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Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. "Finished with this?" Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. "Chicken phal," Rebus explained, rubbing his stomach. "Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie's off-limits." Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time."
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Ian Rankin |
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On nakhodilsia nastol'ko nizhe etikh liudei na sotsial'noi lestnitse, chto somnevalsia, vidiat li oni ego voobshche. S kazhdym shagom podnimaias' vse vyshe, oni spilivali za soboi stupen'ki.
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Ian Rankin |
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parked and placed the POLICE sign on the dashboard.
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Ian Rankin |
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view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn't shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn't tucked in. He carried
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Ian Rankin |
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Ann Street was reckoned by many to be the most beautiful terrace in the city. Tucked away between Queensferry Road and Stockbridge, its two elegant facing rows of Georgian homes were separated by a narrow roadway constructed of traditional setts. The front gardens were immaculate, the black metal railings glossy, the lamp posts harking back to a more elegant age.
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Ian Rankin |
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below
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Ian Rankin |
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in Scotland. There was no need: the Scots had bigotry instead.
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Ian Rankin |
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with
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Ian Rankin |