More from Margaret Murphy

1. (a) Extract from Weaving Shadows By Margaret Murphy
1. (b) Extract from The Dispossessed By Margaret Murphy
1. (c) Extract from Now You See Me By Margaret Murphy
2. Margaret Murphy FAQs
3. Reviews

Extract from Weaving Shadows By Margaret Murphy

Prologue

The tail end of August, and hotter than hell. Clemence wound down the window, glancing around to check for nosy neighbours as he did so: with the window open, he was conspicuous. The mingled scents of overblown privet and new-mown grass buffeted his face like a solid mass. He noted with alarm that the sun had crept round, slicing sharply across one edge of his camera, resting on the passenger seat. He snatched it up. It was warm. Shit! For a moment he held it to the cooler air at the window, but shifted it when he got a curious look from a kid walking past.
He watched until she became a blurred tadpole shape in the distance. A combination of heat haze and the residual effects of twelve years staring at nothing further than thirty feet away. A slight deficit in visual perception, the doctor said. It would right itself, with time. The girl turned the corner and he settled back. The 28-200mm lens he had chosen for its versatility was a comforting weight in his lap.
He armed the sweat from his forehead and a spiky trickle crabbed its way from his chest to the waistband of his chinos. If she didn't come soon, he would have to move the car somewhere cooler.
He squinted up into the shimmering mosaic of the sycamore canopy above him; the leaves had a hard, brittle quality, not yet tinged with autumn colour, yet well past the soft greens of spring. He would have to wait another year to see that on the outside.
A couple of streets away, an ice-cream van clanged 'Greensleeves' at a mad pace, speeding to its favoured pitch, and for a moment the stink of privet was displaced by a childhood memory: running into the street after tea, the pavement a hot, searing white, coins slippery in his seven-year-old palm. Reaching the juddering, custard-yellow van and breathing in the heady combination of raspberry syrup and diesel fumes.
The years inside seemed grey by comparison - leached of colour by their sameness and deadened by fear and rage. Those years, when the predominant smells of boiled cabbage and stale shit seemed almost interchangeable, had made him greedy for sensory stimulation of a more wholesome kind. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, purging himself of the prison smells, relishing the prickling sensation of the privet's scent on his palate and at the back of his throat.
A car pulled up almost opposite and Clemence slumped lower in his seat, cupping his hand protectively over the zoom lens in his lap, then, cautiously lifting the camera to waist height, he turned his head slowly, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. It was her.
He experienced a curious mixture of excitement and anxiety: this woman represented a goal - perhaps even an ambition. It had taken some time to build to this moment. He had sought her out, and now he was determined that he would get what he came for.
She got out of her car and walked towards the house with the faded red door, broken fence and overgrown privet hedge. He had imagined her somewhere grander - more picturesque - with neatly pruned shrubs, and borders planted with meticulous reference to the colour wheel: no clashing oranges and purples for her, but tasteful drifts of graded tints, and a carefully considered marrying of texture and form.
She reached the front door and he zapped off a few shots as she turned into the sunlight to rummage for her keys in her handbag. He liked catching women unawares: it was at such moments that they often exhibited an unselfconscious grace.
She went through the door and he waited. No point in startling her. Give her a few minutes to kick off her shoes, hang up her jacket, maybe put the kettle on. She might even offer him a cuppa. The anxiety had been replaced by a growing sense of dread. Group therapy sessions during his final three years inside had taught him to recognise the often confusing emotions he felt. They had also practised anger management: identify the signs and deactivate the rage or, if it got past control, walk away. Not always an option on the inside, but being on the outside made things easier on that score - it was so big for one thing; there were so many places you could go. And managing the anger had unexpected advantages: putting distance between what you might call the incitement, and the retribution made detection more difficult.
He checked his watch. He'd given her long enough. He rolled up the window and reached for the door handle. A moment of doubt like a spasm of pain. What if she wouldn't speak to him? He forced himself to take a few breaths. She would - he would talk, and she would listen. He would persuade her.
He got out of the car and crossed the street.

