Four Fantastic Mysteries in One Great Sampler!

Jo Nesbo
P OL I C E
Translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett
Random House Canada
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1
it was asleep in there, behind the door.
The inside of the corner cupboard smelt of old wood, powder residue
and gun oil. When the sun shone through the window into the room,
a strip of light shaped like an hourglass travelled from the keyhole into
the cupboard and, if the sun was at precisely the right angle, there would
be a matt gleam to the gun lying on the middle of the shelf.
It was a Russian Odessa, a copy of the better-known Stechkin.
The ugly automatic pistol had had a peripatetic existence, travelling
with the Cossacks in Lithuania to Siberia, moving between the various
Urka headquarters in southern Siberia, becoming the property of an
ataman, a Cossack leader, who had been killed, Odessa in hand, by
the police, before ending up in the Nizhny Tagil home of an arms-
collecting prison director. Finally, the weapon was brought to Norway
by Rudolf Asayev, alias Dubai, who, before he disappeared, had monop-
olised the narcotics market in Oslo with the heroin-like opioid violin.
Oslo, the very town where the gun now found itself, in Holmenkollveien,
to be precise, in Rakel Faukes house. The Odessa had a magazine
that could hold twenty rounds of Makarov, 9x18mm calibre, and could
fre single shots and salvos. There were twelve bullets left in the
magazine.
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2
P A R T ONE
Three of them had been fred at Kosovo Albanians, rival dope pushers.
Only one of the bullets had bitten into fesh.
The next two had killed Gusto Hanssen, a young thief and drug dealer
who had pocketed Asayevs money and dope.
The gun still smelt of the last three shots, which had hit the head
and chest of the ex-police offcer Harry Hole during his investigation
into the above-mentioned murder of Gusto Hanssen. And the crime
scene had been the same: Hausmanns gate 92.
The police still hadnt solved the Hanssen case, and the eighteen-
year-old boy who had initially been arrested had been released. Mostly
because they hadnt been able to fnd, or link him to, any murder
weapon. The boys name was Oleg Fauke and he woke every night
staring into the darkness and hearing the shots. Not those that had
killed Gusto, but the others. The ones he had fred at the policeman
who had been a father to him when he was growing up. Who he had
once dreamt would marry his mother, Rakel. Harry Hole. Olegs eyes
burned into the night, and he thought of the gun in the distant corner
cupboard, hoping that he would never see it again. That no one would
see it again. That it would sleep until eternity.
He was asleep in there, behind the door.
The guarded hospital room smelt of medicine and paint. The monitor
beside him registered his heartbeats.
Isabelle Skyen, the Councillor for Social Affairs at Oslo City Hall,
and Mikael Bellman, the newly appointed Chief of Police, hoped they
would never see him again.
That no one would see him again.
That he would sleep until eternity.
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P A R T ONE
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5
1
it had been a long, warm September day. The light transformed
Oslo Fjord into molten silver and made the low mountain ridges, which
already bore the frst tinges of autumn, glow. It was one of those days
that make Oslo natives swear they will never, ever move. The sun was
sinking behind Ullern Ridge and the last rays swept across the country-
side, across the squat, sober blocks of fats, a testimony to Oslos modest
origins, across lavish penthouses with terraces that spoke of the oil
adventure that had made the country one of the richest in the world,
across the junkies at the top of Stensparken and into the well-organised
little town where there were more overdoses than in European cities
eight times larger. Across gardens where trampolines were surrounded
by netting and no more than three children jumped at a time, as recom-
mended by national guidelines. And across the ridges and the forest
circling half of what is known as the Oslo Cauldron. The sun did not
want to relinquish the town; it stretched out its fngers, like a prolonged
farewell through a train window.
The day had begun with cold, clear air and sharp beams of light, like
lamps in an operating theatre. Later the temperature had risen, the sky
had gone a deeper blue and the air possessed that pleasant physical feel
which made September the most wonderful month in the year. And as
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6
dusk came, tentative and gentle, the air in the residential quarter on the
hills towards Lake Maridal smelt of apples and warm spruce trees.
Erlend Vennesla was approaching the top of the fnal hill. He could
feel the lactic acid now but concentrated on getting the correct vertical
thrust on the click-in pedals, with his knees pointing slightly inwards.
Because it was important to have the right technique. Especially when
you were tired and your brain was telling you to change position so that
the onus was on less tired, though less effective, muscles. He could feel
how the rigid cycle frame absorbed and used every watt he pedalled into
it, how he accelerated when he switched down a gear and stood up,
trying to keep the same rhythm, about ninety revolutions a minute. He
checked his heart rate monitor. One hundred and sixty-eight. He pointed
his headlamp at the satnav he had attached to the handlebars. It had a
detailed map of Oslo and its surrounds. The bike and the accessories
had cost him more than, strictly speaking, a recently retired detective
should spend. But it was important to stay in shape now that life offered
different challenges.
Fewer challenges, if he was honest.
The lactic acid was burning in his thighs and calves now. Painful but
also a wonderful promise of what was to come. An endorphin fest.
Tender muscles. Good conscience. A beer with his wife on their balcony
if the temperature didnt plummet after sunset.
And suddenly he was up. The road levelled out, and Lake Maridal was
in front of him. He slowed down. He was out of the town. It was
absurd, in fact, that after ffteen minutes hard cycling from the centre
of a European capital city you were surrounded by farms, felds and
dense forest with paths disappearing into the dusk. The sweat was making
his scalp itch beneath the charcoal-grey Bell helmet which alone had
cost the same as the bike he had bought as a sixth-birthday present for
his granddaughter, Line Marie. But he kept the helmet on. Most deaths
among cyclists were caused by head injuries.
He looked at his monitor. A hundred and seventy-fve. A hundred
and seventy-two. A welcome little gust of wind carried the sound of
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7
distant cheering up from the town. It must have been from Ullevl
Stadium there was an important international match this evening.
Slovakia or Slovenia. Erlend Vennesla imagined for a few seconds that
they had been applauding for him. It was a while since anyone had
done that. The last time would have been the farewell ceremony at
Kripos up at Bryn. Layer cake, speech by the boss, Mikael Bellman,
who since then had continued his steady rise to take the top police
job. And Erlend had received the applause, met their eyes, thanked
them and even felt his throat constrict as he was about to deliver his
simple, brief speech. Simple, sticking to the facts, as was now the
tradition at Kripos. Hed had his ups and downs as a detective, but
he had avoided major blunders. At least as far as he knew. Of course
you were never a hundred per cent sure you had the right answer.
With the rapid advances made in DNA technology and a signal from
the upper echelons that they would use it to examine isolated
cold cases, there was a risk of precisely that. Answers. New answers.
Conclusions. As long as they concentrated on unsolved cases, that
was fne, but Erlend didnt understand why they would waste resources
on investigations which had long been fled away.
The darkness had deepened and even in the light from the street
lamps he almost cycled past the wooden sign pointing into the forest.
But there it was. Exactly as he remembered. He turned off and rode on
to the soft forest foor. He slowly followed the path without losing his
balance. The cone of light from his headlamp shone ahead, and was
halted by the thick wall of spruce trees on either side when he turned
his head. Shadows fitted in front of him, startled and hurried, changed
shape and dived under cover. It was how he had imagined it when he
had put himself in her shoes. Running, feeing with a torch in her hand,
after being locked up and raped over three days.
And when Erlend Vennesla saw a light suddenly come on in front
of him, for a moment he thought it was her torch, and that she was
running again, and he was on the motorbike that had gone after her
and caught her up. The light ahead of Erlend fickered before it was
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8
fashed straight at him. He stopped and dismounted. Shone his
headlamp on his heart rate monitor. Already below a hundred. Not bad.
He loosened the chin strap, took off his helmet and scratched his
scalp. God, that was good. He switched off his headlamp, hung the
helmet from the handlebars and pushed the bike towards the light. Felt
the helmet banging against the frame.
He stopped by the torchlight. The powerful beam hurt his eyes. And,
dazzled, he thought he could hear himself still breathing heavily. It was
strange his pulse was so low. He detected a movement, something being
lifted behind the large, quivering circle of light, heard a hushed whistle
through the air and at that moment a thought struck him. He shouldnt
have done that. He shouldnt have removed his helmet. Most deaths
among cyclists . . .
It was as if the thought stammered, like a displacement in time, like
an image being disconnected for a moment.
Erlend Vennesla stared ahead in astonishment and felt a hot bead
of sweat run down his forehead. He spoke, but the words were inco-
herent, as though there were a fault in the connection between brain
and mouth. Again he heard a soft whistle. Then sound went. All
sound, he couldnt even hear his own breathing. And he discovered
that he was on his knees and his bike was slowly tipping over into a
ditch. Before him danced a yellow light, but it disappeared when the
bead of sweat reached the ridge of his nose, ran into his eyes and
blinded him.
The third blow felt like an icicle being driven into his head, neck and
body. Everything froze.
I dont want to die, he thought, trying to raise a defensive arm above
his head, but, unable to move a single limb, he knew he had been
paralysed.
He didnt register the fourth blow, although from the aroma of wet
earth he concluded he was now lying on the ground. He blinked several
times and sight returned to one eye. By his face he saw a pair of large,
dirty boots in the mud. The heels were raised and then the boots took
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off from the ground. They landed. The same was repeated: the heels
were raised and the boots took off. As if the assailant were jumping.
Jumping to get even more power behind the blows. And the last thought
to go through his brain was that he had to remember what her name
was, he mustnt forget her name.
629FF_tx.indd 9 24/07/2013 08:57
Police
B Y Jo Nesbo

Several police officers are found murdered at the scene of an old and
unsolved murder case that they were involved in investigating. The
killings are extremely brutal and bestial. The police have no leads.
What's more, they're missing their best investigator. A severely
wounded man in a coma is kept alive at a hospital in Oslo. The room
is guarded by the police and the identity of the patient is kept secret.

Buy a copy of Police on sale September 17, 2013!

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Excerpted from Police by Jo Nesbo. Copyright 2013 by Jo Nesbo. Excerpted by permission of Random House
Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be
reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Diane Settereld
I have heard it said, by those that cannot possibly know, that
in the nal moments of a mans existence he sees his whole life pass
before his eyes. If that were so, a cynic might assume William
Bellmans last moments to have been spent contemplating anew the
lengthy series of calculations, contracts and business deals that made
up his existence. In fact, as he approached the border with that other
place that border towards which we will all nd our path turning
sooner or later his thoughts were drawn to those who had already
crossed into that unknown territory: his wife, three of his children, his
uncle, cousin and some childhood friends. Having remembered these
lost, dear ones and being still some moments from death, there was
time for one last act of remembrance. What he unearthed, after it had
lain buried some forty years in the archaeology of his mind, was a
rook.
Let me explain.
Will Bellman was ten years and four days old and the glory of his
birthday was still fresh in his veins. He and his friends were in the elds
that ran between the river and the woods, elds where the rooks
descended, apping and swooping, to jab robustly at the ground in
search of leatherjackets. Charles, inheritor-in-waiting of Bellmans
Mill, was Wills cousin. Their fathers were brothers and though that
sounds simple, it wasnt. Fred was the eldest son of the baker. His
mother was from dairy people. He was said to be the best-fed boy in
Whittingford, and he certainly looked as though he had been weaned
on bread and cream. He had white teeth and solid esh over his strong
bones, and he talked about the bakery he would take over one day.
