Another one goes tonight

Peter Lovesey

Book - 2016

"Two police officers are about to head home after a long night shift when they receive one last call: a suspicious nude person has been spotted in the wee hours of the morning. En route to the call, the patrol car spins off the road, killing one of the exhausted cops instantly and leaving the other in critical condition. Whenever a police car is involved in an accident, the matter must be taken very seriously. Inspector Peter Diamond is assigned to look into the case. His supervisor is desperately hoping Diamond will not discover that the car was speeding or that the driver was under the influence of drugs or alcohol--that would make the police look very bad indeed. Instead, Diamond discovers something even worse--a civilian on a motor...ized tricycle was involved in the crash, and has been lying on the side of the road by the accident for hours undiscovered. Diamond administers CPR, but no one can say whether the man will pull through. If a civilian has been killed by a police vehicle, the department has very big problems on its hands. Meanwhile, Diamond has become suspicious of the civilian victim, and begins a private inquiry. Why was he out in the middle of the night, carrying a funeral urn of ashes? Diamond's somewhat illegal and highly secret break-in into the man's house only exposes increasingly awful information, and leads Diamond to a trail of uninvestigated deaths. As the man lingers on life support, Diamond must wrestle with the fact that he may have saved the life of a serial killer"--

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MYSTERY/Lovesey Peter
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Subjects
Published
New York, NY : Soho Crime [2016]
Language
English
Main Author
Peter Lovesey (author)
Physical Description
390 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9781616957582
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

HOME IS THE ONE PLACE on earth you can't fix - but don't tell Ace Atkins's straight-arrow hero, Quinn Colson. When he returned to Mississippi after serving 10 years as an Army Ranger, he found Tibbehah County infested with strip joints and meth labs, bogus preachers and vicious bikers, crooked politicians and marauding gangsters. Now, in THE INNOCENTS (Putnam, $27), the sixth book in this series, Quinn has been voted out as sheriff, but he's still trying to make things right. Some familiar good ol' boys turn up here, including Quinn's father, a burnt-out Hollywood stuntman with a delusional scheme to open a dude ranch. But although this is a novel fueled by testosterone and moonshine, three of its best characters are women. Lillie Virgil has been acting sheriff since the last person to hold that office "got himself killed." But although she's admired for her keen marksmanship and filthy vocabulary, she may have met her match when Fannie Hathcock takes over the old Booby Trap, renames it Vienna's Place and establishes a somewhat more genteel atmosphere in which to buy a lap dance. A shrewd businesswoman, Fannie uses the Golden Cherry Motel, across the street, as a dorm for the Born Losers, the "dirty, stinky and mean" biker gang that provides protection for her club. But it's 18-year-old Milly Jones who grabs your heart. Determined to tell the shameful story behind her brother's suicide, she needs someone to help tell it right. This poor innocent even drives all the way to Tupelo to attend a book signing by a "real" writer, only to come away with a quick brushoff and a Christian romance novel. To raise a nest egg, Milly signs on as a pole dancer at Vienna's Place and, drawing on her gymnastic skill as a former cheerleader, the kid is a sensation. But she's so desperate to get out of town that she grabs her money, stiffs Fannie out of the house share and heads for the highway. When Milly resurfaces - weaving down a country road while engulfed in flames - the narrative understandably gets darker, challenging Lillie and Quinn to break through the community's rigid defenses and twisted loyalties. But the deeply cynical ending only confirms Milly's observation that "people around here hate when you tell the truth." "YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN in this game." Peter Lovesey gives fair warning in ANOTHER ONE GOES TONIGHT (Soho Crime, $27.95), his latest impeccably constructed mystery featuring the unpredictable but ever-entertaining Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond of the Bath Constabulary. Diamond is on the scene of a car crash near a railroad line when he rescues a severely injured old man, thrown from what appears to be a custom-built tricycle. This peculiar person, it is later revealed, is a retired engineer and an ardent railroad buff, a member of a breakaway branch of the Bath Railway Society. Things get interesting when Diamond discovers that other elderly members of the group have recently died, leading him to suspect that he might have saved the life of a serial killer. Lest we get too focused on all the funny business involved in railroad mania, there are red herrings to sniff out and misdirections to blindly follow. For all the witty jabs Lovesey takes at English eccentricities, this is a classic whodunit. As Diamond notes, "Taken as problem solving, plotting a murder could be treated like any other engineering project, constructing a turbine or a tunnel." The same might be said of deconstructing a good murder mystery. EACH OF MARTIN WALKER'S novels set in the Dordogne highlights some feature peculiar to this beautiful pastoral region of France. Previous plots turned on the annual truffle auction in Ste. Alvère; the prehistoric limestone caves along the Vézère River; and the grape harvest in the fictional village of St. Denis, where the amiable Bruno Courrèges serves as chief of police. In FATAL PURSUIT (Knopf, $25.95), the colorful attraction is the Concours d'Élégance, a vintage car parade and sports car rally to be held in St. Denis. Through a comedy of errors, Bruno is recruited as navigator of a classic Citroën DS3 in the rally, which is both thrilling and truly élégante. The barely noticeable murder of a local historian eventually folds into the more dramatic mystery of "the most expensive car of all time," a 1936 Type 57C Bugatti - one of only four built, but gone missing somewhere in France during World War II. For the first time, Walker has created an object of desire more delectable than the festive meals Bruno always prepares for his friends. TWO BOYS GROW up poor on the side streets of a big city. One manages to climb his way out of the old neighborhood; the other stays behind to make their tough city tougher. Michael Harvey does wonders with this standard opener in BRIGHTON (Ecco/HarperCollins, $27.99), which finds him back in his native Boston. Kevin Pearce and Bobby Scales share a terrible secret from their past that Kevin is forced to confront years later, as a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter, when a murder investigation takes him back home to face his old friend Bobby - and his own conscience. The story is boldly told, from so many angles and points of view that the moral center keeps shifting. Even the characters who die won't go away in this fiercely felt lament for a neighborhood and a youth that never was.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [July 10, 2016]
Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* The elderly English gentleman in knickers and a Holmesian deerstalker is putt-putting down a darkened road on his motorized tricycle when a traffic smashup occurs. He's brought back from the dead by Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond, who has arrived in time to administer CPR. Afterward, Diamond is perplexed by the emotional bond the act created, and the puzzlement turns creepy when Diamond discovers sinister things in the old guy's history. Has he rescued a monster? Lovesey's fans will be overjoyed to watch his series hero, Diamond smart, obstinate, slyly funny back in action (this is the sixteenth in the much-loved series), and they'll love just as much being made into chumps by a complex plot that the author takes pains eventually to clarify just before he lets us know we've missed everything. Pacing, dialogue, exposition, backstory nobody handles them better than Lovesey, who always writes elegantly while spinning a tough-minded police procedural. Diamond knocks on doors, endures uncooperative and occasionally abusive witnesses, sits through tedious interrogations, pushes himself beyond exhaustion, and lets us know everything he knows. So how come he can figure everything out and we can't?--Crinklaw, Don Copyright 2016 Booklist

