Until Amy Is Found - Kerr, Mo
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A diverse, twisty and unpredictable collection of stories that will keep devotees of domestic noir turning pages long into the night. If it's murder, mystery and psychological spills and thrills you want, these are the stories for you. "This is Patricia Highsmith at her most twisted. Shirley Jackson spinning in the shadows..." "Full of fast-paced, gripping unnerving and emotion-filled tales written with real verve..." observes Toby Litt. Extract: The first time was three years ago, the day after I moved into my flat in Cemetery Road. It was cold and blustery with heavy rain starting to ease…mehr

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A diverse, twisty and unpredictable collection of stories that will keep devotees of domestic noir turning pages long into the night. If it's murder, mystery and psychological spills and thrills you want, these are the stories for you. "This is Patricia Highsmith at her most twisted. Shirley Jackson spinning in the shadows..." "Full of fast-paced, gripping unnerving and emotion-filled tales written with real verve..." observes Toby Litt. Extract: The first time was three years ago, the day after I moved into my flat in Cemetery Road. It was cold and blustery with heavy rain starting to ease off. From my bachelor pad on the fourth floor, I watched her carefully arranging fresh flowers in a vase on a gleaming white marble grave that stood out amidst hundreds of other graves whose headstones were barnacled, mossy and leaning drunkenly. Her task complete, the woman dressed in black with a black umbrella that was endeavouring to take flight, stood by the side of the graved for the best of an hour. It was a strange sight, that lone figure on the hillside, high above the rising rows of graves, the small seaside town of Seaton way down below. I supposed her to be a grief-stricken widow. But when I saw her every week, at the same time in the same place, I became intrigued. Every Saturday morning, at eleven, she arrived by cab. Leaving the driver waiting outside the cemetery gates she would make her way up the steep slope to the white grave that stood sheltered by a sentinel yew. After removing week-old flowers, depositing them in a bin, she would arrange fresh flowers. And always, always afterwards, was that long vigil. One Sunday morning, I went to take a look. I might have waited for a better day. There was swirling fog, the air raw and damp. Keening wind buffeting me, I stopped to catch my breath. The fog lifted and no more than a few yards ahead, I saw the white grave, its headstone surmounted by a sleeping angel.