Adrian McKinty: Hidden River

Adrian McKintywas born and grew up in Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland, at the height of the Troubles. He studied politics at Oxford University and after a failed law career he moved to New York City in the early 1990s. He found work as a security guard, postman, door-to-door salesman, construction worker, barman, rugby coach, book-store clerk and librarian. He now lives in Colorado with his wife and daughter.

Serpent’s Tail also publishes Adrian McKinty’s Dead I Well May Be and The Dead Yard .

“[A] terrific read… this is a strong, non-stop story, with attractive characters and fine writing” Morning Star

“This is genuinely hard to put down until its conclusion is reached” Buzz

“Fast-paced thriller… McKinty’s short, sharp delivery manages to make Hidden River an engaging read” Big Issue

“From an impressive debut to a rock-solid second, neither will disappoint and I am seriously looking forward to number three” The Barcelona Review

“A dark, lyrical and gripping voice that will go far” The List

“A darkly thrilling tale of the New York streets with all the hard-boiled charm of Chandler and the down and dirty authenticity of closing time… Evocative dialogue, an acute sense of place and a sardonic sense of humour make McKinty one to watch” Maxim Jakubowski, Guardian

“The story is soaked in the holy trinity of the noir thriller — betrayal, money and murder — but seen through here with a panache and political awareness that gives Dead I Well May Be a keen edge over its rivals” Big Issue

“Adrian McKinty’s main skill is in cleverly managing to evoke someone rising through the ranks and wreaking bloody revenge while making it all seem like an event that could happen to any decent, hardworking Irish chap. A dark, lyrical and gripping voice that will go far” The List

“A roller coaster of highs and lows, light humour and dark deeds… Once you step into Hidden River , the powerful undercurrent of McKinty’s talent will swiftly drag you away. Let’s hope this author does not slow down anytime soon” Irish Examiner

“Adrian McKinty is a big new talent — for storytelling, for dialogue and for creating believable characters… Dead I Well May Be is a riveting story of revenge and marks the arrival of a distinctive fresh voice” Susanna Yager, Sunday Telegraph

“A pacy, assured and thoroughly engaging debut… this is a hard-boiled crime story written by a gifted man with poetry coursing through his veins and thrilling writing dripping from his fingertips” Sunday Independent

“ Dead I Well May Be is a startling, dark poem of a thriller that takes you to the heart of New York City’s most bloody era. McKinty writes with élan, and his dialogue is as hard and true as the streets. His hero’s quest for vengeance and redemption kept me reading into the loneliest hours of the night. McKinty is the real deal” Thomas Kelly, author of The Rackets and Payback

“McKinty’s Michael Forsythe is a crook, a deviant, a lover, a fighter, and a thinker. His Irish-tough language of isolation and longing makes us love and trust him despite his oh-so-great and violent flaws. When you finish this book you just might wish you’d lived the life in its pages, and thought its thoughts, both horrible and sublime” Anthony Swofford, author of Jarhead

“McKinty is a cross between Mickey Spillane and Damon Runyon — the toughest, the best. Beware of McKinty” Frank McCourt

Seven time zones west of Belfast the murdered girl was alive yet and well. She was confident, popular, young and clever — this last virtue was going to be the death of her.

That and a slug from a.22.

She lay snug in the groove of the futon mattress. Over her: a cotton sheet and a fleece blanket. The fan on for noise. The humidifier for moisture. The heat in the middle of the thermostat. She was comfortable, as comfortable as one could be in this bed, in this room, in this building, in this town.

I know all this because I read the police report.

Perhaps the humidifier cast off a little light that illuminated her face. An interesting face. Imperious, marked, beautiful. Of good background, of good stock. Actually — and although she said it was unimportant — of good caste. She had dark eyes and dark hair. An aristocrat, you might have said, or someone who could play the archetypal rich girl who disdains and then ultimately falls for the poor but handsome boy in the silliest of Hindi films.

Victoria Patawasti was clever but even the cleverest can’t be experts at all things. The encryption software for her computer diary had said that the FBI’s Cray supercomputers would take years of processing time to break her password; all that she wrote would be safe, certainly from office gossips or other ne’er-do-wells. Of course, the encryption software meant nothing if the password wasn’t secure. But who would ever think of a long word like Carrickfergus —the small town where she’d grown up, in Ireland.

She had confided everything to her computer diary: her thoughts, her ideas, her suspicions. Suspicions. What a big word. Probably nothing she should worry about. Klimmer had been right. Not the sort of thing that should keep her up at night.

Not the sort of thing that would get her killed.

She lived in Denver, where the mountains met the plains in the middle of the continent and where seemingly all climatic conditions were possible within one twenty-four-hour period. She hailed from a place where the moderating currents of the Gulf Stream turned every day into a hazy rain, warm and temperate, even in winter. A place of fog and sea spray and men with flat caps; cows, sheep, stone walls, muck, slurry, more rain. The weather as predictable as bad news.

Even where her grandparents lived, in Allahabad, India, on the rolling brown plain along the Ganges, it wasn’t hard to guess what the day would be like. Hot and dry nine months a year, hot and wet three. No mystery. Here, though, things were different. The mountains brought down snow and the deserts kicked up sand and the wide expanse of prairie could conjure up just about anything. They’d had drought for years, drought punctuated by big storms. Drive a few hours east and apparently a tornado could transport you to the wonderful land of Oz. Yes, here weather was weather, and thunderstorms and ball lightning and rains of frogs all seemed as likely to occur as anything else.

Perhaps she woke for a time. She told her mother she woke five or six times a night, having never really adapted to the wooden futon bed or the altitude or the aridity. Tonight it would actually be good that she was awake, she had only had about thirty minutes of consciousness left. Better to make the most of it.

She could have read the book next to her bed. Kerouac. Or she could have pulled on the toggle on the furry musical sheep that Hans Klimmer had given her. It played “Beautiful Dreamer” over and over and as it slowed and stopped perhaps she yawned and threw it on the floor.