Today I’m taking part in the blog tour for A Known Evil by Aidan Conway and I get to share an extract with you all!
About the author:
Aidan Conway was born in Birmingham and has been living in Italy since 2001. He has been a bookseller, a proofreader, a language consultant, as well as a freelance teacher, translator, and editor for the United Nations FAO. He is currently an assistant university lecturer in Rome, where he lives with his family. A Known Evil is his first novel.
About the book:
A serial killer stalks the streets of Rome…
A gripping debut crime novel and the first in a groundbreaking series, from a new star in British crime fiction. Perfect for fans of Ian Rankin.
A city on lockdown.
In the depths of a freakish winter, Rome is being torn apart by a serial killer dubbed The Carpenter intent on spreading fear and violence. Soon another woman is murdered – hammered to death and left with a cryptic message nailed to her chest.
A detective in danger.
Maverick Detective Inspectors Rossi and Carrara are assigned to the investigation. But when Rossi’s girlfriend is attacked – left in a coma in hospital – he becomes the killer’s new obsession and his own past hurtles back to haunt him.
A killer out of control.
As the body count rises, with one perfect murder on the heels of another, the case begins to spiral out of control. In a city wracked by corruption and paranoia, the question is: how much is Rossi willing to sacrifice to get to the truth?
Click HERE to get your copy!
They’d found the body in the entrance to their block of flats where, sometimes, bleary-eyed,
they would avoid treading on the dog shit some neighbour couldn’t care less about cleaning up
– teenagers on the way to school at eight in the morning. They’d been the first to leave the
building, apparently, although it was now known the victim didn’t live in the same complex.
Paola Gentili, mother of three, a cleaner, on her way to work. Multiple blows to the cranium.
No sign of sexual assault. No attempt to appropriate money or valuables. No sign of a struggle.
So, it seemed she had been taken completely unawares. Better for her. Husband had been
informed. Distraught. Had given them the few preliminary details they required without the
need for any formal interview. That would have to wait until they got the go-ahead from the
presiding magistrate. But the guy seemed clean enough going by the checks the new
‘privatized’ IT system had given them in record time. What social media access she had was
regular and only moderately used. Meanwhile, they’d started looking into the other stuff. No
particular leads. No affairs. No money issues. No links to known families in the organized
sector. Worked in a ministry in the centre of the city. No unexplained calls. Just waiting now
on the forensics guys to come up with something more concrete to work with.
Inspector Michael Rossi had only just driven through the gates in the Alfa Romeo. He
had known immediately that something big was coming by the urgency of Carrara’s steps as
he’d emerged from the baroque archway leading from the Questura’s offices to the car park. If
Rossi had bothered to switch his phone on before it would have got him out of bed, what?
Twenty minutes earlier? But that wouldn’t have saved anyone’s life. Now, the debris of
takeaway espressos and sugarsachets violated the bare desk space separating them in his office.
Their own cleaner had just been in, chatty as ever, oblivious as yet to the news.
“Other than that,” said Carrara, “we’re totally in the dark on this one. But it does look like
there’s a possible pattern emerging.”
“You’ve been busy,” said Rossi.
The second such killing in as many weeks. The modus operandi and the victim profile
bore distinct similarities but no one had dared yet to use the term. Serial? Was it possible? In
Detective Inspector Luigi Carrara. Five years Rossi’s junior, several years under his belt
in anti-mafia, undercover, eco-crime, narcotics, now on the Rome Serious Crime Squad.
Recently married, he had the air of one of those men who neverseem to have overdone anything
in their lives: hardly a wrinkle, haircut every month, bright, fluid in his movements. Just the
man Rossi needed on a Monday morning like this one.
“How similar?” said Rossi, still struggling to form what he considered decent sentences,
though his mind was already whirring into action. “The weapon, for instance?”
“Blunt instrument. Iron bar or hammer, probably.”
“Who’s on the scene?”
“A few boys from the local station. They got the magistrate there sharpish though.
Hopefully they’ll have disturbed as little as possible. She was carrying ID, so we got to work
with that straight off, once the news came in on the police channel.”
“Not officially. But they will.”
“Out of town, I think.”
“Good. Let’s go,” said Rossi grabbing his battered North Face from the coat stand, feeling
more vigorous and even a little bit up for it. “I want to see this one for myself.”
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