By Mark Billingham

ISBN-10: 1847444237

ISBN-13: 9781847444233

A cluster of suicides one of the aged. Such issues should not unknown to the police and the deaths are quick disregarded by way of the police as regimen. just one guy is confident that anything extra sinister is taking place.

However, not anyone listens to Tom Thorne anymore. Having stepped out of line as soon as too usually, he's again in uniform and he hates it. Patronised and abused through his new colleagues, Thorne's suspicions concerning the suicides are brushed off through the homicide Squad he was a part of and he's compelled to enquire on my own.

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Extra info for The Dying Hours

Example text

This was the time of the year that Baxter and I had usually vacationed somewhere cool, and I would certainly enjoy playing bridge and learning from a master teacher, as Basil Dumont apparently was. ‘‘I’ll go,’’ Sophie said. I echoed her words. Paula’s triumphant smile made me a bit uneasy for some reason, and I suddenly flashed on that bit of conversation Sophie and I overheard when we first arrived. She must have been talking about her current husband, Avery Trowbridge. I relaxed. If Avery wasn’t going to be at the bridge retreat, there was no point in worrying over whether Paula would make good on her threat.

You still haven’t explained to me what the hell you’re doing here,’’ Paula said. She fairly spit out the words. ’’ ‘‘Tut-tut, Paula, love,’’ Avery said, his voice soothing, as if he were talking to a balky child. ‘‘I know the way your sneaky little mind works. You wouldn’t be here if Basil weren’t here. ’’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘Stop being a jackass, Avery,’’ Paula said. Avery sobered. He leaned down, then placed one hand on Paula’s shoulder. From the expression on Paula’s face, he must have been squeezing it rather hard.

Rather odd-looking,’’ Marylou said. ‘‘Let’s just hope it’s comfortable inside,’’ Sophie said. ‘‘Exactly,’’ I agreed, putting my foot to the accelerator again. I drove on to the front door of the hotel, and as I pulled to a stop, a man stepped forward with a large umbrella. He opened Marylou’s door and escorted her through the rain to the porch before coming back for Sophie. When he came for me, I asked him about parking the car. ‘‘I’ll take care of it for you, ma’am,’’ he said. ’’ He was about twenty-five, tall, and muscular.

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The Dying Hours by Mark Billingham


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