{"product_id":"remain-silent-isbn-9780525509998","title":"Remain Silent","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn immigrant’s mysterious death sets off a chilling hunt for the truth in this gripping crime novel from the author of \u003ci\u003eMissing, Presumed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Brilliantly gripping.”—Lucy Foley, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Guest List\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A police procedural with real imagination and heart, and a marvelous lightness of style and wit.”—Philip Pullman, author of His Dark Materials trilogy\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY \u003ci\u003eTHE GUARDIAN\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Newly married and navigating life with a preschooler as well as her adopted adolescent son, Manon Bradshaw is happy to be working part-time in the cold cases department of the Cambridgeshire police force, a job that allows her to potter in, coffee in hand, and log on for a spot of Internet shopping—precisely what she had in mind when she thought of work-life balance. But beneath the surface Manon is struggling with the day-to-day realities of what she’d assumed would be domestic bliss: fights about whose turn it is to clean the kitchen, the bewildering fatigue of having a young child while in her forties, and the fact that she is going to couples counseling alone because her husband feels it would just be her complaining.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But when Manon is on a walk with her four-year-old son in a peaceful suburban neighborhood and discovers the body of a Lithuanian immigrant hanging from a tree with a mysterious note attached, she knows her life is about to change. Suddenly, she is back on the job full-force, trying to solve the suicide—or is it a murder—in what may be the most dangerous and demanding case of her life.“Susie Steiner takes the pulse of our times while weaving a brilliantly gripping tale. Manon Bradshaw is one of my favorite literary creations of all time. I’m so envious of Susie’s talent. Her writing is truly without parallel.”\u003cb\u003e—Lucy Foley, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hunting Party\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eRemain Silent\u003c\/i\u003e is her best. Hurrah for DI Manon Bradshaw in all her tender, outrageously rude, insightful, and flawed magnificence. Flew through it, laughing out loud at her gags. And then cried at the end. Perfect. Loved it.”\u003cb\u003e—Fiona Barton, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Suspect\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eRemain Silent\u003c\/i\u003e made me laugh, kept me guessing till the end, and made me care long after I’d closed the book. No one writes crime fiction like Susie Steiner: Agatha Christie as scripted by Victoria Wood or Alan Bennett.”\u003cb\u003e—Erin Kelly, author of \u003ci\u003eStone Mothers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny, and sad, and astonishingly smart.”\u003cb\u003e—Katherine Heiny, author of \u003ci\u003eStandard Deviation\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Manon Bradshaw is SUCH a great creation. \u003ci\u003eRemain Silent\u003c\/i\u003e is so spot-on about love, relationships, middle-age, being a woman. The plot  broke my heart. So MOVING.”\u003cb\u003e—Marian Keyes, author of \u003ci\u003eGrown Ups\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’t imagine reading a better crime novel this year. A beautifully wrapped gift of a tale that both chills and warms the heart. I loved it.”\u003cb\u003e—Renée Knight, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Secretary\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eRemain Silent\u003c\/i\u003e is brilliant; I cherished every page. Funny, tender, wise, angry, and completely gripping, this book is a joy. Manon is a glorious heroine and Susie Steiner is a writer beyond compare.”\u003cb\u003e—Jane Casey, author of \u003ci\u003eCruel Acts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Susie Steiner is a genius. Simultaneously heartbreaking and hilarious, profound and page-turning, this book contains multitudes.”\u003cb\u003e—Lucie Whitehouse, author of \u003ci\u003eBefore We Met\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s [Susie Steiner’s] best yet, which is saying something. Her fictional detective Manon Bradshaw is one of my favourite creations of recent years.”\u003cb\u003e—India Knight, \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With \u003ci\u003eRemain Silent\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Susie Steiner flexes her authorial muscles. . . . She eloquently captures the savage, ravaging fear that underlies everything from xenophobia and sexism, to plain old, soul-destroying bitterness. But there’s a softer light shining here too in Bradshaw’s musings on middle age, the gentle teasing that goes on between her and her colleagues, and even a dose of the tough love that’s sometimes required when it comes to lasting friendship. I read this book in a single sitting, pushed to both tears and laughter.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Seattle Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e­“Readers will be buoyed by the brilliance of Steiner’s dark humor and the power of her narrative. Recommend this to fans of Kate Atkinson, Tana French, and, of course, Val McDermid.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Savvy, sharp, and smart.