{"product_id":"persons-unknown-isbn-9780812987751","title":"Persons Unknown","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this brilliant crime novel from the author of \u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed,\u003c\/i\u003e a detective investigates her most personal case yet: a high-profile murder in which her own family falls under suspicion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“[Susie] Steiner populates this hot-button narrative with achingly human characters, but no one compares to the hormonal, mordantly funny mom-cop who will stop at nothing to save her son.”—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e (Book of the Week)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs dusk falls, a young man staggers through a park, far from home, bleeding from a stab wound. He dies where he falls, cradled by a stranger, a woman’s name on his lips in his last seconds of life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Detective Manon Bradshaw handles only cold cases. Five months pregnant, in pursuit of a work-life balance rather than romantic love, she’s focused on being a good mother to her two children: her adopted twelve-year-old son, Fly Dent, and the new baby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the man died just yards from the police station where she works, so Manon can’t help taking an interest. And as she sidles in on the briefing she learns that the victim, a banker from London worth millions, is more closely linked to her than she could have imagined. When the case begins to circle in on Manon’s home and her family, she finds herself pitted against the colleagues she once held dear: Davy Walker and Harriet Harper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Can Manon separate what she knows about the people she loves from the suspicion hanging over them? Can she investigate the evidence just as she would with any other case? \u003ci\u003ePersons Unknown\u003c\/i\u003e shows acclaimed author Susie Steiner writing her most intricate, suspenseful novel yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003ePersons Unknown\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A police procedural as concerned with the mysteries of human hearts as with who stabbed a banker to death at a park in Cambridgeshire. [Full of] winning prose, sympathetic characters and an appreciation of life’s joys as keen as a knowledge of its dangers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Susie Steiner blends the police procedural and the human drama perfectly.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Charlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Steiner] has created a masterful mystery within an engaging narrative perfect for Kate Atkinson fans. Readers will be astonished by the unexpected turns at the conclusion, which will leave fans eagerly awaiting the next book. This series needs to be snapped up by the BBC or PBS.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[An] engrossing stunner, incorporating social justice issues into the narrative, along with superb plotting, dark humor, and excellent characterizations.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e“A police procedural as concerned with the mysteries of human hearts as with who stabbed a banker to death at a park in Cambridgeshire. [Full of] winning prose, sympathetic characters and an appreciation of life’s joys as keen as a knowledge of its dangers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Susie] Steiner populates this hot-button narrative with achingly human characters, but no one compares to the hormonal, mordantly funny mom-cop who will stop at nothing to save her son.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e (Book of the Week)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Susie Steiner blends the police procedural and the human drama perfectly.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Charlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In [her] stellar sequel to 2016’s \u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Steiner grapples with serious social justice issues in a darkly humorous crime novel not to be missed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A second adventure that strikes all the right notes—layered mystery, incisive cultural context, and a delightful protagonist who deserves a place alongside other beloved literary detectives.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Steiner] has created a masterful mystery within an engaging narrative perfect for Kate Atkinson fans. Readers will be astonished by the unexpected turns at the conclusion, which will leave fans eagerly awaiting the next book. This series needs to be snapped up by the BBC or PBS.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With its multiple viewpoints, this follow-up to the acclaimed \u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed\u003c\/i\u003e is another engrossing stunner, incorporating social justice issues into the narrative, along with superb plotting, dark humor, and excellent characterizations. Perfect for admirers of Kate Atkinson’s books.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Susie Steiner goes from strength to strength: \u003ci\u003ePersons Unknown\u003c\/i\u003e is by turns tense and tender, gripping and moving, and always beautifully written. I didn’t read this book so much as live it: DI Manon Bradshaw is so convincingly human that I often wonder what she’s up to now.”\u003cb\u003e—Erin Kelly, author of \u003ci\u003eHe Said\/She Said\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed \u003c\/i\u003ewas one of the best crime novels I’ve read in years—\u003ci\u003ePersons Unknown\u003c\/i\u003e is even better. Susie Steiner writes so brilliantly, creating characters who take possession of your mind and your heart. This is a compelling, gripping novel, a superb continuation of a series that is taking crime fiction into new and exciting territory.”\u003cb\u003e—Jane Casey, author of \u003ci\u003eLet the Dead Speak\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The best new crime series in years”\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Perry, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Essex Serpent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Superb storytelling—a joy to read. I am hooked on Manon Bradshaw.”\u003cb\u003e—Ren\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eé\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ee Knight, author of\u003ci\u003e Disclaimer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Stylish, literary fiction at its very best.”