A Traitor to Memory [Hardcover]

In A Traitor to Memory, Elizabeth George proves that she belongs firmly in the upper echelons of crime writers. Her 10 previous novels of psychological suspense have carefully consolidated the character of her aristocratic detective Thomas Lynley, and with this book she creates for him a narrative more tangled and (seemingly) impenetrable than ever before.

Gideon Davies is a classical violinist who has lost his ability to play. In the middle of a Beethoven trio, his mind has been wiped clear of everything related to music. But what he can remember is the weeping of a woman and a single name: Sonia. Davies is soon involved with the death of a young woman called Eugenie, who is run down by a car in the streets of London. On the track of her killer, Lynley and his associates Barbara Ramiz and Winston Nkata become aware of a connection with the violinist and a mysterious group of people somehow linked with a crime and its consequences that took place over 20 years ago.

As always, George is faithful to the demands of the classical detective narrative, and the reader is challenged by the slowly unfolding revelations just as much as her struggling protagonists. But, unlike so many of her contemporaries, George never forgets that the sense of place is quite as intrinsic to a mystery story as any whodunit elements, and the panoply of England unfolded before us here is richly and vividly realised. In earlier books, Lynley has seemed almost preternaturally gifted, but here his desperate attempts to penetrate the dark secret have much more of the quality of a struggle - and perhaps this is why A Traitor to Memory is possibly the most satisfying outing for George's detective yet. --Barry Forshaw

'Absorbing . . . the pleasure of the book is the slow, surprising and often shocking unravelling of the various links between the main characters' (Marcel Berlins, The Times )

'A long and absorbing read that will please lovers of the traditional crime novel' (Scotland on Sunday )

'Elizabeth George orchestrates the family-secrets theme like a maestro . . . worthy of a standing ovation.' (Amazon.com )

'keeps the reader on the knife's edge of suspense, thanks to George's skill at weaving together intriguing characters, disturbing action, police procedure, psychological insight, and mordant wit. First-rate suspense with a stunner of an ending.' (Booklist )

'A very accomplished crime writer who is able to keep the reader's suspense right up to the last page.' (Woman's Way, Dublin )

'Thoroughly enjoyable.' (Bookseller )

'A Traitor to Memory is more PD James than Ruth Rendell . . . very convincing . . . the book makes a serious and valid point about what is left of the personality of a musical prodigy if the music is taken away.' (Classical Music )

'Plots of dazzling inventiveness are the hallmark of George's first-rate murder mysteries. A story to keep you engrossed al the way to Inverness and back.' (Livewire ) --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

"Praise for Elizabeth George: 'The multi-faceted surprise ending to the taut, suspenseful plot is the juiciest plum in this can't-put-down novel.' Publishers Weekly; 'She writes extremely well, plots brilliantly and reaches an emotional level deeper than most... Captivating' The Times; 'The best plotter in the mystery game, [her] elegant literate flow puts many Brits to shame' Time Out; 'She is a great storyteller. The totality is a big fat, satisfying book.' Frances Fyfield, Sunday Express on In Pursuit.. 'Elizabeth George reigns as queen of the mystery genre' Entertainment Weekly"

'A very accomplished crime writer who is able to keep the reader's suspense right up to the last page.' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

'Elizabeth George orchestrates the family-secrets theme like a maestro . . . worthy of a standing ovation.' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Viriuoso violinist Gideon Davies has lost his memory of music and his ability to play the instrument he mastered at the age of five. One fateful night at Wigmore Hall, he lifted his violin to play in a Beethoven trio...and everything in his mind related to music was gone. Gideon suffers from a form of amnesia, the cure for which is an examination of what he can remember. And what he can remember is little enough until his mind is triggered by the weeping of a woman and a single name: Sonia. One rainy evening, a woman called Eugenie travels to London for a mysterious appointment. But before she is able to reach her destination, a car swoops out of nowhere and kills her in the street. In pursuing her killer, Thomas Lynley, Barbara Havers and Winston Nkata come to know a group of people inextricably connected by a long-ago crime and punishment no one has spoken

Elizabeth George is the author of highly acclaimed novels of psychological suspense. Her first novel, A Great Deliverance, was honoured with the Anthony and Agatha Best First Novel awards in America and received the Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere in France. An Edgar and Macavity Nominee as well as a New York Times and international bestselling author, Elizabeth George divides her time between California and Kensington, London.