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

Edgar-finalist Lovesey's superior 16th whodunit featuring Det. Supt. Peter Diamond (after 2015's Down Among the Dead Men) offers fair play fans a delightfully clever puzzle that toys with their expectations. Diamond, the irascible head of Bath's CID, isn't pleased when his boss, Georgina Dallymore, pulls him from his regular duties to look into the circumstances of a police car crash that killed the driver, Police Constable Aaron Green, and badly injured his passenger, Sgt. Lew Morgan. Georgina hopes that Diamond's review of the evidence will rule out any police negligence. His visit to the crime scene yields a dramatic surprise-the body of an elderly man who was apparently struck by the vehicle while riding a motorized tricycle. Diamond's heroic efforts at CPR save man's life, but the unidentified accident victim remains unconscious, leaving the circumstances of the collision obscure. Lovesey taunts readers with extracts from what appears to be a serial killer's diary while building up to an ingenious final reveal that highlights his gift for misdirection. Agent: Jane Gelfman, Gelfman Schneider. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

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

Lovesey's latest Peter Diamond procedural (after Down Among the Dead Men) has the Bath detective outside of his normal purview when he is asked to conduct an internal investigation into a fatal crash involving two officers responding to a call at the end of their shift. To Diamond's horror and astonishment, he finds an almost lifeless pensioner who must have been involved in the accident and resuscitates him using CPR. However, as he looks further into what the elderly man was doing out late at night on a motorized tricycle, he begins to wonder if he might have saved the life of a serial killer. In tracing the events of that evening, Diamond stumbles onto something larger and deadlier than the original investigation warranted. VERDICT Lovesey delivers a page-turner complete with a likable protagonist whose encounters with authority bring humor to a whodunit with an amazing conclusion. [See Prepub Alert, 2/1/16.]-Lisa O'Hara, Univ. of Manitoba Libs., Winnipeg © Copyright 2016. 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

