Fall from Grace (David Raker Mystery) - Hardcover

Weaver, Tim

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0399562575 ISBN 13: 9780399562570

Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

International bestselling author Tim Weaver returns with his next David Raker mystery, a high-stakes search for a recently retired detective who vanishes from his own home
 
After decades of service, Leonard Franks has stepped down from the Metropolitan Police as a high-ranking detective in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. He and his wife, Ellie, have retired to a farmhouse in the seclusion of the English countryside, far from the clamor of London. Everything goes just as they’ve imagined, until the night Leonard leaves the house to fetch firewood—and never returns.
 
With the police investigation at a dead end nine months later, Leonard’s daughter, a detective herself, turns in desperation to David Raker, a missing persons investigator with a gift for finding the lost. But nothing can prepare Raker for what he's about to find—or for the devastating secret behind this disappearance. And by the time he realizes what it is, and how deep the lies go, he finds himself in serious danger—along with everyone he cares about.
 
Raker’s action-packed investigation takes readers on a richly atmospheric thrill ride, from the seedy backstreets of London and the stark quiet of the Devon countryside to the sinister hallways of an abandoned mental institution. In Fall from Grace, Weaver has delivered another sharp, emotionally charged mystery that saves its most startling revelations for the final pages.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tim Weaver is the international bestselling author of a series of mysteries featuring private investigator David Raker. He made his American debut with Never Coming Back, which was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club and nominated for a National Book Award in the UK, and in 2015 he was longlisted for the prestigious Dagger in the Library Award from the Crime Writers' Association. Weaver is also the host of the popular podcast Missing, about how people disappear and how investigators search for them. A former journalist and magazine editor, he now writes fiction full time and lives with his wife and daughter in Bath, England.

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1

1978

It took them an hour to get to the beach, a small, horseshoe-shaped bay on the southern tip of the county. The father had wanted to get there early, to avoid having to fight for a space in the tiny parking lot, and because someone in their village had told him that there were five spaces-tucked away beneath the slant of a vast, ninety-foot rock face-that stayed in the shade all day. When they arrived and saw there were two spaces still empty, the father drummed out a victory beat on the wheel of the Hillman Avenger and started whistling to himself. His wife, in the passenger seat next to him, broke out into a smile.

"I think we can safely say you're happy."

"Is it too early for an ice cream?"

She rolled her eyes. "We've only just had breakfast."

"That was over an hour ago," he joked, and after he parked and turned off the engine he looked over his shoulder, toward the backseat. His son was up on his knees, fingers pressed to the glass, looking out at the cove.

"What do you think, my boy?"

"Are there rocks to climb here, Dad?"

His father laughed. "Yes, son. There are rocks to climb."

The tide was on its way out, a swath of wrinkled beach left in its wake. Beyond the blanket of sand was water as clear as glass, much of it contained within the gentle arc of the cove, the rest out in the channel, where the boy thought it looked like the world went on forever. Excited now, he helped his dad take two deck chairs and all the food down to the sand, then came back for his bucket and spade, and made a break for the water's edge. Behind him, his mother called after him, telling him not to wander off too far, and he shouted back to her that he wouldn't. As the father set up, the mother continued to watch the boy, a trail of his footprints leading all the way down to the sea.

"He's so grown up now," she said.

"He's only eight, Marie."

"I know." She stopped, watching the boy dipping his toe into the water. "But don't you think the time's going so fast? I mean, it seems like only yesterday the nurses were handing him to me for the first time. Now look at him."

"He's fine."

"I know. I don't mean he's not fine. I just mean . . . before we know it, he'll be married, with his own kids. Maybe he won't even stay in this area."

"Of course he will."

"There are no opportunities for him here, Tom."

"What are you talking about? He'll take over the business."

"He says he doesn't want it."

"He's only eight." He came up behind his wife and put his arms around her waist. "He doesn't know what he wants. When I was eight, I wanted to be an astronaut."

"I just don't want him to forget us."

