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Allen & Unwin. Very Good. 5 x 0.7 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 240 pages. Cliff Hardy trades the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, a rugged undeveloped area of Australia, in this latest hard-boiled detective novel. First hired by the d aughter of the late, wealthy Frederick Farmer to investigate his mysterious and fiery death, Hardy is then called in on a second c ase-the disappearance of the young daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets under Hardy's thick ski n. Questionable insurance agents and feral bikers round out the c olorful cast as Hardy battles through personal turmoil on the roa d to justice. Editorial Reviews From Booklist After a couple of decades, your typical mystery series tends to get a little stale . But there are exceptions: Westlake's Dortmunder novels (35 year s), McBain's 87th Precinct series (49 years), and Corris' Cliff H ardy series, which is now at the quarter-century mark and still g oing strong. Unlike the oft-reprinted novels of Westlake and McBa in, however, Australian Corris' work is not widely available in t he U.S. The publication of this representative Hardy novel should help change that. In The Coast Road, a wealthy man dies, and his daughter asks Sydney PI Hardy to find out whether it really was an accident, as the police have ruled. Does the daughter know som ething, or is she merely jealous of her father's second wife, who now stands to inherit a fortune? Before he can get a handle on t he case, another one drops into his lap, and this one, involving a missing person, hits Cliff on an emotional as well as a profess ional level. The novel is sharply written in the classic gumshoe tradition, and it generates enough energy to keep readers plowing forward. David Pitt Copyright © American Library Association. Al l rights reserved About the Author Peter Corris is the author of the Cliff Hardy detective novels. He is also the author of A Rou nd of Golf: 18 Holes with Peter Corris and the coauthor of Fred H ollows: An Autobiography. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. A ll rights reserved. The Coast Road A Cliff Hardy Novel By Pete r Corris Allen & Unwin Copyright ® 2004 Peter Corris All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-74114-384-3 CHAPTER 1 It had to happen soo ner or later. The building in St Peters Lane where I've had my of fice for longer than I like to think about has come up for 'resto ration'. Read demolition maybe, with a retained façade. I knew th e hammer was poised when my lease ran out and all I was offered w as a fortnightly tenancy. I took it and hung on as long as I coul d, but the game's up. The rent's been cheap because of the condit ion of the joint. DDD, my ex and now late wife Cyn called it - da rk, damp and dusty. And that was years ago. It's had a few faceli fts, paint jobs, rewiring, but the space had just become too pote ntially valuable to accommodate tenants like me. We held a party - Stephanie Geller, astrologer, Frank Corso, antiquarian booksel ler, Lucille Harvey, genealogist, Donald Carver, philatelist, Hen ri Baden, numismatist and a few others, some of whom imported and exported, and me. Strictly cheap wine casks, paper cups, Salada biscuits, cheese slices. 'Usually they offer the existing tenant s first option on the new offices,' Don Carver said. Don looks li ke a bird, with a long nose and retreating chin. He's slumped as if all those years of peering through magnifying glasses have ben t him over. Frank Corso held a three-tier Salada and cheese slic e construction in one hand and a brimful cup of rough red in the other. 'Hah, this'll be apartments, mate. Bet on it. A couple of grand a month, no sweat. They know none of us are up for that so they didn't bother with the politeness.' 'Still, possible ground s for a legal challenge?' Don said. 'Cliff?' I was watching Fran k, wondering how he was going to negotiate the biscuits and chees e. 'Sure, Don,' Lucille Harvey said. 'What d'we do? Club togethe r and get a QC?' Somehow, Frank handled it. He's a big man with a wide mouth and he managed to absorb half of the biscuit sandwic h in one bite, not many crumbs falling onto his bulging waistcoat . Frank maintains that people expect an antiquarian bookseller to wear a waistcoat. He washed the mouthful down with a slug of red . I nodded my congratulations and turned my attention to the conv ersation. 'Don might be right,' I said. 'And Lucille's right as well. Upshot is, we're fucked.' Don took a cautious sip of his w ine. 