Last Post: A Novel of Suspense
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A mysterious envelope arrives on Eve McNabb's doorstep soon after she has buried her mother, a woman who kept many secrets. The puzzling letter inside this envelope hints at an illicit passion between the letter writer and Eve's mother, May McNabb.
Even when she was a child, Eve sensed that there were parts of May's life she would never understand. She would never know the details of her parents' marriage or why her father suddenly disappeared from her life. While Eve has always believed that her father was dead, she begins to wonder whether her mother's life as a widow had been a ruse. Will she have to question everything her mother has told her? Could her father be alive and well? The letter writer may have some answers, but how can Eve find him or her?
With only a blurred postmark for a clue, Eve sets out to locate the writer and journey into her own past. What she never suspected was that questions can be dangerous, perhaps even deadly...
Filled with piercing wit and illuminating insight into the human condition, Robert Barnard's Last Post proves yet again that he is one of the great masters of mystery.
this house, back in the seventies, when salaries in teaching were derisory? Maybe a legacy, maybe her father’s cartoons had brought in money. Eve shook herself and walked on. But before she could get into the home that she had shared with her mother for the first twenty years of her life, there was the neighbor in the garden. She had been there and shown signs of wanting to talk when Eve had come out earlier in the afternoon, but Eve had used her appointment with Mr. Bradshaw as an excuse, and
a pub. If he wanted to carry on with that sort of thing, a provincial newspaper was the obvious place, with hopes of a London posting to follow.” “We’re no provincial in Glasgow,” said Harry genially. “Here’s the center of the universe.” “Aye, well, it doesn’t always feel like that. Anyway, he knew I wanted a teaching job in a good school, and he sent me any odds and ends he saw in the Glasgow and Edinburgh newspapers. I didn’t fancy going to the sticks and being the only one around who spoke
about me, one way or the other . . . Now, I wonder what you’d like to eat. Are you a big eater? I was intending to start with prawns—frozen, but straight from the boat to the freezer—then spag Bol, or lasagna or some such thing.” “It sounds ideal.” He went off to the monster fridge-freezer and began rummaging for foil boxes and plastic buckets. Eve noticed there were boxes for two meals as well as for one. Steve had a lot of friends. As he straightened and began to put things together, he threw
posted.” “You could consult a philatelist. Postmarks are probably important to them. He might be able to give you an idea of the length of the town name it was posted from, maybe even the initial letter.” “Maybe. That doesn’t get us awfully far though, does it?” “No. But you’ve got a two-pronged approach now. Your mother’s possible lesbian affair, and the ‘business with John’ that Jean talks about. Plenty on your plate for a start. Do you know, for example, when your mother took the school job
post is piling up. I am grateful to you for all you’ve done.” As she went out into the discreet Crossley side street, a passing man looked at her, nodded, and murmured something that was obviously a condolence or a tribute to her mother. Eve smiled her thanks and walked on—briskly, repelling any further encounters. It was time to concentrate on the private woman May McNabb. When she got to Derwent Road, she slowed to a halt as she neared the house where she had grown up. Number 24 loomed rather