Cover image for Cold is the grave
Title:
Cold is the grave
Author:
Robinson, Peter, 1950-
Personal Author:
Edition:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : William Morrow, [2000]

©2000
Physical Description:
369 pages ; 24 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780380978083
Format :
Book

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Central Library X Adult Fiction Central Closed Stacks
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Clarence Library X Adult Fiction Mystery/Suspense
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Clearfield Library X Adult Fiction Mystery/Suspense
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Grand Island Library X Adult Fiction Open Shelf
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Lancaster Library X Adult Fiction Open Shelf
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Orchard Park Library X Adult Fiction Mystery/Suspense
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Williamsville Library X Adult Fiction Mystery/Suspense
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On Order

Summary

Summary

Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks' life is shaken to the core when he is unexpectedly pulled into the investigation of a young girl's disappearance in this shattering suspense novel from the hand of a modern master.

"Full of twists and surprises....Robinson shows he has only begun to dig into the personality of his tenacious, thoughtful inspector."--Chicago Tribune

When the nude photo of a teenage runaway shows up on a website, the girl's father turns to Detective Chief Inspector Alan banks for help. But these aren't unusual circumstances, for the runaway is the daughter of a man who's determined to destroy the dedicated Yorkshire policeman's career and good name. Still, it's a case that Banks--a father himself--dares not ignore as he follows its trail into teeming London. But when a series of gruesome murders follows soon after, Banks finds himself pulled into the past and private world of his most powerful enemy, Chief Constable Jimmy Riddle.

Peter Robinson is at the height of his storytelling skills in this twisting novel of suspense that proves one can never escape their pasts--especially when there are sordid secrets waiting to be revealed.


Author Notes

Peter Robinson was born in Castleford, Yorkshire, in 1950. He received a B.A. Honours Degree in English literature from the University of Leeds, moved to Canada, and went on to earn a M.A. in English and creative writing from the University of Windsor and a Ph.D. in English from York University.

His first novel, Gallows View, was published in 1987 and became the first book in the Inspector Banks Mystery series. His other works include Caedmon's Song, No Cure for Love, Not Safe after Dark and Other Stories, Before the Poison, and When the Music's Over. He has received several awards including the Crime Writers of Canada's Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel in 1992 for Past Reason Hated and the Author's Award from the Foundation for the Advancement of Canadian Letters in 1994 for Final Account.

He has also published many short stories in anthologies and in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, including Innocence, which won the CWC Best Short Story Award, and The Two Ladies of Rose Cottage, which won a Macavity Award. He has taught at a number of Toronto colleges and served as Writer-in-Residence at the University of Windsor, Ontario, 1992-93.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

The latest installment in the Alan Banks series, and the sequel to the Edgar-nominated In A Dry Season [BKL Mr 15 99], again expands the boundaries of the traditional English village with Robinson's canny exploration of contemporary evil and his wry characterization of a detective who remains a mystery to himself. Chief Inspector Alan Banks, whose children he admits to ignoring until their problems grew too great, finds his domestic situation of estranged wife, rogue son, and rebellious teen daughter looking rosy compared to that of his archenemy and boss, Chief Constable Riddle. Six months after Riddle's 16-year-old daughter, Emily, ran away from a posh boarding school, her younger brother discovers her, naked, on a pornographic Web site. Despite his longstanding detestation of Banks, Riddle begs him to find out what has become of his daughter. Banks must investigate as a private citizen, because of Riddle's fears for his own reputation, complicating his tour of the London high-end drug world that Emily now inhabits. Banks discovers the precariousness of Emily's position in her new life and, more disturbingly, the grotesque truth behind a facade of perfect family life. A cunningly constructed plot, enhanced by Robinson's engaging descriptions and insights. --Connie Fletcher


Publisher's Weekly Review

This 11th book about Yorkshire police officer Alan Banks is disappointing after 1999's Edgar-nominee, In a Dry Season, but contains enough elements of the familiar formula to satisfy dedicated fans. DCI Banks, his romance with police colleague Annie Cabbot having cooled off, is seriously thinking of asking his wife, Sandra, to end their separation and give the marriage another try. He's also applied to the National Crime Squad to escape his loathsome boss, Chief Constable Riddle. But just as Banks is packing for a weekend train jaunt to Paris, the wretched Riddle calls to ask a favor. Riddle's nine-year-old son, snooping around on the Internet, has come upon a naked picture of his 16-year-old sister, Emily, who ran away from home and disappeared into the London drugs and smut cesspool. Despite their mutual hatred, BanksÄrealizing what it took for Riddle to ask for his help in finding the girlÄjust can't refuse. This part of the story works well; Robinson makes no attempt to soften the nastiness of the stupid, resentful and politically ambitious Riddle or the apparent coldness of Riddle's wife. But things begin to get more complicatedÄand less believableÄwhen the powerful London criminal with whom Emily has been living appears to be implicated in murder and business fraud in Yorkshire. Too many plot coincidences and clich‚s (a man is described as being "bald as a coot" twice) finally work against Robinson's greatest strength: his ability to keep Banks an interesting, realistic and changing human being. Agent, Dominick Abel. 6-city author tour. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

