Detective Chief Inspector Mark Lapslie and Sergeant Emma Bradbury are back in an electrifyingly suspenseful new novel, chasing down one of the most fearsome, brilliantly terrifying characters to ever stalk the pages of a book.   After a year of working at home in order to control his synaesthesia (the rare neurological condition that causes his brain to crosswire his senses), DCI Lapslie gets a visit from Emma Bradbury, summoning him back to active duty. A well-known television reporter has been brutally murdered and the top brass think Lapslie is the man to investigate the crime. With no witnesses and no suspects, Lapslie finds himself facing one of the toughest cases of his career. Then, in short order, he has a second murder on his hands: a man is found dead in a train-station bomb explosion. Despite all odds, Lapslie begins to suspect that the two high-profile cases may be connected. Under pressure to produce results and with the media bearing down on him and his synaesthesia going wild, Lapslie approaches his breaking point, but the solution to what’s beginning to look like the crimes of an especially evil—and diabolically creative—serial killer remains elusive. To make matters worse, the killer’s next target may be much closer than Lapslie could possibly guess. DCI Mark Lapslie suffers from synaethesia, a rare neurological disorder that causes him to perceive sounds as overpowering tastes. The condition has worsened with time. (Odd noises in the walls of Lapslie’s cottage taste like “lime juice and rotted walnuts.”) Owing to his need for quiet, his wife and kids have moved out, and his superior may be trying to force his resignation. So leading the investigation into the grisly torture murder of a TV newsreader and a bomb explosion at a railway station may end his career and his meaningful life. As his investigations proceed, he begins to “hear” odors, and he also realizes that his dissimilar cases are connected. Lapslie is searching for a serial killer whose modus operandi is to have no pattern to his crimes. Initially, this setup seems a bit fanciful, but McCrery, a successful screenwriter, novelist, and former cop, ultimately makes it work, and the parallels between Lapslie and his quarry are intriguing. --Thomas Gaughan Praise for Still Waters   “Creepy, menacing, and downright frightening . . . A page-turner teeming with tension.” —Baltimore Sun   “McCrery’s stellar thriller starts with a gruesome bang.” — Entertainment Weekly   “Chilling . . . Violet Chambers is the dark side of Miss Marple.” — Los Angeles Times Book Review   “This exquisitely macabre mystery will keep you firmly planted until the last page is turned.” — Milwaukee Journal Sentinel   “First-rate entertainment . . . Still Waters is no garden-variety mystery. From its breathtakingly brutal prologue to its horrifying revelation of responsibility, it will leave you marveling at McCrery’s storytelling skills.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch Nigel McCrery was a police officer in the British Murder Squad, working on several murder inquiries, before attending Cambridge University. He is the author of Still Waters and of many other novels, including the Dr. Samantha Ryan mysteries, and the creator of the television drama series Silent Witness and Old Dog, New Tricks. He lives in London. PROLOGUE   ‘Tip your head back and open your mouth.’   The voice was cultured, smooth, devoid of any obvious emotion. No anger, no hatred, no lust. Just the faintest tinge of academic curiosity; nothing else.   He shook his head. ‘Please,’ he begged, his voice cracking, ‘I don’t—’   ‘I said, tip your head back and open your mouth.’   He could smell alcohol on his captor’s breath. The blindfold around his eyes meant he couldn’t see what was happening, so when fingers entwined themselves in his hair and pulled his head back until his face was pointed up towards the ceiling, he gasped in shock at the pain. His hair felt as if it was being pulled out by the roots. While that hand was still entangling his hair, another one took his chin and forced his mouth open. It let go, but before he could close his mouth something was pushed past his teeth: something that felt like a dental dam of some kind, a plastic plate with a hole in the centre, too rigid for him to crush between the roof of his mouth and his tongue. It kept his mouth gaping open in a silent, frozen scream. He wanted to fight against it, to push his captor away and rip the thing from his mouth, but his arms were tied to the chair and he couldn’t move.   His breath came in ragged gasps past the obstruction in his mouth. He wanted to gag. The insides of his cheeks and tongue were drying out as his saliva evaporated. Tears squeezed their way out of his closed eyelids and prickled their way down past his temples and into his hair. He felt a hot flush of shame across his skin. He wanted to be strong but helplessness made him feel faint.   ‘I’m going to put something into your mouth,’ th