Review
'A sensual portrait of modern Greece, as well as a great page-turner: taste the salt, feel the heat as you follow the dramatic story!offers much more than the crime fiction genre usually encompasses: a rich and intelligent story, with fascinating characters' Scotland on Sunday on A DEEPER SHADE OF BLUE 'A new departure for an immensely talented author, and the change of scene from the Scotland of the earlier books to the author's new home of Greece pays great dividends' Barry Forshaw, Publishing News on A DEEPER SHADE OF BLUE 'Excellent' - Philip Kerr on A DEEPER SHADE OF BLUE 'Another fine example of great storytelling' - Sunday Telegraph on THE HOUSE OF DUST 'Johnston brings an intelligent perspective to the dark excitement of the thriller' - Nicholas Blincoe, Observer on WATER OF DEATH 'A perfect setting for a tense thriller... This is an intelligent and satisfying book, part contemporary thriller, part the dark sister of Captain Corelli's Mandolin' -- Scotsman
Review
"1 'Another fine example of great storytelling' - Sunday Telegraph on THE HOUSE OF DUST 2 'Quint Dalrymple [is] a testy, tenacious detective...a smart move to shift much of the novel to Glasgow' - The Sunday Times on THE BLOOD TREE 3 'Johnston brings an intelligent perspective to the dark excitement of the thriller' - Nicholas Blincoe, Observer on WATER OF DEATH 4 'First-rate crime fiction with an original twist' - Sunday Telegraph on THE BONE YARD 5 'Think of Plato's Republic with a body count' - The Sunday Times on BODY POLITIC
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Product Description
When Alex Mavros is asked to track down a missing woman, he jumps at the chance to leave the stifling heat of Athens. Travelling to the small island of Trigono, he soon realises that there is more than one mystery to be solved. How did a young couple drown in the nets of a fishing boat? Why did a British journalist leave without telling her friends? Why is the millionaire Theocharis so nervous and whose bones does old Maro keep beneath her bed? The answers lie in events that took place during the Second World War, events that tie in with the island's most ancient history. In a race to prevent a terrible crime being repeated, Alex Mavros is pitted against a ruthless and depraved killer...
About the Author
Paul Johnston was born in Edinburgh, studied Greek at Oxford and now divides his time between the UK and a small Greek island. He is also the highly-acclaimed author of the Quintilian Dalrymple series, winning the John Creasey Memorial Dagger for best first crime novel.
Excerpted from A Deeper Shade of Blue by Paul Johnston. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Outside, the half-moon, tilted on its back, was rising low over the eastern islands, casting a shimmering path on the grey-blue sea. A light breeze was blowing over the ridge, and on it came the creak of cicadas and the clang of goat bells from the upper slopes. The drag of water over the fractured feet of the cliffs below was a regular pattern, as soft and insistent as a lullaby.
Inside, the woman choked back a scream and drew fetid air into her lungs. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, but the darkness was still there when she opened them again. She pulled hard against her bonds. The ropes on her wrists and ankles bit into the raw skin, making her gasp, but she persisted with the movements, trying to understand what was happening. Her mind was spongy, unfocused, and there was a dull buzzing in the background. Was she drunk? She jerked back and forward again, tears spurting as pain shot up her arms and legs. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, but nothing came. Her throat was too dry and her stomach was empty.
Then she heard the voices. They were low and hard to distinguish, coming from some point in the outer darkness. She swallowed hard and tried to control her breathing. The voices seemed to be familiar. There were two of them, one lower than the other, but her wandering mind couldn’t locate the faces that went with the sounds. All she could tell was that the speakers were having a fevered discussion. Something told her that calling out to them wasn’t advisable. She raised her bound wrists to her face and touched the broken surface of one cheekbone. Had she already made a noise? Had they hit her? She felt her stomach turn over.
The voices in the darkness were less tense now, the argument apparently over. The woman moved her back against the wall – it was much rougher than the wall of a house – and realised with a spasm of shock that she was naked. There was gritty sand on the skin of her backside and she drew her tied wrists up over uncovered breasts. She started panting as the nature of her predicament overtook her like a tidal wave. And then a light came on.
It was bright, blinding, and directed at her face. She tried to look away as it moved closer and felt another frisson of horror as she saw a loose assembly of bones in the far corner, plumes of skin and tattered tendons trailing away from it across the floor. Then the light was up close and a heavy hand took hold of her chin, forcing it up.
It was the laugh that broke her spirit, an explosion of inhumanity that the softer intonation of her other captor’s voice did nothing to dilute. Without resisting she allowed herself to be pushed forward, rough hands on her breasts and between her legs, until she was crouching on all fours, her eyes clouded by tears. The light was withdrawn and she caught a glimpse of a tripod, heard the whirl of a video camera. Then she was caught by a driving agony. She had already sunk into the lowest depths of fear and desolation. The knowledge that a recording was being made of what she was enduring meant little to her.