\u003cb\u003e—Peter James, author of the international bestselling Roy Grace crime series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSusie Steiner\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed\u003c\/i\u003e. She was a commissioning editor for \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e for eleven years and prior to that worked for \u003ci\u003eThe Times, The Daily Telegraph, \u003c\/i\u003eand the\u003ci\u003e Evening Standard\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in London with her husband and their two children.Day 1, December 14 \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e JON-OLIVER\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Down. Dizzy. Pitching left. He is draining away like dirty water, round and round. Stumbling not walking, the ground threatening to come up and meet him. And yet he presses on. Something’s not right.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He is swampy, heavy-footed. His shin is throbbing. A scuffle—like being spun in blindman’s buff—so quick that when it was over he thought he’d been mugged, but he patted himself down and his wallet and phone were there all right.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His muscles are soupy, unresponsive. His legs wade, the landscape too broad for him to make headway. The air is close like a wet web. He can barely draw breath.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He stumbles to the right, into a muddy wooded area in a direction he hadn’t intended to take, and it’s as if the ground is reaching for him. Is it quicksand, not mud?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’s really scared now; nervously places a hand to his chest. His shirt is wet through but it’s not raining. He looks at his hand. It is glistening dark; the color unclear because of the dark and the orangy street lighting\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He starts to panic, cannot fill his lungs. What is happening to him? \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He falls into the mud, feels some arms take him up and cradle him, looks up to see blond hair. The alien scent of perfume. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Saskia? \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Sass?” he whispers, confused. Is she the cause of this, after all her stupidity? She went too far and he couldn’t stop her. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Sass?” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His sight dims, he is too tired. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The world dips.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e MANON\u003cbr\u003e Crisp in one hand, sandwich in the other; the tickle and press of light internal kneading around her pelvis, like butterflies in a sack. Seems typical that pregnancy has brought zero in the way of nausea but has instead turbocharged Manon’s appetite. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She becomes aware of Harriet and Davy talking, urgent and low, on the other side of the open-plan office. Something’s up. They’re quickening. Manon elongates her neck, craning to hear, but her colleagues are too far away\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As they pass her desk she says, “What’s happening?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Job’s come in,” Harriet says, but it’s clear she can’t be bothered to fill Manon in.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Ooh, who is it?” Manon says, through a mouth of sandwich. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They ignore her.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She looks at Davy, full of himself these days; Detective Sergeant Davy Walker, promoted by the Super, Gary Stanton. He might as well call Stanton “Daddy.” Well, he’s welcome to it. Manon is in hot pursuit of the work-life balance: desk job, regular hours, house full of children. She wants to focus on whether to sign up for an organic veg box or whether this would be taking her personal reinvention too far. You can lead a horse to uncooked beetroot . . . \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And yet she is straining out of her seat to overhear the conversation between Harriet and Davy.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Manon butts in, saying, “I could be special adviser at the scene, brackets, teas . . .” Hopeful face.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When she’d first begged Harriet for a job back in the major crime unit, determined to leave behind the misery of the Met (awful boss, crushing workload) and the cost of London living, she said she’d do anything, didn’t care how boring. Cold cases.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You don’t want to do cold cases,” Harriet said. “There is no greater career cul-de-sac than cold cases.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  “I do, seriously. Boring dead-end redundancy’s where I’m at.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And cold cases is where she’s ended up, while her belly enlarges (now at the five-month mark), spending quite a few of her days following her Sat Nav inexpertly around the Fens—\u003ci\u003eTurn around where possible\u003c\/i\u003e—to interview people who couldn’t remember much about last week, never mind a decade ago. Telling herself this is fine. This is what’s called Having It All (though most of the time, it feels like having small slivers of the duller bits), home by five, pick up some washing powder. \u003ci\u003eYou have reached your destination on your right.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Christ, really?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Harriet has marched off in a hurry.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Davy, oi Davy,” Manon whispers loudly as he thumbs his mobile phone and Davy—who used to work for her, who used to do her bidding while she shushed him—shushes her with his finger. Now he’s the DS running the job while she . . . Well, she is quite tired to be fair\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Just tell me what’s up,” she says, when he’s off the phone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Stabbing, male, in Hinchingbrooke Park.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nice of him to kark it so local.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Actually, he might not even be dead yet,” says Davy, eyes darting with all the thoughts he’s having, checklist and scene log and SOCO, no doubt. “Right by the forensics lab as well. We can all walk it from here. Really couldn’t be more convenient.