Devices and Desires (Adam Dalgliesh Series #8)

Devices and Desires (Adam Dalgliesh Series #8)

by P. D. James

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Overview

National Bestseller. 

Featuring the famous Commander Adam Dalgliesh, Devices and Desires is a thrilling and insightfully crafted novel of fallible people caught in a net of secrets, ambitions, and schemes on a lonely stretch of Norfolk coastline.

Commander Dalgliesh of Scotland Yard has just published a new book of poems and has taken a brief respite from publicity on the remote Larksoken headland on the Norfolk coast in a converted windmill left to him by his aunt. But he cannot so easily escape murder. A psychotic strangler of young women is at large in Norfolk, and getting nearer to Larksoken with every killing. And when Dalgliesh discovers the murdered body of the Acting Administrative Officer on the beach, he finds himself caught up in the passions and dangerous secrets of the headland community and in one of the most baffling murder cases of his career.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781400076246
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 05/11/2004
Series: Adam Dalgliesh Series , #8
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 448
Sales rank: 363,955
Product dimensions: 5.23(w) x 7.98(h) x 0.93(d)

About the Author

P. D. James is the author of twenty books, many of which feature her detective hero Adam Dalgliesh and have been televised or filmed. She was the recipient of many honors, including the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and the National Arts Club Medal of Honor for Literature, and in 1991 was created Baroness James of Holland Park. She died in 2014.

Hometown:

London, England

Date of Birth:

August 3, 1920

Place of Birth:

Oxford, England

Education:

Attended the Cambridge High School for Girls from 1931 to 1937 and later took evening classes in hospital administration

Read an Excerpt

Book One
Friday 16 September to Tuesday 20 September


1


The Whistler's fourth victim was his youngest, Valerie Mitchell, aged fifteen years, eight months and four days, and she died because she missed the 9.40 bus from Easthaven to Cobb's Marsh. As always, she had left it until the last minute to leave the disco, and the floor was still a packed, gyrating mass of bodies under the makeshift strobe lights when she broke free of Wayne's clutching hands, shouted instructions to Shirl about their plans for next week above the raucous beat of the music and left the dance floor. Her last glimpse of Wayne was of his serious, bobbing face bizarrely striped with red, yellow and blue under the turning lights. Without waiting to change her shoes, she snatched up her jacket from the cloakroom peg and raced up the road past the darkened shops towards the bus station, her cumbersome shoulder-bag flapping against her ribs. But when she turned the corner into the station she saw with horror that the lights on their high poles shone down on a bleached and silent emptiness and, dashing to the corner, was in time to see the bus already half-way up the hill. There was still a chance if the lights were against it, and she began desperately chasing after it, hampered by her fragile, high-heeled shoes. But the lights were green and she watched helplessly, gasping and bent double with a sudden cramp, as it lumbered over the brow of a hill and like a brightly lit ship sank out of sight. "Oh no!" she screamed after it, "Oh God! Oh no!" and felt the tears of anger and dismay smarting her eyes.

This was the end. It was her father who laid down the rules in her family, and there was never any appeal, any second chance. After protracted discussion and her repeated pleas, she had been allowed this weekly visit on Friday evenings to the disco run by the church Youth Club, provided she caught the 9.40 bus without fail. It put her down at the Crown and Anchor at Cobb's Marsh, only fifty yards from her cottage. From 10.15 her father would begin watching for the bus to pass the front room where he and her mother would sit half-watching the television, the curtains drawn back. Whatever the programme or weather, he would then put on his coat and come out to walk the fifty yards to meet her, keeping her always in sight. Since the Norfolk Whistler had begun his killings, her father had had an added justification for the mild domestic tyranny which, she half-realized, he both thought right in dealing with his only child and rather enjoyed. The concordat had been early established: "You do right by me, my girl, and I'll do right by you." She both loved him and slightly feared him, and she dreaded his anger. Now there would be one of those awful rows in which she knew she couldn't hope to look to her mother for support. It would be the end of her Friday evenings with Wayne and Shirl and the gang. Already they teased and pitied her because she was treated as a child. Now it would be total humiliation.

