2011, ISBN: 9780701182816

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Vintage 2001. Octavo softcover (VG); all our specials have minimal description to keep listing them viable. They are at least reading copies, complete and in reasonable condition, but us… Plus…

Vintage 2001. Octavo softcover (VG); all our specials have minimal description to keep listing them viable. They are at least reading copies, complete and in reasonable condition, but usually secondhand; frequently they are superior examples.Ordering more than one book will reduce your overall postage cost., Vintage 2001, 0, seven seas books. paperback; all our specials have minimal description to keep listing them viable. They are at least reading copies, complete and in reasonable condition, but usually secondhand; frequently they are superior examples. Ordering more than one book will reduce your overall postage cost, seven seas books, 0, Military Book Club/Book-of-the-Month Club. Very Good/Very Good. 2003. Hard Cover. 8vo 1582880468 Dust jacket complete, unclipped. Original cloth boards with bright gilt titling on spine. No ownership marks. 420 pages clean and tight. "Siege, as the subtitle suggests, is set on the Eastern Front in 1942 where the Germans and Russians were locked in the bloodiest and most destructive war in the history . of mankind. The siege referred to in the title is actually two sieges involving the towns of Cholm and Velikiye Luki, battles that would be monumental by most standards, but which are largely forgotten in the context of the greater slaughter on the. Eastern Front." -Nelson DeMille. In Siege: A Novel of the Eastern Front, 1944 author Russ Schneider takes us to the immediate scene of two Russian towns, Cholm and Velikiye Luki, the last holdouts for a small garrison of Germans surrounded by the vast Red Army during World War. IL In Cholm, under the command of General Scherer, the garrison lasted 105 days against a besieging Russian force that outnumbered it ten to one. The Russians had tanks and artillery, while the Germans had neither, and most of the battle was fought in Arctic conditions in the winter of 1941-42. Unprepared for the savage climate, the German army at Cholm and elsewhere was nearly destroyed.. The struggle for this obscure town was an epic story ranking with any of history's more well-known accounts of desperate military stands. Six months later, nearby Velikiye Luki was surrounded with Scherer again in overall command. This time, however, Scherer and part of his force were outside the city; he spent the next two months trying to break through to the remainder of his men trapped inside Velikiye Luki, only to be turned back time and again. In the end he was only able to listen helplessly to radio reports from the doomed men as they were gradually wiped out in a battle even more violent than the one at Cholm. Part of Siege is told from Scherer's point of view, as he struggles to grow through the tactical and personal hazards of command, but the novel centers on a group of ordinary enlisted men caught up in these events, with all the confusion, horror, and exhaustion that they experienced going from one hopeless situation to another. Private Kordts is a private and mysterious soldier, always struggling to keep his impudent and anti-authoritarian attitude to himself. He is regarded somewhat suspiciously by his superiors, in particular by his new platoon leader, Sergeant Schrader, who has distanced himself from almost all his men after seeing a . previous platoon under his command wiped out in a few minutes. Like Kordts, Private Freitag is a Cholm veteran transferred to Schrader's platoon, a teenager possessed by the ., Military Book Club/Book-of-the-Month Club, 2003, 3, New York: Berkley Books. Very Good. 4.25 x 1 x 7.5 inches. Paperback. 2000. 480 pages. <br>In life she was a high-profile model. In death she is the focus of a media firestorm that's demanding action from L ucas Davenport. One of his own men is a suspect in her murder. Bu t when a series of bizarre, seemingly unrelated slayings rock the city, Davenport suspects a connection that runs deeper than anyo ne had imagined--one that leads to an ingenious killer more ruthl ess than anyone had feared.... Editorial Reviews Review You won 't want to miss it. --Los Angeles Times Captivating. --Chicago S un-Times When you come out of the twists and turns that are Easy Prey, it is a marvel how [Sandford] could do this...he's a write r in control of his craft. --Chicago Sun-Times Crackerjack suspe nse...[Sandford's] at the top of his game again with Easy Prey. - -New York Post Wildly successful...contains all the elements fan s have come to expect: solid plot, gallows humor...sex, and the l ikeable, self-assured Davenport. --Booklist A grand guignol of a climax. --Kirkus Reviews Rapid-fire action...sharply evocative. -Minneapolis Star Tribune Easy Prey is hard to put down.