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Praise for The Last Voice You Hear “With its vivid descriptions . . . and unexpected clues . . . The Last Voice You Hear is stylish and engaging.” — Washington Post "Unexpected and satisfying . . . The engaging heroine never loses her cool, from the melancholy opening to the whirlwind finale, a marvelously extended set-piece." — Kirkus Reviews "[A] tight, literary, cliché-free novel." — Publishers Weekly “Thoroughly worth reading.” — Booklist Praise for Mick Herron "Mick Herron never tells a suspense story in the expected way." —The New York Times Book Review “Good characterization, dialogue and well-paced narrative make this confident first novel frighteningly plausible.” —Daily Telegraph Informationen zum Autor Mick Herron Klappentext By the New York Times bestselling author of Slow Horses The hunter becomes the hunted in the thrilling follow-up to Down Cemetery Road , now an Apple Original series. After narrowly escaping an attempt on her life, Oxford private investigator Zoë Boehm is determined to keep a low profile. So when Caroline Daniels takes a fatal fall in front of a train and her boyfriend fails to turn up at the funeral, Zoë turns down the case—despite the insistence of Caroline’s boss, who is convinced it was foul play. Then, a local teen boy plunges from the top of a London tower block and dies in disturbingly similar circumstances, and Zoë has no option but to follow the evidence. With the help of her close friend Sarah Tucker, Zoë attempts to track down Caroline’s boyfriend, who seems to have vanished without a trace. As her search uncovers dangerous threads, including police corruption and a potential serial killer at work, she begins to suspect she’s being watched. Has the killer found her first—and if he has, will that make her the next victim?“She’s the one.” She wore black jeans, red top, a black leather jacket; she had dark curly hair and was old—forty, fifty, somewhere round that—with a shoulder bag that swung like an invitation: banging heavy on her hip, loaded with purses, credit cards and women’s stuff; everything she’d need in the big bad city. Definite out-of-towner. She should have had victim tattooed on her forehead. “Yessss . . .” Andrew, who answered to Dig these days, let it out in one long breath. Yessss. She was the one. You waited long enough, your ticket to the party arrived. The party started tomorrow—all around, the old millennium drained away like dirty water from a sink—and here she was, just the ticket: a bag with a bag. Drifting down the arcade, her attention swallowed by a glittery window’s expensive promises: they’d have the bag, that jacket off her back even, and all she’d ever know about it was Some You Lose. The credit cards, the money, were as good as in their pockets. Beside him, Wez muttered something purple-sounding. He looked like he’d melt in your mouth, but had a vocabulary could stop a train. And another spat of water hit Dig’s neck. They were leaning on one of the concrete stanchions that supported the building overhead, and once every couple of minutes enough moisture gathered up there to loosen and splash on Dig’s neck. It would have been pussy to move because he was dripped on. So the thing was to pretend it wasn’t happening, or if it was, that he liked it. The way the woman walked—her bag slung over one shoulder; her left hand resting lightly on its clasp—she might never have been out of her village before. Two hundred yards up the road, the Tube swallowed travellers. Here in the arcade, pedestrian traffic was slight: the shops were a low-rent jeweller’s, a hardware store, a Cos...