It ended in a series of grunts. The woman was knocked against the wall and a heavy hand rained blows on her head and shoulders, as if she had failed the man who had assaulted her. The camera’s sibilant clicking stopped and she opened her eyes. She saw boots, shoes, the tripod, but she kept her gaze away from the decaying body on her left.
And then, in the seconds before the light went out, a bottle thudded against her bare thigh, followed by a hunk of what smelled like bread in the sand by her face. The low voices faded and the woman stayed motionless. She understood that the screw had been tightened. She was not to be set free, she was not even to be slaughtered like a captive animal. She was to be kept in this stinking hole, she was to stay alive so that the bastards could continue violating and filming her whenever they wanted.
She tried to hold her breath until she passed out, tried to resist the temptation to open the bottle, but she soon gave in. She drank brackish, inert water and swallowed coarse bread. How long had she been here? When had she last eaten? She had no sense of time, no clear idea of where she was. A cellar? A deserted hut? A cave? In the distance she heard the sound of a vehicle start up and move off.
The enclosed space around her was sable, black as the most starless of nights, and she became aware of the flutter of scaly wings over her head. She wondered if they were bats, but whatever they were, the creatures didn’t frighten her. They were nothing compared with the realisation that had crept over her.
She had no idea who she was. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Inside, the woman choked back a scream and drew fetid air into her lungs. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, but the darkness was still there when she opened them again. She pulled hard against her bonds. The ropes on her wrists and ankles bit into the raw skin, making her gasp, but she persisted with the movements, trying to understand what was happening. Her mind was spongy, unfocused, and there was a dull buzzing in the background. Was she drunk? She jerked back and forward again, tears spurting as pain shot up her arms and legs. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, but nothing came. Her throat was too dry and her stomach was empty.
Then she heard the voices. They were low and hard to distinguish, coming from some point in the outer darkness. She swallowed hard and tried to control her breathing. The voices seemed to be familiar. There were two of them, one lower than the other, but her wandering mind couldn’t locate the faces that went with the sounds. All she could tell was that the speakers were having a fevered discussion. Something told her that calling out to them wasn’t advisable. She raised her bound wrists to her face and touched the broken surface of one cheekbone. Had she already made a noise? Had they hit her? She felt her stomach turn over.
The voices in the darkness were less tense now, the argument apparently over. The woman moved her back against the wall – it was much rougher than the wall of a house – and realised with a spasm of shock that she was naked. There was gritty sand on the skin of her backside and she drew her tied wrists up over uncovered breasts. She started panting as the nature of her predicament overtook her like a tidal wave. And then a light came on.
It was bright, blinding, and directed at her face. She tried to look away as it moved closer and felt another frisson of horror as she saw a loose assembly of bones in the far corner, plumes of skin and tattered tendons trailing away from it across the floor. Then the light was up close and a heavy hand took hold of her chin, forcing it up.
It was the laugh that broke her spirit, an explosion of inhumanity that the softer intonation of her other captor’s voice did nothing to dilute. Without resisting she allowed herself to be pushed forward, rough hands on her breasts and between her legs, until she was crouching on all fours, her eyes clouded by tears. The light was withdrawn and she caught a glimpse of a tripod, heard the whirl of a video camera. Then she was caught by a driving agony. She had already sunk into the lowest depths of fear and desolation. The knowledge that a recording was being made of what she was enduring meant little to her.
It ended in a series of grunts. The woman was knocked against the wall and a heavy hand rained blows on her head and shoulders, as if she had failed the man who had assaulted her. The camera’s sibilant clicking stopped and she opened her eyes. She saw boots, shoes, the tripod, but she kept her gaze away from the decaying body on her left.
And then, in the seconds before the light went out, a bottle thudded against her bare thigh, followed by a hunk of what smelled like bread in the sand by her face. The low voices faded and the woman stayed motionless. She understood that the screw had been tightened. She was not to be set free, she was not even to be slaughtered like a captive animal. She was to be kept in this stinking hole, she was to stay alive so that the bastards could continue violating and filming her whenever they wanted.
She tried to hold her breath until she passed out, tried to resist the temptation to open the bottle, but she soon gave in. She drank brackish, inert water and swallowed coarse bread. How long had she been here? When had she last eaten? She had no sense of time, no clear idea of where she was. A cellar? A deserted hut? A cave? In the distance she heard the sound of a vehicle start up and move off.
The enclosed space around her was sable, black as the most starless of nights, and she became aware of the flutter of scaly wings over her head. She wondered if they were bats, but whatever they were, the creatures didn’t frighten her. They were nothing compared with the realisation that had crept over her.
She had no idea who she was. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
