Whispers Under Ground
(Sprache: Englisch)
When the son of a wealthy, politically powerful family is found dead, London constable and sorcerer's apprentice Peter Grant investigates this case, which is linked to a rogue magician known as the Faceless Man--and which takes him deep within the deadliest subway system in the world.
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When the son of a wealthy, politically powerful family is found dead, London constable and sorcerer's apprentice Peter Grant investigates this case, which is linked to a rogue magician known as the Faceless Man--and which takes him deep within the deadliest subway system in the world.
Klappentext zu „Whispers Under Ground “
A WHOLE NEW REASON TO MIND THE GAPIt begins with a dead body at the far end of Baker Street tube station, all that remains of American exchange student James Gallagher-and the victim's wealthy, politically powerful family is understandably eager to get to the bottom of the gruesome murder. The trouble is, the bottom-if it exists at all-is deeper and more unnatural than anyone suspects . . . except, that is, for London constable and sorcerer's apprentice Peter Grant. With Inspector Nightingale, the last registered wizard in England, tied up in the hunt for the rogue magician known as "the Faceless Man," it's up to Peter to plumb the haunted depths of the oldest, largest, and-as of now-deadliest subway system in the world.
At least he won't be alone. No, the FBI has sent over a crack agent to help. She's young, ambitious, beautiful . . . and a born-again Christian apt to view any magic as the work of the devil. Oh yeah-that's going to go well.
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9780345524614|excerptAaronovitch / WHISPERS UNDER GROUND
Sunday
chapter 1
Tufnell Park
Back in the summer I d made the mistake of telling my mum what I did for a living. Not the police bit, which of course she already knew about, having been at my graduation from Hendon, but the stuff about me working for the branch of the Met that dealt with the supernatural. My mum translated this in her head to witchfinder, which was good because like most West Africans, she considered witchfinding a more respectable profession than policeman. Struck by an unanticipated burst of maternal pride she proceeded to outline my new career path to her friends and relatives, a body I estimate to comprise at least twenty percent of the expatriate Sierra Leonean community currently in the UK. This included Alfred Kamara, who lived on the same estate as my mum, and through him his thirteen year old daughter, Abigail, who decided, on the last Sunday before Christmas, that she wanted me to go look at this ghost she d found. She got my attention by pestering my mum to the point where my mum gave in and rang me on my mobile.
I wasn t pleased, because Sunday is one of the few days I don t have morning practice on the firing range and I was planning a nice lie in followed by football in the pub.
So where s this ghost? I asked when Abigail opened her front door.
How come there s two of you? asked Abigail. She was a short, skinny mixed race girl with light skin that had gone winter sallow.
This is my colleague, Lesley May, I said.
Abigail stared suspiciously at Lesley. Why are you wearing a mask? she asked.
Because my face fell off, said Lesley.
Abigail considered this for a moment and then nodded. Okay, she said.
So where is it? I asked.
It s a he, said Abigail. He s up at the school.
Come on then, I said.
What, now? she asked. But it s freezing.
We know, I said. It was one of those dull gray winter days with the sort of sinister cold
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wind that keeps on finding ways through the gaps in your clothes. You coming or not?
She gave me the patented stare of the belligerent thirteen year old. But I wasn t her mother or a teacher. I didn t want her to do something, I wanted to go home and watch the football.
Suit yourself, I said and turned away.
Wait up, she said. I m coming.
I turned back in time for the door to be slammed in my face.
She didn t invite us in, said Lesley. Not being invited in is one of the boxes on the suspicious behavior bingo form that every copper carries around in their head along with stupidly overpowerful dog and being too quick to supply an alibi. Fill all the boxes and you too could win an all-expenses-paid visit to your local police station.
It s Sunday morning, I said. Her dad s probably still in bed.
We decided to wait for Abigail downstairs in the car, where we passed the time by rooting through the various stakeout supply bags that had accumulated over the year. We found a whole tube of fruit pastels, and Lesley had just made me look away so she could lift her mask to eat one when Abigail tapped on the window.
Like me, Abigail had inherited her hair from the wrong parent, but being a boy, mine just got shaved down to fuzz while Abigail s dad used to troop her over to a succession of hair salons, relatives, and enthusiastic neighbors in an attempt to get it under control. Right from the start Abigai
She gave me the patented stare of the belligerent thirteen year old. But I wasn t her mother or a teacher. I didn t want her to do something, I wanted to go home and watch the football.
Suit yourself, I said and turned away.
Wait up, she said. I m coming.
I turned back in time for the door to be slammed in my face.
She didn t invite us in, said Lesley. Not being invited in is one of the boxes on the suspicious behavior bingo form that every copper carries around in their head along with stupidly overpowerful dog and being too quick to supply an alibi. Fill all the boxes and you too could win an all-expenses-paid visit to your local police station.
It s Sunday morning, I said. Her dad s probably still in bed.
We decided to wait for Abigail downstairs in the car, where we passed the time by rooting through the various stakeout supply bags that had accumulated over the year. We found a whole tube of fruit pastels, and Lesley had just made me look away so she could lift her mask to eat one when Abigail tapped on the window.
Like me, Abigail had inherited her hair from the wrong parent, but being a boy, mine just got shaved down to fuzz while Abigail s dad used to troop her over to a succession of hair salons, relatives, and enthusiastic neighbors in an attempt to get it under control. Right from the start Abigai
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Autoren-Porträt von Ben Aaronovitch
Ben Aaronovitch was born in London in 1964 and had the kind of dull routine childhood that drives a man to drink or to science fiction. He is a screenwriter, with early notable success on BBC television's legendary Doctor Who, for which he wrote some episodes now widely regarded as classics, and which even he is quite fond of. He has also penned several groundbreaking TV tie-in novels. After a decade of such work, he decided it was time to show the world what he could really do and embarked on his first serious original novel. The result is Midnight Riot, the debut adventure of Peter Grant, followed by Moon Over Soho.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Ben Aaronovitch
- 2012, 320 Seiten, Masse: 10,3 x 17,1 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0345524616
- ISBN-13: 9780345524614
- Erscheinungsdatum: 31.08.2012
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
The perfect blend of CSI and Harry Potter. io9Praise for Midnight Riot, the first Peter Grant adventure
Fresh, original, and a wonderful read. I loved it. Charlaine Harris
A great start to what will hopefully be a long series of adventures. SFRevu
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