Playing with fire

Playing with fire

Peter Robinson, 1950-

Book - 2004

"In the black of night, a raging fire consumes two barges moored side by side in an English canal. After a body is found on each boat, Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks realizes that this is no accidental fire, but a malicious case of arson. Evidence at the site indicates that the intended victim was an eccentric local artist who is wallowing in jail. Two days later, when another fire claims a third life, Banks and fellow detective Annie Cabbot dig deep into the pasts of the victims, and are quickly led into a sinister world of art forgery and scam artists"--P. 4 of cover.

Saved in:
Place a Hold Save to List Email this

1st Floor Show me where

MYSTERY/Robinson, Peter
1 / 1 copies available
Location Call Number   Status
1st Floor MYSTERY/Robinson, Peter Checked In
Subjects
Banks, Alan (Fictitious character) > Fiction.
Police > England > Yorkshire > Fiction.
Arson > Fiction.
Mystery fiction.
Yorkshire (England) > Fiction.
Published
New York : W. Morrow 2004.
Language
English
Main Author
Peter Robinson, 1950- (-)
Edition
1st ed
Item Description
"A novel of suspense"--Cover.
Physical Description
354 p.
ISBN
9780060198770
  • 1. The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water," Banks whispered. As he spoke, his breath formed plumes of mist in the chill January air.
  • Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot, standing beside him, must have heard, because she said, "You what? Come again." "A quotation," said Banks. "From Antony and Cleopatra." "You don't usually go around quoting Shakespeare like a copper in a book," Annie commented.
  • "Just something I remember from school. It seemed appropriate." They were standing on a canal bank close to dawn watching two barges smoulder.... The canal ran through some beautiful countryside, and tonight the usually quiet rural area was floodlit and buzzing with activity, noisy with the shouts of firefighters and the crackle of personal radios. The smell of burned wood, plastic and rubber hung in the air and scratched at the back of Banks's throat when he breathed in. All around the lit-up area, the darkness of a pre-dawn winter night pressed in, starless and cold. The media had already arrived, mostly TV crews, because fires made for good visuals, even after they had gone out, but the firefighters and police officers kept them well at bay, and the scene was secure....
  • "Christ, it's cold," moaned Annie, stamping from foot to foot. She was mostly obscured by an old army greatcoat she had thrown on over her jeans and polo-neck sweater. She was also wearing a matching maroon woolly hat, scarf and gloves, along with black knee-high leather boots. Her nose was red.
  • "You'd better go and talk to the firefighters," Banks said. "Get their stories while events are still fresh in their minds. You never know, maybe one of them will warm you up a bit." "Cheeky bastard." Annie sneezed, blew her nose and wandered off.... The young constable, who had been talking to the leading firefighter, walked over to Banks and introduced himself: PC Smythe, from the nearest village, Molesby.
  • "So you're the one responsible for waking me up at this ungodly hour in the morning," said Banks.
  • PC Smythe paled. "Well, sir, it seemed... I..." "It's okay. You did the right thing. Can you fill me in?" "There's not much to add, really, sir." Smythe looked tired and drawn, as well he might. He hardly seemed older than twelve, and this was probably his first major incident.
  • "Who called it in?" Banks asked.
