![Tuesday's Gone: A Frieda Klein Novel (2) (Frieda Klein Series) (English Edition) di [Nicci French]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/51RpMWMyn3L._SY346_.jpg)
This is the second in the Frieda Klein series by Nicci French – one of my favourite authors. I came a little late to this series, only having discovered it recently, but my aim is to read them all as they are so well written and so very interesting. Set in London, it would appear the writing duo have done a decent amount of research into the history of the city as there are facts scattered throughout the book as Frieda goes on her many walks.
The idea of a psychotherapist helping the police to solve crimes is probably not a unique one, however the character of Klein is complex and mystifying and the reader feels immersed in her techniques. With plenty of frustrating scenarios, tricks, twists and turns along the way, this story kept me awake long into the night with a book that I found hard to put down. Like the first in this series, I was pleased to discover the ending was never really tightly tied down with plenty to lead us into the next one, where once again I hope we will join the adventures of Frieda and all her friends – especially Josef who originally seemed like an accidental addition, but who now has a place firmly in my heart.
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Tuesday's Gone: A Frieda Klein Novel (2) (Frieda Klein Series) (English Edition) Formato Kindle
Edizione Inglese
di
Nicci French
(Autore)
Formato: Formato Kindle
| Nicci French (Autore) Scopri tutti i libri, leggi le informazioni sull'autore e molto altro. Vedi Risultati di ricerca per questo autore |
| Prezzo Amazon | Nuovo a partire da | Usato da |
|
Copertina rigida, Stampa grande
"Ti preghiamo di riprovare" | 23,63 € | 23,55 € |
|
Copertina flessibile
"Ti preghiamo di riprovare" | 9,54 € | 4,94 € |
For Frieda Klein the days get longer, the cases darker . . .
Psychotherapist Frieda Klein thought she was done with the police. But once more DCI Karlsson is knocking at her door.
A man's decomposed body has been found in the flat of Michelle Doyce, a woman trapped in a world of strange mental disorder. The police don't know who it is, how he got there or what happened - and Michelle can't tell them. But Karlsson hopes Frieda can get access to the truths buried beneath her confusion.
Painstakingly, Frieda uncovers a possible identity for the corpse: Robert Poole, a jack of all trades and master conman. But the deeper Frieda and Karlsson dig into Poole's past, the more of his victims they encounter - and the more motives they find for murder. Meanwhile, violent ghosts from Frieda's own past are returning to threaten her.
Unable to discover quite who is telling the truth and who is lying, they know they are getting closer to a killer. But whoever murdered Poole is determined to stay free - and anyone that gets too close will meet the same fate.
A gritty heroine, a gruesome crime and a terrifying hunt for a psychotic killer, Tuesday's Gone is not to be missed by fans of psychological thrillers.
Praise for Nicci French:
'Nicci French's sophisticated, compassionate and gripping crime novels stand head and shoulders above the competition. No one understands human psychological frailty better. No one writes better about grief, love, fear or emotional damage. Not many books are as insightful as they are addictive; Nicci French's are.' Sophie Hannah
'Nicci French knows just how to play on our worst fears' Daily Mail
- LinguaInglese
- EditorePenguin
- Data di pubblicazione19 luglio 2012
- Dimensioni file5643 KB
Iniziative "18app" e "Carta del Docente"
Questo articolo è acquistabile con il Bonus Cultura e con il Bonus Carta del Docente. Verifica i termini e condizioni delle iniziative.
Descrizione prodotto
L'autore
Nicci French is the pseudonym for the writing partnership of journalists Nicci Gerrard and Sean French. The couple are married and live in Suffolk. There are fourteen other bestselling novels by Nicci French, all published by Penguin. Blue Monday was the first thrilling story in the Frieda Klein series, followed by Tuesday's Gone, Waiting for Wednesday, Thursday's Child, Friday on My Mind, Saturday Requiem and Sunday Morning Coming Down.
Twitter @FrenchNicci
www.niccifrench.co.uk
http://www.facebook.com/NicciFrenchOfficialPage
--Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.Recensione
Praise for TUESDAY'S GONE:
"A fiercely intelligent, multilayered thriller."
