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Summary
Summary
ONE OF THE YEAR'S 10 BEST MYSTERY NOVELS -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Finalist for the CWA (Crime Writers' Association) Gold Dagger
Finalist for John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger Awards
The acclaimed debut thriller from Australia's most exciting new crime-writing talent, for fans of Jane Harper
Caleb Zelic's childhood friend has been brutally murdered--fingers broken, throat slit--at his home in Melbourne. Tortured by guilt, Caleb vows to track down the killer. But he's profoundly deaf; missed words and misread lips can lead to confusion, and trouble.
Fortunately, Caleb knows how to read people; a sideways glance, an unconvincing smile, speak volumes. When his friend Frankie, a former cop, offers to help, they soon discover the killer is on their tail.
Sensing that his ex-wife may also be in danger, Caleb insists they return to their hometown of Resurrection Bay. But here he learns that everyone--including his murdered friend--is hiding something. And the deeper he digs, the darker the secrets . . .
Author Notes
Emma Viskic is an award-winning Australian crime writer, based in Melbourne. She has won two of Australia's premier crime fiction short story awards: the Ned Kelly S.D. Harvey Award (2013) and the New England Thunderbolt Award (2013). Her debut novel, Resurrection Bay, won the 2016 Ned Kelly Award for Best Debut, as well as three Davitt Awards: Best Adult Novel, Best Debut, and Readers' Choice. Her novel, And the Fire Came Down, won the 2018 Davitt Award for best adult novel.
She has a musical career as a classical clarinetist. Her performances range from busking in the London Underground to playing with Jose Carreras and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The arresting opening of Australian author Viskic's terrific debut finds PI Caleb Zelic holding the bloody body of Senior Constable Gary Marsden, a close friend who has been brutally tortured and slaughtered in his Melbourne home. Caleb drove over a short time before after receiving a text message from Gary saying that someone named Scott was after him. Since there's no sign of forced entry, Caleb wonders why Gary would have admitted his killer. The circumstances of the murder lead the police to suspect that Gary was involved in something dirty. They also suspect Caleb, because Gary was working on an insurance case for Caleb's PI firm. After Caleb is attacked, he seeks refuge with his ex-wife, Kat, in their hometown of Resurrection Bay. The hearing-impaired Caleb must rely on his keen ability to read faces as he tries to figure out whom, if anyone, he can trust. The truth behind the violence is both stunning and fairly clued, and Caleb is a sufficiently complex lead to easily sustain a series. James Ellroy and Paul Cleave fans will relish this hard-edged crime novel. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Guardian Review
Anthony Horowitz's 2016 novel The Magpie Murders offered an ingenious twist on a classic whodunnit, and his latest book, The Word Is Murder(Century, [pound]20), takes things a step further, with a mashup of fact and fiction. Six hours after she has made arrangements for her own funeral, wealthy widow Diana Cowper is found strangled. It might be a straightforward robbery gone wrong, but former cop Hawthorne, currently employed by Scotland Yard on a freelance basis, thinks otherwise, and asks Horowitz if he'd like to tag along and write up an account of his investigation. There is plenty of metafictional fun to be had, but readers may find themselves more interested in the uneasy relationship between Hawthorne and the fictionalised author, and in Horowitz's reflections on his career, than they are in the somewhat under-engineered plot. When authors insert themselves into their fiction, there is a sense in which all bets are off -- something that is also true of the work of French author Pascal Garnier, who died in 2010. Garnier's startling and surprisingly moving novels tend to centre on strange goings-on in French provincial settings, creating a world that is at once familiar and utterly bizarre. In Low Heights (Gallic, [pound]8.99, translated by Melanie Florence), grumpy contrarian businessman Edouard Lavenant has retired, after a stroke, to a village in the mountains, where he engages in sniping matches with his nurse-cum-housekeeper and tries to write his memoirs. He experiences the loneliness of the elderly survivor and fears for his faculties: "A word was blinking in his head like a hazard light: SENILE." This, and various portents -- the circling vultures, the two women who keep appearing, and the death by articulated lorry of a tricycling child -- show us that all is not well. When a stranger appears at the door claiming to be Lavenant's long-lost son, things start to go horribly wrong in entirely unexpected ways. Five bodies found in Ireland's Wicklow Mountains National Park are the starting point for Sleeping Beauties, the third book in Jo Spain's series featuring Inspector Thomas Reynolds of Dublin's murder investigation unit (Quercus, [pound]13.99). All the corpses are of young women who have disappeared in recent years, and they were held captive for some time before they died. It's likely that they are the victims of a serial killer -- and Reynolds and his colleagues need to find missing Fiona Holland before she becomes the next. Adding to the stress is the fact that Reynolds's new boss seems more at home with PR than policing. There is a good balance between pace and pathos -- Reynolds's old boss and mentor Sean McGuiness, who has retired to take care of a wife in the grip of Alzheimer's, is especially touching. Spain tackles the age-old victim-blaming