All Was Lost

OBSERVER THRILLER OF THE MONTH
SUNDAY TIMES CRIME CLUB PICK
A HEARTSTOPPING, GRISLY MOORS THRILLER ABOUT A WOMAN WHO WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO GIVE HER DAUGHTER A BETTER LIFE
_______
'Fast paced and shocking' Observer
A brilliant example of Northern noir' Sunday Times
'Dark, grisly and utterly compelling. Thriller writing at its finest' CAROL WYER
'A bruising story drenched in dread. . . recalls Cormac McCarthy in its drive and brutality' GABRIEL BERGMOSER
'Dark, fast-paced and thrilling' ALAN PARKS
_______
THE CASH IS GONE.
THE HUNT IS ON.
HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO FOR YOUR FAMILY?
Orla McCabe has found a case of money. Willing to do almost anything to give her family a better life, she flees with her husband and baby daughter — and the money.
Meanwhile, detectives Lynch and Carlin are investigating a botched human trafficking deal on the isolated northern moors. They find piles of bullet-riddled bodies, but no cash.
The owners of the money are on the hunt, and soon a world of brutal violence envelops Orla and the detectives.
To secure her daughter's future, Orla will never stop running. It's just a matter of who she drags into the dark with her…
This promises an adrenaline ride like no other — Deliverance meets The Hunted set on isolated northern moorland — for fans of Elly Griffiths, Adrian McKinty and JM Dalgliesh

Thrillers Police Procedural Mystery & Detective Fiction

192 trycksidor

Upphovsrättsinnehavare: Bookwire
Ursprunglig publicering: 2021
Utgivningsår: 2021
Förlag: Pushkin Vertigo

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Citat

ngyanaranjan05har citerati fjol
The detectives looked through the glass. The glass was one-way and beyond was a purpose-built chamber. The chamber’s walls were concrete block fitted with ringbolts and against the far wall lay an iron-frame bed, thin mattress wrapped in plastic, headboard hung with manacles. Gazing down at what lay piled beside the bed on the poured concrete floor was the cold glass eye of a wall-mounted camera.

‘What are we talking here?’ Lynch said.

They were standing in the viewing room, a dark and narrow space that ran the length of the chamber, and maybe out of reverence for the dead or owing to the oppressive dimensions of the room, both men whispered when they spoke.

‘Communication breakdown,’ Carlin said. ‘Transaction failure.’

Male and female. Some barely adults. A death-camp pile yoked together by their necks with collars and chains. Their hands and feet manacled. At least three of them had fresh purple scars hacking across the sides of their torsos. All had track-marked arms. All had been branded. All had been shot in the head. The blood
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