Fans of British police procedurals who have not yet discovered Robinson are in for a treat. His Inspector Banks series combine intricate, intriguing plots with complex characters and bleakly beautiful Yorkshire settings. In this follow-up to the Edgar-nominated In a Dry Season, detective chief inspector Alan Banks has been asked by his boss and nemesis, chief constable Jimmy Riddle, to find his runaway 16-year-old daughter, Emily, after discovering nude photos of her on a porn web site. At the same time, Banks is struggling to decide whether to reconcile with his estranged wife, Sandra, or to reignite his relationship with Annie Cabot, his partner on a previous case. While it is a bit hard to believe that a police chief with all the resources available to him would wait six months to look for his missing daughter (Robinson's explanation that the politically ambitious Riddle is afraid of the public scandal doesn't quite ring true), once Banks begins his search into London's seamy underbelly, all doubts are suspended, and the reader is hooked. A great read for those dark and stormy nights. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 6/15/00.]DWilda Williams, "Library Journal" (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Cold Is the Grave A Novel of Suspense Chapter One "Mummy! Mummy! Come here." Rosalind carried on stuffing the wild mushroom, olive oil, garlic and parsley mixture between the skin and the flesh of the chicken, the way she had learned in her recent course on the art of French cuisine. "Mummy can't come right now," she shouted back. "She's busy." "But, Mummy! You've got to come. It's our lass." Where on earth did he learn such common language? Rosalind wondered. Every term they forked out a fortune in fees to send him to the best school Yorkshire had to offer, and still he ended up sounding like some vulgar tyke. Perhaps if they lived down south again, the situation would improve. "Benjamin," she called back. "I told you. Mummy's busy. Daddy has an important dinner tonight and Mummy has to prepare." Rosalind didn't mind cooking--in fact, she had taken several courses and quite enjoyed them--but just for a moment, as she spoke, she wished she had been able to say that "cook" was preparing the meal and that she was busy deciding what to wear. But they had no cook, only a cleaning lady who came in once a week. It wasn't that they couldn't afford it, but simply that her husband drew the line at such extravagance. Honestly, Rosalind sometimes thought, anyone would imagine he was a born Yorkshireman himself instead of just living here. "But it is her!" Benjamin persisted. "It's our lass. She's got no clothes on." Rosalind frowned and put aside her knife. What on earth could he be talking about? Benjamin was only eight, and she knew from experience that he had a very active imagination. She even worried that it might hold him back in life. Overimaginative types, she had found, tend toward idleness and daydreaming; they don't get on with more profitable activities. "Mummy, hurry up!" Rosalind felt just the slightest tingle of apprehension, as if something were about to change forever in her universe. Shaking off the feeling, she wiped her hands of the oily stuffing, took a quick sip of gin and tonic, then walked toward the study, where Benjamin had been playing on the computer. As she did so, she heard the front door open and her husband call out that he was home. Early. She frowned. Was he checking up on her? Ignoring him for the moment, she went to see what on earth Benjamin was talking about. "Look," the boy said as she walked into the room. "It is our lass." He pointed at the computer screen. "Don't talk like that," Rosalind said. "I've told you before. It's common." Then she looked. At first, she was simply shocked to see the screen filled with the image of a naked woman. How had Benjamin stumbled onto such a site? He wasn't even old enough to understand what he had found. Then, as she leaned over his shoulder and peered more closely at the screen, she gasped. He was right. She was looking at a picture of her daughter, Emily, naked as the day she was born, but with considerably more curves, a tattoo and a wispy patch of blond pubic hair between her legs. That it was her Emily, there was no mistake; the teardrop-shaped birthmark on the inside of her left thigh proved it. Rosalind ran her hand through her hair. What was this all about? What was happening? She glanced briefly at the URL on top of the screen. She had a photographic memory, so she knew she wouldn't forget it. "See," said Benjamin. "It is our lass, isn't it. What's she doing without any clothes on, Mummy?" Then Rosalind panicked. My God, he mustn't see this. Emily's father. He mustn't be allowed to see it. It would destroy him. Quickly, she reached toward the mouse, but before her fingers could click on it, a deep voice behind her told her it was too late. "What on earth's going on?" he asked mildly, putting a fatherly hand on his son's shoulder. Then, after the briefest of silences, Rosalind heard the sharp intake of breath and knew that he had the answer. His hand tightened and Benjamin flinched. "Daddy, you're hurting me." But Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle was oblivious to his son's pain. "My God!" he gasped, pointing at the screen. "Is that who I think it is?" Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks paused over his holdall, wondering whether he should take the leather jacket or the Windcheater. There wasn't room for both. He wasn't sure how cold it would be. Probably no different from Yorkshire, he guessed. At most, perhaps a couple of degrees warmer. Still, you never could tell with November. In the end, he decided he could take both. He folded the Windcheater and put it on top of the shirts he had already packed, then he pressed down hard on the contents before dragging the reluctant zip shut. It seemed a lot for just one weekend away from home, but it all fitted into one not-too-heavy bag. He would wear his leather jacket on the journey. All he had to do now was choose a book and a few tapes. He probably wouldn't need them, but he didn't like to travel anywhere without something to read and something to listen to in case of delays or emergencies. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way, having once spent four hours in the casualty department of a large London hospital on a Saturday night waiting to have six stitches sewn beside his right eye. All that time, he had held the gauze pad to stanch the bleeding and watched the endless supply of drug overdoses, attempted suicides, heart-attack victims and road accidents going in before him. That their wounds were far more serious and merited more urgent treatment than his minor cut, Banks never had a moment's doubt, but he wished to hell there had been something to read in the dingy waiting area other than a copy of the previous day's Daily Mirror. The person who had read it before him had even filled in the crossword. In ink. Cold Is the Grave A Novel of Suspense . Copyright © by Peter Robinson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Cold Is the Grave: A Novel of Suspense by Peter Robinson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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