{"product_id":"the-final-silence-isbn-9781616956158","title":"The Final Silence","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn Belfast, Northern Ireland, memories of the city’s troubled history haunt every street corner, but for one tortured soul, the incredible violence in his past is also his most cherished legacy. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Rea Carlisle, daughter of influential Northern Irish politician Graham Carlisle, has inherited a house from an uncle she never knew. It doesn’t take her long to clear out the dead man’s possessions, but when Rea forces open a locked room, she finds a leather-bound book. Tucked in its pages are fingernails and locks of hair: a catalog of victims. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHorrified, Rea wants to go straight to the police, but her father intervenes—he’s worked too hard to have his brother’s twisted legacy ruin his promising political career. Thwarted by her father, Rea turns to the only person she can think of: disgraced police inspector Jack Lennon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, Lennon finds himself the lead suspect in a murder investigation led by one of the force’s toughest cops, DCI Serena Flanagan. His implication in the murder, coupled with the story Rea has brought to him, leaves Lennon more than slightly suspicious that the two are part of a grisly conspiracy.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Final Silence\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDecember 2014 Indie Next List \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Never forgets the human heart that beats inside the bleakest darkness.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Val McDermid\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like dispatches from a war zone—terse prose, dark thoughts, raw feelings . . . A more formal mystery than Neville's previous ones, its characters remain possessed by Belfast's old, familiar ghosts.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The critics are already calling Stuart Neville 'the king of neo-noir' and the shoe fits. If you loved \u003ci\u003eRatlines\u003c\/i\u003e (and I did), you will adore \u003ci\u003eThe Final Silence\u003c\/i\u003e, set again in Belfast with a plot so strange, tight and compelling, you won’t be able to put the book down.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Excellent . . . Neville has no end of tricks up his sleeve.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Toronto Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Deftly plotted, fast paced and the denouement packs a real punch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A great thriller . . . [Neville] has created a strange and fresh story that will have readers perched on the edge of their seats.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Suspense Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Uncompromisingly noir accounts of a city where the legacy of The Troubles refuses to go away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Reviewing the Evidence\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Classic noir.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Deadly Diversions\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Superlative . . . A pulse-pounding crime novel from a master of the genre.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is the fourth Lennon tale with the shadow of Northern Ireland’s past bloody sectarian violence, the Troubles, still hanging over all . . . Alternating points of view reveal the horrifying mind of the killer as well as the hate and suspicion that remain years after peace has been declared . . . [A] highly regarded series.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gripping from start to finish . . . Neville's economical yet nuanced prose style drives the plot forward at breakneck speed while building complex characters with the deftness that defines a thriller writer at the top of his game.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Irish Independent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Nevillle's] novels tend to revolve around contemporary crimes that have their roots buried deep in Northern Ireland’s Troubles. \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eFinal Silence\u003c\/i\u003e is no exception, its succinct and pacy storytelling stretched taut across a morass of unresolved tensions and motives for murder that don’t necessarily fit the prevailing post-peace process narrative.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Declan Burke,\u003ci\u003e The Irish Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Crisply written and fast-moving, the novel has a brutal honesty that confirms Neville’s place in the first division of crime writers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Spectator\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Neville's brutal plotting and ability to ratchet up the tension in almost every scene keep the pages turning until the chilling conclusion. A masterclass in the psycho-thriller genre.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Herald Scotland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Engrossing . . . the action builds to a chilling conclusion.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Neville's gritty tale sets a man barely holding on to his personal worth loose in a city still recovering from the Troubles.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Stuart Neville\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Neville's novel is a coldly lucid assessment of the fragility of the Irish peace . . . a rare example of legitimate noir fiction.