The Hunter by Tana French
Tana French brings the rural life of Ireland vividly to life. For me, that was the best thing about this book.
The Hunter is the third work I’ve read by this author. French is known for writing long novels that are crowded with characters and incident. Other writers in this genre have recently been doing something similar. For the most part, this trend does not work well for me. I like mysteries to have a tight, driven quality. This was decidedly lacking in The Hunter – at least, it was for me.
This book is in the nature of a sequel to The Searcher, where we are introduced to Cal Hooper, a retired Chicago police officer who has taken up residence in a village in Ireland with the tongue twisting name of Ardnakelty. He has established a friendship with Trey, an adolescent girl who lives in the village. Trey – real name Theresa – comes from a rather chaotic family situation in which the father has been largely absent. She and Cal operate a sort of ad hoc carpentry shop in which they repair and build furniture; this undertaking is useful and therapeutic for both of them. It’s clear that Trey could use a father figure in her life, and Cal is more than happy to fill that role.
(In addition to a fast moving plot, I like crime fiction that creates interesting, believable characters, even if they’re not necessarily likeable. French at times succeeded in doing this, especially as regards Trey.)
Trouble arrives early on when Johnny Reddy, Trey’s actual father, suddenly reappears on the scene. He’s been up to nobody knows what in London and has returned bursting with news of a scheme that he claims will make the families in the village a pile of money. Cal has his doubts; the reader can’t help but have them as well.
So what was my problem with this novel? Partly it had to do with the structure. There is loads of dialog among the various characters; it consists mainly of discussions of Johnny’s plans but also covers other subjects as well. The plot advances very slowly. I wondered if there was going to be an actual crime at some point. There was, but it was a long time coming. It was, inevitably, a murder; the victim was someone it was very hard to care about.
Meanwhile, we are reminded at every turn of Cal’s fierce devotion to Trey. I’m all for caring for those among us, especially children, who are in extra need of protection. But somehow in this context, I became impatient with these reminders. I might have found this aspect of Cal’s personality to be somewhat inexplicable.
I think that my chief issue with this novel was that it was simply too long. It would have packed much more of a punch, I think, if it had been cut by a third, or maybe even a half. Toward the end, I was having to push myself to get finished. I even briefly entertained the thought of bailing out early, but I hate to do that when I’m so close to the finish line.
Tana French’s novels typically receive rave reviews. This one is no different. Maybe it’s just me. I’m not entirely negative where her novels are concerned. Of the three that I’ve read, I liked Broken Harbor, a novel of the Dublin Murder Squad, the best. This might have to do with my vast preference for police procedurals. At any rate, a review on Goodreads by Emily May pretty well sums up my reaction to The Hunter. (Scroll down and click on ‘2 stars’ to read Emily May’s review of The Hunter.)
After finishing that book, and breathing a deep sigh of relief, all I could think to myself was, I want a mystery I know I will love: one with a fascinating, fast moving plot, intriguing and unpredictable characters, and wonderful writing. Luckily, I knew just where to turn…
And so, to reading (Ruth Rendell)
My resolution concerning book clubs has reminded me of one the many weight loss diets I have followed over the years. I refer to the one that advised me to stop eating while reading and stop reading while eating. I went along with this suggestion for about three days. What quickly became obvious: I ceased to enjoy eating and I ceased to enjoy reading. I became angry and depressed. I went back to my old way of living, reading something I love while eating something I love, probably Doritos Nacho-flavored Tortilla Chips.
Now that I’ve liberated myself regarding reading matter, how am I doing in regard to books? Not awfully well. I went back over my recent Kindle downloads and was dismayed to see how much fiction I’ve started and abandoned before finishing – in most cases, way before. Beware the Woman by Megan Abbott, a title I was really looking forward to; The Lock-Up by John Banville; Trust by Hernan Diaz, a novel I was really liking but that lost me about a third of the way in; Heart of the Nile by Will Thomas; Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano…. The list goes on. These are all almost certainly fine novels – Trust just won the Pulitzer – they’re just not what I need at this particular moment. Right now I need a book that will grab me from the get-go and keep me thoroughly engrossed right up to the end. Also the characters need to be realistic and intriguing; ditto, the plot. It helps if there’s an air of familiarity…
Well, okay, what I need is Ruth Rendell. Not just any of her works, but those in the Wexford series. Reg Wexford and Dora and their daughters Sheila and Sylvia, Mike Burden, Barry Vine, Karen Malahyde, and the rest. I feel as though I know them. It’s good to be in their company once again.
