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330 pages
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October 14
Detective Constable Edmonds saw the running man just a half second before the unmarked car she was travelling in hit him. A slightly built man, dark-skinned and dark-clad in a tight fitting jersey and a beanie. He burst out of the shadows behind a flyover and sprinted straight across the a 12, fists pumping, head bowed against the gusting rain, splashing through the puddles on the tarmac as if he were running for his life.
“Look out!” Edmonds shouted from the back seat, but Detective Sergeant Mackay, who was driving, had seen the man, too.
“Hang on, people.”
A shriek of brakes, and then the car reached the puddle of water that had pooled on the tarmac and went into a skid. Edmonds’ seatbelt yanked hard against her chest, squeezing the breath out of her in spite of the regulation Kevlar vest she was wearing under her jacket. She grabbed the seat in front of her, and a moment
later her hand was squashed into the padded fabric by the larger, tougher palm of bulky Sergeant Richards, who was also bracing for the crash.
The car slewed sideways, and Mackay swore as he fought for control. Through the spattered windscreen Edmonds saw the running man look, too late, in their direction. He flung out a hand in defence, and Edmonds’ heart leapt into her mouth when she heard a loud metallic thunk that seemed to shake the car. The man stumbled heavily and went down, sprawling onto his side. But before Edmonds could even conceptualise the thought—is he hurt?—he got up again and set off at a shaky jog. He scrambled over the crash barrier on the opposite side of the road and disappeared from sight.
He didn’t so much as glance behind him.
The tyres regained their purchase on the road and Mackay slowed to a stop.
“Jesus,” Richards said. “What the hell was that all about?” Nobody answered. For a moment the only noise was the ticking of the hazard lights, which Mackay had activated, and the flick of the wipers. Water splashed up as a car drove by in the fast lane, the motorist oblivious to what had just occurred. Then Richards looked down and saw that his hand was covering Edmonds’. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, and removed it.
Mackay pulled over into the emergency lane, and two of the men climbed out and shone a flashlight into the darkness where the running man had vanished.
“He’s nowhere in sight. Must have gone into that park over there.” The detective who had been sharing the back seat with Edmonds and Richards climbed back in, and once again Edmonds found herself squashed, sardine-like, between the car door and the warm bulk of Richards’ thigh.
“He’s lucky you were wide awake.” The detective sitting next to Mackay shunted the passenger seat forward for the second time that trip, in an attempt to give Edmonds a couple of inches more leg room.
“Lucky anybody is at this hour,” Mackay said. “And that it’s so quiet tonight.” He let out a deep breath, then checked his mirrors and pulled onto the road again.
“But we hit him,” Edmonds said. She could hear the unsteadiness in her own voice as she spoke, and she hoped the other detectives would put it down to reaction after their near-accident, rather than nervousness about what lay ahead. “Do you think he’s all right?”
Mackay nodded. “He’ll have a sore arm tomorrow, I should think. Nothing we can do about it now. I’ll write it up when I make the report.”
“Better hope you don’t have a dent in the bonnet, or you’ll be writing that up as well,” Richards observed, and all the men laughed. Another clicking of the indicator, and they turned right off the a 12, heading east towards Stratford.
In the three months since Edmonds had been promoted to the Human Trafficking team in Scotland Yard, she’d been surprised to discover that most of the operations they tackled did not take place in central London, but in the middle-class and respectable looking suburbs. Like the one where they were headed now.
As they drove down Templemills Lane, Edmonds stared at the tall wire fences and enormous crash barriers that lined the road. The headlights flickered over the stiff mesh, ghostly silver in the dark, as high and solid as a prison fence. But the area protected by the fences and barriers was no prison. It was the construction site
for the 2012 London Olympics.
“That’s where they’re building the athletes’ village.” Richards pointed across her, to the left. “More than twelve thousand people will be living there. Not all of them will go back home again, if our last Olympics was anything to go by. They’ll stay in the UK and claim asylum. About a thousand, probably. Mostly from Iraq, Nigeria, Somalia, Zimbabwe.”
Edmonds peered into the darkness at the endless wire fence and the solid concrete barriers flashing past, but she found she couldn’t get the image of the man out of her head. Fists clenched, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was running straight across a major arterial road.
Running towards something, or running away?
For a troubled moment, Edmonds wondered whether the near accident
with the man was a sign that the police operation tonight, her first-ever raid, was going to go wrong. Then she shook her head and told herself not to be so superstitious.
