Why We Die by Mick Herron (English) Paperback Book

Description: Why We Die by Mick Herron First published in Great Britain, 2006 by Constable, and imprint of Constable & robinson Ltd. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description When Zoe Boehm agrees to track down some robbers, shes just looking for cash to pay off the tax collector; she doesnt expect to wind up in a coffin. But death, like taxes, cant be avoided forever.The road to hell is paved with all sorts of intentions, as Oxford private investigator Zoe Boehm discovers when a straightforward jewelry store robbery turns out to be anything but.When Zoe Boehm agrees to track down the gang who knocked over Sweeneys jewelry shop, shes just hoping to break even in time for tax season. She certainly doesnt expect to wind up in a coffin. But shes about to become entangled with a strange collection of characters, starting with suicidal Tim Whitby, whos dedicating whats left of his life to protecting the pretty, battered Katrina Blake from her late husbands sociopathic brothers, Arkle and Trent.Unfortunately for Zoe, Arkle has a crossbow, Tim has nothing left to lose, and even Katrina has her secrets. And death, like taxes, cant be avoided forever. Notes New in the crime series featuring PI Zoe Boehm, set in picturesque Oxford. Dazzling Publishers Weekly Author Biography Mick Herronis a British novelist and short story writer who was born in Newcastle and studied English at Oxford. He is the author of six books in the Slough House series (Slow Horses,Dead Lions,Real Tigers,Spook Street,London Rules, and the novellaThe List) and four Oxford mysteries (Down Cemetery Road,The Last Voice You Hear,Why We Die, andSmoke and Whispers), as well as the standalone novelsReconstruction,Nobody WalksandThis Is What Happened. His workhas won the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel, the Steel Dagger for Best Thriller,and the Ellery Queen Readers Award, andbeen nominated for the Macavity, Barry, Shamus, and Theakstons Novel of the Year Awards. He currently lives in Oxford and writes full-time. Review Praise for Why We Die"Herron is a stylish writer with a mordant sensibility and a deadly wit. Hes also a tricky plotter."—The New York Times Book Review"Dazzling . . . Smart, dogged and never down for the count, Zoë is a fine addition to the ranks of female P.I.s."—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review"A dark, entertaining, off-kilter world in which anything can happen, and probably will."—Kirkus Reviews"The seamy side of Oxford, England, takes center stage as lives and plans collide in this bleak crime novel . . . British noir reminiscent of Jerry Raines Smalltime."—BooklistPraise for Mick Herron "Stylish and engaging." —Washington Post "Good characterization, dialogue and well-paced narrative make this confident first novel frighteningly plausible." —Daily Telegraph "Masterful . . . How Herron is able to tie all these events together will test the sleuthing ability of even the most savvy readers as one surprise engenders another. The intricate plot, coupled with Herrons breezy writing style . . . results in superior entertainment that makes most other novels of suspense appear dull and slow-witted by comparison." —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review Promotional The road to hell is paved with all sorts of intentions, as Oxford private investigator Zoe Boehm discovers when a straightforward jewelry store robbery turns out to be anything but. Review Quote Praise for Why We Die "Herron is a stylish writer with a mordant sensibility and a deadly wit. Hes also a tricky plotter." --The New York Times "Dazzling Promotional "Headline" The road to hell is paved with all sorts of intentions, as Oxford private investigator Zoe Boehm discovers when a straightforward jewelry store robbery turns out to be anything but. Excerpt from Book If there is an answer to the question, it is this: because our bodies are designed to lie in boxes in the dark; arms neatly folded on our chests. Feet together. Eyes tight shut. This is why we die: its the end we were shaped for. . . . When she unwrapped her arms, her hands touched the cold sides of the container shed been planted in, and she understood that everything that passed for normal had slipped out of reach. She was in a world of new instructions--try not to whimper; try not to scream; especially, try not to breathe. She had never been good with instructions. But these bore down with the weight of the earth, and could not be ignored. And everything that had ever happened carried on happening elsewhere; out of sight or reach, in a time closed off to her. She recognized this, and even as she forgot her instructions and began to scream, felt the intense regret of being out of the loop--of knowing that, whatever came next, shed play no part in it; nor ever know how it came out. And this, too, is why we die; because we are only part of the story. And never to know how the story ends. CHAPTER ONE Death was on his mind when he first saw the woman. It was her dress caught his eye; a white cotton dress that hung just above her knees, patterned with large blue almost-leaf shapes. Like a Matisse in motion he thought, then wondered where that had come from--Matisse? Leaving the bar, descending the steps into the hotel lounge, she paused and looked round, verifying the obvious; that all of the tables were taken. The sunlight breaking from the window behind her lent shifting life to the dress she wore. What death wore, he didnt know yet, but the clever money was on black. He returned to the book he wasnt reading. Words swam into vision, took their usual route to his brain, and evaporated immediately, leaving no discernible impression. Twice in the last twenty minutes hed turned a page in case anybody was watching, and now did so again, noting as he did the way the same light that played with the pattern of her dress lay flat on the table before him: roomkey, wineglass, ashtray littered with corpses. If he turned, hed find the view through the window--the car park, and the ivy trailing down the high wall separating the car park from whatever lay beyond. Will sir be eating this evening? hed been asked. Sir wouldnt be eating this evening. . . . Last time Tim Whitby had been here, ten years to the day, he and Emma had been the only couple dining. That was how he remembered it. This evening it was full. Some of the rooms occupants were presumably residents like himself; others were here just to eat. There was a futile permanence about the word resident, but that was how the bartender had identified him while taking his order. If the information below is not correct, please amend by crossing out the names of persons no longer resident Tim had read lately, on his electoral form, and had had to look