Her first desperate thought was to hire a taxi and to chase the bus, but she didn't know where the cab rank was and she hadn't enough money; she was sure of that. She could go back to the disco and see if Wayne and Shirl and the gang between them could lend her enough. But Wayne was always skint and Shirl too mean, and by the time she had argued and cajoled it would be too late.

And then came salvation. The lights had changed again to red, and a car at the end of a tail of four others was just drawing slowly to a stop. She found herself opposite the open, left-hand window and looking directly at two elderly women. She clutched at the lowered glass and said breathlessly: "Can you give me a lift? Anywhere Cobb's Marsh direction. I've missed the bus. Please."

The final desperate plea left the driver unmoved. She stared ahead, frowned, then shook her head and let in the clutch. Her companion hesitated, looked at her, then leaned back and released the rear door.

"Get in. Quickly. We're going as far as Holt. We could drop you at the crossroads."

Valerie scrambled in and the car moved forward. At least they were going in the right direction, and it took her only a couple of seconds to think of her plan. From the crossroads outside Holt it would be less than half a mile to the junction with the bus route. She could walk it and pick it up at the stop before the Crown and Anchor. There would be plenty of time; the bus took at least twenty minutes meandering round the villages.

The woman who was driving spoke for the first time. She said: "You shouldn't be cadging lifts like this. Does your mother know that you're out, what you're doing? Parents seem to have no control over children these days.''

Silly old cow, she thought, what business is it of hers what I do? She wouldn't have stood the cheek from any of the teachers at school. But she bit back the impulse to rudeness, which was her adolescent response to adult criticism. She had to ride with the two old wrinklies. Better keep them sweet. She said: "I'm supposed to catch the nine-forty bus. My dad'ud kill me if he thought I'd cadged a lift. I wouldn't if you was a man."

"I hope not. And your father's perfectly right to be strict about it. These are dangerous times for young women, quite apart from the Whistler. Where exactly do you live?"

"At Cobb's Marsh. But I've got an aunt and uncle at Holt. If you put me down at the crossroads, he'll be able to give me a lift. They live right close. I'll be safe enough if you drop me there, honest."

The lie came easily to her and was as easily accepted. Nothing more was said by any of them. She sat looking at the backs of the two grey, cropped heads, watching the driver's age-speckled hands on the wheel. Sisters, she thought, by the look of them. Her first glimpse had shown her the same square heads, the same strong chins, the same curved eyebrows above anxious, angry eyes. They've had a row, she thought. She could sense the tension quivering between them. She was glad when, still without a word, the driver drew up at the crossroads and she was able to scramble out with muttered thanks and watch while they drove out of sight. They were the last human beings, but one, to see her alive.

She crouched to change into the sensible shoes which her parents insisted she wear to school, grateful that the shoulder-bag was now lighter, then began trudging away from the town towards the junction where she would wait for the bus. The road was narrow and unlit, bordered on the right by a row of trees, black cut-outs pasted against the star-studded sky, and on the left, where she walked, by a narrow fringe of scrub and bushes at times dense and close enough to overshadow the path. Up till now she had felt only an overwhelming relief that all would be well. She would be on that bus. But now, as she walked in an eerie silence, her soft footfalls sounding unnaturally loud, a different, more insidious anxiety took over and she felt the first prickings of fear. Once recognized, its treacherous power acknowledged, the fear took over and grew inexorably into terror.

A car was approaching, at once a symbol of safety and normality and an added threat. Everyone knew that the Whistler must have a car. How else could he kill in such widely spaced parts of the county, how else make his getaway when his dreadful work was done? She stood back into the shelter of the bushes, exchanging one fear for another. There was a surge of sound and the cat's-eyes momentarily gleamed before, in a rush of wind, the car passed. And now she was alone again in the darkness and the silence. But was she? The thought of the Whistler took hold of her mind, rumours, half-truths fusing into a terrible reality. He strangled women, three so far. And then he cut off their hair and stuffed it in their mouths, like straw spilling out of a Guy on November 5th. The boys at school laughed about him, whistling in the bicycle sheds as he was said to whistle over the bodies of his victims. "The Whistler will get you," they called after her. He could be anywhere. He always stalked by night. He could be here. She had an impulse to throw herself down and press her body into the soft rich-smelling earth, to cover her ears and lie there rigid until the dawn. But she managed to control her panic. She had to get to the crossroads and catch the bus. She forced herself to step out of the shadows and begin again her almost silent walk.

