The second in the terrifying DI Callanach crime series. Fans of M.J. Arlidge will be hooked from the very first page.
In the midst of a rock festival, a charity worker is sliced across the stomach. He dies minutes later. In a crowd of thousands, no one saw his attacker. The following week, the body of a primary school teacher is found in a dumpster in an Edinburgh alley, strangled with her own woollen scarf.
DI Ava Turner and DI Luc Callanach have no motive and no leads – until around the city, graffitied on buildings, words appear describing each victim.
It’s only when they realise the words are appearing before rather than after the murders, that they understand the killer is announcing his next victim…and the more innocent the better.

Wow it was great to be back in the world of Helen and her dark and twisted mind.

I was ecstatic to be part of this blog tour after loving her debut book earlier in the year. 

Another incredible nail biting teeth clenching read …there’s not a single dull moment .

Gory dark chilling .

Fast paced and completely addictive I couldn’t put it down. 

I loved being back on the murky underworld of Edinburgh and in particular with these characters. 

It felt like we got a introduction with perfect remains and a longer meeting in perfect prey. 

We got to know them more and what makes them tick on a personal level .

I’m delighted there is going to be another book in this series and can’t wait to see what tricks Helen has in her bag .

I wish Helen every success with this book and will no doubt have more readers hooked !

As well as my review here is a exclusive extract to give you a sneak peek … and be sure to check the other blogs out taking part .
DC Christie Salter wished Callanach a quiet goodnight and went home to her new husband. She’d put off taking her sergeants exam for her wedding and honeymoon. When Callanach had advised against making the sacrifice, she’d laughed. Max Tripp went home to his twin brother with whom he was flat-sharing. The Chief went home to a wife who had tolerated him for no fewer than thirty years. Even miserable Sergeant Lively had someone waiting for him to get home so they could share a meal and stare at a mutually chosen television programme and forget the outside world.

Callanach retreated to an empty flat.
Scotland had been a new start for him, returning to the land of his long since dead father. But it had meant shedding the social circles and family comfort that had been at the centre of his world. He was trying, certainly. There was the gym, work, a good wine shop, places where people knew his name and greeted him with a smile. Beyond that, replacing old friends with new was time-consuming and soul-destroying.

He fired up the computer, waiting for his emails to appear and hoping desperately for contact from his mother. There was also the matter of checking that Astrid Borde had not been in touch. Since she’d falsely accused him of rape when they’d worked together at Interpol, then followed him to Scotland, he had worried every day that the nightmare might begin again. It hadn’t mattered that the rape allegation was entirely a figment of Astrid’s twisted imagination and a symptom of her obsession with him. The stigma of it had stuck. People he’d worked with for years avoided him. His closest friends grew guarded, then distant, finally disappearing altogether. Innocence, he had learned, was a technicality when sexual assault was involved. However many times he told himself to live in the moment, there was little escape from the impact of the past. Not when it still affected him as physically as it did.
Too restless to sleep and too tired to go out, Callanach checked out Lance Proudfoot’s online news blog again. He found a brief section outlining Proudfoot’s career history with publications in the US and Canada, as well as some of the larger British newspapers. His news coverage wasn’t bad. Less sensational than the tabloids, and less prone to navel-gazing than some of the broadsheets. There was an interesting editorial piece on the hacker thefts, with a side piece on the National Cyber Crime Unit, largely highlighting how far behind the offenders’ capabilities the police were, given the budget constraints and compared to the sort of money the gifted could earn in the private sector. DCI Joseph Edgar’s name popped up briefly and Callanach checked him out for something to do. Public school, followed by a law degree, chair of the debating society, with interests in cricket and rugby. Never married, steady career path. Callanach picked up his mobile to text Ava. He was halfway through it when there was a knock at his door. It was late, much later than he was used to being disturbed. Not that anyone ever knocked on his door.

‘Who is it?’ he called as he walked slowly through his lounge. There was no reply. Callanach peered through the spyhole.

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