The crash barriers came to an end and, suddenly, they were in suburbia. Ranks of small, unremarkable-looking, semi-detached houses and flats, with shops and businesses lining the narrow high street.
“This is where you’ll find the kind of places we’re after,” Richards
had told her during her training. “Not in Soho and the West End. There, they work in pairs. One girl and one maid in one flat. That’s legal. But what you’ll find out here often isn’t.”
A police van was parked by the side of the road, waiting. Mackay flashed his lights at it as he passed, and it pulled out into the road behind them.
Peering through the rain, Edmonds made out a pub, a launderette, a fish and chip shop, and another business with a large sign written in lettering she couldn’t understand—Turkish, perhaps. All dark and locked up, because it was already after midnight.
The unmarked car slowed as the establishment they were here to raid came into sight. At street level, the place looked innocuous—a black-painted door with a small number six painted on it in white. Upstairs the windows were shaded by dark blinds and a sign hung, small and discreet, from a neat hook in the corner wall.
“Sauna? Yeah, right,” Richards remarked drily.
The police van following them pulled to a stop behind their car.
“Right, everybody,” Mackay said. “Let’s get this operation going.”
Heart pounding, Edmonds wrenched the door open and jumped out, slipping and almost falling on the wet, uneven pavement. Richards caught her arm.
“C’mon love. Round the back.”
“Love”?
But there was no time to bristle at the word that Edmonds was sure, in any case, was unintentional. Time only to follow the plan which had been discussed in detail the previous day, to sprint round the back of the building with two of the uniformed officers and head for the fire exit.
She ran up the fire escape, the metal vibrating under her fleece lined boots.
“Get in position.” Richards was behind her, already out of breath.
Ahead, a solid-looking grey door.
As she reached it, Edmonds saw the handle move. Someone was opening it from the inside.
The door swung open and a middle-aged man hurried out. Tousled brown hair, furtive expression, busy buttoning his shirt over his paunch.
“’Scuse me, sir.” Edmonds stepped forward.
The man glanced up, then stopped in his tracks when he saw the two uniformed officers behind the plainclothes detectives.
“I’m not . . .” he said. He whipped his head from side to side, as if wondering whether turning and running would be a better option, but there was nowhere to go.
“Please accompany the officers down to the police vehicles, sir,” Edmonds said, aware that she sounded squeaky and not nearly as authoritative as she would have wished. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Footsteps clanged on the fire escape as the two officers escorted the unhappy customer downstairs. Then a red-haired woman wearing a black jacket and a pair of dark, tight-fitting pants burst through the exit, almost knocking Edmonds off her feet. The policewoman grabbed at the railing for support.
The woman’s skin was sickly pale, a stark contrast to her crimson hair. She looked older than Edmonds had expected; in her fifties, perhaps. Too old to be a sex-worker? Edmonds had no idea. She smelled of stale cigarettes and perfume, the scent musky and heavy.
The woman was past Edmonds before she could recover her footing, but Richards, standing a few steps further down, managed to grab her by the arm.
“Let me go!” She struggled, shouting at Richards in accented tones, but he had a firm hold on her.
“Nobody’s going anywhere just yet, ma’am. Are you in charge here?”
“Me, no.” The woman raised her chin and stared at him fiercely. “I am nobody, nothing. Forget you saw me.”
“We can’t do that, I’m afraid,” Richards said, with heavy irony. “Who are you, then?”
Defiant silence. Then the woman snaked her head towards Richards, and for a bizarre moment Edmonds thought that she was going to kiss him. Before the big officer could stop her, she sank her teeth into the exposed strip of skin between the collar of his waterproof and his beanie.
Shouting in pain, Richards let go of her arm. He snatched at her head with both hands, grabbing her hair in an effort to pull her off him.
“Kick her!” Edmonds shouted, but in his panic, Richards seemed to have forgotten his basic self-defence training. Her stomach clenched. God, this was it. She’d have to take the woman down. Fumbling for the canister of pepper spray on her belt, she leapt forward, ready to tackle her, feeling the fire escape rattle as one of the officers below came running up again to assist.
Before Edmonds could act, the woman twisted away from Richards’ grasp, leaving long strands of hair dangling from his hands. Edmonds had a brief glimpse of her mouth, bloodstained lips curled back in a snarl, and her gut contracted again because she looked just like a vampire.
To her astonishment, the woman then hooked a leg over the handrail and jumped. Edmonds saw her red hair fly out behind her as she landed on the tarmac below on all fours, like a cat.