But it’s not just that. Rendell’s prose hypnotizes me. I cannot but follow her onward, even though the way be littered with horrors, as it sometimes is. In the midst of such horrors, though, Rendell often inserts description that is positively lyrical:
‘St. Luke’s Little Summer maintained its glory, at least by day. The hedges were a delicate green-gold and frost had not yet bitten into blackness the chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies in cottage gardens. The year was growing old gracefully. The farm was approached by a narrow lane scattered with fallen leaves and overhung by hedges of Old Man’s Beard, the vapourish, thistledown seed heads of the wild clematis, and here and there, behind the fluffy masses, rose Scotch pines, their trunks a rich coral pink where the sun caught them. A long low building of stone and slate stood at the end of this lane, but most of its stonework was obscured by the flame and scarlet virginia creeper which covered it.’
Rendell is a master at building up a feeling of dread and allowing it room to spread like a virus. (The only other writer that I know of who is such an effortless master of this technique is Ian McEwan.)
Desperate for a narrative I could lose myself in, I began (yet another) Wexford retrospective. I started with the sixth novel in the series, No More Dying Then. In this novel, published in 1971, Burden faces a crisis in his personal life that could easily have cost him his job. It’s a story of lust, loneliness and desperation, as experienced by more than one person.
And yes, it involves a child – more, in fact, than one.
After that came The Babes in the Wood (2002 – so much for an orderly procession). Once again, I was mesmerized. This is the story of one adult and two children who unaccountably disappear. As usually happens to me with a Wexford novel, I shared in the bafflement of the police in their effort to solve this mystery. (Rendell’s storytelling powers are ideally suited to dealing with inexplicable disappearances.)
Then on to Murder Being Once Done (1972). This one has the usual compelling plot; this time, it’s a death investigation with a twist. Wexford and his wife Dora are staying in London with Wexford’s nephew Howard and his wife Denise. Howard, a superintendent at the Met, is currently in charge of the above-mentioned case, and Wexford manages to get himself embroiled in the inquiry, never mind that he’s supposed to be having a restful vacation.
Finally, I just finished Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter (1992). For some reason, of these four Rendell titles, this was the hardest to obtain; unlike the prior three, it was not available in e-book format. But I had a memory of being especially mesmerized by this strange tale when I first read it, and I had a strong desire to revisit the experience.
As soon as a cat entered the narrative, it triggered a specific memory. I also recalled being shocked by the ending.
There’s an interview online in which Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter is the topic. here’s what the interviewee – author and editor Kate White – says about this title:
“I liked the fact that unlike PD James, Rendell never cheated the reader. She never pulled the rabbit out of the hat unexpectedly without having left clues. I liked her red herrings, and I appreciated her skill with the series as a whole, but this one really grabbed me, and I think there were two reasons. One, that the murder scene is just so gruesome, and chilling, and extravagant, and it just hooked me. Then the shock of who the killer is, and the way the revelations at the end unfolded, were just so organic, that you came to understand that the novel was really character-driven, based on greed and passion.”
Don’t let that comment about the opening scene put you off too much. It’s deliberately gory but over quickly. And actually, it’s preceded by a much less gory depiction of a bank heist gone bad that I found even more disturbing, I think because it was related in Rendell’s unvarying flat, toneless prose.
The whole article is worth reading, but save it until after you’ve finished the book.
On the whole, I’ve had better luck with nonfiction. That’s up next –
Peter Robinson
I am saddened by the death of Peter Robinson. He has long been one of my favorite mystery writers. Marge, my close friend, coworker at the library, and ‘Partner in Crime’ – we discovered him at the beginning of his career, with the publication of Gallows View in 1987. Since then, we have followed the adventures of the music-loving Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks, in both his professional and his personal life. He had his ups and downs in both. The last novel in the series is Not Dark Yet (2021).
