Penzler Pick, October 2001: The mystery novels of Peter Robinson (Aftermath is his 12th) are of increasing power and intensified intelligence. It's a dirty little secret of the crime-fiction genre that many of its writers simply spin their wheels, repeating over and over those old tricks which always have worked for them. They coast on past successes and repeat the formula hoping, if not assuming, that their fans won't notice. Writers like Robinson, however, actually seem to grow in front of our eyes, delivering books of greater complexity each time. His previous two books, Cold Is the Grave and In a Dry Season, were novels of character and novels of crime, equally, and now Aftermath is here to reward his fans and new readers alike.
Like recent books by fellow English writers Reginald Hill, Val McDermid, and Stephen Booth, Aftermath centers upon a grim case in which attractive young girls have disappeared, victims of a cunning psychotic killer whose identity is well concealed behind a façade of respectability. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks of the Yorkshire Police is in charge of the case, but he's also got unavoidable personal distractions. His separated wife, Sandra, is pregnant by her lover, Sean, and wanting the divorce he's been dragging his heels over.
There is nothing cozy about the kind of English mysteries written by Peter Robinson, even if they do take place where picturesque rural villages make up the landscape. He's not afraid of gore or deviance, of violence, or of any of the baser emotions, and it's a raw old world behind the hedgerows and cottage walls. If Aftermath is your first taste of his tough-tender sensibility, it won't be surprising if you soon are hooked on the work of one of today's most accomplished practitioners of detective fiction. --Otto Penzler
From Library Journal
Robinson, author of In a Dry Season and ten other novels featuring British Inspector Alan Banks, returns again to contemporary crime in his latest Yorkshire mystery, which traces the evildoing of a serial rapist and murderer who preys on young women. No Robinson tale is ever clear-cut, however, and this one is complicated by issues of child abuse (the murderer's wife was the subject of brutal sexual victimization and abuse as a child), spousal abuse (the murderer is alleged to have terrorized his wife), and police brutality (the arresting officer hit the murderer so many times after he killed her partner that she is brought up on charges herself). For Robinson, hidden in the past is the answer to his suspicion that the murderer's wife was not only a participant in the assaults on these young women but an instigator. Meanwhile, Banks's personal life continues on its convoluted way: his ex-wife of 20-odd years is pregnant by her husband-to-be and waiting for Banks to sign the divorce papers, and his relationship with Detective Annie Cabot is complicated by the job. Some readers may wish that the inspector's personal life were less muted here; others may long for the simpler days of less violent, non-serial murder mysteries. Nonetheless, this multilayered novel puts Banks firmly in the upper echelon of British mystery writers. [Mystery Guild featured alternate.] Francine Fialkoff, "Library Journal.
- Francine Fialkoff, "Library Journal"
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks of Yorkshire returns in a complex mystery that stretches his powers to the utmost--first, for the scope of the evil that a discovery in one cellar reveals, and, second, for the complexity of the case he oversees. A domestic disturbance call brings police to a middle-class home. The husband, who apparently has beaten the wife, kills one of the responding officers when he ventures into the cellar. More police arrive and discover two bodies in the cellar: the young cop and a 14-year-old girl, who has been systematically tortured and newly murdered. The crawl space beyond is a burial ground of young girls gone missing in the past year. The case keeps opening onto new perspectives of horror--this serial killer has an ally. This latest in Robinson's celebrated series is a very creepy, atmospheric Jekyll and Hyde suspense tale. Connie Fletcher
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
“This multi-layered novel puts Robinson firmly in the upper-echelon of British mystery writers.”
From the Inside Flap
In the early hours of a sweet May morning, two Yorkshire police officers investigating a ?domestic? stumble upon the very worst of crimes ? the sexual torture and murder of a young teenage girl. Moments later, one of the officers is felled by a machete blow, and his rookie, female partner takes out her disgust and fury on the murderer, battering him to death. This is the intensely dramatic, wrenching beginning to the twelfth in Peter Robinson?s award-winning and internationally bestselling Inspector Banks series.
The task of investigating Probationary PC Janet Taylor?s actions falls to DI Annie Cabbot, Banks?s lover. This complication to his love life unsettles Banks, but he keeps his mind on his job, one that becomes immeasurably more difficult when the bodies of other teenage girls are found buried in the torturer?s garden. Who are these girls? Why weren?t they all reported missing? These are difficult questions, yet the central question Banks has to answer is how much did the murderer?s wife know? Was she, too, the victim of a sick and twisted man, as she claims, or was she an accomplice?
This compelling story is at its heart a deeply sensitive, astute, and ultimately unforgettable exploration of the nature and long-lasting effects of crime and of victimhood. Its intelligence, honesty, and moments of grace lift Aftermath out of the confines of genre fiction and place it in the first rank of novels on crime.
From the Back Cover
One phone call from a concerned neighbor has inadvertently led police to Terence Payne, the elusive serial killer known only as "Chameleon." Now Payne is in custody, perhaps dying, and a long nightmare appears to be over at last. But is it?
For Alan Banks—currently head of the local police force—too many questions remain unanswered at the chamber of horrors the press will dub the "House of Payne." Because the darkness has not yet lifted, the casualties are still mounting . . . and there are still monsters loose in the world.
Showcasing the dark forces of human nature, master of suspense Peter Robinson is at the height of his storytelling powers in a novel that will leave readers guessing until the final page.
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.
Maggie Forrest wasn’t sleeping well, so it didn’t surprise her when the voices woke her shortly before four o’clock one morning in early May, even though she had made sure before she went to bed that all the windows in the house were shut fast.
If it hadn’t been the voices, it would have been something else: a car door slamming as someone set off for an early shift; the first train rattling across the bridge; the neighbour’s dog; old wood creaking somewhere in the house; the fridge clicking on and off; a pan or a glass shifting on the draining board. Or perhaps one of the noises of the night, the kind that made her wake in a cold sweat with a thudding heart and gasp for breath as if she were drowning, not sleeping: the man she called Mr. Bones clicking up and down The Hill with his cane; the scratching at the front door; the tortured child screaming in the distance.
Or a nightmare.
She was just too jumpy these days, she told herself, trying to laugh it off. But there they were again. Definitely voices. One loud and masculine.
Maggie got out of bed and padded over to the window. The street called The Hill ran up the northern slope of the broad valley, and where Maggie lived, about halfway up, just above the railway bridge, the houses on the eastern side of the street stood atop a twenty-foot rise that sloped down to the pavement in a profusion of shrubs and small trees. Sometimes the undergrowth and foliage seemed so thick she could hardly find her way along the path to the pavement.
Maggie’s bedroom window looked over the houses on the western side of The Hill and beyond, a patchwork landscape of housing estates, arterial roads, warehouses, factory chimneys and fields stretching through Bradford and Halifax all the way to the Pennines. Some days, Maggie would sit for hours and look at the view, thinking about the odd chain of events that had brought her here. Now, though, in the predawn light, the distant necklaces and clusters of amber streetlights took on a ghostly aspect, as if the city weren’t quite real yet.
Maggie stood at her window and looked across the street. She could swear there was a hall light on directly opposite, in Lucy’s house, and when she heard the voice again, she suddenly felt all her premonitions had been true.
It was Terry’s voice, and he was shouting at Lucy. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then she heard a scream, the sound of glass breaking and a thud.
Lucy.
Maggie dragged herself out of her paralysis, and with trembling hands she picked up the bedside telephone and dialed 999.
