The Burning (Maeve Kerrigan Series #1)

The Burning (Maeve Kerrigan Series #1)

4.0 37
by Jane Casey

View All Available Formats & Editions

A determined young police constable goes it alone against an enigmatic killer and her bosses in a series debut for fans of Sophie Hannah and Tana French

The Burning Man. It’s the name the media has given a brutal murderer who has beaten four young women to death before setting their bodies ablaze in secluded areas of London’s parks. And

…  See more details below


A determined young police constable goes it alone against an enigmatic killer and her bosses in a series debut for fans of Sophie Hannah and Tana French

The Burning Man. It’s the name the media has given a brutal murderer who has beaten four young women to death before setting their bodies ablaze in secluded areas of London’s parks. And now there’s a fifth.

Maeve Kerrigan is an ambitious detective constable, keen to make her mark on the murder task force. Her male colleagues believe Maeve’s empathy makes her weak, but the more she learns about the latest victim, Rebecca Haworth, from her grieving friends and family, the more determined Maeve becomes to bring her murderer to justice. But how do you catch a killer no one has seen when so much of the evidence has gone up in smoke?

Maeve’s frenetic hunt for a killer in Jane Casey’s gripping series debut will entrance even the most jaded suspense readers.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Irish author Casey's impressive series debut, a taut serial killer thriller, delves deeply into the psyches of three women, each dealing with identity and self-esteem issues. Det. Constable Maeve Kerrigan is keen to prove her sleuthing skills to her male colleagues and bosses. In particular, she's anxious to join the task force investigating "the Burning Man," who has beaten four women to death, then set their bodies on fire in London parks. Maeve's investigation leads to Louise North, the best friend of Rebecca Haworth, the fifth victim. Casey expertly combines a perceptive crime drama with an insightful look at the women's overlapping problems. Maeve grapples at work with sexual harassment and prejudice against her Irish background, while the relationship with her banker boyfriend unravels at home. Frumpy Louise struggles with loneliness and an obsession with Rebecca, whose life was fraying before she was murdered. The strong, likable Maeve gives a power boost to a solid look at British police tactics. (Sept.)
Library Journal
Maeve Kerrigan, an ambitious junior detective constable with the London police, works as part of the team investigating a serial killer dubbed the Burning Man because he torches the bodies of the young women he murders. When a fifth victim, Rebecca Haworth, who doesn't quite fit the Burning Man's MO, is found, Maeve is sidelined from the main investigation and assigned to look into the latest victim's background. She discovers that Rebecca's past hides many secrets, and the possibility of a copycat murderer seems more likely as Maeve gathers evidence. VERDICT Told from the perspective of both Maeve and the victim's enigmatic best friend, Casey's (The Missing) excellent series debut features sophisticated plot development and intriguing characters. Maeve is especially engaging as an attractive woman in a male-dominated world with real empathy for the people she encounters. Fans of British crime thrillers by S.J. Bolton, Val McDermid, or Elizabeth George will look forward to more adventures with her. [Minotaur First Edition selection; library marketing.]—Lisa O'Hara, Univ. of Manitoba Libs., Winnipeg
Kirkus Reviews

A South London serial killer gets too much credit.

Between September and December of 2009, four vulnerable young women walking home alone at night are brutally savaged, then set alight. DC Maeve Kerrigan, the only lass assigned to Operation Mandrake to bring "the Burning Man" to justice, is tasked with following up on the murder of a fifth victim, Rebecca Haworth. Unfortunately, when Maeve arrives at Rebecca's digs, Louise North is already there scrubbing the rooms clean. Her oldest friend, she says, was a tad messy, and she's been picking up after her since their years at Oxford. She points Maeve toward Rebecca's former boyfriend, the abusive Gil Maddick, as a possible suspect. Her apparently surprising idea makes sense because not everything about Rebecca's murder jibes with the burning man's M.O. Chief Superintendent Godley encourages Maeve to delve into Rebecca's past, which includes a cocaine addiction, a touch of blackmail and an obsession with a young man who drowned at Oxford. But matters come to an abrupt halt when a stakeout lands Maeve in the hospital with a fractured skull, her death averted only by the quick action of DC Rob Langton. As she heals, her feelings for Rob deepen. So does her belief in what and who really caused Rebecca's demise.