  • "Bloke called Hurst. Andrew Hurst. Lives in the old lockkeeper's house about a mile away. He says he was just going to bed shortly after one o'clock, and he saw the fire from his bedroom window. He knew roughly where it was coming from, so he rode over to check it out." "Rode?" "Bicycle, sir." "Okay. Go on." "That's about it. When he saw the fire, he phoned it in on his mobile, and the fire brigade arrived. They had a bit of trouble gaining access, as you can see. They had to run long hoses." Banks could see the fire engines parked about a hundred yards way, through the woods, where a narrow lane turned sharply right as it neared the canal. "Anyone get out alive?" he asked.
  • "We don't know, sir. If they did, they didn't hang around. We don't even know how many people live there, or what their names are. All we know is there are two casualties." "Wonderful," said Banks. It wasn't anywhere near enough information. Arson was often used to cover up other crimes, to destroy evidence, or to hide the identity of a victim, and if that was the case here, Banks needed to know as much about the people who lived on the barges as possible. That would be difficult if they were all dead. "This lockkeeper, is he still around?" "He's not actually a lockkeeper, sir," said PC Smythe. "We don't use them anymore. The boat crews operate the locks themselves. He just lived in the old lockkeeper's house. I took a brief statement and sent him home. Did I do wrong?" "It's all right," Banks said. "We'll talk to him later...." Annie Cabbot joined Banks and Smythe. "The station received the call at one thirty-one a.m.," she said, "and the firefighters arrived here at one forty-four." "That sounds about right." "It's actually a very good rural response time," Annie said. "We're lucky the station wasn't staffed by retained men." Many rural stations, Banks knew, used "retained" men, or trained part-timers, and that would have meant a longer wait - at least five minutes for them to respond to their personal alerters and get to the station. "We're lucky they weren't on strike tonight, too," he said, "or we'd probably still be waiting for the army to come and piss on the flames." They watched the firefighters pack up their gear in silence as the darkness brightened to grey, and a morning mist appeared seemingly from nowhere, swirling on the murky water and shrouding the spindly trees. In spite of the smoke stinging his lungs, Banks felt an intense craving for a cigarette rush through his system. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. It had been nearly six months since he had smoked a cigarette, and he was damned if he was going to give in now.
  • As he fought off the desire, he caught a movement in the trees out of the corner of his eye. Someone was standing there, watching them. Banks whispered to Annie and Smythe, who walked along the bank in opposite directions to circle around and cut the interloper off. Banks edged back toward the trees. When he thought he was within decent range, he turned and ran toward the intruder. As he felt the cold, bare twigs whipping and scratching his face, he saw someone running about twenty yards ahead of him. Smythe and Annie were flanking the figure, crashing through the dark undergrowth, catching up quickly.
  • Smythe and Annie were by far the fittest of the three pursuers, and even though he'd stopped smoking, Banks soon felt out of breath. When he saw Smythe closing the gap and Annie nearing from the north, he slowed down and arrived panting in time to see the two wrestle a young man to the ground. In seconds he was handcuffed and pulled struggling to his feet.
  • They all stood still for a few moments to catch their breath, and Banks looked at the youth. He was in his early twenties, about Banks's height, five foot nine, wiry as a pipe-cleaner, with a shaved head and hollow cheeks. He was wearing jeans and a scuffed leather jacket over a black T-shirt. He struggled with PC Smythe but was no match for the burly constable.
  • "Right," said Banks. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" The boy struggled. "Nothing. Let me go! I haven't done anything. Let me go!"
  • From the Hardcover edition.
Review by Booklist Review