Luke was one of the blacksmiths offspring. There would be nothing
for him to take over: his older brothers were too numerous. His bright
1
copper hair could be seen a mile off; at least, it could when it was
clean. He kept a safe distance from school. He didnt see the point.
If it was a beating you wanted, you could get it just the same at
home. Unless he was exceptionally hungry he kept a safe distance.
from home too. When he couldnt feed himself by scrounging, he
scrumped and when he couldnt scrump, he thieved. A boy had to eat.
He was passionately devoted to Williams mother who sometimes gave
him bread and cheese and once a chicken carcass to pick.
The boys lived different lives at rst, but something had drawn them
together at the beginning of this summer, and it was their age. All
had been born in the same month of the same year. The power of the
symbolic anniversary had acted upon them like a physical force, and
as the days of August slipped by, it was not only friendship that drew
them back, day after day, to these hedgerows and these elds. It was
competition.
They ran races, climbed trees, engaged in mock battles and arm-
wrestling matches. Every yard run made them faster, every upper
branch attained won them a broader horizon. They egged each other
on, never refused a dare, took greater and greater risks. They laughed
at grazes, bruises were badges of honour and scars trophies. Every
minute and every day they measured themselves against the world and
each other.
At ten years and four days old, Will was pleased with the world and
with himself. He was a long way from being a man, he knew that, yet
he was no longer a little boy. All summer long, woken early by the
stony cawing of the rooks in the trees behind his mothers cottage, he
had felt his power growing in him. He had outgrown the kitchen and
the garden: elds, river and woods were his territory now, and the sky
belonged to him. He still had a lot to learn, but he knew that he would
learn it as he had everything else so far in life easily. And while he
learned he could enjoy each day this new and exultant sense of
mastery.
I bet I can hit that bird, Will said now, indicating a far-off branch
of a far-off tree. It was one of the oaks close to his home; the cottage
itself was visible from here, half screened by hedges.
2
You cant! said Luke, and immediately he called to the others,
scrambling up a bank and pointing into the distance. Will says he can
hit that bird!
Never! the other pair called, but they came running to see the
attempt all the same.
The bird, a rook or a crow, was well out of range, on a branch half a
eld away.
Will pulled his catapult from his belt and made a great show of
searching for a stone. There was a mystique around the best missiles
for catapults. A reputation for recognising the right kind of stone was
prized, and lengthy conversations were had comparing them by their
size, smoothness, texture and colour. Marbles were superior of course,
but rare was the boy ready to risk the loss of a marble. Williams
private hunch was that any roundish, smoothish stone was as good as
another, but he knew the value of mystication as well as any boy, so
he took his time.
Meanwhile, it was his catapult that interested the boys. He en-
trusted it to his cousin while he hunted the missile. Charles handled
the weapon casually at rst, then, feeling its ne balance, studied it
more closely. The two prongs extended from the handle in a Y-shape
almost too perfect to be natural. You could search an entire forest and
not nd a Y like that. Will had a good eye.
Fred joined him in studying it. He frowned and the corners of his
mouth turned down, as if he was inspecting a churn of disappointing
butter.
Its not hazel.
Will did not look up from his hunt. Hazel cuts easily. But you dont
have to use it. He had sharpened his knife, climbed, sawed patiently to
excise the shape he had spotted. The elder was of an age to be strong,
young enough for springiness.
The sling was familiar: Will had reused his old one, cut from the
tongue of an outgrown shoe. Lines of small, neat slits made with a
sharp blade allowed the leather to be stretched so that it made a bed
for a small missile. But one element of the catapult was entirely novel.
At the level where the sling was attached, Will had carved shallow
3
inch-wide grooves. In the centre of each groove were tied the narrow
strips of leather that attached the sling. But above and below this
knot, string was wound. It lay neat in the groove, above and below the
leather laces. Charles ran his ngers admiringly over it. It was deftly
done, but he couldnt see the reason for it.
Whats this for?
Luke reached out and ran an appraising nger along the winding of
string. Stops the sling riding down, does it?
Will shrugged. Im nding out. Its not shifted so far.
Until today the boys had not known that a catapult so perfect could
exist. They had always thought of catapults as things that were good or
bad by the will of the gods, things of chance, of hazard. To use one
was to pit your chances against fate, fty to one youd miss. There was
nothing accidental about Wills catapult. It had been made, fashioned,
engineered.
Luke tested the give of the leather strips. They were supple enough,
but he couldnt resist the chance to contribute something to this
enviable catapult. He spat onto his ngertips and applied the wetness
lovingly to the leather strips.
By the time Will had identied the stone that satised him he was
surprised the bird was still there. He took back his catapult and loaded
it. He was adept. His eye was good, his hand steady. He practised a
lot.
The bird was too far away.
Turning their attention from the weapon to the target the boys
grinned and shook their heads. Wills boast was so ludicrous that he
was half laughing with them. But then his ten accumulated years of
observation, of growth, of strength and of power readied themselves in
him and he fell deaf to the noise of his companions.
While his eye traced the arc the impossible arc between missile
and target, his brain calculated, calibrated and instructed its tools. His
feet shifted, his weight settled squarely, the muscles in his legs, back,
shoulders prepared, his ngers altered their grip minutely on the
catapult and his hands tested the tension. He drew the sling back.
At the moment of launching the stone no, just before: it was the
4
second when it was too late to stop it he knew a moment of
perfection. Boy, catapult, stone. Brain, eye, body. He knew certainty,
and the missile was released.
It took a long time for the stone to y along its preordained
trajectory. Or so it seemed. Time enough for William to hope that
the bird, apping into life, would rise upwards from the branch. The
stone would fall harmlessly to earth and the rooks granite laughter
would taunt them from the sky.
The black bird did not move.
The stone reached the apex of its arc and began its descent. The
boys fell silent. William was silent. The universe was still. Only the
stone moved.
There is still time, William thought. I could cry out, and startle the bird into
taking off. But his tongue was thick in his mouth and the moment
stretched out in time, long, slow, paralysed.
The stone completed its journey.
The black bird fell.
The boys stared in puzzlement at the empty branch. Had it hap-
pened? It cant have! But theyd seen it . . . Three heads turned as one
to stare at Will. His gaze was xed on the branch where the bird had
been. He was still seeing it fall, trying to make sense of it.
Fred broke the silence with a great bellow, and three boys went
haring over the eld in the direction of the tree, Luke stumbling over
the tree roots and furrows, always the last. Belatedly, William ran too.
He came upon them crouching under the tree. They shufed and
shifted to make room for him to see.
There, on the grass: the bird. A rook. Juvenile, still black of beak.
It was true, then. He had done it.
He felt something move in his chest, as though an organ had been
removed and something unfamiliar inserted in its place. A sentiment
he had never suspected the existence of bloomed in him. It travelled
from his chest along his veins to every limb. It swelled in his head,
mufed his ears, stilled his voice and collected in his feet and ngers.
Having no language for it, he remained silent, but felt it root, become
permanent.
5
We could bury it. That was Charles. A ceremony.
The idea of a ritual to mark the extraordinary event found favour.
But before they could agree what to do, with a tentativeness that
provoked laughter, Luke took hold of the tip of a wing and gently
splayed it. A ray of light breaking through the foliage fell upon the
dead creature and the black was suddenly not black: inky shades of
blue, purple and green were released. This was colour that did not
behave as colour should. It shifted and shimmered, alive with vividness
that played tricks on the eye and the mind. Every boy wondered for a
moment whether perhaps the bird was not dead after all but it was.
Of course.
The boys murmured and once again turned to look at Will. This
beauty too belonged to him.
Emboldened, Luke picked the bird up.
CRAA!
He lunged the cadaver towards Fred, towards Charles not in
Wills direction and the two boys stumbled back, exclaiming in
alarm, laughing with relief. Then it was Fred who larked about with
the dead creature, manipulating its wings, imitating ight, cawing and
croaking with gusto. Will laughed weakly. There was the aftermath of
turbulence inside him. His lungs were tired.
Before long Fred found something unpleasant in the slackness of the
small body. They all did. It was the limp hang of the head, the way the
feathers would not go back into place. In disgust Fred tossed the body
away.
All thought of a burial was now forgotten and they turned their
attention from the bird to the stone that had killed it. That stone had
a value now. They spent a long time looking, picking up one round
pebble after another.
Too big, they agreed.
Wrong colour.
It didnt have that mark, there.
The stone would not be found. Having accomplished its miracle it
had divested itself of its uniqueness and was lying somewhere about,
indistinguishable from any number of similar stones.
6
In any case, Charles suggested, and for once they all agreed, it
wasnt really the stone. It was Will who had done it.
They told and retold the story, acted it out for each other. With
imaginary catapults they killed whole parishes of imaginary rooks.
Will stood by. Like any ten-year-old hero, he took more than his fair
share of teasing and shoving. He smiled, sick at heart, proud, abashed,
guilty. He grinned and shoved back without conviction.
The sun sank low and the sky cooled. Autumn was coming, and
they were hungry. It was time to go home. The boys parted.
Will lived closest, in only a few minutes he would be in his mothers
kitchen.
On the brow of a bank of earth something prompted him to turn
around. He looked back to where the bird had fallen. In the few
minutes since the boys had left the place, rooks had come. They
circled above the oak, fteen or twenty of them. More were arriving
from all directions. They stretched across the sky, loose skeins of dark
marks, converging on this place. One by one they descended to alight
in the branches of the tree. Ordinarily such a congregation would be
accompanied by the noise of stony chatter as the birds ung sound at
each other like gravel. This gathering was different: it took place in
intent and purposeful silence.
Every bird on every branch was looking in his direction.
Will leapt off the earthbank and raced home, faster than he had
ever run before. When he had the door handle in his grasp he dared
to look behind him. The sky was empty. He stared at the branches
of the tree but at this distance and with the late sun in his eyes it was
hard to know whether he was seeing rooks or foliage. Perhaps he had
imagined that many-eyed stare.
For a moment he thought one of his friends had returned to the oak.
A boy, standing where he had stood in the shadow of the oak. But the
gure was too short to be Charles, too slim to be Fred, and had not
Lukes red hair. Besides, unless it was an effect of light and shade, the
boy was clad in black.
With the next blink, the boy was gone, on his way home through the
woods, probably.
7
Will turned the doorknob and went inside.
Whats got into you? his mother wanted to know.
William was quiet that evening and his mother thought him pale. Her
questions elicited little in the way of answers and she understood that
her boy was old enough to have secrets now.
Just think. In a weeks time youll be away at school with Charles.
He leant surreptitiously into her side when she stood by him to pour
his soup and when she put an arm around him he lingered instead
of reminding her that he was ten now. Was her fearless boy nervous
of leaving her for Oxford? That night, although it was not cold, she
warmed his bed and left his candle burning. When she came to kiss
him an hour later she stood and watched his sleeping face. How pale
he looked. Was he really her son? They change so quickly.
Only ten and I am losing him, she thought. And then, with a pang,
Unless perhaps I have lost him already.
The next day William woke with a fever. For half a week he stayed
in bed being tended to by his mother. During this time, while his
blood grew warmer and warmer and he sweated and cried out in pain,
William applied his ten-year-old genius and power to the greatest feat
he had ever attempted: forgetting.
He very largely succeeded.