--Richmo nd Times Dispatch The dialogue is deft, the melodrama masterfull y orchestrated and the conclusion truly culminant. As secrets exp lode, as bullets fly and bodies fall, and as the ground keeps shi fting, there's hardly time to keep up with the spectacle. --The L os Angeles Times [An] ever-entertaining series. As always, it's a joy to follow this rare cop who gets led more often by his gut instinct than by clues. His humor, understated and perverse, can be wildly funny, and the people he runs across are shrewdly conce ived originals. --Publishers Weekly Here's hoping that John Sand ford never retires Lucas Davenport or stops dreaming up diabolica l killers for the supersleuth to battle. The author's unbeatable at juggling suspense, comedy, sex...and [his] plots seem to be mo ving faster than ever. --The New York Post Lucas Davenport is al ways in top form, and with Easy Prey, Sandford has another winner to add to the Prey books. --The Orlando Sentinel About the Aut hor John Sandfordis the author of twenty-four Prey novels; the Vi rgil Flowers novels, most recentlyStorm Front; and six other book s. He lives in New Mexico. About the Author John Sandfordis the author of twenty-four Prey novels; the Virgil Flowers novels, mos t recentlyStorm Front; and six other books. He lives in New Mexic o. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. one WHEN THE FIRST MAN WOKE UP THAT MORNing, he wasn't thinking abou t killing anyone. He woke up with a head full of blues, a brain t hat was too big for his skull, and a bladder about to burst. He l ay with his eyes closed, breathing across a tongue that tasted li ke burnt chicken feathers. The blues rolled in through the bedroo m door. Coming down hard. He had been flying on cocaine for thr ee days, getting everything done, everything. Then last night, co ming down, he'd stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of Stolich naya. His bleeding brain retained a picture of himself lifting th e bottle off the shelf, and another picture of an argument with t he counterman, who didn't want to break a hundred-dollar bill. B y that time, the coke high had become unsustainable; and the Stol i had been a bad idea. There was no smooth landing after a three- day toot, but the vodka turned a wheels-up belly landing into a f ull crash-and-burn. Now he'd pay. If you peeled open his skull an d dumped it, he thought, his brain would look like a coagulated l ump of Campbell's bean soup. He cracked his eyes, lifted his hea d, and looked at the clock. A few minutes past seven. He'd gotten four hours of sleep. Par for the course with coke, and the Stoli hadn't helped. If he'd stayed down for ten hours, or twelve-he n eeded about sixteen to catch up-he might have been past the worst of it. Now he was just gonna have to suck it up. He turned to h is left, where a woman, a dishwater blonde, lay facedown in her p illow. He could only see about half of her head; the rest was bur ied by a red fleece blanket. She lay without moving, like a dead woman-but no such luck. He closed his eyes again, and there was n othing left in the world but the blues music bumping in from the next room, from the all-blues channel, nine-hundred-and-something on the TV dial. Must've left it on last night. . . . Gotta move , he thought. Gotta pee. Gotta take twenty aspirins and go down t o Country Kitchen and get some pancakes and link sausages. . . . The man didn't wake up thinking about murder. He woke up thinkin g about his head and his bladder and a stack of pancakes. Funny h ow things work out. That night, when he killed two people, he wa s a little shocked. - Green-eyed Alie'e Maison stood in the hul k of a rust-colored Mississippi River barge. She was wrapped in a designer dress that looked like froth over a reef in the Caribbe an Sea-an ankle-length dress the exact faded-jade color of her ey es, low-cut and sheer, hugging her hips, flaring at her ankles. S he was large-eyed, barefoot, elfin, fleeing down a pale yellow tw o-by-twelve-inch pine plank, which stretched like a line of fire out of the purple gloom of the barge's interior. Behind her, a h uge man in a sleeveless white T-shirt, filthy Sears work pants, a nd ten-inch work boots blew sparks off a piece of wrought iron wi th an acetylene torch. He was wearing a black dome-shaped welding helmet, and acrid gray smoke curled around his heavy, tense legs . The blank robotic faceplate, in combination with his hairy arms , the dirty shirt, the smoke, and the squat legs, gave him the gr otesque crouching power of a gargoyle. A fantasy at three thousa nd