attitudes surrounding the investigation with a matter-of-factness that makes them all the more reprehensible. Deft plotting and expert handling of tension make for an intelligent mystery. Emily Elgar's debut, If You Knew Her (Sphere, [pound]7.99), is a welcome addition to the ranks of coma lit. Cassie Jensen, victim of a mysterious accident in a country lane, is taken to the critical care ward at St Catherine's Hospital, Sussex, where she lies in a coma. In the next bed is Frank Ashcroft, inert but alert. The doctors think Frank is in a persistent vegetative state, and only Alice, the compassionate and intuitive nurse, realises that he is suffering from " locked-in " syndrome -- as he himself tells the reader, "trapped in my body, like a straightjacket". Unable to communicate, he becomes both unwitting confessor to Alice, and an eavesdropper. He pieces together the true reason for Cassie's condition from actions and conversations he is not considered able to see or hear, much less understand. He, Alice and a pre-coma Cassie pass the narrative baton between them, and slowly their stories weave into fine character studies, particularly in the case of Frank, who lives in a world of regrets -- the drinking, the wrecked marriage, the bittersweet relationship with his daughter. There is also a wonderfully insidious build-up of tension. Caleb Zelic, private investigator and narrator of Australian writer Emma Viskic's outstanding debut Resurrection Bay (Pushkin Vertigo, [pound]12.99), is cut off from the world by a profound deafness that has made him not only a vigilant observer of nonverbal clues, but also a human bulwark against emotional closeness. When he goes to an old friend's home and discovers that the man has been brutally murdered, he must -- with the aid of his partner, former police officer Frankie, and a final text message from the dead man -- prove his own innocence by finding the killer. Set in Melbourne and the eponymous coastal town where Caleb grew up, this is a gripping and violent tale with a hero who is original and appealing. - Laura Wilson.
Library Journal Review
[DEBUT] Caleb Zelic is deaf but that doesn't stop him from working as a private investigator in Melbourne, Australia. He and partner Frankie, a former police officer, are reeling from the death of Caleb's friend Gary, who was a cop moonlighting for them. The police are initially suspicious of Caleb since he found the body, but after he and Frankie are themselves attacked, the pair start investigating. Through interviewing anyone who might be connected to the murder, Caleb is able to use his skills at reading people to good effect. Surprisingly, the case has a connection to Caleb's hometown of Resurrection Bay. Awkward reunions with his ex-wife and recovering addict brother complicate the investigation, as does the disappearance of Frankie. After learning some secrets of his late friend's life, Caleb is no longer sure whom he can trust as the stakes get higher and he gets closer to the mastermind behind everything. Verdict Winner of the 2016 Ned Kelly Award for Best Debut, this is a compelling mystery with an even more compelling detective. Caleb's disability hinders his work at times, but many of the skills he has learned to compensate help him read people and situations in ways others cannot. Fans of Australian crime writers such as Peter Temple and Jane Harper will want this.-Dan Forrest, Western Kentucky Univ. Libs., Bowling Green © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1. Caleb was still holding him when the paramedics arrived. Stupid to have called an ambulance - Gary was dead. Had to be dead. Couldn't breathe with his throat slit open like that. Th e ambos seemed to think so, too. Th ey stopped short of the blood-slicked kitchen tiles, their eyes on Gary's limp form in his arms. A man and a woman, wearing blue uniforms and wary expressions. Th e woman was talking, but her words slipped past him, too formless to catch. 'It's too late,' he told her. She stepped back. 'You got a knife there, mate? Something sharp?' Speaking slowly now, each syllable a distinct and well-formed shape. 'No.' The tightness didn't leave her face, so he added, 'I didn't kill him.' 'Anyone else in the house?' 'No, but Gary's kids'll be home from school soon. Don't let them see him.' She exchanged a glance with her colleague. 'OK, how about you put Gary down now, let us check him out?' He nodded, but couldn't seem to move. The ambos conferred, then ventured closer. They coaxed his hands loose and laid Gary gently on the fl oor, their fingers feeling for a pulse that couldn't be there. Blood on their gloves. On him, too - coating his hands and arms, soaking the front of his T-shirt. The material stuck to his chest, still warm. Hands gripped him, urging him up, and he was somehow walking. Out through the living room, past the upended fi ling cabinet and slashed cushions, the shattered glass. Away from the terrible thing that used to be Gary. He blinked in the pallid Melbourne sun. The woman's voice hummed faintly, but he gazed past her to the street. It looked the same as always - a row of blank-faced houses; trampolines in the front yard, labradoodles in the back. Th ere was his car, two wheels up on the curb. He'd been fi nishing a job down the Peninsula when Gaz texted: a great result, back-slapping all round. It had been an hour before he'd read the message, another two in the car, stuck behind every B-double and ageing Volvo. He should have run the red lights. Broken the speed limits. The laws of physics. Police lights strobed the street as dusk turned to darkness. Caleb sat on the back of the ambulance tray with a blanket around his shoulders and the company of a pale and silent constable who smelled of vomit. His