8
Bellman & Black
B Y Diane Setterfield

Bellman & Black is a heart-thumpingly perfect ghost story,
beautifully and irresistibly written, its ratcheting tension exquisitely
calibrated line by line. Its hero is William Bellman, who, as a boy of
11, killed a shiny black rook with a catapult, and who grew up to be
someone, his neighbours think, who "could go to the good or the
bad." And indeed, although William Bellman's life at first seems
blessedhe has a happy marriage to a beautiful woman, becomes
father to a brood of bright, strong children, and thrives in business
one by one, people around him die. And at each funeral, he is startled
to see a strange man in black, smiling at him. At first, the dead are
distant relatives, but eventually his own children die, and then his
wife, leaving behind only one child, his favourite, Dora. Unhinged by
grief, William gets drunk and stumbles to his wife's fresh graveand
who should be there waiting, but the smiling stranger in black. The
stranger has a proposition for Williama mysterious business called
"Bellman & Black" . . .

Buy a copy of Bellman & Black on sale October 15, 2013!

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Excerpted from Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield. Copyright 2013 by Diane Setterfield. Excerpted by
permission of Bond Street Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of
this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
PETER
ROBI NSON
CHI LDREN OF THE
REVOLUTI ON
McCL E L L AND & ST E WART
Robi_9780771076305_2p_all_r1.indd 3 7/8/13 5:00 PM
1
As Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks walked along the
disused railway track, he couldnt help but imagine two young
lovers kissing on the footbridge ahead, shrouded in smoke
from a steam engine. All very Brief Encounter. But the Age of
Steam was long gone, and it wasnt love he was walking
towards; it was a suspicious death.
Banks made his way towards the group of white-suited
crime scene investigators standing outside a tent, lit from
inside, just beyond the bridge. Other CSIs were working on
the bridge itself; its rusted metal sides were so high that Banks
could see only their heads and shoulders.
The crime scene lay half a mile south of the village of
Coverton, which stood at the very limits of the North York-
shire county line, at the tip of the Yorkshire Dales National
Park across the A66 from Barnard Castle. The only way to get
to the body, Banks had been told over the phone, was to walk
along the old railway tracks or through the woods that ran
parallel to them about ffty yards to the east.
The railway ran dead straight, a narrow, shallow, U-shaped
valley cut into the landscape. The embankments were steep
and grassy on both sides, and while there were plenty of
weeds growing in the unkempt grass, no one had dumped
prams, bicycle frames or refrigerators there, as people did in
the more urban areas. The rails and sleepers had been taken
up long ago, and the track had been paved over, though
many of the fagstones were broken or uneven, and hardy
z Peter Robinson
weeds insinuated their way through the cracks. It seemed a
long half mile to Banks, especially with the rain and wind
whipping at him down the man-made valley. The only
human dwelling Banks saw on his journey stood to his right,
just before he got to the bridge: a small square cottage at the
top of the embankment.
When Banks got to the outer cordon, he showed his warrant
card to the offcer on duty, who lifted the tape for him and
handed him a hooded overall and shoe covers. Awkwardly, he
took off his raincoat and put on the protective gear over his
clothes. This area was where the CSIs and other offcers not
required at the immediate scene waited until they were needed.
Only essential personnel were given access through the inner
cordon to inside the tent itself, and as few people as possible
were allowed there at a time.
Already, the CSIs were busy fxing up extra lights as the
early November morning was overcast and dull. Banks poked
his head inside the canvas fap and saw the Crime Scene
Manager, Stefan Nowak, as immaculate as ever, and dry,
along with Dr Burns, the police surgeon, and Detective
Sergeant Winsome Jackman, all in their white coveralls. Peter
Darby, the crime-scene photographer, crouched by the body
taking photographs with his beat-up old Pentax, his state-
of-the-art handycam in its waterproof case hanging over his
shoulder. All except Darby turned to greet Banks. Suddenly,
the tent seemed crowded, and its humid interior smelled like
a wet dog.
Banks saw the crumpled body of an emaciated old man
wearing a grey anorak and blue jeans lying on his back. His
neck lay at an impossible angle, one arm was bent in the
op posite way to which it should have been, and a sharp knife
of bone protruded through the denim on his inner right thigh.
His clothes were wet with rain. Banks wondered how long he
had been there.
Children of the Revolution
OK, Banks said to Winsome. What happened? Run me
through it.
Dog walker found the body, Winsome said, without refer-
ring to her notebook. Or rather, her dog did. Eight thirty-seven,
to be precise.
Banks checked his watch. It was fve past ten. Thats very
precise.
Shes a retired schoolteacher. Probably used to checking
her watch every now and then to see when the lessons due to
end.
Banks laughed. I never realised how the teachers might
have hated classes as much as we did. I used to believe they
existed just to bore and terrorise us.
Children often take a very self-centred view of the world.
Her names Margery Halton, sir, came a voice from just
beyond the tents entrance fap. Sorry for interrupting, but
Im PC Barry Kirwan, Coverton beat manager. I was frst
offcer on the scene. Margery knows me. She came straight to
my house, and I followed her up here and saw who it was,
then I called it in.
Banks walked back and ducked under the fap into the
open. Where is she now?
One of the community support offcers took her home, sir.
Bit of a state.
Im not surprised, said Banks. Who was he?
Names Gavin Miller, sir.
Local, then?
PC Kirwan pointed. Lived in that old signalmans cottage
just up there, other side of the bridge. You must have noticed
it on your way here.
Bank turned and looked at the squat cottage he had just
passed. Bijou would be a kind description. What do you know
about him? What did he do for a living?
Dont know much about him at all, sir. Not much of a
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mixer. Kept himself to himself. Bit of an odd duck, or so the
locals thought. Reclusive. Didnt get out much. I dont know
how he made his living.
Next of kin?
No idea, sir. I mean, he lived alone. I suppose there might
be someone . . .
How long had he been living there?
He bought the place three or four years ago. It had been up
for sale for quite a while. The market was very sluggish, and I
think he got a good price. As youll see, though, its not very
big.
Banks glanced at the embankment and the paved track. So
whats the story of this place, PC Kirwan? Whats the lie of the
land? How frequently is it used? Whats access like?
We used to have a branch line here until Dr Beeching
closed it in the early sixties. That was before my time, of
course. Anyway, since then, its just fallen into . . . well, you
can see for yourself. We get a few walkers in season, when the
weathers good were not too far from the Coast-to-Coast
and maybe a few railway buffs, but not so many in these sort
of weather conditions. Its a pretty secluded spot, as you can
see, and it doesnt really lead anywhere. He pointed beyond
the tent. Keep going south and youll end up at a collapsed
viaduct about a mile or so further on. Lark Woods are to the
east, above the embankment, and theres a woodland footpath
that winds through the woods by the river to the back of the
village car park. You cant get a car within half a mile of here
unless you really know the area. There are unsurfaced tracks
and lanes, access to the signalmans cottage, for example, but
theyre not generally known, and none of them lead directly to
or from Coverton, or anywhere else for that matter.
So he could have been lying there undiscovered for a
while?
I suppose so, sir. But not for days, I wouldnt say.
All night, though?
Easily.
Banks thanked PC Kirwan, went back into the tent and
turned to Winsome. Whats the story here?
PC Kirwan phoned in to report a suspicious death and
suggested we get some cover out here quickly, just in case
there was any evidence left that needed preserving. When I
got to the scene, it was pretty obvious that our man hadnt just
dropped dead from a heart attack while he was out jogging,
so . . . well, guv, you can see for yourself.
Peter Darby stood up. Done for now, he said, and left the
tent.
Banks turned to Dr Burns. Any idea what were dealing
with, Doc?
Burns pointed beyond the open tent fap to the bridge. It
would seem from his injuries, and the position of the body,
that he fell off the bridge. I dont think hes been moved, but I
havent had a chance to examine him fully for post-mortem
lividity yet. Dr Glendenning will be able to give you a more
accurate answer later, when he performs the post-mortem. As
you can see, the sides of the bridge are quite steep, most likely
for the beneft of the farm animals that cross, or used to cross,
so an accidental fall is extremely doubtful. Its about a thirty-
foot drop, quite enough to cause the kind of injuries his body
has sustained on the paved track. Broke his neck and several
other bones. Hed lost a lot of blood from a head wound, too.
And from the leg fracture, of course.
All caused by the fall?
Dr Burns paused. Possibly. Most.
Ah-ha, said Banks. Not committing yourself ?
Not yet.
Is there any reason to suppose that someone pushed him?
Banks asked. Maybe hit him over the head frst? Or are you
leaning towards suicide?
6 Peter Robinson
You mean, in which case why did I bring you all the way
out here on such a miserable Monday morning?
Something like that.
Well, theres nothing defnite yet, Burns admitted. All Im
saying is that I doubt it was an accident. If he didnt jump,
then someone had to have thrown him over the edge.
Would it be a far enough drop for him, or someone else, to
be sure that it would kill him?
No, said Burns. He could have got off lucky and simply
broken a few minor bones. Falls are diffcult to predict. Weve
all heard of someone who survived a long drop. But he landed
in a very unfortunate manner. As I said, it was the broken
neck and the fractured thigh that did for him. The femur
severed the femoral artery. Very nasty. He bled out. It would
have been quick, and in all likelihood, with the broken neck,
he would have been unconscious, maybe even paralysed, by
then. He probably wouldnt have felt any pain, just a sort of
growing numbness.
Banks raised his voice so that PC Kirwan outside the tent
could hear. Is there any way to get down from the bridge to
the tracks without jumping?
Yes, sir, said Kirwan. Its a bit steep, but you can scramble
down the embankment on either side. In this weather youd
probably end up sliding most of the way on your arse, sir. And
theres a slightly better path to the cottage, a few steps cut into
the earth.
So, if it was deliberate, our killer probably knew that he
could get down and fnish off his victim if the fall didnt do it
for him? Even if he had to slide down on his arse?
Yes, sir, said Kirwan.
Any sign of a suicide note? Banks asked the doctor.
Nothing.
Anyone checked out the cottage?
Not yet, sir, said Winsome. We were waiting for you.
Children of the Revolution ,
Banks glanced towards Nowak. What do you make of it,
Stefan?
I dont know, Nowak said in his impeccable and slightly
pedantic English, the trace of a Polish accent discernible only
now and then in certain cadences. This weather makes it
rather diffcult for us. Were working on it, but weve found no
fngerprints or footprints on the bridge so far, as one might
expect if hed hauled himself over the side and jumped, but
the rain could easily have washed them away. It was quite
heavy at times overnight. But the sides are rusted metal, while
the base is wooden planks, so in any case wed be lucky to fnd
anything after a nights rain.
How much do you reckon he weighs? Banks asked.
About eight stones at a guess, Burns answered.
Banks thought for a moment, then asked Nowak, Any
chance of collecting much trace evidence from the scene?
Theres always a chance, Nowak answered, even in this
weather. But Id say no to fnger- or footprints, unless some-
one came by the woodland path. The trees might offer some
protection from the rain there.
Tyre tracks?
Same. The rain would soften the ground, and some impres-
sion might remain, but its been coming down pretty heavily all
night, and the odds are that it will probably have washed away
anything laid down from before. Well be doing our best, though.
I dont doubt it. Blood? DNA?
Possibly. Diluted, diffcult, but perhaps not washed away
entirely.
I see youve already bagged his hands, Banks said to the
doctor. Anything there? Skin under a nail, perhaps?
Hard to say from a cursory glance, said Dr Burns. He was
a nail biter.
Banks stood for a moment taking it all in, listening to the
thrumming of rain on the canvas. The tent was leaking. A few
8 Peter Robinson
drops of water trickled down the back of his neck. He should
have put his hood up, he realised too late.
The man could have jumped, of course. Murders were rare
in this isolated part of the county. On the other hand, if he had
been intent on suicide, why choose a method that, according
to Dr Burns, could in no way guarantee success, and might
very well involve a great deal of pain, even paralysis?