“Grab her,” Edmonds shouted, and the fire escape vibrated yet again as the officer on his way up did a hasty about-turn and made a hurried descent. Edmonds thumbed her radio on. “Escaping suspect,” she yelled. “Back entrance. Red-headed female. You copy?”
She glanced down again, just in time to see the woman dart into the shadows and disappear from sight. She was limping heavily, favouring her right ankle, which must have twisted when she landed. The radio crackled in reply. “We’ve got the two main streets cordoned off. She won’t get far. Over.”
Edmonds turned back to Richards. He was swearing, breathing hard, his fingers pressed to the wound on his neck. He took his hand away and stared down at the sticky smear of blood.
“Bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Bloody bitch. Can’t believe she did that. God knows what she’s given me.”
A strong gust of wind wailed eerily through the gaps in the fire escape’s supports. Blinking rain out of her eyes, Edmonds saw the woman emerge from the shadows, then bend and fumble under her trouser leg before she set off half-running, half-limping, towards the young constable standing by the parked police cars.
Edmonds grabbed her radio again. Through the worsening downpour, ...
Revue de presse :
Detective Constable Edmonds saw the running man just a half second before the unmarked car she was travelling in hit him. A slightly built man, dark-skinned and dark-clad in a tight fitting jersey and a beanie. He burst out of the shadows behind a flyover and sprinted straight across the a 12, fists pumping, head bowed against the gusting rain, splashing through the puddles on the tarmac as if he were running for his life.
“Look out!” Edmonds shouted from the back seat, but Detective Sergeant Mackay, who was driving, had seen the man, too.
“Hang on, people.”
A shriek of brakes, and then the car reached the puddle of water that had pooled on the tarmac and went into a skid. Edmonds’ seatbelt yanked hard against her chest, squeezing the breath out of her in spite of the regulation Kevlar vest she was wearing under her jacket. She grabbed the seat in front of her, and a moment
later her hand was squashed into the padded fabric by the larger, tougher palm of bulky Sergeant Richards, who was also bracing for the crash.
The car slewed sideways, and Mackay swore as he fought for control. Through the spattered windscreen Edmonds saw the running man look, too late, in their direction. He flung out a hand in defence, and Edmonds’ heart leapt into her mouth when she heard a loud metallic thunk that seemed to shake the car. The man stumbled heavily and went down, sprawling onto his side. But before Edmonds could even conceptualise the thought—is he hurt?—he got up again and set off at a shaky jog. He scrambled over the crash barrier on the opposite side of the road and disappeared from sight.
He didn’t so much as glance behind him.
The tyres regained their purchase on the road and Mackay slowed to a stop.
“Jesus,” Richards said. “What the hell was that all about?” Nobody answered. For a moment the only noise was the ticking of the hazard lights, which Mackay had activated, and the flick of the wipers. Water splashed up as a car drove by in the fast lane, the motorist oblivious to what had just occurred. Then Richards looked down and saw that his hand was covering Edmonds’. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, and removed it.
Mackay pulled over into the emergency lane, and two of the men climbed out and shone a flashlight into the darkness where the running man had vanished.
“He’s nowhere in sight. Must have gone into that park over there.” The detective who had been sharing the back seat with Edmonds and Richards climbed back in, and once again Edmonds found herself squashed, sardine-like, between the car door and the warm bulk of Richards’ thigh.
“He’s lucky you were wide awake.” The detective sitting next to Mackay shunted the passenger seat forward for the second time that trip, in an attempt to give Edmonds a couple of inches more leg room.
“Lucky anybody is at this hour,” Mackay said. “And that it’s so quiet tonight.” He let out a deep breath, then checked his mirrors and pulled onto the road again.
“But we hit him,” Edmonds said. She could hear the unsteadiness in her own voice as she spoke, and she hoped the other detectives would put it down to reaction after their near-accident, rather than nervousness about what lay ahead. “Do you think he’s all right?”
Mackay nodded. “He’ll have a sore arm tomorrow, I should think. Nothing we can do about it now. I’ll write it up when I make the report.”
“Better hope you don’t have a dent in the bonnet, or you’ll be writing that up as well,” Richards observed, and all the men laughed. Another clicking of the indicator, and they turned right off the a 12, heading east towards Stratford.
In the three months since Edmonds had been promoted to the Human Trafficking team in Scotland Yard, she’d been surprised to discover that most of the operations they tackled did not take place in central London, but in the middle-class and respectable looking suburbs. Like the one where they were headed now.
