Talking to the dead A novel

Review by Booklist Review

When a prostitute and a young girl are found murdered in a run-down South Wales apartment building, police immediately place the blame on drugs. But when a dead millionaire's credit card is found at the crime scene, Welsh Detective Constable Fiona Griffiths suspects something even more sinister afoot. Faced with cracking her first big case, the Cambridge-educated rookie cop must take care not to ruffle feathers as she pursues leads. Everyone on the squad knows she suffered a psychological breakdown years before joining the force, and her supervisors err on the side of caution when assigning her tasks. DC Griffiths may be battling demons, but she's not going to let them win, proving herself more than worthy as she closes in on possible culprits, including a corrupt former cop who's equal parts trouble and charm. She also finds a romantic diversion with a handsome blond colleague. In his American debut, British novelist Bingham renders a sympathetic heroine and a crackerjack mystery. Happily for readers, he's already working on the next series installment.--Block, Allison Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Fans of Stieg Larsson's Lisbeth Salander will cotton to the heroine of British author Bingham's highly entertaining U.S. debut, Det. Constable Fiona Griffiths, whose social awkwardness and intensity make her unpopular among her fellow officers in Cardiff, Wales. Fiona's current assignment, which makes use of her paper work expertise in tracking money stolen from a Catholic boys' school fund, allows her to worm her way into the murder investigation of a woman with a history of drugs and prostitution. Fiona believes that the platinum credit card of a wealthy, recently deceased tycoon found at the scene of the crime hints at a deeper conspiracy, especially when another prostitute is murdered. Fiona's habit of spending time with the corpses in the morgue may be bizarre, but Bingham makes this quirk a believable and thoughtful way for her to process clues. An insightful look at a damaged, unusual woman trying to fit in as well as a view of past and present Wales enhance the brisk, realistic plot. Agent: George Lucas, Inkwell Management. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Murdering a prostitute is terrible enough, but killing her innocent child as well is horrific, think the members of the Cardiff, Wales, police department. A powerful clue was left behind: the credit card of one of Wales's richest shipping magnates. The trouble is, he died the year before. Cambridge-educated DS Fiona (Fi) Griffiths is determined to pursue this tenuous lead. Fi, who carries her own dark secret, tries to fit in, but it's a near-impossible task for the oddball, brilliant detective. Brilliant doesn't mean sensible though, and Fi uses tactics that break most rules-and that put her in extreme danger. She senses that the sex trade and the shipping industry intersect somehow, but she'll need to think outside the box to make the complex case come together. VERDICT Bingham's riveting procedural thriller series debut has winner written all over it. The author's ability to juxtapose his protagonist's introspection with an inflammatory and violent storyline makes for an edgy, totally unsettling read. Recommend highly for S.J. Bolton and Tana French fans. (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Introducing Fiona "Fi" Griffiths, a young Welsh police detective with a difference. She's in recovery from a rare dissociative condition that, at its worse, makes her feel as dead as the prostitutes whose murders she is investigating. Five years ago, in her late teens, Fi had a prolonged breakdown. Now, she relates to people and experiences herself in strange ways. She's able to identify emotion, but not feel it. But that only enhances her go-getter investigative skills. Her willingness to break rules puts her at odds with her kindly superiors in Cardiff--until the truths she uncovers lead to breaks in the case. She quickly connects the murder of a prostitute and her six-year-old daughter to a sex-trade ring run by a British millionaire that brings in Russian prostitutes, hooks them on heroin, enslaves them and snuffs them when they have outlived their usefulness. The plot is a good one, the climax in a remote lighthouse better than good. But what sets the book apart is the first-person narration of Fi, one of the most intriguing female characters in recent fiction. Even Lisbeth Salander wouldn't spend the night in a morgue lying between dead bodies in an effort to get closer to their killers. After getting viciously slapped by a former cop gone bad, Fi is stricken with fear. Not only does she overcome it, she comes to appreciate her attacker's better qualities. A budding romance with a sensitive and caring fellow cop helps. The promising first installment in a new series, this book is so good it has you wondering who should play Fiona on the big screen. How about Keira Knightley?]