Excerpted from Weaving Shadows by Margaret Murphy. Copyright © 2003. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Excerpted from The Dispossessed by Margaret Murphy. Copyright © 2004. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Jeff Rickman watched the blood seeping from him and was hit by a wave of nausea. Saliva flooded his mouth and he forced his gaze away from the steady, sickening pulse up to the high hammer-beam vault of the church. The building reeked of old wood, candle-wax and incense: the odour of sanctity that years of neglect and even deconsecration could not displace.
From the gothic arch of the west window the resurrected Christ smiled down at him, his arms open in welcome, palms upturned. October sunshine dazzled through the stained glass and red light spilled radiant from Christ's wounds.
Rickman began to feel a detachment, a light-headed clarity. Each dusty mote in the shafts of evening sunlight became a particle of dancing light, the shift and settle of timbers seemed to follow the tracking of the sun's rays, and the inching of the sun across the waxed floor was discernible to him. He closed his eyes and fancied he could almost hear the sighs and whispers of generations of penitents.
The pulse throbbed thickly in his throat and Rickman opened his eyes, unable to ignore the steady loss of blood. Swallowing hard, he fought the sickness, focusing instead on the pink granite pillar three feet away. In its polished surface he discovered flecks of white and gold and grey among the pink crystals. He looked downward to the carved marble vine leaves at the base and upward to the grey clusters of grapes at the head of the column, pale against the vivid warmth of the granite. Gradually, the nausea subsided.
It's all about blood, he thought; the giving and taking of it. Religion was founded on it and steeped in it. Church was all very well, but blood ties were the strongest, they said: the ties of family and of nation. Not for Rickman, though. For him, family was no more than a name, and one that could not be relied upon at that: Rickman, Reichmann, or Richter - one theory even held that the family name was originally Lichtmann - the combination of an ancestral lisp and an immigration official's indolence had resulted in the current spelling distortion, or so the story went.
Friendship had always meant far more to Rickman than church or family or nation. He turned his head a little. Next to him, close enough to touch, was Lee Foster. He lay with his left arm flung out and his right crooked over his eyes. Rickman had known Foster a long time, and had worked closely with him over the past two years. He knew that this ordeal was far worse for Foster than it was for him. Foster would never have set foot inside this building if Rickman hadn't bullied him into it. Neither man looked at the other, nor spoke. They bled silently, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.
A light tap on his shoulder. A dark-haired woman in a white lab coat stood over him. 'You're done,' she said, clamping and disconnecting the tube attached to Rickman's arm and skilfully removing the shunt from it.
'I'm blaming you for this, Jeff,' Foster said.
Rickman turned to him. Tie loosened, shoes tucked under the trolley, Foster still managed to look smart. 'You volunteered for this, Lee - remember?'
'Yeah, well, if I ever volunteer for anything again,' Foster said, his voice slightly muffled by his shirt sleeve, 'anything at all. Lock me up till the urge goes away, okay?'
'We're thinking of having the next session at police headquarters,' the woman said. 'If Inspector Rickman can fix it for us to use the cells, you could kill two birds with one stone.'
She smiled at Rickman and he felt a momentary quickening of his pulse. She was pale - invalid pale, as if she had spent all of the summer indoors - but her skin had a luminous quality, and her eyes, large and long-lashed, were the colour of polished oak in sunshine. She finished taping Rickman's arm and moved on to Foster.
Rickman noticed that Foster had arranged his right arm so that it wouldn't flatten his hair. Foster's hair was carefully tousled, as always; he gelled and sculpted it till it gleamed in dark brown spikes. Lee Foster was apt to be vain - a characteristic that both amused and infuriated women.
'Be gentle,' he said, 'I hate needles. He threatened to tell the whole station if I didn't do this,' he went on, peeping out from under his arm. 'That's despicable, that, isn't it? Using a man's phobia to blackmail him.'
'You wouldn't believe he used to be a marine, would you?' Rickman said.
'Go 'ead, rub it in,' Foster said. 'Expose all my weaknesses - all my little foibles - to ridicule.'
Amusement sparkled in the woman's eyes, but she didn't comment, instead allowing them to argue back and forth while she clamped off the blood flow and disconnected the tube.
'Best you don't watch this bit,' she said, when she had finished. 'I'm about to take the shunt out.'
'Nobody takes the shunt out of Lee Foster,' he said, lifting his arm from his face and turning his smile onto full-beam. 'That's my name, by the way.'
She leaned closer and whispered, 'You're not my type.'
He struggled onto one elbow. 'It wasn't a marriage proposal,' he replied. Then, 'What is your type?'
Both she and Rickman heard the plaintive note in Foster's voice and they exchanged a quick, amused glance. Foster misunderstood.
'Him?' he exclaimed. 'The rugged Roman profile was all very well in Gladiator, but we're in the twenty-first century now, love.'
'Funny,' she shot back, 'I keep getting a whiff of caveman. Just so you know - the shunt's the bit with the needle attached. But if you want to watch, it's up to you . . . '
'I thought you nurses were supposed to reassure your patients,' he said, still trying on the charm, but Rickman saw he had lost some colour.
'I'm not a nurse, I'm a phlebotomist and you're not a patient, you're a donor,' she said. 'Now - are you going to close your eyes?'
'I'd rather look into yours.'
Those eyes . . . They crinkled at the corners, and Rickman was reminded for a moment of someone, but the likeness was gone before he had the chance to fix it in his mind, leaving only a vaguely disturbing after-image.
'You want to look in my eyes?' she asked.
The wide-eyed innocence in Foster's dark blue eyes made him look younger than his thirty years. He gave her his sick-puppy smile and gazed adoringly at her. She stared back at him, her mouth turning up into the suggestion of a smile, then she gave a little tug and Foster yelled.
'That didn't hurt a bit, did it?' She lifted his hand and placed the first two fingers over the cotton-wool ball in the bend of his arm. 'Press firmly,' she said.
'Press firmly?' Foster scowled. 'I might just press charges.'
She chuckled, taping the dressing in place.
'Don't lift anything heavier than a pint for the next hour or so, okay?'
Foster shook his head doubtfully. 'I think I need watching,' he said. 'By a professional.' He paused a second. 'When do you get off?'
The wintry pallor of the woman's skin suffused momentarily with annoyance. 'Where do you?' she asked.