Casey (The Missing,2010) excels at precinct backbiting, sexism and romance. She's less surefooted at winding up her plot, resorting to a major and unlikely confession.

From the Publisher

“Irish author Casey's impressive series debut, a taut serial-killer thriller, delves deeply into the psyches of three women. . . . Casey expertly combines a perceptive crime drama with an insightful look at the women's overlapping problems.” —Publishers Weekly

“Casey deftly . . . cranks up the tension and pace, blending a page-turning and realistic police procedural with a tense character study reminiscent of Patricia Highsmith's psychological explorations.” —Sunday Independent (Ireland) on The Burning

Read More

Product Details

St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
Maeve Kerrigan Series, #1
Product dimensions:
6.52(w) x 9.34(h) x 1.18(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Burning

We certainty of death is attended with uncertainties, in time, manner, places.

-Sir Thomas Browne, Urn Burial

Bodies recovered from fires present similar problems of investigation to bodies recovered from water. In both instances the integration of information obtained from the examination of the scene, the examination of the body, and the history of the decedent, is particularly important.

-Derrick J Pounder

She should have gone home with the others.

Kelly Staples stared at her reflection in the cracked and spotted mirror, trying to make sense of what she saw. Surely that wasn’t her face squinting back. Mascara had smeared under her eyes, leaving shadowy smudges speckled with tiny flecks of black that wouldn’t come off no matter how she rubbed at them. The remnants of her foundation were caked around her nose and across her forehead, where her skin looked dry. Her face was red and she had a spot on her chin that she was sure hadn’t been there when she was getting ready to go out. Her mouth was slack and wet, and there was something on her top …With a huge effort Kelly bent her head to inspect the damage. Wine, she thought hazily. She had tipped red wine down her front. She vaguely remembered laughing hysterically, holding the wet material away from her, offering someone—a man she’d never met before—the chance to suck it, so as not to waste it, before Faye dragged her away from him, muttering crossly in her ear about behaving herself. But as Kelly had pointed out, or tried to, tonight was all about not behaving  herself. Out with the girls for an evening of freedom, a pub crawl in Richmond. Dolled up, tanked up, ready for a laugh. It was getting near the end of term; they’d needed a break, all of them. Especially her, since she’d broken up with PJ three weeks before. Or, to be precise, he’d broken up with her. Two years they’d been together, and he’d thrown it all away to chase after Vanessa Cobbet, the fat slapper. A tear slid down Kelly’s face,

gliding through what was left of her make-up.

They’d started with white wine at home, getting ready, and Kelly had had a few glasses. Giddy with nerves, she’d needed it. And it had got the evening off to a good start.

The room behind her rocked and swayed. Kelly shut her eyes, leaning heavily on the sink as she waited to feel better. She had been sick already; she had thought it might help if she was sick. Behind her, a cubicle door banged. A bony middle-aged woman slipped past her with a sidelong look that said you’re too young to be in that sort of state. Kelly thought, but wasn’t confident enough to say, yeah, well you’re too old to be in here in the first place.

The toilets were cramped, two cubicles and two sinks squeezed into a narrow corner of the pub, reeking of aggressive air freshener and the sour-sweet smell of vomited wine—that was Kelly’s contribution. The fixtures dated the last redesign to the eighties if not before: pink porcelain fittings and pink-and-brown floral curtains that hung limply at the frosted window. The rest of the pub wasn’t much better, though the dim lighting hid most of the damage at night. The Jolly Boatman had seen better days, as had most of the clientele, but it was busy nonetheless, crowded with drinkers. The pubs by the river were all busy; it was Thursday night, the unofficial start to the weekend, and everyone was out to have a good time, including Kelly. But it had all gone wrong, somewhere along the way. The others had left, she remembered woozily, telling her to get a taxi when she was ready to come home. She’d been dancing with someone, a lad she didn’t know, and Faye had tried to persuade her to leave but she’d refused. It had seemed to make sense then. It was her turn, her chance to have fun. They’d taken her at her word and left her. Kelly couldn’t understand why she’d let them.

‘I’m pissed,’ she said out loud, trying to make eye contact with the bleary figure in the mirror. ‘I need to go home.’