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 Interview. October 2006 Beyond the window, I can see three kites hanging in the air over Bute Park. One blue, one yellow, one pink. Their shapes are precise, as though stenciled. From this distance, I can't see the lines that tether them, so when the kites move, it's as though they're doing so of their own accord. An all-­encompassing sunlight has swallowed depth and shadow. I observe all this as I wait for D.C.I. Matthews to finish rearranging the documents on his desk. He shuffles the last file from the stack in front of him to a chair in front of the window. The office is still messy, but at least we can see each other now. "There," he says. I smile. He holds up a sheet of paper. The printed side is facing him, but against the light from the window I see the shape of my name at the top. I smile again, not because I feel like smiling but because I can't think of anything sensible to say. This is an interview. My interviewer has my résumé. What does he want me to do? Applaud? He puts the résumé down on the desk in the only empty patch available. He starts to read it through line by line, ticking off each section with his forefinger as he does so. Education. A levels. University. Interests. References. His finger moves back to the center of the page. University. "Philosophy." I nod. "Why are we all here, what's it all about. That sort of thing?" "Not really. More like, What exists? What doesn't exist? How do we know whether it exists or not? Things like that." "Useful for police work." "Not really. I don't think it's useful for anything much, except maybe teaching us to think." Matthews is a big man. Not gym-­big, but Welsh-­big, with the sort of comfortable muscularity that suggests a past involving farmwork, rugby, and beer. He has remarkably pale eyes and thick dark hair. Even his fingers have little dark hairs running all the way to the final joints. He is the opposite of me. "Do you think you have a realistic idea of what police work involves?" I shrug. I don't know. How are you supposed to know if you haven't done it? I say the sort of thing that I think I'm supposed to say. I'm interested in law enforcement. I appreciate the value of a disciplined, methodical approach. Blah blah. Yadda yadda. Good little girl in her dark gray interview outfit saying all the things she's supposed to say. "You don't think you might get bored?" "Bored?" I laugh with relief. That's what he was probing at. "Maybe. I hope so. I quite like a little boredom." Then worried he might feel I was being arrogant--­prizewinning Cambridge philosopher sneers at stupid policeman--­I backtrack. "I mean, I like things orderly. I 's dotted, T  's crossed. If that involves some routine work, then fine. I like it." His finger is still on the résumé, but it's tracked up an inch or so. A levels. He just leaves his finger there, fixes those pale eyes on me, and says, "Do you have any questions for me?" I know that's what he's meant to say at some stage, but we've got forty-­five minutes allocated for this interview and we've used only ten, most of which I've spent watching him shift stationery around his office. Because I'm taken by surprise--­and because I'm still a bit rubbish at these things--­I say the wrong thing. "Questions? No." There's a short gap, in which he registers surprise and I feel like an idiot. "I mean, I want the job. I don't have any questions about that." His turn to smile. A real one, not fake ones like mine. "You do. You really do." He makes that a statement not a question. For a D.C.I., he's not very good at asking questions. I nod anyway. "And you'd probably quite like it if I didn't ask you about a two-­year gap in your résumé, around the time of your A levels." I nod again, more slowly. Yes, I would quite like it if you didn't ask about that. "Human Resources know what's going on there, do they?" "Yes. I've already been into that with them. I was ill. Then I got better." "Who at Human Resources?" "Katie. Katie Andrews." "And the illness?" I shrug. "I'm fine now." A non-­answer. I hope he doesn't push further, and he doesn't. Instead, he asks who's interviewed me so far. The answer is pretty much everyone. This session with Matthews is the final hurdle. "Okay. Your father knows you're applying for this job?" "Yes." "He must be pleased." Another statement in place of a question. I don't answer it. Matthews examines my face intently. Maybe that's his interview technique. Maybe he doesn't ask his suspects any questions, he just makes statements and scrutinizes their faces in the wide-­open light from the big Cardiff sky. "We're going to offer you a job, you know that?" "You are?" "Of course we are. Coppers aren't thick, but you've got more brains than anyone else in this building. You're healthy. You don't have a criminal record. You were ill for a time as a teenager, but you're fine now. You want to work for us. Why wouldn't we hire you?" I could think of a couple of possible answers to that, but I don't volunteer them. I'm suddenly aware of being intensely relieved, which scares me a bit, because I hadn't been aware of having been anxious. I'm standing up. Matthews has stood up too and comes toward me, shaking my hand and saying something. His big shoulders block out my view of Bute Park and the kites. Matthews is talking about formalities and I'm blathering answers back at him, but my attention isn't with any of that stuff. I'm going to be a policewoman. And just five years ago, I was dead. Excerpted from Talking to the Dead by Harry Bingham All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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