dollars an hour. And not quite right. - That's no fucking g ood. NO FUCKING GOOD! Amnon Plain moved through the bank of stro bes, his thick black hair falling over his forehead, his narrow g lasses glittering in the set lights, his voice cutting like a pie ce of broken glass: Alie'e, you're freezing up at the line. I wan t you blowing out of the place. I want you moving faster when you come up to the line, not slower. You're slowing down. And I want you to look pissed. You look annoyed, you look petulant- I am a nnoyed-I'm freezing, Alie'e snapped. I've got goose bumps the siz e of oranges. Plain turned to an assistant: Larry, move the heat er into the back. You gotta get some heat on her. We'll get the fumes, Larry said, arms akimbo, a deliberately effeminate pose. L arry wasn't gay, just ironic. We'll deal with the fucking fumes. Huh? Okay? We'll deal with the fucking fumes. You gotta do some thing. I'm really cold, Alie'e said. She clasped her arms around herself and shivered for effect. A man dressed in black walked ou t from behind the lights, peeling off his cashmere sport coat. He was tall, thin, his over-the-shoulder brunette hair worn loose a nd back. He had a thick hammered-silver loop earring in his left ear and a dark soul-patch under his lower lip. Take this until th ey're ready again, he said to Alie'e. She huddled in the coat. Tu rning away from them, Plain rolled his eyes. Larry-move the fucki n' heater. Larry shrugged and began wheeling the propane heater farther into the barge. If they all died of carbon monoxide poiso ning, it wouldn't be his fault. Plain turned back to Alie'e. Jax , take a hike, and take your coat with you. . . . Hey- the man i n black said, but nobody was looking at him, or paying attention. Plain continued: Alie'e, I want you pissed. Don't do that thing with your lips. You're sticking your lips out, like this. Plain pursed his lips. That's a pout. I don't want a pout. Do it like t his. . . . He grimaced, and Alie'e tried to imitate him. This was one of her talents: the ability to imitate expression, the way a dancer could imitate motion. That's better, Plain said to Alie' e. But make your mouth longer, turn it down, and get it set that way while you're moving. Do it again. She did it again, making th e changes. That's good, but now you need some mouth. He turned b ack to the line of lights and the small crowd gathered behind the m-an account executive, a creative director, a makeup artist, a h airdresser, a couture rep, a second photo assistant, and Alie'es parents, Lynn and Lil. Plain did not provide chairs, and the insi de of the barge was not a place you'd want to sit down, not if yo ur hand-tailored jeans cost four hundred and fifty dollars. To th e makeup artist, Plain said, Fix her mouth. And to the second ass istant: Jimmy, where's the fucking Polaroid? You got the Polaroid ? Jimmy was fanning a six-by-seven-centimeter Polaroid color pri nt, which was used to check exposure. He glanced at the print and said, It's coming up. Behind him, the creative director whisper ed to the account executive, Says 'fuck' a lot, and the account e xecutive muttered, They all do. Plain peered at the Polaroid, lo oked up at an overhead softbox. Move that box. About two feet to the right, that way. Jimmy moved it, and Plain looked around. Eve rybody ready? Alie'e, remember the line. Clark, are you ready? T he welder said, Yeah, I'm ready. Was that enough sparks? Sparks were fine, sparks were good, Plain said. You're the only fucking professional working here this morning. He looked back at Alie'e. Now, don't fucking pout-blow right through the line. . . . - A lie'e waited patiently until her mouth was fixed, staring blankly past the makeup artist's ear as a bit of color was patched into the left corner of her lower lip; Jax said into her ear, Love you . You're doing great, you look great. Alie'e barely heard him. Sh e was seeing herself walking the plank, the vision of herself tha t came from Plain's mind. When her mouth was done, she stepped b ack to her starting mark. Jax got out of the way, and when Plain said, Go, Alie'e got her expression right, started down the plank with a lanky, hip-swinging stride, and blew past the exposure li ne, the green dress swirling about her hips, the orange-yellow we lder's sparks flashing in the background. The stink and smoke of the burning metal curled around her as Plain, standing behind the camera, fired the bank of strobes. Better, Plain said, stepping toward her. A little fuckin' better. - They'd been working for two hours in the belly of the grain barge. The barge was a gift: a pilot on the Greek-owned Mississippi towboat Treponema had dri ven it into a protective abutment around a bridge piling. The dam aged barge had