The reckoning

Rennie Airth, 1935-

Book - 2014

"The Second World War has ended, leaving a bruised and fragile peace. But this tranquillity is threatened when a shocking murder takes place in the Sussex countryside. Before long, police experts discover a link to another, earlier, killing hundreds of miles away ...While Scotland Yard detective Billy Styles struggles to find a link between these two murders, a strange twist of fate brings former Detective Inspector John Madden into the investigations. As the victim count rises it becomes clear that to catch this serial killer Madden, Styles and young policewoman Detective-Constable Lily Poole must act quickly. But Madden remains haunted by the mysteries at the heart of the case. Why was his name in a letter the second target had been ...penning, just before he died? Could the real clue to these perplexing murders lie within the victims' pasts? And within his own? With this stunning, atmospheric crime novel teeming with twists and moving between the 1950s, the First and Second World Wars, Rennie Airth, the author of River of Darkness, The Blood-Dimmed Tide and The Dead of Winter presents his greatest and most compelling novel yet"--

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Subjects
Genres
Historical fiction
Mystery fiction
Published
New York, New York : Viking 2014.
Language
English
Main Author
Rennie Airth, 1935- (-)
Physical Description
358 pages ; 24 cm
ISBN
9780670785681
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

It's 1947. The war is over, and no one in the modest English town of Lewes expects a person like Gibson to be shot in broad daylight with a military issue Luger. Just as mysterious is the unfinished letter he was writing that mentions John Madden, which brings the former Scotland Yard detective out of retirement to assist in the investigation of other killings committed with the same pistol. As he did with poor Gibson, Airth constructs carefully detailed portraits of each victim, along with the family members other authors often neglect to count as casualties. After interviewing the wife and daughter of one of the dead, a detective is reminded of London during the Blitz, with "survivors wandering the streets of the capital, white-faced as ghosts." That compassion defines Airth's memorable novels, as much as any other aspect of his work, Here, though, the plot suffers somewhat from his meticulous technique. While the police are thrashing about, conducting mostly unhelpful interviews trying to find a common cause for the murders, the reader has already figured out that the victims must have served in the same unit during the war. Not the war that has just ended but the Great War that left its "lingering curse" on everyone. Like the previous books in this almost too beautifully written series, "The Reckoning" is about the comforts of redemption and forgiveness - and the impossibility of forgetting. DEBORAH KNOTT, the kind and clever sleuth in Margaret Maron's wonderful down-home mysteries set in rural North Carolina, has a very large family - by last count, 11 brothers, their wives and children, plus untold aunts, uncles and cousins. In DESIGNATED DAUGHTERS (Grand Central, $27), practically the whole clan shows up at the hospice where Aunt Rachel has interrupted the process of dying to deliver a rambling account of all the things that have been on her wandering mind. It's quite a lovely deathbed aria, narrated in the honeyed accents of the region. But someone must have feared Aunt Rachel might divulge a buried secret because that someone creeps into her room and smothers her with a pillow. Maron knows how to adorn a solid murder mystery with plenty of ancillary entertainments. But her broader theme involves the way families flourish when they work together for the common good. While there are charming scenes of group projects like building a pond shed and assembling a bluegrass band, the clan members Maron really cherishes are those who devote themselves to caring for the elders of the family. Living saints they are, every last one of them. KURT WALLANDER will absolutely, positively and quite definitely never appear in another detective novel by Henning Mankell. But as the Swedish author explains in an afterword to Laurie Thompson's translation of an EVENT IN AUTUMN (Vintage Crime/ Black Lizard, paper, $14.95), this is a story he wrote "many years ago" for a literary promotion in Holland. Later, the BBC made it into a television movie starring Kenneth Branagh. Although it doesn't have the thematic density and moral ambiguity of his better books, the narrative does capture the unsettled state of Wallander's mind toward the end of his career, when he is "pleased with his performance as a police officer," but not at all "pleased with his life as a human being." Thinking he might be happier if he had a house in the country (along with a dog and maybe even a female companion), Wallander finds himself drawn to an old farmhouse - until he finds a human hand poking out of the overgrown garden. Since the body went into the ground at least 50 years earlier, a good bit of Sweden's wartime history must be unearthed along with the bones, which leaves Wallander more depressed than he was when we met him. NO ONE WRITES noir like the French. One eloquent voice in that bleak genre belongs to Pascal Garnier, who fuses dark comedy and existential despair, and Gallic Books is publishing appropriately austere translations of a number of his novels. MOON IN A DEAD EYE (Gallic Books, paper, $12.95), translated by Emily Boyce and written in the absurdist manner of Jean Anouilh, is a takedown of the haughty residents of an exclusive retirement community. All that's needed is a caravan of Gypsies to turn these smug provincials into savage beasts. Also translated by Emily Boyce, HOW'S THE PAIN? (Gallic Books, paper, $12.95), which borrows its title from a friendly African greeting, is a deliciously dark tale about a professional hit man's last job. Too old and ill to carry out his assignment alone, Simon Marechall entices strapping young Bernard Ferrand to drive him to a town in the South of France. A simple job. But Bernard is such a sweet naïf that he gets them into one misadventure after another, all painfully funny - except for that last one.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 3, 2014]
Review by Booklist Review

