Truth: A Novel [NOOK Book]

Overview

Inspector Stephen Villani, head of homicide in Melbourne, Australia, has a full agenda: a murdered woman in a penthouse apartment, three men butchered in a sadistic rampage, a tattoofaced drug dealer corrupting his rebellious daughter, a crumbling marriage. As these seemingly unrelated events begin to unfold, Villani finds himself immersed in an unfamiliar world of political scandal and ethical ambiguity. He must navigate the inept bureaucracy that is the police department, all the while maintaining a solid front...

See more details below
Truth: A Novel

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$7.99
BN.com price

Overview

Inspector Stephen Villani, head of homicide in Melbourne, Australia, has a full agenda: a murdered woman in a penthouse apartment, three men butchered in a sadistic rampage, a tattoofaced drug dealer corrupting his rebellious daughter, a crumbling marriage. As these seemingly unrelated events begin to unfold, Villani finds himself immersed in an unfamiliar world of political scandal and ethical ambiguity. He must navigate the inept bureaucracy that is the police department, all the while maintaining a solid front and trying to keep the press, his family, and his own past from breaking him completely. With each twist and every turn of this taut crime novel, Villani is forced to question whom he can trust.

While The Broken Shore captured the harshness and beauty of regional Australia, Truth captures the grim reality of the city and the people who struggle to hold on to any certainty that they can find. Tense and unrelenting, this unforgettable novel confronts the complexity of human relationships and the difficulty of escaping the past.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The death of a nameless prostitute in a glitzy Melbourne high-rise is the first in a series of crimes that Insp. Stephen Villani discovers are all tied to protecting the interests of the city's elite in this brutal tale of corruption, greed, and revenge from Australian author (and Ned Kelly Award-winner) Temple (The Broken Shore). Burdened by a shaky marriage and an increasingly rebellious teenage daughter while trying to stay afloat in Melbourne's treacherous political climate, Villani doesn't know where to turn. The discovery of three savagely tortured men with ties to one of the city's biggest crime bosses only adds another layer to the already twisted case, and makes Villani question eve-rything he thought he knew about the line between cop and criminal. Temple's elliptical storytelling—the past and the present are often interchangeable—fits the slippery subject of deeply ingrained police corruption and one man's determination to uncover the truth. (May)
Library Journal
As head of homicide in Melbourne, Australia, Inspector Stephen Villani devotes himself to serving justice. Yet even as he pursues cases with single-minded intensity, he can't ignore a foreboding that the job is destroying him. Faced with a brutal triple homicide and an unidentified victim found in a penthouse apartment, Villani uncovers a sinister political dimension to the crimes as major players in the upcoming state elections try to influence the investigation. Meanwhile, Villani's drug-addicted teenage daughter is out on the streets, his marriage is in crisis, and bush fires threaten his father's life. VERDICT In this follow-up to the award-winning The Broken Shore, Temple spins a complex and powerful story with writing so top-notch that readers might be tempted to slow down and savor the prose if the plot line weren't so compelling. Villani is an unforgettable protagonist, a miserable, conflicted cop who somehow embodies grace in a malevolent world. Already acclaimed in Australia, Temple proves once again that he deserves to be better known among American crime fiction fans. Talk it up; highly recommended.—Kelsy Peterson, Johnson Cty. Community Coll., Overland Park, KS
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429925044
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 5/11/2010
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 165,764
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Peter Temple is the author of eight crime novels, five of which have won the Ned Kelly Award for Crime Fiction. He has worked as a journalist and editor for newspapers and magazines in several countries. He lives in Victoria, Australia.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt


Truth
On the Westgate Bridge, behind them a flat in Altona, a dead woman, a girl really, dirty hair, dyed red, pale roots, she was stabbed too many times to count, stomach, chest, back, face. The child, male, two or three years old, his head was kicked. Blood everywhere. On the nylon carpet, it lay in pools, a chain of tacky black ponds.
Villani looked at the city towers, wobbling, unstable in the sulphurous haze. He shouldn’t have come. There was no need. “This airconditioner’s fucked,” he said. “Second one this week.”
“Never go over here without thinking,” said Birkerts.
“What?”
“My grandad. On it.”
One spring morning in 1970, the bridge’s half-built steel frame stood in the air, it crawled with men, unmarried men, men with wives, men with wives and children, men with children they did not know, men with nothing but the job and the hard, hard hangover and then Span 10–11 failed.
One hundred and twelve metres of newly raised steel and concrete, two thousand tonnes.
Men and machines, tools, lunchboxes, toilets, whole sheds—even, someone said, a small black dog, barking—all fell down the sky. In moments, thirty-five men were dead or dying, bodies broken, sunk in the foul grey crusted sludge of the Yarra’s bank. Diesel fuel lay everywhere. A fire broke out and, slowly, a filthy plume rose to mark the scene.
“Dead?” said Villani.
“No, taking a shit, rode the dunny all the way down.”
“Certainly passed on that shit-riding talent,” said Villani, thinking about Singleton, who couldn’t keep his hands off the job, either, couldn’t stay in the office. It was not something to admire in the head of Homicide.
On the down ramp, Birkerts’s phone rang, it was on speaker.
Finucane’s deep voice:
“Boss. Boss, Altona, we’re at the husband’s brother’s place in Maidstone. He’s here, the hubby, in the garage. Hosepipe. Well, not a hosepipe, black plastic thing, y’know, like a pool hose?”
“Excellent work,” said Birkerts. “Could’ve been in Alice Springs by now. Tennant Creek.”
Finucane coughed. “So, yeah, maybe the scientists can come on here, boss. Plus the truck.”
“Sort that out, Fin. Might be pizza, though.”
“I’ll tell the wife hold the T-bones.”
Birkerts ended the call.
“Closed this Altona thing in an hour,” he said. “That’s pretty neat for the clearance.”
Villani heard Singo:
Fuck the clearance rate. Worry about doing the job properly.
Joe Cashin had thought he was doing the job properly and it took the jaws to open the car embedded in the fallen house. Diab was dead, Cashin was breathing but no hope, too much blood lost, too much broken and ruptured.
Singleton only left the hospital to sit in his car, the old Falcon. He aged, grey stubble sprouted, his silken hair went greasy. After the surgery, when they told him Joe had some small chance and allowed him into the room, he took Joe’s slack hand, held it, kissed its knuckles. Then he stood, smoothed Joe’s hair, bent to kiss Joe’s forehead.
Finucane was there, he was the witness, and he told Villani. They did not know that Singleton was capable of such emotion.
The next time Cashin came out of hospital, the second time in three years, he was pale as a barked tree. Singo was dead by then, a second stroke, and Villani was acting boss of Homicide.
“The clearance rate,” Villani said. “A disappointment to me to hear you use the term.”
His phone.
Gavan Kiely, deputy head of Homicide, two months in the job.
“We have a dead woman in the Prosilio building, that’s in Docklands,” he said. “Paul Dove’s asked for assistance.”
“Why?”
“Out of his depth. I’m off to Auckland later but I can go.”
“No,” said Villani. “I bear this cross.”
He went down the passage into the bedroom, a bed big enough for four sleepers, mattress naked, pillows bare. Forensic had finished there. He picked up a pillow with his fingertips, sniffed it.
Faintest smell of perfume. Deeper sniff. The other pillow. Different perfume, slightly stronger smell.
He walked through the empty dressing room into the bathroom, saw the glass bath and beside it a bronze arm rising from the floor, its hand offering a cake of soap.
She was on the plastic bag in a yoga posture of rest—legs parted, palms up, scarlet toenails, long legs, sparse pubic hair, small breasts. His view was blocked by the shoulder of a kneeling forensic tech. Villani stepped sideways and saw her face, recoiled. For a terrible heart-jumping instant, he thought it was Lizzie, the resemblance was strong.
He turned to the wall of glass, breathed out, his heart settled. The drab grey bay lay before him and, between the Heads, a pinhead, a container ship. Gradually it would show its ponderous shape, a huge lolling flat-topped steel slug bleeding rust and oil and putrid waste.
“Panic button,” said Dove. He was wearing a navy suit, a white shirt and a dark tie, a neurosurgeon on his hospital rounds.
Villani looked: rubber, dimpled like a golf ball, set in the wall between the shower and the head of the bath.
“Nice shower,” said Dove.
A stainless-steel disc hung above a perforated square of metal. On a glass shelf, a dozen or more soap bars were displayed as if for sale.
The forensic woman said, “Broken neck. Bath empty but she’s damp.”
She was new on the job, Canadian, a mannish young woman, no make-up, tanned, crew cut.
“How do you break your neck in the bath?” said Villani.
“It’s hard to do it yourself. Takes a lot to break a neck.”
“Really?”
She didn’t get his tone. “Absolutely. Takes force.”
“What else?” said Villani.
“Nothing I can see now.”
“The time? Inspired guess.”
“Less than twenty-four or I have to go back to school.”
