“Impressive. . . . A dark, unsettling story.”— New York Times Book Review There’s more than blood and bone beneath the skin. . . .  The victim, a nondescript number cruncher, was murdered just yards away from his wife and daughter. And the crime scene is one that could chill the blood of even the most seasoned police officer. But the strange revelations about an ordinary accountant’s extraordinary secret life are what truly mystify Chief Inspector Alan Banks. Lies breed further deceptions and blood begets blood . . . and all the while a killer watches, hidden in plain sight. Twisty, suspenseful, and thoroughly riveting, Final Account is one of Peter Robinson’s best thrillers. “Inspector Banks is a man for all seasons.”—Michael Connelly “Peter Robinson is a master.”—Tess Gerritsen “Inspector Banks is a man for all seasons.” - Michael Connelly “Thrilling-brilliantly plotted, beautifully paced.” - Louise Penny Praise for Peter Robinson and the Detective Banks series: “Exemplary.” - New York Times Book Review “Exquisite.” - USA Today “The best series now on the market. Try one and tell me I’m wrong.” - Stephen King “Impressive. . . . A dark, unsettling story.”— New York Times Book Review There’s more than blood and bone beneath the skin. . . .  The victim, a nondescript number cruncher, was murdered just yards away from his wife and daughter. And the crime scene is one that could chill the blood of even the most seasoned police officer. But the strange revelations about an ordinary accountant’s extraordinary secret life are what truly mystify Chief Inspector Alan Banks. Lies breed further deceptions and blood begets blood . . . and all the while a killer watches, hidden in plain sight. Twisty, suspenseful, and thoroughly riveting, Final Account is one of Peter Robinson’s best thrillers. “Inspector Banks is a man for all seasons.”—Michael Connelly “Peter Robinson is a master.”—Tess Gerritsen 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. Final Account By Robinson, Peter Avon Books ISBN: 0060502169 Chapter One The uniformed constable lifted the tape and waved DetectiveChief Inspector Banks through the gate at twoforty-seven in the morning. Banks's headlights danced over the scene as he drove intothe bumpy farmyard and came to a halt. To his left stood thesquat, solid house itself, with its walls of thick limestone andmossy, flagstone roof. Lights shone in both the upstairs anddownstairs windows. To his right, a high stone wall buttresseda copse that straggled up the daleside, where thetrees became lost in darkness. Straight ahead stood the barn. A group of officers had gathered around the open doors,inside which a ball of light seemed to be moving. Theylooked like the cast of a fifties sci-fi film gazing in awe onan alien spaceship or life-form. When Banks arrived, they parted in silence to let himthrough. As he entered, he noticed one young PC leaningagainst the outside wall dribbling vomit on his size twelves.Inside, the scene looked like a film set. Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy videotaping,and the source of the light was attached to the top of hiscamera. It created an eerie chiaroscuro and sudden, sickeningilluminations as it swept around the barn's interior. All heneeded, Banks thought, was for someone to yell "Action!"and the place would suddenly be full of sound and motion. But no amount of yelling would breathe life back into thegrotesque shape on the floor, by which a whey-faced youngpolice surgeon, Dr. Burns, squatted with a black notebook inhis hand. At first, the position of the body reminded Banks of a parodyof Moslem prayer: the kneeling man bent forward fromthe waist, arms stretched out in front, bum in the air, foreheadtouching the ground, perhaps facing Mecca. His fistswere clenched in the dirt, and Banks noticed the glint of agold cufflink, initialled "KAR," as Darby's light flashed onit. But there was no forehead to touch the ground. Above thecharcoal suit jacket, the blood-soaked collar of the man'sshirt protruded about an inch, and after that came nothingbut a dark, coagulated mass of bone and tissue spread out onthe dirt like an oil stain: a shotgun wound, by the look of it.Patches of blood, bone and brain matter stuck to the whitewashedstone walls in abstract-expressionist patterns.Darby's roving light caught what looked like a fragment ofskull sprouting a tuft of fair hair beside a rusty hoe. Banks felt the bile rise in his throat. He could still smellthe gunpowder, reminiscent of a childhood bonfire night,mixed with the stink of urine and feces and the rancid ra