Any idea how long hes been lying here? Banks asked.
How long hes been dead?
It was a chilly night, said Dr Burns, and that would have
slowed down the processes of rigor mortis and post-mortem
decay in general. But from what I can see, the paving stones
are quite dry under the body. And there are no obvious signs
of animal activity. Id estimate overnight, somewhere around
twelve hours, give or take.
When did it start raining here?
Yesterday? About midnight, sir, said PC Kirwan from
outside.
Lets say for the sake of argument that he died between ten
and midnight last night, Banks said. If he didnt come here to
kill himself, what was he doing here on a lonely footbridge not
so far from his front door with someone who wanted to kill
him?
Maybe he didnt know the person wanted to kill him, sir,
Winsome said. They could have just had a disagreement and
started fghting spontaneously. Or maybe he got waylaid. He
had his anorak on. He was prepared for going out.
Good point. But, the bridge is south of his cottage. Not far,
admittedly, but why would he walk even just a few yards south
to the bridge if he was going to the village? PC Kirwan said
there was a defnite path from the cottage down the embank-
ment. That would obviously have been the route hed use,
unless he fancied a walk through the woods. And where might
he have been going if he hadnt been heading for Coverton?
Banks turned to PC Kirwan. You said theres nothing further
south except a ruined viaduct. Any ideas?
No, sir, said Kirwan. It doesnt make sense. He should
have no need to walk south and cross the bridge just to go
north. And theres nothing but miles of open country. A few
farms, of course.
What was he carrying in his pockets? Banks asked.
I was wondering when youd get around to asking that,
Winsome answered. She picked up a plastic evidence bag
from the bin beside her. Mostly, just the usual. Its all nicely
bagged, sealed and signed. Wallet containing one credit card
and driving licence, expired, in the name of Gavin Miller,
along with one fve-pound note and some receipts from the
Spar grocery in Coverton and Bargain Booze in Eastvale.
Mobile phone, keys, a small penknife, loose change, a packet
of Silk Cut and a cheap butane lighter. Then theres this. With
a slight touch of theatricality, she pulled out a bulky envelope
and showed its contents to Banks. From what he could see, it
was a stack of ffty-pound notes, the new ones, with Boulton
and Watt on the back. Cash, Winsome went on. Theres fve
thousand pounds here. I counted it. Not something youd
need for a walk in the woods, Id say. And thats why we
dragged you out here on a miserable Monday morning, sir.
Banks whistled. Indeed. I suppose we can rule out a
mugging, then?
There was no garage attached to Gavin Millers cottage,
though there was a paved space beside it that was the right
size and shape for a small car. But there was no car. Banks
made a mental note to check whether Miller owned one. The
bridge was too narrow for even the slimmest of sports cars to
pass over, but the rough laneway widened in front of the
cottage, and Banks assumed it probably joined up eventually
with one of the local unfenced roads, as PC Kirwan had
1c Peter Robinson
suggested. It was the closest thing to a road out of there, at any
rate. Anyone who used it to get to Gavin Millers house would
probably have had to know of its existence in advance, though,
which would indicate that if it had been used, there was a
chance the assailant had known Miller and had visited him
there before. But such speculation was for the future, when
the CSIs had given Banks more to work on, and when he
knew for certain, one way or the other, whether Miller had
committed suicide or whether another person was involved.
At a quick glance, Banks could see no signs of a vehicle having
travelled the track recently.
The postage-stamp garden had been given over to the
growing of herbs. Banks had been cultivating a similar patch
himself over the summer, and he recognised thyme, dill, pars-
ley, rosemary and chives. The key turned easily in the lock,
and it was a relief to get inside out of the rain. Banks and
Winsome were still wearing their protective suits and gloves
so they could make a quick search of Gavin Millers house
without contaminating the scene before the CSIs came to
turn the place over.
Banks fumbled for the light switch and found it to the right
of the door. A shaded bulb in a ceiling fxture illuminated a
small living room, with just enough space for a couple of well-
worn maroon armchairs, a small bookcase, a freplace
complete with tiled hearth and mantelpiece, and a desk by the
window, which looked out through grubby, moth-eaten lace
curtains over the footpath and the felds to the south, with the
railway embankment, woods and bridge just visible to the left.
The cream wall-to-wall carpet was marked by two large wine
or coffee stains in the shape of Australia and Africa, the wall-
paper was peeling in places where it reached the ceiling, and
a few abstract prints in cheap frames hung on the rose-
patterned walls. No family photographs stood on the mantel
or on the desk. The chilly room smelled of stale smoke, as if it
Children of the Revolution 11
hadnt been aired or vacuumed in a while, and the layer of
dust on the mantelpiece and desk bore this out. Banks remem-
bered that Miller had a packet of Silk Cut in his pocket.
The desk had clearly been used recently, as the dust had
been disturbed, and the computer that sat there wasnt dusty
at all. The power light was on, screensaver showing a swirling
pattern of psychedelic designs, and a squat black Wi-Fi hub
stood on the window ledge, its blue lights steady. Beside it sat
a green tin ashtray advertising John Smiths Bitter, in which
were a number of stubbed-out cigarettes, the ends of the flters
stained brown. Banks eyed the computer greedily. It might
contain information that would help him fnd out what
happened to Gavin Miller, but he knew better than to touch
anything. When you fnd a computer at any scene connected
with a possible crime, you dont check the users browsing
habits; you leave it for the experts.
Banks and Winsome searched through the desk drawers
and found stationery, mini-USB drives, old backup CDs,
chargers and various connecting wires. In one of the side
drawers Banks found an envelope full of old photos: a pop
festival of some kind, the stage way off in the distance; a
picket-line scuffe, police in riot gear; a student demo; a city
Banks didnt recognise, tall buildings glinting in the sun; a
group of people standing outside a modern building; more
groups at restaurants and on beaches; mountains and a shel-
tered bay; a deep blue lake refecting the fr trees on the hills
that surrounded it, snow-capped mountains in the back-
ground. That was it: some black and white, some colour, no
portraits, no dates, no names, no indication whether Miller
had taken them.
The books were mostly paperback British and European
literary classics, from Robinson Crusoe to Ltranger. There
was also a shelf of literary criticism and general non-fction:
Sartres Being and Nothingness, Kierkegaards The Sickness
1z Peter Robinson
Unto Death, F.R. Leaviss The Great Tradition. Heavy reading,
Banks thought.
A door with a broken handle led into the kitchen, beyond
which was a tiny downstairs toilet and washbasin. The kitchen
was surprisingly tidy, dishes washed and standing in the rack
beside the sink, all surfaces wiped clean. There wasnt much
food in the fridge except for some wilted broccoli and leftover
chicken tikka masala in a plastic container. Still, Banks wasnt
one to speak. Anyone who took the trouble to look would fnd
the same in his fridge as often as not, except he didnt bother
with the plastic container. The green box by the door was full
of empty wine bottles cheap wine, Banks noticed mixed in
with a few whisky bottles, also cheap brands often on sale at
Bargain Booze. It looked as if Miller preferred to stop in to do
his drinking. If he was as reclusive as PC Kirwan had suggested,
he probably did it alone.
Up a fight of narrow, uncarpeted stairs were two bedrooms
and a bathroom, complete with a small walk-in shower. A
cursory inspection of the bathroom cabinet showed only the
usual: razor, shaving cream, Elastoplast, and a selection of
over-the-counter medications such as paracetamol, Alka Selt-
zer and acid reducers. There were also two prescription
medications: an old bottle of heavy-duty painkillers, still half
full, and a more recent one of Ativan, sublingual. Banks could
see no signs of a toothbrush, toothpaste or deodorant. One
bedroom was large enough to hold a double bed, wardrobe
and dresser, and it was clearly where Miller had slept. The bed
was unmade, strewn with discarded underwear, socks and
shirts. An MP3 player lay on the bedside table next to a glass
of water, in which a dead fy foated, and a digital clock radio.
Banks turned on the radio. It was tuned to Radio Two.
Winsome shivered. A bit parky in here, isnt it?
The radiators not turned on, said Banks. He must have
been counting his pennies.
With fve grand in his pocket?
Banks shrugged.
The second bedroom seemed to be Millers den, similar in
a way to Bankss entertainment room at Newhope Cottage.
There was a cheap laptop computer and the obligatory fat-
screen TV hooked up to a fne surround-sound system, which
was also connected to a turntable. Most of the equipment was
fairly old, Banks noticed, at least three or four years, which is
old for electronics. Gavin Millers music collection began and
ended with the sixties and very early seventies, and most of it
was on vinyl. There was plenty of Soft Machine, Pink Floyd
and Jimi Hendrix, and a lot of Grateful Dead, some of the
LPs still plastic-wrapped.
A Dead Head, Banks muttered.
Pardon? said Winsome.
Banks pointed to the rows of albums, CDs, DVDs and the
blow-ups of the American Beauty and Live Dead album covers
on the wall. Its what they call people who are fanatical about
the Grateful Dead. It used to refer to people who followed the
band around from gig to gig. How old was Miller? Did you
check?
Fifty-nine, Winsome said.
Jesus Christ! said Banks, shocked that Miller had turned
out to be close to his own age. He looked to be in his
seventies.
Thats what a hard life will do to you, sir.
Banks gazed at her curiously, wondering if that was one of
her cryptic warnings. Hes about the right age, then, he said
fnally. For the Grateful Dead and all that.
Are you one, too, sir? A Dead Head?
Banks laughed. Me? No. I just like to listen to them some-
times. And dont be cheeky. Im not ffty-nine, either. It
certainly doesnt seem as if anyone has broken in here, does
it? There werent any damage to the door, and the electronic
1 Peter Robinson
stuff is all intact. Its old, mind you, but it might fetch a few
quid at a car boot sale. Some of these records are probably
worth a bob or two to a collector.
How many burglars have you met whod know a valuable
LP from a hole in the ground? said Winsome.
Maybe they get a better class of burglar around Coverton?
Winsome gave him a look. More likely, if anyone did break
in, they were after something specifc and not interested in a
stack of old vinyl and posters. And they were clever enough to
enter and leave the place as it was.
Banks glanced at the DVDs and saw that Miller was a
ser ious flm buff. His shelves housed an extensive collection
of foreign art-house flms from such directors as Tarkovsky,
Almodvar, Fellini, Kurosawa, Truffaut, Ozu and Godard,
along with a stack of Sight & Sound magazines, right up to the
previous months issue.
Winsome gestured towards the flm collection. You know
any of these, sir? Youve watched them?
Ive watched some of them, yes, said Banks. Im quite
partial to a bit of Mizoguchi and Chabrol every now and then.
Cant say I know them all, though.
But does any of it mean anything? Winsome asked. I
mean, as far as the investigation is concerned?
The flms? I dont know, said Banks. But I doubt it very
much. They just happen to be the sort of thing that Gavin
Miller liked, along with the books. He was clearly a bit of an
artsy type. I suppose they could just as easily have been
Rogers and Hammerstein musicals or Disney cartoons. Im
just trying to get a feel for him, really, Winsome, work out
what sort of bloke he was, whether he was the type to commit
suicide if there is a type where he might have got fve
thousand quid, what he might have been intending to do
with it. Now the sixties vinyl, that might mean something.
There could be a drug connection. The Grateful Dead were
involved in the early acid tests, and their followers are well
known for taking psychedelics. LSD especially.
Maybe it was all about drugs, then, Winsome said. The
money in his pocket and all. I mean, theres no suicide note,
not one that weve found yet anyway.