She wanted to break into a run but managed to resist. The creature, man or beast, crouching in the undergrowth was already sniffing her fear, waiting until her panic broke. Then she would hear the crash of the breaking bushes, his pounding feet, feel his panting breath hot on her neck. She must keep walking, swiftly but silently, holding her bag tightly against her side, hardly breathing, eyes fixed ahead. And as she walked she prayed: "Please, God, let me get safely home and I'll never lie again. I'll always leave in time. Help me to get to the crossroads safely. Make the bus come quickly. Oh God, please help me."

And then, miraculously, her prayer was answered. Suddenly, about thirty yards ahead of her, there was a woman. She didn't question how, so mysteriously, this slim, slow-walking figure had materialized. It was sufficient that she was there. As she drew nearer with quickening step, she could see the swathe of long blond hair under a tight-fitting beret, and what looked like a belted trench coat. And at the girl's side, trotting obediently, most reassuring of all, was a small black-and-white dog, bandy-legged. They could walk together to the crossroads. Perhaps the girl might herself be catching the same bus. She almost cried aloud, "I'm coming, I'm coming," and, breaking into a run, rushed towards safety and protection as a child might to her mother's arms.

And now the woman bent down and released the dog. As if in obedience to some command, he slipped into the bushes. The woman took one swift backward glance and then stood quietly waiting, her back half-turned to Valerie, the dog's lead held drooping in her right hand. Valerie almost flung herself at the waiting back. And then, slowly, the woman turned. It was a second of total, paralysing terror. She saw the pale, taut face which had never been a woman's face, the simple, inviting, almost apologetic smile, the blazing and merciless eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but there was no chance, and horror had made her dumb. With one movement the noose of the lead was swung over her head and jerked tight and she was pulled from the road into the shadow of the bushes. She felt herself falling through time, through space, through an eternity of horror. And now the face was hot over hers and she could smell drink and sweat and a terror matching her own. Her arms jerked upwards, impotently flailing. And now her brain was bursting and the pain in her chest, growing like a great red flower, exploded in a silent, wordless scream of "Mummy, Mummy." And then there was no more terror, no more pain, only the merciful, obliterating dark.



2



Four days later Commander Adam Dalgliesh of New Scotland Yard dictated a final note to his secretary, cleared his in-tray, locked his desk drawer, set the combination of his security cupboard and prepared to leave for a two-week holiday on the Norfolk coast. The break was overdue and he was ready for it. But the holiday wasn't entirely therapeutic; there were affairs in Norfolk that needed his attention. His aunt, his last surviving relative, had died two months earlier, leaving him both her fortune and a converted windmill at Larksoken on the north-east coast of Norfolk. The fortune was unexpectedly large and had brought its own, as yet unresolved, dilemmas. The mill was a less onerous bequest but was not without its minor problems. He needed, he felt, to live in it alone for a week or two before finally making up his mind whether to keep it for occasional holidays, sell, or pass it over at a nominal price to the Norfolk Windmill Trust, who were, he knew, always anxious to restore old windmills to working order. And then there were family papers and his aunt's books, particularly her comprehensive library of ornithology, to be looked at and sorted and their disposal decided upon. These were pleasurable tasks. Even in boyhood he had disliked taking a holiday totally without purpose. He didn't know from what roots of childhood guilt or imagined responsibility had grown this curious masochism, which in his middle years had returned with added authority. But he was glad that there was a job to be done in Norfolk, not least because he knew that the journey had an element of flight. After four years of silence his new book of poetry, A Case to Answer and Other Poems, had been published to considerable critical acclaim, which was surprisingly gratifying, and to even wider public interest which, less surprisingly, he was finding more difficult to take. After his more notorious murder cases, the efforts of the Metropolitan Police press office had been directed to shielding him from egregious publicity. His publisher's rather different priorities took some getting used to and he was frankly glad of an excuse to escape from them, at least for a couple of weeks.

