Piece of My Heart (Inspector Banks Novels)
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1969 . . . In an era of free love and rebellion, a dead body is discovered among the detritus of a recently concluded rock festival—a beautiful young woman stabbed so savagely through the chest that a piece of her heart was sliced off.
Now . . . A freelance journalist, a stranger to the region, is savagely bludgeoned to death in a shocking act of violence with no apparent motive.
Two murders separated by four decades are investigated by two very different but equally haunted investigators—one, a casualty of war unable to come to terms with a confusing new world; the other, a rogue policeman harboring ghosts of his own. But the truth behind a grisly present-day slaying may somehow be hidden in the amplified, drug-induced fog of a notorious past, propelling Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks into the darkest shadows of the peace, love, and rock 'n' roll generation.
“I went to complain about the personal remarks she made about me during the briefing. At the very least I expected an apology.” “And you got?” “A bollocking, more personal remarks, and an assignment to statement reading.” “That’s steep.” “Very. And she warned me off you.” “What?” “It’s true.” Annie looked down into her coffee. “She seems to think we’re an item again.” “Where could she possibly have got that idea from?” “I don’t know.” Annie paused. “Templeton’s in thick with her.” “So?”
said he was framed.” “Yes, but all criminals do that, don’t they? That’s what my father told me.” “It’s pretty common,” said Banks. “So there. Look, what is this all about? He’s not due to be released, is he?” “You need have no worries on that score. He died in prison.” “Oh. Well, I can’t say I’m heartbroken.” “What happened after the arrest and everything?” Yvonne shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe what an absolute idiot I was. My father let my boyfriend at Springfield Mount know
American accent. Only a thin strip of her face showed, but he could see what Dennis Nokes had meant about her good looks. “I’m Detective Inspector Chadwick,” he said, holding up his warrant card. “It’s about Linda Lofthouse.” “Linda? Of course.” “Do you mind if I come in?” She looked at him for a moment—he could see only one eye—and he sensed she was calculating what was her best option. In the end the door shut, and when it opened again it opened all the way. “All right,” she said. Chadwick
green. It was another miserable day, with wind and rain from the east, for a change, and the flagstone roofs of the houses looked as dark green as moss pools. Bare tree branches waved beyond the TV aerials, and beyond them lay the washed-out backdrop of a dishwater-gray sky. At the top right of the village green, between the old Burgundy Hotel and the dark, squat Methodist chapel, a narrow lane led down toward a wooded beck. On each side was a terrace of small, one-up-one-down limestone
Greaves’s breakdown and the drowning death of Robin Merchant at Swainsview Lodge thirty-five years ago, and the feature Nick Barber had been writing for MOJO. “It’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t?” said Gervaise, when he had finished. “I’ve always been a bit suspicious of events from so far in the past reaching forward into the present. Sounds like the stuff of television. I’m more inclined toward the most obvious solution—someone closer to hand, a jilted lover, cheated business partner, whatever. In