Not every suicide leaves a note. And if he was doing a
drug deal, and if someone robbed him of his stash, why
didnt the killer go down the embankment to the track and
take back his money? Five grands a fair whack of cash to
just leave behind. I cant imagine any dealer, or buyer,
doing that.
Dunno, sir. Maybe he thought he heard someone coming
and scarpered? Or he saw that Miller was dead and didnt
want to risk leaving any more forensic evidence?
Possible. Though PC Kirwan says the track is hardly ever
used, especially at this time of year, and at night. Anyway, its
just an angle to consider.
Banks poked through some of the drawers and found,
behind a pile of cassette tapes, an old Golden Virginia tobacco
tin. When he opened it, he saw a packet of red Rizla cigarette
papers, some silver paper wrapped around about a quarter of
an ounce of a sandy coloured, crumbly substance, which
smelled suspiciously like hash. Also, in a plastic bag, were two
small blue tablets, unmarked.
It looks as if weve found the drugs, Winsome said.
OK, Banks said, handing her the tin. Im heading back to
the station. Madame Gervaise will want an update. You stick
with Stefan and his mob while they do a proper search of this
place. Give them this to get analysed and let them know that
drugs may be on the agenda. There may be more hidden away.
Theyll know the usual places to search. Ill set Gerry Master-
son on fnding out all she can about Mr Gavin Miller. I want
his life story. Cradle to grave.
* * *
16 Peter Robinson
So let me get this straight, Area Commander Catherine
Gervaise said. You dont know whether Gavin Miller was a
suicide, a perpetrator who ended up being a victim, or the
intended victim from the start?
No, Banks admitted. How could we? We need to know a
lot more about him, his background, what made him tick, any
reasons he might have had for wanting to end it all. DC
Mastersons working on it now.
But you dont even know whether he was buying or selling
drugs, whether any transaction had been carried out or not?
Thats right. All we know is that hes dead under suspicious
circumstances, there were drugs in his house, and he had fve
thousand pounds in his pocket.
And you dont know whether he was deliberately killed or
died as the result of a fght? Whether it was murder or
manslaughter, in fact.
The side of the bridge was too high for him to fall over
without being lifted or jumping.
Well, thats something, I suppose. Lets keep the fve grand
out of the media for the time being, if we can. Ill take a press
conference at the end of the day, if anybodys interested, that is.
Even with the possibility of suicide, theres bound to be a
few vultures already, surely? Anyway, well keep the money
under wraps. It shouldnt be a problem. Banks scratched his
temple. Id be the frst to admit that we need a lot more to go
on before we can even get started, but if drugs are involved,
Im sure itll be quickly and easily settled once we get a list of
his mobile calls and the contents of his computers.
I hope so. A quick result would go down nicely in these
penny-pinching days. Hows DI Cabbot doing?
Annie? Shes fne. Shes wrapping up another case. Ill
bring her in if it turns out I need her on this.
But Banks didnt think Annie was fne. She had changed
since she had been shot over a year ago, become more
Children of the Revolution 1,
reckless, more secretive, harder, even. She was more diffcult
to talk to, and their conversations ended up as arguments, or
at least minor quarrels, far more often than was healthy. He
was worried about her, but she wouldnt let him close.
DC Masterson working out all right?
DC Geraldine Masterson was their latest detective
con stable, who had just come out of her probationary period.
Gerry? Yes. Shes doing well. She could do with a bit more
confdence, but that often comes with experience. Shes got
a damn useful set of skills, but I dont think we let her out
often enough to build her confdence. No problems to report,
though.
Good.
Enjoying the coffee from Gervaises espresso machine,
Banks fgured that the penny-pinching hadnt yet reached as
high as the chief supers budget for little luxuries. He felt a
subtle shift of gear during one of Gervaises lengthy pauses.
Have you ever thought about retirement at all, Alan? she
asked after a few beats had passed.
Banks was taken aback. Retirement? Surely Ive got a
couple of years left yet, havent I?
Yes, yes. Of course you have. But the way things are going,
with budget cuts and all, who knows? Its something thats
being encouraged in a lot of cases.
Including me?
Not specifcally, no. Not yet. But Im just letting you know
that its an option. Youve done your thirty. Plus. Youd have a
decent pension.
Its not a matter of pensions, said Banks. You know that.
What would I do?
Gervaise smiled. Oh, Im sure youd fnd something, Alan.
Bit of gardening, perhaps? Maybe take up a musical instru-
ment? You like music, dont you? Learn to play the piano.
Some charity work, helping out in a care home or a hospital,
18 Peter Robinson
feeding the poor in a church basement, something like that?
Get a life?
Banks shifted in his chair. Am I missing something? Youre
starting to make me nervous. Is this a roundabout way of tell-
ing me something I dont want to hear?
Gervaises smile was inscrutable. Is that what you think?
Does the subject of retirement make you uncomfortable,
Alan?
As a matter of fact, it does. It makes me cringe.
Gervaise paused again. More coffee?
No, thanks. Im jittery enough as it is. All this talk about
retirement.
Thats just one option. Have you ever thought about
promotion?
You must be joking? Me? Surely Im unpromotable?
Youd be surprised. Youve made a few mistakes over the
years, a few enemies, true enough, though many of them have
moved on. Youve got a lot of infuential and powerful people
on your side, too.
Even since that business with MI5?
Even since then. When did we ever dance to MI5s tune?
I didnt exactly notice the cavalry hurrying around the
bend to my rescue when they had me over a barrel.
Well, you have only yourself to blame for that. You didnt
tell anyone what you were up to, did you? Thats your greatest
failing. But despite your maverick tendencies, youve still got
a lot of support where it counts.
What exactly are you trying to say?
Its simple, really. Gervaise spread her hands in a gesture
of openness. Nature abhors a vacuum. Since I was made
chief superintendent, theres been a vacuum. It needs to be
flled. Homicide and Major Crimes really needs a detective
superintendent to run it. I cant think of a better person than
you for the job. Gervaise had recently been promoted, and
had also taken on the role of area commander for the Eastvale
Local Policing Area.
Detective superintendent! Hang on. Wait a minute. You fat-
ter me, but
Its not fattery. Think about it, Alan. Thats all I ask. Yes,
therell be more paperwork, more responsibility, more meet-
ings, more crime stats and budgets to fret over, more of the
sort of stuff you hate. And youre going to have to tread a bit
more carefully, avoid stepping on too many toes. But on the
other hand, therell be more money and more holidays, and
nobodys going to stop you working the way you do, even if it
means getting your hands dirty now and then. This wouldnt
be a move designed to stop you from doing your job the way
you do it best. Some very high-up people have spent a lot of
time discussing this.
I thought my ears were burning a lot lately. Youre saying I
would still be able to handle cases as I see ft?
Within reason, same as always. If you mean can you get
out there and work in the feld, then the answers yes. Itll
just mean more unpaid overtime catching up with budgeting
and reports and the rest of the paperwork.
Banks thought for a moment. He had never been greedy,
but more money meant more CDs and DVDs, maybe even a
better sound system, and a good turntable like Millers to play
the old vinyl he had recently brought up from his parents
house in Peterborough. More money meant getting central
heating installed in the cottage, maybe even a lick of paint
here and there. More holidays would mean the occasional
bargain weekend in Paris, Rome or Barcelona. But he knew
better than to get carried away with himself. Nothing came
without a price tag. He had a vision of himself so consumed
by paperwork and budget meetings that he simply had no
time left to get out and do the job he was best at.
What do you think? Gervaise asked.
zc Peter Robinson
I honestly dont know what to say.
Gervaise stood up and leaned forward, resting her palms
fat on the desk. You dont have to make up your mind right
at this very moment. Give it a few days. Remember, though,
that as a superintendent, you wouldnt have to retire until
sixty-fve.
Ill think about it, I promise, said Banks.
Good man, beamed Gervaise. I knew you would. Lets
give it until this Miller case is settled and take it from there,
shall we? By then, with any luck, youll have yet another feather
in your cap. If you keep your nose clean, that is.
Banks put his espresso cup back in its saucer and stood up
to leave. Whatever you say, maam.
As usual these days, it was dark by late afternoon. As there
were no other developments, and Winsome and the CSIs were
still at the scene, Banks took the fle Gerry Masterson had
prepared on Gavin Miller home with him shortly before six
oclock and picked up some fsh and chips from Helmthorpe
High Street on his way. He hung up his raincoat on the rack
by the door and carried his briefcase and dinner down the hall
to the kitchen, where he made a pot of tea and sat down to eat
and watch the evening news on the TV above the breakfast
nook. It was the usual depressing mix of weather, politics and
fnancial doom.
After he had put the dishes in the dishwasher in a few
days he would have enough to make it worthwhile running
the damn thing he poured himself a glass of Layers, an
Aussie red blend he had come to enjoy lately, then he went
into the entertainment room to select the music.
As he searched through his collection, he found himself
drawn to the Grateful Dead. He hadnt played any of their
CDs in a long time. He had listened to the Dead a lot more
when he was younger, and had even seen them live once at the
Children of the Revolution z1
Empire Pool, Wembley, in 1972. He remembered being
impressed by Jerry Garcias guitar playing. More recently, he
had been enjoying Norma Watersons version of Black Muddy
River. No doubt their music would make an appropriate
soundtrack for his reading. He didnt have much to choose
from, as it turned out, so he picked American Beauty.
Banks liked the sound of rain on the conservatory roof, so
he decided he would sit out there to read over Gerry Master-
sons preliminary notes on Gavin Miller. She had been most
embarrassed and apologetic that she had so little to show him
when he had dropped by the squad room to see her. The
whole business was going far too slowly, she said, and the
notes she had were very sketchy and rough. Usually, she would
have much more information by now. Banks told her not to
worry and to stick at it.
He took his wine and briefcase through and settled back
in his favourite wicker chair. With the reading light on, he
couldnt see a thing in the darkness beyond the windows
except his own refection and that of the spines of the books
on the shelves behind him. The rain was softer now, a gentle
hiss rather than a heavy drumming. He remembered read-
ing, or seeing in a flm somewhere, that W.C. Fields couldnt
sleep unless it was raining, and that he lay dying for some
time, until the rain started. Then he died. Banks thought he
might like to die to the sound of rain, not in the icy shackles
of winter or the bright warmth of a summers day, or with
the coloured autumn leaves drifting down, but in spring,
perhaps, an April shower falling on the glass roof and
windows of his conservatory. It wasnt a morbid thought, but
quite a comforting one, as was the sound. He sipped some
wine and, with Box of Rain playing softly in the back-
ground, began to read the few pages of the hastily written
preliminary notes that DC Masterson had been kind enough
to photocopy for him to take home.
zz Peter Robinson
DC Mastersons account was very bare bones, though it
covered a lot of ground, Banks noticed, and as he read, his
imagination flled in some of the blanks. Gavin Miller had
been born near Banbury, Oxfordshire, on 29 November 1953,
almost sixty years ago. His father had been a teacher at a local
comprehensive school, which Miller had attended, and his
mother a housewife. Miller was an only child and grew up in
a cottage at the end of a long leafy lane on the edge of town,
with no close neighbours.
Miller had shown some academic promise at school, though
he didnt quite get the qualifcations necessary for Oxford or
Cambridge. He did well in his A-levels, however, and ended
up reading English at the University of Essex, which he
attended from 1971 to 1974, leaving with a second-class
honours degree. After a period spent working to save up as
much money as he could, Miller disappeared to Canada in
1977 to study flm and literature at Simon Fraser University
near Vancouver. From what Gerry Masterson could work out,
Miller seemed to have remained over there for the next six
years. That would explain some of the photos of cityscapes
and mountain landscapes they had found in Millers drawer,
Banks thought. He had seen similar images of Canada before.