He had earlier said his goodbye to Inspector Kate Miskin, and she was now out on a case. Chief Inspector Massingham had been seconded to the Intermediate Command Course at Bramshill Police College, one more step on his planned progress to a Chief Constable's braid, and Kate had temporarily taken over his place as Dalgliesh's second-in-command of the Special Squad. He went into her office to leave a note of his holiday address. It was, as always, impressively tidy, sparsely efficient and yet feminine, its walls enlivened by a single picture, one of her own abstract oils, a study in swirling browns heightened with a single streak of acid green, which Dalgliesh was growing to like more each time he studied it. On the uncluttered desktop was a small glass vase of freesias. Their scent, at first fugitive, suddenly wafted up to him, reinforcing the odd impression he always got that the office was more full of her physical presence empty than it was when she was seated there working. He laid his note, exactly in the middle of the clean blotter, and smiled as he closed the door after him with what seemed unnecessary gentleness. It remained only to put his head round the AC's door for a final word and he was on his way to the lift.

The door was already closing when he heard running footsteps and a cheerful shout and Manny Cummings lept in, just avoiding the bite of the closing steel. As always he seemed to whirl in a vortex of almost oppressive energy, too powerful to be contained by the lift's four walls. He was brandishing a large brown envelope. "Glad I caught you, Adam. It is Norfolk you're escaping to, isn't it? If the Norfolk CID do lay their hands on the Whistler, take a look at him for me, will you, check he isn't our chap in Battersea."

"The Battersea Strangler? Is that likely, given the timing and the MO? Surely it isn't a serious possibility?"

"Highly unlikely but, as you know, Uncle is never happy unless every stone is explored and every avenue thoroughly upturned. I've put together some details and the Identikit just in case. As you know, we've had a couple of sightings. And I've let Rickards know that you'll be on his patch. Remember Terry Rickards?"

"I remember."

"Chief Inspector now, apparently. Done all right for himself in Norfolk. Better than he would have done if he'd stayed with us. And they tell me he's married, which might have softened him a bit. Awkward cuss."

Dalgliesh said: "I shall be on his patch but not, thank God, on his team. And if they do lay their hands on the Whistler, why should I do you out of a day in the country?"

"I hate the country and I particularly loathe flat country. Think of the public money you'll be saving. I'll come down—or is it up?—if he's worth looking at. Decent of you, Adam. Have a good leave."

Only Cummings would have had the cheek. But the request was not unreasonable, made, as it was, to a colleague his senior only by a matter of months, and one who had always preached co-operation and the common-sense use of resources. And it was unlikely that his holiday would be interrupted by the need to take even a cursory glance at the Whistler, Norfolk's notorious serial killer, dead or alive. He had been at his work for fifteen months now and the latest victim—Valerie Mitchell, wasn't it?—was his fourth. These cases were invariably difficult, time-consuming and frustrating, depending as they often did more on good luck than good detection. As he made his way down the ramp to the underground car-park he glanced at his watch. In three-quarters of an hour he would be on his way. But first there was unfulfilled business at his publisher's.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note
 