Sent to look into an accident involving two fellow officers from the Avon and Somerset Police, DS Peter Diamond finds himself improbably but compellingly on the trail of an unusually cold-blooded serial killer.Georgina Dallymore, the boss whom Diamond's recently been closer with than he'd wanted (Down Among the Dead Men, 2015), wants her star investigator to exonerate Lew Morgan and Aaron Green, the two uniformed officers who'd crashed their patrol car in an effort to avoid hitting Ivor Pellegrini, an old man on a homemade tricycle who now lies in a coma at the Royal United Hospital. It's too late to question Green, who was killed in the crash, and Morgan didn't see enough to settle things. But that mostly turns out to be beside the point, because Diamond, who was responsible for spotting Pellegrini hours after the accident, giving him life-saving CPR, and sending him to the hospital, is soon pursuing an altogether different case. People close to Pellegrini have been dying, apparently of natural causes, at an alarming rate in recent months. The dead, all connected to the Great Western Railway Society, of which Pellegrini has been a mainstay, include Massimo Filiput, his old friend Cyril Hardstaff, Cyril's wife, Winnie, and perhaps others. Who would take the trouble to kill so many inoffensive old people, and how, and why? It's only after getting tricked into swallowing a red herring deeply laid by the killer, who duly notes the triumph in an encrypted journal, that Diamond eventually identifies his quarry, a deceptively minor character who turns out to be a good deal more major than he'd suspected. On the long side but so fast-paced you won't care: another absorbing, resourceful English procedural from one of the best. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Another one goes tonight.      This time I'm ahead of myself so this isn't a to-do list. Everything is in place, as they say. But being methodical I want something on record to look at when it's all over. You're on your own in this game, so any debriefing is with myself.      The only thing left is to make sure I get the timing right. I'm going for 2 a.m. when he'll be sleeping soundly, guaranteed. Get gloved up, let myself in, do the necessary and get out without leaving any trace. The police have no idea and I'm not doing them any favours.      He'll rest in peace and so will I, with the difference that I'll wake up tomorrow morning.     Chapter 1 I've seen a few things on the night shift," Police Sergeant Lew Morgan said, "but this beats them all."       "Shall we stop him?" his driver, PC Aaron Green, asked.       "What for? He's not speeding."       "No helmet."       "He doesn't need one. It's only a trike."       "It's motorised. He's not turning the pedals." Aaron Green wasn't there simply to drive the car. Typical of young bobbies out to impress, he was constantly on the lookout for offenders.      Lew was older and reckoned he was wiser. He took stock. There were reflectors on the pedals and, sure enough, they weren't moving, but the tricycle was. Three hours to go and the boredom was getting to him.      Might as well do the business.      He pressed the control on the dash and triggered the blue flashing lights. "Okay, chummy, let's see if your brakes work."      Their patrol car slowed to tail the offending vehicle and draw in behind. The stretch of minor road near Bathampton was otherwise deserted at 2:30 in the morning.      The tricycle came to a controlled stop. Its rider turned his head in a way that involved rotating most of his upper body. He wasn't young.       "You know what?" Lew said. "That's a fucking deerstalker he's wearing."       "Still illegal," Aaron said.       "Who does he think he is?"       "Fancy dress?"      Lew got out and approached the rider of the tricycle. "Switch off, sir."       "I beg your pardon."      Deaf as well.      Lew shouted, "Switch off," and mimed the action with his hand.      The tricyclist obeyed. The hat was definitely a deerstalker. And the rest of the clothes matched. Lew was no fashion expert but he had an idea he was looking at a Norfolk jacket worn over a check shirt and trousers kept in place by leather gaiters. Like some character out of a television costume drama.      And the voice was vintage BBC. "How can I be of assistance, officer?" How patronising was that?       "Do you have a licence to ride this thing?"       "I do not."      Lew almost rubbed his hands. He was going to enjoy this. "You're aware that it's a form of motorcycle?"       "I suppose it might be described as such."       "So you need a licence."       "Actually, no."       "What do you mean, no? You just agreed with me it's a motorcycle."       "In the eyes of the law, it's a beast of another colour, so to speak."       "A what ?"       "In point of fact this is an EAPC."      Lew was supposed to be the voice of authority here. He wasn't about to show frailty by asking what an EAPC was. "That may be so but it's motor-powered. You were riding without moving your legs."      