been floated to the Anshiser repair yard in St. Pa ul, where welders cut away the buckled hull plates and prepared t o burn on new ones. Plain spotted the disemboweled hulk while sco uting for photo locations. He made a deal with Archer Daniels Mid land, the barge owner: Delay repairs for a week, and ADM would ma ke Vogue. The people who ran ADM couldn't think of a good reason why the company would worry about Vogue, but their publicity ladi es were wetting their pants, so they said okay and the deal was m ade. - They were still working with the green dress when a team from TV3 showed up, and they all took a break. Alie'e goofed aro und, for the camera, with Jax, showing a little skin, doing a lon g, slow, rolling tongue-kiss, which the camera crew asked them to redo twice, once as a silhouette. The interviewer for TV3, a squ are-jawed ex-jock with bleached teeth and a smile he'd perfected in his bathroom mirror, said, after the cameras shut down, It's a slow day. I think we'll lead the news with this. Nobody asked w hy it was news: they all lived with cameras, and assumed that it was. - Two hours for four different shots, with and without fan s, two rolls of high-saturation Fujichrome film for each of the s hots. The Fuji would make the colors pop. Plain pronounced himsel f satisfied with the green dress, and they moved on. The next po se involved a torn T-shirt and a pair of male-look women's briefs , complete with the vented front. Alie'e and Jax moved against th e far hull and a little shadow, and Alie'e turned her back to the photo crowd and peeled off the green dress. She'd been nude bene ath the dress; anything else would ruin the line. She was aware of her nudity but not self-conscious about it, as she had been at first. Her first jobs had been as one model in a group, and they usually changed all at once; she was simply one naked woman amon g several. By the time she started up the ladder to stardom, to i ndividual attention, she'd become as conditioned to public nudity as a striptease dancer. Even more than that. She'd worked in Eu rope, with the Germans, and total nudity wasn't uncommon in fashi on work. She remembered the first time she'd had her pubic hair b rushed out, fluffed up. The brusher had been a thirty-something g uy who'd squatted in front of her, smoking a cigarette while he b rushed her, and then did a quick trim with a pair of barber sciss ors, all with the emotional neutrality of a postman sorting lette rs. Then the photographer came over to take a look, suggested a c ouple of extra snips. Her body might as well have been an apple. . . . You want privacy? You turn your back. . . . - Alie'e Mai son- Ah-Lee-Ay May-Sone -had been born Sharon Olson in Burnt Rive r, Minnesota. Until she was seventeen, she'd lived with her paren ts and her brother, Tom, in a robin's-egg-blue rambler just off H ighway 54, fourteen miles south of the Canadian line. She was a b eautiful baby. She won a beautiful-baby prize when she was a year old-she'd been born just before Halloween, and her costume was a pumpkin that her mother made on her Singer. A year later, Sharon toddled away with a statewide beautiful-toddler trophy. In that one, she'd been dressed as a lightning bug, in a suit of black an d gold. Dance and comportment lessons began when she was three, singing lessons when she was four. At five, she won the North Cen tral Tap-Fairies contest for children five and younger. That was the pattern: Miss Junior North Country, International Miss Snow ( International Falls and Fort Frances, Canada), Miss Border Lakes. She sang and danced through her school days. Miss Minnesota and even-her parents, Lynn and Lil, barely dared to dream it-Miss Ame rica was possible. Until she was fourteen, anyway. When the brea st genes were passed out in heaven, Alie'e had been in line for a n extra helping of eyes instead. That became obvious in junior hi gh when her, Berkley Books, 2000, 3, Allen & Unwin Pty., Limited (Australia). Very Good. 152 x 230mm. Paperback. 1999. 239 pages. <br>A serial killer is on the loose in a small coastal town near Melbourne. Detective Inspector Hal Challis and his tea m must apprehend him before he strikes again. But first Challis m ust contend with the editor of a local newspaper, who undermines his investigation at every turn. Editorial Reviews From Publish ers Weekly Australian author Disher delivers an intelligent, atmo spheric police procedural, the first of a new series. A serial ki ller targeting young women along the isolated Old Peninsula Highw ay has baffled Detective Inspector Hal Challis and his staff. Him self a resident of the Peninsula, as the locals call the sleepy c omma of land hooking into the sea south-east of Melbourne, Challi s leads a solitary