'Steph?' Stephanie Geller, ruby-lipped, kohl-eyed, in a seq uinned top and a long skirt festooned with tiny mirrors, was piss ed. She's short -sighted and won't wear glasses because she think s they're bad for her image. She squinted and smiled lopsidedly. 'Zee cards ... zee cards say Cliff 's right, even though he's a f uckin' sceptic's sceptic. We're fucked. Henri, get me another whi te.' Steph forgets the accent once in a while. 'You're drunk, da rling,' Henri Baden said. Steph told me once that Henri is a con man who tells people what they want to hear. He's one of those ga ys that seem to get gayer by the glass. 'Don't darling me, you p oofter.' 'Steph!' Lucille Harvey snarled. It went downhill from there. Goodbye St Peters Lane, goodbye central location, goodbye cheap rent. I was working from home and not liking it. My place in Glebe doesn't lend itself to being an office as well as a hou se. The front room's too small; the living space is filled with b ooks and now holds a couple of filing cabinets. You can't escort people upstairs, not when the runner's worn and the spare room ho lds a bed, a computer and more books. I was reduced to meeting my clients at places of their or my choice. I was to meet Dr Elizab eth Farmer in her room in the Linguistics Department of Sydney Un iversity. A day in early spring, clear and cool. I walked. The l inguists were housed in a building that looked like a cross betwe en a Nissan hut and a school demountable. It was probably intende d to be temporary, but a creeper had grown over it, trees and shr ubs crowded close and it was there to stay in all its grey, small -windowed anonymity. From what I'd heard about the way things we re going at universities lately, maybe a low profile was a good t hing. The bean counters and productivity assessors just might lea ve you alone. It was cold in the corridor - poor insulation and inadequate heating. It'd be an oven in summer. I found a notice t elling me the number of Dr Farmer's room and tracked it down. The door was open and I heard voices coming from inside. I walked pa st, slowly enough to see a young female dressed like a student si tting forward in a chair and an older woman behind a desk. They k ept their voices low and I couldn't catch what they were saying. Probably wouldn't have understood anyway. I was early as usual a nd it was one of those times I used to fill in by smoking. Now I wandered around looking at noticeboards, passing a couple of othe r open doors, drifting back to Dr Farmer's room. Ten minutes past our appointed time the student hurried away, backpack over one s houlder, scarf dangling, muttering to herself. I knocked on the o pen door and presented myself. She stood and beckoned to me. 'Mr Hardy. Sorry to keep you waiting.' I went in and took the hand she extended. She was tall and well built with thick dark hair go ing attractively grey. I must have gaped just a bit because she l aughed as she pointed to the chair. 'I know, I know. I look like Germaine Greer. No relation. I just do.' I sat and then stood. ' Can I close the door?' 'Of course. Have you been around a univer sity lately?' 'No. Not as a student for a long time and not othe rwise for quite a bit.' We both settled into our chairs. 'You ca n't be in a room with a student with the door shut - male or fema le. Possibility of improper conduct.' 'Jesus.' 'Absurd, isn't i t? Conversely, you can't leave your door unlocked when you go to the loo in case your bag gets nicked ... or your computer.' I no dded and looked closely at her while also taking in details of th e room in a professional fashion. Rooms can speak about character . Books, books and more books, filing cabinets, stacked folders, audio cassettes. She wore what looked like a heavy linen shirt, w hite, with a string of dark beads around her neck. Dark skirt. I guessed her age at around forty and her character as strong. I wo ndered if I was being called in on one of those university politi cal cases where factions develop in departments, insults fly and crimes are alleged. 'Is this a university matter, Dr Farmer? I m ean threats, harassment, that sort of thing?' 'Shit, no,' she sa id. 'Anything like that I could handle myself or go through the u nion. No, this is personal and nothing to do with my profession. D'you remember Prof Harkness?' I did. Harkness was an ophthalmol ogist who saved the sight of a Bougainville patriot who some othe rs patriots were trying to kill. Harkness had needed some protect ion up to and during the operation. 'Sure, I remember him.' 