The vivid Yorkshire setting combined with intriguing characters kept many readers happily hooked on this series. In particular, Peter Robinson wrote the kind of police procedural novel at which the British have long excelled, and which is, alas, becoming all too rare.
At any rate, we’re grateful for his contribution to the field of crime writing. He will be greatly missed.
Cover Her Face by P.D. James
Here is a novel written in 1962 that reads as if it were written in 1862. You would think that the diction would call attention to itself in an exasperating way. It might. in fact, do that for some contemporary readers.
Not for me, though. I raced through the novel as though it were an up to the minute thriller. Although I’ve read it before – some years ago- I did not remember who the perpetrator was. And I could hardly wait to find out!
I can readily understand a certain impatience being evoked by James’s extremely measured prose style:
There was the sound of slow, careful footsteps and then a knock on the door. It was Martha with the nightly hot drinks. Back in his childhood old Nannie had decided that a hot milk drink last thing at night would help to banish the terrifying and inexplicable nightmares from which, for a brief period, he and Deborah had suffered.
The “he” in this passage is Stephen Maxie, heir to the Martingale estate and surgeon in training at a London hospital. Deborah is his sister, a young widow who also lives at Martingale and has no discernible occupation. Another young woman who frequently turns up at Martingale is Catherine Bowers. She does have a vocation – she’s a nurse – but her true aim in life is to get Stephen Maxie to marry her. Deborah, meanwhile, is spending apathetic time with a smart Londoner names Felix Hearne.
As I was typing in the quoted passage above, I was reminded of the extent to which the residents of wealthy country domains were routinely cosseted by their servants. In fact, Martha fusses over Stephen and Deborah just as she must have done when they were children.
I found something curiously bloodless about these characters. They came perilously close to being caricatures. And yet….
Into this attenuated existence is launched a detonator names Sally Jupp. She is everything the other female characters are not – headstrong, willful and devious. She is also an unmarried mother, and if that isn’t scandalous enough, she refuses to identify her child’s father.
Sally had been living at a home for unwed mothers. It was thought that installing her as a servant in the Maxie establishment would be an advantageous placement. We’re meant to see that by accepting her into their household despite her fallen state, the Maxies are behaving in a magnanimous manner.
At one point, Martha is questioned by Detective Chief-Inspector Adam Dalgliesh concerning Sally Jupp’s present employment Martingale, to wit: Had Mrs Maxie ever before engaged the services of ‘an unmarried mother?’
Martha offers this spirited riposte:
“It would never have been thought of in the old days. All our girls came with excellent references.”
Well. In a house full of entitled denizens of the upper class, Martha Bultitaft, maid of all work, may be the most rigidly class conscious of them all.
Right from the start, Sally Jupp is a burr under the saddle of the Maxie family’s aristocratic hauteur. It’s pretty obvious that her presence at Martingale will precipitate some sort of crisis.
And so it proves.
One of the many things I love about P.D. James’s writing is her frequent references to classic literature. Indeed, this novel’s title is taken from a line in John Webster’s play The Duchess of Malfi:
‘Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young.’ (The words cover her face are spoken by an appalled Stephen Maxie.)
[There is an interesting story about the choice of title for this novel. It involves Agatha Christie. See the Wikipedia entry for Sleeping Murder and scroll down to ‘Title changes.’]
I have kept very few texts from my college days, but I was able to unearth a 1959 Folger Library edition of The Duchess of Malfi. Here it is, expertly scanned by the resident IT wizard, aka my husband:
Later, Felix Hearne quotes from The Jew of Malta by Christopher Marlowe:
‘But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’
[Fans of the Inspector Morse books and TV series will recall the title The Wench Is Dead. In that episode, Morse, confined to a hospital bed, struggles to solve a murder committed in the environs of Oxford in the nineteenth century. It’s a set-up that calls to mind – deliberately, one assumes – Josephine Tey’s classic novel, The Daughter of Time.]
