Robinson is one of those multiawarded authors (the Edgar, the Anthony, the Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere), who is absolutely reliable. This novel marks the fifteenth in the Inspector Alan Banks series, set in Yorkshire. Depressed over the loss of his cottage in a fire, Banks is galvanized into action by a pleading message from his estranged brother in London. When Banks travels to his wealthy brother's home, he finds it totally empty yet filled with disturbing clues as to the source of his brother's money. Banks' estranged lover and sidekick, Detective Annie Cabbot, is left to cope by herself with the investigation of the murder of a young woman on the motorway. When Cabbot finds a letter addressed to Banks on the victim, the reader knows that Robinson will tie the two investigations together in fiendishly clever ways. Another Robinson winner. Connie Fletcher
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

“First-rate … an addictive crime series … bet you can’t read just one.” — Janet Maslin, New York Times

“Smart and shapely ... immaculately constructed.” — Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

“A damn fine crime novel...like a master class in crime fiction.” — Baltimore Sun

“If you haven’t read Robinson .... what on Earth is stopping you? .... A clever and entertaining thriller.” — Miami Herald

“Fascinating....Robinson, with his usual deft touch and unblinking eye, brings the story to an unexpectedly gut-wrenching conclusion.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch

“A fast-moving story [with] some knockout scenery and an assemblage of delicately drawn characters.” — Raleigh News & Observer

“Flawless plotting and superbly drawn characters….[Robinson] is a master craftsman.” — Tampa Tribune

“Robinson shows he’s a master ... mixes a gritty plot with intense character studies....Consistently compelling.” — Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Remarkable.” — Globe and Mail (Toronto)

“The best Banks book in years.” — Winnipeg Sun

“Superlative...Deeply absorbing...Gripping.” — Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

“Robinson has won just about every mystery award there is….His latest shows why.” — Booklist (starred review)

“An engaging pleasure . . . like red wine, [Banks] gets better and more interesting with age.” — Publishers Weekly

“Robinson is on a winning streak.” — Tampa Tribune

“Deeply nuanced works of art.” — Dennis Lehane

“The Alan Banks mystery-suspense novels are, simply put, the best series now on the market.” — Stephen King

“Stunningly complex and intricately plotted....Peter Robinson fools and entertains me with every twist.” — Nevada Barr

“Complex and intelligent.” — Sunday Times (London)

“Exquisitely complex and atmospheric.” — Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Taut, carefully thought out…with plots that are refreshingly cliché-free.” — Time Out London

“Cunning…authentic and atmospheric.” — The Independent (London)

“Different and intriguing.” — Sunday Telegraph

Peter Robinson is: “A gifted creator of fully fleshed and vividly present characters.” — Boston Globe

“A happy discovery.” — Lady Antonia Fraser in the London Sunday Times

“A skillful writer…” — Houston Chronicle

“Absorbing…Robinson continues to stretch the boundaries of the standard procedural.” — Orlando Sentinel

“Robinson actually seems to grow in front of our eyes, delivering books of greater complexity each time.” — Otto Penzler

“Splendid.” — San Diego Union-Tribune

“The equal of legends in the genre such as P.D. James and Ruth Rendell.” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“Psychologically acute fiction.” — The Strand

On a warm summer night, an attractive woman hurtles north in a blue Peugeot with a hastily scrawled address in her pocket, while, back in London, a desperate man leaves an urgent late-night phone message on his brother's answering machine. By sunrise the next morning, the woman is found inside her car along an otherwise peaceful country lane, shot, execution-style, through the head.

Welcome to the idyllic Yorkshire Dales, where Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot arrives on the scene and discovers, to her surprise, a slip of paper in the dead woman's pocket that bears the name of her colleague and erstwhile lover, Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks. Banks, meanwhile -- already haunted and withdrawn after nearly dying in the fire that destroyed his home -- has gone missing just when he's needed most, and has left plenty of questions behind.