Excerpted from Now You See Me, by Margaret Murphy
Copyright © 2005. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Nine o' clock. Black sky, grey cloud. The street below Megan Ward's window gleamed ghostly pale after a sudden shower. Cars crammed the length of the street, jostling for space, some with their near-side wheels on the kerb, narrowing the gap between the facing yellow-brick houses.
A man stood on the opposite kerb. He was tall, powerfully built, the trapezius muscles of his neck so thick that his head seemed to be jammed down onto his shoulders. He had been watching the house for fifteen minutes, while Megan watched him from the darkness of her room, her breathing shallow, fearful.
Some youths approached, heading for the pubs in Lark Lane, loud and full of swagger, but as they passed the man they fell silent, taking care to give him space, avoiding his eye.
What did he want from her? She sighed, and it caught on the out-breath. You know what he wants, and you brought this on yourself.
The front door opened and light spilled out from the hallway into the street. Oh, God - Sara!
Megan ran from her study onto the landing, yelling Sara's name. Down the stairs, hearing the chink of milk bottles and the dull ring as one fell over and rolled.
'Sara!' She leapt the last few steps, stumbling and almost cannoning into her friend as she ran back inside.
'Megan, what is it?'
Megan slammed the door closed and stood panting with her back braced against it. 'He's out there,' she gasped.
Sara's hand went to her mouth. Her face, strong and clear-eyed in normal circumstances, looked small and pinched, but her terror was only fleeting. She quickly reached for the door handle, angered by her momentary weakness.
Megan spread her arms wide. 'No. Sara - don't.'
Sara wore her honey-blonde hair shoulder length, curling softly. Now she tucked it behind her ears and tilted her chin. 'You can't let him terrorize you like this, Megan,' she said. 'You have to confront him.'
Megan's eyes widened. 'Please, Sara - ' Sara didn't know - how could she know the danger in confronting this man? 'Don't . . . ' she said again, hearing the plea in her own voice, feeling tears prick her eyes. Sara's face blurred.
'He's stalking you, Megan,' Sara said. 'You have a right to protection.'
You're wrong, Megan thought. He isn't stalking me, he's watching me. How could she explain to Sara that his blatant surveillance was far more threatening than a mere obsession? She tried to find the words, but could find none. She trusted Sara as she had trusted nobody else in fifteen years, but she knew that Sara would not - could never - understand.
'At least call the police,' Sara said, made impatient by Megan's silence.
'I did, remember? It did no good.'
Sara's hand clenched and released. 'I just - I'm concerned, Megan, that's all.'
Megan knew that Sara believed in due process, in the fairness of the system, the protection afforded by the Law to the weak and defenceless.
Megan said, 'I'll telephone tomorrow - talk to the detective.' The one who was supposed to be handling her case. An exercise in futility. But who was she to challenge Sara's illusions - of safety, of a fair world in which violent men were brought to justice? Sara had relied on her beliefs for thirty-four years of life. They made her strong; her belief that goodness always had the advantage had given her the confidence to rebuild her life after her husband's slow death from multiple sclerosis. It had given her the courage to follow a career in a male-dominated profession, to allow Megan - a stranger - into her home, and to make a friend of her. Megan would do nothing to injure that confidence, or damage their friendship. 'I promise,' she said, 'I'll talk to him.'
Sara released her grip on the door handle and looked into Megan's face. 'Don't let fear paralyse you, Megan,' she said.