In Scotland and in England, two men are murdered, shot in the head by what appears to be the same gunman using the same gun. A letter is found in the papers of one of the dead men that suggests the victim was trying to locate retired Scotland Yard inspector John Madden, but Madden, who's starred in a handful of previous novels, says he doesn't know who the man is. Although he'd rather not get involved, Madden agrees to help in the investigation, which kicks into high gear when a third man is murdered, apparently by the same killer. The new Madden novel, set in 1947, delivers all the suspense and twisty plot turns that readers have come to expect from this popular series.--Pitt, David Copyright 2014 Booklist

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

Like its predecessors, Edgar-finalist Airth's so-so fourth John Madden novel (after 2009's Dead of Winter) transitions from a whodunit to a search for a known killer well before the end. In 1947, someone shoots Oswald Gibson, a retired bank manager, in the head while he's fishing in a stream near Lewes, Sussex. Before his death, a visit from a stranger prompted Gibson to compose a letter to Scotland Yard asking about Madden's whereabouts. Long retired from Scotland Yard, Madden is sure he never met the man. A month earlier, someone shot Dr. Wallace Drummond in his surgery in Ballater, Scotland, "in exactly the same manner." Readers will have little trouble staying ahead of the police as they attempt to figure out what Madden, Gibson, and Drummond could have had in common, and they will be disappointed by a plot hole in the resolution. Less developed than in previous books, Madden comes across as somewhat dull. Agent: Joy Harris, Joy Harris Literary Agency. (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

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

Great news for lovers of British mysteries: John Madden is back! Yes, even though we were led to believe that when 2009's The Dead of Winter completed the trilogy begun a decade earlier we had seen the last of the former Scotland Yard inspector and his family, friends, and colleagues. But now another puzzling set of murders brings -Madden out of retirement. And, once again, we find the elements that made this series a hit among discerning readers. Though the novel is set during the aftermath of World War II, the crux of the case Madden must solve is lodged in the military infrastructure of World War I-the war in which Madden served. As he reunites with former protege Billy Styles and retired DCS Angus Sinclair to examine the evidence in a series of killings that seem to be related only by method, Madden again employs the natural profiling skills he has been developing since his first case to uncover their common motive. VERDICT Although this well-crafted tale can certainly stand on its own, be sure to recommend the earlier titles to series newcomers. Fans will not need to be persuaded.-Nancy McNicol, Hamden P.L., CT (c) Copyright 2014. 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

