About The Book

Belinda Bauer is an award-winning crime writer of the highest caliber, whose smart, stylish novels have captivated readers and reviewers on both sides of the Atlantic and earned her a reputation as “the true heir to the great Ruth Rendell” [Mail on Sunday (UK)]. Her latest, The Beautiful Dead, is a riveting narrative centered on a down-on-her-luck journalist and a serial killer desperate for the media spotlight.

TV crime reporter Eve Singer’s career is flagging, but that starts to change when she covers a spate of bizarre murders–each one committed in public and advertised like an art exhibition. When the killer contacts Eve about her coverage of his crimes, she is suddenly on the inside of the biggest murder investigation of the decade. But as the killer becomes increasingly obsessed with her, Eve realizes there’s a thin line between inside information and becoming an accomplice to murder–possibly her own.

A seamlessly plotted thriller that will keep readers breathless until the very end, The Beautiful Dead cements Belinda Bauer’s reputation as a master of heart-stopping suspense.

Praise

“Belinda Bauer’s thrillers are always compelling, always original, always brilliant. I will rush to read anything she writes.” —Mark Billingham

“Belinda Bauer is a marvel. Her novels are almost indecently gripping and enjoyable.” —Sophie Hannah, New York Times bestselling author of The Monogram Murders and Woman with a Secret

Excerpt

Layla didn’t scream. The thought of her own scream bouncing endlessly up and down the stairwell only frightened her more—and she was trying not to panic; trying to think. She ran as fast as she dared, clutching the black plastic-covered handrail in case she lost her footing, watching the stairs blur underfoot with eyes that bulged in concentration, desperate not to fall, her long blonde hair swinging into her mouth, her bag bumping the back of her ribs.

There would be someone on the fourth floor. She had once come halfway up in the lift with a woman who’d bitched about working at weekends.

Layla stopped above the fourth floor landing, panting, gasping. She forced herself to be quiet so she could listen.

She heard nothing. No one.

Maybe he wasn’t coming after her. Maybe he’d never planned to. Maybe he hadn’t even had a knife?

He had though . . .

She started downstairs again–slowly this time–her knees like jelly and her toes on fire.

She pulled open the door marked with a giant 4.

She took a tentative step onto the carpet.

“Hello!”

The lift door in front of her slid open. The man was inside. Calm and still, and with the knife–it was a knife!–held casually by his side.

He smiled.