He kissed his wife on the cheek. "He won't forget his old mum."

At the water's edge, the boy turned back to them and waved his mother toward him. "Mum!" the boy shouted. "Mum, come and look at this!"

"See?" the boy's father said. "I told you."

She smiled again, kissed her husband on the cheek and headed down to where her son was standing in a foot of water, pointing to something out beyond the edge of the cove. At first, as she followed his line of sight, she couldn't tell what had got his attention. But then it emerged, on its own out in the channel, like a lonely, drifting ship.

The island.

She'd tried to forget how close they were to it here.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

But she already knew. The island sat like a fin above the water, a craggy sliver of land a quarter of a mile out to sea, awkward, broken, ominous. Even from this distance, even as light bounced off the water and the sun beat down, there remained something dark about it; all the stories it had to tell, all the memories it wished it could forget.

Instinctively, she put a hand on her son's shoulder.

"What is that place, Mum?" the boy asked.

She looked out across the channel, unsure of how to respond.

"Mum?"

"It's . . . It's, uh . . ."

"What?" the boy said. "What is it?"

And then slowly, automatically, she brought him into her, pressing him to her hip, and she said to her son, "It's somewhere bad, sweetheart. It's somewhere very bad."

2

2013

The address I'd been given overlooked a railway switchyard in Pimlico. Built from London stock brick, the two-story building was a quarter of a mile south of Victoria station, almost on the banks of the Thames. There was no signage on it and its windows were dark, giving the impression it was empty. But it wasn't empty. As I got closer, I could see the hardwood front door had been freshly painted in a muted blue and a security camera was fixed to the wall, its lens focused on the entrance. Embedded in a space next to the door was a number pad with an intercom. I buzzed once and waited.

From where I was standing, the river was mostly obscured by the rusting iron struts of a railway bridge, but in between I could see a slow procession of sightseeing trips carving along the water. This close to Christmas, the vessels all had fairy lights winking in their windows, and some of the tourists—braving the chill of winter—stood on the decks, wearing Santa hats. Otherwise, there seemed a strange kind of hush to the morning, a grayness, like the city had slipped into hibernation.

A couple of seconds later, a ping came from the intercom and the door bumped away from its frame. Inside was a short corridor with a polished oak floor and a big arched window, light bleeding out across the walls and ceiling. Everything was finished in the same neutral off-white color except for two blue doors at the end and a marble counter on the right. Behind it sat a smartly dressed woman in her early twenties.

"Mr. Raker?"

I nodded. "Was that just a lucky guess?"

She smiled, reached under the counter and brought out a visitors' ledger. "I was told to expect you about this time," she said, and laid a fountain pen on top. "If you can just sign and date it, I'll show you where you need to go."

I signed my name. "It's December 12 today, right?"

"That's right, sir." Once I was done, she gestured toward the first blue door. "Head through there to find our meeting rooms. Yours is Dickens. When you've finished, feel free to use our facilities. We have a bar in the basement and that second door takes you into our restaurant. We serve food between twelve and four, although you'll need to ensure your representative is with you, as we only serve guests when they dine with a member."

"Okay."

"Is there anything else, Mr. Raker?"

"No, I think that's fine."

I headed through the first blue door.

Another corridor revealed eight other doors, four on each side, all closed, all with brass plates. Each was named after a British writer, and Dickens was the fourth down on the left. As I approached, I could hear the hum of conversation in one of the rooms. The others were completely silent. At Dickens, I knocked twice.

"Come in."

The meeting room was small but immaculate: more oak flooring, chocolate-colored walls, a twelve-foot table, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a pristine garden. Above it, I could just make out the railway bridge, but otherwise it was easy to forget that the building was surrounded by industry and roads.

"Mr. Raker."

...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0399562575
• ISBN 13: 9780399562570
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 416
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Zeitfracht Medien GmbH; info-medien@zeitfracht.de; ; Ferdinand-Jühlke-Straße 7; Erfurt; 99095; Deutschland