As they drove down Templemills Lane, Edmonds stared at the tall wire fences and enormous crash barriers that lined the road. The headlights flickered over the stiff mesh, ghostly silver in the dark, as high and solid as a prison fence. But the area protected by the fences and barriers was no prison. It was the construction site
for the 2012 London Olympics.
“That’s where they’re building the athletes’ village.” Richards pointed across her, to the left. “More than twelve thousand people will be living there. Not all of them will go back home again, if our last Olympics was anything to go by. They’ll stay in the UK and claim asylum. About a thousand, probably. Mostly from Iraq, Nigeria, Somalia, Zimbabwe.”
Edmonds peered into the darkness at the endless wire fence and the solid concrete barriers flashing past, but she found she couldn’t get the image of the man out of her head. Fists clenched, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was running straight across a major arterial road.
Running towards something, or running away?
For a troubled moment, Edmonds wondered whether the near accident
with the man was a sign that the police operation tonight, her first-ever raid, was going to go wrong. Then she shook her head and told herself not to be so superstitious.
The crash barriers came to an end and, suddenly, they were in suburbia. Ranks of small, unremarkable-looking, semi-detached houses and flats, with shops and businesses lining the narrow high street.
“This is where you’ll find the kind of places we’re after,” Richards
had told her during her training. “Not in Soho and the West End. There, they work in pairs. One girl and one maid in one flat. That’s legal. But what you’ll find out here often isn’t.”
A police van was parked by the side of the road, waiting. Mackay flashed his lights at it as he passed, and it pulled out into the road behind them.
Peering through the rain, Edmonds made out a pub, a launderette, a fish and chip shop, and another business with a large sign written in lettering she couldn’t understand—Turkish, perhaps. All dark and locked up, because it was already after midnight.
The unmarked car slowed as the establishment they were here to raid came into sight. At street level, the place looked innocuous—a black-painted door with a small number six painted on it in white. Upstairs the windows were shaded by dark blinds and a sign hung, small and discreet, from a neat hook in the corner wall.
“Sauna? Yeah, right,” Richards remarked drily.
The police van following them pulled to a stop behind their car.
“Right, everybody,” Mackay said. “Let’s get this operation going.”
Heart pounding, Edmonds wrenched the door open and jumped out, slipping and almost falling on the wet, uneven pavement. Richards caught her arm.
“C’mon love. Round the back.”
“Love”?
But there was no time to bristle at the word that Edmonds was sure, in any case, was unintentional. Time only to follow the plan which had been discussed in detail the previous day, to sprint round the back of the building with two of the uniformed officers and head for the fire exit.
She ran up the fire escape, the metal vibrating under her fleece lined boots.
“Get in position.” Richards was behind her, already out of breath.
Ahead, a solid-looking grey door.
As she reached it, Edmonds saw the handle move. Someone was opening it from the inside.
The door swung open and a middle-aged man hurried out. Tousled brown hair, furtive expression, busy buttoning his shirt over his paunch.
“’Scuse me, sir.” Edmonds stepped forward.
The man glanced up, then stopped in his tracks when he saw the two uniformed officers behind the plainclothes detectives.
“I’m not . . .” he said. He whipped his head from side to side, as if wondering whether turning and running would be a better option, but there was nowhere to go.
“Please accompany the officers down to the police vehicles, sir,” Edmonds said, aware that she sounded squeaky and not nearly as authoritative as she would have wished. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Footsteps clanged on the fire escape as the two officers escorted the unhappy customer downstairs. Then a red-haired woman wearing a black jacket and a pair of dark, tight-fitting pants burst through the exit, almost knocking Edmonds off her feet. The policewoman grabbed at the railing for support.
The woman’s skin was sickly pale, a stark contrast to her crimson hair. She looked older than Edmonds had expected; in her fifties, perhaps. Too old to be a sex-worker? Edmonds had no idea. She smelled of stale cigarettes and perfume, the scent musky and heavy.
The woman was past Edmonds before she could recover her footing, but Richards, standing a few steps further down, managed to grab her by the arm.
“Let me go!” She struggled, shouting at Richards in accented tones, but he had a firm hold on her.
“Nobody’s going anywhere just yet, ma’am. Are you in charge here?”
“Me, no.” The woman raised her chin and stared at him fiercely. “I am nobody, nothing. Forget you saw me.”
“We can’t do that, I’m afraid,” Richards said, with heavy irony. “Who are you, then?”
