Mystery
![Russ Thomas - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_russ_thomas.jpg)
Firewatching (A Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler Novel)
"A pitch-perfect blend of the best of the old and the best of the new--all the traditional strengths and charms are here, with a fresh and relevant twenty first-century edge. I loved it."--Lee Child
A taut and ambitious police procedural debut introducing Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler, a cold case reviewer who lands a high-profile murder investigation, only to find the main suspect is his recent one-night stand . . .
When financier Gerald Cartwright disappeared from his home six years ago, it was assumed he'd gone on the run from his creditors. But then a skeleton is found bricked up in the cellar of Cartwright's burned-out mansion, and it becomes clear Gerald never left alive.
As the sole representative of South Yorkshire's Cold Case Review Unit, Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler is not expected to get results, but he knows this is the case that might finally kick start his floundering career. Luckily, he already has a suspect. Unluckily, that suspect is Cartwright's son, the man Tyler slept with the night before.
Keeping his possible conflict-of-interest under wraps, Tyler digs into the case alongside Amina Rabbani, an ambitious young Muslim constable and a fellow outsider seeking to prove herself on the force. Soon their investigation will come up against close-lipped townsfolk, an elderly woman with dementia who's receiving mysterious threats referencing a past she can't remember, and an escalating series of conflagrations set by a troubled soul intent on watching the world burn . . .
A taut and ambitious police procedural debut introducing Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler, a cold case reviewer who lands a high-profile murder investigation, only to find the main suspect is his recent one-night stand . . .
When financier Gerald Cartwright disappeared from his home six years ago, it was assumed he'd gone on the run from his creditors. But then a skeleton is found bricked up in the cellar of Cartwright's burned-out mansion, and it becomes clear Gerald never left alive.
As the sole representative of South Yorkshire's Cold Case Review Unit, Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler is not expected to get results, but he knows this is the case that might finally kick start his floundering career. Luckily, he already has a suspect. Unluckily, that suspect is Cartwright's son, the man Tyler slept with the night before.
Keeping his possible conflict-of-interest under wraps, Tyler digs into the case alongside Amina Rabbani, an ambitious young Muslim constable and a fellow outsider seeking to prove herself on the force. Soon their investigation will come up against close-lipped townsfolk, an elderly woman with dementia who's receiving mysterious threats referencing a past she can't remember, and an escalating series of conflagrations set by a troubled soul intent on watching the world burn . . .
Editorial Reviews
"Firewatching is a UK cop novel with a pitch-perfect blend of the best of the old and the best of the new - all the traditional strengths and charms are here, with a fresh and relevant 21st-century edge. I loved it."-Lee Child
"I've got a new man in my life. His name is Adam Tyler. Yorkshireman. Enjoys cold drinks and colder cases. Hangs out in exceptional debut novels and exceptionaller sequels. Firewatching and Nighthawking are comparable with the best of Michael Connelly's Bosch books and James Lee Burke's Robicheaux novels, and – naturally – Ian Rankin; but there's an elegiac quality here that reminds me of Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie titles and the Dublin Murder Squad series by Tana French."-AJ Finn, author of The Woman in the Window
"[An] excellent debut…This stunning police procedural marks Thomas as an author to watch."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"The richness of Tyler's character and the vividness of his negotiation of his own sexuality and the casual bigotry in his community are effective. The subsidiary characters are lively and believable, the arsons are particularly well described…This is a rewarding entertainment. A good detective in an incendiary procedural."-Kirkus Reviews
"[A] gritty first novel...Tyler and Rabbani make an intriguing team, and Thomas shows a flair for vivid imagery in this twisty, very dark procedural."-Booklist
"Tortured characters and the story's fires ignite a dramatic, riveting debut about fathers, sons, and secrets. Readers who appreciate Ann Cleeves's intricately plotted stories with complicated protagonists will welcome another British series into that fold."-Library Journal
"I've got a new man in my life. His name is Adam Tyler. Yorkshireman. Enjoys cold drinks and colder cases. Hangs out in exceptional debut novels and exceptionaller sequels. Firewatching and Nighthawking are comparable with the best of Michael Connelly's Bosch books and James Lee Burke's Robicheaux novels, and – naturally – Ian Rankin; but there's an elegiac quality here that reminds me of Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie titles and the Dublin Murder Squad series by Tana French."-AJ Finn, author of The Woman in the Window
"[An] excellent debut…This stunning police procedural marks Thomas as an author to watch."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"The richness of Tyler's character and the vividness of his negotiation of his own sexuality and the casual bigotry in his community are effective. The subsidiary characters are lively and believable, the arsons are particularly well described…This is a rewarding entertainment. A good detective in an incendiary procedural."-Kirkus Reviews
"[A] gritty first novel...Tyler and Rabbani make an intriguing team, and Thomas shows a flair for vivid imagery in this twisty, very dark procedural."-Booklist