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An exceptional talent. Crime fiction doesn’t get much better.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The current master of neo-noir detective fiction.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stuart Neville belongs to a younger generation of writers for whom the region's darkest years are history—but that history endures.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\"Neville's tightly wound, emotionally resonant account of an ex-IRA hit man's struggle to conquer his past displays an acute understanding of the true state of Northern Ireland.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Complex fiction with a disturbing ring of truth.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eStuart Neville, \u003c\/b\u003ethe “king of Belfast noir” (\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e), is the author of nine novels, for which he has won the  \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize and been shortlisted for the Edgar, Macavity, Dilys, Barry, and Anthony Awards as well as the CWA Steel Dagger. He lives near Belfast.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaymond  Drew wanted to die on the towpath. Even if there was no sun, no blue  sky to die beneath, he wanted it to be by the river. He didn’t care if  the ground was sodden with rainfall as he collapsed.\u003cbr\u003e        If he  could manage it, he’d fall dead into the water. At least that way he  could be sure. To survive and be brought to a hospital was unthinkable.  They would contact his family, such as it was, and his sister Ida would  go to his house.\u003cbr\u003e       And the things she would find there.\u003cbr\u003e        He should have destroyed them, but he couldn’t, he was not strong  enough to take that action and endure the consequences. It would be  easier simply to die. At least if he was gone, he would not have to face  that terrible discovery. The real Raymond Drew, the creature that had  hidden beneath this human skin for more than six decades, would be  revealed.\u003cbr\u003e       Raymond locked the front door of his house, the  three-bedroom semi on Deramore Gardens he’d lived in for thirty years.  Just one of many identical structures on this street, red brick, early  1900s, the kind of houses that middle-class couples and property  developers were falling over themselves to buy until the financial  crisis. Raymond had shared the first two years here with a wife he’d  barely known, let alone loved. Dead and buried now, and he hadn’t missed  her for a moment.\u003cbr\u003e       He tucked the keys into his pocket. The  grass of his lawn looked like stubble on a drunkard’s chin. He hadn’t  cut it in years. The man next door, Hughes his name was, gave up asking  Raymond to mow it and did it himself every few weeks. The spring would  soon start it growing again.\u003cbr\u003e       Not that it mattered to Raymond any more.\u003cbr\u003e        He left his car on the driveway, closed the gate behind him, and  walked. The Vauxhall Corsa didn’t have an MOT or tax. It hadn’t been  driven in months.\u003cbr\u003e       A few minutes took him down the shallow  incline of Sunnyside Sreet, past the corner shops and Chinese takeaways,  to Annadale Embankment. He avoided eye contact with students and  housewives on the way. At the bridge by the river, he waited at the  pedestrian crossing for the green man to appear and tell him to go. Like  a good boy. Raymond had learned to be a good boy long ago, to be quiet,  respectful, obey all rules while outside his home. Not to draw  attention.\u003cbr\u003e       Once across the dark slow-moving water to the  Stranmillis side, he walked south along the river’s edge, beneath the  bony branches of the still winter-bare trees. Past the newly rebuilt  Lyric Theatre, on further, the blocks of apartments with their waterside  views. Traffic rumbled to his right, cars, vans and lorries filtering  in and out of the city, heading north or east.\u003cbr\u003e       That sickly  swelling in his chest, pulsing, robbing him of breath. He did not slow  his pace, even as the sweat dripped from his eyebrows. Cold on his back,  running down his spine.\u003cbr\u003e       Raymond had gone to the doctor two  months before. A softspoken and serious young woman, she had talked  about medication, pills, things to ease the tired muscle in his breast.  She talked about more tests, bloods, wires tethered to his skin, a  specialist at the Royal Victoria Hospital.\u003cbr\u003e       It was serious, the  young doctor had said. It was only a matter of time before an attack  came, perhaps a big one. Appointments were made, a prescription printed  on patterned paper.\u003cbr\u003e       Raymond did not keep the appointments, nor did he have the prescription filled. He simply wanted to know.\u003cbr\u003e        It had been a month since the fluttering in his chest had intensified.  Then the dizzy spells, the cold sweats, the feeling of his torso being  crushed by some invisible hand. He awoke throughout the night, gasping,  wild horses galloping inside his ribcage.\u003cbr\u003e       Only a matter of time.\u003cbr\u003e        A cool wave washed across his brow, and his legs weakened. He gripped  the railing to steady himself. Waited while the blood coursed through  his body.\u003cbr\u003e       A pub just ahead, perched on the riverbank, tables  and benches and umbrellas damp and pathetic in the grey. A drink. Just  one last swallow to see it done.