life. We soon learn that his wife Angela has s pent the last seven years in prison for conspiring with her lover to murder him. Nicknamed the dragon man, Challis in his spare ti me obsessively restores a vintage airplane, a Dragon Rapide. Inde ed, as we meet the other police officers, it becomes clear that t hey're as interesting, not to mention as complex and morally ambi guous, as any of the criminals they seek. Pam Murphy, for instanc e, is an idealistic young constable recovering from a car crash a nd a nervous breakdown, and Sergeant Kees van Alphen raids the ev idence locker for cocaine, which he trades for sex. Fans of such gritty yet cerebral crime novelists as Ian Rankin and Jack Harvey should be well pleased. Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist A serial killer targeting young women is on the lo ose on the Old Peninsula Highway, located on a comma-shaped penin sula jutting into the sea, southeast of Melbourne. Detective Insp ector Hal Challis is in charge of the investigation, along with a rash of burglaries and arson cases. Two women have been murdered , and a third has disappeared, leading the locals to worry that n egative publicity will keep tourists from enjoying the peninsula as their holiday spot. Although the plot centers on the serial ki ller, other officers work other crimes, including the case of a m ysterious woman, part of a witness-protection program, who is ter rified when her mailbox is set alight. The beautifully described setting lets the reader feel the oppressive heat of a December su mmer in Australia, and the characters are well drawn and distinct . Challis himself is a likable, honorable police officer fighting his own demons along with corrupt colleagues and inept superiors . A solid new series from genre vet Disher. Sue O'Brien Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review An intelligent, atmospheric police procedural...Fans of su ch gritty yet cerebral crime novelists such as Ian Rankin and Jac k Harvey should be well pleased. Publishers Weekly The Dragon Man is unquestionably Disher's masterpiece, an astonishingly told ca per that's tough, tender, poignant and totally captivating. Age A straightforward police story with a terrific plot, nuanced chara cters and solid procedures, served up on refreshing new turf. Don e with smooth, assured mastery. New York Times Challis is a fine creation: strong and resourceful, yet with enough human frailty t o satisfy the tastes of readers raised on Connelly, Rankin or Pat ricia Cornwell. This is intelligent, well-crafted fare, enlivened by a sharp awareness of society and the dark undercurrents benea th it. West Australian --This text refers to an out of print or u navailable edition of this title. About the Author Garry Disher grew up in South Australia. In 1978 he was awarded a creative wri ting fellowship to Stanford University, where he wrote his first short-story collection. A full-time writer for many years, he is the author of more than forty titles--fiction, children's books, anthologies, history textbooks, and books about the craft of writ ing. With considerable local and international success--including the prestigious German Crime Fiction Prize for Dragon Man--Dishe r is one of Australia's most exciting and diverse writers. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this ti tle. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Ch apter One Detective Inspector Hal Challis showered with a bucket at his feet. He kept it economical, but still the bucket overflow ed. He toweled himself dry, dressed, and, while the espresso pot was heating on the bench-top burner in his kitchen, poured the bu cket into the washing machine. Couple more showers and he'd have enough water for a load of washing. Only 19 December but already his rainwater tanks were low and a long, dry summer had been fore cast. He didn't want to buy water again, not like last summer. Th e coffee was ready. As he poured he glanced at an old calendar pi nned to the corkboard above his bench. He'd bought the calendar b y mail order three years ago, and kept it opened at March. The vi ntage airplane for that month was a prototype of the de Havilland DH84 Dragon. Then the toaster pinged and Challis hunted for the butter and the jam and finally took his toast and coffee on to th e deck at the rear of his house. The early sun reached him throug h the wisteria with the promise of a hot day ahead. He felt bone- tired. A suspected abduction on the Old Peninsula Highway two nig hts ago--the investigation ultimately dumped into his lap. Franks ton uniforms had taken the call, then referred it to the area Sup erintendent, who'd rung at 1 a.m. and said, Maybe your boy's stru ck a second time, Hal. Challis had