By Ian Rankin

John Rebus returns to enquire the disappearances of 3 ladies from an identical highway over ten years. For the decade, Nina Hazlitt has been able to listen the worst approximately her daughter's disappearance. yet without sightings, no physique, and no suspect, the police research floor to a halt some time past, and Nina's pleas to the chilly case division have led her nowhere.

Until she meets the most recent member of the staff: former Detective John Rebus.

Rebus hasn't ever shied clear of misplaced motives - one of many some ways he controlled to antagonize his bosses while he used to be at the strength. Now he's again as a retired civilian, reviewing deserted records. worthwhile paintings, yet it's no longer precisely scratching the itch he feels to be within the center of the action.

Two extra ladies have long gone lacking from an identical highway the place Sally Hazlitt used to be final visible. in contrast to his skeptical colleagues, Rebus can feel a connection - yet pursuing it leads him into the crosshairs of adversaries either outdated and new.

Rebus can have ignored the joys of the quest, yet he's up opposed to a strong enemy who's received even much less to lose.

On the 20th anniversary of Ian Rankin's first American book comes a singular bursting with the energy and suspense that made its writer certainly one of crime fiction's so much astonishing stars. Standing in one other Man's Grave is the successful go back of John Rebus, and a riveting tale of sin, redemption, and revenge.

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Extra info for Standing in Another Man's Grave (Inspector Rebus, Book 18)

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.

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