The Original Inspector George Gently Collection (Inspector George Gently, Books 1-2)
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This first volume of the Inspector George Gently Collection comprises the original two novels that established Gently as one of Scotland Yard's fictional finest.
These are the stories on which the hit BBC TV series was based, written with a charm that conveys Alan Hunter's love of the East Anglian setting and demonstrating his expert use of dialogue to keep the plot moving along at a cracking pace.
The first of Gently's cases, Gently Does It, has him enduring the holiday from hell when he is caught up in a mysterious murder and locks horns with the local police over their handling of the affair. In the second book, Gently By The Shore, other people's holidays are disturbed when Gently is called in to investigate the discovery of a body on a pleasure beach.
silk tie but there weren’t many people to see it in any case. ‘Of course, it was Streifer we saw coming out of your office on Friday night,’ grunted Gently at last, the peppermint cream being fairly disposed of. ‘I thought we had disposed of that point, Inspector.’ Louey sounded justifiably piqued. ‘But it was Streifer all right, and it was your office all right.’ ‘Well, if you say so . . . but I can’t imagine what he was doing there. Naturally we had a little check after you’d told us about
darting and swerving through the crowds and threw itself at Gently’s feet. ‘He went that way – that way! I saw him! I saw him go!’ Gently’s eyes flashed. ‘Which way, Nits? . . . which way?’ ‘That way!’ The halfwit made a fumbling gesture towards the north end of the enclosure. ‘Gorblimey!’ exclaimed Dutt, ‘it’s “Windy Tops” again!’ Gently rounded on him. ‘Forget what I’ve been saying – just tell Copping to bring his men up there. And when you’ve done that, don’t wait for him . . . I shall
fireplace broke off as the door opened. Gently bowed to them gravely. ‘Carry on, my friends . . . don’t let us interrupt you,’ he said. Twenty pairs of eyes from all parts of the snack-bar turned on him in silence. He shook his head sadly and went out. The bright sun of the street struck in his eyes, making him blink. A steady stream of traffic was making in both directions, slowing at that point to get round the two parked trucks. A few yards further back Mariner’s Lane disgorged a small,
Railway Bridge the seething current from the city was joined by the rushing stream from Brackendale and together they poured over the bridge, a bridge that trembled beneath their thousand feet. Small wonder that Leaming was sceptical about being seen by the bridge-keeper, thought Gently. He himself passed over quite close to the little glass box, staring hard at its inmate as he went by. But the bridge-keeper was apparently bored by football crowds. He sat with his back to them, reading the
substantiate the terms Mrs Watts charged for such accommodation. The walls were papered in an irritable grained brown friezed with orange and green, the floor had a strip of carpet which echoed these colours. The bed and other furniture were of flimsy stained wood, late thirties in vintage, and the light-shade was a contraption of orange-sprayed glass with a golden tassel for the flies to perch on. In essence it bore a generic resemblance to the parlour downstairs, thought Gently. There was the