And what of the first appearance on the scene of DCI Adam Dalgliesh? In my view, his is a singularly low key debut. Not much in the way of a distinct personality emerges in the pages of this novel. We do learn two important things about him: First, as Felix Hearne exclaims, he is “A cultured cop!” (Hearne adds that he thought such beings only appeared in ‘detective novels.’ This comment is elicited when Dalgliesh correctly identifies a painting by George Stubbs on display at Martingale.) As the Dalgliesh series unfolds, readers gain further insight into the deeply discerning mind of Adam Dalgliesh.
Secondly, there’s an intensely personal disclosure concerning Dalgliesh’s private life. He rehearses it in his own mind, in response to one of Mrs. Maxie’s imperious declarations regarding her son Stephen:
‘I have no son. My own child and his mother died three hours after he was born.’
A shocking revelation, but one that cannot – must not – be uttered aloud.
In his classic text Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel, Julian Symons writes of (and quotes) P.D. James:
At first she regarded detective fiction only as a useful apprenticeship for writing novels, but “after I had done three or four [detective] novels, I realized that in fact the restriction…could almost help by imposing a discipline, and that you could be a serious novelist within it.”
And of course, she went on to prove her thesis, many times over.
It has been a pleasure to revisit the work of this exceptional author. Thank you, Hilda, for making this choice for the Usual Suspects discussion group.
I have always loved the melancholy theme music, composed by Richard Harvey, that accompanies the Adam Dalgliesh TV series:
Bounding, from wave to wave…
…on the internet, that is, rather than on the actual ‘bounding main.’
I speak of two recent research adventures on the web, both inspired by Laura Lippman’s
new novel.
First – the premise itself. Novelist Gerry Andersen is confined to a hospital bed in his apartment in Baltimore. These are brand new digs, and he was blindsided by one of those architectural features so cheerfully touted by real estate agents: a so-called floating staircase. Having tumbled down said design feature and badly broken his leg, he finds himself temporarily immobilized.
Gerry is not a detective – or not a professional one, that is – but his plight reminded me of two series protagonists who were: Morse and Alan Grant. In fact, Lippman at one point makes mention of Josephine Tey‘s Daughter of Time. In that classic of detective fiction, Scotland Yard’s Alan Grant, likewise laid up with a broken leg, occupies his mind with an effort to prove the innocence of Richard III in regard to the disappearance and supposed murder of Prince Edward and Prince Richard.
Then there’s The Wench Is Dead, the eighth entry in the Morse series written by Colin Dexter. (This novel was the 1989 Gold Dagger winner.) Morse, like Alan Grant, is hospitalized, not with a broken leg but with a bleeding ulcer. Like Alan Grant (and Gerry Andersen, for that matter), Morse needs a way to occupy his mind while he’s recuperating. Someone gives him a book about a crime that occurred on a canal boat, in 1839, as it was making its way through Oxford. A passenger on the craft, Joanna Franks, was murdered; two men were hanged for killing her. The more he reads, the more convinced Morse becomes that the two men were in fact innocent.
I always assumed that the Joanna Franks case was fictional; it turns out that it was based on an actual occurrence. The victim’s real name was Christina Collins. She’d been traveling via canal boat to meet her husband, but she never made it. Her lifeless body was later pulled from the canal. Colin Dexter used these basic facts in constructing his narrative, changing the location from Staffordshire, where the crime actually occurred, to Oxford.
The Murder of Christina Collins by John Godwin came out in 2011. It features an introduction by Colin Dexter. Click here for an article with excellent photographs of the site.
The TV episode of The Wench Is Dead can be seen on YouTube:
In addition, the DVD is owned by the library – two copies, to be exact. Watch for Colin Dexter; he appears in the museum crowd at the beginning of the film.
This viewing experience may make you nostalgic for the days when this superb series was first aired, and in particular for John Thaw, whom we lost way too soon.
******************
The second adventure was sparked by this brief passage in Dream Girl:
It’s a fine little story, as clever and compact as the ones he used to read in those Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies. Kill your husband with a leg of lamb, serve the leg of lamb to the detectives.
What??
