By Nicci French
The first publication within the Frieda Klein secret series
“Complex mental suspense at its best.” —Booklist (starred review)
Immensely clever and poignantly human, Frieda Klein has captivated ebook critics and crime readers far and wide along with her debut day trip as Blue Monday's iconoclastic heroine. A psychotherapist and insomniac who spends her nights jogging alongside the traditional rivers that lie underneath smooth London, Frieda stars in a blinding new crime sequence during which the terrors of the brain spill over into actual life.
When five-year-old Matthew Farraday is kidnapped, Frieda can't forget about the truth that his picture completely suits the boy one in all her sufferers describes from his fantasies. sooner than lengthy, Frieda unearths herself serving because the reluctant sidekick of Detective leader Inspector Karlsson on the middle of a determined race to discover the kidnapper. Blue Monday is an atmospheric, beautiful first novel in a criminal offense sequence for lovers of In remedy and The Killing.
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Additional info for Blue Monday
About four o’clock. On her way home from school, Audley Road Primary. I would have collected her myself except it’s hard to get there on time from work – and anyway she was with Rosie and there are no roads to cross and I thought it was safe. ’ She drew a long, unsteady breath. He made a note in his book. He rechecked Joanna’s age. Five and three months. Where she was last seen. Outside the sweetshop. Deborah couldn’t remember the name. She could take them there. The officer closed his notebook.
He didn’t want to be young again. All that awkwardness and pain, that sense of being in the wrong life. Now he was in the right life, with Carrie, in the small house they’d saved for, and would be paying for for another thirteen years. There were things he dreamed of having, but surely everyone had dreams and hopes for themselves, and they didn’t collapse in the park or wake up crying. And sometimes he had these nightmares – he didn’t even want to think about them. It wasn’t normal. Surely it wasn’t normal.
She had probably wandered off with a friend and was playing with whatever five-year-old girls play with – dolls and crayons and tea-sets and tiaras. He stared at the photograph Deborah Vine passed him, of a girl with dark hair like her sister’s and a thin face. One chipped tooth, a severe fringe, a smile that looked as if she had turned up her mouth when the photographer told her to say ‘cheese’. ’ Her face twisted. ’ She wanted him to say no, it didn’t really matter, but she knew it was serious.