spent the next four hours at t he scene, directing a preliminary search. When he'd got home agai n at 5 a.m. yesterday there hadn't seemed much point in going bac k to bed, and he'd spent the rest of the day in the car or on the phone. A little four-stroke engine was chugging away on the bank of his neighbor's dam. Cows once drank there. Now the cows were gone and the hillside stretched back in orderly rows of vines. Ch allis couldn't spot his neighbor among the vines, but the man was there somewhere. He usually was, weeding, pruning, spraying, pic king. Challis thought of the insecticide spray, of the wind carry ing it to his roof, where the rain would wash it into his undergr ound tank, and he tossed out his coffee. He stepped down from the verandah and made a circuit of his boundary fence. Half a hectar e, on a dirt lane west of the Old Peninsula Highway, tucked in am ong orchards, vineyards and a horse stud, and Challis made this w alk every morning and evening as a kind of check on his feelings. Five years now, and still the place was his port in a storm. As he collected the Age from his mailbox on the dirt lane at the fro nt of his property, a voice called from the next driveway, Hal, h ave you got a minute? The man from the vineyard was walking towar d him. Small, squint-eyed from the angling sun, about sixty. Chal lis waited, gazing calmly, as he did with suspects, and sure enou gh the man grew edgy. Challis stopped himself. The fellow didn't deserve his CIB tricks. What can I do for you? Look, I realize it 's nothing, but you know the ornamental lake I've got, over near the house? Yes. Someone's been fishing in it, the neighbor said. After the trout. The thing is, they're scaring the birds away. Ib is, herons, a black swan, moorhens. Challis had watched them for half an hour one day, from a little hide the man had constructed in the reeds. Do you know who? Probably kids. I found a couple of tangled lines and fishhooks, half a dozen empty Coke cans. Chall is nodded. Have you informed the local station? I thought, you be ing an inspector-- Inform the local station, Challis said. They'l l send a car around now and then, make their presence felt. Can't you . . . I'm very sorry, but it would look better if you lodged the complaint. Challis left soon after that. He locked the house , backed his Triumph out of the garage and turned right at his ga te, taking the lane in bottom gear. In winter he negotiated potho les, mud and minor flooding; in summer, corrugations and treacher ous soft edges. He drove east, listening to the eight o'clock new s. At five minutes past eight he turned on to the Old Peninsula H ighway, meeting it quite near the abduction scene, and headed sou th, toward the town of Waterloo, hearing the screams the dying le ave behind them. He could have been more helpful to the neighbor . He wondered what the man thought of him, a detective inspector and New Peninsula. The Peninsula. People talked about it as if it were cohesive and indivisible. You only did that if you didn't k now it, Challis thought. You only did that if you thought its dis tinctive shape--a comma of land hooking into the sea southeast of Melbourne--gave it a separate identity, or if you'd driven throu gh it once and seen only beaches, farmland and quiet coastal town s. Not that it covered a large area--less than an hour by road fr om top to bottom, and about twenty minutes across at its widest p oint--but to a policeman like Challis there were several Peninsul as. The old Peninsula of small farms and orchards, secluded count ry estates, some light industry and fishing, and sedate coastal t owns populated by retirees and holidaying families, was giving wa y to boutique wineries, weekender farms, and back roads populated with bed-and-breakfast cottages, potteries, naturopathy clinics, reception centers, tearooms and galleries. Tourism was one of th e biggest industries, and people with professions--like Challis h imself--were flocking to buy rural hideaways. Some local firms ma de a good living from erecting American-style barns and installin g pot-belly stoves, and costly four-wheel drives choked the local townships. But although there was more money about, it wasn't ne cessarily going to more people. A community center counsellor fri end of Challis's had told him of the growing number of homeless, addicted kids she dealt with. Industries and businesses were clos ing, even as families were moving into the cheap housing developm ents that were spreading at the fringes of the main towns, Waterl oo and Mornington. The shire council, once one of the biggest emp loyers, was cutting expenses to the bone, using managers whose se nse of humanity had been cut to the bone. The adjustments were ne ver forewarned