"Tortured characters and the story's fires ignite a dramatic, riveting debut about fathers, sons, and secrets. Readers who appreciate Ann Cleeves's intricately plotted stories with complicated protagonists will welcome another British series into that fold."-Library Journal
Readers Top Reviews
Kathy in NMRoxie
Firewatching by Russ Thomas is a mesmerizing mystery with a clever storyline and brilliantly developed characters. Openly gay, Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler is a bit of a loner who works cold cases. At his boss’s urging, he is attempting to be more be more friendly, so he reluctantly accepts his friend Sally-Ann’s invitation to join her and her mates at a local pub. He is definitely out of his element so Sally-Ann encourages him to get to know the young man at the bar who is clearly interested in Adam. Not one for relationships, Adam is not looking for a repeat of their night together. Reporting to work the next day, Adam learns the Criminal Investigation Division has been called to the scene where workers have discovered a body in the wall of a cellar during a renovation. The house belongs to local Gerald Cartwright who went missing six years earlier. Adam persuades his boss to let him work the case and Detective Inspector Jim Doggett reluctantly agrees. Tyler’s excitement soon turns to dismay when he discovers his one night stand is Gerald’s son Oscar. Although he knows he should reveal his connection to Oscar, Adam instead convinces himself to keep quiet in order to remain on the case. The small town of Sheffield is abuzz over the news Gerald’s remains have been unearthed. But Gerald’s neighbors Lily Bainbridge and Edna Burnside are not exactly curious about the investigation. They raised Oscar both before and after his father vanished so they are delighted to seen Oscar again. Lily is quite upset since she has been receiving distressing letters and she is determined to figure out why someone is targeting her. Edna is in ill health and she is worried about how Lily will get on by herself. She counsels Lily to stay away from the investigation, but will she heed her advice? Not long after Gerald’s remains have been found, someone begins setting mysterious fires around town. Fire Inspector Paul Enfield thinks there is a connection between the arson and grisly discovery. Doggett is not keen on the idea but Adam believes Paul might be right. Years earlier, someone set a fire at the Cartwright home and Adam is also troubled by a painting found at the scene. Adam has also enlisted Constable Amina “Mina” Rabbin to work on the investigation. They painstakingly interview Gerald’s neighbors and friends but they are frustrated at their lack of new information. While Mina lacks confidence due to her lack of experience, she has great instincts. She uncovers pivotal information, but wanting to prove herself, Mina puts herself in a very dangerous situation. Firewatching is a well-written and engaging mystery but the pacing is sometimes a little slow. Adam is a fascinating character with a very intriguing backstory. The secondary cast of characters is well-developed and easy to like. The investigation is a...
Jay T.Carol S. Le
After actively pursuing a long sequence of suspects, another officer finally tells the detective who is responsible for the murders. The deduction made by the other officer was elementary, and should have been obvious to the protagonist.
Kindle Jay T.Car
I just ignored my own work all day so I could read this through. Well written, and it's a treat to discover a new author to follow.
Norman C. Blanche
I liked the story line that included an LGBT detective.
David MadaraNorma
Adam Tyler is a second generation officer assigned to cold cases. When a man turns up dead, after being missing for six years and only showed up because the building was set on fire, he gets on the case. Fires are being set and it's believed that the perpetrator is doing both. Can the case be solved? Great debut novel by Russ Thomas! I am glad this is an ong0ing series and the next is on my reading queue. Characters are true to themselves and I can't wait to see their progression in the next book. Loved it and hope the series lasts a while.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1 pageviews-1 posts, last published
Tuesday, 13 September-0 followers
the firewatcher
It starts with the striking of a match: the thin, dry snap of red powder scratched on white. It is the sound of chemistry-of sulfur, phosphorus, and glass. It is a warm and gentle caress, a pair of thick, strong arms that take hold of you, envelop you, and tell you everything is going to be all right.
But you shouldn't have come back. You know that now.
You should never have returned to this crumbling Victorian mansion, like something from a horror film, with its grand architecture and Gothic features. The rusted iron gates that lie discarded in the rhododendron bushes. The long, winding, weed-infested driveway. The house itself, squatting in faded glory, brick-blackened and scarred, windowpanes cracked and stained with milky cataracts.
The workmen unload their long pipes of scaffolding from the van, laughing and joking, questioning each other's parentage and boasting of their sexual prowess. They lift their tools and cans of paint, and slip back into the gaping maw of the house, back to their great work of restoration.
These hired hands dig at your past, knocking down walls that were placed for a reason; unearthing all the buried secrets. You can hear him now, just as before, and only now do you realize that he never really went away. He was there all that time, lying dormant, waiting to be found. Waiting for you to drop your guard. His voice grows louder as he surfaces, clawing his way up through your mind, echoing and barreling around inside your head. He looks out through your eyes . . . and then he screams.
You reach for another match, feel the warmth and the beauty and the comfort offered . . . but it's over far too soon, the wood consumed from top to bottom in mere seconds, the flame drawn down into your empty hand, where it gutters and snuffs until there is only the cold and the damp and the dark.
The scream is louder now, and this time the match will not be enough.