—Kirkus
"Seamlessly mixes a foreboding tone and deliberate pacing with deft plot twists that should leave readers pleasantly chilled to the bone."
—Publishers Weekly
"Starts as a grim psychological thriller in the vein of Dennis Lehane’s darker novels and turns into a fascinating puzzle in which character analysis holds sway. Highly recommended for fans of psychological suspense who enjoy a complex protagonist."
—Library Journal (starred review)
"The plotting is fast-paced with surprises galore, and characters literally come to life on the pages. . . . When readers are through, they will find themselves waiting impatiently for Wednesday to arrive!"
—Suspense Magazine
"If you are looking for wickedly inventive crime fiction, you need look no further than the writing team of Nicci Gerrard and Sean French . . . Unless you are into tension, paranoia and burning the midnight oil to finish a book, don’t embark on reading Tuesday’s Gone after suppertime!"
—BookPage
"Tuesday’s Gone is one of those great, great books in the mystery genre wherein the more you know, the less you know—peel back one stratum and you cannot shovel fast enough to get into the next, which reveals anything but what you expected. French takes the novel on a number of unexpected twists and turns, not the least of which relates back to BLUE MONDAY, which, as it turns out, didn’t quite end on its last page."
—Bookreporter.com --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
"A fiercely intelligent, multilayered thriller."
—Kirkus
"Seamlessly mixes a foreboding tone and deliberate pacing with deft plot twists that should leave readers pleasantly chilled to the bone."
—Publishers Weekly
"Starts as a grim psychological thriller in the vein of Dennis Lehane’s darker novels and turns into a fascinating puzzle in which character analysis holds sway. Highly recommended for fans of psychological suspense who enjoy a complex protagonist."
—Library Journal (starred review)
"The plotting is fast-paced with surprises galore, and characters literally come to life on the pages. . . . When readers are through, they will find themselves waiting impatiently for Wednesday to arrive!"
—Suspense Magazine
"If you are looking for wickedly inventive crime fiction, you need look no further than the writing team of Nicci Gerrard and Sean French . . . Unless you are into tension, paranoia and burning the midnight oil to finish a book, don’t embark on reading Tuesday’s Gone after suppertime!"
—BookPage
"Tuesday’s Gone is one of those great, great books in the mystery genre wherein the more you know, the less you know—peel back one stratum and you cannot shovel fast enough to get into the next, which reveals anything but what you expected. French takes the novel on a number of unexpected twists and turns, not the least of which relates back to BLUE MONDAY, which, as it turns out, didn’t quite end on its last page."
—Bookreporter.com --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.
Maggie Brennan half walked, half ran along Deptford Church Street. She was talking on the phone and reading a file and looking for the address in the A–Z. It was the second day of the week, and she was already two days behind schedule. This didn’t include the caseload she had inherited from a colleague who was now on permanent sick leave.
“No,” said Maggie, into the phone. She looked at her watch. “I’ll try to get to the meeting before you finish.”
She put the mobile into her pocket. She was thinking of the case she’d just come from. A three-year-old with bruises. Suspicious bruises, the doc tor in A&E had said. Maggie had talked to the mother, looked at the child, checked out the flat where they lived. It was horrible, damp, cold, but not obviously dangerous. The mother said she didn’t have a boyfriend, and Maggie had checked the bathroom and there was no razor. She had insisted that the child had fallen down the stairs. That’s what people said when they hit their children, but even so, three-year-olds really did fall downstairs. She’d only spent ten minutes there, but ten hours wouldn’t have made much difference. If she removed the child, the prosecution would probably fail and she would be disciplined. If she didn’t remove the child and he was found dead, there would be an inquiry; she would be fired and maybe prosecuted. So she’d signed off on it. No immediate cause for concern. Probably nothing much would happen.
She looked more closely at the A–Z. Her hands were cold because she’d forgotten her gloves; her feet were wet in their cheap boots. She’d been to this hostel before, but she could never remember where it was.
Howard Street was a little dead end, tucked away somewhere toward the river. She had to put her reading glasses on and move her finger around on the map before she found it. Yes, that was it, just a couple of minutes away. She turned off the main street and found herself unexpectedly next to a churchyard.