or carried out face to face. Challis's counsellor friend now sold home-made pickles and jams at fairs and markets. There had been a letter, telling her she was redundant, her whole unit closed down. Just three days' notice, Hal. It was happening everywhere, and the police were usually the ones to pick up the pieces. Which didn't mean that the Peninsula wasn't a pleasant pl ace to live in. Challis felt as if he'd come home, finally. And t he job suited him. In the old days of murder or abduction investi gations he'd been sent all over the state, city and bush, with a squad of specialists, but the Commissioner had introduced a new s ystem, intended to give local CIB officers experience in the inve stigation of serious crimes alongside their small-time burglaries , assaults and thefts. Now senior homicide investigators like Cha llis worked a specific beat. Challis's was the Peninsula. Althoug h he had an office in regional headquarters, he spent most of his time in the various Peninsula police stations, conducting invest igations with the help of the local CIB, calling in the specialis ts only if he got derailed or bogged down. It was a job that enta iled tact, and giving as much responsibility to the local CIB as possible, or the fallout was resentment and a foot-dragging inves tigation. He didn't expect that from the Waterloo CIB. He'd worke d with them before. Challis drove south for twenty kilometers. T he highway ran down the eastern side of the Peninsula, giving him occasional glimpses of the bay. Then the Waterloo refinery came into view across the mangrove flats, bright oily flames on the ch imneys, and glaring white tanks. There was a large tanker at anch or. The highway became a lesser road, bisecting a new housing est ate, the high plank fences on either side hiding rooftops that va ried greatly but were never more than a meter apart. He crossed t he railway line and turned right, skirting the town, then left on to a main road that took him past timber merchants, boat yards, Peninsula Cabs, crash repairers, an aerobics center, the Fiddlers Creek pub and a corner lot crammed with ride-on mowers and small hobby tractors. The police station and the adjacent courthouse w ere on a roundabout at the end of High Street, opposite a Pizza H ut. Challis glanced down High Street as he turned. The water glit tered at the far end; frosted Santas, reindeer, sleighs, candles, mangers and bells swung from lampposts and trees. He parked in t he side street opposite the main entrance to the police station, got out, and walked into trouble. That windscreen's not roadworth y. A uniformed constable, who had been about to get into a divisi onal van that idled outside the station with a young woman consta ble at the wheel, had changed his mind and was approaching Challi s, flipping open his infringement book and fishing in his top poc ket for a pen. He's going to book me, Challis thought. I've order ed a new windscreen. Not good enough. The Triumph was low-slung. On the back roads of the Peninsula, it was always copping stones and pebbles, and one had cracked the windscreen on the passenger side. This your car? It is. A snapping of fingers: License. Chall is complied. The constable was large--tall and bigboned, but also carrying too much weight. He was young, the skin untested by tim e and the elements, and his hair was cut so short that his scalp showed through. Challis had an impression of acres of pink flesh. Quickly, quickly. A classic bully, Challis thought. Then the con stable saw the name on Challis's license, but, to his credit, did not flinch. Challis. Inspector Challis? Yes. Sir, that windscree n's not roadworthy. It's also dangerous. I realize that. I've ord ered a new one. The constable watched him for a long moment, then nodded. He put his book away. Fair enough. Challis hadn't wanted to be booked, and telling the constable to follow the rules and book him would have been an embarrassment and an irritation for b oth of them, so he said nothing. The constable turned and made fo r the van. Chal, Allen & Unwin Pty., Limited (Australia), 1999, 3, London: Chatto & Windus. Very Good. 23 x 15cm. Paperback. 2011. 390 pages. <br> On an icy dawn morning in Paris in January 1943, 230 French women resisters were rounded up from the Gestapo deten tion camps and sent on a train to Auschwitz u the only train, in the four years of German occupation, to take women of the resista nce to a death camp Includes bibliographical references and inde x Part one (1. An enormous toy full of subtleties ; 2. The flame of French resistance ; 3. Daughters of the Enlightenment ; 4. Th e hunt for resisters ; 5. Waiting for the wolf ; 6. Indulgent tow ards women ; 7. Recognising the unthinkable ; 8. 'We have other p lans for them' ; 9. Frontstalag 122) -- Part two (10. Le convoi d es 31000 ; 11. The meaning of friendship ; 12. Keeping alive, rem aining me ; 13. The disposables ; 14. Pausing before the battle ; 15. Slipping into the shadows) -- Appendix: The women ., Chatto & Windus, 2011, 3<