The story being referenced here is “Lamb to the Slaughter” by Roald Dahl. I read it several years ago; the mention of it in this context made me want to read it again. I found it in an excellent anthology that I own called Murder Short & Sweet. In his introduction to the Dahl story, the editor Paul D. Staudohar says:
It’s hard to imagine a more perfect short story than this one, both in plot and in presentation.
I couldn’t agree more.
This story can be downloaded by clicking on this link.
Murder Short & Sweet is available from Amazon.
And finally, do read Dream Girl. I loved it!
Killing with Confetti by Peter Lovesey
To begin with, this title required some patience on my part. Peter Diamond doesn’t appear until page 77. I wasn’t sure I was all that fascinated by what was going on while I awaited his entrance into the narrative.
Well – O ye of little faith! The story took off like a race horse. And I was so glad once again to be among the usual cast of characters. Peter’s team consists of Keith Halliwell, his second in command, Ingeborg Smith, and John Leaman. All three are distinct individuals with a wide array of skills; in addition, they are excellent investigators. Other officers are available for support and assistance. I enjoy spending time with all of them.
Peter occasionally locks horns with his immediate superior, Assistant Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore. For her part, ACC Dallymore has a way of toadying in the presence of Deputy Chief Constable George Brace, her own superior, that is positively revolting! DCC Brace’s son is in the midst of planning his wedding, and there are issues with this event, to put it mildly. Unfortunately for Peter, DCC Dallymore has volunteered him for chief of security in regard to the upcoming nuptials. It’s an assignmemt that he’d do anything to avoid, but alas, there’s no way out.
As usual, this latest Peter Diamond outing is a mix of humor and suspense. And Lovesey takes full advantage of the wonderful setting of Bath. This time, the action centers on Bath Abbey and the Roman Baths.
Bath Abbey
Roman Baths
Peter Lovesey is surely one of the wittiest, most adept, most literary practitioners of crime fiction writing today. He’s had a long and deservedly successful run; I am already looking forward to the next Peter Diamond adventure!
Peter Lovesey
I’ve written about Ngaio Marsh before. It’s my pleasure to be writing about her again.
A week ago last Tuesday, on an exceptionally lovely day, we Suspects gathered on Hilda’s screened porch to discuss Overture to Death by Ngaio Marsh.
This was Mike’s selection, and she did an excellent job presenting background for the life of Dame Ngaio. (“My Damery,” she called it; it was bestowed in honor of her work in theater in her native New Zealand.)
Overture To Death is a classic English village mystery. In some ways it’s amazing to think how insular such places still were on the eve of the Second World War. Not that you would know from this narrative that catastrophe was looming so nearly. On the contrary: in Pen Cuckoo, plans are afoot for an amateur play production. Theatrics and all the concomitant confusion dominate everyone’s thoughts. A suitable play must be selected and cast, purely by the locals, of course. Competition is fierce; comments are snide.
There’s Jocelyn Jernigham, Lord of the Manor, which is also named Pen Cuckoo. Against his wishes, his son Henry is in love with Dinah Copeland, the rector’s daughter, and means to marry her. For her part, Dinah has acted professionally and takes it upon herself to help direct the thespian undertaking of the denizens of Pen Cuckoo. So: into the mix throw William Templett, the village doctor; Selia Ross, a comely, scheming widow; Miss Eleanor Prentice, a nosy busybody who also happens to be cousin to Jocelyn Jerningham; Miss Idris Campanula – a couple of invidious spinsters both in hot pursuit of the widoewed rector – and several others, and we’re off and running!
Overture To Death, then, is a story of loving, loathing, resentment, and all manner of other emotions let loose in a dangerous way. It’s s roiling brew, and of course, it all culminates in murder. And what a murder! You’ll probably agree that it’s one of the more ingenious methods of causing death that you’ve encountered in crime fiction. This book cover hints at what’s involved: 
. Believe me, it’s much more subtle – fiendish, even – than it appears to be here.
Somehow, in the course of our discussion, the subject of red sacristy lamps in churches came up. This was something of which – unsurprisingly – I’d never heard. Frank introduced us to the storytelling term “lampshading.” (Truth to tell, I don’t quite understand this.) All in all, this was a discussion in which the digressions were as much fun as the main topic!