Gerry admitted that she had lost track of his movements
during the four-year period after he graduated from Simon
Fraser from 1979 to 1983 the lost years and she needed
to contact consulates and immigration sources, registrars
and administrative assistants. It was a time-consuming job,
even if you were looking for fresh information. Miller turned
up again at home in Banbury in 1983. He would have been
pushing thirty by then, Banks calculated, and this was not an
era when the children stayed at home as long as they do
these days.
So far, Gavin Miller seemed like so many others, a young
man who had not quite fulflled his potential, or hadnt had as
Children of the Revolution z
much potential to fulfl as he thought he did. He also didnt
seem to have grown up, in some ways, but remained stuck in
the interests and tastes of his youth. Even though he was ffty-
nine, his small cottage was full of existentialist philosophy books
and shelves of psychedelic vinyl from an earlier time.
The rain had stopped now, though it still streaked the
windows. A fne day was promised for the start of tomorrow,
but you could never trust the weather forecasts these days.
The only thing you could be certain of was that rain would
come again, sooner rather than later.
The Grateful Dead were singing Ripple, which Banks
thought might be the kind of song he would like to have played
at his funeral. Its airy mysticism rather appealed to him, the
idea of life as a ripple in still water, when no pebble has been
tossed into it. And the melody and harmonies were beautiful.
He sighed. Enough thoughts of death and rain and ripples in
undisturbed water. What was it about today that had sent his
mind spinning in such a direction?
He realised that it was probably something to do with the
similarities between himself and Gavin Miller. But just how
alike were they? True, they had shared some tastes in music
and flms, much of it the same as they had enjoyed in their
youth, but was that so strange? They were close to the same
age, had grown up in with the same pop culture the Beatles,
James Bond, the Saint, Bob Dylan, and so on. Bankss dad still
listened to Henry Hall, Nat Gonella and Glenn Miller, music
he had frst heard during the war. There was nothing odd
about a taste for the past. Some people still enjoyed Abba and
the Bay City Rollers.
Banks also had to admit that he often preferred stopping in,
drinking wine and listening to music alone to going down to
the local on a Saturday night. So what did that make him?
Newhope Cottage might be bigger and better furnished
than the signalmans cottage Miller had lived in, Banks
z Peter Robinson
thought, but it was just as isolated, and Banks had deliberately
chosen to live there after his divorce from Sandra. Had Miller
been running away from something, too, and had it caught up
with him? He could have simply been running away from
himself, of course, and when he found he couldnt, had
committed suicide. But Banks doubted it. Something didnt
sit right about his choice of method, not when there were
more than enough pills in his bathroom cabinet to do the job,
and fve thousand pounds in his pocket when he died.
Banks returned to what little remained of DC Mastersons
notes. Almost a year after he had returned from Canada,
Miller had begun a series of jobs in local colleges, where he
had toiled away in obscurity for twenty years or more, teach-
ing general arts, media studies, flm and English literature in
such places as Exeter, Grantham and Barrow-in-Furness,
never staying in any one place for any length of time, until he
arrived at Eastvale College in 2006.
Miller left the college in 2009, gave up his rented fat in
Eastvale and made a down payment on the signalmans
cottage near Coverton. It didnt appear that he had attempted
to fnd another job. Gerry had noted that the person she talked
to on the telephone at the college, Trevor Lomax, head of the
department in which Miller had taught, seemed a little cagey
when he found out who she wanted to talk about. He made a
mental note to get someone to go out there and talk to Lomax
the following morning.
Miller had married only once, as far as Gerry could discover,
and that had lasted six years and had ended in 1996. His wife
had remarried two years later and gone to live in New Zealand.
Gavins father had died three years ago, and his mother had
entered a private care home near Oxford, which took up the
money from the sale of the cottage outside Banbury, and more
or less all the savings that the Millers had accumulated over
the years. When Miller died, he had been unable to meet his
Children of the Revolution z
last two mortgage payments, the utility companies had been
hammering at his door and his credit card was maxed out to
the limit.
The desperate fnancial straits Gavin Miller had been in
towards the end of his life also made Banks think there might
be something more to the drugs angle. People often saw drugs
as a quick way of making a big return on an investment.
Someone so desperate for money might turn to crime. Five
thousand pounds was a lot of money to a man in Millers
position, and it would have got him out of the immediate hole
he was in, at the very least, with even a little left over.
Blackmail was another possibility, of course, but most
victims dont kill their blackmailers, who have usually set
things up in such a way that if anything happens to them, the
cat gets let out of the bag anyway. No one had broken into
Millers house, for example, to see if there was anything
incriminating left behind there. If Miller had been blackmail-
ing someone, it was hardly likely that he would hand over all
his evidence for fve thousand pounds. Blackmailers always
have something in hand, and they always come back for more.
Putting the fle aside, Banks massaged his temples and
rubbed his eyes. It was getting late. American Beauty had
fnished some time ago, and the silence was all-embracing.
Once in a while, he heard a light breeze sough through the
trees, or a distant car on the Helmthorpe road, but apart from
that, nothing. He topped up his glass, went into the entertain-
ment room to put on Live Dead, and went outside. There was
a little bulge in the wall beside the beck, and he enjoyed stand-
ing there, or even sitting on the wall when it was dry, to
contemplate the night and enjoy his last drink of the evening.
In the old days, he used to love having a smoke out there, too,
but those days were long gone.
Already there were stars showing between the grey rags of
cloud, and the air was full of that lovely fresh earth smell you
z6 Peter Robinson
get after a good country rainfall. It was still a little chilly, but
he wouldnt be staying out for long. He walked over to the wall
beside Gratly Beck and leaned at his usual spot overlooking
the terraced falls, all the way down the daleside to the slate
roofs of Helmthorpe High Street and the church tower below
the old mill, the felds and the cemetery. The water was high,
and the beck had turned into quite a torrent after the rains.
The falls were fast and noisy, flling the air with a fne cool
spray. Banks often enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of the
rushing water as he lay in bed.
To his left stretched the dark woods, raindrops dropping
from leaves as the wind shook them, and tapping on the leaves
below. The River Swain was a silvery squiggle along the fat
valley bottom about a mile away. The strains of Garcias lyr ical
guitar playing on Dark Star wove into the sounds of the beck
and the dripping leaves as Banks leaned there thinking how
much he loved the place, and how retirement might be not
such a bad idea after all.
He thought about Gavin Miller for a while longer, the haggard
and broken body that looked like that of an old man, then tossed
down the rest of his wine, shivered and went back inside.
B Y Peter Robinson

A disgraced college lecturer is found murdered with 5,000 in
his pocket on a disused railway line near his home. Since being
dismissed from his job for sexual misconduct four years
previously, he has been living a poverty-stricken and hermit-like
existence in this isolated spot. There are many suspects, mostly
at the college where he used to teach, but Banks, much to the
chagrin of Detective Chief Superintendent Gervaise, soon
becomes fixated on Lady Veronica Chalmers, who appears to
have links with the victim going back to the early '70s at the
University of Essex, then a hotbed of political activism. When
Banks suspects that Lady Chalmers is not telling him the whole
truth and pushes his inquiries a bit too far, he is brought on the
carpet and warned to lay off. He must continue to conduct his
investigation surreptitiously, under the radar, with the help of
new DC Geraldine Masterson, while DI Annie Cabbot and DS
Winsome Jackman continue to rattle skeletons at Eastvale
College. When the breakthroughs come, they are not the ones
that Banks and his team expected, and everything turns in a
different direction, and moves into higher gear.

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Excerpted from Children of the Revolution by Peter Robinson. Copyright 2013 by Peter Robinson. Excerpted
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part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
THIS HOUSE IS
HAUNTED
JOHN BOYNE
Doubleday Canada
3
THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED
Boyn_9780385681544_3p_all_r1.qxp:House_Is_Haunted 7/30/13 4:23 PM Page 3
Chapter One
London, 1867
I
BLAME CHARLES DICKENS for the death of my father.
In tracing the moment where my life transformed from
serenity to horror, twisting the natural into the unspeakable, I
find myself seated in the parlour of our small terraced home
near Hyde Park, observing the frayed edges of the hearth rug
and wondering whether it might be time to invest in a new one
or try to repair it myself. Simple, domestic thoughts. It was
raining that morning, an indecisive but unremitting shower,
and as I turned away from the window to catch my reflection
in the looking glass above the fireplace, I grew disheartened
by my appearance. It was true that I had never been attractive
but my skin appeared paler than usual, my dark hair wiry
and unkempt. There was a certain hunched aspect to my
shoulders as I sat, my elbows propped upon the table, a
teacup positioned between my hands, and I tried to relax
in an attempt to correct my posture. I did something foolish
then I smiled at myself hoping that a manifestation of
contentment would improve the rendering, and was startled
when I noticed a second face, much smaller than my own,
7
This House Is Haunted:House_Is_Haunted 8/3/13 15:14 Page 7
staring back at me from the lower corner of the mirror.
I gasped, a hand to my breast, then laughed at my folly, for
the image I observed was nothing more than the reflection of
a portrait of my late mother that was pinned to the wall behind
my chair. The mirror was capturing both our likenesses side by
side and I did not benefit from the comparison, for Mother was
a very beautiful woman, with wide, bright eyes where mine
were narrow and pallid, a feminine jawline where mine tended
towards harsh masculinity, and a slender build where my own
had always felt outsized and absurd.
The portrait was a familiar one, of course. It had been hang-
ing on that wall for so long that perhaps I never really noticed
it any more, in the way that one often ignores familiar things,
like seat cushions or loved ones. However, that morning her
expression somehow captured my attention and I found myself
lamenting her loss anew, despite the fact that she had passed
from this world to the next more than a decade before, when I
was little more than a child. And I wondered then about the
afterlife, about where her spirit might have settled after death
and whether or not she had been watching over me all these
years, taking pleasure in my small triumphs and grieving for
my numerous mistakes.
The morning fog was beginning to descend on the street out-
side and a persistent wind was forcing its way down the
chimney, tracking a path along the loose stonework within and
diminishing only slightly as it entered the room, forcing me to
wrap my shawl more closely around my shoulders. I shivered
and longed to return to the warmth of my bed.
I was pulled out of my reverie, however, by a cry of delight
from Father, who was sitting across from me, his herrings and
eggs half-eaten, scanning the pages of the Illustrated London
8
JOHN BOYNE
News. The issue had been lying unread since the previous
Saturday on a small table in that same room in which we sat,
and I had intended on discarding it that morning, but some
impulse had made Father decide to glance through its pages
over breakfast. I looked up in surprise it sounded as if some-
thing had passed his throat the wrong way but his face was
flushed with excitement and he folded the paper in two,
tapping it several times with his fingers as he passed it across to
me.
Look, my dear, he said. The most wonderful thing!
I took the newspaper and glanced at the page he had
indicated. The article seemed to have something to do with a
great conference that was scheduled to take place in London
before Christmas in order to discuss affairs related to the North
American continent. I read through a few paragraphs but
quickly became lost in the political language, which seemed
designed both to provoke and intrigue the reader simul -
taneously, before looking back at Father in confusion. He had
never before shown any interest in American matters. Indeed,
he had professed his belief on more than one occasion that
those who lived on the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean
were nothing more than barbarous, antagonistic scoundrels
who should never have been permitted independence, an act of
disloyalty to the Crown for which the name of Portland should
for ever after be damned.