John Madden comes out of retirement in post-World War II Britain to help solve a case from his past. Hikers enjoying the countryside near the Sussex town of Lewes see a slightly built man in a red sweater approach Oswald Gibson as he's enjoying a peaceful day of fishing. But no one sees when Gibson is ordered to kneel and is shot execution style, and no one sees the killer leave. Chief Inspector Detective Billy Styles orders a thorough investigation and police search, but the murderer seems to have vanished. Besides noting similarities between Gibson's death and that of a doctor in Aberdeen, Styles finds a letter Gibson was writing to Scotland Yard to inquire about the whereabouts of John Madden, the former detective who taught Styles his trade. Madden doesn't recognize Gibson from the photographs the murdered man's brother shows him, and the only clue so far is that Gibson and the Scottish doctor were both shot with identical bullets, German-made with iron cores. The execution of a third man confirms the killer's pattern of visiting the victims in advance, apparently to establish their identities before delivering the coup de grace. Then an entry in Gibson's diary gives Madden the link he needs to the killer and to his own past: a tragic incident he tried and failed to prevent during World War I. Now he realizes he's in search of someone skilled at deception and disguise and who won't stop until all the parties involved pay for a long-ago injustice. Although the exposition, interspersed with scenes from Madden's domestic life, is leisurely, momentum builds to a satisfying ending. Madden's fourth case (The Dead of Winter, 2009, etc.) maintains Airth's reputation for carefully constructed, highly detailed plots. Although the hero doesn't dominate the present-day action, his past involvement adds an emotional element to his determination to end the killings. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2014 by Rennie Airth PROLOGUE Lewes, Sussex, 1947 As he was fitting a new fly to his hook, Oswald Gibson looked up and saw two figures on the ridge above, both of them carrying what looked like fishing gear over their shoulders, long, cylindrical cases of the kind that you could fit two sections of a rod in. 'Damn!' They were coming over a saddle in the low green hills and, having spotted the grassy bank where Oswald was standing with his rod, were probably heading for that very spot. Upstream from a small pool where the trout paused, as though waiting for any tempting flies that might come their way, it was the best fishing site on the stream and one that Oswald had come to think of as his own. And he knew what was going to happen next, almost as though it were fated. The men would turn up, they'd exchange polite greetings and then, after looking around and seeing that this was the place to be, they'd say, 'Mind if we join you?' and take out their rods, probably not even waiting for a reply. And Oswald would say nothing. He'd make no complaint, not say that he did mind and would they kindly shove off and find somewhere else to do their angling. No, he'd stand there dumb and resentful, accepting - as he always had - his failure to stand up to others, unable to escape the vision he had of himself as one of life's doormats. 'For heaven's sake, Oswald! For once in your life assert yourself.' The words were inscribed in his memory as though on marble, which wasn't surprising, given the number of times he had heard them. 'Why do you let people walk all over you?' He could hardly have replied that it was because he was a doormat (though he'd been tempted to, and more than once). Still, the whirligig of time brought in its revenges. (The saying was one of Oswald's favourites.) Fresh in his mind still was the memory of the morning a year ago when he had come upstairs with Mildred's breakfast tray and found her lying in bed, with her eyes staring and her mouth agape: stone-dead. 'Stiff as a rod,' he had murmured to himself in wonder as he'd touched his wife's hand for the last time. Meanwhile the men had crossed the saddle in the ridge and were coming down the hillside, close to where a flock of sheep were grazing, watched over by a dog. They were on a path that would join the one that ran along the valley floor, which in turn would bring them to his doorstep. Oswald braced himself for the encounter he was sure was about to take place. He could at least be cool with them, he thought: he would let them see they were not welcome. Perhaps they would take the hint and depart. As he stood there, already uncertain in his resolve, knowing in his heart that he was simply unable to deal with confrontation, he heard a piercing whistle and saw the sheepdog, a border collie, rise from the grass and begin to circle the flock it was guarding, coaxing them into movement. He scanned the hillside for their shepherd, a man he knew by sight, but it was some moments before he spotted him standing at the edge of a small copse near the crest of the ridge, his familiar figure blending with the shadow cast by the trees. For some minutes the sheep continued to move across the hillside, urged on by the dog, until a final whistle, different in pitch, brought it to a halt and the flock settled down again. Distracted by the spectacle, Oswald had half-forgotten the approaching threat, but when he turned his gaze on the fishermen again it was to discover that he'd had a reprieve. During the minute or so that he had spent watching the shepherd, the pair had reached the intersection of the two paths, but instead of coming upstream to join him, as he had feared they would, they had gone in the other direction; in fact he could hear the sound of their voices growing fainter as they moved away. His solitude was preserved. 