The contents of her handbag had spilt into the basin in front of her.

It seemed to take an extraordinarily long time to collect everything up again; her hands were clumsy and there were so many things—a pen, make-up, her keys, a bus ticket, some loose change—three cigarettes that had fallen out of their packet and were splotched with damp from the sink. The lid had come off a tube of lip gloss and as Kelly fumbled to pick it up sticky red goo smeared across the pink porcelain. It looked, for a moment, like blood.

The noise and heat hit her with a physical shock when she pulled open the door and she faltered a little, trying to remember which way she needed to go. The door to the outside world was to the left, she vaguely recalled, and set herself to push through the crowd. She was walking tall, acting sober, shoulders pulled well back and head up. It fooled no one except Kelly herself.

The crowd was thicker around the door, with smokers coming and going from the terrace that overlooked the water.

‘Excuse me,’ Kelly mumbled, trying and failing to shoulder past a heavyset man who didn’t seem to hear her or notice her cannoning into his back.

‘Need a minicab, love? Let me give you a hand,’ said a voice in her ear as an arm snaked around her waist. ‘Time to go home, young lady.’

Without consciously agreeing, she found herself making progress, guided skillfully and swiftly through the throng until they reached the chill of outside air. It was a clear night, still and cold, and the frost was already starting to bite.

She turned then, ready to thank her rescuer, and found herself looking at a stranger, a man her father’s age or older. Kelly struggled to focus as the man’s face swooped up and down in front of her. There were rimless glasses, and hair that was surely too dark to be natural, and a moustache over a mouth that smiled, that moved, that was saying where do you live my cab is just around the corner why don’t you come with me and I’ll see you home it’s no trouble it’s not far I don’t have anything better to do give me your bag that’s the girl are these your keys I’ll take care of you don’t you worry. You don’t want to be out on your own not at the moment not safe is it?

Somehow, Kelly found herself following the man obediently. She wanted to take her bag back and find her own way home, but it seemed easier to go along with him. Her feet were hurting for one thing; the platform boots that had looked so glamorous before she left the house were pinching her toes and rubbing her heels, and the one on the right was squeezing her calf. They were far too high for a long walk home. And he was right; it probably wasn’t safe to be out on her own.

The man was nice, Kelly thought hazily. He was polite, well mannered, thoughtful. Older men were, weren’t they? They knew how to be gentlemen. PJ had never held her hand. PJ had never opened the car door for her and waited to close it after she sat down (a little heavily, truth be told, but then again he was a perfect gentleman and stared into the distance rather than at her skirt where it had ridden up). She usually got into the back when she took a taxi, but he’d opened the front passenger door and she didn’t want to be rude.

He got in and started the engine, then helped her with her seat belt before he drove off. He revved the engine unnecessarily so the sound bounced off the buildings either side of the road.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Kelly asked, pushing her luck, and was surprised when he nodded. The car smelled of mint and pine air freshener, two strong scents that didn’t quite manage to disguise the tang of petrol, as if he’d spilt some on his shoes the last time he’d filled up. He wasn’t a smoker, she guessed. But he’d agreed to it; he couldn’t mind that much.

The only dry fag in the packet was the lucky one, the last one, the one Kelly always turned upside down when she opened a new pack so it stood out, a little white soldier standing proud beside the light-brown filter tips of the others. She fitted it between her lips and cupped her hands around the flame of her lighter, shielding herself automatically from a wind that wasn’t there. She had the lighter turned up too high;

it nearly took her fringe off.

‘Fuck.’ She blinked a few times, dazzled, then shot a guilty look at the stranger. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t swear.’

He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me. What’s your name?’

‘Kelly.’ She flipped down the visor and inspected herself in the mirror, fluffing her fringe. ‘What’s your name?’

He hesitated for a second. ‘Dan.’

‘Where are you from, Dan? Birmingham?’ It was a Midlands accent, she’d thought, but he shook his head.

‘Round here.’

‘Oh yeah?’

He nodded, his eyes on the road. Kelly looked out too, peering at the shops they were passing. She frowned.

‘This isn’t the way.’

He didn’t answer.

‘This isn’t the way,’ she said again, embarrassed to be complaining when he was being so helpful. ‘You’ve gone wrong. It was left back there, not straight on.’