One of the great things about Robinson's long-running series set in Yorkshire and starring two canny detectives is the way his main characters, Alan Banks (now Detective Chief Inspector) and his sidekick and sometime lover Annie Cabbot (now Detective Inspector), change and grow (or suffer), both professionally and personally. Unlike many procedural writers, Robinson doesn't have his characters hang on to rigid identities; these are primarily novels of character. They're also strong on atmosphere and police procedure--this latest bringing the intricacies of arson investigation to the Yorkshire Dales. Fire destroys two canal barges. Bodies, one of a young female heroin addict, the other of an ambitious artist, are discovered on each barge. The reader is treated to the choreography of Banks' adroit questioning of suspects, a clear view of police procedure, and a mystery that widens from the funky inhabitants of the canal banks to a set of complex relationships and art-world treacheries. The two worlds of the victims, both marred by personal failure, intersect in intriguing ways.ust having Banks back, brooding over a case as he sips his Laphroaig Scotch and listens to jazz, is reason to celebrate. Robinson has won just about every mystery award there is (including the Edgar, the Agatha, the New York Times Notable Book Award, and Le Grand Prix de Litterature Policier). His latest shows why. --Connie Fletcher Copyright 2003 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Edgar winner Robinson's 14th police procedural to feature Yorkshire DCI Alan Banks isn't quite up to the level of last year's superlative Close to Home, but it's nonetheless an engaging pleasure. Three victims have died in two suspicious fires: Tom McMahon, an eccentric, mostly unsuccessful local artist; Tina Aspern, a young heroin addict estranged from an abusive stepfather; and Roland Gardiner, another down-and-out chap but one who just happens to have a fireproof safe containing a substantial amount of cash and what appears to be a Turner watercolor. To solve the crimes, Banks and his team-DI Annie Cabbot and the refreshingly direct DC Winsome Jackman-pursue good old-fashioned police work, interviewing witnesses, neighbors, relatives and lovers and sifting through the evidence gathered by their specialist colleagues. They also make ample use of contemporary forensic technology. In keeping with the moody and introspective Alan Banks, the narrative style is tempered and deliberate, perhaps too much so for those who prefer, say, the riveting urgency of a Michael Connelly thriller. Characterization is Robinson's real strength. Virtually every character is etched with care, precision and emotional insight. With each book, the quietly competent Alan Banks gets more and more human; like red wine, he gets better and more interesting with age. (Jan. 20) Forecast: A nine-city author tour and a rave from Stephen King, who rarely blurbs these days, can only help solidify the Toronto-based Robinson's niche in the U.S. market. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Among the best British police procedurals published today are entries in Robinson's Inspector Banks series. Not only does each novel feature a complex and intriguing plot set against the harshly beautiful Yorkshire landscape, but each also details the emotional and psychological development of the author's melancholic hero. In this 14th outing, Banks and Annie Cabot, his associate and former lover, investigate an arson fire that destroyed two canal barges and left two charred corpses. Banks and Annie must determine who was the intended victim: Thomas McMahon, a failed artist, or Tina Aspern, a teenaged heroin addict who had fled an abusive stepfather. A second firey death a few days later leads the duo to uncover an art forgery scheme involving the great British painter J.M.W. Turner. Meanwhile, Banks finally confronts his ex-wife, who has given birth to another man's baby, and also grapples with his jealousy over Annie's involvement with an art expert hired to consult on the case. Robinson has once again penned an enthralling read. Strongly recommended for most mystery collections.[Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/03.]-Wilda Williams, "Library Journal" (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

