Final Account: 7 (Inspector Banks Novels) - Softcover

Robinson, Peter

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0060502169 ISBN 13: 9780060502164

Publisher: William Morrow & Company, 2004

Synopsis

"Impressive. . . . A dark, unsettling story."--New York Times Book Review

There's more than blood and bone beneath the skin. . . .

The victim, a nondescript number cruncher, was murdered just yards away from his wife and daughter. And the crime scene is one that could chill the blood of even the most seasoned police officer.

But the strange revelations about an ordinary accountant's extraordinary secret life are what truly mystify Chief Inspector Alan Banks. Lies breed further deceptions and blood begets blood . . . and all the while a killer watches, hidden in plain sight.

Twisty, suspenseful, and thoroughly riveting, Final Account is one of Peter Robinson's best thrillers.

"Inspector Banks is a man for all seasons."--Michael Connelly

"Peter Robinson is a master."--Tess Gerritsen

About this title

About the Author

One of the world's most popular and acclaimed writers, Peter Robinson was the bestselling, award-winning author of the DCI Banks series. He also wrote two short-story collections and three stand-alone novels, which combined have sold more than ten million copies around the world. Among his many honors and prizes were the Edgar Award, the CWA (UK) Dagger in the Library Award, and the Swedish Crime Writers' Academy Martin Beck Award.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Final Account

By Robinson, Peter

Avon Books

ISBN: 0060502169

Chapter One

The uniformed constable lifted the tape and waved DetectiveChief Inspector Banks through the gate at twoforty-seven in the morning.

Banks's headlights danced over the scene as he drove intothe bumpy farmyard and came to a halt. To his left stood thesquat, solid house itself, with its walls of thick limestone andmossy, flagstone roof. Lights shone in both the upstairs anddownstairs windows. To his right, a high stone wall buttresseda copse that straggled up the daleside, where thetrees became lost in darkness. Straight ahead stood the barn.

A group of officers had gathered around the open doors,inside which a ball of light seemed to be moving. Theylooked like the cast of a fifties sci-fi film gazing in awe onan alien spaceship or life-form.

When Banks arrived, they parted in silence to let himthrough. As he entered, he noticed one young PC leaningagainst the outside wall dribbling vomit on his size twelves.Inside, the scene looked like a film set.

Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy videotaping,and the source of the light was attached to the top of hiscamera. It created an eerie chiaroscuro and sudden, sickeningilluminations as it swept around the barn's interior. All heneeded, Banks thought, was for someone to yell "Action!"and the place would suddenly be full of sound and motion.

But no amount of yelling would breathe life back into thegrotesque shape on the floor, by which a whey-faced youngpolice surgeon, Dr. Burns, squatted with a black notebook inhis hand.

At first, the position of the body reminded Banks of a parodyof Moslem prayer: the kneeling man bent forward fromthe waist, arms stretched out in front, bum in the air, foreheadtouching the ground, perhaps facing Mecca. His fistswere clenched in the dirt, and Banks noticed the glint of agold cufflink, initialled "KAR," as Darby's light flashed onit.

But there was no forehead to touch the ground. Above thecharcoal suit jacket, the blood-soaked collar of the man'sshirt protruded about an inch, and after that came nothingbut a dark, coagulated mass of bone and tissue spread out onthe dirt like an oil stain: a shotgun wound, by the look of it.Patches of blood, bone and brain matter stuck to the whitewashedstone walls in abstract-expressionist patterns.Darby's roving light caught what looked like a fragment ofskull sprouting a tuft of fair hair beside a rusty hoe.

Banks felt the bile rise in his throat. He could still smellthe gunpowder, reminiscent of a childhood bonfire night,mixed with the stink of urine and feces and the rancid rawmeat smell of sudden violent death.

"What time did the call come in?" he asked the PC besidehim.

"One thirty-eight, sir. PC Carstairs from Relton was firston the scene. He's still puking up out front."

Banks nodded. "Do we know who the victim was?"

"DC Gay checked his wallet, sir. Name's Keith Rothwell.That's the name of the bloke who lived here, all right." Hepointed over to the house. "Arkbeck Farm, it's called."

"A farmer?"

"Nay, sir. Accountant. Some sort of businessman, anyroad."

One of the constables found a light switch and turned onthe bare bulb, which became a foundation for the brighterlight of Darby's video camera. Most regions didn't use video because it was hard to get good enough quality, butPeter Darby was a hardware junkie, forever experimenting.

Banks turned his attention back to the scene. The placelooked as if it had once been a large stone Yorkshire barn,with double doors and a hayloft, called a "field house" inthose parts. Originally, it would have been used to keep thecows inside between November and May, and to store fodder,but Rothwell seemed to have converted it into a garage.

To Banks's right, a silver-gray BMW, parked at a slightangle, took up about half the space. Beyond the car, againstthe far wall, a number of metal shelf units held all the toolsand potions one would associate with car care: antifreeze,wax polish, oily rags, screwdrivers, spanners. Rothwell hadretained the rural look in the other half of the garage. He hadeven hung old farm implements on the whitewashed stonewall: a mucking rake, a hay knife, a draining scoop and aTom spade, among others, all suitably rusted.

As he stood there, Banks tried to picture what might havehappened. The victim had clearly been kneeling, perhapspraying or pleading for his life. It certainly didn't look as ifhe had tried to escape. Why had he submitted so easily? Notmuch choice, probably, Banks thought. You usually don'targue when someone is pointing a shotgun at you. Butstill . . . would a man simply kneel there, brace himself andwait for his executioner to pull the trigger?

Banks turned and left the barn. Outside, he met DetectiveSergeant Philip Richmond and Detective Constable SusanGay coming from around the back.

"Nothing there, sir, far as I can tell," said Richmond, alarge torch in his hand. Susan, beside him, looked pale in theglow from the barn entrance.

"All right?" Banks asked her.

"I'm okay now, sir. I was sick, though."

Richmond looked the same as ever. His sang-froid waslegendary around the place, so much so that Banks sometimeswondered if he had any feelings at all or whether hehad come to resemble one of those computers he spent mostof his time with.

"Anyone know what happened?" Banks asked.

"PC Carstairs had a quick word with the victim's wifewhen he first got here," said Susan. "All she could tell himwas that a couple of men were waiting when she got homeand they took her husband outside and shot him." Sheshrugged ...

Continues...

Excerpted from Final Accountby Robinson, Peter Excerpted by permission.
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Edition details

• Publisher: William Morrow & Company
• Publication date: 2004
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0060502169
• ISBN 13: 9780060502164
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 303