Cover image for Tuesday's gone
Title:
Tuesday's gone
Author:
French, Nicci.
Personal Author:
Edition:
First American edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Pamela Dorman Books/Viking, 2013.

©2012
Physical Description:
371 pages : map ; 24 cm
Summary:
Psychotherapist Frieda Klein takes on a case involving the murder of conman Robert Poole who was found in the flat of a mentally disturbed woman.
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780670025671
Format :
Book

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Summary

Summary

" Blue Monday leaves readers with the promise of intriguing tales to come"  -- People (four-star review)

Internationally bestselling authors Nicci Gerard and Sean French, writing as Nicci French, have sold more than eight million copies of their books worldwide. But nothing they've written written before has grabbed the attention of reviewers and readers like Blue
Monday and its iconic heroine, Frieda Klein. In a starred review, Publishers Weekly called it a "superb psychological thriller . . . with brooding atmosphere, sustained suspense, a last-minute plot twist, and memorable cast of characters."

In Tuesday's Gone , a London social worker makes a routine home visit only to discover her client, Michelle Doyce, serving afternoon tea to a naked, decomposing corpse. With no clues as to the dead man's identity, Chief Inspector Karlsson again calls upon Frieda for help. She discovers that the body belongs to Robert Poole, con man extraordinaire. But Frieda can't shake the feeling that the past isn't done with her yet. Did someone kill Poole to embroil her in the investigation? And if so, is Frieda herself the next victim?

A masterpiece of paranoia, Tuesday's Gone draws readers inexorably into a fractured and faithless world as it brilliantly confirms Frieda Klein as a quintessential heroine for our times.


Author Notes

Nicci French lives in Northern England.

(Publisher Provided) Nicci French is the pseudonym used by husband-and-wife team Nicci Gerrard and Sean French, who write psychological thrillers together.

Nicci Gerrard was born in Worcestershire, England on June 10, 1958. She received a first class honors degree in English literature from Oxford University. She taught English literature in Sheffield, London and Los Angeles before founding Women's Review, a magazine for women on art, literature and female issues. Later on, she worked at the New Statesman and is currently working at The Observer.

Sean French was born in Bristol, England on May 28, 1959. He received a first class honors degree in English literature from Oxford University and became a journalist. In 1981 he won Vogue magazine's Writing Talent Contest and worked as their theatre critic from 1981 to 1986. During that time, he was also deputy literary editor and television critic at the Sunday Times, film critic for Marie Claire, and deputy editor of New Society. Before becoming a full-time author, he wrote write columns for the New Statesman. He has written both novels and non-fiction books.

They were married in October 1990. In 1995, they started work on their first joint novel. The Memory Game was published in 1997 and was followed by numerous other works including The Safe House (1998), Killing Me Softly (1999), Beneath the Skin (2000), The Red Room (2001), Land of the Living (2002), Secret Smile (2003), Catch Me When I Fall (2005), Losing You (2006), Until It's Over (2008), What To Do When Someone Dies (2009), and Sunday Morning Coming Down (2017).

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

*Starred Review* London police seem to have an open-and-shut case when the body of a naked man, who was apparently tortured and murdered, is found in the home of a mentally ill woman. But DCI Malcolm Karlsson isn't so sure, so he again turns to psychotherapist Frieda Klein to serve as a consultant. When the victim is identified as an extraordinarily empathetic con man who had assumed a false identity, multiple suspects emerge. As Klein brings her expertise to bear on the murder, she's getting bad press for her previous work with police involving an identical-twin serial killer (see Blue Monday, 2012), a matter that still literally haunts her. At the same time, both Karlsson and Klein are dealing with difficult personal matters, and a cutback in police funding looms. The husband-and-wife writing team of Nicci Gerrard and Sean French skillfully melds police procedural and psychological suspense, and the Frieda Klein series provides the opportunity for greater concentration on character development, particularly with a protagonist whose profession is probing the human psyche. Psychological suspense at its best, with full-bodied characters and a closing cliffhanger, will leave fans waiting to see what Wednesday will bring.--Leber, Michele Copyright 2010 Booklist


Publisher's Weekly Review

In the pseudonymous French's eerie sequel to 2012's Blue Monday, strong-willed but brittle London psychotherapist Frieda Klein once again assists Det. Chief Insp. Malcolm Karlsson, this time in piecing together a murdered conman's true identity. After a social worker finds a decaying corpse in her client Michelle Doyce's run-down apartment, Karlsson asks Frieda to interview the severely mentally ill woman. Her cryptic sayings eventually lead to Frieda identifying the woman's grisly souvenir as Rob Poole, an enigmatic man with no apparent life beyond the extensive network of people he'd befriended, seduced, or otherwise manipulated into his confidence. Karlsson, meanwhile, faces impending budget cuts in the department, as Frieda deals with lingering suspicions that the previous volume's villain is still out there. Despite sometimes thin characterizations, French-the husband-wife writing team of Sean French and Nicci Gerard-seamlessly mixes a foreboding tone and deliberate pacing with deft plot twists that should leave readers pleasantly chilled to the bone. Agent: Joy Harris, Joy Harris Literary Agency. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.


