Looking for Mr Nobody [Paperback]

"Edgy, gritty, and dark, Sue Rann's debut novel is set in Amsterdam...Rann is able to take a story that in less gifted hands might seem outlandish and make it absolutely mesmerizing. The violence and suspense are palpable, and the characters completely riveting. A must-read from a promising new writer."

Combines the gritty atmosphere of Ian Rankin with the wry humour of Janet Evanovich ... as witty as it is readable.

I was increasingly gripped ... If you like your detective stories and SF in a high-voltage mix, this is for you.

Looking For Mr Nobody is tough and beautifully imagined ... a thrilling read.

An offbeat pacy novel, set in Amsterdam, deftly written with plenty of detail.

A gripping crime/cyber-thriller for the X-Files generation... A cracking thriller with a rich vein of dark humour.

An absorbing story, the characters and locations beautifully drawn... First crime novel by Sue, but not the last, I hope.

Combines the atmosphere of Rankin with the humour of Evanovich ... a stunning debut, as witty as it is readable.

Jan Wolf scrapes a living as a pavement artist in Amsterdam. But when a close friend is abducted by sinister men in black, Wolf commits himself to a course of action that puts him on a collision course with his own elusive past - a past he knows only through nightmares. Now the police want to talk to him, the men in black want him dead, and there's an American redhead on his tail with a Lara Croft fixation and a Glock-17 in her purse...Wolf is being hunted down.

I've been amazed at how many people who say 'Oh, I don't normally touch crime books/thrillers/SF with a ten-foot barge-pole' then pick up 'Looking For Mr Nobody' and proceed to thoroughly enjoy it - I think that because I enjoy reading (and writing) a wide range of fiction myself, that eclectic 'vibe' comes through in my writing so that it's not solely a crime book, or a thriller, or SF, and so on - but a happy meeting of genres that crosses over to an extraordinary degree. This makes me one very happy writer!

Sue Rann was born in Stafford, England, in 1964. At the age of seven, she announced her intention of becoming an author and spent the next thirty years having a life instead. Her string of odd jobs included stagehand, graphic artist and spotlight operator. After a stint in rural North Wales, she, her husband and three daughters moved to Holmfirth, West Yorkshire, home of 'Last of the Summer Wine', where they now live. 'Looking For Mr. Nobody' is her first crime novel; she also writes science fiction under the pseudonym 'Mercy Falconer

I plodded up the last flight of stairs to the third floor, yawning and fumbling in the debris at the bottom of my shoulder-tote, trying to locate my keys by touch.
My fingers hunted through familiar terrain: lip-salve, tissues, palmtop, the half chocolate bar I’d been saving that had gone sort of fluffy in its wrapper, cellphone, pen with no top, billfold, lime green fur-fabric notebook, rape alarm, loose coins, Mace spray...all the stuff a girl ought never to be without. Oh, and the gun, of course, zipped into the cosmetic compartment at the side. My baby, my secret vice ...
Today had sneakily turned into tomorrow while I wasn’t looking. The luminous green readout on my wrist-watch said 04:25. My stomach had been grumbling in a rebellious fashion since about midnight, and I knew without having to look that the fridge was just about empty, as usual. The club manager at EyeKon had doled out a little cash-in-hand overtime tonight, and the thought of shopping in the Albert Cuyp market for real food – fresh bread, and crusty smoked bacon, and beefsteak tomatoes and cookies – was a pleasurable diversion from my feet, which hadn’t gone quite numb enough not to hurt.
The key stuck in the lock and I jiggled it. Come ON. The mechanism gave with a scraping noise. I shouldered the door open and dumped my bag on the floor. The heavy panel clicked shut behind me, and I pressed the deadbolt down and sagged thankfully against the wood for a second. No snow, no wind, no music, no people. I tossed my wet jacket at the coat-rack, and yawned, rubbing at the nape of my neck with numb fingers. Home safe.
A line of light showed under the kitchen door. I froze in the act of kicking off the hateful court shoes. I never leave lights on. Over the sudden thunder of my own heartbeat, I heard the shuffle of feet.
A tidal surge of flight hormones paralysed me for a second. I had to fight for control of my legs, which were attempting to scurry out of the door.
Primeval fury came a close second to terror. In my apartment? A nasty gritting noise turned out to be my teeth grinding together. I relaxed my jaw with an effort. Get a grip, Carlson. What’s that dumb thing Marik’s always telling the students? 'The power is in the ability to take action'. You’ve got the ability, dummy. So take some action.
It took a second to control my breathing. I moistened my lips and muttered, ‘OK. OK. Come on, Robin, you can do this.’ Well, I mean. You don’t expect to have to take your work home, do you?
My knees wobbled. I crouched, fumbling to remove the second shoe. I wiped my palms on my dress, then reached for my bag and slid out the Glock-17.
Even in the dark my hands knew the gun. It was cool in my grasp, solid but not heavy. A birthday present from Daddy, back when I was still his golden girl, still a chip off the old Carlson block.
Light, precision-machined ceramic. The mechanism was state of the art, smooth, almost impossible to jam. Daddy had made certain that I bought one of the original models, with no safety catch to forget. The man in the shop had approved his choice. A nice little ladies’ gun, he’d said. The creep.
It had been tricky, bringing the Glock into Holland. When they first appeared, journalists were quick to grasp on to the fact that, being made of ceramic, they did not show up on airport X-ray scanners. Neglecting, in their enthusiasm for a good headline, the fact that several parts of the mechanism were manufactured from steel, including the firing pin. Bullets would be a whole separate world of trouble.
Any putative terrorist with one of these babies would have to lock themselves into the aeroplane toilet for half an hour to unpack and reassemble all the bits – provided, of course, that they hadn’t been accidentally loaded on to another plane en route to Heathrow or Bogota, along with the terrorist’s roll-on deodorant and clean underpants. Mom had always maintained (usually after her cases had gone soaring off to Atlanta again instead of following her to Dulles) that baggage handlers thwarted more hijack attempts than the airport police ever did.
So, it had been a challenge, and for once I was glad to be the daughter of a five-star General in the US Army. It was a sure thing that Daddy knew I’d used his name to pull strings. The thought left a nasty taste in my mouth. There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch should be carved in stone on the Carlson family crest: TANSTAAFL. But there was no way I’d have left the Glock behind. It was my security blanket.
Inside the kitchen, small sounds indicated that someone was busy. I moved up to the door in two silent paces. There was a click, followed by the clatter of metal on metal. I twisted the handle, and flung the door open.
‘FREEZE!’ Legs straddled (as far as they would go in a satin sheath dress). Gun gripped in both hands, levelled like an accusatory finger. The burglar was bent over the sink. A man.
A very familiar man. My jack-in-the-box entrance made him start so violently that he dropped whatever he had been holding with a clatter and spun round, white-faced. ‘C-Carlson! Bloody hell, woman, put the gun down!’