Maida Vale, London Fat girls can do. Fat girls can do. Fat girls can do and do and do. As she trod the pavement towards her car, Katie Waddington used her regular mantra in rhythm with her lumbering pace. She said the words mentally instead of aloud, not so much because she was alone and afraid of seeming batty but rather because to say them aloud would put further demands on her labouring lungs. And they had trouble enough to keep going. As did her heart which, according to her always sententious GP, was not intended to pump blood through arteries that were being fast encroached upon by fat. When he looked at her, he saw rolls of flesh, he saw mammae hanging like two heavy flour sacks from her shoulders, he saw a stomach that drooped to cover her pubis and skin that was cratered with cellulite. She was carrying so much weight on her frame that she could live for a year on her own tissue without eating and, if the doctor was to be believed, the fat was moving in on her vital organs. If she didn't do something to curb herself at table, he declared each time she saw him, she was going to be a goner. `Heart failure or stroke, Kathleen,' he told her with a shake of his head. `Choose your poison. Your condition calls for immediate action, and that action is not intended to include ingesting anything that can turn into adipose tissue. Do you understand?' How could she not? It was her body they were talking about and one couldn't be the size of a hippo in a business suit without noticing that fact when the opportunity arose to have a glimpse at one's reflection. But the truth of the matter was that her GP was the only person in Katie's life who had difficulty accepting her as the terminally fat girl she'd been from childhood. And since the people who counted took her as she was, she had no motivation to shed the thirteen stone that her doctor was recommending. If Katie had ever harboured a doubt about being embraced by a world of people who were increasingly buffed, toned, and sculpted, she'd had her worth reaffirmed tonight as it was every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when her Eros in Action groups met from seven till ten o'clock. There, the sexually dysfunctional populace of Greater London came together for solace and solution. Directed by Katie Waddington -- who'd made the study of human sexuality her lifelong passion -- libidos were examined; erotomania and-phobia were dissected; frigidity, nymphomania, satyrism, transvestism, and fetishisms were admitted to; erotic fantasies were encouraged; and erotic imagination was stimulated. `You saved our marriage,' her clients gushed. Or their lives, or their sanity, or frequently their careers. Sex is profit was Katie's motto, and she had nearly twenty years of approximately six thousand grateful clients and a waiting list of two hundred more to prove this true. So she walked to her car in a state that was somewhere between self-satisfaction and absolute rapture. She might be inorgasmic herself, but who was to know as long as she had success in consistently promoting happy orgasm in others? And that's what the public wanted, after all: guilt-free sexual release upon demand. Who guided them to it? A fat girl did. Who absolved them of the shame of their desires? A fat girl did. Who taught them everything from stimulating erogenous zones to simulating passion till passion returned? A terminally hugely preposterously fat girl from Canterbury did and did and did.

That was more important than counting calories. If Katie Waddington was meant to die fat, then that was the way it was going to be. It was a cool night, just the way she liked it. Autumn had finally come to the city after a boiling summer, and as she trundled along in the darkness Katie relived, as she always did, the high points of her evening's group session. Tears. Yes, there were always tears as well as hand wringing, blushing, stammering, and sweating aplenty. But there was generally a special moment as well, a breakthrough moment that made listening to hours of repetitious personal details finally worthwhile. Tonight that moment had come in the persons of Felix and Dolores (last names withheld) who'd joined EiA with the express purpose of `recapturing the magic' of their marriage after each of them had spent two years -- and twenty thousand pounds -- exploring their individual sexual issues. Felix had long since admitted seeking satisfaction outside the realm of his wedding vows and Dolores had herself owned up to enjoying her vibrator and a picture of Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff far more than the marital embrace of her spouse. But on this night, Felix's ruminations on why the sight of Dolores's bare bum brought on thoughts of his mother in her declining years was too much for three of the middle-aged women in the group who attacked him verbally and so viciously that Dolores herself sprang passionately to his defence, apparently washing away her husband's aversion to her backside with the sacred water of her tears. Husband and wife subsequently fell into each other's arms, lip-l! ocked, and cried out in unison, `You've saved our marriage!' at the meeting's conclusion. She'd done nothing more than give them a forum, Katie admitted to herself. But that's all some people really wanted, anyway: an opportunity to humiliate themselves or their beloved in public, creating a situation from which the beloved could ultimately rescue or be provided rescue.

There was a genuine gold mine in dealing with the sexual dilemmas of the British population. Katie considered herself more than astute to have realised that fact. She yawned widely and felt her stomach growl. A good day's work and a good evening's work meant a good meal as a reward to herself followed by a good wallow with a video. She favoured old films for their nuances of romance. Fading to black at the crucial moment got her juices flowing far more efficiently than close ups of body parts and a sound track filled with heavy breathing. It Happened One Night would be her choice: Clark and Claudette and all that delicious tension between them. That's what missing in most relationships, Katie thought for the thousandth time that month. Sexual tension. There's nothing left to the imagination between men and women any longer. It's a know-all, tell-all, photograph-all world, with nothing to anticipate and even less left secret. But she couldn't complain. The state of the world was making her rich, and fat though she was, no one gave her aggro when they saw the house she lived in, the clothes she wore, the jewellery she bought, or the car she drove. She approached that car now, where she'd left it that morning, in a private car park across the street and round the corner from the clinic in which she spent her days. She found that she was breathing more heavily than usual as she paused on the kerb before crossing. She put one hand on a lamppost for support and felt her heart struggling to keep up its job. Perhaps she ought to consider the weight loss programme her doctor had suggested, she thought. But a second later, she rejected the idea. What was life for if not to be enjoyed? A breeze came up and blew her hair from her cheeks. She felt it cooling the back of her neck. A minute of rest was all she needed. She'd be fit as ever when she caught her breath. She stood and listened to the silent neighbourhood. It was partly commercial and partly residential, with businesses that were closed at this hour and houses long ago converted to flats with windows whose curtains were drawn against the night. Odd, she thought. She'd never really noticed the quiet or the emptiness of these streets after dark. She looked round and realised that anything could happen in this sort of place -- anything good, anything bad -- and it would be solely left to chance if there was a witness to what occurred. A chill coursed through her. Better move on. She stepped off the kerb. She began to cross. She didn't see the car at the end of the street till its lights switched on and blinded her. It barrelled towards her with a sound like a bull. She tried to hurry forward but the car was upon her. She was far too fat to get out of its way.