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The broken shore [sound recording (audio book)] / Peter Temple.

By: Temple, Peter, 1946-.
Contributor(s): Hosking, Peter [narrator.] | Playaway Digital Audio | Findaway World, LLC | Bolinda Audio (Firm).
Material type: materialTypeLabelSoundPublisher: [Solon, Ohio] : Playaway Digital Audio : [Manufactured and distributed by] Findaway World, LLC, [2011], p2010Description: 1 sound media player (approximately 10 hr.) : digital, HD audio ; 3 3/8 x 2 1/8 in.Content type: spoken word Media type: audio Carrier type: otherISBN: 9781742149554; 1742149553.Subject(s): Race discrimination -- Fiction | Murder -- Australia -- Fiction | Aboriginal Australians -- FictionGenre/Form: Audiobooks. | Detective and mystery fiction.DDC classification: Read by Peter Hosking.Summary: PLAYAWAY: Shaken by a scrape with death, big-city detective Joe Cashin is posted away from the Homicide Squad to a quiet town on the South Australian coast where he grew up. Carrying physical scars and not a little guilt, he spends his time playing the country cop, walking his dogs, and thinking about how it all was before. When a prominent local is attacked and left for dead in his own home, Cashin is thrust into a murder investigation. The evidence points to three boys from the nearby Aboriginal community; whom everyone wants to blame. But Cashin is unconvinced, and soon begins to see the outlines of something far more terrible than a simple robbery gone wrong.
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Joe Cashin was different once. He moved easily then; was surer and less thoughtful. But there are consequences when you've come so close to dying. For Cashin, they included a posting away from the world of Homicide to the quiet place on the coast where he grew up. Now all he has to do is play the country cop and walk the dogs. And sometimes think about how he was before. Then prominent local Charles Bourgoyne is bashed and left for dead. Everything seems to point to three boys from the nearby Aboriginal community; everyone seems to want it to. But Cashin is unconvinced. And as tragedy unfolds relentlessly into tragedy, he finds himself holding onto something that might be better let go...


One set of earphones and one AAA battery required for playback.

Title from Playaway label.

"Bolinda Audio"--Container.

Issued on Playaway, a dedicated audio media player.


Release date supplied by publisher.

Previously released by Bolinda Publishing Pty Ltd, p2010.

Read by Peter Hosking.

PLAYAWAY: Shaken by a scrape with death, big-city detective Joe Cashin is posted away from the Homicide Squad to a quiet town on the South Australian coast where he grew up. Carrying physical scars and not a little guilt, he spends his time playing the country cop, walking his dogs, and thinking about how it all was before. When a prominent local is attacked and left for dead in his own home, Cashin is thrust into a murder investigation. The evidence points to three boys from the nearby Aboriginal community; whom everyone wants to blame. But Cashin is unconvinced, and soon begins to see the outlines of something far more terrible than a simple robbery gone wrong.

Playaway digital audio book.