Megan knew fear; its terrain, its high crags that sparked energy and possibilities as well as its low silt marshes that stranded you, sucking you down and sapping your strength, turning fear to terror. She also knew how to use fear - even welcomed the familiar thrill of accelerated heart rate, the fast fizz of brain activity, the tunnel vision of an adrenaline high. It could work when, close to a breakthrough in the dead hours of night, exhausted beyond sleep, something clicked and the thick pulse of fear and elation screamed at her to go on or lose the chance for ever. At such times, it was this counterpoint between fear and elation that made her complete the arc, follow the logic through, make the connections when the end point proved difficult - even dangerous.
This time, though, fear made her sick and debilitated; dragging her deeper and deeper as she struggled in a quagmire of indecision. She was ready to give up. It had never been like this before. Sure she had been afraid, but in the past, she had evaluated the situation, basing her decision to go on or abandon the project on the balance of risk versus possible reward. Sara was the new factor in the equation. Though too young to act as surrogate mother, Sara had offered Megan her home and her trust, and with it a different view - one more generous than life had previously taught her, one which allowed the possibility of hope, and brought with it the cancer of weakness.
She kept vigil at her window, planning, dreaming, walking through each possible scenario and working out a course of action. Her face, faintly sketched in profile on the glass, was long and serious, the nose thin, delicate. Her dark hair broke like silk at her shoulders. She watched cars pass, the silences between them growing longer; a taxi rattled to a halt a few doors down and three girls tumbled out, laughing, drunk. Foot-passengers, then late-night drinkers, a dog-walker, patiently stopping at every lamp post, waiting while his terrier marked its territory. Finally the clubbers, paired off after the ritual of dance, booze and sweat. Pheromones and testosterone, the perfumes of sexual adventure.
But the watcher did not return.

Margaret Murphy Frequently Asked Questions

Some writers get irritated with being asked FAQs. Me, I never grow tired of it. When I was a full time teacher, I was never asked how I motivated myself, or how I got the best out of my pupils, so it's rather flattering to be asked about how I write.

What made you choose Crime Writing? Like many criminals, I kind of drifted into it. I was writing my fourth novel (the first three were unpublished) and my agent asked what it was about. I outlined the plot of Goodnight, My Angel: a young girl is kidnapped and later found murdered. The killer is never caught. Six months later, as her mother is just beginning to piece together her life, she starts getting messages from her daughter on the Internet.

'Hmm,' she said. 'Sounds like crime.'

'No, it's a kind of supernatural thriller.'

'Crime, darling,' she said, firmly. (My agent always says things firmly) And so it was.

Thing is, once you get into a life of crime it won't let you go. You can even find yourself getting a taste for it…

What are your favourite books and why? Having come to crime writing by accident, five years ago, I'm still catching up on the genre. I read a lot of Agatha Christie as a teenager - most of which I've forgotten - but I reread the Murder of Roger Ackroyd recently, and whether you know the story or you don't, it's a brilliant novel. Of contemporary crime writers, I enjoy Reginald Hill for his elegant and witty prose, Val McDermid's Brannigan series, Frances Fyfield, Minette Walters - especially her earlier books, Liza Cody's Bucketnut: Eva Wylie's anarchic sense of right and wrong is a great antidote to conventional morality. Ruth Rendell is, of course, a real icon. Why 'of course'? Because I write psychological suspense novels, and I've read a lot of Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine in the hope of picking up a few tips.