This time the whole world will burn.
POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 5:45 PM
0 COMMENTS
The man with the scar on his cheek looks down from the window of the apartment building and wonders if someone has thrown a blanket over Sheffield. Summer has swaddled the city in a haze reminiscent of the smogs of its industrial heritage. Sunlight is funneled through rows of terraced houses just as molten iron once sludged and pooled in the blast furnaces and steel mills of the Don Valley. It spills down from the hills and through the parks, weaving its way between the trunks of trees and out onto the ring road.
From several stories below, the man hears the deep bass rumble of music. The latest addition to a chain of real-ale pubs. This city, with its proud tradition of industry and purpose, now courts only leisure. Productivity turned to idleness, he thinks. And the devil makes work for idle hands.
He turns to look back at the estate agent standing nervously behind him. He looks over the open-plan living room the agent just referred to as "a blank canvas." Whitewashed walls, not so much as a hint of magnolia; the cheapest kind of laminate flooring, all spongy underfoot where the surface hasn't been prepared properly. The man wonders if they even bothered to clean away the blood before they laid it.
The flat is unbearably hot, the air so thick he can taste it. He feels the sun pushing in through the south-facing glass, the heat rising up from the apartments beneath. He wonders what it would be like to live here. Like being buried alive, he imagines. Still, at least it would be cheap to run.
The estate agent struggles to hide his nerves. He smiles too much. And his eyes flick constantly toward the bedroom, betraying the fact he knows full well the history of his "one-bed pied-ˆ-terre."
The agent finally meets the man's eye, doing his best to avoid the scar. "Of course," he says artfully, "the rooms are much larger than you usually get in this type of property." He crosses to the window and looks out for himself. "And the views . . ." He see...
Tuesday, 13 September-0 followers
the firewatcher
It starts with the striking of a match: the thin, dry snap of red powder scratched on white. It is the sound of chemistry-of sulfur, phosphorus, and glass. It is a warm and gentle caress, a pair of thick, strong arms that take hold of you, envelop you, and tell you everything is going to be all right.
But you shouldn't have come back. You know that now.
You should never have returned to this crumbling Victorian mansion, like something from a horror film, with its grand architecture and Gothic features. The rusted iron gates that lie discarded in the rhododendron bushes. The long, winding, weed-infested driveway. The house itself, squatting in faded glory, brick-blackened and scarred, windowpanes cracked and stained with milky cataracts.
The workmen unload their long pipes of scaffolding from the van, laughing and joking, questioning each other's parentage and boasting of their sexual prowess. They lift their tools and cans of paint, and slip back into the gaping maw of the house, back to their great work of restoration.
These hired hands dig at your past, knocking down walls that were placed for a reason; unearthing all the buried secrets. You can hear him now, just as before, and only now do you realize that he never really went away. He was there all that time, lying dormant, waiting to be found. Waiting for you to drop your guard. His voice grows louder as he surfaces, clawing his way up through your mind, echoing and barreling around inside your head. He looks out through your eyes . . . and then he screams.
You reach for another match, feel the warmth and the beauty and the comfort offered . . . but it's over far too soon, the wood consumed from top to bottom in mere seconds, the flame drawn down into your empty hand, where it gutters and snuffs until there is only the cold and the damp and the dark.
The scream is louder now, and this time the match will not be enough.
This time the whole world will burn.
POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 5:45 PM
0 COMMENTS
The man with the scar on his cheek looks down from the window of the apartment building and wonders if someone has thrown a blanket over Sheffield. Summer has swaddled the city in a haze reminiscent of the smogs of its industrial heritage. Sunlight is funneled through rows of terraced houses just as molten iron once sludged and pooled in the blast furnaces and steel mills of the Don Valley. It spills down from the hills and through the parks, weaving its way between the trunks of trees and out onto the ring road.
From several stories below, the man hears the deep bass rumble of music. The latest addition to a chain of real-ale pubs. This city, with its proud tradition of industry and purpose, now courts only leisure. Productivity turned to idleness, he thinks. And the devil makes work for idle hands.
He turns to look back at the estate agent standing nervously behind him. He looks over the open-plan living room the agent just referred to as "a blank canvas." Whitewashed walls, not so much as a hint of magnolia; the cheapest kind of laminate flooring, all spongy underfoot where the surface hasn't been prepared properly. The man wonders if they even bothered to clean away the blood before they laid it.
The flat is unbearably hot, the air so thick he can taste it. He feels the sun pushing in through the south-facing glass, the heat rising up from the apartments beneath. He wonders what it would be like to live here. Like being buried alive, he imagines. Still, at least it would be cheap to run.
The estate agent struggles to hide his nerves. He smiles too much. And his eyes flick constantly toward the bedroom, betraying the fact he knows full well the history of his "one-bed pied-ˆ-terre."
The agent finally meets the man's eye, doing his best to avoid the scar. "Of course," he says artfully, "the rooms are much larger than you usually get in this type of property." He crosses to the window and looks out for himself. "And the views . . ." He see...