own stomach churned. He couldn't rub the blood from his hands. It was in his pores, under his nails. He scrubbed them against his jeans as he watched strangers troop in and out of Gary's home. They carried clipboards and bags, and wore little cotton booties over their shoes. Across the road, the lights from the news vans illuminated the watching crowd: neighbours, reporters, kids on bikes. He was too far away to see their expressions, but could feel their excitement. A charge in the air like an approaching storm. The constable snapped to attention as someone strode down the driveway towards them. It was the big detective, the one who'd searched him and seemed a little disappointed not to find the murder weapon. Around Caleb's age, mid-thirties at most, with short-cropped hair and shoulders that challenged the seams of his suit. Telleco? Temenko? Tedesco. Tedesco stopped in front of the young policeman. 'Move the reporters back from the tape, Constable. If you feel the urge to up-chuck again, aim it at them rather than the crime scene.' He turned to Caleb. 'A few more questions, Mr Zelic, then I'll get you to make your statement down the station.' Th e easy rhythms of a dust-bowl country town in his speech, but his face was half-hidden by shadows. Caleb shifted a few steps to draw him into the light. Tedesco glanced from him to the nearest streetlight. 'If it's too dark for you we can move closer to the house.' Metres from Gary's body. Th e stench of blood and fear. 'Here's fine.' 'I take it you had more than just a business relationship with Senior Constable Marsden.' 'He's a friend.' No. No more present tense for Gary. From now on, only past: I knew a man called Gary Marsden, I loved him like a brother. Tedesco was watching him: a face hewn from stone, with all the warmth to match. He pulled a notebook from his pocket. 'This urgent call he made, asking you to come, can you remember his exact words?' 'I can show you, it was a text.' His hand went to his pocket, found it empty. Shit. He patted his jeans. 'I've lost my phone. Is it in the house?' 'A text, not a call? Not too urgent, then. Could just be a coincidence he asked you to come.' 'No. Gaz always texted me, everyone does. And he was worried. He always used correct grammar, but this was all over the place. Something like, "Scott after me. Come my house. Urgent. Don't talk anyone. Anyone." All in capitals.' Tedesco flicked slowly through his notebook, then wrote. Careful letters and punctuation, a fi rm, clear hand. He'd be able to read that back in court without a stumble. Gaz would have approved. He kept his pen poised. 'Who's Scott?' 'I don't know.' 'I don't care what dodgy dealings your company's involved in, Mr Zelic. I'm homicide, not fraud, not narcotics. So what are we talking about here? A deal gone wrong? In over your heads with someone?' 'No, there's nothing like that. Trust Works is legit. We do corporate security, fraud investigation, that sort of thing. My partner's an ex-cop - Frankie Reynolds. Ask around, half the force can vouch for her.' 'And Senior Constable Marsden? How does he fit in?' 'He was just helping out on an insurance case, earning a bit of extra cash.' It had been a fl ash of fuck-I'm-good inspiration over Friday-night beers with Gaz. A solution to a job that was way too big for them. One that Frankie had tried to talk him out of accepting. Why the hell hadn't he listened to her? Tedesco was talking again, asking if Gaz had . . . something. Many problems? No, that couldn't be right. 'Sorry, what?' 'Money problems,' Tedesco said. 'You said he was earning extra cash. Did he have money problems?' 'No, but he's got a young family, money always comes in handy. Look, the case has to be connected. It's a couple of big warehouse robberies. Gaz thought the thieves had an inside contact.' 'Constable Marsden wasn't killed by some dodgy warehouse manager, Mr Zelic. He was executed. Executed - that's a word you don't hear thrown around the outer suburbs too often.' A happy-looking word: a little smile for the first syllable, a soft pucker for the third. 'Blood all over the walls and ceiling.' Tedesco waited a beat. 'All over you. Th at's someone sending a message. Who? And what?' 'I don't know. He was just talking to people. Nothing dangerous, nothing . . . I don't know.' Th e detective's eyes pinned him. Grey; the colour of granite, not sky. If the silent stare was an interrogation technique, it was wasted on him: he'd always found silence safer than words. 'Right,' Tedesco fi nally said. 'Come this way. I'll get someone to take you to the station.' 'Wait. Th e dog, the kids' dog, I didn't see it. Is it . . .?' The detective's words were lost as he turned away, but Caleb caught his expression. A fl ash of real emotion: sorrow. Fuck. Poor bloody kids. Tedesco was halfway across the road, striding towards the crowd. Later, deal with it all later. Just hold it the fuck together now. He jogged to catch up and followed Tedesco under the police tape. Cameras turned their black snouts towards him. Lights, thrusting microphones, a blurred roar of sound. He froze. Tedesco was in front of him, his mouth moving quickly. Something about parachutes? Parasites? 'I don't understand,' Caleb said, then realised he was signing. He tried again in English. Th e detective gripped his arm and hauled him towards a patrol car, half pushed him inside. Th e door slammed shut, but couldn't block the hungry faces. Caleb closed his eyes and turned off his aids. Scott. A soft name, just sibilance and air. Who the hell was he? And why had Tedesco taken twenty seconds to flick through a clearly blank notebook when Caleb had mentioned his name? Excerpted from Resurrection Bay by Emma Viskic All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