2011, ISBN: 9780701182816

UK,8vo HB+dw/dj,1st edn.[Complete number line 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1.] FINE/FINE.No owner inscrptn and no price-clip (£20.00) to dw/dj.Bright,crisp, clean,matt,colour photographic illustrat… Plus…

UK,8vo HB+dw/dj,1st edn.[Complete number line 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1.] FINE/FINE.No owner inscrptn and no price-clip (£20.00) to dw/dj.Bright,crisp, clean,matt,colour photographic illustrated dw/dj panels,with b/w+yellow lettering to front panel,red +black lettered critics' reviews to rear panel; with negligible shelf-wear and creasing to edges and corners - no nicks or tears present.Miniscule bumping to both head+foot of spine/backstrip withreciprocal creasing - book has a slight lean. Top+ fore-edgeslightly toned but still generally bright and clean; contents bright,tight,clean,solid and sound - pristine - nodog-ear reading creases to any pages' corners,appears unread - apart from my own collation.Bright,crisp,clean,sharp-cornered,publisher's original plain dark blue cloth bds with bright,crisp,stamped gilt letters to spine/backstrip and immaculate plain beige eps.UK,8vo HB+dw/dj,1st edn,1-374pp [paginated] includes a preface,Pts 1+2 comprising 15 chapters in total, b/w historical,contemporaryb/w photographs interspersed throughout the text and the book, appendix,source notes,illus list,a biblio,acknowledgements and an index,plus [unpaginated] half-title+title pages,a dedication, contents list/table with double-page b/w map (Resistance routes through wartime Europe),anda b/w map (France) to recto of last page of previous double-paged map. On an icy morning in Paris in January 1943,230 French women resisters were rounded up from the Gestapo detention camps and sent on a train to Auschwitz - the only train,in the four years of German occupation,to take women of the resistance to a death camp.The youngest was a schoolgirl of15,the eldest a farmer's wife of 68; there were among them teachers,biochemists, sales girls,secretaries,housewives anduniversity lecturers.Caroline Moorehead's remarkable new book is the story of these women - the first time it has been told.It is about who they were,how and why they joined the resistance,how they were captured and treated by the French police and theGestapo,their journey to Auschwitz and their daily life in the death camps - and about what it was like for the 49 survivors when they returned to France.Six of the women were still alive in 2010 and able to tell their stories.What they had to say - and this was confirmed by the children of those who died - was that great affection and camaraderie grew up among the group.They became friends,andit was precisely this friendship that kept so many of them alive.They supported and cared for one another,worked together, shared everything,watched out for each other and faced the horror together.Friendship,almost as much as luck,dictated survival.Drawing on interviews with survivors and their families,onGerman,French and Polish archives,and on documents held by World War Two resistance organisations,'A Train in Winter' covers a harrowing part of our history but is,ultimately,a portrait of ordinary people,of bravery and endurance,and of particular qualities of female friendship. Since April 2013 and again in March 2015,and in this year too,the UK Post Office has altered it's Pricing in Proportion template,altering it's prices, weight allowances,dimensions and lowered it's qualifying compensation rates too! So,please contact rpaxtonden@blueyonder.co.uk ,because of the weight/value of this item for correct,insured shipping/P+p quotes - particularly ALL overseas buyers - BEFORE ordering through the order page!, LONDON.CHATTO & WINDUS,2011., 5<

2011, ISBN: 0701182814

Edition reliée

[EAN: 9780701182816], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Penguin Random House], Ships from the UK. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condi… Plus…

[EAN: 9780701182816], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Penguin Random House], Ships from the UK. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Books<

ISBN: 9780701182816

Penguin Random House. Used - Good. Ships from the UK. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Pengui… Plus…

Penguin Random House. Used - Good. Ships from the UK. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Penguin Random House, 2.5<

ISBN: 9780701182816

Paperback. Very Good., 3