Like many others in this group (sorry Anne!), I am not a fan of crime fiction- the vast majority of it is packed full of gore and unlikely characters in an attempt to cover up weak style. I was therefore quite surprised about the strength of emotion I felt whilst reading this book- I truly loathed it. The detective is an absurd imitation of all the TV detectives of the past 20 years, the method of his crime-solving bordering on insane, the narrative unbearably clichéd (‘how about making it rain all the time to add to the sense of foreboding?’) and the plot, of all things, boring.
What I found particularly grating was the author’s insistence on inserting his own narrow-minded viewpoints into the narrative. We realise the victim is a sick pervert when his computer was found to be full of bestial and gay porn! Later on, when the detective visits the anatomist who keeps brains in jars, he takes the child’s brain with him, regardless of the benefits such an organ could have on medical research, because ‘it just felt wrong’ that her body was buried without it. And the references to smoking being bad for your health were just too many to count.
I was actually offended by how poor this book was. However, in the pub the other night I do remember being won around on certain aspects (all of which now escape me), so I shall give it a generous:
3/10
Damian Brianson
