Title: Forgotten Ones
Author: Brian McGilloway
From the NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author of LITTLE GIRL LOST comes a brand-new thriller featuring Lucy Black – a twisting, gripping story of secrets and lies, perfect for fans of LOUISE PENNY and TANA FRENCH. The body of an elderly man is hauled out of the rushing water of the River Foyle, cold dead. Detective Lucy Black is called in to investigate when it becomes evident that this was not a suicide: the man’s body was embalmed before it ever entered the water. Confounded and exhausted, Lucy heads home to review the case in quiet; but there will be no rest for her tonight. She’s barely in the front door when a neighbor knocks because his wife’s sister has been attacked and they need her help. As a string of strange crimes is unspooled throughout the city, Lucy is pulled in countless different directions… until she realizes there may be something dark and dangerous connecting everything. Soulful and suspenseful, featuring one of the most appealing characters in suspense fiction, THE FORGOTTEN ONES is a novel to take your breath away.
Brian McGilloway was born in Derry, Northern Ireland. After studying English at Queen’s University, Belfast, he took up a teaching position in St Columb’s College in Derry, where he was Head of English. His first novel, Borderlands, published by Macmillan New Writing, was shortlisted for the CWA New Blood Dagger 2007 and was hailed by The Times as “one of (2007’s) most impressive debuts.” The second novel in the series, Gallows Lane, was shortlisted for the 2009 Irish Book Awards/Ireland AM Crime Novel of the Year. The third Devlin, Bleed a River Deep, was selected by Publishers Weekly as one of their Best Books of 2010. He is the author of the New York Times bestselling Lucy Black series, all to be published by Witness. Brian lives near the Irish borderlands with his wife and their four children.
Gransha Hospital, in whose secure unit her father had been placed, sat on the outskirts of Derry city, alongside the River Foyle, nestled in the shadow of the Foyle Bridge. The bridge, a kilometer-long structure, had been designed with an arch high enough over the river to allow access for ships to pass under in order to reach the city docks. However, soon after completion, the docks were then moved north of the bridge, and the majestic arch’s function became purely aesthetic.
The height of the bridge made it a frequent spot for suicide attempts in the city. In the previous decades, over five hundred people had already lost their lives to the river, more than ninety from the Foyle Bridge alone. If there was a body in the water so close to the bridge, Lucy felt fairly certain that it was as a result of a suicide jump.
She went with the orderly, down from the block in which her father was being held, cutting across the grounds, onto the field running down to the train tracks along the river’s edge. She pulled out her mobile and called the sighting in to the Strand Road station as she ran. Doing so would not only alert the Police Service of Northern Ireland, but, more importantly, also Foyle Search and Rescue, a charity group in the city, made up of volunteers who patrolled the river and assisted in recovery operations. That the city needed such an organization was a reflection of the frequency with which people went in the river.
As they approached the river’s edge, she could see a group had already gathered, most dressed in either blue or white scrubs, suggesting that they were staff from the hospital. The air was heavy with the stench from the water, the odor of the exposed sediment banks along the river’s edge having built all day, ballooning in the intense heat. Even now, despite the fact it was past nine, the evening was still humid enough that the effort of jogging down through the field had caused Lucy to sweat.
The orderly led her through, pushing those gathered aside, announcing that she was “the police.”
Lucy scanned the water, the glare of the evening light shattering on its surface, forcing her to shield her eyes with her hand.
“There,” the orderly said, pointing up to her left.
She followed the line of his arm and finally saw the arm and head of a man breaching the river.
“Hello. Can you hear me?” she called, but there was no response save the rhythmic rise and fall of the man’s arm on the water, as if the river itself were drawing breath.