Well, what of it? I asked. You dont plan on attending as a
protester, surely? The museum would take a very dim view of
your engaging in political matters, I think.
What? he asked, confused by my response, before shaking
his head quickly. No, no, he said. Not the article about those
villains. Leave them well alone, they have made their beds and
9
they may lie in them and be damned for all I care. No, look to
the left. The advertisement at the side of the page.
I picked up the paper again and realized immediately what
he was referring to. It was announced that Charles Dickens, the
world-famous novelist, would read from his work the follow-
ing evening, Friday, in a Knightsbridge speakers hall, a venue
no more than a half-hours walk from where we lived. Those
who wished to attend were advised to come early, as it was well
known that Mr Dickens always attracted a substantial and
enthusiastic audience.
We must go, Eliza! cried Father, beaming in delight and
taking a mouthful of herring to celebrate.
Outside, a slate fell from the roof, unsettled by the wind, and
crashed in the yard. I could hear movement in the eaves.
I bit my lip and read the advertisement again. Father had
been suffering from a persistent cough that had weighed
heavily on his chest for more than a week, and it was showing
no sign of improvement. He had attended a doctor two days
before and been prescribed a bottle of some green, glutinous
liquid which I had to force him to take but which did not, in
my view, appear to be doing much good. If anything, he
seemed to be growing worse.
Do you think its wise? I asked. Your illness has not quite
passed yet and the weather is so inclement. You would be
sensible to remain indoors in front of the fireplace for another
few days, dont you agree?
Nonsense, my dear, he said, shaking his head, looking dis-
mayed that I might deny him this great treat. Im almost
entirely recovered, I assure you. By tomorrow night I shall be
myself again.
As if to belie that statement he immediately let forth a deep
10
JOHN BOYNE
and sustained cough that forced him to turn away from me, his
face growing red, his eyes streaming with tears. I ran to the
kitchen and poured a glass of water, set it before him and he
took a deep draught, finally smiling at me with an expression
that suggested mischief. Its just working its way out of my
system, he said. I assure you that Im improving by the hour.
I glanced out the window. Had it been springtime, had the
sun been shining through the branches of the blossoming
trees, I might have felt more persuaded by his argument. But it
was not springtime, it was autumn. And it seemed imprudent
to me that he would risk further ill health for the sake of hear-
ing Mr Dickens speak in public when the novelists words
could be more honestly located between the covers of his
novels.
Lets see how you feel tomorrow, I said, an attempt at
conciliation, for surely no decision needed to be reached just
yet.
No, let us decide now and be done with it, he insisted,
setting the water aside and reaching for his pipe. He tapped the
remains of last nights fug into his saucer before refilling it with
the particular brand of tobacco that he had favoured since he
was a young man. A familiar scent of cinnamon and chestnuts
drifted through the air towards me; Fathers tobacco held a
strong infusion of the spice and whenever I detected it else-
where it always recalled the warmth and the comfort of home.
The museum has permitted me to remain away from my post
until the end of the week. I shall stay indoors all day today and
tomorrow and then in the evening we shall don our greatcoats
and go together to hear Mr Dickens speak. I would not miss it
for the world.
I sighed and nodded, knowing that for all he relied upon my
11
advice, this was one decision upon which he was determined
to have his way.
Capital! he cried, striking a match and allowing it to burn
for a few seconds to disperse the sulphur before holding it to
the chamber and sucking on the bit so contentedly that I could
not help but smile at how much pleasure it afforded him. The
darkness of the room, coupled with the mixed light from
candles, fire and pipe, made his skin seem ghostly thin and my
smile diminished slightly to recognize how much he was
ageing. When had our roles altered so much, I wondered, that
I, the daughter, should have to grant permission for an outing
to him, the parent?
12
JOHN BOYNE
13
Chapter Two
F
ATHER HAD ALWAYS been an impassioned reader. He main-
tained a carefully selected library in his ground-floor study,
a room to which he would retire when he wanted to be alone
with his thoughts and memories. One wall housed a series of
volumes dedicated to his particular study, entomology, a
subject that had fascinated him since childhood. As a boy, he
told me, he rather horrified his parents by keeping dozens of
samples of living insects in a glass box in the corner of his bed-
room. In the opposite corner he kept a second display case,
exhibiting their corpses post mortem. The natural progression of
the insects from one side of the room to the other was a source
of great satisfaction to him. He did not want to see them die,
of course, preferring to study their habits and interactions
while they were still alive, but he was industrious in keeping a
series of journals relating to their behaviour during development,
maturity and decomposition. Naturally the maids protested at
having to clean the room one even resigned in protest at
being asked and his mama refused to enter it. (His family
had money back then, hence the presence of domestics. An
older brother, dead many years by now, had squandered the
inheritance and so we had enjoyed few such extravagances.)
Gathered next to the volumes describing the life cycles of
queen termites, the intestinal tracts of longhorn beetles and the
mating habits of strepsiptera, was a series of dossiers that
gathered his correspondence over the years with Mr William
Kirby, his particular mentor, who had offered him his first
paid employment in 1832, when Father had just acquired
his majority, as an assistant at a new museum in Norwich.
Subsequent to this, Mr Kirby had taken Father with him to
London to help with the establishment of the Entomological
Society, a role which would in time lead to his becoming
curator of insects at the British Museum, a position he loved. I
shared no such passion. Insects rather repelled me.
Mr Kirby had died some sixteen years earlier but Father still
enjoyed re-reading their letters and notes, taking pleasure in
following the progress of acquisition which had led the society,
and ultimately the museum, to be in possession of such a fine
collection.
All of these, the insect books as I facetiously referred to
them, were shelved carefully, with a curious order that only
Father truly understood, on the wall next to his desk. Gathered
together on the opposite wall, however, next to a window and
a reading chair where the light was much better, was a much
smaller collection of books, all novels, and the most dominant
author on those shelves was of course Mr Dickens, who had no
peer in Fathers mind.
If only he would write a novel about a cicada or a grass -
hopper instead of an orphan, I remarked once. Why, you
would be in heaven then, I think.
My dear, you are forgetting The Cricket on the Hearth, replied
Father, whose knowledge of the novelists work was second to
14
JOHN BOYNE
none. Not to mention that little family of spiders who set up
home in Miss Havishams uneaten wedding cake. Or Bitzers
lashes in Hard Times. How does he describe them? Like the
antennae of busy insects, if memory serves. No, insects appear
regularly throughout Dickens work. It is only a matter of time
before he devotes a more substantial volume to them. He is a
true entomologist, I believe.
Having read most of these novels myself, I am not so certain
that this is true, but it was not for the insects that Father read
Dickens, it was for the stories. Indeed, the first time I remember
Father smiling again after Mothers passing, in the wake of my
return from my aunts home in Cornwall, was when he was
re-reading The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, whose
protagonist could always reduce him to tears of laughter.
Eliza, you must read this, he said to me in my fourteenth
year, thrusting a copy of Bleak House into my hands. It is a
work of extraordinary merit and much more attuned to the
times than those penny fancies you favour. I opened the
volume with a heavy heart which would grow heavier still as I
tried to discern the meaning and intent of the lawsuit of
Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, but of course he was quite right, for once
I had battled through those opening chapters the story opened
itself up to me and I became deeply sympathetic to the experi-
ences of Esther Summerson, not to mention utterly captivated
by the romance pursued between her and Dr Woodcourt, an
honest man who loves her despite her unfortunate physical
appearance. (In this, I could relate quite well to Esther,
although she had of course lost her looks to the smallpox
while I had never found mine in the first place.)
Prior to his bout of ill health, Father had always been a
vigorous man. Regardless of the weather, he walked to and
15
from the museum every morning and evening, discounting the
omnibus that would have taken him almost directly from our
front door to the museum entrance. When, for a brief few
years, we had the care of a mongrel dog named Bulls Eye, a far
kinder and more temperate creature than Bill Sikes mistreated
companion, he would take further exercise twice daily, taking
the dog into Hyde Park for a constitutional, throwing a stick for
him in Kensington Gardens or allowing him to run free along
the banks of the Serpentine where, on one occasion, he
claimed to have spotted the Princess Helena seated by the
waterside weeping. (Why? I do not know. He approached her,
enquiring after her health, but she waved him away.) He was
never late to bed and slept soundly through the night. He ate
carefully, did not drink to excess, and was neither too thin nor
too fat. There was no reason to believe that he would not
live to a good age. And yet he did not.
Perhaps I should have been more forceful in attempting to
dissuade him from attending Mr Dickens talk but in my heart
I knew that, although he liked to give the impression that he
deferred to me on domestic matters, there was nothing I could
say that would prevent him from making the journey across
the park to Knightsbridge. Despite his ardour as a reader, he
had never yet had the pleasure of hearing the great author
speak in public and it was well known that the performances
the novelist gave on stage were the equal, if not the superior, of
anything which might have been found in the playing houses
of Drury Lane or Shaftesbury Avenue. And so I said nothing, I
submitted to his authority, and agreed that we might go.
Dont fuss, Eliza, he said as we left the house that Friday
evening when I suggested that, at the very least, he should wear
a second muffler for it was shockingly cold out and, although
16
JOHN BOYNE
the rain had held off all day, the skies were turning to grey. But
Father did not like being mollycoddled and chose to ignore
my advice.
We made our way, arm in arm, towards Lancaster Gate, pass-
ing the Italian Gardens on our left as we bisected Hyde Park
through the central path. Emerging some twenty minutes later
from the Queens Gate, I thought I saw a familiar face appear-
ing through the fog and, when I narrowed my eyes to make out
the visage, I gasped, for was this not the same countenance that
I had seen in the mirror the previous morning, the reflection of
my own late mother? I pulled Father closer to me, stopping on
the street in disbelief, and he turned to look at me in surprise
just as the lady in question appeared from the miasma and
nodded a greeting in my direction. It was not Mother of course
how could it have been? but a lady who might have been
her sister, or a cousin, for the resemblance around the eyes and
brow was uncanny.
The rain began almost immediately then, falling heavily,
great drops tumbling on our heads and coats as people ran for
shelter. I shivered; a ghost walked over my grave. A large oak
tree a little further along the pavement offered shelter and I
pointed towards it but Father shook his head, tapping his index
finger against his pocket-watch.
Well be there in five minutes if we hurry, he said, marching
along the street faster now. We might miss it entirely if we seek
refuge.
I cursed myself for having forgotten my umbrella, which I
had left by the front door during the business about the
muffler, and so we ran through the forming puddles towards
our destination unprotected and when we arrived, we were
soaked through. I shivered in the vestibule, peeling my sodden
17
gloves from my hands, and longed to be back in front of the
fireplace in our comfortable home. Beside me, Father began a
fit of coughing that seemed to build from the very depths of his
soul and I despised those other entrants who glanced at him
contemptuously as they passed. It took a few minutes for
him to recover and I was for hailing a hansom cab to take us
home again but he would hear none of this and marched
ahead of me into the hall, and what, in the circumstances,
could I do but follow?
Inside, perhaps a thousand people were gathered together,
equally damp and uncomfortable, a stench of wet wool and
perspiration pervading the atmosphere. I looked around,
hoping to find a quieter part of the room for us to sit, but
almost every chair was taken by now and we had no choice but
to choose two empty seats in the centre of a row, surrounded
by shivering, sneezing audience members. Fortunately we did
not need to wait long, for within a few minutes Mr Dickens
himself appeared to tumultuous applause and we stood to
receive him, cheering loudly to his evident delight, for he
stretched his arms wide as if to take us all into his embrace,
acknowledging the wild reception as if it was entirely his due.