Book One
Friday 16 September to Tuesday 20 September
 
Book Two
Thursday 22 September to Friday 23 September
 
Book Three
Sunday 25 September
 
Book Four
Monday 26 September
 
Book Five
Tuesday 27 September to Thursday 29 September
 
Book Six
Saturday 1 October to Thursday 6 October
 
Epilogue
Wednesday 18 January

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Devices and Desires 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 17 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This novel by PD James is by no means a story you will rush through. Ms. James simply does not allow that. She invites you into the story and though it may seem at first you are plodding along, her prose so enchants you that before you are aware, you are involved and committed. Few authors I have read have such rare talent to engross me on this level and such command of the English language. Excellent story. Superb writing. Timeless author.
Guest More than 1 year ago
PD James mysteries are very British with careful characterization, (usually) believable plot lines, and characters that generate sympathy (or antipathy). This is perhaps her best detective novel, with enough red herrings to make prediction difficult. It's a classic mystery (in the style of Agatha Christie's 'Murder on the Orient Express'), with her favorite protagonist, Adam Dalgleish, in a remote vacation seaside village, bringing sanity and order to the violent convulsion of murder. If John LeCarre wrote murder mysteries, he'd wish he had written this one.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Not a mystery but a long philosophy rant wrapped in a bad detective story.
benfulton on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Not sure if I actually read the same book as all the other reviewers. Certainly the focus is more on characterization and less on gently doling out clues so the reader can solve the mystery, but that is a positive of the book. Has the irritating, showy quality of the detective finding the body himself - I always hate those sorts of coincidences, but I suppose it was the easiest way to get Dalgliesh involved in a case where he was so far out of his jurisdiction. The characters are drawn lushly, not only as characters but as people with good motives for murder. One character does combine cunning and strength of character with an almost ludicrous naivete. When I found out the identity of the murderer, I didn't find it to be particularly surprising or predictable, but I thought the way the murderer was revealed to the reader was superbly written, and the murderer's fate was perfectly in character, neatly foreshadowed, and had nice historical touches.I haven't read all that many of P.D. James's books, but this one might have been my favorite so far.
Crowyhead on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was a good mystery, but it just doesn't hang together as well as the other James mysteries I've read recently. My main problem was a red herring that appeared rather late in the book with very little warning, which struck me as being somewhat unbelievable and needlessly dramatic. Overall the novel felt overly long and overly confusing, without the same kind of tight plotting that I've come to expect from James.
m.a.harding on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Good topics but dull. The detective doesn't do anything and doesn't tell the reader anything. Stuff happends.
hugh_ashton on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I find P.D.James to be a strange writer. In some ways, she is excellent ¿ she has a good grasp of what makes a certain class of person tick, and the relationships that exist in British society. I was re-reading this ¿ though I find Adam Dalgliesh to be a rather irritating protagonist, for reasons I am not wholly sure of, the sweep of the stories carries me along, and the East Anglian settings always appeal. But at the same time that the stories are good, they often involve a heavy dash of willing suspension of belief, and though life is sometimes stranger than fiction, the coincidences sometimes come too fast and furious for realistic comfort.One thing I noticed is that P.D.James and I write in rather similar ways ¿ not that I put myself in the same league as her, but the faults I notice in her writing are ones I notice in my own. Her characters talk in whole perfectly rounded sentences, somewhat unnaturally, but expressing their thoughts clearly through their words ¿ so do mine. Her characters also talk to themselves (without punctuation) ¿ and so do mine. As I say, her plots are more coherent and better than mine, but there are similarities in the way we treat characters. I am not sure why Dalgliesh irritates me - maybe for the same reasons that he irritates himself.Anyway, Devices and Desires is one of the more enjoyable escapist ways of passing an evening
MarkKeeffe on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I like Dalgleish crime books and this one was as good as any.
NellieMc on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I decided to read all of the Adam Daigliesh mysteries in one fell swoop and am glad I did. First, they are classic British mysteries all well-deserving of the respect P.D. James has earned for them and all are a good read. However, what is interesting is to watch the author develop her style from the early ones to the later ones. And, in fact, A Shroud for a Nightingale and The Black Tower (the fourth and fifth in the series) is where she crosses the divide. The later books have much more character development -- both for the players and the detectives -- make Dalgleish more rounded and are generally much more than a good mystery yarn -- they're fine novels that happen to be mysteries. The first three books (Cover Her Face, A Mind to Murder, Unnatural Causes) are just that much more simplistic. But read any or all -- she's a great writer and they are definitely worth the time.
annbury on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Classic Brit mystery -- a limited number of people in a confined place, every one of them with a motive. This isn't my favorite of hers, but it's still first rate.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
As usual, the author held the reader in suspense and did not fail to please this lover of British detective novels!
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I collect this series and although I have not yet read this book (Devices & Desires)I know it won't disappoint.