Excerpt provided by Syndetics

CASHIN WALKED around the hill, into the wind from the sea. It was cold, late autumn, last glowing leaves clinging to the liquidambars and maples his great-grandfather's brother had planted, their surrender close. He loved this time, the morning stillness, loved it more than spring. The dogs were tiring now but still hunting the ground, noses down, taking more time to sniff, less hopeful. Then one picked up a scent and, new life in their legs, they loped in file for the trees, vanished. When he was near the house, the dogs, black as liquorice, came out of the trees, stopped, heads up, looked around as if seeing the land for the first time. Explorers. They turned their gaze on him for a while, started down the slope. He walked the last stretch as briskly as he could and, as he put his hand out to the gate, they reached him. Their curly black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong back legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in, nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first again, stood with tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door jamb. Inside, the big poodles led him to the kitchen. They had water bowls there and they stuck their noses into them and drank in a noisy way. Cashin prepared their meal: two slices each from the cannon-barrel dog sausage made by the butcher in Kenmare, three handfuls each of dry dog food. He got the dogs' attention, took the bowls outside, placed them a metre apart. The dogs came out. He told them to sit. Stomachs full of water, they did so slowly and with disdain, appeared to be arthritic. Given permission to eat, they looked at the food without interest, looked at each other, at him. Why have we been brought here to see this inedible stuff? Cashin went inside. In his hip pocket, the mobile rang. 'Yes.' 'Joe?' Kendall Rogers, from the station. 'Had a call from a lady,' she said. 'Near Beckett. A Mrs Haig. She reckons there's someone in her shed.' 'Doing what?' 'Well, nothing. Her dog's barking. I'll sort it out.' Cashin felt his stubble. 'What's the address?' 'I'm going.' 'No point. Not far out of my way. Address?' He went to the kitchen table and wrote on the pad: date, time, incident, address. 'Tell her fifteen-twenty. Give her my number if anything happens before I get there.' The dogs liked his urgency, rushed around, made for the vehicle when he left the building. On the way, they stood on station, noses out the back windows. Cashin parked a hundred metres down the lane from the farmhouse gate. A head came around the hedge as he approached. 'Cop?' she said. She had dirty grey hair around a face cut from a hard wood with a blunt tool. Cashin nodded. 'The uniform and that?' 'Plainclothes,' he said. He produced the Victoria Police badge with the emblem that looked like a fox. She took off her smudged glasses to study it. 'Them police dogs?' she said. He looked back. Two woolly black heads in the same window. 'They work with the police,' he said. 'Where's this person?' 'Come,' she said. 'Dog's inside, mad as a pork chop, the little bugger.' 'Jack Russell,' said Cashin. 'How'd ya know that?' 'Just a guess.' They went around the house. He felt the fear rising in him like nausea. 'In there,' she said. The shed was a long way from the house, you had to cross an expanse of overgrown garden, go through an opening in a fence lost beneath rampant potato-creeper. They walked to the gate. Beyond was knee-high grass, pieces of rusted metal sticking out. 'What's inside?' Cashin said, looking at a rusted shed of corrugated iron a few metres from the road, a door half open. He felt sweat around his collarbones. He wished he'd let Kendall do this. Mrs Haig touched her chin, black spikes like a worn-down hair brush. 'Stuff,' she said. 'Junk. The old truck. Haven't bin in there for years. Don't go in there.' 'Let the dog out,' he said. Her head jerked, alarmed. 'Bastard might hurt im,' she said. 'No,' he said. 'What's the dog's name?' 'Monty, call them all Monty, after Lord Monty of Alamein. Too young, you wouldn't know.' 'That's right,' he said. 'Let Monty out.' 'And them police dogs? What bloody use are they?' 'Kept for life-and-death matters,' Cashin said, controlling his voice. 'I'll be at the door, then you let Lord Monty out.' His mouth was dry, his scalp itched, these things would not have happened before Rai Sarris. He crossed the grassland, went to the left of the door. You learned early to keep your distance from potentially dangerous people and that included not going into dark sheds to meet them. Mrs Haig was at the potato-creeper hedge. He gave her the thumbs up, his heart thumping. The small dog came bounding through the grass, all tight muscles and yap, went for the shed, braked, stuck its head in the door and snarled, small body rigid with excitement. Cashin thumped on the corrugated iron wall with his left hand. 'Police,' he said loudly, glad to be doing something. 'Get out of there. Now!' Not a long wait. The dog backed off, shrieking, hysterical, mostly airborne. A man appeared in the doorway, hesitated, came out carrying a canvas swag. He ignored the dog. 'On my way,' he said. 'Just had a sleep.' He was in his fifties perhaps, short grey hair, big shoulders, a day's beard. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Broken Shore by Peter Temple All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Despite our common Anglo-Saxon heritage, Australian mysteries have never done well in this country. Perhaps they aren't exotic enough for readers who prefer their murders set in the chilly climes of Scandinavia or the sultry heat of Italy. But if this superb novel by one of Oz's finest crime writers breaks out here, pop open a can of Fosters beer and get ready for an Aussie crime wave. Melbourne homicide detective Joe Cashin, reassigned temporarily to his hometown on the south Australian coast after an incident that left him severely injured and a partner dead, is called to investigate the brutal attack on Charles Burgoyne, a prominent and wealthy local citizen. Suspicion soon falls on three Aboriginal teenagers; two are killed in a botched stakeout, and the third drowns himself in the Kettle, a jagged piece of coastline also known as the Broken Shore. Case closed, but Joe, who has Aboriginal cousins, probes further and uncovers far darker crimes. Temple's (Identity Theory) eighth novel deservedly won the Ned Kelly Award, Australia's highest crime fiction prize; in prose that is poetic in its lean spareness, though not without laconic humor (a character has the "clotting power of a lobster"), it offers a haunting portrait of racial and class conflicts, police corruption, and strained yet unbreakable family ties. A helpful glossary defines such colorful Down Under terms as "stickybeak." Highly recommended. [See Pre-pub Alert, LJ 2/15/07.]-Wilda Williams, Library Journal (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