Mike reminded us that in creating the character of Detective Roderick Alleyn, Marsh became a pioneer in the field of police procedurals. (Someone pointed out that Poirot had been a policeman in his native Belgium. While this is in fact part of his back story, he was never technically a member of the force in Britain. He acted solely in a private capacity, always ready to assist Inspector Japp by using the prodigious power of his “leetle gray cells.”)
The reader will no doubt delight in the finely wrought prose passages that distinguish the work of Dame Ngaio.
Henry uttered an impatient noise and moved away from the fireplace. He joined his father in the window and he too looked down into the darkling vale of Pen Cuckoo. He saw an austere landscape, adamant beneath drifts of winter mist. The naked trees slept soundly, the fields were dumb with cold; the few stone cottages, with their comfortable signals of blue smoke, were the only waking things in all the valley.
**************The hall rang with Miss Campanula’s conversation. She was a large arrogant spinster with a firm bust, a high-coloured complexion, coarse grey hair, and enormous bony hands. Her clothes were hideous but expensive, for Miss Campanula was extremely wealthy. She was supposed to be Eleanor Prentice’s great friend. Their alliance was based on mutual antipathies and interests. Each adored scandal and each cloaked her passion in a mantle of conscious rectitude. Neither trusted the other an inch, but there was no doubt that they enjoyed each other’s company.
**********It did not matter to them that they were unable to speak to each other, for their thoughts went forward to the morning, and their hearts trembled with happiness. They were isolated by their youth, two scathless figures. It would have seemed impossible to them that their love for each other could hold any reflection, however faint, of the emotions that drew Dr. Templett to Selia Ross, or those two ageing women to the rector. They would not have believed that there was a reverse side to love, or that the twin-opposites of love lay dormant in their own hearts. Nor were they to guess that never again, as long as they lived, would they know the rapturous expectancy that now pressed them.
I’ve read several Roderick Alleyn novels and led discussions of two: Death in a White Tie and The Nursing Home Murder. My favorite of all of them is Death in a White Tie, for two reasons. First of all, that book depicts the London “season” in all its vivid glory – the endless round of parties and the blatant husband hunting carried on by the young debs and their mothers; it is as much a novel of manners as a murder mystery. Secondly, the murder victim is someone who moves in those circles and is known and liked by Rory (Roderick), Troy, and numerous others. The grief at his untimely passing is thus genuine and heartfelt. 
I don’t understand why more crime fiction authors don’t create a known and sympathetic victim. To my mind, it causes the reader to be more emotionally invested in the story. That’s certainly what happened to me as I was reading Death in a White Tie.
A word about the BBC series filmed in 1993 and 1994. The BBC changed the order of the episodes – in some cases altering the content of certain episodes – so as to to create a story arc that would smoothly accommodate the love story of Roderick Alleyn and Agatha Troy. Not to worry: it works beautifully. The mysteries are entirely engrossing. Having them undergirded by the somewhat tumultuous relationship between ‘Rory’ and ‘Troy’ adds to the drama without overwhelming it.
Patrick Malahide as Chief Detective Inspector Roderick Alleyn, backed up, as always, by Detective Inspector Fox, affectionately called ‘Brer Fox’, played by William Simons
Patrick Malahide with Belinda Lang as Agatha Troy
(Fun fact: Belinda Lang is married to Hugh Fraser, who plays Captain Arthur Hastings in the Poirot series starring David Suchet.)
It’s been noted that the character of Roderick Alleyn bears some similarities to that of Lord Peter Wimsey. Both are the younger sons of a titled aristocrats; both have carried out some secret intelligence missions in service to their country; both are in love with accomplished women that they desire to wed. For their part, both of these women – Agatha Troy and Harriet Vane, respectively – evince a marked reluctance to get married, a reluctance which is at length overcome, to the satisfaction of all, not least the reader.
The Inspector Alleyn books of Ngaio Marsh are among the most pleasurable relics of the Golden Age of British crime.