'He operated on me a little while ago. Tied up a muscle to correct a squint. I used to have to wear these thick glasses. Anyway, appar ently I babbled a bit under the anaesthetic and he was interested in what I said. We talked. He suggested I get in touch with you. He sings your praises.' 'I'm glad to hear it. Anyone who could' ve been making a million dollars a year in Macquarie Street and d oesn't impresses me. What were you babbling about, Dr Farmer?' S he paused before she answered. She was a very handsome woman, pos sibly well aware of it but it sat lightly on her. She had a sligh t frown mark between her eyebrows, probably a result of the corre cted squint. Her eyes were large and grey and unwavering. 'The pr of took me seriously and I hope you will as well.' 'You've got m y attention.' 'It's a question of how to put it. We linguists so metimes get tongue-tied, you'd be surprised to hear. D'you play g olf, Mr Hardy?' I shook my head. 'There's a phrase - paralysis by analysis - when you think about technique so much you can't ac tually hit the ball. What I'm talking about is similar. I'll just have to stumble through it. I might say I want you to find out w ho murdered my father, but I think I know who. What I really want is to find out how she did it and make her pay.'CHAPTER 2 She m ight have had trouble getting started, but she'd rehearsed her st ory well and got it up and running smoothly. Frederick Farmer had been a successful real estate agent with offices in the western and southern suburbs, the Blue Mountains and the Illawarra. In hi s mid-fifties he'd sold out to one of the big franchises for seve ral million dollars and spent the next fifteen years dabbling in the stock exchange and at his hobbies - gardening, fishing and go lf. Elizabeth was his only child. His wife had died ten years ago and three years later Farmer, aged sixty-five, had married Matil da Sharpe-Tarleton, a divorcee twenty-five years younger than him self. 'She calls herself Tilly,' Elizabeth Farmer said. 'That ou ght to tell you something. She's about two years younger than me. Can you see me calling myself Lizzie?' I could in fact. She was smooth-skinned and now that she was animated she looked younger and full of energy. I didn't say anything because a reply wasn't invited. 'She married him for his money and led him a merry danc e.' 'In what way?' 'Tried to make him do things he was past doi ng - overseas trips, gym workouts, golf pro-ams. She even talked him into opening up another real estate agency when he swore he'd done with all that. She's running it now with all his capital be hind her and doing very well. I know what you're going to say.' 'Don't say that. I don't know what I'm going to say, so how could you?' She made a defensive gesture. 'I'm sorry. I'm getting wor ked up. The police ...' 'I'm nothing like the police.' 'Of cour se. Well, they automatically thought I was a kind of poor woman's Gina Reinhart. But it's nothing like that. My father had money b ut not Hancock-style billions. We didn't get on particularly wel l and it's true that he left most of it to her. But I got some an d I'm sure the will was kosher. It's not about money. It's about ...' I waited for the word, wondering - justice? revenge? vindic ation? Suddenly she seemed deflated. She slumped back in her cha ir. 'I'm not sure what it's about. Call it closure.' 'It won't b e closure if you turn out to be right. There'd be a trial of the person you have in mind, probably media interest, books, perhaps. Think of the Kalajzich case. You've already mentioned the Hancoc k circus.' 'I know, I know. Call it jealousy then. She's beautif ul and rich and ...' I shook my head. 'You're not the type to be jealous of anyone. What's your status here, senior lecturer?' ' Associate professor.' 'You don't call yourself professor.' 'I w ill when I get a chair.' 'There you are. A successful career wom an. I've known a few gung-ho academics like you and they all have one thing in common - when they get interested or involved in so mething they can't let it go. They have to know. ' 'Prof Harknes s was right,' she said. 'You're the man for the job.' Frederick Farmer had died when his weekender at Wombarra in the Illawarra h ad burnt to the ground. The house wasn't new or fancy. It was an old weatherboard on ten acres that had once been mine land and la ter an orchard. Farmer, despite his wealth, wasn't interested in high levels of personal comfort. He experimented with varieties o f flowers, fished off the rock shelf and played golf at a nearby par 59 course. According to his daughter, he was spending more an d more time at the coast and less with his wife, whom he'd come t o dislike. 