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Tana French, The Trespasser

Noch eine beinahe unglaublich fesselnde Geschichte von Frenchs neuem Dreamteam Conway/Moran, diesmal aus der Sicht von Antoinette Conway, die es hier schafft sich in der Murder Squad zu etablieren, nicht so sehr gegen äußere Widerstände, sondern vor allem durch Überwindung ihrer eigenen Überzeugungen und Ängste und des tiefsitzenden Verfolgungswahns. Dazu ein faszinierender Mordfall, bei dem während der Ermittlungen sich immer wieder neue Aspekte ergeben und ungewöhnliche Beziehungsgeflechte - was will man mehr. Jetzt kann ich nur hoffen, dass French das Dreamteam nochmal an den Start schickt - obwohl es schwierig sein dürfte, die beiden ersten Fälle noch zu übertreffen. Zutrauen würde ich es ihr aber.
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These people are pissing me off. The neediness of it, all of them jumping up and down and waving their arms and doing their cutest little booty-shakes for the internet: Me, look at me, like me, please oh please want me!!! The because-I'm-worth-it shower (looking for someone tall, slim, very fit, no smokers, no drugs, no kids, no pets, must have full time job and own car, must like fusion cuisine, speak at least three languages, enjoy bikram yoga and acid jazz...) are just as bad: ordering their relationship from the online menu because of course you have to have one, same as you have to have a state-of-the-art sound system and a pimped-out new car, and it's important to make sure you get exactly what you want. The only ones I can respect are the ones there on business: Ukrainian superbabes looking for older men down the country, with a view to marriage. All the rest could do with a good kick up the hole and a double shot of self respect.
No one needs a relationship. What you need is the basic cop-on to figure that out, in the face of all the media bullshit screaming that you're nothing on your own and you're a dangerous freak if you disagree. The truth is, if you don't exist without someone else, you don't exist at all. And that doesn't just go for romance. I love my ma, I love my friends, I love the bones of them. If any of them wanted me to donate a kidney or crack a few heads, I'd do it, no questions asked. And if they all waved goodbye and walked out of my life tomorrow, I'd still be the same person I am today.
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They make me edgy. Dozens and dozens of people, they just keep coming, and every single one of their heads is crammed with stories they believe, and stories they want to believe, and every story is battering against the thin walls of the person's skull, drilling and gnawing for its chance to escape and attack someone else, bore its way in and feed off that mind too. Even the cute little student mincing along in her flowery dress, the shuffling old fella with his shuffling spaniel, they look Ebola-lethal.

(Tana French, The Trespasser, 2016)