Barry Forshaw, in The Rough Guide to Crime Fiction
Ngaio Marsh in 1947
Loved it, as I figured I would: The Department of Sensitive Crimes, by Alexander McCall Smith
Scandi Blanc. Thus has Alexander McCall Smith named his new series. This is how he describes his latest undertaking in The Scotsman:
“I’ve started a new series set in Sweden. I call it ‘Scandi blanc’ as opposed to Scandi noir.
“My central character is a Swedish detective called Ulf Varg – Ulf means ‘wolf’ in Danish and Varg means ‘wolf’ in Swedish so he’s Wolf Wolf.
“He lives in Malmo and works in this department which deals with unusual crimes.
“He has a dog called Marten, and he’s hearing impaired. He’s the only dog in Sweden who can lip-read, but only in Swedish.
“He also has various sidekicks, but all his cases are really peculiar.
“The whole thing is just having great fun. My books never involve any serious crimes. Nobody is ever killed in any of my books, so there’s no murder there.
“There is a case of lycanthropy, though – somebody who is possibly a werewolf. It’s good Scandinavian stuff and I’ve had tremendous fun.
There is also a case of multiple missing persons. But is it actually a case if one of those reported missing never actually existed in the first place?
One of the reasons I love police procedurals is that you have a team of investigators. The individuals who make up that team are often very interesting in and of themselves. And there interactions can also be quite memorable.
From the jacket copy for The Department of Sensitive Crimes:
Ulf “the Wolf” Varg, the top dog, thoughtful and diligent; Anna Bengstdotter, who’s in love with Varg’s car (and possibly Varg too); Carl Holgersson, who likes nothing ,ore than filling out paperwork; and Erik Nykvist, who is deeply committed to fly fishing.
Throw in a local beat cop who is amiable but talks nonstop, and you have an entirely winning (if, at times, exasperating) ensemble.
Alexander McCall Smith is also great on the subject of dogs. Martin (variable spelling ‘Marten’) is an entirely lovable canine. Freddy de la Haye is my all time favorite fictional dog.
I admit I’ve been made slightly anxious by the appearance of this new series. I see there’s a new Precious Ramotswe novel in the offing, but what about the Isabel Dalhousie series? I love both and don’t want to see either of them supplanted. But McCall Smith is such a prolific writer – just have a look at his Wikipedia entry and you can see for yourself. I probably don’t need to worry.
I’m an Alexander McCall Smith junkie; I don’t deny it. I still have the fondest memory of his appearance at the library several years ago.
Long may he write!
Alexander McCall Smith
Two pleasing procedurals
Having fallen hopelessly behind in the reviewing process – and watching as titles pile up in my home office – I’ve decided to take a stab at remedying the situation.
So, to begin:
Both Jo Bannister and Peter Turnbull are, in my view at least, underappreciated writers, at least on this side side of the Atlantic. Both have a large and solid body of work, chiefly in the subgenre of the police procedural. Jo Bannister has authored several series; the one featuring Constable Hazel Best is her latest. Silent Footsteps is the most recent. It takes place, as do its predecessors, in the fictional region of Norbold.
Bannister has a wry sense of humor that often manifests itself in dialog. In this scene, Hazel is seconding Sergeant Murchison as he attempts to interview a possible witnesses to a crime. They belong to a gang called the Canal Crew. Murchison dives right in with a blunt opener:
“So what have you done with Trucker Watts?”
One of the hairy young men appeared to be senior to the other. ‘We ‘aven’t got ‘im. We never ‘ad ‘im. We ‘aven’t seen ‘im.”
There was something almost Shakespearean about it, Hazel thought. But Sergeant Murchison was harder to impress. ‘You saw him this morning, panhandling outside the off-license in Arkwright Street.’
Yes, they admitted, they had. They’d seen him off–or, to be more accurate, they’d seen him leave.They hadn’t seen him since.
‘Is that the truth?’
‘On my mother’s grave.’
Murchison frowned. ‘Your mother’s still alive, Billy Barnes.’
Yeah–but she’s already bought a plot down the Municipal. Cost her an arm and a leg, it did.’
