Review
" Gruesome, genuinely scary and very powerful, with enough twists in the plot to keep anyone on edge." -- "Birmingham Post"
Birmingham Post
'Gruesome, genuinely scary and very powerful, with enough twists in the plot to keep anyone on edge’
Irish Independent
'An unusually literate and well-written shocker and highly recommended'
Guardian
'This is an intelligent thriller about the nature of acting and the negative side of human nature, in which the conspirators stand on both sides of the law'
Product Description
Claire Rodenburg isn't proud of what she does for a living, but she's proud as hell of the way she does it. Newly arrived in New York without a green card, she uses her talent as an actress to earn a dubious kind of living. She works for a private detective, providing women with incriminating evidence about their errant husbands. Only one man has so far failed to succumb to her charms: Dr Christian Vogler. When Vogler's wife is found brutally murdered, Claire agrees to help the police the onl way she knows how; she will act as a decoy to catch the killer, a savage and sadistic murderer who takes the macabre poetry of Baudelaire as his inspiration. Exploited or exploiter, hunter or prey, Claire is soon embroiled in a secret murky world of deviant sex and internet-accessed necrophilia, a world where death and passion collide, and noone, least of all the authorities, is to be trusted.
From the Author
'The germ of the idea for The Decoy came from the murder of Rachel Nickell on Wimbledon Common’, says Tony Strong. ‘After the judge threw out as unreliable the evidence gained by a police decoy known as “Lizzie James”, both the police psychologist, Paul Britton, and the suspect, Colin Stagg, wrote books describing the operation from their very different points of view. I became fascinated by the ambiguities which such an operation threw up, but was naturally uneasy about basing a thriller on a real-life tragedy – particularly one where the killer has never been caught – so I moved my own decoy operation to America. When I started the book, in 1998, there hadn’t yet been any real-life cases like this, but while I was writing there were several, both in America and the UK. Today, doing a search for “necrophilia” on a search engine will bring up over 20,000 sites. As part of my research I did visit some – a depressing experience, but I wanted to make the book as a! uthentic as possible. I also did a course for mortuary technicians, over the internet, to gather material for the mortuary scenes. In the end the book is all about acting – a girl pretending to fall in love with someone in order to probe his mind; a killer pretending to be an ordinary person; a psychologist never revealing to the decoy how the operation is really intended to work. I read a lot of Stanislavski – of “Method Acting” fame – as research for the acting scenes in the book, but to my surprise I also found it a useful approach for writers. Like actors, we have to try and inhabit our characters with complete truthfulness.’
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From the Back Cover
First she had to pretend to fall in love.
Then she had to pretend she hadn't...
Then she had to pretend she hadn't...
Claire Rodenburg, a young British actress, pays the rent on her New York apartment the only way she can: as a decoy for a detective agency, entrapping straying husbands. When a client is murdered in macabre circumstances, she agrees to help the police entice the dead woman's husband into revealing whether he's the killer.
But as the operation slowly ensnares its prey, Claire begins to realise she's not the only one pretending to be something she isn't. And as she pursues the shadowy figure of a serial killer across the Internet and through the dark fantasies of a nineteenth-century poet, she has to immerse herself in her role more deeply than she ever thought possible...
About the Author
Tony Strong is a senior copywriter at one of the largest advertising agencies in England. A graduate of Oxford, Tony lives in London and Oxfordshire with his wife. He is the author of two novels, The Poison Tree and The Death Pit.
Excerpted from The Decoy by Tony Strong. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Her friend hasn't showed.
That's what you'd think if you saw her, waiting on her own in the bar of the Royalton Hotel, trying to make her Virgin Mary last all evening: just another young professional waiting for her date. Perhaps a little prettier than most. A little more confident. A little more daringly dressed. She hasn't come straight from the office, that's for sure.
The bar is packed, and when a table finally becomes free she goes and sits at it. Across the room a young man wearing too much jewellery catches her eye and smiles. She looks away. He says something to his drinking buddies, who laugh briefly before returning to their beers.
'Excuse me?'
She looks up. A man is standing in front of her. He's wearing a suit, but one of an expensive, casual cut that suggests he's something more than the usual corporate drone, its collar lapped by hair that's just a little too long for Wall Street.
'Yes?' she says.
