Download E-books One Good Turn: A Novel PDF

By Kate Atkinson

"Atkinson's brilliant voice jewelry on each web page, and her sly and wry observations flow the plot as speedily as suspense turns the pages of a thriller."-San Francisco Chronicle

Two years after the occasions of Case Histories left him a retired millionaire, Jackson Brodie has Julia, his occasional female friend and previous purchaser, to Edinburgh for its recognized summer season arts pageant. but if he witnesses a guy being brutally attacked in a traffic congestion - the plain sufferer of an severe case of highway rage - a series of occasions is determined in movement that would pull the spouse of an unscrupulous genuine property wealthy person, a timid yet winning crime novelist, and a hardheaded woman police detective into Jackson's orbit. unexpectedly out of retirement, Jackson is once more in the middle of numerous mysteries that intersect in a single mammoth and sinister scheme.
"Compelling and continuously entertaining." -USA Today

"One stable Turn crackles with strength and imagination." -Chicago Tribune

"Atkinson's tart prose sparkles." -Entertainment Weekly

"Entertaining either as a homicide secret and as a sprawling multi-character research within the most sensible post-Nashville tradition." -The Onion

"A amazing feat of storytelling bravado." -Washington Post

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Paul Bradley shrugged it off, announcing, “That’s ok, I’m now not hiding something. i used to be within the army, really. SBS. We don’t search out realization just like the SAS do. Now I’m only a table jockey, pushing items of paper round. Very dull. have you ever served within the forces, then? ” “Not exactly,” Martin stated. “My father was once a CSM, he introduced us up in a family boot camp. ” “Us? ” “My brother and me. Christopher. ” “Are you close up? ” “No,” Martin stated. “Not fairly. ” He may well see what Paul Bradley was once doing, turning the tables, wondering Martin to prevent answering whatever approximately himself. “I’ll simply sit down during this chair here,” he acknowledged. “I’m purported to be observing you, no longer slumbering. ” “Up to you,” Paul Bradley stated, taking the holdall into the tiny en suite and closing the door. Martin attempted to shut his ears to the noise of one other guy washing, brushing, peeing. He switched at the tv on the way to masks the sounds, however it was once exhibiting snow on all channels. He leafed idly throughout the simply interpreting subject within the room, a brochure ads Scottish vacationer points of interest— a mishmash of whiskey distilleries, woolen turbines, and history trails. “The bathroom’s free,” Paul Bradley acknowledged whilst he emerged, smelling of inexpensive cleaning soap and toothpaste. Martin felt just like the shy bride on a virgin honeymoon, the groom oblivious to his blushing reticence. Paul Bradley opened the minibar and acknowledged, “Have a drink. ” “Maybe only a mineral water,” Martin stated, but if he inspected the minibar he observed that water was once too refined a request. Its contents have been easy, no water or mixers, no Toblerone, no unpalatable jap crackers or zone bottles of champagne, no longer even any salted peanuts—just cans of lager, spirit miniatures, and Irn-Bru. The sight of the miniatures prompted a surprising wish for alcohol, whatever to clean away the turmoil of the day. “Let me repair you something,” Paul Bradley acknowledged, retrieving a tiny bottle of whiskey and a can of Irn-Bru. “Hang on, I’ll get a pitcher from the lavatory. ” Martin regarded in horror on the glass of orange liquid that Paul Bradley got here again with yet felt obliged to assert, “Thanks,” and take a drink. He used to be certain there have been cells in his liver that have been committing suicide instead of facing Scotland’s nationwide beverages jointly in a single vile cocktail. The copper tones of the room’s decor, the fluorescent orange of the Irn-Bru, and the marmalade tint of the sodium streetlamp outdoor the window all contributed to Martin’s feel of alienation, as though he had stepped right into a sickly science-fiction international, tainted by way of a few ecological disaster. “All correct? ” Paul Bradley acknowledged. “Yes, fine,” Martin acknowledged. He took one other drink of the orange liquid. It was once deeply unpalatable but surprisingly compelling. speedily, with no signal of any self-consciousness, Paul Bradley stripped all the way down to a grey T-shirt and grey boxers. pricey, great cotton jersey textile, Martin spotted, even if he avoided his eyes presently and stared as an alternative at a shockingly photograph print of Culloden that was once putting above the bed—bodies being pierced via bayonets and swords, open mouths, heads tumbling.

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