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSusie Steiner\u003c\/b\u003e is a former journalist at \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e, where she worked as a commissioning editor for eleven years. Prior to that, she worked for \u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eDaily Telegraph,\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eEvening Standard\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in London with her husband and two sons.Day 1, Midnight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatis\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•••\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis key in the door, he shoulders across the threshold, stumbles wildly up the stairs to the bathroom. He can’t risk being beaten for soiling the carpet. His stomach is coiling and despite it being empty, he vomits into the toilet: acid bile. In a strange way, the retching comforts him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDimitri is at the bathroom’s open doorway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you all right?” he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatis, kneeling by the toilet bowl, groans.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDimitri approaches. “Too much to drink?” he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Matis turns to look up at him, Dimitri says, “My God, what happened to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lukas is dead,” Matis sobs. “I brought him here and now he’s dead. I never saw such hatred, Dimitri. Why do they hate us so much?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDimitri shrugs sadly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I hope he haunts them out of their beds at night,” says Matis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To be haunted, you must have a conscience,” says Dimitri.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And they have none.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDimitri lifts him to his feet. “Come, you need a drink.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the kitchen, while Dimitri locates vodka, Matis starts shaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDimitri says, “The police here, they will look into it properly. Not like back home.” He hands Matis the bottle. Matis swigs. Winces. It burns his sore stomach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It won’t bring him back. This is my fault.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the bedroom, which contains four men sleeping on mattresses on the floor, Dimitri takes the empty place beside Matis, to comfort him. The mattress where Lukas used to whimper in the dark, until one of the men shouted, “Užsičiaupk po velnių”—shut the f*** up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you need something to sleep?” Dimitri asks. “That guy, the dealer who helped Saulius, he gave us pills.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatis shakes his head, rolls onto his back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sleep,” Dimitri says. “We must work tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf life were a force of will, Matis could wish himself dead. No such luck. His body, tired and broken, keeps going. He keeps on waking on the stinking mattress, soaked in the sweat of other men who had been in the same situation before him. And what happened to them?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen they are in the van at 4 a.m., it is a moment of reprieve—a moment to exhale. They have survived an ordeal, have dragged themselves from too little sleep, got to the BP garage, where migrants from across town are picked up for agricultural work, in time. They cannot be punished for missing the call, for being late. The next ordeal—catching enough chickens through the fog of their exhaustion, through the sting of the scratches on their hands reopening—would come later. Almost all the men fell straight to sleep in the van. Chin to chest. Forehead to window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’s always sleeping with this ragtag of psychos, the weird intimacy of sharing a room. The snoring, someone talking in his sleep, the smells emitted by bodies at night, thick and human and perhaps repulsive, but also deeply, vulnerably personal. Lukas may have whimpered on his mattress at night, but Matis didn’t. This had been his idea, and he had had to make it work, had had to make it look like it was working. Up to now, he’d had to survive, even though he didn’t want to, to tell both himself and Lukas that their bind was temporary, a bump on the path to freedom. But with Lukas gone . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDay 1, 6:20 a.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eManon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•••\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wake me up now, Mummy!” Teddy yells from the next room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eManon gives Mark a shove and he rolls obediently out of bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe squints at her watch. 