She leaned on the wall and looked at the file on the woman she was going to see. There wasn’t much at all. Michelle Doyce. Born 1959. A hospital discharge paper, copied to the Social Services department. A placement form, a request for an evaluation. Maggie flicked through the forms: no next of kin. It wasn’t even clear why she had been in the hospital, although from the name of it, she could see that it was something psychological. She could guess the results of the evaluation in advance: just sheer general hopelessness, a pathetic middle-aged woman who needed somewhere to stay and someone to drop in just to keep her from wandering the streets. Maggie looked at her watch. There wasn’t time for a full evaluation today. She could manage a basic checkup to make sure that Michelle was not in imminent danger, that she was feeding herself—the standard checklist.
She closed the file and walked away from the church along a housing estate. Some of the flats were sealed up, with metal sheets bolted on to the doors and windows, but most were occupied. From the second level, a teenage boy emerged from a doorway and walked along the balcony, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bulky jacket. Maggie looked around. It was probably all right. It was a Tuesday morning, and the dangerous people were mostly still in bed. She turned the corner and checked the address she’d written in her notebook. Room One, 3 Howard Street. Yes, she remembered it now. It was a strange house that looked as if it had been built out of the same materials as the housing estate and then had decayed at the same rate. This hostel wasn’t a proper hostel at all. It was a house rented cheaply from a private landlord. People could be put there while the services made up their minds about what to do with them. Usually they just moved on or were forgotten about. There were some places Maggie visited only with a chaperone, but she hadn’t heard anything particular about this one. These people were mainly a danger to themselves.
She looked up at the house. On the second floor a broken window was blocked up with brown cardboard. There was a tiny paved front garden and an alley that went along the left side of the house. Beside the front door a bin bag had burst, but it had only added to the rubbish that was strewn everywhere. Maggie wrote a one-word note. There were five buzzers next to the front door. They didn’t have labels next to them, but she pressed the bottom one, then pressed it again. She couldn’t tell whether it was working. She was wondering whether to knock on the door with her fist or look through the window when she heard a voice. Looking round, she saw a man right behind her. He was gaunt with wiry ginger hair tied back in a ponytail and piercings right across his face. She stepped to one side when she saw the man’s dog, a small breed that was technically illegal, though it was the third she’d seen since she’d left Deptford station.
“No, he’s a good one,” the man said. “Aren’t you, Buzz?”
“Do you live here?” Maggie said.
The man looked suspicious. One of his cheeks was quivering. Maggie took a laminated card from her pocket and showed it to him. “I’m from Social Services,” she said. “I’m here to see Michelle Doyce.”
“The one downstairs?” the man said. “Haven’t seen her.” He leaned past Maggie and unlocked the front door. “You coming in?”
“Yes, please.”
The man just shrugged.
“Go on, Buzz,” he said. Maggie heard the clatter of the dog’s paws inside and up the stairs, and the man disappeared after him.
As soon as she stepped inside, Maggie was hit by an odor of damp and rubbish and fried food and dog shit and other smells she couldn’t place. It almost made her eyes water. She closed the front door behind her. This must once have been the hallway of a family house. Now it was piled with pallets, tins of paint, a couple of gaping plastic bags, an old bike with no tires. The stairs were directly ahead. To the left, what would have been a door to the front room was blocked up. She walked past the side of the stairs to a door further along. She rapped on it hard and listened. She heard something inside, then nothing. She knocked again, several times, and waited. There was a rattling sound, and then the door opened inwards. Maggie held out her laminated card once more.
“Michelle Doyce?” she said.
“Yes,” said the woman.
It was difficult for Maggie to define even to herself exactly what was strange about her. She was clean and her hair was brushed, but perhaps almost too brushed, like that of a small child who had wetted her hair and then combed it so that it lay flat over her head, thin enough to show the pale scalp beneath. Her face was smooth and pink, with a dusting of fuzzy hair. Her bright red lipstick extended just a little too far off her lips. She wore a baggy, faded, flowery dress. Maggie identified herself and held out the card.
“I just wanted to check up on you, Michelle,” she said. “See how you are. Are you all right? All right in yourself?”
The woman nodded.