Of the Americans, I'd include Walter Moseley and Elmore Leonard, but by far my favourite American writer is Thomas Harris. Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs were incredible creations, seminal works in fact, and the counterbalance of Will Graham and Clarice Starling's decency, against Hannibal Lecter's monstrous amorality is superb.

I could mention the non-crime books I rate highly, but maybe that would be a suitable subject for an article in our newsletter. Bet you're sorry you asked, now, arencha?

What is the essence of good writing? When I read a book, I'm looking for total immersion. Good writing has the knack of making you forget you're reading carefully crafted fiction and involving you emotionally with the characters and their predicaments.

How do you write? Long hand, with a Bic medium blue biro on wide feint ruled paper. As I complete each chapter, I transfer it onto the word processor. I'm not a neat first-drafter, I use margin notes, mindmaps - anything to get the creative juices flowing.

Do you have a clear idea what your book is going to be about when you start writing it? This question doesn't have a simple answer. I start with an idea. A situation, usually. I take it from there. I have to have a clear mental image of my characters, or the story just can't take off, for example, Goodnight, My Angel was stuck until I sat down (in Regent's Park, as it happens) and sketched Kate Pearson, who is the central character. Once I had her, I had the story. I also got a nice scene out of it, in which Kate remembers teaching her daughter to roller-skate. I sat for maybe fifteen minutes watching a little girl, half-elated and half terrified practising on her first ever set of rollerblades.

With each book, the synopsis has become more and more detailed. It's fluid and infinitely flexible, but I find that with a synopsis, I can have an overview of the main events, and I can get a feel for the pace and suspense of the novel.

I did an interview for Counselling News a while back, and the interviewer, Val Young, asked me if I realised that a quick analysis of my books shows a preoccupation with alienation, and individuals who for one reason or another, do not have a voice in society. It's not something I set out to do, but the subconscious finds outlets for its own preoccupations. So on this level, it seems I don't know what my books are going to be about.

I am fascinated by the after-effects of crime - how do the survivors cope? How do you pick up the pieces after someone you loved has been taken from you by a violent act? I suppose what I'm saying is that I am inspired by the dark side of human nature.

Where do you get your ideas from? Each novel has been different. But for each, there has been a trigger. Something that interested me or upset me, something which preoccupied me for several weeks at least. In the case of Caging the Tiger, the idea was bouncing around in my head for many years. Woman hates her husband, fantasises about killing him. Plans it down to the finest detail. then arrives home one day to find him murdered in exactly the way she planned it. I don't take things directly from life - that would be biography - but a stimulus, a real-life situation can be taken and given a twist, and that becomes a story. And of course real-life experiences feed in to our writing, whether we acknowledge it or not. I'll leave it to you to work out which part of Caging the Tiger is based on my own experience…

So what was the trigger for your latest book? The Dispossessed came out of a single, powerful, shocking image - that of the first murder victim. I had been waiting in a traffic jam, stuck behind a rank and smelly bin-lorry for ten minutes, when I got a flash - a very real and vivid picture - of a young woman, naked and exsanguinated, falling from a wheelie bin into the maw of
the truck. I became obsessed: who was she? Why had she become a victim? And why had she been treated in this particularly callous and contemptuous way?
The characters grew largely from the research - and I researched extensively - doing police forensic training, shadowing staff and counsellors at a major refugee charity in the south of England and, later, working voluntarily for an organisation in Liverpool.

What is the most exciting part of writing a book? Hard to say. There are stages, each of which is thrilling in its own way. If I'm forced to it, I could narrow it down to two elements:

1. Getting an idea. It can make you jump about with excitement, or simply smoulder with an intense energy when you get an idea that is different and which presents you with characters and situations that make you drool in anticipation of getting your teeth into them.

2. Seeing your books in the shops. There's nothing quite like it.

In between, there's a lot of hard graft, draft and redraft, but even the graft has its moments of excitement.

What advice can you give to budding authors? First, you're going to need a large measure of quiet determination - what Joan Smith refers to as 'lunatic persistence'. Writing is hard, finding a publisher is hard, and unless you're very, very lucky, getting your name known is hard - which is one reason why we seven got together to form Murder Squad.