Everyone in Eastvale, it seems, has something to hide when DCI Alan Banks tackles a nasty case that combines arson and art fraud. The burning of two boats, along with low-flying painter Tom McMahon and druggie Tina Aspern, raises questions right from the start. Which of the rickety barges they were squatting on was the firebug's primary target? And why did Andrew Hurst, the fussy local collector who reported the blaze, bicycle out from his shack to watch it before phoning the firefighters? But Hurst is only the first of a parade of suspicious characters. There's Leslie Whitaker, the used bookseller who piously insists he doesn't know a thing about the Turneresque watercolors Tom was turning out on antique paper he bought from Whitaker. There's Danny Boy Corcoran, Tina's drug connection. There's troubled Mark Siddons, the remorseful day laborer who'd quarreled with Tina and left her alone on the boat, and there's Dr. Patrick Aspern, the chilly stepfather she'd accused of driving her from home by abusing her repeatedly. Even Phil Keane, the London art authenticator who's been dating Banks's colleague and ex-lover DI Annie Cabbot, starts to look suspicious to the jealous Banks. Whom can he trust to tell the truth about this hydra-headed case? As in Close to Home (2003), Robinson's customary insight into the wavering line between normalcy and unblinking evil is intensified by a sins-of-the-fathers fatalism. P.D. James, meet Ross Macdonald. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Playing with Fire A Novel of Suspense Chapter One The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water," Banks whispered. As he spoke, his breath formed plumes of mist in the chill January air. Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot, standing beside him, must have heard, because she said, "You what? Come again." "A quotation," said Banks. "From Anthony and Cleopatra ." "You don't usually go around quoting Shakespeare like a copper in a book," Annie commented. "Just something I remember from school. It seemed appropriate." They were standing on a canal bank close to dawn watching two barges smolder. Not usually the sort of job for a detective chief inspector like Banks, especially so early on a Friday morning, but as soon as it had been safe enough for the firefighters to board the barges, they had done so and found one body on each. One of the firefighters had recently completed a course on fire investigation, and he had noticed possible evidence of accelerant use when he boarded the barge. He had called the local constable, who in turn had called Western Area Police Headquarters, Major Crimes, so here was Banks, quoting Shakespeare and waiting for the fire investigation officer to arrive. "Were you in it, then?" Annie asked. "In what?" " Anthony and Cleopatra ." "Good Lord, no. Third spear-carrier in Julius Caesar was the triumph of my school acting career. We did it for O-Level English, and I had to memorize the speech." Banks held the lapels of his overcoat over his throat. Even with the Leeds United scarf his son Brian had bought him for his birthday, he still felt the chill. Annie sneezed, and Banks felt guilty for dragging her out in the early hours. The poor lass had been battling with a cold for the last few days. But his sergeant, Jim Hatchley, was even worse; he had been off sick with flu most of the week. They had just arrived at the dead-end branch of the canal, which lay three miles south of Eastvale, linking the River Swain to the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, and hence to the whole network of waterways that crisscrossed the country. The canal ran through some beautiful countryside, and tonight the usually quiet rural area was floodlit and buzzing with activity, noisy with the shouts of firefighters and the crackle of personal radios. The smell of burned wood, plastic and rubber hung in the air and scratched at the back of Banks's throat when he breathed in. All around the lit-up area, the darkness of a pre-dawn winter night pressed in, starless and cold. The media had already arrived, mostly TV crews, because fires made for good visuals, even after they had gone out, but the firefighters and police officers kept them well at bay, and the scene was secure. As far as Banks had been able to ascertain, the branch ran straight north for about a hundred yards before it ended in a tangle of shrubbery that eventually became dry land. Nobody at the scene remembered whether it had ever led anywhere or had simply been used as a mooring, or for easier access to the local limestone for which the region was famous. It was possible, someone suggested, that the branch had been started as a link to the center of Eastvale itself, then abandoned due to lack of funds or the steepness of the gradient. "Christ, it's cold," moaned Annie, stamping from foot to foot. She was mostly obscured by an old army greatcoat she had thrown on over her jeans and polo-neck sweater. She was also wearing a matching maroon woolly hat, scarf and gloves, along with black knee-high leather boots. Her nose was red. "You'd better go and talk to the firefighters," Banks said. "Get their stories while events are still fresh in their minds. You never know, maybe one of them will warm you up a bit." "Cheeky bastard." Annie sneezed, blew her nose and wandered off, reaching in her deep pocket for her notebook. Banks watched her go and wondered again whether his suspicions were correct. It was nothing concrete, just a slight change in her manner and appearance, but he couldn't help feeling that she was seeing someone, and had been for the past while. Not that it was any of his business. Annie had broken off their relationship ages ago, but -- he didn't like to admit this -- he was feeling pangs of jealousy. Stupid, really, as he had been seeing DI Michelle Hart on and off since the previous summer. But he couldn't deny the feeling. The young constable, who had been talking to the leading firefighter, walked over to Banks and introduced himself: PC Smythe, from the nearest village, Molesby. "So you're the one responsible for waking me up at this ungodly hour in the morning," said Banks. PC Smythe paled. "Well, sir, it seemed ... I ..." "It's okay. You did the right thing. Can you fill me in?" "There's not much to add, really, sir." Smythe looked tired and drawn, as well he might. He hardly seemed older than twelve, and this was probably his first major incident. "Who called it in?" Banks asked. "Bloke called Hurst. Andrew Hurst. Lives in the old lockkeeper's house about a mile away. He says he was just going to bed shortly after one o'clock, and he saw the fire from his bedroom window. He knew roughly where it was coming from, so he rode over to check it out." "Rode?" "Bicycle, sir." "Okay. Go on." "That's about it. When he saw the fire, he phoned it in on his mobile, and the fire brigade arrived. They had a bit of trouble gaining access, as you can see. They had to run long hoses." Banks could see the fire engines parked about a hundred yards away ... Playing with Fire A Novel of Suspense . Copyright © by Peter Robinson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Playing with Fire: A Novel of Suspense by Peter Robinson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Similar Items