Snakehead [Paperback]

'A gripping thriller' - The Mirror on The Firemaker; 'Stunningly original, highly topical and extremely well written' - Scotland on Sunday on The Firemaker; 'Intense and fascinating' - Good Book Guide on The Firemaker; 'Is the book any good? The answer is a very solid...yes...it's engaging, topical...and certainly qualifies Peter May as a name to watch.' - Shots

'A fast-moving, well-written book that is difficult to put down'

'The plot twists and turns like the tail of a Chinese dragon. A cracking good read.'

'Stunningly original, highly topical and extremely well written'

'Fast and exciting...highly topical, this is an entertaining read that will also give its readers food for thought'

'Intense and fascinating'

'A gripping thriller'

The macabre discovery of a truck full of dead Chinese in southern Texas brings American pathologist Margaret Campbell together again with Li Yan, the Beijing detective with whom she once shared a turbulent personal and professional relationship. Forced back into an uneasy partnership, they set out to identify the Snakehead who is behind the 100-million-dollar trade in illegal Chinese immigrants which led to the tragedy in Texas - only to discover that the victims were also unwitting carriers of a deadly cargo. Li and Margaret have a biological time-bomb of unimaginable proportions on their hands, and an indiscriminate killer who threatens the future of humankind.

Peter May has been a journalist (Scotsman, Glasgow Evening Times), a writer on the hugely successful Scottish TV soap opera Take the High Road and the creator of three TV series: The Standard, Squadron and Machair, which is the Gaelic-language equivalent of Brookside. He spent six months in China, much of it researching his first novel, The Firemaker.

Deputy J. J. Jackson, known to his colleagues at the Walker County Sheriff ’s Department simply as Jayjay, stuck another matchstick between his front teeth and began chewing on it. He unzippered his fly and issued a yellow stream into the dry bed of Bedias Creek. Steam rose from it in the cool morning air, and he made a bold effort to make sure that most of it crossed the county line into Madison. Somewhere to the north, beyond the trees that broke the monotony of the flat Texan landscape, prisoners were being called out of their cells at the Ferguson Unit to face another day of incarceration. And he was free to piss in the breeze, clocking off in just over half an hour, to bring to an end the long red-eye shift, and with it the prospect of an empty bed. He spat out the matchstick and regretted that he had ever given up smoking. He was sure to die of wood poisoning.
The Dixie Chicks played from the open door of his black and white. Strictly non-regulation, but hell, you had to have something to keep you awake. He squeezed his ample frame in behind the wheel and eased his patrol car out on to the deserted Highway ... He was flying now, south, into the wild blue. Day was when Martha would have had hot pancakes and syrup, and a plate of grits on the table when he got home.
But since she’d run off with that air-con salesman he’d taken to driving into Huntsville for breakfast at the Cafe Texan, opposite the County Courthouse on Sam Houston Avenue. He always sat in the smoking room just so he could breathe in other people’s cigarettes. Nothing you could do about second-hand smoke he could tell the doc.
He sang along with the Chicks for a few bars.
Up off the highway on the right a Mexican fast food joint stood proud on the bluff. Much as he liked that beer with the slice of lime stuffed in the neck, Jayjay avoided Mexican food whenever possible. It gave him bad heartburn. But today he turned off and followed the bumpy road up to the parking lot, a big empty stretch of dusty tarmac. Empty, that is, except for a large refrigerated food container hooked up to a red, shiny trailer tractor. Not unusual. Truckers often pulled off to snatch a few moments shut-eye during an all-nighter. But the door on the driver’s side was lying wide open, and there was no sign of anyone around. There were no other vehicles in the lot, and
the restaurant wouldn’t be open for hours yet.
Jayjay left his engine running and got out of the car. He had no idea why the truck had drawn his attention. Maybe it was because the driver had made no attempt to slot it anywhere between the faded white lines. Maybe it was just instinct. Jayjay held a lot of store by instinct. He had had an instinct that
Martha was going to leave him at least two years before she finally got around to it. Although that might not have been so much instinct as wishful thinking. But, hell, there was something odd about this truck. It looked . . . abandoned. He pulled the brim of his Stetson down, stuck another matchstick in his mouth and clamped his open palms on his hips, the forefinger of his right hand touching the leather of his holster for comfort. Slowly he approached the open door of the truck, glancing a touch nervously to left and right.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.