'I'm sorry, but . . . this is my table. I just went to the restroom.' He points at the glass on the table. 'I left my drink to keep my place.'
Around them, one or two heads have turned curiously in their direction. But there's going to be no confrontation, no overspill of New York stress. The woman is already standing up. She pulls her bag onto her shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I didn't realize-'
The heads turn away again, back to their conversations.
There's a brief shuffle as the man stands aside to let her pass and she moves in the same direction, a fleeting pas de deux.
Of course, he asks her to stay. Who wouldn't?
'Unless you don't mind sharing,' he says, gesturing at the table.
For a moment, she seems to hesitate - but after all, the bar is crowded, and there's nowhere else to sit now. She shrugs. 'Why not?'
They both sit down again. Surreptitiously, out of the corners of their eyes, they examine each other more closely. She's wearing Donna Karan; a soft black woollen jacket which clings to her slight frame, sets off her dark hair and her pale skin, makes her eyes look more startlingly blue than they really are.
'Are you waiting on someone?' he asks, and his voice has changed subtly: a thickening of interest, of sexual attention. 'Maybe he's been held up by the snow. It's chaos out at LaGuardia. That's why I'm staying an extra night.'
And she smiles to herself, because it's really pretty neat, the way he tries to find out if this person she's waiting for is a man or a woman, while at the same time letting her know he's on his own.
'Looks like I could be here a while,' she says. 'Hey ho.'
'Hey ho,' he repeats. He isn't quite sure what she means by that. 'Let me buy you another one of those, anyway.' He beckons to the waitress. 'What are you drinking?'
'Thanks. A Bloody Mary.'
'And where are you from? I'm trying to place that accent.'
'From Idaho, originally.'
'Really? I never met a girl from Idaho before.'
Something about the way he says 'met' makes it sound provocative, almost sexual, and she smiles. 'But you meet a lot of girls, right?'
He grins back at her. 'A few.'
Somewhat to his surprise he finds that they're flirting now, their bodies carrying on conversations of their own as he tells her he's a lawyer, and she says no, surely he's not ugly enough to be a lawyer. In the music industry, he says, and she asks, here on business or pleasure?
Well, he says, hopefully both. He leans back and crosses his legs, smiles an expansive, confident smile. He has time for a little fun, after all.
'Before you fly back tomorrow to your wife and kids.'
For an instant the smile flickers uncertainly. 'What makes you think I'm married?'
'The good-looking ones always are,' she says.
The waitress finally brings their drinks. She's been gone five minutes, and the lawyer gives her a hard time. He's showing off, and the waitress apologizes sulkily, blaming the crowds. She turns away with a little tug at her right ear, almost as if she can pull his words out of it and flick them to the floor. Without breaking her conversation or taking her eyes off the lawyer, the girl who says she's from Idaho thinks, I could use that.
It's put away somewhere deep, somewhere in the filing system.
The lawyer's name is Alan. He hands her a business card on which his name is written in embossed, silvery letters. She tells him her name is Claire. She apologizes for not having a card. She doesn't carry business cards, she murmurs, in her line of work. An amused smile twitches at the corners of her mouth.
He asks her what she does. 'As little as possible,' she says. She nods at the waitress, who's being harassed by another table now, and tells him she used to do that, before.
'Before what?'
'Before I realized there were easier ways to make a buck.'
Understanding appears in his eyes like a lightbulb.
He doesn't rush it, though. He tells her about some of his clients, back in Atlanta - the famous teenage idol he names who likes underage girls, and the macho heavy-metal star who's gay but doesn't dare to admit it. He tells her, with a hint of emphasis, how much money there is to be made, doing what he does, drawing up contracts for those who are temperamentally unlikely to abide by them, necessitating the services of people like him at both ends, both the commission of the contract and its eventual dissolution. And finally he suggests that, since her friend clearly isn't going to show, they could move on someplace else, to a restaurant or a club, whichever she'd prefer.
That's what you'd think if you saw her, waiting on her own in the bar of the Royalton Hotel, trying to make her Virgin Mary last all evening: just another young professional waiting for her date. Perhaps a little prettier than most. A little more confident. A little more daringly dressed. She hasn't come straight from the office, that's for sure.
