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- KurzbeschreibungThe third installment of David Mark's internationally acclaimed and bestselling series<br>The sweltering summer heat is pushing Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy and the Serious and Organized Crime Unit to the brink as a sadistic new boss takes over the local drug trade and violent crime escalates. Then, McAvoy and DS Trish Pharaoh are distracted by something deadlier: a serial murderer with a taste for the macabre. McAvoy comes to suspect these are actually copycat murders, committed as revenge for mishandled police investigations conducted years ago. But when one of McAvoy's fellow police officers is blackmailed, McAvoy's life-and that of his wife, Roisin, and the couple's two young children-is suddenly in jeopardy. As the vicious monsters lurking in the shadows creep closer and closer to home, McAvoy must figure out a way to protect his family at all costs.
- AutorDavid Mark
- Seiten368 Seiten
- Gewicht270 g
- LeseprobeThis excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof<br>Copyright © 2014 David Mark<br>ONE<br>Monday morning. 9:16 a.m.<br>A small and airless room above the health center on Cottingham Road.<br>Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy, uncomfortable and ridiculous on a plastic school chair, knees halfway up to his ears.<br>"Aector?"<br>He notices that his left leg is jiggling up and down. Damn! The shrink must have seen it, too. He decides to keep jiggling it, so she doesn't read anything into his decision to stop.<br>He catches her eye.<br>Looks away.<br>Stops jiggling his leg.<br>"Aector, I'm not trying to trick you. You don't need to second-guess yourself all the time."<br>McAvoy nods, and feels a fresh bead of sweat run down the back of his shirt collar. It's too hot in here. The walls, with their putty-colored wallpaper, seem to be perspiring, and the painted-shut windows are misting up.<br>She's talking again. Words, words, words . . .<br>"I have apologized, haven't I? About the room? I tried to get another one but there's nothing available. I think if we gave that window a good shove we could get it open but then you have the sound of the road to contend with."<br>McAvoy raises his hands to tell her not to worry, though in truth he is so hot and uncomfortable, he's considering diving head-first through the glass. McAvoy was dripping before he even walked through the door. For two weeks it has felt as though a great wet dog has been lying on the city, but it is a heat wave that has brought no blue skies. Instead, Hull has sweated beneath heavens the color of damp concrete. It is weather that frays tempers, induces lethargy, and makes life an ongoing torture for big, flame-haired men like Detective McAvoy, who has felt damp, cross, and self-conscious for days. It's a feverish heat; a pestilent, buzzing cloak. To McAvoy, even walking a few steps feels like fighting through laundry lines of damp linen. Everybody agrees that the city needs a good storm to clear the air, but lightning has yet to split the sky.<br>"I thought you had enjoyed the last session. You seemed to warm up as we went along." She looks at her notes. "We were talking about your father. . . ."<br>McAvoy closes his eyes. He doesn't want to appear rude, so bites his tongue. As far as he can recall, he hadn't been talking about his father at all. She had.<br>"Okay, how about we try something a bit less personal? Your career, perhaps? Your ambitions?"<br>McAvoy looks longingly at the window. The scene it frames could be a photograph. The leaves and branches of the rowan tree are lifeless, unmoving; blocking out the view of the university across the busy road, but he can picture it in his imagination clearly enough
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