I remember two events from my early childhood, both poignant. The first was when I was six. It was the day the King died and I remember seeing a newspaper on the kitchen table, a thick black band around its edges, a picture of George VI occupying the whole front page with the solemn headline, THE KING IS DEAD. The other occasion was when mother’s best friend, Pony, died. My mother and her were inseparable; our two families spent every holiday and Christmas together. Pony’s son, Trevor and I were best mates. After Pony died, I never saw him again.

At 13, I was sent to a boarding school. Just after I arrived, my parents having departed, I joined a line of other new boys waiting to be introduced to the frightening housemaster and the Florence Nightingale look-alike matron while all the menacing older boys seemed to be inspecting us, deciding who they’d pick on first. I survived.

After school, with no career in mind, I was pushed into banking by my parents. I intensely disliked it and left after a year for a short-service commission in the Royal Marines. I survived the training and was posted to a commando unit deep in the Borneo jungle. Our task was to protect the border with Indonesia from marauding communist insurgents. In a tense, but successful, encounter with the terrorists, I was wounded and hoisted from the jungle into a helicopter and taken to the nearest field-hospital. In the rescue helicopter with me was the body of my friend. He had been killed.

The next 27 years of my life were somewhat of a rollercoaster. After learning the fundamentals of retail management from Marks and Spencer, I sort of fell into the role of retail mercenary, moving from one company in crisis to another. I worked for eight different organisations, including setting up my own franchise of a well-known American brand. I saw corruption, deceit and blatant power politics; enjoyed success, experienced failure and avoided personal bankruptcy by a whisker. When my time came to move on, I didn’t linger. In those years, my second wife died from a brain haemorrhage.

So that’s how, quite late in life, I started to write. It wasn’t by accident, I always wanted to do it, but never had the opportunity. When the time came, I signed up to a part-time creative writing course and began to write my first book, never published. I get my inspiration from other writers and things I’ve experienced. I try and read all the time; more when I’m not writing. I draw on poetry for a quick fix, dipping in and out when I need stimulation. Often, I will read a short poem or a verse in the morning before I start writing. I write because I enjoy it, and hope those who read my books will be entertained. I consider each book a learning curve to improve the next one.

I live with my wife and our daughter in Buckinghamshire. My eldest son is a restaurateur, my middle son a journalist, my youngest son a diplomat and my daughter is taking her A levels. I have two grandchildren. I’m a member of Amnesty International, the Society of Authors and the Crime Writers’ Association.

If you can take any more, and want to know what influences me, go to Part 2