Someone said the art of writing is the application of bottom to seat. I suppose this is the tenet I follow most. Write every day, and write even when you're convinced it isn't going to work. The strange thing is, when you review work that's been agonising to write, it's difficult to tell it apart from the prose that has flowed from you almost in a trance state - and sometimes it's far superior to the easily written stuff.

Margaret Murphy Reviews

NOW YOU SEE ME

'An absolute BLITZ of a book. Chief Inspector Jeff Rickman, Sergeant Foster and DC Hart confront not only a chilling present but a complex past that threatens literally to dispossess all it touches.
A chilling, nail grinding story, superbly written with an ending that kicks with ferocity. The character, Megan, may be the most memorable since Cathy in East of Eden.

Her crime fiction blasts into the realm of literature.' Ken Bruen

'This is a book of which it could justifiably be said, "As good as Ian Rankin, or your money back".' Phil Rickman, Phil the Shelf, Radio Wales

‘This is crime for the computer age, involving all the back-door machine codes, electronic trapdoors and password shenanigans of a master hacker. The truly exciting ending is a triumph of inventiveness, in which Megan uses her technical expertise to extract a confession from a seriously bad man in an altogether original way.’ Matthew Lewin, Guardian

‘A chilling tale of murder, mystery and intrigue set in the murky underworld of Liverpool. This novel from Margaret Murphy journeys along like a roller coaster. . . Fans of Nicki French and Ruth Rendell mysteries will love the dark intrigue and intense atmosphere, and the book would complement any crime collection. . .’ Big Issue

'Murphy has steadily established herself as one of England's best crime novelists and this latest book is another tough, convincing tale with strong characters and believable police work. Recommended.' Jeff Popple, Canberra Times

'You will never use your computer so flippantly again after reading this book.'
Stockport Express

‘Murphy’s latest has a magnificent plot’ Age (Australia)

‘In a word: gritty’. Weekend Gold Coast Bulletin (Australia)

‘Replete with solid, well drawn characters, terse dialogue, sudden violence and a nascent romance between Sergeant Foster and Constable Hart, Now You See Me is the best police procedural I’ve read in a long time.’ Newcastle Herald (Australia)

The Dispossessed

'The best modern crime writers like to tackle two levels of offence at the same time. . . in The Dispossessed Margaret Murphy does exactly this as she uncovers the horrifying snake pit that is life for asylum-seekers in modern Britain. The Dispossessed combines the warmth and feeling of Margaret Murphy's early fiction with the scrupulous research and wider canvas of her Clara Pascal series, to provide an eye-opening shocker of a novel, in which the links between sharp practice and crime form a chain to bind the unwary.' Times Literary Supplement

'Margaret Murphy writes with a textual immediacy and in this novel she reveals the exploitation and prejudice surrounding asylum seekers in a slow build psychological thriller that draws you into its net and leaves you feeling very uncomfortable indeed. It is a challenging novel, dealing with contemporary issues and confronting the racist darkness that lies in society today. The characters are sensitively drawn, flawed, and believable. The Dispossessed is a brilliant novel, chilling, thrilling, and deeply humane. You won't forget this one in a hurry.' Sherlock

'A gripping tale - page turning and stomach churning.' Big Issue

'A cracking thriller.' Liverpool Daily Post

Murphy tells a terrific story . . . Strong on plotting with splashes of humour and Murphy's trademark interest in and compassion for victims, The Dispossessed is also informative on the realities of the system that refugees here face. Tangled Web

Weaving Shadows

'Margaret Murphy is one of the up and coming crime writers of the new generation. This ain't Agatha Christie or any other sleuth-type novel. We are in the dark depths of psychological crime and Murphy is wonderfully adept at analysing not only the mind of the perpetrator but also the victim, as well as dealing with vivid accuracy the flow of revelation in an investigation . . . Clemence and Clara leap from the page like Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling . . . Weaving Shadows is a gripping, many-layered read.' Sherlock

'Gripping Storytelling.' Dublin Evening Herald

'Surprisingly teasing . . . visual, well-paced thriller.' HHH
Daily Mirror

'Ms Murphy handles her complex plot with a sure hand and brings it to a stunning climax.' Sunday Telegraph

'Dark, gripping, horrific crime tale' The Bookseller

'Murphy's latest high-tension thriller'
'Murphy is absolutely fair as she moves her totally credible team of cops through each possibility, with. some doors a opening and others closing - or appearing to close) at every turn. And her villain, who never shows Clara his face, is all the more frightening because of his rough-edged intelligence.'
'[A] well-crafted novel.' Publishers Weekly, May 31st 2004.