6:20 a.m. “F***’s sake,” she says, then turns over and descends back to delicious depths. The warmth of the duvet, the darkness of the room thanks to the blackout curtain lining, the numbness of her mind, broken by harsh winds of irritation: the feel of Mark and Teddy getting into the bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe would make all manner of pacts with Lucifer to be allowed fresh descent. Give me five minutes, three minutes, one minute. I will give you my soul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere will be a moment of lovely cuddling, the velvety plush of Ted’s cheek pads, his squidge-able limbs—forearms, upper arms, padded with gentle fat, still of a toddler. She cherishes this remnant of babyhood. She’s become a baby botherer in cafés, overenunciating “Hallo!” into their cloudy eyes, while their mothers look on her with suspicion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTed pushes his fingers up her nose and says, “Hello, Defective Mummy!” because he doesn’t know the word is “detective.” Or perhaps he does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe can feel the crescendo of fidgetry begin: knees in the groin, kissing that becomes biting, until one of them submits to predawn Weetabix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding over her boy, she holds his tiny penis away from his body so the yellow arc of piss, warm and high, hits the hedge. She’s wondering whether to ring Mark to tell him to nudge Fly, make sure he isn’t oversleeping. He’s in an important moment at school (GCSEs) and she permanently feels he’s too lackadaisical, but then she argues with herself about allowing him to grow up and make his own mistakes. So much of her internal monologue these days revolves around where she is going wrong as a parent. To micromanage or to let go, that is the question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe swings and slide were wet. Teddy went on them anyway. She was too comatose to object (should she start taking iron, for the tiredness?) despite knowing he would swing from happy and absorbed to freezing wet and miserable in a nanosecond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looks up. The sky is an ominous thumb smudge, the light low and the air damp. Classic British spring. The chestnut tree twenty yards away billows in the wind, its candelabra flowers bobbing wildly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe air smells wet, fresh, with a trace of dog turd on its skirts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sniffs again, sensing something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind is making things creak and knock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe can hear a sound that is wrong. Wrong place, wrong context. She scans about, while Teddy concentrates on weeing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the billowing tree that is twenty yards away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sees two black boots, high among the tree branches. She straightens, squinting to see better. Ankles, trousers. Swaying at head height. The creaking sound might be rope against branch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tucks Teddy back into his trousers, swivels him by the shoulders, and lifts him. He is too big to be carried; they’re always arguing about it, him standing in front of her—his block move—with arms in the air and her saying, “No, you can walk.” So he’s bewildered at being lifted, but is certainly not about to argue. He is a deadweight; damp trousers, his legs banging against her body. But she is in flight, not fight, holding his head down against her shoulder so he won’t spot the legs, though it’s unlikely he would notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer boy is a strange combination of beady-eyed and myopic. If she has her head in one of the kitchen cupboards, eating an illicit biscuit, he can fix her with a steely gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s that you got, Mummy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing,” she’ll say, over the rubble of a full mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet she has a feeling if she were bleeding to death in the street, he’d stand over her, saying, “Need a drink. I’m urgent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe is running away from the tree, carrying Ted with one arm and digging into her pocket with the other for her phone to call it in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst time she’s ever run away from a body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Control, this is Officer Bradshaw, 564. We have a deceased in Hinchingbrooke Country Park close to the car park. Repeat cadaver unattended in country park. Urgent attendance needed, send units. Cadaver is unattended in a public place. In a tree. Hanging from a tree.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can you attend please, Detective Inspector?” says the control room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, I am with a ch—a minor.” Manon is trying to use language Teddy cannot understand. Deceased. Cadaver. Not dead. Not body. “I cannot attend. You need to send units.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite her tone and use of jargon, Ted has sensed the rise in her vital signs, is prickling all over with transferred tension, and he lets out a wail—a combination of confusion and alarm. “All right, Ted,” she says. “It’s all right. Mummy’s all right and you’re all right. Just a work call, that’s all. Shall we go home and watch Fireman Sam?”Author of Missing, Presumed","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302272815333,"sku":"NP9780525509998","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525509998.jpg?v=1767735617","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/remain-silent-isbn-9780525509998","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}