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And he is back on his mobile, heading for MCU’s double doors.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her nineties house, squat in its tray of mown turf, the very image of a child’s drawing complete with pitched roof and windows like eyes. Not too bright: a stoic face, happy with its lot. Around the lawn is a frill of box hedging—so low you could step over it, and what’s the point in that, she wonders, remembering the burglary prevention advice she used to dole out when she was in uniform. Plant prickly bushes under windows. \u003ci\u003eHalt! This is a shrubbery!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her key in the plastic door with its fake leaded lights, letting herself in and noticing that the reality is a step removed from what she’d hoped for, moving back to Huntingdon. She thought it would be all spacious living and glorious rural(ish) childhoods for Fly and Solly\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I don’t want to bring up a black boy in London,” she said to her sister Ellie at the start of her campaign for them to move back to Cambridgeshire. This had followed Manon being summoned to the headmaster’s office at Fly’s vast, terrifying comprehensive school and an encroaching fear that he was getting in with the wrong crowd, or possibly that he \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e the wrong crowd.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “That’s exactly where you should bring up a black boy,” Ellie said. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And watch him get stopped and searched every five minutes of his life? Arrested for stuff he didn’t do? Looked at by old ladies who think he’s going to mug them? I watch them, you know, giving him a double take, and it breaks my fucking heart.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “So what, you’d rather take him out to the bigotry heartlands, would you, where he’ll be the only black boy for miles around?” Ellie said. “You should see the old ladies out there.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “We can’t afford to stay here. The rent’s crippling me. It’s crippling you as well. Come on, we could get a big house, the four of us. Fly would never agree to leave Sol, you know that.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Ellie looked uncertain. “It is astronomical,” she admitted. “But God, I hate being uprooted. Having to start again somewhere new, making new friends. Makes me feel exhausted just thinking about it. I’ve got a group of mums I feel comfortably ambivalent about, right here.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “We could get a mansion in Huntingdon or Ely or Peterborough,” Manon pleaded. “You could—”\u003cbr\u003e “Start a course of antidepressants?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  “Go back to work.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Their charmless four-bedroom house opposite police HQ in Hinchingbrooke is costing a fraction of what they were spending on two flats in the capital, and is more than double the size. They each—Manon, Ellie, twelve-year-old Fly (whose trainers alone, like cruise ships adrift, have their own housing needs), and Ellie’s nearlythree-year-old Solomon—have a capacious bedroom, hers and Ellie’s both with en suites. The house has one of those tacked-on hexagonal conservatories made from uPVC and, beyond, a 150-foot lawn dotted with menacing conifers. The Bradshaws can even boast a utility room (and what says you have arrived more than a utility room?) with gray marble-effect laminate worktops. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Manon calls “Hello?” into the volume of the house, clattering her keys onto a glass-topped console in the hallway (an irritant none of them could be bothered to remove—whatever domestic improvements are hatched in the utopias of the night are laid waste in the harumscarum day). She smells cooking—whatever Solly has just had for tea\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She stands in the doorway to the lounge, already disappointed by the scene in front of her: an oatmeal vista, its candelabra lights descending stiffly from the low ceiling (a persecution of a ceiling—she feels at times as if it is lowering in real time and will one day crush her). The three-piece suite, extra wide and squat, is the most engulfing Manon has ever sat in, so much so that she often feels she is being consumed by it. Everything beige, so that the whole atmosphere is one of porridgy comfort. They’ve lived here for five minutes, and she’s already nostalgic for the high ceilings of Victorian London.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh Fly, don’t play Temple Run with him,” she says, removing her coat. “His brain’s not even formed yet.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “He loves it,” Fly answers without looking up from the iPad he is hunched over, Solly nestled in his lap. Manon walks back out to hang her coat on the banister and to drop her bag at the foot of the stairs. \u003ci\u003eWhere is Ellie?\u003c\/i\u003e At work? Her shifts run from 7:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. or 1:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., and this is considered part-time. The entire shift usually on her feet, sometimes with no chance for a break. When she’s on nights, she’ll often have Solly all day the next day because she’s trying to save money on the childminder (Ellie’s sense of impoverishment is their microclimate). She’ll doze on the sofa while he plays in front of rolling episodes of \u003ci\u003ePeppa Pig\u003c\/i\u003e. There has never been a worse time to work for the NHS, Ellie says. The management obsessed with targets and budgets, every shift short-staffed. No love, only constraint and a communal sense of harassment. Yet her sister has also been a master of evasion lately, time thick yet hollow. The stresses and strains mingled with absences unexplained. “Shift ran over, sorry.” Or, “Training. Kept me late.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  Author of Missing, Presumed; Bonus chapter included","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304474366181,"sku":"NP9780812987751","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812987751.jpg?v=1767734684","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/persons-unknown-isbn-9780812987751","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}