'They investigate deaths like that pretty thoroughly, ' I said. 'Especially when they produce young, rich widows.' 'Of course. But on the surface of it everything appeared straightfor ward. Dad drank a bit at night and slept heavily. The old joint w as full of stuff just waiting to give off toxic fumes - laminex, lino, vinyl, you name it. The wiring was ancient.' I shrugged. ' It happens.' 'Not to him. He knew houses, he'd bought and sold t hem all his life. He was careful. He disconnected everything befo re he went to bed. Turned everything off and slept with a hot wat er bottle.' 'What about the hot water service?' 'Chip heater. H e blew out the pilot light. Always.' 'You told this to the polic e?' 'Yes, but they took no notice. I think as soon as they saw t he scotch bottles, the old two bar radiators and the chip heater they made up their minds. They said a radiator had been left on a nd a curtain had blown close to it and ... whoosh. But it's not possible.' 'What about the hot water bottle?' 'Ah. Right questi on. They didn't find one. I don't know how hard they looked. It w ouldn't have survived the fire, but no one believed me when I sai d he used one. I ranted on about it and Tilly ... Matilda said sh e'd persuaded him not to use it, that it was a fogey thing. She's lying. He loved his hottie.' I liked her, I liked her honesty a nd the homey touches, but it sounded very thin. 'How much money a re we talking about? I mean, that your father's wife inherited.' 'Oh, the house in Wahroonga, the shares, the other bits and piec es, probably close to five million. I got the Wombarra place whic h I'd always loved, and some shares and things like my mother's j ewellery and some money she had. About three-quarters of a millio n.' 'Big difference.' 'Sure, but I've got a house in Newtown th at I own and a job that I love. No dependants. I don't need five million. She's just got her face and her figure and her greed.' 'Your father sounds like a pretty cluey guy. How come he went for a gold-digger?' 'She's a good actress, and she only showed her true colours after she got him.' 'No pre-nuptial?' She shook he r head. 'He hated lawyers.' 'Can't say I blame him.' 'Look, I d on't expect you to work miracles, but surely you can look at the reports on the fire and the medical evidence and ... do an invest igation of some kind. And you could meet her and investigate her. See who she knows, what she does. If there's anything ... I know it sounds thin.' 'Is she hands-on in the real estate agency?' 'Oh, yes. She fancies herself a great saleswoman.' 'It so happen s I'm looking for office space. Where's the agency?' She grimace d. 'Newtown. I see her far too often.' 'I was in Darlinghurst. I wouldn't mind Newtown.' She smiled and the animation came back. 'You'll do it?' 'I've got a feeling you'd sic Harkness onto me if I didn't.' I put one of my cards on her tidy desk. 'I'll take a look at it. Siphon off a bit of your money. Give me your number and I'll fax you a contract. You can email me some of the releva nt details - addresses, dates. People involved - like your father 's doctor, the police you spoke to, insurance and stuff.' 'Thank you.' 'No guarantees.' She gave me a card with her contact det ails on it and we shook hands. She had a strong, cool grip and th ere was a faint tang of something astringent about her. Standing, she was tall, in the 180 centimetre bracket. I wondered about th e no dependants. I wondered about a lot of things to do with her. I always do. People who hire private detectives aren't like the normal run. They want to know other people's secrets and they usu ally have some of their own, sometimes harmless, sometimes not. I t makes the work interesting. Anyway, I did need to think about o ffice space. ... Whatever chicanery goes on inside the building s, the grounds of Sydney University are still pleasant to walk ar ound. I drifted up from the old linguistics building, past someth ing new and soulless and then strolled by the Fisher Library to t he new set of wide steps put in to run down to Victoria Park. The re used to be a gap in the fence and a rough track up from the pa rk worn by feet that wanted to go in the logical, short-cut direc tion. The authorities eventually recognised the reality and they' ve done a good job. In a few years the steps and rails will look as if they've always been there. A cold breeze had got up and I was underdressed in a light jacket, shirt and jeans. Some of the students on the steps had taken a better reading on the day and w ore or