He showed no sign of wanting the ovation to subside and it
was perhaps five minutes more before he finally moved to the
front of the stage, waving his hands to indicate that we might
suspend our admiration for a few moments, and permitted us
to take our seats once again. He wore a sallow expression and
his hair and beard were rather dishevelled but his suit
and waistcoat were of such a rich fabric that I felt a curious urge
to feel the texture beneath my fingers. I wondered about his
life. Was it true that he moved as easily in the back alleys
of Londons East End as he did in the privileged corridors
18
JOHN BOYNE
of Balmoral Castle, where the Queen in her mourning had
reputedly invited him to perform? Was he as comfortable in
the company of thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes as he was
in the society of bishops, cabinet ministers and leaders of
industry? In my innocence, I could not imagine what it would
be to be such a worldly man, famous on two sides of the ocean,
beloved by all.
He stared out at us now with a hint of a smile on his
face.
There are ladies present tonight, he began, his voice echoing
across the chamber. Naturally I am delighted by this but also
distressed for I hope that none of you are of the sensitive dis-
position that is peculiar to your sex. For, my dear readers, my
friends, my literati, I do not propose to entertain you this
evening with some of the more preposterous utterances of that
delightful creature Sam Weller. Nor do I plan on uplifting your
spirits through the bravery of my beloved boy Master
Copperfield. Neither shall I seek to stir your emotions through
a retelling of the last days of that unfortunate angel Little Nell
Trent, may God have mercy on her soul. He hesitated, allowing
our anticipation to build, and we watched him, already capti-
vated by his presence. Instead, he continued after a long pause,
his voice growing deep and mellifluous now, the words emerg-
ing slowly, I intend to read a ghost story that I have only
recently completed, one which is scheduled to appear in the
Christmas number of All the Year Round. It is a most terrifying
tale, ladies and gentlemen, designed to stir the blood and
unsettle the senses. It speaks of the paranormal, of the undead,
of those pitiful creatures who wander the afterlife in search of
eternal reconciliation. It contains a character who is neither
alive nor deceased, neither sentient nor spirit. I wrote it to chill
19
the blood of my readers and despatch ghouls into the beating
heart of their dreams.
As he said this a cry went up from halfway down the hall and
I turned my head, as did most of those in attendance, to see a
young woman of about my own age, twenty-one, throwing her
hands in the air and running down the aisle in fright. I sighed
and secretly despised her for disgracing her sex.
Should any other ladies wish to leave, said Mr Dickens, who
appeared to be delighted by this interruption, might I urge you
to do so now? I would not like to interrupt the flow of the story
and the time has come for me to begin.
At these words, a small boy appeared from the side of the
stage, approached the novelist and offered a low bow, before
thrusting a sheaf of pages into Mr Dickens hand. The boy ran
off, the writer glanced at what he held, looked about him with
a wild expression on his face and began to read.
Halloa! Below there! he shouted in such an extraordinary
and unexpected roar that I could not help but jump in my seat.
A lady behind me uttered an oath and a gentleman on the aisle
dropped his spectacles. Apparently enjoying the reaction that
his cry had caused, Mr Dickens paused for a few moments
before continuing, whereupon I quickly found myself
entranced by his tale. A single spotlight illuminated his pale
face and his tone fluctuated between characters, describing fear,
confusion and distress with only a slight change of modulation
to his tone. His sense of timing was impeccable as he said one
thing that made us laugh, then another that made us feel
unsettled and then a third that made us leap in fright. He
portrayed the two characters at the centre of the story a
signalman who worked by a railway tunnel and a visitor to that
place with such gusto that one almost believed that there
20
JOHN BOYNE
were two actors on stage performing either role. The tale itself
was, as he had suggested in his introduction, a disconcerting
one, centring on the signalmans belief that a spectre was
informing him of calamities to come. The ghost had appeared
once and a terrible crash had ensued; he had appeared a
second time and a lady had died in the railway carriage as it
passed. It had appeared a third time more recently, gesticula -
ting wildly, urging the signalman to get out of the way, but as
yet no misfortune had occurred and the nervous fellow was dis-
tressed at the thought of what horror might lie ahead. I
considered Mr Dickens rather devilish in the manner in which
he took pleasure in stirring the emotions of his audience.
When he knew that we were scared, he would incite us further,
building on the threat and menace he had laid out for us and
then, when we were certain that a terrible thing was about to
happen, he would let us down, peace would be restored and we
who had been holding our collective breaths in anticipation of
some fresh terror were free to exhale and sigh and feel that all
was well in the world once again, which was when he took us
by surprise with a single sentence, making us scream when we
thought we could relax, terrifying us into the depths of our very
souls and allowing himself a brief smile at how easily he could
manipulate our emotions.
As he read, I began to fear that I might not sleep that night,
so certain was I that I was surrounded by the spirits of those
who had left their corporeal form behind but had not yet been
admitted through the gates of heaven and so were left to trawl
through the world, crying aloud, desperate to be heard, causing
disarray and torment wherever they went, uncertain when they
would be released to the peace of the afterlife and the quiet
promise of eternal rest.
21
When Mr Dickens finished speaking, he bowed his head and
there was silence from the audience for perhaps ten seconds
before we burst as one into applause, leaping to our feet, crying
out for more. I turned to look at Father who, rather than
appearing as thrilled as I had anticipated, wore a pale
expression, a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his face, as he
inhaled and exhaled in laboured gasps, staring at the floor
beneath him, his fists clenched in a mixture of determination
to recover his breath and a fear that he might never do so.
In his hands, he clutched a handkerchief stained with blood.
Departing the theatre into the wet and cold night, I was still
trembling from the dramatics of the reading and felt certain
that I was surrounded by apparitions and spirits, but Father
seemed to have recovered himself and declared that it was
quite the most enjoyable evening he had spent in many years.
Hes every bit as good an actor as he is a writer, he pro-
nounced as we made our way back across the park, reversing
our earlier walk, the rain starting yet again as we marched
along, the fog making it almost impossible for us to see more
than a few steps ahead of ourselves.
I believe he often takes part in dramatics, I said. At his own
home and the homes of his friends.
Yes, Ive read that, agreed Father. Wouldnt it be wonderful
to be invited to
Another coughing fit overtook him and he struggled for air as
he bent over, assuming an undignified position on the street.
Father, I said, putting my arm around his shoulders as I
attempted to right him. We must get you home. The sooner
you are out of those wet clothes and lying in a hot bath the
better it will be.
22
JOHN BOYNE
He nodded and struggled on, coughing and sneezing as we
leaned on each other for support. To my relief the rain came to
an abrupt halt as we rounded Bayswater Road for Brook Street,
but with every step I took I could feel my feet growing more
and more soaked through my shoes and dreaded to think of
how wet Fathers must be. Finally we were home and he forced
himself into the metal bathtub for a half-hour before changing
into his nightshirt and gown and joining me in the parlour.
I shall never forget tonight, Eliza, he remarked when we were
seated side by side by the fire, sipping on hot tea and eating
buttered toast, the room filled again by the scent of cinnamon
and chestnuts from his pipe. He was a capital fellow.
I found him truly terrifying, I replied. I enjoy his books
almost as much as you, of course, but I wish he had read from
one of his dramatic novels. I dont care for ghost stories.
Youre frightened by them?
Unsettled, I said, shaking my head. I think any story which
concerns itself with the afterlife and with forces that the human
mind cannot truly understand risks disquiet for the reader.
Although I dont think Ive ever experienced fear in the way that
others do. I dont understand what it is to be truly frightened,
just how it feels to be disconcerted or uncomfortable. The
signalman in the story, for example. He was terrified at
the horror he knew was sure to come his way. And that woman
in the audience who ran screaming from the hall. I cant
imagine what it must feel like to be that scared.
Dont you believe in ghosts, Eliza? he asked and I turned to
look at him, surprised by the question. It was dark in the room
and he was illuminated only by the glow of the reddened coals
that made his eyes appear darker than usual and his skin glow
with the colour of the sporadic flames.
23
I dont know, I said, uncertain how I truly felt about the
question. Why, do you?
I believe that woman was an imbecile, declared Father.
Thats what I believe. Mr Dickens had barely even begun to
speak when she took fright. She should have been excluded
from the start if she was of such a sensitive disposition.
The truth is Ive always preferred his more realistic tales,
I continued, looking away. The novels that explore the lives
of orphans, his tales of triumph over adversity. Masters
Copperfield, Twist and Nickleby will always hold a greater
place in my affections than Mr Scrooge or Mr Marley.
Marley was dead, to begin with, stated Father in a deep voice,
imitating the writer so well that I shuddered. There is no doubt
whatever about that.
Dont, I said, laughing despite myself. Please.
I fell asleep quite soon after going to bed but it was a fitful
and unhappy sleep. My dreams were supplanted by night-
mares. I encountered spirits where I should have undertaken
adventures. My landscape was dark graveyards and irregular
vistas rather than Alpine peaks or Venetian canals. But never-
theless I slept through the night and when I woke, feeling
groggy and out of sorts, the morning light was already coming
through my curtains. I looked at my wall clock; it was almost
ten past seven and I cursed myself, knowing that I would
certainly be late for work and still had Fathers breakfast to
prepare. However, when I entered his room a few minutes later
to see whether his condition had improved in the night, I
could see immediately that he was far more ill than I had
previously realized. The rain of the evening before had taken
hold of him and the chill seemed to have entered into his very
bones. He was deathly pale, his skin damp and clammy, and I
24
JOHN BOYNE
took great fright, dressing immediately and running to the end
of our mews where Dr Connolly, a friend and physician of long
standing, lived. He came back with me and did everything in
his power, I have no doubt of that, but he told me there was
nothing we could do but wait for the fever to break, or hope
that it would, and I spent the rest of the day by Fathers bedside,
praying to a god who did not often trouble my thoughts, and
by early evening, when the sun had descended again to be
replaced by our perpetual and tormenting London fog, I felt
Fathers grasp of my hand grow weaker until he slipped away
from me entirely, gathered quietly to his reward, leaving me an
orphan like those characters I had spoken of the night before,
if one can truly be called an orphan at twenty-one years of age.
25
This House is Haunted
B Y John Boyne

A striking homage to the classic nineteenth century
ghost story.

1867. Eliza Caine arrives in Norfolk to take up her position as
governess at Gaudlin Hall on a dark and chilling night. As she
makes her way across the station platform, a pair of invisible
hands push her from behind into the path of an approaching
train. She is only saved by the vigilance of a passing doctor.

When she finally arrives, shaken, at the hall she is greeted by the
two children in her care, Isabella and Eustace. There are no
parents, no adults at all, and no one to represent her mysterious
employer. The children offer no explanation. Later that night in
her room, a second terrifying experience further reinforces the
sense that something is very wrong.

From the moment she rises the following morning, her every
step seems dogged by a malign presence which lives within
Gaudlin's walls. Eliza realises that if she and the children are to
survive its violent attentions, she must first uncover the hall's
long-buried secrets and confront the demons of its past...
Buy a copy of This House is Haunted on sale October 8, 2013!
Hardcover
Amazon | Indigo
eBook

Excerpted from This House is Haunted by John Boyne. Copyright 2013 by John Boyne. Excerpted by
permission of Doubleday Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of
this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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