“Can I come in?” said Maggie. “Can I check everything’s OK?”
She stepped inside and took out her notebook. As far as she could tell from a glance, Michelle seemed to be keeping herself clean. She looked as if she was eating. She was responsive. Still, something felt odd. She peered around in the shabby little anteroom of the flat. The contrast with the hallway of the house was impressive. Shoes were arranged in a row, a coat hung from a hook. There was a bucket with a mop leaning against the wall in the corner.
“How long have you been here, Michelle?”
The woman frowned. “Here?” she said. “A few days.”
The discharge form had said the fifth of January and today was the first day of February. Still, that sort of vagueness wasn’t really surprising. As the two women stood there, Maggie became aware of a sound she couldn’t quite place. It might be the hum of traffic, or a vacuum cleaner on the floor above, or a plane. It depended on how far away it was. There was a smell also, like food that had been left out too long. She looked up: the electricity was working. She should check whether Michelle had a fridge. But, by the look of her, she’d be all right for the time being.
“Can I have a look round, Michelle?” she said. “Make sure everything’s OK?”
“You want to meet him?” said Michelle.
Maggie was puzzled. There hadn’t been anything on the form. “Have you got a friend?” she said. “I’d be happy to meet him.”
Michelle stepped forward and opened the door to what would have been the house’s main back room, away from the street. Maggie followed her and immediately felt something on her face. At first, she thought it was dust. She thought of an Underground train coming, blowing the warm grit into her face. At the same time, the sound got louder, and she realized it wasn’t dust but flies, a thick cloud of flies blowing against her face.
For a few moments she was confused by the man sitting on the sofa. Her perceptions had slowed and become skewed, as if she were deep underwater or in a dream. Crazily, she wondered if he were wearing some sort of diving suit, a blue, marbled, slightly ruptured and torn diving suit, and she wondered why his eyes were yellow and cloudy. And then she started to fumble for her phone and she dropped it, and suddenly she couldn’t make her fingers work, couldn’t get them to pick the phone up from the grimy carpet, as she saw that it wasn’t any kind of suit but his naked, swollen, rupturing flesh, and that he was dead. Long dead. --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
“No,” said Maggie, into the phone. She looked at her watch. “I’ll try to get to the meeting before you finish.”
She put the mobile into her pocket. She was thinking of the case she’d just come from. A three-year-old with bruises. Suspicious bruises, the doc tor in A&E had said. Maggie had talked to the mother, looked at the child, checked out the flat where they lived. It was horrible, damp, cold, but not obviously dangerous. The mother said she didn’t have a boyfriend, and Maggie had checked the bathroom and there was no razor. She had insisted that the child had fallen down the stairs. That’s what people said when they hit their children, but even so, three-year-olds really did fall downstairs. She’d only spent ten minutes there, but ten hours wouldn’t have made much difference. If she removed the child, the prosecution would probably fail and she would be disciplined. If she didn’t remove the child and he was found dead, there would be an inquiry; she would be fired and maybe prosecuted. So she’d signed off on it. No immediate cause for concern. Probably nothing much would happen.
She looked more closely at the A–Z. Her hands were cold because she’d forgotten her gloves; her feet were wet in their cheap boots. She’d been to this hostel before, but she could never remember where it was.
Howard Street was a little dead end, tucked away somewhere toward the river. She had to put her reading glasses on and move her finger around on the map before she found it. Yes, that was it, just a couple of minutes away. She turned off the main street and found herself unexpectedly next to a churchyard.
She leaned on the wall and looked at the file on the woman she was going to see. There wasn’t much at all. Michelle Doyce. Born 1959. A hospital discharge paper, copied to the Social Services department. A placement form, a request for an evaluation. Maggie flicked through the forms: no next of kin. It wasn’t even clear why she had been in the hospital, although from the name of it, she could see that it was something psychological. She could guess the results of the evaluation in advance: just sheer general hopelessness, a pathetic middle-aged woman who needed somewhere to stay and someone to drop in just to keep her from wandering the streets. Maggie looked at her watch. There wasn’t time for a full evaluation today. She could manage a basic checkup to make sure that Michelle was not in imminent danger, that she was feeding herself—the standard checklist.
