A Cure For All Diseases Hill, Reginald

Product Description The new Dalziel and Pascoe novel to delight and thrill Reginald Hill fans. Some say that Andy Dalziel wasn’t ready for God, others that God wasn’t ready for Dalziel. Either way, despite his recent proximity to a terrorist blast in Death Comes for the Fat Man, the Superintendent remains firmly of this world. And, while Death may be the cure for all diseases, Dalziel is happy to settle for a few weeks’ care under a tender nurse. Convalescing in Sandytown, a quiet seaside resort devoted to healing, Dalziel befriends Charlotte Heywood, a fellow newcomer and psychologist, who is researching the benefits of alternative therapy. With much in common, the two soon find themselves in partnership when trouble comes to town. Sandytown’s principal landowners have grandiose plans for the resort–none of which they can agree on. One of them has to go, and when one of them does, in spectacularly gruesome fashion, DCI Peter Pascoe is called in to investigate–with Dalziel and Charlotte providing unwelcome support. But Pascoe finds dark forces at work in a place where medicine and holistic remedies are no match for the oldest cure of all . . . Review “One of [Hill’s] best. . . . [He] is a brilliant and witty observer of whatever social order he happens to look at.” — The Globe and Mail “A deftly plotted and welcome return of the Fat Man.” — Ottawa Sun About the Author Reginald Hill has won numerous awards, including the Crime Writers’ Association’s Cartier Diamond Dagger Award in 1995 for his lifetime contribution to crime writing. He is married and lives with his wife in his native Cumbria. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Volume the First Every Neighbourhood should have a great Lady. 1 FROM: charley@whiffle.com TO: cassie@natterjack.com SUBJECT: cracked jugs — daft buggers — & tank traps Hi Cass! Hows things in darkest Africa? Wierd & wonderful — I bet — but not so w&w as what weve got here at Willingden Farm. Go on — guess! OK — give up? House-guests! & I dont mean awful Uncle Ernie on one of his famous surprise visits. These are strangers! What happened — at last after our awful wet summer Augusts turned hot — not African hot but pretty steamy by Yorkshire standards. Dad & George were working up in Mill Meadow. Mum asked if Id take them a jug of lemon barley — said it would please dad if I showed willing. Weve been in armed truce since I made it clear my plans hadnt changed — ie do a postgrad thesis instead of getting a paid job — or better still — a wellpaid husband — & settling down! But no reason not to show willing — plus it gave me an excuse to drive the quad — so off I went. Forgot the mugs — but dad didnt say anything — just drank straight out of the jug like he preferred it — so maybe mum was right & he was pleased. In fact we were having a pleasant chat when suddenly old Fang let out a growl. Lost half his teeth & cant keep up with the sheep any more — but still manages a grand growl. Dad looked round to see what had woken him — & his face went into Headbanger configuration. — whats yon daft bugger playing at? — he demanded. Youll recall that in dads demography anyone living outside Willingden parish is a daft bugger till proved innocent. In this case I half agreed with him. The DB in question was driving his car fast up the lane alongside Mill Meadow. How he got through the gate I dont know. The HB had to take his chain & lock off after the Ramblers took him to court last year — but hes fixed a catch like one of them old metal puzzles we used to play with as kids. Maybe the DB just got lucky — he thought! He was driving one of these new hybrid 4x4s — you know — conscience without inconvenience! — & when he saw how good the surface was — (tractor tyres dont grow on trees! — remember?) — he mustve thought — great! — now for a bit of safe off-roading. What he didnt reckon on was what George calls dads tank trap — the drainage ditch where the lane bends beyond the top ga