Description

A gripping new thriller from the master of crime…

‘It’s a winner, involving bent MPs, snatched heiresses, sex, drugs, and double dealing’ Time Out

In the 1980s, London is a melting pot of cultures, but race and class create sharp divisions.

Black British journalist Sam Dean looks for stories, not missing persons.

But when an old friend asks for help tracking down a White Conservative MP’s daughter, he feels he can’t say no.

Especially as Virginia’s disappearance is tangled with the fate of Roy, a young mixed-race boy who reminds Sam of his own son.

A trail of secrets leads Sam into the backstreets of Black British culture, to the crossroads of race and class where you’ll find seedy walk-up flats, betting parlours and smoky nightclubs.

London’s answer to S.A. Cosby, Blood Rights is a riveting time capsule of London’s multi-cultural history wrapped up in a tense thriller.

Publisher Review

'In this top-notch first novel... The plot is hard-boiled, the mystery unfolding gradually rather than presenting itself full blown for solution. Phillips's dialogue and his protagonist's voice-over ruminations on everything from racial disharmony to foolishness on TV are spot-on, adding to the pleasure a fresh, transatlantic sensibility and inflection.' Publishers Weekly Praise for Mike Phillips 'Could have come from the pen of the master, Raymond Chandler' Today 'Mr Phillips delivers quality' The Times 'Engaging pacy thriller... Phillips' prose in concise, witty and fluid' TLS 'Phillips... gives a mean streetwise documentary edge to his hero's hunt for a witness' Sunday Express 'There's much here to suggest that Phillips could be one of our bravest, most incisive social commentators' Mail on Sunday 'Phillips' depictions of urban London share more with Harlem and Los Angeles than the English drawing rooms of P.D. James and Ruth Rendell' Financial Times 'American readers willing to wonder a bit about unfamiliar London landmarks and neighbourhoods will be rewarded by Phillips's subtle psychological complexities and deadpan ironies' Publishers Weekly