carried coats. They probably had umbrellas in their backpa cks. Spring in Sydney. I went down the steps and decided to walk a couple of k's around the paths. I'd neglected my gym-going lat ely and a brisk walk to raise a sweat might help me to re-dedicat e myself. The pool wasn't open yet but pretty soon the lappers wo uld be at it in the early morning before work and the mums and da ds would be hauling the kids in for lessons at twenty bucks a hal f hour. I'd been taught to swim by Uncle Ian, who I realised much later was no kin but a man having an affair with my mother. It h adn't exactly been a 'chuck him in at the deep end' kind of instr uction, but near enough. I got the hang of it quickly enough and survived the surf at the south end of Maroubra beach for many yea rs. I hadn't been in the water much in recent years and I could p robably do with a few lessons. Maybe, I thought, but let's not ma ke too many good resolutions all at once. (Continues...)Excerpte d from The Coast Road by Peter Corris. Copyright ® 2004 Peter Cor ris. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin. All rights reserv ed. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted withou t permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to t his web site. .

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Coast Road: Wealthy Frederick Farmer died when his weekender burned to the ground. Death by accident, the police found. But his daughter, Dr Elizabeth Farmer, a feisty academic who resembles the younger Germaine Greer, hires Cliff Hardy to investigate. Is her only motive jealousy of her father`s attractive second wife, now very rich Hardy`s search takes him from the Illawarra escarpment to Wollongong and Port Kembla, and the police are far from co-operative as he tries to unravel the truth. He has his hands full when a panic-stricken call leads to a second case the search for the precocious daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets well and truly under Hardy`s guard. Hardy has narrow escapes and people die as his probing hits nerves. Corrupt cops, compromised insurance agents, feral bikies as well as a few good guys are drawn into the maelstrom. Hardy battles on through personal turmoil and vicious opposition with all outcomes uncertain and justice a remote ideal. `I don`t know how many Cliff Hardy novels there are, but there aren`t enough.` - Kerry Greenwood, The Sydney Morning Herald `Hardy is a wonderful creation still, under Corris`s magisterial narrative control, capable of those odd echoes and resonances, the elegiac interludes, that characterise the best crime writing.` - Graeme Blundell, The Weekend Australian `There has been no more efficient, entertaining and amusing writer of detective thrillers in Australia than Peter Corris.` - The Age, Ebook.

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Peter Corris' latest crime classic sees Private Investigator Cliff Hardy leaving the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, and a gripping combination of a mysterious death, a missing child and a complex trail of violence and police corruption. Wealthy Frederick Farmer died when his weekender burned to the ground. Death by accident, the police found. But his daughter, Dr Elizabeth Farmer, a feisty academic who resembles the younger Germaine Greer, hires Cliff Hardy to investigate. Is her only motive jealousy of her father's attractive second wife, now very rich? Hardy's search takes him from the Illawarra escarpment to Wollongong and Port Kembla, and the police are far from co-operative as he tries to unravel the truth. He has his hands full when a panic-stricken call leads to a second case the search for the precocious daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets well and truly under Hardy's guard. Hardy has narrow escapes and people die as his probing hits nerves. Corrupt cops, compromised insurance agents, feral bikies as well as a few good guys are drawn into the maelstrom. Hardy battles on through personal turmoil and vicious opposition with all outcomes uncertain and justice a remote ideal. 'I don't know how many Cliff Hardy novels there are, but there aren't enough.' - Kerry Greenwood, The Sydney Morning Herald 'Hardy is a wonderful creation still, under Corris's magisterial narrative control, capable of those odd echoes and resonances, the elegiac interludes, that characterise the best crime writing.' - Graeme Blundell, The Weekend Australian 'There has been no more efficient, entertaining and amusing writer of detective thrillers in Australia than Peter Corris.' - The Age.