The man gave the sort of smile that gets the seat by the window. "Only because the poor old pins aren't up to pedalling so far these days."      Lew didn't have any sympathy for the elderly. They did far too well out of the state with their inflation-proof pensions and all the extras. "So it's a motorbike. You're not wearing a helmet either."       "That is true, officer." Far from sounding apologetic, this lawbreaker was oozing confidence.      Lew remained civil, but firm. "Did you know it's also against the law to ride a motorcycle without a helmet?"      Now the silver eyebrows peaked in concern. "You're worried about my safety?"       "I'm not worried. I'm not worried in the least. I'm telling you it's illegal."       "Oh dear." But the concern wasn't for himself, it was for Lew. "I don't suppose you come across many drivers of motorised tricycles."       "That's beside the point, sir."       "Forgive me, officer. I'm trying to save you some embarrassment."       "Trying to save me ?" Lew said.       "You see I wouldn't be out on the public highway if I knew I was in breach of the law. However, if you'll bear with me a moment . . ." He dipped his right hand towards his jacket pocket.      Lew reacted fast. "Don't do that!"      The startled old man almost fell off the saddle.       "Put your hands where I can see them, on the handlebars. What's in the pocket?"       "Only a piece of paper. I always carry a copy of the official government advice, which I believe is still in force. I was about to invite you to look at it."       "I don't need to."       "That's a shame, because if you did you would see that provided I don't exceed fifteen miles an hour and my vehicle doesn't weigh more than sixty kilograms and the power is not more than two hundred and fifty watts, my choice of transport--contrary to appearance--is not classed as a motorcycle but an electrically assisted pedal cycle."      An EAPC.      All this had been spoken with such self-assurance that      Lew knew with a sinking heart it had to be right. The figures the old jerk had quoted were faintly familiar. Out on patrol you don't often come across motorised trikes. This road user was a pain in the arse, but he was in the clear. He didn't require a licence or a helmet. Lew should have stuck to his first impulse and told young Aaron to drive straight past. Now it was a matter of saving face. He pointed to the large bag strapped to the back of the saddle.       "What's in that?"       "Nothing of interest to the police, I promise you."       "Answer the question, please."       "A plastic box containing a banana and a slice of date and walnut cake. I come prepared, in case I get hungry."       "Is that all?"       "I haven't finished. A flask of tea. Also my binoculars, camera, tripod, an ordnance survey map." He smiled. "And Trixie."       "What's that?"       "You mean, 'Who's that?' Trixie is my late wife."      There was a pause for thought. "In this bag?"       "I always bring her ashes with me. We shared so much in life. She passed away six months ago. Examine her, by all means. And I forgot the puncture repair kit. It's surprising how much the bag holds."      Best insist on the old man handling his own possessions. The power to search at a road check has to involve suspicion of a serious arrestable offence. Lew asked him to unzip the saddlebag. This involved a contortion that was clearly uncomfortable, but Lew wasn't going to get caught out a second time.      The vacuum flask and the sandwich box containing a banana and a wedge of cake were visible on top. And so was the lid of a plastic urn. Lew didn't need to meet Trixie close up.       "What are the binoculars for?"       "Oh, you're thinking I might be a peeping Tom. Absolutely not. I'm well past that sort of nonsense."       "Most people are in bed at this time of night," Lew said.       "But it's not compulsory. We're living in a free country."       "Do you mind telling me where you're going?"      A reasonable question that got an unhelpful answer. "I won't know until I get there, will I?"      Lew was being led into a minefield of embarrassment. He knew it. The only mercy was that Aaron was out of earshot.      The old man added, "They don't stay in one spot. They're moving steadily closer to Bath, you see."      He didn't see. He didn't see at all. But he wasn't so stupid as to ask. He waited for something more, and he got it.       "They can cover as much as a mile in a single night, using hops."       "A mile a night?" Lew pictured a colony of travelling rabbits. What was that film he'd once seen about rabbits on the move? Watership Down . "And you hope to see them through your binoculars?"       "Unless I can get really close and observe them with the naked eye. It depends on the terrain."       "If they're always moving, how do you know where to look?"       "I would have thought that was obvious."       "Not to me, sir."       "You can hear them some way off."       "Hear them doing what?"       "Digging their holes."      This was the moment Lew decided to quit. "On this occasion I'm going to leave you to it. For your own safety, I advise you to get a cycle helmet. And keep off the A roads."       "I'm obliged to you, but I always do."       "Go carefully. Other traffic may not see you coming."      The old man looked skywards. "A full moon helps."      You bet it does, you old loony, Lew thought, as he returned to the patrol car. He opened the door, got in and watched in silence as the tricyclist moved off.      Watership Down was a real place somewhere in Hampshire, seventy miles down the M4. The rabbits couldn't have travelled that distance, even at a mile a night. Must have been a different colony. Oh Christ, Lew thought, he's got me thinking it's real.       "You didn't book him, then," Aaron said from the world of modern policing.       "No."       "Let him off with a caution?"       "No need. He's legal."       "How can that be?"       "It's an EAPC."       "Ah."      Like Lew, Aaron wasn't betraying his ignorance. He turned the car and headed back towards the lights of Bath. No more was said for some time.      Eventually Aaron asked, "Did the old bloke say what he was up to?"       "Stalking rabbits."       "To shoot?"       "To watch."       "Like a safari?"      Lew didn't smile. He was smarting from the experience. He realised he hadn't even asked the old boy his name. "It takes all sorts."      A shout from the control room saved them both from more of the same. Some people with a ladder had been seen acting suspiciously near a church north of the city in Julian Road. In the last six months the lead had been stripped from several roofs in Bath. The thieves could make as much as twenty grand from one night's work.      Two patrols were ordered to the scene.      The burst of activity using blues and twos brought muchneeded distraction. Aaron jammed his foot down and they arrived first, just as two chancers from Swindon were loading their loot into the back of a pick-up truck.      Gotcha.      The arrest filled an hour profitably and made a success of what had promised to be a long, barren night. The other patrol didn't show up, but Lew and Aaron didn't mind. By the time they had delivered their prisoners to the custody centre in Keynsham and gone through the formalities with the sergeant their shift was almost over.      It wasn't worth going out on the roads again. Their relief would be coming in at 7 a.m.      Cue for a coffee.      Every officer working a shift knows the final hour is the worst possible time to get involved in a fresh incident because it has to be followed through regardless of when you're supposed to go off duty. So Lew and Aaron weren't overjoyed when ordered at 6:19 to investigate a report of a naked man in Beckford Gardens.       "That's all I want, another nutcase," Lew said.      They returned to the car.       "What are we dealing with here--a drunk?" he asked the control room as the early morning traffic moved aside for their flashing lights. "Is he dancing in the street and singing 'I want to break free'?"      The operator giggled. "You tell me when you get there."      To Aaron, he said, "Bet you it's a domestic. His wife kicked him out of bed."        "He could be a sleepwalker."       "Don't talk to me about sleep. I could have been home and horizontal if it wasn't for this."      They crossed North Parade Bridge and turned left on Pulteney Road. Getting to Beckford Gardens wouldn't take long. Questioning a naked man, possibly drunk or asleep, might be a slower process.       "We'd better decide how to deal with him."       "Cover him up?" Aaron said.       "What with?"       "Dunno. We've got high-vis jackets in the back."       "That's what he wants, high visibility."      At the end of Darlington Street the road joins Sydney Place and curls around Sydney Gardens. The traffic was lighter here.       "It's a long one," Aaron said.       "How do you know? We haven't seen it yet."       "The road. Beckford Gardens, I'm talking about Beckford Gardens."      Lew yawned. "Okay. Get us there soon as you can." He closed his eyes.      The next thing he knew was Aaron yelling, "Jeeeez!" followed by the screech of brakes and a lurch as the car tipped sideways.      Lew was thrust forward like one of those dummies you see in films of accident testing. This wasn't in slow motion but to Lew it might have been, because in the milliseconds before his face impacted, his brain flashed images like a slideshow. The sudden braking swung the car out of control. They veered right, mounted the steep bank, bounced off and teetered on two wheels, hurtling left. The crunch was imminent. His head would be crushed unless the airbag inflated. When the car turned over--as it was sure to--he might be crushed anyway.      He expected to die. Excerpted from Another One Goes Tonight by Peter Lovesey 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.