In Temple's beautifully written eighth crime novel, Joe Cashin, a city homicide cop recovering from an injury, returns to the quiet coastal area of South Australia where he grew up. There he investigates the beating death of elderly millionaire Charles Bourgoyne. After three aboriginal teens try to sell Bourgoyne's missing watch, the cops ambush the boys, killing two. When the department closes the case, Joe, a melancholy, combative cynic sympathetic to underdogs, decides to find the truth on his own. His unauthorized inquiry, which takes him both back in time and sideways into a netherworld of child pornography and sexual abuse, leads to a shocking conclusion. Temple (An Iron Rose), who has won five Ned Kelly Awards, examines Australian political and social divisions underlying the deceptively simple murder case. Many characters, especially the police, exhibit the vicious racism that still pervades the country's white society. Byzantine plot twists and incisively drawn characters combine with stunning descriptions of the wild, lush, menacing Australian landscape to make this an unforgettable read. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

Thanks largely to Hollywood, Americans tend to picture Australians as genial, sunburned rednecks who enjoy beer, barbecue, and bare-knuckle brawling. Without countering all of those stereotypes--the only touching Temple's men do is with their fists-- The Broken Shore offers a cold-weather vision of the continent that, despite its rural setting, is more Ian Rankin than Crocodile Dundee. Melbourne homicide detective Joe Cashin has been temporarily assigned to his hometown, dinky Port Monro. Rehabilitating (with aspirin and whiskey, mostly) from injuries only slowly explained, he broods over family history and mistakes made. But when a local eminence is assaulted--and an attempt to detain the suspect goes fatally wrong--Cashin finds that small-town crimes offer complications worthy of the big city. Though the dense slang will be unfamiliar to U.S. readers (a glossary is provided), what's striking is how easily South Australia anagrams to the American West. Substitute Indians for Aborigines, and land-use issues for land-use issues (Australia has lots of coastline, but waterfront property is waterfront property), and you have a familiarly troubling tale of race and class conflict--with an even darker crime at the heart of it all. Temple's novel racked up the awards in Australia, and it's easy to see why: this deeply intelligent thriller starts slowly, builds inexorably, and ends unforgettably. --Keir Graff Copyright 2007 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

An Australian cop sent to the hinterlands after narrowly escaping death finds that life in the slow lane is just as nasty. Someone's bashed in the silvered head of Charles Bourgoyne, industrialist and philanthropist, and left him for dead. The evidence of Bourgoyne's pricey missing watch points to three aboriginal boys who tried to pawn a similar watch. But when Detective Sergeant Joe Cashin, head of Port Monro station, tries to bring them in, the pinch goes horribly wrong. Suddenly Cashin, a homicide cop whose partner was killed by a murderous drug dealer aiming for Cashin as well, is treading on eggshells. His old schoolmate Bobby Walshe, a political activist leading a radical new party, serves notice that he intends to make hay of the debacle. Helen Castleman, another old schoolmate who's now an attorney defending one of the accused, rails against him and then, adding insult to injury, buys the place next door and starts a quarrel over the boundary between them. With every inducement to declare the case closed, Cashin finds himself reopening it instead. What he learns about Bourgoyne and a trail of other victims is devastating. Temple (Identity Theory, 2004, etc.) drops disclosure after grim disclosure into his tale as discreetly as if he were trying to keep each revelation secret, and the behavior of several suspects defies belief. The densely layered narrative is less a whodunit than a superior mood piece and psychological portrait. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.