The Broken Shore: A Novel

“Peter Temple’s moody prose is far too satisfying. A reclusive Australian businessman has been brutally attacked in the coastal wilds beyond Melbourne’s exurbia, and the last thing you want is to see the mystery cleared up, the heroes and villains neatly sorted out….brilliant…” —The Globe and Mail “ The Broken Shore by Peter Temple is a great discovery. . . . I was fully taken by this book.” — Michael Connelly“It’s hard to know where to start praising this book. Plot, style, setting and characters are all startlingly good. . . . The Broken Shore is one of those watershed books that makes you rethink your ideas about reading.” —Sydney Morning Herald “It is a towering achievement that brings alive a ferocious landscape and a motley assortment of clashing characters. The sense of place is stifling in its intensity, and seldom has a waltz of the damned proven so hypnotic. Indispensable.” —The Guardian (UK)“A sad, desolate novel . . . a stone classic. Hard as nails and horrible, but read page one and I challenge you not to finish it.” —Independent on Sunday (UK) “ The Broken Shore by Peter Temple is a great discovery...I was fully taken by this book.” —Michael Connelly “Peter Temple is Australia’s leading crimewriter, and The Broken Shore makes it clear why. The writing islean and muscular, but like the best mystery fiction is not afraid to tackle important issues. One of the world’sfinest crime writers.” —The Times From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Five-time winner of the Ned Kelly Award for Crime Fiction, Peter Temple is Australia’s most acclaimed crime and thriller writer. He is the author of four Jack Irish novels: Bad Debts , Black Tide , Dead Point and White Dog . He has also written three other standalone novels: An Iron Rose , Shooting Star and In the Evil Day . He lives in Victoria, Australia. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly What do you do if you want to turn the latest book by a writer who's won five Ned Kelly Awards (Australia's equivalent to the Edgar Awards) into an equally impressive audio version? Blackstone had the perfect solution: get a reader like Hosking, who can do all the voices, from big city cop Joe Cashin, young and old aborigine men and women and truly frightening racist cops who will do anything to bury their deadly secrets. Hosking's characters are instantly and subtly rendered, springing to life quickly in listeners' minds. And his reading of Temple's descriptions of the Australian countryside, ranging from lush to rough, is a virtual audio trip to the source. This talented team catches the excitement and the beauty of a unique land. A simultaneous release with the FSG hardcover (Reviews, Apr. 2). Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CASHIN WALKED around the hill, into the wind from the sea. It was cold, late autumn, last glowing leaves clinging to the liquidambars and maples his great-grandfather’s brother had planted, their surrender close. He loved this time, the morning stillness, loved it more than spring. The dogs were tiring now but still hunting the ground, noses down, taking more time to sniff, less hopeful. Then one picked up a scent and, new life in their legs, they loped in file for the trees, vanished. When he was near the house, the dogs, black as liquorice, came out of the trees, stopped, heads up, looked around as if seeing the land for the first time. Explorers. They turned their gaze on him for a while, started down the slope.He walked the last stretch as briskly as he could and, as he put his hand out to the gate, they reached him. Their curly black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong back legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in, nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first again, stood with tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door jamb.Inside, the big poodles led him to the kitchen. They had water bowls there and they stuck their noses into them and drank in a noisy way. Cashin prepared their meal: two slices each from the cannon-barrel dog sausage made by the butcher in Kenmare, three handfuls each of dry dog food. He got the dogs’ attention, took the bowls outside, placed them a metre apart. The dogs came out. He told them to sit. Stomachs full of water, they did so slowly and with disdain, appeared to be arthritic. Given permission to eat, they looked at the food without interest, looked at each other, at him. Why have we been brought here to see this inedible stuff?Cashin went inside. In his hip pocket, the mobile rang.‘Yes.’‘Joe?’ Kendall Rogers, from the station. ‘Had a call from a lady,’ she said. ‘Near Beckett. A Mrs Haig. She reckons there’s someone in her shed.’‘Doing what?’‘Well, nothing. Her dog’s barking. I’ll sort it out.’Cashin felt his stubble. ‘What’s the address?’ ‘I’m going.’‘No point. Not far out of my way. Address?’ He went to the kitchen table and wrote on the pad: date, time, incident, address. ‘Tell her fifteen-twenty. Give her my number if anything happens before I get there.’The dogs liked his urgency, rushed around, made for the vehicle when he left the building. On the way, they stood on station, noses out the back windows. Cashin parked a hundred metres down the lane from the farmhouse gate. A head came around the hedge as he approached.‘Cop?’ she said. She had dirty grey hair around a face cut from a hard wood with a blunt tool.Cashin nodded.‘The uniform and that?’‘Plainclothes,’ he said. He produced the Victoria Police badge with the emblem that looked like a fox. She took off her smudged glasses to study it.‘Them police dogs?’ she said.He looked back. Two woolly black heads in the same window.‘They work with the police,’ he said. ‘Where’s this person?’‘Come,’ she said. ‘Dog’s inside, mad as a pork chop, the little bugger.’‘Jack Russell,’ said Cashin.‘How’d ya know that?’‘Just a guess.’They went around the house. He felt the fear rising in him like nausea.