A field of corpses, laid out in a macabre display...A serial killer who confounds even the most seasoned profilers...A doctor whose life has been shattered by crime--plunged into the heart of a shocking investigation... In this masterful new novel by Simon Beckett, #1 internationally bestselling author of Written in Bone and The Chemistry of Death, forensic anthropologist David Hunter is thrust into his first murder investigation on U.S. soil--and his most devastating case yet.

In the heat of a Tennessee summer, Dr. Hunter has come to Knoxville's legendary "Body Farm"--the infamous field laboratory where law enforcement personnel study real corpses--to escape London and the violence that nearly destroyed his life. He's also here to find out if he's still up to the job of sorting through death in all its strange and terrible forms.... Hunter will soon find his answer when he's called to a crime scene in a remote Smoky Mountain cabin--a scene as grisly as it is bizarre.

The body is taped to a table. Everything about the crime scene--the wounds, the decomposition, the microscopic evidence--quickly short-circuits the tools and methods of forensic experts. Within days, Hunter knows he's dealing with a serial killer, someone intimately familiar with the intricacies of forensics. All around him, egos and hierarchies clash--from the boasts of a renowned criminal profiler to the dogged work of a young female investigator--but fate keeps pushing Hunter further into the heart of the manhunt. And the killer keeps coming up with surprises: booby-trapping corpses, faking times of death, swapping bodies--finally turning his sights on after Hunter himself....

An electrifying race against time, a fascinating journey into the world of forensic science, and a terrifying portrait of a killer in love with death itself, Whispers of the Dead is a thriller of the highest order.

From the Hardcover edition.

Skin.

The largest human organ, it is also the most overlooked. Accounting for an eighth of the entire body mass, on an average adult it covers an area of approximately two square metres. Structurally skin is a work of art, a nest of capillaries, glands and nerves that both regulates and protects. It is our sensory interface with the outside world, the barrier at which our individuality--our self--ends.

And even in death, something of that individuality remains.

When the body dies, the enzymes that life has held in check run amok. They devour cell walls, causing the liquid contents to escape. The fluid rises to the surface, gathering below the dermal layers and causing them to loosen. Skin and body, until now two integral parts of the whole, begin to separate. Blisters form. Whole swathes begin to slip, sloughing off the body like an unwanted coat on a summer's day.

But, even dead and discarded, skin retains traces of its former self. Even now it can still have a story to tell, and secrets to keep.

Provided you know how to look.

Earl Bateman lay on his back, face turned to the sun. Overhead, birds wheeled in the blue Tennessee sky, cloudless but for the slowly dispersing vapour trail of a jet. Earl had always enjoyed the sun. Enjoyed the sting of it on his skin after a long day's fishing, enjoyed the way its brightness lent a new look to whatever it touched. There was no shortage of sun in Tennessee, but Earl came originally from Chicago, and the cold winters there had left a permanent chill in his bones.

When he'd moved to Memphis back in the seventies, he'd found the swampy humidity far more to his liking than the windy streets of his home city. Of course, as a dentist in a small practice, with a young wife and two small children to keep, he didn't spend as much time out in it as he might have liked. But it was there, all the same. He even liked the sweltering heat of Tennessean summers, when the breeze would feel like a hot flannel, and the evenings were spent in the airless swelter of the cramped apartment he and Kate shared with the boys.

Things had changed, since then. The dental practice had flourished, and the apartment had long since given way to bigger and better things. Two years before, he and Kate had moved into a new five-bedroomed house in a good neighbourhood, with a wide, rich green lawn where the growing brood of grandchildren could safely play, and the early morning sunshine would shatter into miniature rainbows in the fine spray from the water-sprinkler.

It had been on the lawn, sweating and cursing as he'd struggled to saw off a dead branch from the big old laburnum, that he'd had the heart attack. He'd left the saw still trapped in the tree limb and managed to take a few faltering steps towards the house before the pain had felled him.

In the ambulance, with an oxygen mask strapped over his face, he had held tightly on to Kate's hand and tried to smile to reassure her. At the hospital there had been the usual urgent ballet of medical staff, the frantic unsheathing of needles and beeping of machines. It had been a relief when they'd eventually fallen silent. A short time later, after the necessary forms had been signed, the inevitable bureaucracy that accompanies each of us from birth, Earl had been released.

Now he was stretched out in the spring sun. He was naked, lying on a low wooden frame that was raised off the carpet of meadow grass and leaves. He'd been here for over a week, long enough for the flesh to have melted away, exposing bone and cartilage under the mummified skin. Wisps of hair still clung to the back of his skull, from which empty eye sockets...

 

"Beckett ratchets up the suspense ... and keeps the tension taut to the end with a late twist. Whispers of the Dead reinforces the author's place in the front rank of forensic crime novelists."

 

Simon Beckett is the author of The Chemistry of Death and Written in Bone. He lives in England, where he is at work on his next thriller featuring Dr. David Hunter.

From the Hardcover...