Playing With Fire and over one million other books are available for Amazon Kindle. Learn more

Vous voulez voir cette page en français ? Cliquez ici.

Have one to sell? Sell yours here
Start reading Playing With Fire on your Kindle in under a minute.

Don't have a Kindle? Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App.

Playing with Fire [Hardcover]

Peter Robinson
3.8 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (4 customer reviews)

Available from these sellers.

‹  Return to Product Overview

Product Description

From Amazon

The calm of the English countryside is rudely shattered when two run-down barges on a remote canal explode into flame. When the smoke settles, two charred corpses remain, those of young junkie Tina Aspern and failed artist Tom McMahon. Enter Inspector Alan Banks, on a quest to determine who the intended target was and why. Not an easy challenge, as he encounters a pedophile, art forgers, and an anti-social delinquent (Tina's unfaithful boyfriend Mark), potential suspects all. Peter Robinson gradually unravels this tangled web with typical skill in Playing with Fire, a tightly plotted and suspenseful police procedural that justifies the growing reputation of this English-born, Toronto-based writer. Such peers as Stephen King and Dennis Lehane are admirers, and it is easy to see why.

The crime fiction aficionado can be excused for occasionally getting anxious that the recurring lead character of a long-running series might be about to overstay his welcome. Recent bestsellers in this series like The Summer That Never Was and Cold Is the Grave certainly gave no sign of that. Happily, neither does Playing with Fire, even though it marks Banks's 14th appearance. Robinson continues to dig deep into his protagonist's psyche, and Banks remains a fascinatingly flawed yet likeable character. His neuroses and sometimes petty jealousies, especially in relation to former lover DI Annie Cabbot, are ones we can relate and admit to. And like Ian Rankin, Robinson uses popular music as a signpost for the feelings and personality of his characters. Banks deeply immerses himself in the music of such wonderful singers as Mariza and Cassandra Wilson, while this book's Mark and Tina loved Beth Orton. Some enterprising record label should release an "approved by Robinson/Banks" CD collection. In the meantime, let's hope for many more future titles in this superb series. --Kerry Doole --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.

From Publishers Weekly

Edgar winner Robinson's 14th police procedural to feature Yorkshire DCI Alan Banks isn't quite up to the level of last year's superlative Close to Home, but it's nonetheless an engaging pleasure. Three victims have died in two suspicious fires: Tom McMahon, an eccentric, mostly unsuccessful local artist; Tina Aspern, a young heroin addict estranged from an abusive stepfather; and Roland Gardiner, another down-and-out chap but one who just happens to have a fireproof safe containing a substantial amount of cash and what appears to be a Turner watercolor. To solve the crimes, Banks and his team-DI Annie Cabbot and the refreshingly direct DC Winsome Jackman-pursue good old-fashioned police work, interviewing witnesses, neighbors, relatives and lovers and sifting through the evidence gathered by their specialist colleagues. They also make ample use of contemporary forensic technology. In keeping with the moody and introspective Alan Banks, the narrative style is tempered and deliberate, perhaps too much so for those who prefer, say, the riveting urgency of a Michael Connelly thriller. Characterization is Robinson's real strength. Virtually every character is etched with care, precision and emotional insight. With each book, the quietly competent Alan Banks gets more and more human; like red wine, he gets better and more interesting with age.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist

*Starred Review* One of the great things about Robinson's long-running series set in Yorkshire and starring two canny detectives is the way his main characters, Alan Banks (now Detective Chief Inspector) and his sidekick and sometime lover Annie Cabbot (now Detective Inspector), change and grow (or suffer), both professionally and personally. Unlike many procedural writers, Robinson doesn't have his characters hang on to rigid identities; these are primarily novels of character. They're also strong on atmosphere and police procedure--this latest bringing the intricacies of arson investigation to the Yorkshire Dales. Fire destroys two canal barges. Bodies, one of a young female heroin addict, the other of an ambitious artist, are discovered on each barge. The reader is treated to the choreography of Banks' adroit questioning of suspects, a clear view of police procedure, and a mystery that widens from the funky inhabitants of the canal banks to a set of complex relationships and art-world treacheries. The two worlds of the victims, both marred by personal failure, intersect in intriguing ways. Just having Banks back, brooding over a case as he sips his Laphroaig Scotch and listens to jazz, is reason to celebrate. Robinson has won just about every mystery award there is (including the Edgar, the Agatha, the New York Times Notable Book Award, and Le Grand Prix de Litterature Policier). His latest shows why. Connie Fletcher
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved


“Complex and intelligent.” -- London Sunday Times

From the Back Cover

"The Alan Banks mystery-suspense novels are, simply put, the best series now on the market. In fact, this may be the best series of British novels since the novels of Patrick O'Brian. Try one and tell me I'm wrong."
-Stephen King

“As astute a writer as P.D. James.”
Library Journal

From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

About the Author

Peter Robinson's award-winning Inspector Banks novels have been named a "Best Book of the Year" by Publishers Weekly, a "Notable Book" by the New York Times, and a "Page Turner of the Week" by People. Robinson was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and now divides his time between North America and the U.K.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.


The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, burn’d on the water,” Banks whispered. As he spoke, his breath formed plumes of mist in the chill January air.

Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot, standing beside him, must have heard, because she said, “You what? Come again.”

“A quotation,” said Banks. “From Antony and Cleopatra.”