Defiant silence. Then the woman snaked her head towards Richards, and for a bizarre moment Edmonds thought that she was going to kiss him. Before the big officer could stop her, she sank her teeth into the exposed strip of skin between the collar of his waterproof and his beanie.
Shouting in pain, Richards let go of her arm. He snatched at her head with both hands, grabbing her hair in an effort to pull her off him.
“Kick her!” Edmonds shouted, but in his panic, Richards seemed to have forgotten his basic self-defence training. Her stomach clenched. God, this was it. She’d have to take the woman down. Fumbling for the canister of pepper spray on her belt, she leapt forward, ready to tackle her, feeling the fire escape rattle as one of the officers below came running up again to assist.
Before Edmonds could act, the woman twisted away from Richards’ grasp, leaving long strands of hair dangling from his hands. Edmonds had a brief glimpse of her mouth, bloodstained lips curled back in a snarl, and her gut contracted again because she looked just like a vampire.
To her astonishment, the woman then hooked a leg over the handrail and jumped. Edmonds saw her red hair fly out behind her as she landed on the tarmac below on all fours, like a cat.
“Grab her,” Edmonds shouted, and the fire escape vibrated yet again as the officer on his way up did a hasty about-turn and made a hurried descent. Edmonds thumbed her radio on. “Escaping suspect,” she yelled. “Back entrance. Red-headed female. You copy?”
She glanced down again, just in time to see the woman dart into the shadows and disappear from sight. She was limping heavily, favouring her right ankle, which must have twisted when she landed. The radio crackled in reply. “We’ve got the two main streets cordoned off. She won’t get far. Over.”
Edmonds turned back to Richards. He was swearing, breathing hard, his fingers pressed to the wound on his neck. He took his hand away and stared down at the sticky smear of blood.
“Bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Bloody bitch. Can’t believe she did that. God knows what she’s given me.”
A strong gust of wind wailed eerily through the gaps in the fire escape’s supports. Blinking rain out of her eyes, Edmonds saw the woman emerge from the shadows, then bend and fumble under her trouser leg before she set off half-running, half-limping, towards the young constable standing by the parked police cars.
Edmonds grabbed her radio again. Through the worsening downpour, ...
Praise for Stolen Lives:
“With danger and mayhem at every turn—and Mackenzie provides plenty of twists—Stolen Lives is a page turner of superior power. Its shocking conclusion leaves the reader breathless—and eagerly awaiting the next installment in Jade’s life.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The second Jade de Jong novel by Jassy Mackenzie is every bit as vivid and violent as the first. Mackenzie’s turf is Johannesburg, in the new South Africa, but she has a much more jaded view than writers like Deon Meyer.... Mackenzie’s roots are in the grit and grime of noir fiction, but she gives the old style a twist all her own.”—Toronto Globe and Mail
“Mackenzie offers insight into postapartheid South Africa, an area of the world unfamiliar to most U.S. mystery buffs. For those readers who like Sara Paretsky and Lynda La Plante and fans of international crime fiction.”—Library Journal, Starred Review
"Jassy Mackenzie’s followup to Random Violence delivers on all fronts that matter: dextrous pacing, unflinching action, and stark, brave compassion in the clutch. South Africa comes alive on the page, but it’s no travel-guide version—the Jo’burg skyline and dusty shops, the embassy offices and dreary mine-dumps—even the pristine suburbs pulse with dark energy. Jade de Jong is a heroine to cherish: tough, passionate, and pocked with enough flaws to keep her interesting."—Sophie Littlefield, Anthony Award–winning author of A Bad Day for Sorry
“Gripping.... Stolen Lives is as thought-provoking and socially conscious as it is suspenseful.... Without preaching, this book should cause readers to care, and perhaps even get involved in fighting the sex trafficking industry. A fascinating read with a strong heart.”—ForeWord Reviews
“Under Mackenzie’s deft hand, Jo’berg and Jade crackle with frenetic energy.”—Publishers Weekly
“Jade's sophomore adventure (Random Violence, 2010) provides a crackling pace and nonstop action ... Mackenzie's Johannesburg is as gritty and dangerous as noir L.A. or the drug meccas of South America.”—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Random Violence:
“A hard edged first novel ... Even as Mackenzie captures Johannesburg’s ‘crazy boomtown energy,’ she doesn’t shy away from the rough stuff. None of which, it should be said, is quite rough enough to scare this remarkable new sleuth, whose future exploits should be worth watching.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
“The heroic private investigator with a dark side is hardly a new concept, but Jassy Mackenzie makes one her own in her debut novel.... Mackenzie, who has lived in South Africa from an early age, plays her hand deftly, with a page turner of a story, intriguing characters—Jade is particularly memorable—and a wealth of South African color, including its appalling racial history. At once brutal and beautiful, Random Violence leaves nothing to chance in hooking the reader.”
