'I worked one hundred murders,' says Detective Mike Hoolihan, an American policewoman. 'In my time I have come in on the aftermath of maybe a thousand suspicious deaths, most of which turned out to be suicides, accidentals or plain unattendeds. So I've seen them all: jumpers, stumpers, dumpers, dunkers, bleeders, floaters, poppers, bursters. But of all the bodies I have ever seen none has stayed with me, in my gut, like the body of Jennifer Rockwell. I say all this because I am part of the story I am going to tell, and I feel the need to give you some idea of where I'm coming from.' Night Train is a mystery story which lingers in the reader's mind even after Mike Hoolihan declares the case closed. "Deliciously readable ... Martin Amis has created a stylized replica of the hard-boiled detective story ... a quick-silver narrative that never lets go." ? The New York Times " Night Train pushes the boundaries of noir almost to the edge of darkness." ? Time "Brilliantly written, with an emotional force that will tear your heart out ... " ? The Calgary Sun "... compelling ... Night Train is an entertaining take on the American detective novel, a potent cocktail of violence and stylized dialogue flavoured by an unexpected existential twist." ?Matt Cohen, The Globe and Mail "A work of dark romanticism, a tale of possession ... prose crackling with wit and invention." ? The New York Times Book Review "A small gem of a novel." ? The Montreal Gazette "Amis is arguably the greatest wordsmith living today, tossing of hundred-dollar words like spent matchsticks, with a scalding wit to go with it. Night Train is a tightly crafted and skilled work..." ? Winnipeg Free Press -- Review From the bestselling author of London Fields,The Information and Heavy Water comes this stylistically brilliant story. As riveting as the best of Elmore Leonard, Night Train is a gritty, totally captivating mystery about a female homicide detective and the one case that got under her skin. "Deliciously readable ... Martin Amis has created a stylized replica of the hard-boiled detective story ... a quick-silver narrative that never lets go." — The New York Times " Night Train pushes the boundaries of noir almost to the edge of darkness." — Time "Brilliantly written, with an emotional force that will tear your heart out ... " — The Calgary Sun "... compelling ... Night Train is an entertaining take on the American detective novel, a potent cocktail of violence and stylized dialogue flavoured by an unexpected existential twist." —Matt Cohen, The Globe and Mail "A work of dark romanticism, a tale of possession ... prose crackling with wit and invention." — The New York Times Book Review "A small gem of a novel." — The Montreal Gazette "Amis is arguably the greatest wordsmith living today, tossing of hundred-dollar words like spent matchsticks, with a scalding wit to go with it. Night Train is a tightly crafted and skilled work..." — Winnipeg Free Press Martin Amis lives in London. From the Hardcover edition. The Psychological Autopsy Suicide is the night train, speeding your way to darkness. You won't get there so quick, not by natural means. You buy your ticket and you climb on board. That ticket costs everything you have. But it's just a one-way. This train takes you into the night, and leaves you there. It's the night train. Now I feel that someone is inside of me, like an intruder, her flashlight playing. Jennifer Rockwell is inside of me, trying to reveal what I dont want to see. Suicide is a mind-body problem that ends violently and without any winner. I've got to slow this shit down. I've got to slow it all down. What I'm doing here, with my ballpoint, my tape recorder, and my PC--its the same as what Paulie No was doing in the ME's office, with his clamp, his electric saw, his trayfull of knives. Only we call it the psychological autopsy. I can do this. I am trained to do this. Recall: For a time, though only a short time, and only once to my face, they used to call me "Suicide Mike." This was thought to be too offensive, even for downtown, and they soon abandoned it. Offensive not to the poor bastards found slumped in carseats in sealed garages, or half submerged in crimson bathtubs. Offensive to me: It meant I was fool enough to take any bum call. Because a suicide didn't do a damn thing for your solve rate or your overtime. On the midnights the phone would ring and Mac or O'Boye would be pouting over the cupped receiver and saying, How about you handle this one, Mike? Its an s.d. and I need dough for my mother's operation. A suspicious death--not the murder he craves. For little-boy-lost here also believes that suicides are an insult to his forensic gifts. He wants a regular perpetrator . Not some schmuck who, a century ago, would have been buried at the four-corners, under a heap of rocks, with a stake through his heart. Then for a time--a short time, as I say--they'd hold out