“You don’t usually go around quoting Shakespeare like a copper in a book,” Annie commented.

“Just something I remember from school. It seemed appropriate.”

They were standing on a canal bank close to dawn watching two barges smoulder.…

The canal ran through some beautiful countryside, and tonight the usually quiet rural area was floodlit and buzzing with activity, noisy with the shouts of firefighters and the crackle of personal radios. The smell of burned wood, plastic and rubber hung in the air and scratched at the back of Banks’s throat when he breathed in. All around the lit-up area, the darkness of a pre-dawn winter night pressed in, starless and cold. The media had already arrived, mostly TV crews, because fires made for good visuals, even after they had gone out, but the firefighters and police officers kept them well at bay, and the scene was secure….

“Christ, it’s cold,” moaned Annie, stamping from foot to foot. She was mostly obscured by an old army greatcoat she had thrown on over her jeans and polo-neck sweater. She was also wearing a matching maroon woolly hat, scarf and gloves, along with black knee-high leather boots. Her nose was red.

“You’d better go and talk to the firefighters,” Banks said. “Get their stories while events are still fresh in their minds. You never know, maybe one of them will warm you up a bit.”

“Cheeky bastard.” Annie sneezed, blew her nose and wandered off.…

The young constable, who had been talking to the leading firefighter, walked over to Banks and introduced himself: PC Smythe, from the nearest village, Molesby.

“So you’re the one responsible for waking me up at this ungodly hour in the morning,” said Banks.

PC Smythe paled. “Well, sir, it seemed . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay. You did the right thing. Can you fill me in?”

“There’s not much to add, really, sir.” Smythe looked tired and drawn, as well he might. He hardly seemed older than twelve, and this was probably his first major incident.

“Who called it in?” Banks asked.

“Bloke called Hurst. Andrew Hurst. Lives in the old lockkeeper’s house about a mile away. He says he was just going to bed shortly after one o’clock, and he saw the fire from his bedroom window. He knew roughly where it was coming from, so he rode over to check it out.”


“Bicycle, sir.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“That’s about it. When he saw the fire, he phoned it in on his mobile, and the fire brigade arrived. They had a bit of trouble gaining access, as you can see. They had to run long hoses.”

Banks could see the fire engines parked about a hundred yards way, through the woods, where a narrow lane turned sharply right as it neared the canal. “Anyone get out alive?” he asked.

“We don’t know, sir. If they did, they didn’t hang around. We don’t even know how many people live there, or what their names are. All we know is there are two casualties.”

“Wonderful,” said Banks. It wasn’t anywhere near enough information. Arson was often used to cover up other crimes, to destroy evidence, or to hide the identity of a victim, and if that was the case here, Banks needed to know as much about the people who lived on the barges as possible. That would be difficult if they were all dead. “This lockkeeper, is he still around?”

“He’s not actually a lockkeeper, sir,” said PC Smythe. “We don’t use them anymore. The boat crews operate the locks themselves. He just lived in the old lockkeeper’s house. I took a brief statement and sent him home. Did I do wrong?”

“It’s all right,” Banks said. “We’ll talk to him later.…”

Annie Cabbot joined Banks and Smythe. “The station received the call at one thirty-one a.m.,” she said, “and the firefighters arrived here at one forty-four.”

“That sounds about right.”

“It’s actually a very good rural response time,” Annie said. “We’re lucky the station wasn’t staffed by retained men.”

Many rural stations, Banks knew, used “retained” men, or trained part-timers, and that would have meant a longer wait — at least five minutes for them to respond to their personal alerters and get to the station. “We’re lucky they weren’t on strike tonight, too,” he said, “or we’d probably still be waiting for the army to come and piss on the flames.”

They watched the firefighters pack up their gear in silence as the darkness brightened to grey, and a morning mist appeared seemingly from nowhere, swirling on the murky water and shrouding the spindly trees. In spite of the smoke stinging his lungs, Banks felt an intense craving for a cigarette rush through his system. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. It had been nearly six months since he had smoked a cigarette, and he was damned if he was going to give in now.

As he fought off the desire, he caught a movement in the trees out of the corner of his eye. Someone was standing there, watching them. Banks whispered to Annie and Smythe, who walked along the bank in opposite directions to circle around and cut the interloper off. Banks edged back toward the trees. When he thought he was within decent range, he turned and ran toward the intruder. As he felt the cold, bare twigs whipping and scratching his face, he saw someone running about twenty yards ahead of him. Smythe and Annie were flanking the figure, crashing through the dark undergrowth, catching up quickly.

Smythe and Annie were by far the fittest of the three pursuers, and even though he’d stopped smoking, Banks soon felt out of breath. When he saw Smythe closing the gap and Annie nearing from the north, he slowed down and arrived panting in time to see the two wrestle a young man to the ground. In seconds he was handcuffed and pulled struggling to his feet.

They all stood still for a few moments to catch their breath, and Banks looked at the youth. He was in his early twenties, about Banks’s height, five foot nine, wiry as a pipe-cleaner, with a shaved head and hollow cheeks. He was wearing jeans and a scuffed leather jacket over a black T-shirt. He struggled with PC Smythe but was no match for the burly constable.

“Right,” said Banks. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

The boy struggled. “Nothing. Let me go! I haven’t done anything. Let me go!”

From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.
‹  Return to Product Overview