She closed the file and walked away from the church along a housing estate. Some of the flats were sealed up, with metal sheets bolted on to the doors and windows, but most were occupied. From the second level, a teenage boy emerged from a doorway and walked along the balcony, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bulky jacket. Maggie looked around. It was probably all right. It was a Tuesday morning, and the dangerous people were mostly still in bed. She turned the corner and checked the address she’d written in her notebook. Room One, 3 Howard Street. Yes, she remembered it now. It was a strange house that looked as if it had been built out of the same materials as the housing estate and then had decayed at the same rate. This hostel wasn’t a proper hostel at all. It was a house rented cheaply from a private landlord. People could be put there while the services made up their minds about what to do with them. Usually they just moved on or were forgotten about. There were some places Maggie visited only with a chaperone, but she hadn’t heard anything particular about this one. These people were mainly a danger to themselves.
She looked up at the house. On the second floor a broken window was blocked up with brown cardboard. There was a tiny paved front garden and an alley that went along the left side of the house. Beside the front door a bin bag had burst, but it had only added to the rubbish that was strewn everywhere. Maggie wrote a one-word note. There were five buzzers next to the front door. They didn’t have labels next to them, but she pressed the bottom one, then pressed it again. She couldn’t tell whether it was working. She was wondering whether to knock on the door with her fist or look through the window when she heard a voice. Looking round, she saw a man right behind her. He was gaunt with wiry ginger hair tied back in a ponytail and piercings right across his face. She stepped to one side when she saw the man’s dog, a small breed that was technically illegal, though it was the third she’d seen since she’d left Deptford station.
“No, he’s a good one,” the man said. “Aren’t you, Buzz?”
“Do you live here?” Maggie said.
The man looked suspicious. One of his cheeks was quivering. Maggie took a laminated card from her pocket and showed it to him. “I’m from Social Services,” she said. “I’m here to see Michelle Doyce.”
“The one downstairs?” the man said. “Haven’t seen her.” He leaned past Maggie and unlocked the front door. “You coming in?”
“Yes, please.”
The man just shrugged.
“Go on, Buzz,” he said. Maggie heard the clatter of the dog’s paws inside and up the stairs, and the man disappeared after him.
As soon as she stepped inside, Maggie was hit by an odor of damp and rubbish and fried food and dog shit and other smells she couldn’t place. It almost made her eyes water. She closed the front door behind her. This must once have been the hallway of a family house. Now it was piled with pallets, tins of paint, a couple of gaping plastic bags, an old bike with no tires. The stairs were directly ahead. To the left, what would have been a door to the front room was blocked up. She walked past the side of the stairs to a door further along. She rapped on it hard and listened. She heard something inside, then nothing. She knocked again, several times, and waited. There was a rattling sound, and then the door opened inwards. Maggie held out her laminated card once more.
“Michelle Doyce?” she said.
“Yes,” said the woman.
It was difficult for Maggie to define even to herself exactly what was strange about her. She was clean and her hair was brushed, but perhaps almost too brushed, like that of a small child who had wetted her hair and then combed it so that it lay flat over her head, thin enough to show the pale scalp beneath. Her face was smooth and pink, with a dusting of fuzzy hair. Her bright red lipstick extended just a little too far off her lips. She wore a baggy, faded, flowery dress. Maggie identified herself and held out the card.
“I just wanted to check up on you, Michelle,” she said. “See how you are. Are you all right? All right in yourself?”
The woman nodded.
“Can I come in?” said Maggie. “Can I check everything’s OK?”
She stepped inside and took out her notebook. As far as she could tell from a glance, Michelle seemed to be keeping herself clean. She looked as if she was eating. She was responsive. Still, something felt odd. She peered around in the shabby little anteroom of the flat. The contrast with the hallway of the house was impressive. Shoes were arranged in a row, a coat hung from a hook. There was a bucket with a mop leaning against the wall in the corner.
“How long have you been here, Michelle?”
The woman frowned. “Here?” she said. “A few days.”
