By Stuart MacBride
The gritty new standalone crime novel from the No. 1 bestselling writer of Shatter the Bones and darkish Blood Detective Constable Ash Henderson has a dismal mystery! 5 years in the past his daughter, Rebecca, went lacking at the eve of her 13th birthday. A yr later the 1st card arrived: home made, with a Polaroid photograph caught to front -- Rebecca, strapped to a chair, gagged and terrified. each year one other card: each worse than the final. The tabloids name him The Birthday Boy. He's been snatching women for twelve years, consistently within the run-up to their 13th birthday, sending the households his selfmade playing cards exhibiting their daughters being slowly tortured to demise. yet Ash hasn't advised somebody approximately Rebecca's birthday playing cards -- all of them imagine she's simply run clear of domestic -- simply because if somebody reveals out, he'll be taken off the research. And he's sacrificed an excessive amount of to renounce ahead of his daughter's killer will get what he merits!
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Additional resources for Birthdays for the Dead
For a moment he thought of all the trivialities that had been spoken between these walls during the last ten years. Ingrid put down her book and shut off the record player. 'Hi, Dad. 1 He shook his head. 'Lord, how wet your legs are,' the girl said. ' 'Cats and dogs. ' 'I think so. Mum bundled Rolf off to bed right after dinner. ' Martin Beck sat down on the bed. ' ‘Well, I thought he looked well enough. But he went to bed without any fuss. ' 'You seem to be hard at work, anyway. ' 'French. We've a test tomorrow.
No, it's not important Sleep well. ' He put down the receiver. Suddenly he felt so cold that his teeth were chattering. He picked up the receiver again and stood with it in his hand, thinking that he must call someone and find out exactly what had happened. Then he decided that the best way was to get to the place himself as fast as he could. He dialled the number of the nearest taxi rank and got a reply immediately. Martin Beck had been a policeman for twenty-three years. During that time several of his colleagues had been killed in the course of duty.
But we don't know his name. He has a blue raincoat. ' The two radio police both talked at once, uncertainly and quietly. They were anything but small, but beside Gunvald Larsson they did not look very impressive. Gunvald Larsson was 6 feet 5 inches tall and weighed nearly sixteen stone. His shoulders were as broad as those of a professional heavyweight boxer and he had huge, hairy hands. His fair hair, brushed back, was already dripping wet The sound of many wailing sirens cut through the splashing of the rain.