“I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you. Taken the water temperature into account?”
“What?”
Villani pointed. The small digital touchscreen at the door was set at 48 degrees Celsius.
“Didn’t see that,” she said. “I would have. In due course.”
“No doubt.”
Little smile. “Okay, Lance,” she said. “Zip it.”
Lance was a gaunt man, spade beard. He tried to zip the bag, it stuck below the woman’s breasts. He moved the slider back and forth, got it free, encased her in the plastic.
Not ungently, they lifted the bag onto the trolley.
When they were gone, Dove and Weber came to him.
“Who owns this?” said Villani.
“They’re finding out,” said Dove. “Apparently it’s complicated.”
“They?”
“The management. Waiting for us downstairs.”
“You want me to do it?” said Villani.
Dove touched a cheekbone, unhappy. “That would be helpful, boss.”
“You want to do it, Web?” said Villani, rubbing it in to Dove.
Weber was mid-thirties, looked twenty, an unmarried evangelical Christian. He came with plenty of country experience: mothers who drowned babies, sons who axed their mothers, access fathers who wasted the kids. But Old Testament murders in the rural welfare sumps didn’t prepare you for dead women in apartments with private lifts, glass baths, French soaps and three bottles of Moët in the fridge.
“No, boss,” he said.
They walked on the plastic strip, passed through the apartment’s small pale marble hall, through the front door into a corridor. They waited for the lift.
“What’s her name?” Villani said.
“They don’t know,” said Dove. “Know nothing about her. There’s no ID.”
“Neighbours?”
“Aren’t any. Six apartments on this floor, all empty.”
The lift came, they fell thirty floors. On the sixth, at a desk, three dark suits, two men and a woman, waited. The plump fiftyish man came forward, pushing back limp hair.
“Alex Manton, building manager,” he said.
Dove said, “This is Inspector Villani, head of Homicide.”
Manton offered his hand. It felt dry, chalky.
“Let’s talk in the meeting space, Inspector,” Manton said.
The room had a painting on the inner wall, vaguely marine, five metres by three at least, blue-grey smears, possibly applied with a mop. They sat at a long table with legs of chromed pipe.
“Who owns the apartment?” said Villani.
“A company called Shollonel Pty. Ltd., registered in Lebanon,” said Manton. “As far as we know, it’s not occupied.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, it’s not a given to know. People buy apartments to live in, investment, future use. They might not live in them at all, live in them for short or long periods. We ask people to register when they’re in residence. But you can’t force them.”
“How was she found?” said Villani.
“Sylvia?” said Manton. “Our head concierge, Sylvia Allegro.”
The woman, dolly face. “The apartment’s front door wasn’t fully closed,” she said. “The lock didn’t engage. That triggers a buzzer in the apartment. If it isn’t closed in two minutes, there’s a security alert and they ring the apartment. If that doesn’t work, they go up.”
“So there in four, five minutes?” said Villani.
Sylvia looked at Manton, who was looking at the other man, fortyish, head like a glans.
“Obviously not quite,” said the man.
“You are?” said Villani.
“David Condy, head of security for the apartments and the hotel.” He was English.
“What’s not quite mean?”
“I’m told the whole electronic system failed its first big test last night. The casino opening. Orion. Four hundred guests.”
“The open door. The system tells you when?”
“It should do. But what with . . .”
“That’s no?”
“Yes. No.”
“Panic buttons up there.”
“In all the apartments.”
“Not pressed?”
Condy ran a finger in his collar. “No evidence of that.”
“You don’t know?”
“It’s difficult to say. With the failure, we have no record.”
“That’s not difficult,” said Villani. “It’s impossible.”
Manton held up a pudgy hand. “To cut to the whatever, Inspector, a major IT malfunction. Coinciding with this matter, so we look a little silly.”
Villani looked at the woman. “The bed’s stripped. How would you get rid of sheets and stuff?”
“Get rid of?”
“Dispose of.”
The woman flicked at Manton. “Well, the garbage chute, I suppose,” she said.
“Can you tell where garbage has come from?”
“No.”
“Explain this building to me, Mr. Manton. Just an outline.”
Manton’s right hand consulted his hair. “From the top, four floors of penthouses. Then six floors, four apartments each. Beneath them, it’s fourteen floors of apartments, six to a floor. Then it’s the three recreation floors, pools, gyms, spas and so on. Then twelve more floors of apartments, eight to a floor. Then the casino’s four floors, the hotel’s ten floors, two floors of catering, housekeeping. And these reception floors, that’s concierge, admin and security. The casino has its own security but its systems mesh with the building’s.”
“Or don’t.” Villani pointed down.
“Under us, the business floors, retail, and hospitality, ground-floor plaza. Five basement levels for parking and utilities.”
In Villani’s line of sight, the door opened. A man came in, a woman followed, even height, suits, white shirts.
“Crashing in,” said the man, loud. “Introductions, please, Alex.”
Manton stood. “Inspector Villani, this is Guy Ulyatt of Marscay Corporation.”
Ulyatt was fat and pink, cornsilk hair, tuber nose. “Pleasure, Inspector,” he said. He didn’t offer a hand, sat down. The woman sat beside him.
Villani said to Manton, “This person’s got something to tell us?”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Ulyatt. “I’m head of corporate affairs for Marscay.”
Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Truth

