Detective Inspector Alan Banks has never forgotten the disappearance and presumed death of his best friend in the summer of 1965. When the tragic bones are shockingly unearthed and identified more than 35 years later, the imagined skeleton in the detective's closet becomes all too real and he is drawn into an investigation that hits dangerously close to home.
Detective Inspector Alan Banks has never forgiven himself for having possibly caused the disappearance and presumed death of his best friend back in the summer of 1965, a pivotal time when both boys stood on the precipice of manhood.
When the tragic bones are shockingly unearthed and identified near Banks's childhood home more than 35 years later, the imagined skeleton in the detective's closet becomes all too real. Plummeted back into a past he thought he'd left behind, Banks is drawn into an investigation that hits dangerously close to home.
Trevor Dickinson was hungover and bad-tempered when he turned up for work on Monday morning. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage, his head was throbbing like the speakers at a heavy metal concert, and his stomach was lurching like a car with a dirty carburetor. He had already drunk half a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and swallowed four extra-strength paracetamol, with no noticeable effect.
When he arrived at the site, Trevor found he had to wait until the police had cleared away the last of the demonstrators before he could start work. There were five left, all sitting cross-legged in the field. Environmentalists. One was a little gray-haired old lady. Ought to be ashamed of herself, Trevor thought, a woman of her age squatting down on the grass with a bunch of bloody Marxist homosexual tree-huggers.
He looked around for some clue as to why anyone would want to save those particular few acres. The fields belonged to a farmer who had recently been put ...
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