So why, one rainy evening, was she cruelly gunned down on her front steps in a professional hit? This is the question that will haunt Detective Inspector Aden Vanner. As he digs deeper into the case, he begins to find connections between her murder and the Harlesden gang, and between Alec, the IRA, and an old acquaintance with revenge on the mind. Get A Copy. Kindle Edition. More Details Aden Vanner Other Editions 4. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
To ask other readers questions about The Aden Vanner Novels , please sign up. Be the first to ask a question about The Aden Vanner Novels. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Jul 25, BookCrazy rated it it was ok Shelves: what-a-waste-of-time. I'm going to have to stop being sucked in by sales of bundled books from all of the various book purveyor emails.
When am I going to learn that these are not going to be the best writers? Why do I keep thinking it's a good way to check out an author I've never heard of? Slow, plodding, tiresome - where's my Thesaurus? I didn't care about the lead detective, Aden Vanner, which is a problem when he is the main character. He's just another in a long line of go his own way detectives, who had a tough I'm going to have to stop being sucked in by sales of bundled books from all of the various book purveyor emails.
He's just another in a long line of go his own way detectives, who had a tough life as a solider, and is now a cop getting into trouble with his superiors all the while solving the crime. And, of course, we have to have the story of the clever detective being suspected of a string of serial killings. And his boss hates him so much, he won't see that clearly the guy is being set up. How many times is this trope going to be used without any new twist or even decent writing? There were also editing problems that drove me nuts. Pronouns were misused; characters would just show up without an introduction as if the prior pages in which they first appeared had been cut; there were several places where a paragraph would not make sense in context with the prior ones, again as if prior material was cut and no effort was made to transition the material.
Ian Rankin and Michael Connelly write this genre so much better than anyone else. I'm sticking to their books from now on. Linda L. Brown rated it it was amazing Jan 21, Sue rated it really liked it Jun 29, Thomas Temple rated it really liked it Feb 07, Jill Farnham rated it it was ok Jul 09, George Benns added it Jun 01, Jeffrey Johnson is currently reading it Dec 28, Dellene Maraccini is currently reading it Jun 13, Blanche Barrow added it Aug 28, Dave marked it as to-read Nov 28, You know—Mullen. He won't hurry for a toerag like this one. He could hear the noise of somebody shouting as he descended the steps to the cells.
A ridiculous booming voice, echoing from behind the metal door as if it came from a cave. Nicholls was seated on the edge of the desk next to the custody sergeant. He got up as Vanner came in. He snapped open the visor. The lad squatted on the bench, hands in his lap and his chin on his chest. Then he looked up at Vanner and stuck two fingers in the air. Vanner closed the visor. At the end of the corridor Vanner turned left and then ascended a short flight of steps to another door. Beyond this was a second corridor that reached backwards into the building.
At the far end he passed into the properties section. A man leaned on the counter checking off items on a clipboard. The man looked up. Vanner smiled. Get me number AZ will you please? It only came in tonight. The man disappeared into the cupboardlike room behind him and Vanner tapped out a rhythm on the counter. In a few minutes the man had returned with a lengthy polythene case, fastened at the neck by a black plastic twist lock.
Inside was a heavy, wooden baseball bat. Nicholls stood against the wall in Interview Room 4. Daniels, the suspect, sat in the plastic chair with his arms thrown across the desk.
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His bleach-blond hair was shaven above his ears, with the tangled mass of the rest flopping heavily across his eyes. He wore baggy jeans over chunky, loose-fitting basketball boots. He looked up as Vanner came in. Nicholls stepped forward. He's speeding or something. Maybe we ought to get the doc to take a look at him. Vanner leaned both hands on the desk and stared long and coldly at Daniels. Later though.
Get us some tea will you. I'm sure Mr Daniels is thirsty. Nicholls left the room and all at once there was stillness. As the door closed so the air died and Vanner half-closed his eyes. Across the table from him Daniels had straightened up, as if the sudden silence disturbed him. Vanner stood back from the table. Carefully he unfastened the plastic tag and then slid the bat from the wrapper.
The boy watched him silently. He lifted the bat, both hands firm about the handle. The way it sort of jars up your arm when you hit someone.
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Makes your heart pump doesn't it. The boy stared at him, his eyes wide. Vanner threw the bat, broadside, straight at his chest. He caught it. He had no choice. It would have hit him otherwise. The boy still stared at him. Vanner stepped round the table. I'm going to beat you shitless. The telephone rang softly, somewhere at the edge of her dream. Jean Morrison shook off the duvet cover and lifted the receiver.
She did not put it to her ear; merely passed it, slack-handed, over her shoulder to her husband. We've got a DCI gone apeshit. He just beat seven bells out of a murder suspect. Morrison felt the breath stick in his throat.
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In the bathroom he stripped off his pyjama jacket and inspected his jaw in the mirror. He almost mouthed the word. He splashed warm water over his face and was smiling as he lifted the razor. Vanner perched on the edge of the chair opposite McCague. Sleep tormented him, danced tantalisingly before the fatigue that lay like oil in his eyes. Through the uncurtained window the last of the night held the city. McCague stared at Vanner. Your shift ended hours ago.
What the hell were you doing? Vanner ignored him, the words floating in and out of his mind as if they did not belong between them. McCague was staring at him. He faced the window with his back squared and his hands in his trouser pockets. But you. Jesus Christ, Vanner.
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He turned again. What the hell were you playing at? Why'd you give him the bat?
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You'll have screwed that up as well. How can we submit his fingerprints after you handed it back to him? McCague stuck out his chin. They'll make you walk the plank. Wake yourself up. CIB are on their way and you won't get a rest till they're finished. Morrison waited just inside his front door until he heard the car pull in from the main road. He stepped out into the drive, blowing great clouds of breath into the rain-soaked atmosphere. The rain itself had stopped now but the smell of its passing was everywhere. Scammell hauled on the steering wheel and guided the car across the road.
Morrison nodded and rested back in his seat.
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He thought about Vanner as they drove, thought back nearly four years to Dalkeith. Silent, arrogant Vanner, with a past that dragged behind him like mist. Vanner had been a Detective Inspector in those days and had just transferred in from Hammersmith. Vanner had just arrived; out of the blue almost, and that was what rankled most with Morrison. He had been on two weeks leave, no mention of a new man before he went. Morrison pulled his file and later the same day he met with his Chief Super for a drink.
Morrison was immaculate as ever and he bought the drinks. His Chief was a balding, fifty-five-year-old called Raymond. He was serving out time now and would jump at early retirement. He wiped frothy beer from his lip. I had no idea there was a new man being attached to your lot. I just got a call from the Chief Constable. He told me there was a new DI on his way to me from London. On secondment, to be attached to your unit. Morrison watched him, one finger tapping against the line of his lips.
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