A Novel
By Peter Temple

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 2010 Peter Temple
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780374279370

truth
On the Westgate Bridge, behind them a flat in Altona, a dead woman, a girl really, dirty hair, dyed red, pale roots, she was stabbed too many times to count, stomach, chest, back, face. The child, male, two or three years old, his head was kicked. Blood everywhere. On the nylon carpet, it lay in pools, a chain of tacky black ponds.
Villani looked at the city towers, wobbling, unstable in the sulphurous haze. He shouldn’t have come. There was no need. “This airconditioner’s fucked,” he said. “Second one this week.”
“Never go over here without thinking,” said Birkerts.
“What?”
“My grandad. On it.”
One spring morning in 1970, the bridge’s half-built steel frame stood in the air, it crawled with men, unmarried men, men with wives, men with wives and children, men with children they did not know, men with nothing but the job and the hard, hard hangover and then Span 10–11 failed.
One hundred and twelve metres of newly raised steel and concrete, two thousand tonnes.
Men and machines, tools, lunchboxes, toilets, whole sheds—even, someone said, a small black dog, barking—all fell down the sky. In moments, thirty-five men were dead or dying, bodies broken, sunk in the foul grey crusted sludge of the Yarra’s bank. Diesel fuel lay everywhere. A fire broke out and, slowly, a filthy plume rose to mark the scene.
“Dead?” said Villani.
“No, taking a shit, rode the dunny all the way down.”
“Certainly passed on that shit-riding talent,” said Villani, thinking about Singleton, who couldn’t keep his hands off the job, either, couldn’t stay in the office. It was not something to admire in the head of Homicide.
On the down ramp, Birkerts’s phone rang, it was on speaker.
Finucane’s deep voice:
“Boss. Boss, Altona, we’re at the husband’s brother’s place in Maidstone. He’s here, the hubby, in the garage. Hosepipe. Well, not a hosepipe, black plastic thing, y’know, like a pool hose?”
“Excellent work,” said Birkerts. “Could’ve been in Alice Springs by now. Tennant Creek.”
Finucane coughed. “So, yeah, maybe the scientists can come on here, boss. Plus the truck.”
“Sort that out, Fin. Might be pizza, though.”
“I’ll tell the wife hold the T-bones.”
Birkerts ended the call.
“Closed this Altona thing in an hour,” he said. “That’s pretty neat for the clearance.”
Villani heard Singo:
Fuck the clearance rate. Worry about doing the job properly.
Joe Cashin had thought he was doing the job properly and it took the jaws to open the car embedded in the fallen house. Diab was dead, Cashin was breathing but no hope, too much blood lost, too much broken and ruptured.
Singleton only left the hospital to sit in his car, the old Falcon. He aged, grey stubble sprouted, his silken hair went greasy. After the surgery, when they told him Joe had some small chance and allowed him into the room, he took Joe’s slack hand, held it, kissed its knuckles. Then he stood, smoothed Joe’s hair, bent to kiss Joe’s forehead.
Finucane was there, he was the witness, and he told Villani. They did not know that Singleton was capable of such emotion.
The next time Cashin came out of hospital, the second time in three years, he was pale as a barked tree. Singo was dead by then, a second stroke, and Villani was acting boss of Homicide.
“The clearance rate,” Villani said. “A disappointment to me to hear you use the term.”
His phone.
Gavan Kiely, deputy head of Homicide, two months in the job.
“We have a dead woman in the Prosilio building, that’s in Docklands,” he said. “Paul Dove’s asked for assistance.”
“Why?”
“Out of his depth. I’m off to Auckland later but I can go.”
“No,” said Villani. “I bear this cross.”
He went down the passage into the bedroom, a bed big enough for four sleepers, mattress naked, pillows bare. Forensic had finished there. He picked up a pillow with his fingertips, sniffed it.
Faintest smell of perfume. Deeper sniff. The other pillow. Different perfume, slightly stronger smell.
He walked through the empty dressing room into the bathroom, saw the glass bath and beside it a bronze arm rising from the floor, its hand offering a cake of soap.
