Acerca del autor

One of the world's most popular and acclaimed writers, Peter Robinson was the bestselling, award-winning author of the DCI Banks series. He also wrote two short-story collections and three stand-alone novels, which combined have sold more than ten million copies around the world. Among his many honors and prizes were the Edgar Award, the CWA (UK) Dagger in the Library Award, and the Swedish Crime Writers' Academy Martin Beck Award.

De la contraportada

On a balmy June night, Kirsten, a young university student, is strolling home through a silent moonlit park when she is viciously attacked.

When she awakens in the hospital, she has no recollection of that brutal night. But then, slowly, painfully, details reveal themselves—dreams of two figures, one white and one black, hovering over her; snatches of a strange and haunting song; the unfamiliar texture of a rough and deadly hand. . . .

In another part of the country, Martha Browne arrives in a Yorkshire seaside town, posing as an author doing research for a book. But her research is of a particularly macabre variety. Who is she hunting with such deadly determination? And why?

 The First Cut is a vivid and compelling psychological thriller, from the author of the critically acclaimed Inspector Banks series.

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The First Cut

Perennial Dark Alley

Chapter One

Martha

Martha Browne arrived in Whitby one clear afternoon inearly September, convinced of her destiny.

All the way, she had gazed out of the bus window andwatched the landscape become more and more unreal. OnFylingdales Moor, the sensors of the early-warning missile attacksystem rested like giant golf balls balanced at the rims ofholes, and all around them the heather was in full bloom. Itwasn't purple, like the songs all said, but more delicate, maroonlaced with pink. When the moors gave way to rolling farmland,like the frozen green waves of the sea it led to, she understoodwhat Dylan Thomas meant by "fire green as grass."

Sea and sky were a piercing blue, and the town nestled inits bay, a pattern of red pantile roofs flanked on either side byhigh cliffs. Everything was too vibrant and vivid to be real; thescene resembled a landscape painting, as distorted in its wayas Van Gogh's wheat fields and starry nights.

The bus lumbered down toward the harbor and pulled upin a small station off Victoria Square. Martha took anotherquick glance at her map and guidebook as the driver backedinto the numbered bay. When the doors hissed open, she picked up her small holdall and followed the other passengersonto the platform.

Arriving in a new place always made Martha feel strangelyexcited, but this time the sensation was even more intense. Atfirst, she could only stand rooted to the spot among therevving buses, breathing in the diesel fumes and salt sea air.She felt as if she was trying the place on for size, and it was agood fit. She took stock of the subtle tremors her arrivalcaused in the essence of the town. Others might not noticesuch things, but Martha did. Everyone and everything -- fromthe sand on the beach to a guilty secret in a tourist's heart -- was somehow connected and in a state of constant flux. It waslike quantum physics, she thought, at least insofar as sheunderstood it. Her presence would send out ripples and reverberationsthat people wouldn't forget for a long time.

She still felt queasy from the journey, but that would soonpass. The first thing was to find somewhere to stay. Accordingto her guidebook, the best accommodation was to be had inthe West Cliff area. The term sounded odd when she knew shewas on the east coast, but Whitby was built on a kink in theshoreline facing north, and the town is divided neatly into eastand west by the mouth of the River Esk.

Martha walked along the New Quay Road by EndeavourWharf. In the estuary, silt glistened like entrails in the sun. Arusted hulk stood by the wharf -- not a fishing trawler, but asmall cargo boat of some kind -- and rough, unshaven menwearing dirty T-shirts and jeans ambled around on deck, coilingropes and greasing thick chains. By the old swing bridgethat linked the east and west sides of the town stood a blackboardwith the times of high tides chalked in: 0527 and 1803. Itwas a few minutes before four; the tide should be on its way in.

She walked along St. Ann's Staith, sliding her hand on thewhite metal railing that topped the stone walls of the quay. Small craft lay beached on the mud, some of them not muchmore than rowing boats with sails. Ropes thrummed andflimsy metal masts rattled in the light breeze and flashed in thesun. Across the narrow estuary, the white houses seemed to bepiled haphazardly beside and on top of one another. At thesummit of the cliff stood St. Mary's Church, just as it had, inone form or another, since the Abbot William de Percy built itbetween 1100 and 1125. The abbey beside it had been thereeven longer, but it had been crumbling away for over fourhundred years, since Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries,and now there was nothing left but a somber ruin.

Martha felt a thrill at actually seeing these places she hadonly read about. And she also had a strange sense of cominghome, a kind of déjà vu. Everything seemed so damn familiarand right. This was the place; Martha knew it. But she'd haveplenty of time to explore East Cliff later, she decided, turningher attention back toward where she was going.

The pubs, seafood stalls and souvenir shops on her leftgave way to amusement arcades and a Dracula Museum; for itwas here, in Whitby, where the celebrated Count was said tohave landed. The road veered away from the harbor wallaround a series of open sheds by the quayside, where the fishwere auctioned before being shipped to processing plants.Obviously, the catch hadn't come in yet, as nothing was goingon there at the moment. Martha knew she would have to comedown here again and again and watch the men as theyunloaded their fish into iced boxes and sold them. But, likeeverything else, it could wait. Now she had made up her mind,she felt she had plenty of time. Attention to detail was important,and it would help overcome whatever fear and uncertaintyremained within her.

She stopped at a stall and bought a packet of shrimp,which she ate as she carried on walking. They sold whelks, winkles and cockles, too, but Martha never touched them. Itwas because of her mother, she realized. Every time the familyhad visited the seaside -- usually Weston-super-Mare orBurnham-on-Sea -- and Martha had wanted to try them, hermother had told her it was vulgar to eat such things. It was,too, she had always believed. What could be more vulgar thansticking a pin in the moist opening of a tiny, conchlike shelland pulling out a creature as soft and slimy as snot?

Excerpted from The First Cutby Robinson, Peter Excerpted by permission.
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