"I enjoy Lee Child, Robert Crais, Tess Gerritson. So I think Keith Dixon is up there with the greats."- Amazon Reviewer
"He said, ‘Let’s be clear: there are two things that I want to come out of this. First, I want to be sure I’m being followed. Secondly, I want to know by whom. Do we understand each other?’"
How difficult could this case be?
Private investigator Sam Dyke soon learns, however, that Frank Wallace, the client, hasn’t revealed the whole truth. And in the world of secret intelligence in which Wallace has earned his living for the last forty years, it’s probable the truth has rarely seen the light of day.
Dyke travels into London and out of his comfort zone, soon finding himself tangled in a web of deceit in which Government Intelligence services, mysterious blondes, private security firms and vintage Blues music are all bound together. Only he can clear a path through to find out what everyone really wants—and not just what they say they want.
Sam Dyke is a private investigator from a working-class environment who works amongst the wealthy and privileged of the Cheshire set—those whose morals and levels of discretion are offensive to him and go against his own values, forged in a strong family environment. The mysteries he unravels become personal crusades against entitlement, wealth and the abuse of power. Although he doesn’t moralise, he gets angry when he sees people who lie, steal and murder to get their way. Like Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade he has a clear view of what the world is actually like, but he nevertheless wants evil-doers set straight and will do what he can to help.
The Strange Girl, the last Sam Dyke thriller, was described as ‘diverting’ by trade bible The Bookseller, with Sam Dyke being ‘Crewe’s answer to Philip Marlowe’. The Secret Sharers is the latest exciting instalment in this action-packed series.
The Secret Sharers is number six in the Sam Dyke Investigations series. It's sales have slowly increased so that it's selling about a dozen copies a month.
THERE WAS A MAN sitting in my office at nine o’clock that morning, and there were two things wrong with this picture.
First, he was sitting in my chair. And second, I’d locked the office door the previous night.
He added a third wrong thing by lying about it: ‘Hope you don’t mind, the door was open.’
He was a respectable-looking geezer somewhere in his sixties with a long, serious face and wearing a country gentleman’s outfit—a green Barbour jacket, a grey flat cap, and, poking out from under my desk, a pair of solid brown shoes, probably by Church. There was a thin walnut cane leaning against the desk. My desk. His eyes were steady and there was a slightly challenging air about the way he reclined in the seat and waited for my response.
I came into the room and closed the door and considered putting my hands on my hips to show how offended I was.
I said, ‘If you’re selling subscriptions to Country Life, I have to tell you I sold my horse and hounds pack last year. Couldn’t afford all that raw meat.’
He grinned. ‘I knew you were a witty man. When I read that interview with you in the Manchester Evening News I could tell you had a sense of humour.’
A few months ago I’d been involved in preventing a frustrated ideologue carry out a plan to gas commuters in Piccadilly Station in Manchester. My punishment had been a certain amount of notoriety for a week, including the kind of media exposure that you think is going to be good for business but never is. The public have such short memories.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
|
French
|
Unavailable for translation.
|
|
Spanish
|
Already translated.
Translated by Lawrence Loebe
|
|
|
Author review: Lawrence was great to work with - very responsive and very quick to complete the translation. He takes the work very seriously and will give you an excellent finished product. |