She was on the plastic bag in a yoga posture of rest—legs parted, palms up, scarlet toenails, long legs, sparse pubic hair, small breasts. His view was blocked by the shoulder of a kneeling forensic tech. Villani stepped sideways and saw her face, recoiled. For a terrible heart-jumping instant, he thought it was Lizzie, the resemblance was strong.
He turned to the wall of glass, breathed out, his heart settled. The drab grey bay lay before him and, between the Heads, a pinhead, a container ship. Gradually it would show its ponderous shape, a huge lolling flat-topped steel slug bleeding rust and oil and putrid waste.
“Panic button,” said Dove. He was wearing a navy suit, a white shirt and a dark tie, a neurosurgeon on his hospital rounds.
Villani looked: rubber, dimpled like a golf ball, set in the wall between the shower and the head of the bath.
“Nice shower,” said Dove.
A stainless-steel disc hung above a perforated square of metal. On a glass shelf, a dozen or more soap bars were displayed as if for sale.
The forensic woman said, “Broken neck. Bath empty but she’s damp.”
She was new on the job, Canadian, a mannish young woman, no make-up, tanned, crew cut.
“How do you break your neck in the bath?” said Villani.
“It’s hard to do it yourself. Takes a lot to break a neck.”
“Really?”
She didn’t get his tone. “Absolutely. Takes force.”
“What else?” said Villani.
“Nothing I can see now.”
“The time? Inspired guess.”
“Less than twenty-four or I have to go back to school.”
“I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you. Taken the water temperature into account?”
“What?”
Villani pointed. The small digital touchscreen at the door was set at 48 degrees Celsius.
“Didn’t see that,” she said. “I would have. In due course.”
“No doubt.”
Little smile. “Okay, Lance,” she said. “Zip it.”
Lance was a gaunt man, spade beard. He tried to zip the bag, it stuck below the woman’s breasts. He moved the slider back and forth, got it free, encased her in the plastic.
Not ungently, they lifted the bag onto the trolley.
When they were gone, Dove and Weber came to him.
“Who owns this?” said Villani.
“They’re finding out,” said Dove. “Apparently it’s complicated.”
“They?”
“The management. Waiting for us downstairs.”
“You want me to do it?” said Villani.
Dove touched a cheekbone, unhappy. “That would be helpful, boss.”
“You want to do it, Web?” said Villani, rubbing it in to Dove.
Weber was mid-thirties, looked twenty, an unmarried evangelical Christian. He came with plenty of country experience: mothers who drowned babies, sons who axed their mothers, access fathers who wasted the kids. But Old Testament murders in the rural welfare sumps didn’t prepare you for dead women in apartments with private lifts, glass baths, French soaps and three bottles of Moët in the fridge.
“No, boss,” he said.
They walked on the plastic strip, passed through the apartment’s small pale marble hall, through the front door into a corridor. They waited for the lift.
“What’s her name?” Villani said.
“They don’t know,” said Dove. “Know nothing about her. There’s no ID.”
“Neighbours?”
“Aren’t any. Six apartments on this floor, all empty.”
The lift came, they fell thirty floors. On the sixth, at a desk, three dark suits, two men and a woman, waited. The plump fiftyish man came forward, pushing back limp hair.
“Alex Manton, building manager,” he said.
Dove said, “This is Inspector Villani, head of Homicide.”
Manton offered his hand. It felt dry, chalky.
“Let’s talk in the meeting space, Inspector,” Manton said.
The room had a painting on the inner wall, vaguely marine, five metres by three at least, blue-grey smears, possibly applied with a mop. They sat at a long table with legs of chromed pipe.
“Who owns the apartment?” said Villani.
“A company called Shollonel Pty. Ltd., registered in Lebanon,” said Manton. “As far as we know, it’s not occupied.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, it’s not a given to know. People buy apartments to live in, investment, future use. They might not live in them at all, live in them for short or long periods. We ask people to register when they’re in residence. But you can’t force them.”
“How was she found?” said Villani.
“Sylvia?” said Manton. “Our head concierge, Sylvia Allegro.”
The woman, dolly face. “The apartment’s front door wasn’t fully closed,” she said. “The lock didn’t engage. That triggers a buzzer in the apartment. If it isn’t closed in two minutes, there’s a security alert and they ring the apartment. If that doesn’t work, they go up.”
