The Doll's House

My research for this novel has taken me to unusual places, from my initial curiosity about hypnosis, to a fascination with memory and how it is created, to finally finding myself sitting having cups of coffee with a hostage negotiator. I want to thank all members of the police who assisted with my research, especially Tom Doyle of Rathfarnham Garda Station and Mary Fitzsimons of the Emergency Response Unit, who were so generous with their knowledge and experience. Thanks also to Niamh Bonner of SATU, who is part of the first step back for survivors of sexual assaults. I also want to thank Dave Gogan for his keen psychological insight, for lending me even more books on criminal psychology, and for giving me confidence that I was on the right track with some of the facets of this story. I couldn’t have written this novel except for all I discovered about hypnosis along the way, and I want to give particular thanks to hypnotherapist, Michael O’Brien, for the many long conversations we had in this regard. I confirm here that any errors or factual deviations made in the writing of this novel are mine and are not attributable to the professionals who assisted in my research.

I would also like to thank my friends, old and new, who have been so encouraging and supportive of me, and to again give thanks to Mary Lavelle, who read the full manuscript at first draft stage. My thanks also to Vanessa O’Loughlin of Inkwell and Writing.ie for her on-going support and energy, the great team at the Irish Writers’ Centre, especially Carrie King, June Caldwell and Fergal O’Reilly, South Dublin Libraries, Domitilla Fagan, Patricia Fitzgerald, Caroline Higgins, and Una Phelan, and Emer Cleary of Emu Ink.

A special thanks to the many other groups I’ve had the pleasure to be part of, Lucan Writers’ Group, Platform One, especially Eileen Casey, Irish Crime Writers’ Group, the amazing people at the Tyrone Guthrie Artist Retreat, The People’s College, with Valerie Sirr, Carousel Creates, with Carolann Copeland, and Seven Towers writing group.

I would also like to thank Gerry Gilvary of ITT, media students, Luke Ryan, Clark Wickstone, Elizabeth Wilson, Dave Barnaville, Colm O Searcoid, Sinead Kelly, Martin Kennedy, Shauna Ryan, and Gemma Butterly for their help during the year. A special thanks to Danka Lochowicz, for her absolutely brilliant web design, and to my daughter Jennifer Phillips for her wonderful photography over the last twelve months.

Finally, I would like to thank you, my friends, family, colleagues, and readers, who are not mentioned here individually, but who are of the upmost importance to me. I feel privileged to have been gifted with so many wonderful people in my life, and I have been especially moved by the amount of readers making contact to tell me how much they enjoyed Red Ribbons. I hope you enjoy this story too.





Read an exclusive extract from the thrilling new novel from award-winning crime writer

Louise Phillips

Featuring Dr Kate Pearson and D.I. O’Connor Out August 2014




LAST KISS …


Her husband is having an affair with a woman who wants her life. How far will she go to take back control?

When psychologist Dr Kate Pearson is brought in to investigate a murder, she finds herself plunged into an investigation which brings her face-to-face with to a vicious female killer and reveals trails of sexual power and evil.

Featuring criminal psychologist Dr Kate Pearson and Detective Inspector O’Connor, Last Kiss is the chilling new psychological thriller from award-winning crime writer Louise Phillips.





Prologue: 1982


The young girl walked towards the forest dressed in an oversized grey coat and black wellington boots that belonged to her father. Her head was bent beneath a raised collar and her long black hair shrouded her strained face. To a stranger, Ellen could have been taken for someone older than her fifteen years, hunched over like an aged soul.

As she reached the outskirts of the woodland, the ground underfoot became slimy, laden with fallen twigs and leaves. Early light sprinkled between the overhead branches, but she didn’t look up, not once. When the first droplet slid down her inner thigh, it touched her kneecap with the gentleness of a moth. She had felt the back pains a few hours earlier, and even though they had eased, she knew it was her time.

Amid the creaking and rustling of the trees, she heard something move in the undergrowth. For a brief moment she stood still, a cold chill spreading through her body as another bead of the amniotic fluid reached her swollen ankle. She swallowed hard, looking all around her, knowing she needed to find somewhere safe, and that the life she had hidden inside her for so long would soon have to leave. Placing a hand beneath her coat, she held the underside of her engorged belly. A sharp breeze from the valley tossed her hair rebelliously in the wind, as if it was the only part of her still free to choose.

She had left the house when all inside were sleeping, sneaking around, no longer feeling she was part of it. The village, too, looked strange with its empty streets, and the moon still visible, hanging low in the early-morning sky. When she passed her old school, she imagined the sound of young voices in the yard, and felt utterly alone.

Now deeper into the forest, again she heard something move behind her, but when she turned, she saw nothing. A surge of amniotic fluid flooded between her legs, drenching her undergarments, the veil of liquid glistening in the flickering sunlight, before it soaked into the earth.