From the Back Cover
The latest in Harvey s emotionally acute, often heartbreaking new series. The Seattle Times
Former cop Frank Elder reluctantly returns to Nottingham, the city where his family disintegrated, when his ex-wife asks him to look into the disappearance of her friend Jennie s sister, Claire. Elder uncovers sexual secrets of Claire s that take Jennie by surprise. But when Claire is found dead at home unmarked and carefully dressed it is Elder who is surprised by the similarities to an old case. Repartnered with Detective Inspector Maureen Prior in an investigation in which neither memories, confessions, nor instincts can be trusted, Elder struggles with the weight of the past and Harvey delivers another psychologically trenchant page-turner.
It s such a joy to kick back and savor the latest effort by one of the true masters of the genre . . . Elder . . . proves to be an affecting and memorable protagonist once more. The Baltimore Sun
Once the multiple criminal mysteries have been solved or resolved, the puzzle remains of what s to become of the solitary Elder. It s a tribute to Mr. Harvey s skill that we look forward to finding out. The Wall Street Journal
JOHN HARVEY is the author of ten Charlie Resnick novels and the recipient of the Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement. His novels featuring Frank Elder include Flesh & Blood, which won the Silver Dagger Award and a Barry Award, and Ash & Bone, which was nominated for a Los Angeles Times Book Award. Harvey lives in Great Britain.
An Otto Penzler Book"
About the Author
JOHN HARVEY is the author of ten previous Charlie Resnick novels and the Frank Elder series, and a recipient of the Silver Dagger Award, the Barry Award, and the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement, among other honors. He lives in London.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
1965
BEHIND HIS SPECTACLES, THE BOY’S EYES WERE LIKE bevelled glass.
Alice Silverman turned in her chair and adjusted the window blind so that the late summer light fell muted into the room. All the surfaces— the pale wood table, the backs and arms of both chairs, the long low cabinet of shallow drawers— hummed with a shimmer of honeyed dust. Each drawer in the cabinet was marked clearly with the name of the child to whom it belonged; some, those of the youngest, had an animal brightly painted beside the handle, a dolphin, a diplodocus, a brown bear with outsize feet and a big red bow at its neck.
Close to Alice’s slim wrist rested the unlined pad on which, occasionally, she noted down words or phrases in a neat hand, or otherwise doodled, crosshatching dark corners that might be clouds or trees. Between herself and the boy there were sheets of unmarked paper, some coloured, some plain, and near them a wooden box filled with pencils, chalks, and crayons.
“There’s plenty of paper here,” Alice said. “You could draw something. Make me a picture.”
Barely a flicker of response in those eyes.
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” Alice said. “Part of you wants to, but part of you doesn’t.”
Still nothing.
She had asked him before, not asked him, chivvied him, told him. Needing a response. Something she could push against. Not wanting him to be too comfortable. None of those namby-pamby social-worker questions— What had he done in the holidays? What was his favourite group, the Beatles or the Stones?
Alice looked at him and the boy shuffled awkwardly on his chair until he was sitting almost sideways, head down, face angled away.
The Stones, she thought, it had to be. For her, at least. The words to “Mother’s Little Helper” running through her head. The thrust of Jagger’s skinny hips, the cruel lewdness of his lips.
A shiver ran through her and she sensed the boy stiffen as if somehow he had noticed.
THE REFERRAL HAD COME FROM THE BOY’S TEACHER INItially, not based on any one particular thing, more an accumulation of incidents that had alerted her to some underlying malaise that went beyond the norm. Sudden mood swings, outbursts of temper, tears; several occasions on which he’d soiled himself in the playground, or once, in class, an incident, quite possibly misinterpreted, between himself and the school secretary when they had been alone in her office, something vaguely sexual.
Alice had read the reports, hummed and hawed, finally found a place in her schedule. Almost five years now since she had finished her training, three since taking up her post with this authority. The younger children, seven, eight, nine, she felt less anxious with, more in control. Boys like this, though, edging eleven, slightly built but with something threatening about them nevertheless, something confrontational beating just beneath the skin . . .
Sensing the allotted time drawing to a close, Alice allowed herself to glance down at her watch; capped and uncapped her pen, then told herself not to fidget. A cup of tea and a biscuit: two more sessions and then she was through. Another day. Tonight there was a Buñuel at the Film Society. Viridiana. Maybe she’d go along, take her mind off work, relax.
“All right then,” Alice said, as brightly as she could. “I’ll see you again next week.”
Copyright © John Harvey 2006
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