Library Journal Review

The second book (after Blue Monday) in the Frieda Klein crime series is set in 2011 during a dreary London winter. Once again psychiatric therapist Frieda Klein is called on by Deputy Chief Inspector Karlsson to help solve a complicated case. A decomposed body has been found in the flat of a deranged woman who collects bits of rubbish left on the banks of the Thames. Who is the man and how did he die? Using her ingenuity and with help from her friends, Frieda learns he was a conman living under an assumed name and, though beloved by many of his victims, was murdered. Bedeviled by issues of identity, fraud, and a master manipulator's multiple victims, the case forces Frieda to confront not only her own dark past and the unsettled lives of her family members but also the disturbing situations of everyone inveigled by the dead man. VERDICT The 16th novel written by husband-and-wife team Nicci Gerrard and Sean French starts as a grim psychological thriller in the vein of Dennis Lehane's darker novels and turns into a fascinating puzzle in which character analysis holds sway. Highly recommended for fans of psychological suspense who enjoy a complex protagonist. [See Prepub Alert, 10/28/12.]-Ron Terpening, Univ. of Arizona, Tucson (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Maggie Brennan half walked, half ran along Deptford Church Street. She was talking on the phone and reading a file and looking for the address in the A--Z . It was the second day of the week, and she was already two days behind schedule. This didn't include the caseload she had inherited from a colleague who was now on permanent sick leave. "No," said Maggie, into the phone. She looked at her watch. "I'll try to get to the meeting before you finish." She put the mobile into her pocket. She was thinking of the case she'd just come from. A three-year-old with bruises. Suspicious bruises, the doc tor in A&E had said. Maggie had talked to the mother, looked at the child, checked out the flat where they lived. It was horrible, damp, cold, but not obviously dangerous. The mother said she didn't have a boyfriend, and Maggie had checked the bathroom and there was no razor. She had insisted that the child had fallen down the stairs. That's what people said when they hit their children, but even so, three-year-olds really did fall downstairs. She'd only spent ten minutes there, but ten hours wouldn't have made much difference. If she removed the child, the prosecution would probably fail and she would be disciplined. If she didn't remove the child and he was found dead, there would be an inquiry; she would be fired and maybe prosecuted. So she'd signed off on it. No immediate cause for concern. Probably nothing much would happen. She looked more closely at the A--Z . Her hands were cold because she'd forgotten her gloves; her feet were wet in their cheap boots. She'd been to this hostel before, but she could never remember where it was. Howard Street was a little dead end, tucked away somewhere toward the river. She had to put her reading glasses on and move her finger around on the map before she found it. Yes, that was it, just a couple of minutes away. She turned off the main street and found herself unexpectedly next to a churchyard. She leaned on the wall and looked at the file on the woman she was going to see. There wasn't much at all. Michelle Doyce. Born 1959. A hospital discharge paper, copied to the Social Services department. A placement form, a request for an evaluation. Maggie flicked through the forms: no next of kin. It wasn't even clear why she had been in the hospital, although from the name of it, she could see that it was something psychological. She could guess the results of the evaluation in advance: just sheer general hopelessness, a pathetic middle-aged woman who needed somewhere to stay and someone to drop in just to keep her from wandering the streets. Maggie looked at her watch. There wasn't time for a full evaluation today. She could manage a basic checkup to make sure that Michelle was not in imminent danger, that she was feeding herself--the standard checklist. She closed the file and walked away from the church along a housing estate. Some of the flats were sealed up, with metal sheets bolted on to the doors and windows, but most were occupied. From the second level, a teenage boy emerged from a doorway and walked along the balcony, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bulky jacket. Maggie looked around. It was probably all right. It was a Tuesday morning, and the dangerous people were mostly still in bed. She turned the corner and checked the address she'd written in her notebook. Room One, 3 Howard Street. Yes, she remembered it now. It was a strange house that looked as if it had been built out of the same materials as the housing estate and then had decayed at the same rate. This hostel wasn't a proper hostel at all. It was a house rented cheaply from a private landlord. People could be put there while the services made up their minds about what to do with them. Usually they just moved on or were forgotten about. There were some places Maggie visited only with a chaperone, but she hadn't heard anything particular about this one. These people were mainly a danger to themselves. She looked up at the house. On the second floor a broken window was blocked up with brown cardboard. There was a tiny paved front garden