Hazel has a close friendship with Gabriel Ash and talks to him frequently about the cases she’s working on. The two have a interesting back story. To be thoroughly filled in on that, it’s best to go back to the beginning and read Deadly Virtues. In fact, you could commit yourself to all six books in this series, read them in order, and be well served.
One of my favorite titles by Jo Bannister is a standalone called The Tinderbox.
***************
Cold Wrath is a different story. It’s the twenty-fifth entry in the series featuring Chief Inspector George Hennessey and Detective Sergeant Somerled (pronounced ‘Sorely’) Yellich. In each of these slender novels, Peter Turnbull presents the reader with an intriguing puzzle. A body is discovered in an odd place; sometimes it’s several bodies. Watching the action unfold as Hennessey, Yellich, and company pursue various leads is invariably a pleasurable experience – at least, it is for this devoted lover of police procedurals.
Part of the enjoyment of immersing oneself in these novels resides in the fact that they’re set in York, in the north of England. This is a magical city, steeped in history and crowned by the presence of York Minster, the largest Gothic cathedral in northern England.
Another thing that distinguishes these novels is the author’s use of somewhat antiquated diction. This is especially evident in the way he begins each new chapter. This, for example, appears above Chapter Three:
In which the reason why Miles Law delayed calling the police upon discovering the body of Anthony Garrett is revealed, and Reginald Webster and Carmen Pharoah and George Hennessey are severally at home to the urbane and always too forgiving reader.
There’s something oddly Victorian about it, n’est-ce pas? Reginald Webster and Carmen Pharoah, by the way, are additional members of Hennessey’s team of investigators. All of these characters have interesting back stories, which are reiterated anew in each book.
I’ve read something like seventeen novels in this series. I never tire of them, and always look forward to the next one.
Jo Bannister
Peter Turnbull
Best of 2018, Nine: Crime fiction, part two
“After the demise of the UK’s queens of crime, P.D. James and Ruth Rendell, only one author could take their place: the Scottish writer Val McDermid….”
The Guardian
I’m aware there are those who would dispute this assertion. But after reading Broken Ground, I’m on board with it. I absolutely loved this book.
I’d previously only read two novels by Val McDermid: A Place of Execution (2000) and The Grave Tattoo (2006). Those are both standalones. Broken Ground, on the other hand, is the fifth novel in the Karen Pirie series.
How I wish I’d begun at the beginning! Karen Pirie, beleaguered but undaunted, is a hero for our times – my times, anyway. She’s having to come to terms with the loss of her lover, also an officer in the Force. (In this sense, as in some others, she reminded me of Erika Foster in Robert Bryndza‘s excellent series.) She’s human but not superhuman. Not always likeable, but almost always admirable.
I love McDermid’s writing. It is always assured, sometimes even poetic, but it can veer abruptly toward hard hitting. For a novel in which action predominates, there is some striking description. Most likely McDermid can’t help including such passages when writing about her native Scotland, whether city or countryside. (If you’ve been there, you’ll understand why.)
In the course of an investigation, Karen finds herself on rural, alien ground, housed in an odd accommodation:
For a woman accustomed to attacking insomnia by quartering the labyrinthine streets of Edinburgh with its wynds and closes, its pends and yards, its vennels and courts, where buildings crowded close in unexpected configurations, the empty acres of the Highlands offered limited possibilities.
…..
The sky was clear and the light from the half-moon had no competition from the street lights so the pale glow it shed was more than enough to see by. She turned right out of the yurt and followed the track for ten minutes till it ended in a churned-up turning circle by what looked like like the remnants of a small stone bothy. Probably a shepherd’s hut, Karen told herself, based on what she knew was the most rudimentary guess work. The wind had stilled and the sea shimmered in the moonlight, tiny rufflets of waves making the surface shiver. She stood for awhile, absorbing the calm of the night, letting it soothe her restlessness.
I feel deeply grateful that there are still people who can write like this. I’m equally grateful that police procedurals of this caliber are still being written.
While researching Val McDermid, I came upon a gracious memorial she composed on the occasion of the passing of Colin Dexter, creator of the inimitable Inspector Morse.
Books to the Ceiling 