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Peter Corris" latest crime classic sees Private Investigator Cliff Hardy leaving the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, and a gripping combination of a mysterious death, a missing child and a complex trail of violence and police corruption. Wealthy Frederick Farmer died when his weekender burned to the ground. Death by accident, the police found. But his daughter, Dr Elizabeth Farmer, a feisty academic who resembles the younger Germaine Greer, hires Cliff Hardy to investigate. ... Peter Corris" latest crime classic sees Private Investigator Cliff Hardy leaving the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, and a gripping combination of a mysterious death, a missing child and a complex trail of violence and police corruption. Wealthy Frederick Farmer died when his weekender burned to the ground. Death by accident, the police found. But his daughter, Dr Elizabeth Farmer, a feisty academic who resembles the younger Germaine Greer, hires Cliff Hardy to investigate. Is her only motive jealousy of her father"s attractive second wife, now very rich? Hardy"s search takes him from the Illawarra escarpment to Wollongong and Port Kembla, and the police are far from co-operative as he tries to unravel the truth. He has his hands full when a panic-stricken call leads to a second case the search for the precocious daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets well and truly under Hardy"s guard. Hardy has narrow escapes and people die as his probing hits nerves. Corrupt cops, compromised insurance agents, feral bikies as well as a few good guys are drawn into the maelstrom. Hardy battles on through personal turmoil and vicious opposition with all outcomes uncertain and justice a remote ideal. "I don"t know how many Cliff Hardy novels there are, but there aren"t enough." - Kerry Greenwood, The Sydney Morning Herald "Hardy is a wonderful creation still, under Corris"s magisterial narrative control, capable of those odd echoes and resonances, the elegiac interludes, that characterise the best crime writing." - Graeme Blundell, The Weekend Australian "There has been no more efficient, entertaining and amusing writer of detective thrillers in Australia than Peter Corris." - The AgeTaal: Engels;Formaat: ePub met kopieerbeveiliging (DRM) van Adobe;Bestandsgrootte: 0.38 MB;Kopieerrechten: Het kopiëren van (delen van) de pagina's is niet toegestaan ;Printrechten: Het printen van de pagina's is niet toegestaan;Voorleesfunctie: De voorleesfunctie is uitgeschakeld;Geschikt voor: Alle e-readers te koop bij bol.com (of compatible met Adobe DRM). Telefoons/tablets met Google Android (1.6 of hoger) voorzien van bol.com boekenbol app. PC en Mac met Adobe reader software;Verschijningsdatum: juni 2004;ISBN10: 1741153212;ISBN13: 9781741153217; Engelstalig | Ebook | 2004.

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Cliff Hardy trades the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, a rugged undeveloped area of Australia, in this latest hard-boiled detective novel. First hired by the daughter of the late, wealthy Frederick Farmer to investigate his mysterious and fiery death, Hardy is then called in on a second case the disappearance of the young daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets under Hardy's thick skin. Questionable insurance agents and feral bikers round out the colorful cast as Hardy battles through personal turmoil on the road to justice.

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hard-boiled,literature and fiction,mystery,mystery thriller and suspense, The Coast Road (Cliff Hardy series), Cliff Hardy trades the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, a rugged undeveloped area of Australia, in this latest hard-boiled detective novel. First hired by the daughter of the late, wealthy Frederick Farmer to investigate his mysterious and fiery death, Hardy is then called in on a second case-the disappearance of the young daughter of Marisha Karatsky, an exotic, dark-eyed interpreter who gets under Hardy's thick skin. Questionable insurance agents and feral bikers round out the colorful cast as Hardy battles through personal turmoil on the road to justice.

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Fiction, Peter Corris' latest crime classic sees Private Investigator Cliff Hardy leaving the mean streets of Sydney for the Illawarra escarpment, and a gripping combination of a mysterious death, a missing child and a complex trail of violence and police corruption. eBook.

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A Cliff Hardy Novel, A Cliff Hardy Novel.