As Annie struggles to determine whether or not Banks is safe -- and what role he may have played in the woman's murder -- Banks himself investigates the mysterious disappearance of his estranged brother, Roy, whose late-night call for help brings Banks back to London. Working from Roy's swank apartment, Banks makes the rounds to Roy's old haunts and slowly inhabits the life of his younger brother -- the black sheep of the family, who always seemed to sail a little too close to the wind. As the trail of clues about Roy's life and associations draws Banks into a dark circle of conspiracy and corruption, mobsters and murder, Banks suddenly realizes he's running out of time to save Roy, and by digging too deep, he may be exposing himself and his family to the same -- possibly deadly -- danger.

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.

Strange Affair

A Novel of SuspenseBy Robinson, Peter

William Morrow & Company

ISBN: 0060544333

Chapter One

Was she being followed? It was hard to tell at that time of night on the motorway. There was plenty of traffic, lorries for the most part, and people driving home from the pub just a little too carefully, red BMWs coasting up the fast lane, doing a hundred or more, businessmen in a hurry to get home from late meetings. She was beyond Newport Pagnell now, and the muggy night air blurred the red tail lights of the cars ahead and the oncoming headlights across the road. She began to feel nervous as she checked her rear-view mirror and saw that the car was still behind her.

She pulled over to the outside lane and slowed down. The car, a dark Mondeo, overtook her. It was too dark to glimpse faces, but she thought there was just one person in the front and another in the back. It didn't have a taxi light on top, so she guessed it was probably a private hire car and stopped worrying. Some rich git being ferried to a nightclub in Leeds, most likely.

She overtook the Mondeo a little further up the motorway and didn't give it a second glance. The late night radio was playing Old Blue Eyes singing "Summer Wind". Her kind of music, no matter how old fashioned people told her it was. Talent and good music never went out of style as far as she was concerned.

When she got to Watford Gap services, she realized she felt tired and hungry, and she still had a long way to go, so she decided to stop for a short break. She didn't even notice the Mondeo pull in two cars behind her.

A few seedy looking people hung around the entrance; a couple of kids who didn't look old enough to drive stood smoking and playing the machines, giving her the eye as she walked past, staring at her breasts.

She went first to the ladies, then to the cafe, where she bought a ham and tomato sandwich and sat alone to eat, washing it down with a Diet Coke. At the table opposite, a man with a long face and dandruff on the collar of his dark suit jacket gave her the eye over the top of his glasses, pretending to read his newspaper and eat a sausage roll.

Was he just a common-or-garden variety perv, or was there something more sinister in his interest? she wondered. In the end, she decided he was just a perv. Sometimes it seemed as if the world was full of them, that she could hardly walk down the street or go for a drink on her own without some sad pillock who thought he was God's gift eyeing her up, like the kids hanging around the entrance, or coming over and laying a line of chat on her. Still, she told herself, what else could you expect at this time of the night in a motorway service station? A couple of other men came in and went to the counter for coffee-to-go, but they didn't give her a second glance.

She finished half the sandwich, dumped the rest and got her travel mug filled with coffee. When she walked back to her car she made sure that there were people around -- a family with two young kids up way up past their bedtime, noisy and hyperactive -- and that no-one was following her.

The tank was only a quarter full, so she filled it up at the petrol station, using her credit card right there, at the pump. The perv from the cafe pulled up at the pump opposite and stared at her as he put the nozzle in the tank. She ignored him. She could see the night manager in his office, watching through the window, and that made her feel more secure.

Tank full, she turned down the slip road and eased in between two articulated lorries. It was hot in the car, so she opened both windows and enjoyed the play of breeze they created. It helped keep her awake, along with the hot black coffee. The clock on the dashboard read 12:35 am. Only about two or three hours to go, then she would safe ...

Continues...
Excerpted from Strange Affairby Robinson, Peter Excerpted by permission.
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