‘This is a better way.’

‘It isn’t,’ Kelly said, nettled. ‘I should know how to get to my own house.’

The only response she got was a change of gear as he accelerated.

‘Hey,’ she said, warning in her voice as she braced one hand against the dashboard, the surface gritty with accumulated dirt. ‘Take it easy.’

The car bounced down the road, going a little bit too fast for her liking. He looked nervous, she thought, blinking hard, trying to focus. His lips were chapped, and every so often he passed his tongue over them. It made Kelly’s lips feel dry and she had to stop herself from doing the same. All of a sudden she felt cold, and cold sober too, the fog of

alcohol lifting but leaving fear in its place. What had she done? All the times her mother had warned her not to trust strangers and here she was in a car with a man she’d never wet before, going who knows where on a dark Thursday night. There was someone killing young women, she’d seen the headline in her dad’s paper. Four girls dead, dumped and burned. Girls like her. The police hadn’t a clue who the killer was, or how to catch him. He was on the loose, preying on vulnerable women out on their own. Even Kelly, who never paid much attention to the news, had heard about him. It wasn’t late;  here were still people out on the streets, but Kelly had never felt so alone.

‘Listen, why don’t you let me out here? I’d rather walk if it’s all the

same to you.’

‘Just relax.’

The car purred to a stop at traffic lights. Kelly ran her hand over the

door beside her, looking for the handle.

‘It’s broken,’ he said without looking around. ‘You can only open it from the outside. Now sit tight and stop making such a fuss.’

‘I want to get out.’ Her voice had risen, a raw edge of hysteria to it that

made the driver wince.

‘Calm down, would you. I’ll stop and let you out if that’s what you want.’ He turned into a narrow residential street that was lined with parked cars. ‘Nowhere to pull in. Let’s see what’s down here.’

‘Down here’ was an alley between gardens, a dead end that wasn’t overlooked, Kelly realised, her heart thumping. She felt as if it was going to burst out of her chest. The car slowed to a stop.

‘What’s going on? Why are you stopping?’

‘I thought you wanted to get out. I’ll let you out.’ He turned off the engine, then the lights, and the night closed in around them. Kelly could only see a silhouette beside her. Her nostrils flared, picking up the minty smell and the faintest whiff of petrol again, and she thought of the girls lying where they’d been dumped, of their bodies burning, of the newspaper headlines that talked about the Burning Man, and she heard him move and couldn’t tell if he was reaching towards her in the dark car and without thinking, without even being aware that she’d moved, she reached down and slipped out the knife her little brother had given her, the one he took to school in case he got into a fight, the one that had been digging into her ankle for hours, the flick knife with the narrow blade and the wicked sharp point, and there wasn’t even enough light to catch the edge of the blade as she swung with it in her left hand, aiming low, aiming for the soft part below the ribcage but above the belt, and he didn’t have time to react at all before the knife was in him and out again and slipping back into him though he tried to grab the blade that time when Kelly pulled it out and the knife was dark now, and wet, and the man was  whimpering, and she could smell him and smell blood—it was like a butcher’s shop on a hot day, that sweetish reek—and he’d pissed himself and she was screaming, she realised, her heart pounding as loud as a drum so she couldn’t even hear what she was saying. But she was still saying it as she scrambled over the seat into the back of the car and fumbled for the door handle and flung herself out, acting on instinct, her hands, all covered with blood, smearing along the paintwork, her knees buckling as she tried to run in her stupid boots, her sore feet forgotten. She was still saying it under her breath as he hobbled down the alley towards the houses, towards help, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs as if it was edged with rusty teeth. It was what she said to the woman who came to the door and screamed at the sight of her, and what she said to the police who responded to the 999 call, and what she said to the doctors and nurses later on at the hospital, when she was being examined. It was the one thing she was sure of, the

thing that had kept her alive.

‘Not me. I don’t want to be the next one. Not me. Not me.’

Copyright © 2011 by Jane Casey

Read More

Meet the Author

JANE CASEY was born and raised in Dublin. A graduate of Oxford with a M. Phil from Trinity College, Dublin, she lives in London where she works as an editor. This is her second novel.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >