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Bad to the Bone

By kileyturner
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We've been quite excited over here about Missy Marston's new book, Bad Ideas, and sometimes when we get in such moods, it prompts a bizarre but usually fruitful search through our database for books that fit the theme. It turns out that these excellent Canadian books are all united by one thing: the word "bad" in their title.
Bad Endings

Bad Endings

edition:eBook
also available: Paperback

Finalist for the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize. Winner of the City of Vancouver Book Award. Top 100 of 2017, Globe and Mail.

“… Baker pushes readers to reconsider their desire for resolution. Eschewing the easy, the neat, the smoothed over, allows us to consider the things about ourselves we might not like. There’s a political dimension to this. One thread running through this book is the threat of environmental collapse – drought, massive bee death, dwindling salmon stock – and h …

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Bad Animals

Bad Animals

A Father's Accidental Education In Autism
edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover

Strange is not a word he should use (it’s not quite politically correct), but sometimes Joel Yanofsky can think of no other way to describe life with his son, Jonah—life with autism. Jonah is “on the spectrum” of Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD), but knowing the correct terminology makes it no easier for Yanofsky to understand his ten-year-old son’s complicated relationship with the world.

 

While his wife, Cynthia, an art therapist, assumed the burden of researching ASD and investiga …

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Bad Boy

Bad Boy

edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover

Banks is on holiday, headed for Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. His daughter, Tracy, home in Leeds and angry with her father, is headed for some very deep trouble. Robinson's nineteenth Inspector Banks novel is a stunner.

Handguns are illegal in the U.K., and whenever one is reported, the police swing into high gear. But things go very wrong when the police swoop down on a home in Eastvale to seize a reported handgun. In the confusion, Patrick Doyle, a former neighbour of Banks, is shot. Doyl …

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Excerpt

1

By the end of August, the waterlogged Yorkshire countryside was a symphony of green and gold under a blue sky scribbled with white clouds. Heaven only knew how the farmers had managed to mow and bale the hay, as the rain seemed to have fallen for days without end, but somehow they had succeeded, and their neat straw cylinders dotted the fields. Bright tractors ploughed in the stubble and turned the earth a dark, fecund brown. Smells of the recent harvest and of the coming autumn chill mingled in the mild air. On the moors, the purple heather was in bloom. By the roadside, swallows gathered on the telephone wires preparing for their long flight to South Africa.
 
Annie Cabbot wished she could go with them as she drove the last few miles to work that Monday morning. A few days on a game reserve would do her the world of good, photographing and sketching giraffes, zebras, leopards, lions and elephants. Then perhaps a tour of the Winelands, a taste of fine Cape Town cuisine and nightlife.
 
But it was not to be. She had exhausted her entire holiday allowance for the year, apart from a few days that she planned to use to create occasional long weekends between now and Christmas. Besides, she couldn’t afford to go to South Africa; she would be hard pushed to pay for a mini-break in Blackpool. Lucky swallows.
 
The traffic came to a halt about half a mile from the big roundabout on the southern edge of Eastvale, and when Annie finally got close enough to see the fender-bender that was causing the delay, she was already late for work. A patrol car had arrived at the accident scene, so she felt she could safely leave the uniformed officers to deal with the obvious case of road rage between the two drivers, who were standing by their cars shouting at each other, fists raised. Traffic wasn’t her department.
 
Annie made her way through the increasingly built-up and busy streets around the college, where a few late summer students strolled across the green to morning lectures, rucksacks slung over their shoulders. From there, she cut down a long narrow street of three-storey redbrick Victorian houses, mostly converted into student flats, over to Market Street. When she reached the market square, she took the narrow lane between the buildings and parked at the back of the Tudor-fronted police station. She said hello to a couple of officers she recognized standing outside sneaking a quick smoke break, then swiped her card in the slot on the back door and entered Western Area Headquarters.
 
A couple of people greeted her when she walked into the Major Crimes squad room. Geraldine Masterson, their new probationary detective constable, told her that Winsome Jackman and Doug Wilson – known to most of his colleagues as “Harry Potter” due to his uncanny resemblance to Daniel Radcliffe – were already out interviewing witnesses to last night’s hit and run on the Lyndgarth Road. The incident had left two teenagers in hospital and one no doubt very shaken driver holed up at home, just waiting for the knock on the door, wishing he hadn’t had that one last drink for the road.
 
Annie had hardly made a dent in the accumulated paperwork when her phone rang. She put down her pen and picked up the handset. “DI Cabbot.”
 
It was the desk sergeant. “Someone to see DCI Banks,” he said. “A Mrs. Doyle.” There was a moment’s pause while the sergeant appeared to be conferring with the visitor, their voices muffled. “Mrs. Juliet Doyle,” he went on. “She says she knows the DCI. Says it’s urgent.”
 
Annie sighed. “All right. Send her up. Might as well have someone show her to DCI Banks’s office. It’s a bit more private there.”
 
“Will do, ma’am.”
 
Annie closed the thick folder of crime statistics on her desk and walked down the corridor to Banks’s office. The few occasions she had been in there recently had unnerved her even more than her brief visits to his cottage to water the plants, take in any parcels and flyers and make sure all was well. Banks’s absence seemed even more palpable in the cool silence and the slight musty smell of his office. His desk was empty except for the computer, which hadn’t been switched on in ages. A CD player/radio combination stood silently on one of his bookshelves next to a couple of tattered Kingsley Amis paperbacks he’d picked up from the second-hand bookshop in the market square a few days before he left. Annie moved the computer monitor aside so that she would have an unobstructed view of the person sitting opposite her. A young PC knocked at the door and showed the woman in.
 
“I thought this was Alan’s office,” Juliet Doyle said. “It has his name on the door. Who are you? I don’t mean to seem rude, but I specifically asked to see Alan.”
 
She seemed nervous, Annie thought, her movements jerky and birdlike as she took in the sparse room. “DCI Banks is on holiday,” Annie explained, standing up and extending her hand. “I’m DI Annie Cabbot. Can I help you?”
 
“I . . . I don’t know. I was expecting Alan. This is all so . . .” Juliet fingered the chain around her neck. A heavy gold and jade pendant hung from it in the lightly freckled cleft between her breasts. She was probably in her mid-forties, Annie guessed, smartly dressed, her clothes definitely not from any of the shops you would find in the Swainsdale Centre, more likely Harrogate or York, wavy blond hair with dark brown roots, tasteful makeup, still attractive, and not concerned about showing a little cleavage. Her skirt was a modest knee-length, legs nicely tapered beneath it, and she wore a tan suede jacket in an elegant hourglass cut. Annie wondered if she fancied Banks, if there had been something between them.
 
“Please sit down,” Annie said. After a slight hesitation, Juliet perched at the edge of the chair opposite her. “Is it anything I can help you with, or was it something personal?”
 
“That’s why I was hoping to see Alan,” Juliet went on. “You see, it’s both, really. Oh, this is so difficult. When will he be back?”
 
“Not until next week, I’m afraid.”
 
Juliet Doyle seemed to consider this for a few moments, still fidgeting with her chain, as if debating whether the matter could wait that long.
 
 “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” Annie asked.
 
“No, thank you.”
 
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what it’s about,” Annie went on. “You say it’s both police business and personal, is that right?”
 
Juliet nodded. “That’s why it’s so hard. I mean, Alan would understand.” She had shifted her attentions from the necklace to the chunky diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand, twisting it around and around. Her fingernails were bitten low and painted pink.
 
“Why don’t you try me?” Annie said. “Just tell me what the problem is.”
 
“Alan would know what to do.
 
Annie leaned back in the chair and linked her hands behind her head. She felt as if she was in for a long haul. “Perhaps you could start by telling me exactly what your relationship is with DCI Banks?”
 
Juliet appeared startled. “Relationship? We don’t have a relationship.”
 
“I simply meant how you came to know one another.”
 
“Oh, that. I see. Yes. I’m sorry. We’re neighbours. Were.”
 
Annie happened to know that Banks had no neighbours anywhere close to his Gratly cottage, so she assumed that Juliet Doyle was referring to the past, perhaps when he had lived on Laburnum Way, about a mile down Market Street from the police station. But Banks hadn’t lived there for ten years. Had they kept in touch all that time? Was there something she was missing? “When was this?” she asked.
 
“When he and Sandra were still together. I still think it’s so tragic that they parted like that, don’t you? Such a lovely couple.”
 
“Yes,” said Annie, whose only experiences of Sandra had been humiliating and more than a little frightening.
 
“Anyway,” Juliet went on. “We were friends and neighbours. That’s why I thought he might be able to help me.”
 
“Mrs. Doyle,” said Annie, “if this is a police matter, you really should tell me. Are you in some sort of trouble?”
 
Juliet flinched as if she’d been tapped on the shoulder by surprise. “Trouble? Me? No. Of course not.”
 
“Then what is it?”
 
Juliet scanned the office as if she suspected Banks was hiding behind a filing cabinet or in a cupboard. “Are you sure Alan’s not here?”
 
“Positive. I told you. He’s on his holidays.”
 
Juliet twisted her diamond ring again and let the silence stretch. Just when Annie was about to get up and show her the door, she blurted out, “It’s about Erin.”
 
“Erin?”
 
“Yes. Our daughter. Me and my husband, that is. Patrick. He sent me. He’s stopping home with Erin.”
 
“Is Erin in trouble?”
 
“I suppose she is. Yes. You don’t know what they get up to, do you? Do you have any children?”
 
“No.”
 
“Well, you wouldn’t know, then. It’s too easy to blame the parents, the way they do in the papers and on television. But when you just don’t know . . .” She let the sentence trail.
 
“I’m going to ring for some tea,” said Annie. The good old English panacea, she thought as she picked up the phone and asked for a pot to be sent up, a nice cup of tea. This was clearly going to take some time, and if Juliet Doyle didn’t need a cuppa, Annie certainly did. Maybe they’d bring chocolate digestives too, if she was lucky.
 
“Erin lives in Leeds,” Juliet said. “In Headingley. Hardly a den of iniquity, you might say, but you’d be surprised.”
 
“Like most big cities, it can be a dangerous place if you’re not careful,” said Annie. “But I must tell you, we’re North Yorkshire. If the problem is in Leeds, then you need to –”
 
“No, no. That’s not it. You don’t understand.”
 
Of course I don’t understand, Annie thought, gritting her teeth. I’d have to be a bloody mind reader to understand. “Tell me, then,” she said.
 
The tea arrived. A welcome interruption. No chocolate digestives, though. Normally, Annie would have asked or made some sort of comment to the young PC who brought in the tray, but it wouldn’t do to take up a petty issue like the lack of chocolate biscuits with Juliet Doyle sitting opposite her.
 
“Erin’s a good girl. I think she must have fallen in with a bad crowd,” said Juliet, accepting the cup Annie handed her, adding milk and sugar with slightly shaking hands.
 
“How old is she?”
 
“Twenty-four.”
 
“Working?”
 
“Yes. As a waitress. It’s a nice restaurant. Very upmarket. Down in The Calls, with all those fancy new boutique hotels and waterfront flats. And she makes decent enough money. But even so . . .” She shrugged.
 
“It’s not what you expected for her?”
 
“Not with a good upper second in psychology.”
 
“Times are hard. Perhaps she’s just waiting for the right job to come along.”
 
“I’d like to think so, but . . .”
 
“What?”
 
“Well, I think she’s more likely been wasting her time. It’s been two years now since she got her degree. She took a gap year before she went.”
 
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
 
“As far as I know, she still does,” said Juliet. “Not that we’ve met him, or even that she’s told us much about him. Mostly we keep in touch through phone calls, texts. You know what the young are like. The last thing they think of sometimes is visiting their parents unless they need something, or it’s a special occasion.”
 
“Young people can be very secretive,” Annie agreed.
 
“She’s a grown woman. I was married when I was her age.”
 
“But times change,” said Annie. “Kids aren’t so quick to leave the nest these days.”
 
“Erin’s not a parasite, if that’s what you mean. She was happy enough to get away from home in the first place. Couldn’t get out fast enough. That wasn’t the problem.”
 
“Then what is?” Annie said, close to the end of her patience. She was beginning to think that this was some sort of domestic matter, and she was starting to feel resentful that she was left not only to do Banks’s job while he was away but to handle his personal problems too. “Why are you here? What did you think Alan could do for you?”
 
Juliet’s back stiffened. “He’d know what to do, wouldn’t he?”
 
“About what?” Annie knew she was almost shouting, but she couldn’t help herself.
 
“About the gun,” said Juliet Doyle, head bowed, speaking so softly that Annie could barely hear her. “She has a gun.”
 
 
“Tell me how it happened.”
 
Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise was sitting on the edge of her desk with her arms folded, and the way she towered over Annie and Juliet Doyle made Annie feel as if they were two truant schoolgirls brought up before the headmistress. Gervaise could have that effect when she wanted. Annie had her notebook open and her pen in her hand, waiting. No matter what action the situation warranted, there was likely to be a lot of red tape ahead, and she had to get it down right.
 
“I was dusting and cleaning her room,” Juliet began. “Honestly, I wasn’t prying. Erin was downstairs watching breakfast television. I like to keep a neat and clean house, and it was my morning to do the upstairs, so I didn’t see any harm in it.”
 
“So Erin still lives at home?” Gervaise asked.
 
“No. As I told Ms. Cabbot here, she lives in Leeds.”
 
“Would you give us the address, please?”
 
“Of course.” Juliet gave an address in Headingley and Annie wrote it down. She knew the area and recognized the street name.
 
“What is she doing in Eastvale?”
 
“She . . . she didn’t really say.”
 
“What did she say?”
 
“Just that she needed to come home for a while. I thought she might have split up with her boyfriend or something.”
 
“Did you ask her if she had?”
 
“Yes, but she just told me to mind my own business. She isn’t usually so rude. We brought her up to be polite and respectful to her elders. But she’s upset. I thought if I left her alone, she would tell me what was bothering her eventually. She usually does.”
 
“Are you very close?”
 
“I wouldn’t say very close, but I like to think that we are close, yes, that she feels she can talk to me, tell me anything. That’s why it was such a shock, finding the gun.”
 
“What do you know about her boyfriend?”
 
“Just what she told me on the phone, really.”
 
“What’s his name?”
 
“Geoff. I don’t know his last name. They only use first names, don’t they?”
 
“How long has she been going out with him?”
 
“About six months.”
 
“Do you think he’s been a bad influence on her?”
 
“Quite the opposite, really. From what she says, he’s a nice lad, and he’s done very well for himself, not like her usual scruffy student types. And I must say, I’ve noticed a great change for the better in her appearance on the few occasions I have seen her since they’ve been together.”
 
“Like what?”
 
“Her dress sense, for a start. Her whole style. Much smarter. For so long she dressed like a typical student, but she turned up for her dad’s birthday in a nice summer frock with a lovely heart pendant around her neck. She never used to wear jewellery unless it was the cheap kind, plastic coloured beads and the like. She’s had her hair done, too. You can tell she went to a good hairdresser. It’s a professional job.”
 
“When was this?”
 
“July the thirtieth.”
 
“Do you know what this Geoff does for a living?”
 
“He’s in sales and marketing. That’s all I know. And he’s got a company car. A BMW.”
 
“Sounds like a good catch,” said Gervaise. “What was Erin like when she came back home? What was her state of mind? You said she was upset.”
 
“Yes. She seemed distant, distracted. Quiet and withdrawn.”
 
“Is that like her?”
 
“No. She’s usually quite normal, when it comes to conversation and such. Always has been. Cheerful. Quick to smile. Gregarious, even. But this time she’s been acting like a hermit, staying in her room.”
 
“Did she ask you for any help at all?”
 
Juliet frowned. “What do you mean? What sort of help?”
 
“Financial, emotional, medical. Anything. Could she be in trouble?”
 
“You mean pregnant?”
 
“It’s a possibility,” said Gervaise. “Though that wasn’t what I meant specifically. Would she have been able to talk to you about something like that?”
 
“I’d like to think so.”
 
“How long has she been back here in Eastvale?”
 
“Since Friday morning. We kept her room. Always. Just as it was. Well, tidier.”
 
“Lots of parents do that,” Gervaise said. “It offsets the sense of loss when their children leave home. Sometimes it’s hard to let go.”
 
Annie knew that the superintendent had two children of her own, though it was hard to imagine it at the moment, as she perched there in her pinstripe skirt, buttoned-up jacket and crisp white blouse, all business.
 
“Yes,” said Juliet.
 
“Did you get the impression that this time it’s more than a passing visit?”
 
“Definitely.”
 
“And is this the first time she’s come to stay for any length of time since she left home?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Gervaise paused. “Now, about the gun you found on top of the wardrobe,” she went on.
 
“It was near the back, where you couldn’t possibly see it unless you stood on a chair or a stepladder. It was wrapped in a tea cloth. I suppose she thought it was safe up there. I mean, she doesn’t really think about housework or anything like that.”
 
“It would have been if it hadn’t been for your thoroughness,” said Gervaise. “You did the right thing coming to us, Mrs. Doyle.”
 
“I don’t know,” Juliet said, shaking her head. “My own daughter. I feel like such a . . . Judas. What will happen to her?”
 
Annie had deeply conflicted feelings towards Juliet Doyle at that moment. On the one hand, the poor woman was turning in her own daughter, and she must be going through hell. Whether Juliet was aware of it or not, Annie knew there was a mandatory five-year sentence for possession of a handgun, and the courts tended to be strict in its application, though there had recently been some complaints about overly lenient judges. Perhaps they would take special circumstances into account for a young woman with no prior record, but however forgiving they were, Erin Doyle was looking at a prison sentence of some sort, rather than probation or community service. And she would come out with a criminal record. Juliet probably didn’t suspect this. Still, Annie reminded herself, as yet they had absolutely no evidence that Erin Doyle was guilty of anything.
 
“It’s a very serious matter,” Gervaise went on. “Guns are dangerous weapons, and the more we get off the streets, the safer our towns and cities will be.”
 
It was the party line, Annie knew, and Gervaise was clearly trying to make Juliet feel more at ease with her betrayal, feel like a right-thinking citizen. But Annie sensed that Juliet Doyle was getting seriously worried now, and beginning to regret that she had come. She was probably thinking that she and her husband could have dealt with the whole mess themselves, disposed of the gun, chucked it in the river, given Erin a good talking-to. In a way, Annie thought, she was right.
 
For a mother to take such a step was almost inconceivable to Annie, no matter how much police policy encouraged it, or how much, as an officer of the law and a campaigner against gun crime, she was supposed to applaud it. While a part of her admired Juliet’s sacrifice to duty, to the greater good, another part of her felt disgust for what the woman was doing. Though Annie had never raised a child herself, she didn’t think she would be capable of betraying her daughter. She was certain that her own mother would never have done such a thing, though she had died when Annie was very young. Her father would have given her a stern talking-to and thrown the gun in the sea, but he would never have turned her in to the police either. But, she reminded herself, Juliet Doyle had come here asking for Banks’s help. No doubt she had hoped that he would be able to deal with the matter unofficially, off the record.
 
“What happens now?” Juliet asked.
 
Gervaise moved away from the edge of her desk and went to sit behind it. She didn’t seem quite so imposing there, and Annie felt the atmosphere lighten a little. “There are procedures to be followed,” Gervaise said. “Where is the gun now?”
 
“In the kitchen. Patrick has it. We didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to carry it in the street, and I must admit the idea made me very nervous.”
 
“And your daughter?”
 
“She’s with him. We agreed this was the best way. They would stay at the house, I would come here and talk to Alan, ask him to go back with me, but . . .”
 
“Yes, I understand that DCI Banks was a neighbour,” Gervaise said. “Don’t worry, we’re all professionals here. We’ll deal with this just as he would. I know it’s much more pleasant to have a familiar face around in a situation like this, but we all want the same thing. First of all, are you absolutely certain it’s a real gun? You have no idea how many people we get reporting replicas or ball-bearing guns.”
 
“Patrick said it is. He used to belong to a gun club, many years ago, after grammar school. I don’t know about such things.”
 
“Did he also happen to check if it’s loaded?”
 
“He says it is. He handled it very carefully.”
 
“Good,” said Gervaise. “Did he unload it?”
 
“No. He said it was best to leave it as it was, not to contaminate the evidence.”
 
Wonderful, thought Annie. Another one been watching too many episodes of CSI. A loaded gun. Now they would have to bring in the Firearms Support Unit for certain. It would have made more sense, and been much safer, if Patrick Doyle had unloaded the gun. Annie also knew that most people rarely act sensibly during crises. After all, how often do you find a loaded gun in your daughter’s bedroom?
 
“Did he happen to mention what kind of gun it is?” Gervaise asked.
 
“He said something about a semi-automatic. Can that be right?”
 
Annie knew very little about firearms, but she knew that a semi-automatic used a removable magazine to hold cartridges, rather than a cylinder. It usually held several rounds of ammunition, and it fired one shot each time you pulled the trigger.
 
“So when you left the house,” Gervaise went on, “your husband and daughter were in the kitchen and the gun was on the table?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Still wrapped?”
 
“Patrick wrapped it up in the tea cloth again after he’d examined it, yes.”
 
“What state of mind was Erin in then?”
 
“She was upset, obviously. Angry. Tearful. Frightened.”
 
“Did you ask her who she’d got the gun from?”
 
“Of course. But she wouldn’t say.”
 
Gervaise pursed her lips and thought for a moment, then she glanced at Annie and stood up. “Thank you,” she said to Juliet Doyle. “I’m going to ring for someone to take care of you for the time being while we deal with the problem of the gun. That has to be our priority, you understand. We need to get that loaded gun out of your house and into safekeeping, and there are strict procedures we need to follow.” She picked up the telephone and talked to the officer on the front desk.
 
Juliet looked pleadingly towards Annie. “Will you stay with me?” she asked.
 
“I’m afraid I need DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “She’s the only other senior officer I have here at the moment. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re nice and comfortable with WPC Smithies in the canteen.”
 
“Can’t I go home?”
 
“Not just yet,” said Gervaise. “Not until we’ve cleared the premises of the firearm.”
 
“But can’t I go with you?”
 
“I’m afraid not,” said Gervaise. She touched Juliet’s arm. “Don’t worry. I told you, you’ll be well taken care of.”
 
“Can I ring my husband?”
 
“Sorry,” said Gervaise. “It might seem petty and silly to you, but we can’t allow any contact until the matter is settled and the firearm is safely in our possession.”
 
“But what harm could it possibly do if I talked to my husband?”
 
It could do a lot of harm, Annie thought. It could precipitate an argument between father and daughter in the house, for example, and with a loaded gun lying on the table and tempers no doubt already stretched to breaking point, that could prove fatal. But before Gervaise could answer the question, if in fact she was intending to, WPC Smithies knocked at the door and escorted a reluctant Juliet Doyle to the canteen.
 
Gervaise beckoned Annie to stay. “We’ll do this by the book, Annie. I don’t want any guns on my patch, and I certainly don’t want any accidents with them due to haste or negligence. Is that clear?”
 
“Yes, ma’am. Want me to log the incident and call in an Armed Response Vehicle?”
 
“Yes. And get one of the DCs to run a check on the Doyles, especially the daughter. Everything seems hunky-dory on the surface, but find out if we’ve any cause for alarm. I’ll ring ACC McLaughlin and he’ll no doubt get in touch with the Deputy Chief Constable. I also want to arrange for the Leeds police to search Erin’s house. I hardly think she’s an arms dealer, but we’d better cover it. Let’s get this in motion. The longer we delay, the more chance there is of something going wrong.”
 
 
It wasn’t the first time Annie had witnessed an armed police raid. She had been involved in two of them in London a few years earlier. The first had gone smoothly, but the second had been a disaster. Shots had been fired and two men had been killed. This time she felt much stranger, being just down the road from the police station, across from Banks’s old suburban semi. It all seemed so ordinary. A black cat picked its way through a flower bed; people passed by the end of the street with their shopping and paused to see what was happening.
 
Annie sat silently in an unmarked police car with Detective Superintendent Gervaise and waited for the Armed Response Vehicles to arrive. She almost wished she smoked. It would be something to do to help pass the time. Instead, she just gazed out at the bay-windowed semis with their low-walled gardens, pebble-dash and trim lawns, and she realized she found it hard to imagine Banks ever living here as a family man. To her, he had always been very much a lone figure, even when they had had their brief romance. Now she couldn’t fathom him at all. Something had changed in him, something fundamental had broken, and she wasn’t sure if it could ever be mended.
 
Two Volvo T5s parked at the junction with Market Street. Each Armed Response Vehicle from the Firearms Support Unit comprised two Authorised Firearms Officers, or AFOs, in full Personal Protective Equipment, carrying pr-24 batons, rigid handcuffs and CS spray, in addition to Glock side arms and tasers. They would have Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines locked in the boots of their Volvos, along with an array of other lethal weapons.
 
Laburnum Way was a cul-de-sac about a hundred yards in length, so their arrival effectively cut off the street. Two patrol cars were parked at the far end. People were already watching at their windows.
 
The four AFOs had already been briefed on the layout of the house, as provided by Juliet Doyle, should they need to effect entry. They didn’t expect to have to do that, however, as Patrick Doyle and his daughter knew where Juliet had gone, and they were expecting a police visit.
 
Annie thought one of the team members was a woman, but it was hard to tell behind all the body armour and equipment she was carrying. Another car pulled up and Mike Trethowan, the Firearms Cadre’s superintendent, also wearing full PPE, spoke briefly with his officers then came over to join Annie and Gervaise.
 
“Any change?” he asked.
 
“None,” said Gervaise. “According to our information, they’re just sitting there in the kitchen waiting for us to arrive.”
 
“And the kitchen is where?”
 
“Back of the house. Down the hall, door off to the right.”
 
The superintendent sniffed the air, nodded and went back to his team.
 
This wasn’t a firearms hostage situation or a fatal shooting. So far, nothing had happened, and the procedure was a simple one. As it appeared that no one was intent on using the firearm, and that the situation was more or less under the control of the girl’s father, the uniformed officers would knock at the door and shout for Patrick and Erin Doyle to come out. Once they appeared, they would be asked to hand over the weapon in question and step away. It was simply a matter of being on guard and using the usual extra care and caution around firearms. The house was certainly quiet enough from the outside.
 
Things started to go wrong right from the start, when no one answered the door. Because of the natural tension when firearms are involved, everyone was a little impatient, but even Annie had to admit that a pensioner using a walker could have got there by the time Superintendent Trethowan recalled the local officers and sent two armed men around the back and two up the front path. Annie glanced at Gervaise, whose expression was set, teeth clenched, Cupid’s bow mouth almost a single straight red line.
 
Getting no response to their shouts, the AFOs used a battering ram on the door, which splintered open, and the two officers rushed inside, making as much noise as they could. Within seconds, they had disappeared from view, and after a brief silence, Annie heard a muffled shout and then a clicking sound, like some distant cicada chattering in the trees, followed by a scream and a lot of shouting and banging about.
 
She and Gervaise jumped out of the car and dashed for the garden, but Superintendent Trethowan, outside the house, raised his hand to warn them to stay back, then he went inside. Annie could hear the other two officers breaking in at the back, then more shouting, the sound of a chair or a table crashing over, and finally another loud scream, a different voice this time.
 
Annie felt her heart beating so hard and fast that she thought it would explode inside her chest. She was shaking all over. For what seemed like ages, nothing happened. The house fell silent again, apart from the sounds of the team walking about inside, doors opening and closing. Finally, Trethowan came out with two officers, and the three of them walked towards the van.
 
“What happened?” Gervaise asked as they passed by.
 
But Trethowan simply shook his head. Annie couldn’t see his expression because of the protective headgear.
 
About thirty seconds later, someone shouted the all-clear, and another officer came out carrying a small item wrapped in a tea cloth. So that was what it was all about, Annie thought. So tiny. So deadly. And from what she could see as the man passed right by her, the tea cloth had a map of the Yorkshire Dales printed on it. A moment later, the final two armed response officers came out, dragging between them a struggling and screaming young woman in rigid handcuffs: Erin Doyle. Then came the sound of an ambulance speeding towards them down Market Street.
 
“Oh, shit,” said Gervaise. “Here we go.”

From the Hardcover edition.

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Bad Ideas

Bad Ideas

edition:Paperback
tagged : canadian, lgbt

Nobody knows bad ideas quite like Michael V. Smith. In his new collection of poetry, he speaks to an intangibility of sense, or a sense beyond the rational. Bad Ideas explores the inevitability of loss and triumph with characteristic irony and tenderness. Through this dazzling collection of a remembered life, hung out to ogle like laundry on the line, Smith recalls a mother who discovers a sex tape, a man who dreams of birthing his own son and a woman who blends her baby girls into milkshakes.

 

B …

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Bad Imaginings

Bad Imaginings

edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback

Winner of the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize and shortlisted for the Governor-General's Award for fiction and the Commonwealth Writer's Prize, Caroline Adderson's short fiction collection travels far and wide. From adolescent brothers marooned at an indifferent relatives cottage, to a Depression-era Ukrainian immigrant reading the drought-parched skies above Palliser's Triangle, to two friends trying to make sense of feminism in the eighties, Adderson captures her characters' cadences, conflicts, an …

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The Bad Daughter

The Bad Daughter

A Novel
edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback Hardcover

What first appears to be a random home invasion and brutal attack reveals a family's dark secrets in this domestic ticking-clock suspense novel from the New York Times bestselling author of See Jane Run.

A voice mail from her estranged sister, Melanie, sends Robin's heart racing and her mind spiraling in a full-blown panic attack. Melanie's message is dire: Their father, his second wife, and his twelve-year-old stepdaughter have been shot--likely in a home invasion--and lie in the hospital in cri …

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Excerpt

Chapter One

The tingling started in the pit of her stomach, a vague gnawing that quickly traveled to her chest, then spread upward and outward until it reached her neck. Invisible fingers wrapped around her throat and pressed down hard on her windpipe, cutting off her supply of oxygen, rendering her dizzy and light-headed. I’m having a heart attack, Robin thought. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die.

The middle-aged woman sitting across from her didn’t seem to notice. She was too engrossed in her own troubles. Something about an overbearing mother-in-law, a difficult daughter, and a less-than-supportive husband.

Okay, get a grip. Concentrate. The woman—what the hell was her name?—wasn’t paying her a hundred and seventy-five dollars an hour to receive a blank stare back in response. At the very least, she expected Robin to be paying attention. You didn’t go to a therapist to watch her have a nervous breakdown.

You are not having a nervous breakdown, Robin admonished herself, recognizing the familiar symptoms. This isn’t a heart attack. It is a panic attack, plain and simple. You’ve had them before. God knows you should be used to them by now.

But it’s been more than five years, she thought with her next breath. The panic attacks she used to experience on an almost daily basis were part of her past. Except the past is always with you. Isn’t that what they say?

Robin didn’t have to wonder what had brought on the sudden attack. She knew exactly what—who—was responsible. Melanie, she thought, picturing her sister, older by three years, and thinking, not for the first time, that if you removed the L from her sister’s name, it spelled “Meanie.”

A message from Melanie had been waiting on her voice mail when she’d returned to her office after lunch. Robin had listened to the message, debating whether to return the call or simply pretend she’d never received it. In the midst of her deliberations, her client had arrived. You’ll just have to wait, she’d informed her sister silently, grabbing her notepad and entering the room she reserved for counseling clients.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked her now, leaning forward in her upholstered blue chair and eyeing Robin suspiciously. “You look kind of funny.”

“Could you excuse me for just a minute?” Robin was out of her seat before the woman could answer. She returned to the smaller room off her main office and shut the door. “Okay,” she whispered, leaning against her desk with the palms of both hands, careful not to look at the phone. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Okay, you’ve identified what’s happening. You know what caused it. All you have to do now is relax and concentrate on your breathing. You have a client in the next room waiting for you. You don’t have time for this crap. Pull yourself together. What was it her mother used to say? This too shall pass.

Except not everything passed. And if it did, it often circled back to bite you in the ass. “Okay, take deep breaths,” she counseled herself again. “Now another one.” Three more and her breathing had almost returned to normal. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Except it wasn’t okay, and she knew it. Melanie was calling for a reason, and whatever that reason was, it wasn’t good. The sisters had barely exchanged two words since their mother died, and none at all since Robin had left Red Bluff for good after their father’s hasty remarriage. Nothing in almost six years. Not a congratulatory note after Robin graduated from Berkeley with a master’s degree in psychology, no best wishes when she’d opened her own practice the following year, not even a casual “good luck” when she and Blake had announced their engagement.

And so, two years ago, with Blake’s encouragement and support, Robin had ceased all attempts at communication with her sister. Wasn’t she always advising clients to stop banging their heads against the wall when faced with an immovable object and insurmountable odds? Wasn’t it time she followed her own sage counsel?

Of course, it was always easier to give advice than it was to take it.

And now, out of the blue, her sister was calling and leaving cryptic messages on her voice mail. Like a cancer you thought had been excised, only to have it come roaring back, more virulent than ever.

“Call me” was the enigmatic message Melanie had left, not bothering to state her name, taking for granted that Robin would recognize her voice even after all this time.

Which, of course, she had. Melanie’s voice was a hard one to get out of your head, no matter how many years had passed.

What fresh hell is this? Robin wondered, taking several more deep breaths and refusing to speculate. Experience had taught her that her imagination couldn’t compete with her reality. Not by a long shot.

She debated calling Blake, then decided against it. He was busy and wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted. “You’re the therapist,” he would tell her, his eyes wandering to a space behind her head, as if someone more interesting had just walked into view.

Pushing thoughts of Blake and Melanie out of her mind, Robin tucked her chin-length curly blond hair behind her ears and returned to the other room, forcing her lips into a reassuring smile. “Sorry about that,” she told the woman waiting, who was a first-time client and whose name Robin was still unable to recall. Emma or Emily. Something like that.

“Everything okay?” the woman asked.

“Everything’s fine. I just felt a bit queasy for a second there.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not pregnant, are you? I’d hate to start this process only to see you quit to have a baby.”

“No. I’m not pregnant.” You have to have sex to get pregnant, Robin thought. And she and Blake hadn’t made love in over a month. “I’m fine,” she said, trying desperately to recall the woman’s name. “Please, go on. You were saying . . .”

What the hell had the woman been saying?

“Yes, well, I was saying that my husband is absolutely useless as far as his mother is concerned. It’s like he’s ten years old again and he’s afraid to open his mouth. She says the most hurtful things to me, and he acts like he doesn’t hear any of it. Then when I point it out, he says I’m exaggerating, and I shouldn’t let her get to me. But my daughter has picked up on it, of course. And now she’s being just as rude. You should hear the way she talks to me.”

You think you have problems? Robin thought. You think your family is difficult?

“I don’t know why my mother-in-law hates me so much.”

She doesn’t need a reason. If she’s anything like my sister, she despises you on principle. Because you exist.

It was true. Melanie had hated her baby sister from the first moment she’d laid eyes on her. She’d been instantly jealous of their mother’s suddenly divided attention. She would pinch Robin while she lay sleeping in her crib, not stopping until the infant was covered in tiny bruises; she’d hacked off Robin’s beautiful curls with scissors when she was two; when Robin was seven, Melanie had pushed her into a wall during a supposedly friendly game of tag, breaking her nose. She was constantly criticizing Robin’s choice of clothes, her choice of interests, her choice of friends. “The girl’s a stupid slut,” Melanie had sneered about Robin’s best friend, Tara.

Oh, wait—she was right about that.

“I’ve done everything to make peace with that woman. I’ve taken her shopping. I’ve taken her for lunch. I invite her to have dinner at our house at least three times a week.”

“Why?” Robin asked.

“Why?” the woman repeated.

“If she’s so unpleasant, why bother?”

“Because my husband thinks it’s the right thing to do.”

“Then let him take her shopping and out to lunch. She’s his mother.”

“It’s not that simple,” the woman demurred.

“It’s exactly that simple,” Robin countered. “She’s rude and disrespectful. You’re under no obligation to put up with that. Stop taking her shopping and to lunch. Stop inviting her over for dinner. If she asks you why, tell her.”

“What will I say to my husband?”

“That you’re tired of being disrespected and you’re not going to put up with it anymore.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Not really.”

You want complicated? I’ll give you complicated: My parents were married for twenty-four years, during which time my father cheated on my mother with every skank who caught his roving eye, including my best friend, Tara, whom he married five short months after my mother died. And just to make matters truly interesting, at the time, Tara was engaged to my brother, Alec. How’s that for complicated?

Oh, wait—there’s more.

Tara has a daughter, the product of a failed first marriage when she was barely out of her teens. Cassidy would be twelve now, I guess. Cute kid. My father adores her, has shown her more love than he ever gave any of his own kids. Speaking of which, did I mention that I haven’t talked to my sister in almost six years?

“Some people are toxic,” Robin said out loud. “It’s best to have as little to do with them as possible.”

“Even when they’re family?”

“Especially when they’re family.”

“Wow,” the woman said. “I thought therapists were supposed to ask questions and let you figure things out for yourself.”

Were they? God, that could take years. “Just thought I’d save us both some time.”

“You’re tough,” the woman said.

Robin almost laughed. “Tough” was probably the last word she would have used to describe herself. Melanie was the tough one. Or maybe “angry” was the right word. For as long as Robin could remember, Melanie had been angry. At the world in general. At Robin in particular. Although to be fair, it hadn’t always been easy for Melanie. Hell, it had never been easy for her.

Double hell, Robin thought. Who wants to be fair?

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the woman asked. “Your face . . .”

“What’s the matter with my face?” Am I having a stroke? Is it Bell’s palsy? What’s the matter with my face?

“Nothing. It just got all scrunched up for a second there.”

“Scrunched up?” Robin realized she was shouting.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Would you excuse me for another minute?” Robin propelled herself from her chair with such force that it almost tipped over. “I’ll be right back.” She opened the outer door to her office and bolted into the gray-carpeted hallway, running down the narrow corridor until she reached the washroom. Pushing the door open, she darted toward the sink to check her image in the mirror. An attractive thirty-three-year-old woman with deep blue eyes, pleasantly full lips, and a vaguely heart-shaped face stared back at her. There were no unsavory warts or blemishes, no noticeable scars or abnormalities. Everything was where it was supposed to be, if a little off-kilter because of her slightly crooked nose. But there was nothing that could be described as “scrunched up.” Her hair could use a touch-up and a trim, she realized, but other than that, she looked decent enough, even professional, in her rose-colored blouse and straight gray skirt. She could stand to put on a few pounds, she thought, hearing Melanie’s voice in her ear reminding her that despite her achievements and “fancy degree,” she was still “flat as a pancake” and “skinny like a stick.”

She felt the stirrings of another panic attack and took a series of preventive deep breaths. When that didn’t work, she splashed a handful of cold water on her face. “Okay, calm down,” she told herself. “Calm down. Everything is fine. Except your face is all scrunched up.” She examined her reflection once more, noting her pursed lips and pinched cheeks and making a concerted effort to relax her features. “You can’t let Melanie get to you.” She took another series of deep breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth, inhale the good energy, exhale the bad. “There’s a woman patiently awaiting your wise counsel,” she reminded herself. “Now, get back there and give it to her.” Whatever the hell her name is.

But when Robin returned to her office, the woman was gone. “Hello?” Robin called, opening the door to her inner office and discovering that room empty as well. “Adeline?” She returned to the exterior hallway and found it likewise deserted. Great. Fine time to remember her name.

Obviously, Adeline had fled. Scared off by Robin’s “tough” facade and “scrunched-up” face. Not that Robin blamed her. The session had been a disaster. What gave her the right to think she could counsel others when she herself was such a complete and utter fuckup?

Robin plopped down into the blue chair that Adeline had abandoned and looked around the thoughtfully arranged space. The walls were a pale but sunny yellow, meant to encourage optimism. A poster of colorful flowers hung on the wall opposite the door, meant to suggest growth and personal development. A photograph of autumn leaves was situated beside the door to her inner sanctum, a subtle reminder that change was both good and inevitable. Her personal favorite—a collage depicting a curly-haired woman with glasses and a worried smile amidst a flurry of happy faces and abstract raindrops, the capitalized words why do i get so emotional? floating above her head—occupied the place of honor behind the chair she usually sat in. It was intended to be humorous and put clients at ease. She’d found it at a neighborhood garage sale soon after she and Blake had moved in together. Now he was increasingly “working late.” How long before he brought up the idea of moving out?

“Why do I get so emotional indeed?” she asked the woman in the collage.

The woman smiled her worried smile and said nothing.

The phone in Robin’s inner office rang.

“Shit,” she said, listening as it rang two more times before voice mail picked up. Was it Melanie, phoning to berate her for not returning her previous call promptly enough? Robin pushed herself slowly to her feet. What the hell, might as well get this over with.

The first thing she saw when she entered the adjoining room was the telephone’s blinking red light. She sank into the comfortable burgundy leather chair behind her small oak desk, a desk that had been Blake’s when he first began practicing law; he’d passed it on to her when he graduated to a bigger firm with a bigger office, one that required a more imposing desk.

Was that why they’d never followed through on their plans to marry? Was she not sufficiently imposing for a man of his growing stature?

Or maybe it was the pretty new assistant he’d hired, or the attractive young lawyer in the next office. Perhaps the woman he’d smiled at while waiting in line at Starbucks had been the source of second thoughts on his part.

How long could she continue to ignore the all-too-familiar signs?

She picked up the receiver, listened as a recorded voice informed her that she had one new message and one saved message. “To listen to your message, press one-one.”

Robin did as directed.

“Hi, this is Adeline Sullivan,” the voice said. “I’m calling to apologize for running out on you like that. I just didn’t think we were a good fit, and to quote a therapist I know, ‘I thought I’d save us both some time’ and just leave. I hope you aren’t angry. You can bill me for the session. You did give me some things to think about.” She left the address where Robin could send the invoice. Robin promptly erased the message. Would that everything else was so easy to erase. She closed her eyes, her fingers hovering over the phone’s keypad.

“Go on,” she urged herself. “You can do this.” She pressed the button to listen to her sister’s message again.

“First saved message,” the recorded voice announced, followed by her sister’s abrupt command.

“Call me.”

Robin didn’t have to look up Melanie’s phone number. She knew it by heart. It was chiseled into her brain. She punched in the digits before she could change her mind.

The phone was answered almost immediately. “Took you long enough,” her sister said without preamble.

“What’s wrong?” Robin asked.

“You better sit down,” Melanie said.

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Bad Singer

Bad Singer

The Surprising Science of Tone Deafness and How We Hear Music
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook Paperback

Author and journalist Tim Falconer — a self-confessed “bad singer” — is one of only 2.5 percent of the population that has been afflicted with amusia, ie: he is scientifically tone-deaf.

Bad Singer chronicles his quest to understand the brain science behind tone-deafness and to search for ways to retrain the adult brain. He is tested by numerous scientists who are as fascinated with him as he is with them. He also investigates why we love music and deconstructs what we are really hearing …

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Bad Boy

Bad Boy

edition:Paperback
also available: eBook

Hockey is the only game worth playing in the rough-and-tumble prairie town of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. When sixteen-year-old A.J. Brandiosa makes the Triple A team of his dreams, he can hardly believe that his life is finally coming together.

And then it falls apart. A.J. makes an unexpected discovery about his best friend and teammate, Tulsa Brown, and he can't keep his rage and fear from spilling onto the ice. An aggressive defenseman is becoming a violent one. . .

An explosive novel by award-wi …

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