The discharge form had said the fifth of January and today was the first day of February. Still, that sort of vagueness wasn’t really surprising. As the two women stood there, Maggie became aware of a sound she couldn’t quite place. It might be the hum of traffic, or a vacuum cleaner on the floor above, or a plane. It depended on how far away it was. There was a smell also, like food that had been left out too long. She looked up: the electricity was working. She should check whether Michelle had a fridge. But, by the look of her, she’d be all right for the time being.
“Can I have a look round, Michelle?” she said. “Make sure everything’s OK?”
“You want to meet him?” said Michelle.
Maggie was puzzled. There hadn’t been anything on the form. “Have you got a friend?” she said. “I’d be happy to meet him.”
Michelle stepped forward and opened the door to what would have been the house’s main back room, away from the street. Maggie followed her and immediately felt something on her face. At first, she thought it was dust. She thought of an Underground train coming, blowing the warm grit into her face. At the same time, the sound got louder, and she realized it wasn’t dust but flies, a thick cloud of flies blowing against her face.
For a few moments she was confused by the man sitting on the sofa. Her perceptions had slowed and become skewed, as if she were deep underwater or in a dream. Crazily, she wondered if he were wearing some sort of diving suit, a blue, marbled, slightly ruptured and torn diving suit, and she wondered why his eyes were yellow and cloudy. And then she started to fumble for her phone and she dropped it, and suddenly she couldn’t make her fingers work, couldn’t get them to pick the phone up from the grimy carpet, as she saw that it wasn’t any kind of suit but his naked, swollen, rupturing flesh, and that he was dead. Long dead. --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
Dalla seconda/terza di copertina
Nicci French, the bestselling author of What to do When Someone Dies and Losing You, returns with the second book in the gripping new series that began with Top Ten Bestseller Blue Monday. Fans of Peter James' Roy Grace series and Peter Robinson's DCI Banks series will love central character psychotherapist Frieda Klein, who is consulted on a grisly and seemingly unsolvable crime. For Frieda Klein the days get longer, the cases darker...Psychotherapist Frieda Klein thought she was done with the police. But once more DCI Karlsson is knocking at her door. A man's decomposed body has been found in the flat of Michelle Doyce, a woman trapped in a world of strange mental disorder. The police don't know who it is, how he got there or what happened - and Michelle can't tell them. But Karlsson hopes Frieda can get access to the truths buried beneath her confusion. Painstakingly, Frieda uncovers a possible identity for the corpse: Robert Poole, a jack of all trades and master conman. But the deeper Frieda and Karlsson dig into Poole's past, the more of his victims they encounter - and the more motives they find for murder. Meanwhile, violent ghosts from Frieda's own past are returning to threaten her. Unable to discover quite who is telling the truth and who is lying, they know they are getting closer to a killer. But whoever murdered Poole is determined to stay free - and anyone that gets too close will meet the same fate. A gritty heroine, a gruesome crime and a terrifying hunt for a psychotic killer, Tuesday's Gone is not to be missed by fans of psychological thrillers. "Nicci French knows just how to play on our worst fears". (Daily Mail). Nicci French is the pseudonym for Nicci Gerrard and Sean French. The couple live in Suffolk and have written twelve other bestselling novels including Beneath the Skin and Blue Monday, the first thrilling instalment in the Frieda Klein series. --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.
Dalla quarta di copertina
Nicci French, the bestselling author of What to do When Someone Dies and Losing You, returns with the second book in the gripping new series that began with Top Ten Bestseller Blue Monday. Fans of Peter James' Roy Grace series and Peter Robinson's DCI Banks series will love central character psychotherapist Frieda Klein, who is consulted on a grisly and seemingly unsolvable crime. For Frieda Klein the days get longer, the cases darker...Psychotherapist Frieda Klein thought she was done with the police. But once more DCI Karlsson is knocking at her door. A man's decomposed body has been found in the flat of Michelle Doyce, a woman trapped in a world of strange mental disorder. The police don't know who it is, how he got there or what happened - and Michelle can't tell them. But Karlsson hopes Frieda can get access to the truths buried beneath her confusion. Painstakingly, Frieda uncovers a possible identity for the corpse: Robert Poole, a jack of all trades and master conman. But the deeper Frieda and Karlsson dig into Poole's past, the more of his victims they encounter - and the more motives they find for murder. Meanwhile, violent ghosts from Frieda's own past are returning to threaten her. Unable to discover quite who is telling the truth and who is lying, they know they are getting closer to a killer. But whoever murdered Poole is determined to stay free - and anyone that gets too close will meet the same fate. A gritty heroine, a gruesome crime and a terrifying hunt for a psychotic killer, Tuesday's Gone is not to be missed by fans of psychological thrillers. "Nicci French knows just how to play on our worst fears". (Daily Mail). Nicci French is the pseudonym for Nicci Gerrard and Sean French. The couple live in Suffolk and have written twelve other bestselling novels including Beneath the Skin and Blue Monday, the first thrilling instalment in the Frieda Klein series. --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.
