Close to Home: A Novel of Suspense (Inspector Banks Novels)
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The past returns to haunt Chief Inspector Alan Banks in this harrowing novel of suspense from New York Times bestselling author Peter Robinson.
There are human bones, buried in an open field, the remains of a lost teenaged boy whose disappearance devastated a community more than thirty-five-years ago…and scarred a guilt-ridden friend forever…
A long-hidden horror has been unearthed, dragging a tormented policeman into a past he could never truly forget no matter how desperately he tried. A heinous crime that occurred too close to home still has its grip on Chief Inspector Alan Banks—and it’s leading him into a dark place where evil still dwells. Because the secrets that doomed young Graham Marshall back in 1965 remain alive and lethal, and disturbing them could cost Banks much more than he ever imagined.
Master of suspense Peter Robinson once again delves into the human psyche to reveal what leads some to commit murder in this compelling, unforgettable thriller.
so another evening doesn’t make much difference.” “I know you’re busy.” “I’m covered. Besides, we had a lucky break just before I set off.” Banks told her about finding Luke Armitage’s bag at Liz Palmer’s flat. “Poor kid,” said Michelle. “He wasn’t much older than Graham Marshall, was he?” “A year or so.” “Why would anyone want to kill a boy that age? What could he possibly have done?” “I don’t know. I suppose that’s why we assume it’s a pedophile when the victim’s so young. We can easily
something that might tarnish Harris’s reputation. You suspected he was bent, you knew he gave Fiorino a wide berth in exchange for information, and something about the Graham Marshall case bothered you. You didn’t want it stirring up again because you didn’t know what would come to the surface.” “What next?” Shaw asked. “There’ll have to be a report. I’m not going to bury this. I’ll report my findings and any conclusions that can be drawn to the ACC. After that, it’s up to him. There might be
further—missing pets, some domestic complaints—but the lists gave her a good impression of what daily life must have been like for a copper back then. In May, for example, a man had been arrested in connection with an assault on a fourteen-year-old girl, who had accepted a lift with him near the A1, but he bore no resemblance whatsoever to Banks’s description of the man by the river. Also in May there had been a major jewelry robbery at a city center shop, netting the thieves eighteen thousand
spoke, a concerned look on her face. “I’m fine,” he said. “You look pale. Would you like a drink of water?” “No, thank you,” said Banks. “It’s him.” “Are you certain?” “After all this time I can’t be a hundred percent positive, but I’m as certain as I’ll ever be.” Shaw nodded, and Michelle took the picture back. “Why?” Banks asked, looking from one to the other. “What is it?” “James Francis McCallum,” Michelle said. “He went missing from a mental institution near Wisbech on Thursday, June
material from the root. It was heavier than he thought, and as it jerked free, the dinghy tipped and Andrew, off-balance, fell into the tarn. He was a strong swimmer, so drowning didn’t worry him, but what chilled his blood was that the thing he was holding tightly as a lover in a slow dance was a dead body, and from its ashen face, open dead eyes looked directly into his. Andrew let go of the burden, mouth full of bile. He struggled back into the dinghy, salvaged his oars and rowed back to