The bar is packed, and when a table finally becomes free she goes and sits at it. Across the room a young man wearing too much jewellery catches her eye and smiles. She looks away. He says something to his drinking buddies, who laugh briefly before returning to their beers.
'Excuse me?'
She looks up. A man is standing in front of her. He's wearing a suit, but one of an expensive, casual cut that suggests he's something more than the usual corporate drone, its collar lapped by hair that's just a little too long for Wall Street.
'Yes?' she says.
'I'm sorry, but . . . this is my table. I just went to the restroom.' He points at the glass on the table. 'I left my drink to keep my place.'
Around them, one or two heads have turned curiously in their direction. But there's going to be no confrontation, no overspill of New York stress. The woman is already standing up. She pulls her bag onto her shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I didn't realize-'
The heads turn away again, back to their conversations.
There's a brief shuffle as the man stands aside to let her pass and she moves in the same direction, a fleeting pas de deux.
Of course, he asks her to stay. Who wouldn't?
'Unless you don't mind sharing,' he says, gesturing at the table.
For a moment, she seems to hesitate - but after all, the bar is crowded, and there's nowhere else to sit now. She shrugs. 'Why not?'
They both sit down again. Surreptitiously, out of the corners of their eyes, they examine each other more closely. She's wearing Donna Karan; a soft black woollen jacket which clings to her slight frame, sets off her dark hair and her pale skin, makes her eyes look more startlingly blue than they really are.
'Are you waiting on someone?' he asks, and his voice has changed subtly: a thickening of interest, of sexual attention. 'Maybe he's been held up by the snow. It's chaos out at LaGuardia. That's why I'm staying an extra night.'
And she smiles to herself, because it's really pretty neat, the way he tries to find out if this person she's waiting for is a man or a woman, while at the same time letting her know he's on his own.
'Looks like I could be here a while,' she says. 'Hey ho.'
'Hey ho,' he repeats. He isn't quite sure what she means by that. 'Let me buy you another one of those, anyway.' He beckons to the waitress. 'What are you drinking?'
'Thanks. A Bloody Mary.'
'And where are you from? I'm trying to place that accent.'
'From Idaho, originally.'
'Really? I never met a girl from Idaho before.'
Something about the way he says 'met' makes it sound provocative, almost sexual, and she smiles. 'But you meet a lot of girls, right?'
He grins back at her. 'A few.'
Somewhat to his surprise he finds that they're flirting now, their bodies carrying on conversations of their own as he tells her he's a lawyer, and she says no, surely he's not ugly enough to be a lawyer. In the music industry, he says, and she asks, here on business or pleasure?
Well, he says, hopefully both. He leans back and crosses his legs, smiles an expansive, confident smile. He has time for a little fun, after all.
'Before you fly back tomorrow to your wife and kids.'
For an instant the smile flickers uncertainly. 'What makes you think I'm married?'
'The good-looking ones always are,' she says.
The waitress finally brings their drinks. She's been gone five minutes, and the lawyer gives her a hard time. He's showing off, and the waitress apologizes sulkily, blaming the crowds. She turns away with a little tug at her right ear, almost as if she can pull his words out of it and flick them to the floor. Without breaking her conversation or taking her eyes off the lawyer, the girl who says she's from Idaho thinks, I could use that.
It's put away somewhere deep, somewhere in the filing system.
The lawyer's name is Alan. He hands her a business card on which his name is written in embossed, silvery letters. She tells him her name is Claire. She apologizes for not having a card. She doesn't carry business cards, she murmurs, in her line of work. An amused smile twitches at the corners of her mouth.
He asks her what she does. 'As little as possible,' she says. She nods at the waitress, who's being harassed by another table now, and tells him she used to do that, before.
'Before what?'
'Before I realized there were easier ways to make a buck.'
Understanding appears in his eyes like a lightbulb.
He doesn't rush it, though. He tells her about some of his clients, back in Atlanta - the famous teenage idol he names who likes underage girls, and the macho heavy-metal star who's gay but doesn't dare to admit it. He tells her, with a hint of emphasis, how much money there is to be made, doing what he does, drawing up contracts for those who are temperamentally unlikely to abide by them, necessitating the services of people like him at both ends, both the commission of the contract and its eventual dissolution. And finally he suggests that, since her friend clearly isn't going to show, they could move on someplace else, to a restaurant or a club, whichever she'd prefer.
