By Reginald Hill
The hugely expected go back of Dalziel and Pascoe, the highly renowned police duo and stars of the long-running BBC television sequence, in a brand new mental thriller.
Some say that Andy Dalziel wasn't prepared for God, others that God wasn't prepared for Dalziel. both method, regardless of his contemporary proximity to a terrorist blast, the Superintendent continues to be firmly of this global. And, whereas demise could be the medication for all ailments, Dalziel is excited to accept a number of weeks' care lower than a young nurse. recuperating in Sandytown, a quiet beach hotel dedicated to therapeutic, Dalziel befriends Charlotte Heywood, a fellow newcomer and psychologist, who's learning some great benefits of replacement remedy. With a lot in universal, the 2 quickly locate themselves in league whilst difficulty involves city. Sandytown's central landowners have grandiose plans for the inn – none of which they could agree on. considered one of them has to move, and whilst certainly one of them does, in spectacularly ugly type, DCI Peter Pascoe is named in to enquire – with Dalziel and Charlotte supplying unwelcome aid. yet Pascoe reveals darkish forces at paintings in a spot the place medication and holistic treatments aren't any fit for the oldest medication of all...
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Extra info for A Cure for All Diseases (Dalziel and Pascoe, Book 23)
Sample text
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.