‘In there,’ she said.The shed was a long way from the house, you had to cross an expanse of overgrown garden, go through an opening in a fence lost beneath rampant potato-creeper. They walked to the gate. Beyond was knee-high grass, pieces of rusted metal sticking out.‘What’s inside?’ Cashin said, looking at a rusted shed of corrugated iron a few metres from the road, a door half open. He felt sweat around his collarbones. He wished he’d let Kendall do this.Mrs Haig touched her chin, black spikes like a worn-down hair brush. ‘Stuff,’ she said. ‘Junk. The old truck. Haven’t bin in there for years. Don’t go in there.’‘Let the dog out,’ he said. Her head jerked, alarmed. ‘Bastard might hurt im,’ she said.‘No,’ he said. ‘What’s the dog’s name?’‘Monty, call them all Monty, after Lord Monty of Alamein. Too young, you wouldn’t know.’‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Let Monty out.’‘And them police dogs? What bloody use are they?’‘Kept for life-and-death matters,’ Cashin said, controlling his voice. ‘I’ll be at the door, then you let Lord Monty out.’His mouth was dry, his scalp itched, these things would not have happened before Rai Sarris. He crossed the grassland, went to the left of the door. You learned early to keep your distance from potentially dangerous people and that included not going into dark sheds to meet them. Mrs Haig was at the potato-creeper hedge. He gave her the thumbs up, his heart thumping.The small dog came bounding through the grass, all tight muscles and yap, went for the shed, braked, stuck its head in the door and snarled, small body rigid with excitement.Cashin thumped on the corrugated iron wall with his left hand. ‘Police,’ he said loudly, glad to be doing something. ‘Get out of there. Now!’Not a long wait.The dog backed off, shrieking, hysterical, mostly airborne.A man appeared in the doorway, hesitated, came out carrying a canvas swag. He ignored the dog. ‘On my way,’ he said. ‘Just had a sleep.’ He was in his fifties perhaps, short grey hair, big shoulders, a day’s beard. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Booklist *Starred Review* Thanks largely to Hollywood, Americans tend to picture Australians as genial, sunburned rednecks who enjoy beer, barbecue, and bare-knuckle brawling. Without countering all of those stereotypes--the only touching Temple's men do is with their fists-- The Broken Shore offers a cold-weather vision of the continent that, despite its rural setting, is more Ian Rankin than Crocodile Dundee. Melbourne homicide detective Joe Cashin has been temporarily assigned to his hometown, dinky Port Monro. Rehabilitating (with aspirin and whiskey, mostly) from injuries only slowly explained, he broods over family history and mistakes made. But when a local eminence is assaulted--and an attempt to detain the suspect goes fatally wrong--Cashin finds that small-town crimes offer complications worthy of the big city. Though the dense slang will be unfamiliar to U.S. readers (a glossary is provided), what's striking is how easily South Australia anagrams to the American West. Substitute Indians for Aborigines, and land-use issues for land-use issues (Australia has lots of coastline, but waterfront property is waterfront property), and you have a familiarly troubling tale of race and class conflict--with an even darker crime at the heart of it all. Temple's novel racked up the awards in Australia, and it's easy to see why: this deeply intelligent thriller starts slowly, builds inexorably, and ends unforgettably. Keir Graff Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From AudioFile Journalist Peter Temples novels have won five of Australias prestigious Ned Kelly Awards for crime fiction. THE BROKEN SHORE makes it easy to see why. Melbourne Homicide Detective Joe Cashin is recovering in his hometown, Port Monro, where it soon becomes apparent that big cities arent the only places big crimes occur. Peter Hosking handles the rough-and-tumble characters as easily as the more subtle ones. Child pornography, racism, sexual abuse, political intricacies, and Cashins personal problems all contribute to Temples sophisticated plot and allow Hoskings performance to bring a host of truthful characters to light. There can be little doubt that this is an Australian original--earthy, raw, and savage, yet as breathtaking and surprising as the country itself. S.J.H. © AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. 'If you only read one crime novel this year, read The Broken Shore ... it might just be the great Australian novel, irrespective of genre' Age 'Its hard to know where to start praising this book. Plot, style setting and characters are all startlingly good... The Broken Shore is one of those watershed books that makes you rethink your ideas about reading' Sydney Morning Herald 'Temple's work is spare, deeply ironic; his wit, like the local beer, as cold as a dental anaesthetic' Australian 'It might well be the best crime novel published in this country' Weekend Australian --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Bookmarks Magazine Peter Temple, the author of eight previous mystery novels and a five-time winner of the Ned Kelly Award, Australia's most prestigious prize for crime fiction, is a literary sensation in the Southern Hemisphere. The Broken Shore lives up to expectations with its vivid characters, meticulously plotted story lines, nimble prose, and striking sense of place. Often compared to Michael Connelly's Harry Bosch, Joe Cashin-flawed and cynical, but still looking out for the underdog-is a delightful protagonist. Though Entertainment Weekly thought that the denouement didn't quite live up to its earlier promise, most critics unanimously praised this smart, sophisticated thriller. Hopefully, Temple will begin to attract more attention on this side of the equator. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more