Typical – dunno what’s wrong with it. It was fine for Mr Connors,’ he says. ‘Apologies – third time lucky . . .’

I see a flash of anger darken Ed’s beautiful eyes. He always has had a bit of a temper, the monkey. But he quickly smiles it away.

‘My – I’m getting a longer run than The Mousetrap here!’ he jokes, and I laugh, knowing I’ll find it very funny when I look the reference up later. ‘Right – let’s make it a good one . . .’

He plunges into the soil again and is about to remove it from the ground when he stops. Diana peers into the hole and her face drops too before pretending everything is okay. But I see it. She always was a terrible actress.

‘Oh dear  – decomposing rat on that one, folks!’ Ed laughs. ‘I’ve heard of a stinking review, but that’s too much . . . Let’s try one last time.’

He moves the shovel to some new ground and digs it up.

‘Got it!’ the photographer says triumphantly. ‘Thanks, mate!’

‘My great pleasure,’ says Ed, still looking in the hole he dug. ‘Now I hear the free bar is open  – time for interval drinks!’

The crowd cheers and disperses as Ed and Diana exchange a look. There it is! Trouble in paradise! I knew it . . . I have to tell Ed what a fantastic job he did, so I run over to him.

‘Ed! Eddie! You were a triumph!’ I squeal when I reach him.

‘Er, thanks, Tillie,’ he says, grabbing my arm to lead me to the drinks. His touch is still electric after all these years. ‘Let’s get you back to the main house . . .’

I turn to give Diana a triumphant smile – but forget my new heels. They were not designed for this terrain and my right foot sticks in the ground. Ed is still moving forward, I’m trying to turn around and after a few Pimm’s silly Tillie tumbles over, nearly falling into Ed’s freshly dug hole.

And now I see why he didn’t want it caught on camera.

It’s not a dead rat he dug up.

It’s a human skull.