'Well, thank heaven for that.' With a sigh of satisfaction he turned back to face the stream and a moment later his line, with the fly attached, went soaring off in an arc to fall softly on the still surface of the pool. He felt better already. Earlier that morning he had awoken from a fitful sleep still troubled by the memory of an uninvited visitor who had called on him the week before, a nosy intruder he'd never met or heard of, who had knocked on his front door and, without so much as a by-your-leave, had proceeded to question him, sharply at times, about some long-forgotten episode in his past. Names, dates, places - the questions had been fired at him like so many missiles, as if he could be expected to remember details of that kind after all this time; and when he had dared to object to the interrogation, he'd been assured that the enquiry had official backing - something he'd been unable to challenge, but suspected was true, as this new Labour government seemed to think it had the right to stick its nose into everything. Oswald had endured the ordeal sullenly. He had sensed the hostility of his questioner without being able to identify its source and for this reason had been as uncooperative as he dared. In particular he'd neglected to mention the journals he had kept as a young man, when he had still thought his experiences might have some value - that his life might amount to some- thing - and which were gathering dust in a desk drawer. When his inquisitor had left at last, and without a word of thanks, he had dug them out and quickly found the volume that dealt with the events in question. Yes, there it was, the whole business faithfully reported in his own unique style, a mode of expression clear to him, but not to prying eyes (Mildred's, for example). And although Oswald had been surprised by the amount of information his tormentor possessed, at least he'd been given an avenue to pursue: one possible means of getting to the bottom of what had been an unusually disagreeable experience. Among the names flung at him, most of which he had forgotten, was one that struck a special chord in Oswald's memory: not because it had seemed important at the time (on the contrary, he hadn't even bothered to record it in his journal), but because he remembered some remarks this individual had made that prompted him to wonder now if the fellow was still alive and whether he could track him down. He'd be just the chap to ask about this so-called investigation, Oswald told himself: he would know, if anyone did, what lay behind it all. Finding him had been the problem, however. The only way Oswald could think to do so was to write to the man's former employers on the off-chance they were still in contact with him. But although he had begun to pen the necessary letter, he had quickly lost heart and put it aside. What was he getting himself into? he had wondered. The truth was that he hadn't enjoyed having his past raked up - not that bit, anyway - and when he'd thought more about it, and about his strange and unsettling interview with his recent visitor, he'd been inclined to let the whole matter drop: to let sleeping dogs lie. But for some reason the business had continued to bother him. When, a few days later, he had travelled to Hastings to spend a long weekend with an old friend of his who had retired to the seaside town, he had found himself still dogged by the memory of his impromptu interview and, even before he set out to return home, he had resolved to talk the matter over with his elder brother, Ned. Ned was the person he turned to most often for advice and, as luck would have it, Ned was coming down from London to spend the following weekend with him. Oswald looked at his watch. It was after five. Mrs Gannet, his daily, was usually gone by half-past four and he would have to wait until tomorrow to have a word with her about his weekend guest and how to feed him. With rationing still in force - and that in spite of the war being over for two years now - food was perpetually in short supply; fortunately Edna Gannet was a resourceful woman (and a great relief to have about the house after thirty years of marriage to the relentless Mildred) and Oswald was sure that somehow she would make ends meet. For one thing, there were the trout, which continued to attach themselves obligingly to his hook and line, and which were at least beyond the ration man's reach. Only that afternoon he'd caught a fine specimen - it was still flopping in its death-throes on the grass bank behind him - and by Saturday, which was four days off, he might have caught more. The thought brought a grin to his lips as he sent his line winging over the water for the last time. Though something of a novice as an angler - he'd never had the time for it when he'd been married, Mildred had seen to that - he'd found he had an unexpected talent for the sport and, now that he was retired (and a widower to boot) and able to devote more hours to his hobby, he was reaping the re- wards of his determination to master its finer points. Reeling in his line, he heard the shepherd's whistle again, coming from the hillside behind him; this time he ignored it, continuing instead to gaze at the scene before him: at the willow trees on the far bank bending to touch the stream, and at the water itself, which still sparkled in the last of the sunlight. It had been a gem of an autumn day, with the October sun only now beginning to pale in the blue sky and the shadows starting to lengthen, and throughout the quiet afternoon Oswald had hummed contentedly to himself, as if in harmony with the chorus that came from a pair of ringdoves in the giant oak tree that overlooked the stream at that point, and whose spreading branches offered welcome shade. For many years he had been a member of the local choral society and for some weeks had been attending rehearsals for the concert of Gilbert and Sullivan favourites that the group planned to give at their annual autumn concert in a few weeks' time. Oswald had been picked to sing one of the solo numbers and had been practising hard. 'A wandering minstrel I . . .' As he bent down to collect his things from the grassy bank, stowing the trout in the old kitchen basket he used as a creel and gathering up the crumbs of his lunchtime sandwich to put in a piece of greaseproof paper, he broke into song. ' A thing of shreds and patches . . .' He searched about him for his tin of flies; he knew he'd put it down on the grass somewhere. ' Of ballads, songs and snatches, And dreamy lullaby . . .' Spying it some way up the bank, he began to move in that direction; but stopped when he saw a shadow fall across the tin. Oswald looked up. Squinting against the setting sun, he saw the silhouette of a man on the bank above him. Dressed in hiking clothes - breeches of some kind - topped by a baggy sweater, he stood faceless in the shadow cast by his hat brim. 'Yes . . . ?' Uncertain as ever, Oswald hesitated - and in that moment recognition dawned on him and he stared, open-mouthed, as the figure moved, coming down the bank towards him with unhurried steps. 'What in heaven's name--?' The question died on his lips. He had been gaping in wonder at the face beneath the hat brim. But then the glint of metal had caught his eye, and his heart had lurched. 'No--' The word was his last. Struck dumb in the last minutes of his life, in the grip not only of terror but of sheer disbelief, he could only stay where he was, planted like a tree on the bank, crouched over his knees, until he felt the cold touch of steel on his neck. And then nothing more. Excerpted from The Reckoning by Rennie Airth 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.