\u003cbr\u003e       Raymond entered the pub. The only other patrons were a pair\u003cbr\u003eof businessmen comparing charts over cups of coffee. They did\u003cbr\u003enot notice him. But the girl behind the bar did.\u003cbr\u003e        He approached. The girl smiled. Blonde hair tied back, dressed in black  trousers and a shirt that clung to her form. He stared for a moment.  Felt his teeth with his tongue.\u003cbr\u003e       “What can I get for you?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e       A foreign girl, Eastern European.\u003cbr\u003e        Raymond had been to Eastern Europe more than once. Even before the  Soviets lost their hold. He had tasted many things there. Things few men  ever taste.\u003cbr\u003e       He went to reply, but his throat and his tongue  would not obey. Sweat tingled on his cheek. Something pulsed inside his  skull.\u003cbr\u003e       “Are you okay?” the girl asked. “Do you need help?”\u003cbr\u003e       “Whiskey,” he said, his voice crackling in his throat.\u003cbr\u003e       She hesitated, a thin line between her eyebrows. “Bush, Jameson, Jack Daniel’s.”\u003cbr\u003e       “Black Bush,” he said. “A double, no water.”\u003cbr\u003e        She fetched him the drink, served it in a tumbler. The liquidglowed  amber, swaying in the glass as it clinked on the bar top.\u003cbr\u003e       A  shrill thought sounded in his mind, causing a moment of giddy panic. Had  he brought any money? Raymond checked each pocket in turn, the fear  building in him, until his fingers touched leather at his hip. He opened  the wallet, sighed when he found\u003cbr\u003ea twenty-pound note, and handed it over.\u003cbr\u003e       “Keep . . .” His lungs betrayed him. He inhaled as much air as they would hold. “Keep the change.”\u003cbr\u003e       A smile flashed on her face, then was swept aside by concern. “Are you sick?” she asked. “Do you need a doctor?”\u003cbr\u003e        Raymond shook his head, no breath to spare. He took the glass to the  farthest table, pausing on the way to let another dizzy wave pass.  Raising the tumbler, he smelled warm earthy peat, sweet caramel, spice.  Heat in his throat, the aftertaste of aniseed.\u003cbr\u003e       As he sat  sipping at the whiskey, a knot of pain tightened around his left arm. It  travelled up through his shoulder and neck before hammering on the  inside of his skull. He held the table’s edge.\u003cbr\u003e       Not here. Not here.\u003cbr\u003e        Raymond downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, coughed, and  marvelled at the constellations that flowered across his vision.\u003cbr\u003e       The girl approached. “Sir? I can call a doctor.”\u003cbr\u003e       He shook his head, stood, made for the exit, carried more by his momentum than his legs.\u003cbr\u003e       Outside, he went to the towpath.\u003cbr\u003e       Here?\u003cbr\u003e        Too close to the pub and the houses. Half a mile downriver, past the  boat club, the buildings would recede, nothing but grass and trees along  the river’s edge. He had walked the towpath many times, letting the  quiet air enshroud him, the calm seeping in through his pores.\u003cbr\u003e       Another charge of pain coursed from his arm up to his brain, stronger than before.\u003cbr\u003e       Walk. Jesus Christ, walk.\u003cbr\u003e        His legs obeyed. Time bent and cracked around him. Grey turned to  green. Civilisation faded into the distance, only the rough ground and  the sound of the wind through leaves. \u003cbr\u003e       A woman and a dog. It sniffed at him as he passed, whined, smelling the death on him. His and that of the others.\u003cbr\u003e       A cyclist, wrapped in Lycra, a helmet on his head, skidding to avoid a collision.\u003cbr\u003e       “Fuck’s sake, watch where you’re going,” the cyclist shouted as he pedalled away.\u003cbr\u003e       Raymond did not answer.\u003cbr\u003e        He stepped off the gravel path, toward the grass and weeds at the edge.  His shoes sank in the wetness. Hard, needling cold swamping his feet.  The river flowed past, fat from the rainfall.\u003cbr\u003e       “God, let it be now,” Raymond said.\u003cbr\u003e       He laughed at the futility of his prayer. He and God had parted ways half a lifetime ago.\u003cbr\u003e        He dug his fingers into his pocket, the tips already going numb. His  keys snagged on a thread. He pulled harder, and they came free. It took  the last of his strength to toss them six feet. They splashed in the  water without a sound. At least none that he could hear.\u003cbr\u003e        Another shock of pain, bigger than his body could hold, raging up  through his left arm, his shoulder, his neck, then an explosion in his  brain like the birth of a star.\u003cbr\u003e       “Now,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e       The  water came to meet him, swallowed him, as tender as it was cold. A  million images streaked through Raymond’s mind, each one as bold and  brilliant as the last, faces he’d known, many he hadn’t, some of them  twisted in terror.\u003cbr\u003e       They sparked and fell like the scatterings  of a firework, falling into black, down to where the fire awaited him.  Down into the final silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRea Carlisle sat on the stairs, looking at the black plastic bags, a man’s life wrapped up and ready to be dumped.