for a pen . . . Some moments passed while this crawled across the landscape of his heart. And then the light altered, because the woman had approached and was gesturing at the unused half of his table. His face must have remained blank. She resorted to speech. "Do you mind?" He shook his head. She sat on the far end of the sofa, leaving a good two feet between them; placed her glass and a folded newspaper on the table and leaned back, closing her eyes. On any list of things Tim did not want right now, company came first, second and third. For a start, it called for a rearrangement of his body. He compromised by pulling the ashtray closer; a gesture that ceded territory. He wasnt eating this evening. He wouldnt be taking up space much longer. He planned to have two, or possibly many more, glasses of wine, then go upstairs. Her being here did not alter his plan . . . This was a comfortable dining room, favouring armchairs and sofas. Guests werent pressed to hurry. But soon she could have the long table to herself. He tried to convey all this in the way he picked up his glass, but it was impossible to know if she understood. The wine--which Emma had taught him to enjoy; hed been a beer man--should have been a treat, but it was simply the next thing happening. He wasnt drunk yet. Just dislocated enough to feel his fingers rubbery as they negotiated glass back on to tab≤ he didnt spill but sloshed a litt≤ she didnt notice, because her eyes remained closed. She had long dark wavy hair--almost black--and maybe this made her skin seem paler than it was, or maybe it was pale anyway. And she wore a lot of make-up. This was presumably to cover a bruise on the side of her face nearest him--not a terribly large bruise, nor old enough to have purpled and blacked, but definitely there, for all the careful layers shed painted on top. He looked away before her eyes could open, and let his gaze sweep the room once more. As if he had enemies who might have sneaked in while his mind roamed elsewhere. But there was nothing here that did not always happen: people eating, drinking, talking; being happy in a public place. The English were supposed to be repressed--beaten to a pulp by the weather and an ineradicable sense of loss of empire. So why was everyone so bloody cheerful? In the far corner a young couple looked about two minutes off conceiving their first child, while in the opposite, a pair who might have been their grandparents were toasting each other with smiles whose wrinkles matched like bookends. The time it took Tims gaze to cross from one to the other, a whole lifetime of promises had been kept and twice renewed. And waiters came and went, of course; and plates were scratched by knives and forks. Whatever the music was changed to something precisely as tasteful. Outside, a car left, and another arrived to take its place . . . All this just scratching Tims surface, as if life were a TV he wasnt watching, but couldnt ignore. It was impossible, while alive, to divorce yourself from events: even the boring, even the stupid. When the last thing you wanted was conversation, you found yourself discussing the merits of various whiskies. When the last thing you wanted was company, a woman joined you, wearing a noticeable dress . . . Tim looked out of the window again; watched for a while early evening sunlight reflecting off the windscreen of a blue Toyota; a windscreen whose wipers had cleared a stylized M-shape on a background of reddish dust. He wondered why this detail mattered. He wondered why he bothered noticing. Time to stop. He returned to his book; the novel he was struggling through. It was a Graham Greene, one of Emmas. Emma had left her books behind. And though hed made a genuine effort to concentrate, the storys fundamental unreality hummed away beneath the narrative: it was set in 1953, for Gods sake. Didnt the characters realize that? Didnt they understand they were interim; that the natural state of things was twenty-first century; that by the time theyd caught up with history theyd be dragging round colostomy bags, or cuffed to Zimmer frames, or just plain dead? Thatwas the problem: these people were dead, but didnt know it. It was the only convincing aspect of the story. When he looked back, her bruise seemed to have grown darker, and to his horror, she saw him notice. She said, "It was a cupboard door." . . . If hed left it baldly alone, if her statement had withered and died in contextless silence, theyd both have remained frozen there forever. He cleared his throat. "Im sorry?" "You were looking at my eye." "I didnt mean to." "Its okay." Her voice was deep for a womans, and carried a faint accent, though Tim couldnt register from where: never a strength of his. He picked up his glass again. It was strange, and also expensive, how easily a glass of wine emptied--though expense was hardly a consideration. Otherwise hed have stayed home, and drunk himself stupid on supermarket offers. Home, though, was not where he wanted to be, and as if he were broadcasting this thought out loud she picked up on it, and spoke again: "Have you been here before?" ". . . This hotel?" "Oxford." He lived here. This was his home, where he did not want to be. Explaining that, though, would have involved open-heart surgery. "Yes." "Its our first visit." "I see." Our was an affront; one of those red flags the coupled wave to piss off the newly single. Lately, everywhere Tim went he saw people in pairs, flaunting happy, secure futures. And now it seemed even people turning up on their own had to trumpet their significant others. Tim had shared an our once; now he had simply a his . This unalterable fact made the womans attempt to hide her bruise laughable. . . . But this was good, this was fine, this was nothing. It was a sequence of moments time would carry him through the way gravity would see him through a fal Description for Sales People Latest in a popular crime series, following female P.I. Zo Boehm. The story takes place in picturesque Oxford, making it attractive reading for UK and US readers alike. Mick Herrons last novel, Dead Lions (Soho Crime, 2013), won the 2013 Crime Writers Association Gold Dagger Award. Frightening plausible - Sunday Telegraph Details ISBN1616955864 Author Mick Herron Year 2015 ISBN-10 1616955864 ISBN-13 9781616955861 Media Book Publisher Soho Press Inc Imprint Soho Press Inc Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States DEWEY 823.92 Short Title WHY WE DIE Series Oxford Language English Format Paperback Series Number 3 UK Release Date 2015-05-19 AU Release Date 2015-05-19 NZ Release Date 2015-05-19 US Release Date 2015-05-19 Publication Date 2015-05-19 Audience General Pages 336 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:141754292;

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