By David Peace
Diciembre de 1980. El Destripador ha matado ya a trece mujeres. Ante los angeles inefectividad de l. a. policía de West Yorkshire, el Ministerio del inside crea una superbrigada para asesorarla, pero en realidad también para vigilarla. Peter Hunter, comisario jefe del Gran Manchester, es enviado a Leeds al frente de un nuevo equipo de investigadores. No puede decirse que reciban una cordial bienvenida. Hunter ya había estado en West Yorkshire en dos ocasiones, para esclarecer –sin éxito– algunos casos en los que estaban involucrados algunos miembros de los angeles policía. los angeles matanza del pub Strafford (1974) y l. a. crimson de pornografía y corrupción policial de Bradford (1977) reaparecen aquí extrañamente conectadas con los asesinatos del Destripador… y son causa de nuevos y horrendos crímenes. 1980 confirma el pulso y l. a. originalidad narrativa de David Peace. Esta tercera novela del crimson using Quartet prosigue su búsqueda a través de una trama infernal cada vez más peligrosamente próxima a su resolución.
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Extra resources for 1980
And they always are. ” “What about the bank account? Can the nominees—” Burke shook his head. “No. You’re the only signatory. ” “They need to know who you are,” Burke explained. “Someone walks in off the street, says he’s you…the bank has to be sure. ” D’Anconia extracted a passport from his overcoat, and pushed it across the desk. The colors were a surprise. Blue and gold. He’s Chilean? ” Burke crossed the room to a copying machine in the corner. The machine came to life. After a moment, a light flared.
There was always someone you hadn’t interviewed, or something you didn’t quite grasp. Photography wasn’t like that. A picture was a fact in a way that words on a page could never be. Burke told Kate how he’d gotten started on a weekly newspaper in Virginia. The paper wasn’t unionized, so he’d worn a lot of hats: writing articles and editorials, taking pictures and doing page layouts. There was a police scanner in a corner of the office, buzzing and crackling, diodes gleaming. Word of a fire, a shooting, a crash, and he was out the door with his cameras.
His reverie dissolved. In the street below, a taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving a man on the corner, stranded in the drizzle. The man was looking around, as if to get his bearings. D’Anconia, Burke thought. Must be him. Leaving the window, he sat down at the antique wooden desk that, technically, was the old man’s. The necessary forms were in an envelope on the blotter. At the edge of the desk was a silver-framed photograph of Kate. Dressed in her surgical scrubs, she stood in a puddle of mud, smoking a cigarette at the entrance to the clinic in Porkpa.
1980 by David Peace