Peter Grant is not just a lowly Detective Constable, he's also apprenticed to the last wizard in Britain: policing will never be the same again! Unabridged edition read by Kobna Holdbrook-Smith
I was my dad's vinyl-wallah: I changed his records while he lounged around drinking tea, and that's how I know my Argo from my Tempo. And it's why, when Dr Walid called me to the morgue to listen to a corpse, I recognised the tune it was playing. Something violently supernatural had happened to the victim, strong enough to leave its imprint like a wax cylinder recording. Cyrus Wilkinson, part-time jazz saxophonist and full-time accountant, had apparently dropped dead of a heart attack just after finishing a gig in a Soho jazz club. He wasn't the first.
No one was going to let me exhume corpses to see if they were playing my tune, so it was back to old-fashioned legwork, starting in Soho, the heart of the scene. I didn't trust the lovely Simone, Cyrus' ex-lover, professional jazz kitten and as inviting as a Rubens' portrait, but I needed her help: there were monsters stalking Soho, creatures feeding off that special gift that separates the great musician from someone who can raise a decent tune. What they take is beauty. What they leave behind is sickness, failure and broken lives.
And as I hunted them, my investigation got tangled up in another story: a brilliant trumpet player, Richard 'Lord' Grant - my father - who managed to destroy his own career, twice. That's the thing about policing: most of the time you're doing it to maintain public order. Occasionally you're doing it for justice. And maybe once in a career, you're doing it for revenge.
Read by Kobna Holdbrook-Smith
(p) 2011 Orion Publishing Group
Ben Aaronovitch grew up as part of a famously engaged and lively North London family. He has written for many TV series including Doctor Who and been a bookseller. His Peter Grant novels have been hugely successful and he now writes full time. He still lives in London, the city he likes to refer to as 'the capital of the world'.
You feel that Kobna Holdbrook-Smith, the narrator, is yarning away directly to you, and his deadpan delivery alloys the writer's zany wit to do its work. — THE TIMES