Tom Harper - Secrets of the Dead

Some secrets should stay buried forever

Abby Cormac spent ten years trying to put the worlds worst criminals behind bars. Burned out, she thinks shes left it all behind until a terrible act of violence shatters her life once more. In a luxurious villa on the Adriatic coast, her lover, Michael, is murdered and Abby is left for dead.

Terrified and alone, Abby vows to bring Michaels killer to justice. But when her investigation takes her across Europe and in contact with one of the Balkans most notorious gangsters, she soon realises that Michael wasnt the man she thought she knew. He had discovered a secret a legacy of betrayal and murder hidden by a conspiracy of silence and Abbys convinced that unravelling this secret will lead her to the truth. But powerful enemies are watching her every move and they will stop at nothing to ensure the secrets of the dead never come to light

Tom Harper has written ten novels including Lost Temple, The Book of Secrets and The Lazarus Vault. He is a past Chair of the Crime Writers Association, and his books have been translated into twenty languages worldwide. He lives in New York with his wife and two sons. For more information, visit www.tom-harper.co.uk

Every man seeks peace by waging war,

but no man seeks war by making peace.

St Augustine, City of God

The dead keep their secrets, and in a little

while we shall be as wise as they.

Alexander Smith

Pristina, Kosovo Present Day

ESCAPING WORK ON a Friday afternoon was still a luxury Abby hadnt got used to.

For ten years, work had been long days in the dark places of the Earth, listening to shattered people relive brutality on an unimaginable scale. Then evenings at a laptop in rooms converted from shipping containers, freezing or baking with the seasons, wringing all the blood and tears out of the stories until they became dry pieces of paper that would make presentable evidence for the International Court in The Hague. She never escaped. Shed lost count of the nightmares, the times shed found herself kneeling over the chemical toilet deep in the night, desperate to purge the things shed seen. Among the casualties over the years had been several promising relationships, a marriage, and finally her ability to care. But always, next morning, straight back to work.

Now all that was history. Shed transferred to the EU mission in Kosovo EULEX teaching the Kosovars how to be model European citizens. There had been war crimes in Kosovo, true, but they were someone elses problem. She worked with the civil courts, trying to unwind the tangled questions of who owned what after the war. The Lost Property Office, Michael called it. She didnt mind being teased. She could sleep at night.

She folded up her files and locked them away. She cleared her desk for the cleaners to come in over the weekend. Shut down, turn off, leave behind. Just before she killed her computer, she noticed a new e-mail had come in from the Director. She ignored it another luxury. She could deal with it on Monday. It was 2 p.m. on Friday and her week was over.

Michaels car was waiting for her outside the office. A red Porsche convertible, vintage 1968, probably the only one in the Balkans. Top off, despite the thunder clouds massing over the city. Michael revved the engine as she stepped out the door, a full-throated roar that would have made her wince with embarrassment if she wasnt so happy. Typical Michael. She slipped into the passenger seat and kissed him, feeling his salt-and-pepper stubble graze her cheek. A couple of people coming out of the office stopped to stare, and she wondered if they were looking at the car or at her. Michael was twenty years her senior and looked it, though age suited him. There were lines on his face, but they only accentuated what was good about it: the ready smile, the devil-may-care gleam in his eye, the confidence and strength. When his hair started greying he didnt cut it, just added a gold earring. So as not to look too respectable, he said. Abby teased him that it made him look like a pirate.

He cupped her chin and turned her head so he could see her throat. Youre wearing the necklace.

He sounded pleased. Hed given it to her a week ago, an intricate golden labyrinth studded with five red glass beads. In the centre was a monogram, a form of the early Christian X-P symbol though shed never known Michael be religious. The necklace itself felt ancient. The gold was dark and glossy like honey, the red glass misted with time. When she asked Michael where he got it, he just gave a crooked smile and told her a Gypsy gave it to him.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed her black overnight bag lying on the Porsches back seat, next to his briefcase.

Are we going somewhere?

Kotor Bay. Montenegro.

She made a face. Thats six hours away.

Not if I can help it. He pulled out of the parking lot, past the security guard in his blue blazer and baseball cap. The man gave the car an admiring stare and threw them a salute. Among the drab rows of EU-issue sedans, the Porsche stood out like some kind of endangered species.