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Another serial killer is on the loose, and yet again the police have failed to connect the deaths. Carl Whittley has just tortured a glamorous TV presenter to death - leaving a singularly gruesome tableau - and blown a hapless commuter to smithereens at a railway station. He's planning his next murder already, secreted away in the shed at the bottom of the garden of the house he shares with his invalid father. Carl is embittered and lonely - with his mother living away and pursuing a career as a forensic psychologist, there's only him to take care of his severely disabled father: to change the colostomy bag, to cook, to clean, to, well, just to bear it, really.
DCI Mark Lapslie is embittered and lonely too. His wife left him when his synaesthesia took a turn for the worse, and his career has pretty much stalled because of it too. He's holed up in an isolated Essex cottage, trying to keep as much noise out of his life as possible. When you taste sound, human company isn't all it's cracked up to be. His boss has written him off as a liability and so that's why Lapslie gets both the TV presenter and the bombing cases to deal with. The Chief Superindentent hopes the media pressure will be the straw that broke the synaesthete's back and he'll be rid of Lapslie for good.

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