and an alley that went along the left side of the house. Beside the front door a bin bag had burst, but it had only added to the rubbish that was strewn everywhere. Maggie wrote a one-word note. There were five buzzers next to the front door. They didn't have labels next to them, but she pressed the bottom one, then pressed it again. She couldn't tell whether it was working. She was wondering whether to knock on the door with her fist or look through the window when she heard a voice. Looking round, she saw a man right behind her. He was gaunt with wiry ginger hair tied back in a ponytail and piercings right across his face. She stepped to one side when she saw the man's dog, a small breed that was technically illegal, though it was the third she'd seen since she'd left Deptford station. "No, he's a good one," the man said. "Aren't you, Buzz?" "Do you live here?" Maggie said. The man looked suspicious. One of his cheeks was quivering. Maggie took a laminated card from her pocket and showed it to him. "I'm from Social Services," she said. "I'm here to see Michelle Doyce." "The one downstairs?" the man said. "Haven't seen her." He leaned past Maggie and unlocked the front door. "You coming in?" "Yes, please." The man just shrugged. "Go on, Buzz," he said. Maggie heard the clatter of the dog's paws inside and up the stairs, and the man disappeared after him. As soon as she stepped inside, Maggie was hit by an odor of damp and rubbish and fried food and dog shit and other smells she couldn't place. It almost made her eyes water. She closed the front door behind her. This must once have been the hallway of a family house. Now it was piled with pallets, tins of paint, a couple of gaping plastic bags, an old bike with no tires. The stairs were directly ahead. To the left, what would have been a door to the front room was blocked up. She walked past the side of the stairs to a door further along. She rapped on it hard and listened. She heard something inside, then nothing. She knocked again, several times, and waited. There was a rattling sound, and then the door opened inwards. Maggie held out her laminated card once more. "Michelle Doyce?" she said. "Yes," said the woman. It was difficult for Maggie to define even to herself exactly what was strange about her. She was clean and her hair was brushed, but perhaps almost too brushed, like that of a small child who had wetted her hair and then combed it so that it lay flat over her head, thin enough to show the pale scalp beneath. Her face was smooth and pink, with a dusting of fuzzy hair. Her bright red lipstick extended just a little too far off her lips. She wore a baggy, faded, flowery dress. Maggie identified herself and held out the card. "I just wanted to check up on you, Michelle," she said. "See how you are. Are you all right? All right in yourself?" The woman nodded. "Can I come in?" said Maggie. "Can I check everything's OK?" She stepped inside and took out her notebook. As far as she could tell from a glance, Michelle seemed to be keeping herself clean. She looked as if she was eating. She was responsive. Still, something felt odd. She peered around in the shabby little anteroom of the flat. The contrast with the hallway of the house was impressive. Shoes were arranged in a row, a coat hung from a hook. There was a bucket with a mop leaning against the wall in the corner. "How long have you been here, Michelle?" The woman frowned. "Here?" she said. "A few days." The discharge form had said the fifth of January and today was the first day of February. Still, that sort of vagueness wasn't really surprising. As the two women stood there, Maggie became aware of a sound she couldn't quite place. It might be the hum of traffic, or a vacuum cleaner on the floor above, or a plane. It depended on how far away it was. There was a smell also, like food that had been left out too long. She looked up: the electricity was working. She should check whether Michelle had a fridge. But, by the look of her, she'd be all right for the time being. "Can I have a look round, Michelle?" she said. "Make sure everything's OK?" "You want to meet him?" said Michelle. Maggie was puzzled. There hadn't been anything on the form. "Have you got a friend?" she said. "I'd be happy to meet him." Michelle stepped forward and opened the door to what would have been the house's main back room, away from the street. Maggie followed her and immediately felt something on her face. At first, she thought it was dust. She thought of an Underground train coming, blowing the warm grit into her face. At the same time, the sound got louder, and she realized it wasn't dust but flies, a thick cloud of flies blowing against her face. For a few moments she was confused by the man sitting on the sofa. Her perceptions had slowed and become skewed, as if she were deep underwater or in a dream. Crazily, she wondered if he were wearing some sort of diving suit, a blue, marbled, slightly ruptured and torn diving suit, and she wondered why his eyes were yellow and cloudy. And then she started to fumble for her phone and she dropped it, and suddenly she couldn't make her fingers work, couldn't get them to pick the phone up from the grimy carpet, as she saw that it wasn't any kind of suit but his naked, swollen, rupturing flesh, and that he was dead. Long dead. Excerpted from Tuesday's Gone by Nicci French 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.