'As psychologically thrilling as they get . . . a page-turner in every sense of the word.'
The Irish World, London

'Compelling.' HHH
Big Issue

'Murphy's seventh novel can be rated amongst the best of British crime writing and gives the likes of Ian Rankin and Minette Walters a run for their money . . . If you like crime, you'll love Murphy.' Chester Chronicle

'[Margaret Murphy's] novels demonstrate the same power and skill as those of Minette Walters and Val McDermid's standalone works.' **** Deadly Pleasures

'It's the arrival on the crime scene of writers like Murphy that gives the genre hope for the future.' Yorkshire Post

'Absorbing and unpredictable' Manchester Evening News

'Murphy's excellent books are all concerned with the violent criminal and the victim of crime, and the new book will add lustre to her reputation.' Crime Time

'Cunning crime writing at its best.' Bangor Chronicle

Darkness Falls

'Suspense novels are all about the same thing -- the sudden manifestation of evil in someone's life. But the literary form is so supple that an adept stylist can vary the formula… In alternating chapters written in the skin-chilling style of a thriller, Murphy places the reader in the cellar where Clara has been blindfolded, beaten and shackled to the wall by a man who challenges her to defend her values and plead for her life… In Murphy's bold treatment, the victim is made to acknowledge her own intimate acquaintance with evil.' New York Times

'This stunning British suspense story will keep readers edgy and guessing until the very end… Murphy ably spins several plot lines and points of view: Pascal's increasingly hopeless ordeal, the Chester Constabulary's efforts to find her, the musings of a serial killer… Murphy's descriptions of the police procedure involved in recovering kidnap victims are sharply rendered, and her depiction of Pascal's courage is psychologically acute and moving… A first-rate chiller.' Connie Fletcher, Booklist (Starred review)

'A high-tension thriller…totally credible'. Publishers Weekly

'A skilfully plotted story, with strongly drawn characters, and the tension builds slowly to a clever dénouement.'
Sunday Telegraph

'Darkness Falls is a model of what the modern suspense thriller should be - tense, scary, page-turning and stomach-churning - because we care most of all about what happens to the characters. Set aside a day - you won't be able to put it down once it has you in its grip.'
Val McDermid

'Murphy generates a powerful sense of menace and the dreadful fear that something awful is about to happen . . . if Murphy's appointed task is to scare the reader out of his or her pants, she succeeds brilliantly.'
Literary Review

'Margaret Murphy has managed to produce another outstanding psychological thriller, cleverly subverting the accepted conventions of the power-trip kidnapping story . . . Darkness Falls is a powerful work whose surprising central story comes to a genuinely moving conclusion, driven by Murphy's grasp of motivation and character.'
Sherlock Magazine

'An interesting and compassionate look at crime from the victims' standpoint . . . Gripping from the beginning.'
Yorkshire Post

'This novel really packs a wallop. One of the best of its kind that I've ever read.' Deadly Pleasures

'Just what British crime writing is crying out for - a compassionate, grass roots British novel with the pace, energy and impeccable research of an American thriller.'
Mo Hayder

'A gripping thriller - the sort you want to devour in one sitting.'
Manchester Evening News

'Menacing psychological thriller with a clever plot.'
Glasgow Evening Times

'This is a piece of absolutely terrifying writing! . . . Crime's most compelling, chilling book ever.'
North Wales Chronicle:

'It is the skill with which this maelstrom of emotion - pain, confusion, anger and vulnerability - is committed to the page which makes Margaret Murphy a mistress of psychological crime novels.'
Kettering Evening Telegraph

Dying Embers

'A multi-layered novel, exceptionally well-written.' Julia Wallis Martin, Crime Time

An accomplished psychological thriller.' Manchester Evening News

'Gripping novel, not for the faint-hearted.' The Big Issue