\u003cbr\u003e        She hadn’t seen her uncle for twenty-eight years, and she remembered  the occasion better than the man. She had been six years old, a funeral  in a draughty church whose location she could not recall. People had  whispered, asking what her mother was doing bringing a child that age to  a funeral? The babysitter hadn’t turned up, and Rea’s mother had  scrubbed her face with spit and tissue before bundling her into her best  Sunday school dress and dragging her out to the car.\u003cbr\u003e       Uncle  Raymond had stood quiet and still throughout, had smiled and shaken  hands with people who seemed to be as strange to him as they were to  Rea.\u003cbr\u003e       Her mother embraced him.\u003cbr\u003e       “Och, Raymond, I’m so sorry,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e       His arms remained by his sides, his back stiff and straight. “Thanks for coming, Ida,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e        When they put his wife in the ground, Uncle Raymond brought a finger to  his eye. But there was no tear to wipe away. Even though Rea could  recall only the most vague image of his face, she remembered clearly how  silly the action of wiping away a non-existent tear seemed to her.\u003cbr\u003e       She asked her mother about it on the drive home in the Mini Metro.\u003cbr\u003e       Ida stayed quiet for a while, watching the road ahead. Then she said, “Well, he was always an odd cratur.”\u003cbr\u003e        After that, they never talked much about him. Rea knew her mother had  tried to contact Raymond, by telephone, by letter, but never a reply. He  faded from their lives like mist from a window.\u003cbr\u003e       The phone call had come a week ago.\u003cbr\u003e        Rea had been sitting at her kitchen table, eating a microwaved ready  meal straight from the plastic container, scrolling through the listings  of a jobs website on her iPad. She lifted her mobile knowing it would  be her mother’s name on the display. Ida had a knack of calling at  awkward moments. When Rea was eating, or in the bath, or on the toilet,  or trying to get out the door, she could almost guarantee the phone  would ring.\u003cbr\u003e       “It’s Raymond,” Ida said.\u003cbr\u003e       Rea’s mind  scrambled to connect the name to anyone she knew. God help her, she  didn’t want another one of those verbal tennis matches where her mother  insisted Rea knew someone while Rea swore blind she didn’t.\u003cbr\u003e       Och, you know him surely, Ida would say.\u003cbr\u003e       I don’t, Rea would counter.\u003cbr\u003e       Och, you do.\u003cbr\u003e       No, I don’t.\u003cbr\u003e       Back and forth until Rea would be ready to scream.\u003cbr\u003e       Before any of that could happen, Ida said, “He’s dead.”\u003cbr\u003e       Rea heard a watery sigh in the phone’s earpiece.\u003cbr\u003e       “Who’s dead?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e       “Raymond,” Ida said, exasperation in her voice. “Your uncle Raymond. My brother.”\u003cbr\u003e        The white wisp of a man by the graveside came back to her. The finger  at the dry eye. The features she could not form into a real face.\u003cbr\u003e       “Jesus,” Rea said.\u003cbr\u003e       Ida tutted at the minor blasphemy.\u003cbr\u003e       “Sorry,” Rea said, not meaning it. “How did he die?”\u003cbr\u003e       “They’re not sure,” Ida said. “Maybe drowned, but they don’t know.”\u003cbr\u003e       “Drowned?”\u003cbr\u003e       “He was found in the Lagan yesterday afternoon, all snagged up in the weeds.”\u003cbr\u003e        Rea heard a crack in her mother’s voice. A sharp, high-pitched  inhalation. She pictured a tissue screwed up in Ida’s fingers, ready to  dab at her cheeks. Keeping it all bound up tight like a ball of string  in her breast in case she made a show of herself. Ida Carlisle was the  kind of woman who wept at her kitchen table, a cup of tea going cold in  front of her, at least one closed door between her and anyone else.\u003cbr\u003e        “They found out who he was from his wallet,” Ida said. “It took them a  day to find out he was related to me. The police called at the house  this evening.”\u003cbr\u003e       “Was Dad there?” Rea asked.\u003cbr\u003e       “No, he was at a party meeting. He says he’ll be home as soon as it’s over.”\u003cbr\u003e        Rea suppressed a curse. Graham Carlisle made his wife look like a well  of warm emotion. God forbid he should let Ida’s bereavement get in the  way of his ambitions. He’d had a seat at the Stormont Assembly for five  years now, and they were grooming him for Westminster. They would  announce his candidacy at the next general election. To him, all else  was secondary.\u003cbr\u003e       “I’ll come over,” Rea said. “Give me half an hour.”\u003cbr\u003e       Before she could hang up, Ida said, “I didn’t know him.”\u003cbr\u003e       Rea kept silent, left the space for her mother to fill with whatever troubled her.\u003cbr\u003e        Ida took a quivering breath and said, “He was my brother, and I didn’t  know him. I haven’t seen him in near thirty years. I don’t know if he  still lives in that wee house. I don’t know if he married again. I don’t  know if he had any children. I could’ve passed him on the street, and I  wouldn’t have recognized him. I should’ve known him better.”\u003cbr\u003e       “You tried,” Rea said. “I remember you writing him letters and sending him Christmas cards. You did try.”\u003cbr\u003e       “I should’ve tried harder.”","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304349618405,"sku":"NP9781616956158","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616956158.jpg?v=1767739334","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-final-silence-isbn-9781616956158","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}