“So there in four, five minutes?” said Villani.
Sylvia looked at Manton, who was looking at the other man, fortyish, head like a glans.
“Obviously not quite,” said the man.
“You are?” said Villani.
“David Condy, head of security for the apartments and the hotel.” He was English.
“What’s not quite mean?”
“I’m told the whole electronic system failed its first big test last night. The casino opening. Orion. Four hundred guests.”
“The open door. The system tells you when?”
“It should do. But what with . . .”
“That’s no?”
“Yes. No.”
“Panic buttons up there.”
“In all the apartments.”
“Not pressed?”
Condy ran a finger in his collar. “No evidence of that.”
“You don’t know?”
“It’s difficult to say. With the failure, we have no record.”
“That’s not difficult,” said Villani. “It’s impossible.”
Manton held up a pudgy hand. “To cut to the whatever, Inspector, a major IT malfunction. Coinciding with this matter, so we look a little silly.”
Villani looked at the woman. “The bed’s stripped. How would you get rid of sheets and stuff?”
“Get rid of?”
“Dispose of.”
The woman flicked at Manton. “Well, the garbage chute, I suppose,” she said.
“Can you tell where garbage has come from?”
“No.”
“Explain this building to me, Mr. Manton. Just an outline.”
Manton’s right hand consulted his hair. “From the top, four floors of penthouses. Then six floors, four apartments each. Beneath them, it’s fourteen floors of apartments, six to a floor. Then it’s the three recreation floors, pools, gyms, spas and so on. Then twelve more floors of apartments, eight to a floor. Then the casino’s four floors, the hotel’s ten floors, two floors of catering, housekeeping. And these reception floors, that’s concierge, admin and security. The casino has its own security but its systems mesh with the building’s.”
“Or don’t.” Villani pointed down.
“Under us, the business floors, retail, and hospitality, ground-floor plaza. Five basement levels for parking and utilities.”
In Villani’s line of sight, the door opened. A man came in, a woman followed, even height, suits, white shirts.
“Crashing in,” said the man, loud. “Introductions, please, Alex.”
Manton stood. “Inspector Villani, this is Guy Ulyatt of Marscay Corporation.”
Ulyatt was fat and pink, cornsilk hair, tuber nose. “Pleasure, Inspector,” he said. He didn’t offer a hand, sat down. The woman sat beside him.
Villani said to Manton, “This person’s got something to tell us?”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Ulyatt. “I’m head of corporate affairs for Marscay.”


Continues...

Excerpted from Truth by Peter Temple Copyright © 2010 by Peter Temple. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 4 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(1)

4 Star

(3)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 15, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Edinburgh, Australia

    Melbourne may not have the charm of Edinburgh, but it seems to have a relative of Scottish Inspector John Rebus working as chief of Homicide. Stephen Villani, like Rebus, is a troubled man, trying to maintain integrity in the face of corruption all around him. The crims, the pols, the family- they all cause him trouble. Author Peter Temple writes in a much harder style than does Ian Rankin, and it takes some getting used to. A glossary of Australian terms is provided, but not really necessary. What's necessary is a map following the author around. According to Publisher's Weekly: "Temple's elliptical storytelling-the past and the present are often interchangeable-fits the slippery subject of deeply ingrained police corruption and one man's determination to uncover the truth." And he does change tenses without notice, and also expects the reader to know what just happened even though he has yet to tell us. But, Truth is a good story, its characters well-drawn, and the smell of corruption that we often see in police novels has a very ugly face here. Who knew? Melbourne, a cesspool of crime and corruption? Well, how did the Australians get there in the first place?

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 18, 2011

    Very good

    A little obscure, still a great read

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 13, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 11, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)