—Richmond Times Dispatch
Starred Review: “South African writer Mackenzie has created a strong female character with amazing resilience, unusual friends, and incredible luck. This gripping first entry in a new crime series set in postapartheid South Africa should please readers of Zoë Sharp and Suzanne Arruda. Fans of other South African crime fiction by Deon Meyer, Roger Smith, and Malla Nunn will also want to try.”—Library Journal
Starred Review: “Set in contemporary South Africa, Mackenzie’s triumphant debut introduces PI Jade de Jong.... The plot has more than its fair share of nice twists, and Mackenzie does a superb job of making the reader care for her gutsy lead while offering a glimpse at life in South Africa after apartheid. Readers will wish Jade a long fictional career.”—Publishers Weekly
“With danger and mayhem at every turn—and Mackenzie provides plenty of twists—Stolen Lives is a page turner of superior power. Its shocking conclusion leaves the reader breathless—and eagerly awaiting the next installment in Jade’s life.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The second Jade de Jong novel by Jassy Mackenzie is every bit as vivid and violent as the first. Mackenzie’s turf is Johannesburg, in the new South Africa, but she has a much more jaded view than writers like Deon Meyer.... Mackenzie’s roots are in the grit and grime of noir fiction, but she gives the old style a twist all her own.”—Toronto Globe and Mail
“Mackenzie offers insight into postapartheid South Africa, an area of the world unfamiliar to most U.S. mystery buffs. For those readers who like Sara Paretsky and Lynda La Plante and fans of international crime fiction.”—Library Journal, Starred Review
"Jassy Mackenzie’s followup to Random Violence delivers on all fronts that matter: dextrous pacing, unflinching action, and stark, brave compassion in the clutch. South Africa comes alive on the page, but it’s no travel-guide version—the Jo’burg skyline and dusty shops, the embassy offices and dreary mine-dumps—even the pristine suburbs pulse with dark energy. Jade de Jong is a heroine to cherish: tough, passionate, and pocked with enough flaws to keep her interesting."—Sophie Littlefield, Anthony Award–winning author of A Bad Day for Sorry
“Gripping.... Stolen Lives is as thought-provoking and socially conscious as it is suspenseful.... Without preaching, this book should cause readers to care, and perhaps even get involved in fighting the sex trafficking industry. A fascinating read with a strong heart.”—ForeWord Reviews
“Under Mackenzie’s deft hand, Jo’berg and Jade crackle with frenetic energy.”—Publishers Weekly
“Jade's sophomore adventure (Random Violence, 2010) provides a crackling pace and nonstop action ... Mackenzie's Johannesburg is as gritty and dangerous as noir L.A. or the drug meccas of South America.”—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Random Violence:
“A hard edged first novel ... Even as Mackenzie captures Johannesburg’s ‘crazy boomtown energy,’ she doesn’t shy away from the rough stuff. None of which, it should be said, is quite rough enough to scare this remarkable new sleuth, whose future exploits should be worth watching.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
“The heroic private investigator with a dark side is hardly a new concept, but Jassy Mackenzie makes one her own in her debut novel.... Mackenzie, who has lived in South Africa from an early age, plays her hand deftly, with a page turner of a story, intriguing characters—Jade is particularly memorable—and a wealth of South African color, including its appalling racial history. At once brutal and beautiful, Random Violence leaves nothing to chance in hooking the reader.”
—Richmond Times Dispatch
Starred Review: “South African writer Mackenzie has created a strong female character with amazing resilience, unusual friends, and incredible luck. This gripping first entry in a new crime series set in postapartheid South Africa should please readers of Zoë Sharp and Suzanne Arruda. Fans of other South African crime fiction by Deon Meyer, Roger Smith, and Malla Nunn will also want to try.”—Library Journal
Starred Review: “Set in contemporary South Africa, Mackenzie’s triumphant debut introduces PI Jade de Jong.... The plot has more than its fair share of nice twists, and Mackenzie does a superb job of making the reader care for her gutsy lead while offering a glimpse at life in South Africa after apartheid. Readers will wish Jade a long fictional career.”—Publishers Weekly
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurSoho Crime
- Date d'édition2012
- ISBN 10 1616950676
- ISBN 13 9781616950675
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages336
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