Dettagli prodotto
- ASIN : B0086741R2
- Editore : Penguin; 1° edizione (19 luglio 2012)
- Lingua : Inglese
- Dimensioni file : 5643 KB
- Da testo a voce : Abilitato
- Screen Reader : Supportato
- Miglioramenti tipografici : Abilitato
- X-Ray : Abilitato
- Word Wise : Abilitato
- Lunghezza stampa : 482 pagine
- Posizione nella classifica Bestseller di Amazon: n. 245,382 in Kindle Store (Visualizza i Top 100 nella categoria Kindle Store)
- n. 2,092 in Thriller psicologici
- n. 5,437 in Police procedural
- n. 5,809 in Thriller giudiziari
- Recensioni dei clienti:
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Recensito nel Regno Unito il 25 luglio 2017
4.5
Another incredible book produced from this author for the series and again I absolutely loved it! The characters, the story, the twists and turns and the way it wasn't rushed but read steadily and evenly.
I did find some of the ending (or close to the end) confusing... I still don't get the significance of the pictures in the flat, I didn't find it relevant and then was confused with how it was explained. I guess it could have been explained a little better in a sense.
Another thing... I have no idea what happened near the end with Michelle... it wasn't well detailed and I felt that a chunk was missing from that part of the book.
I had a feeling about the 'who did it' whereas in book one I was utterly shocked. But even though I had my suspicions, and I was completely right for once, i still loved the story... the gruesomeness etc.
Amazing read and I highly recommend this series.
Another incredible book produced from this author for the series and again I absolutely loved it! The characters, the story, the twists and turns and the way it wasn't rushed but read steadily and evenly.
I did find some of the ending (or close to the end) confusing... I still don't get the significance of the pictures in the flat, I didn't find it relevant and then was confused with how it was explained. I guess it could have been explained a little better in a sense.
Another thing... I have no idea what happened near the end with Michelle... it wasn't well detailed and I felt that a chunk was missing from that part of the book.
I had a feeling about the 'who did it' whereas in book one I was utterly shocked. But even though I had my suspicions, and I was completely right for once, i still loved the story... the gruesomeness etc.
Amazing read and I highly recommend this series.
Ruth Marian Bishop
5,0 su 5 stelle
Really good book
Recensito nel Regno Unito il 24 ottobre 2020
At first I didn’t think I was going to enjoy this book!! I was very shocked because I loved the first one is this series, I stuck with it as it became apparent that characters from her first book started coming in the story too which I thought was really great. Good read bit too much swearing though!
Donny Rock
4,0 su 5 stelle
The thread continues
Recensito nel Regno Unito il 10 settembre 2019
Second of the Freda Klein series, nevertheless a self-contained story but with a continuing thread from the preceding book which does go on right to the eighth and last. There's a wonderful knowledge of old London rivers draining into the Thames but this knowledge is never condescending or over-powering. There's a really absorbing plot which introduces a new character, her cat. Like all the others in the series, this is a great read.
Anne
3,0 su 5 stelle
Not the best
Recensito nel Regno Unito il 9 novembre 2018
I read the first book in this series & was impressed enough to buy the 2nd, which I also read to the end. The stories kept me interested though I had guessed the ending of the second. I purchased the 3rd in the series but I'm afraid I'm so bored with the characters that I found it a real struggle to get up any enthusiasm to read it, so it's been deleted from my kindle and I won't bother with any more in the series.
