Blotto, Twinks and the Dead Dowager Duchess by Simon Brett (Felony & Mayhem, 2012) is as magnificently ridonculous as it’s possible to get on a wet Friday afternoon in the Gobi Desert when your umbrella sticks halfway shut and all you get for your troubles is a sweat-soaked sun tan. It’s the second title in what has now amounted to a hill of four beans — actually since we have two series characters in Blotto and Twinks, I suppose that should be eight old beans, what?
As to whether you will like this. It’s a bit hard to say. I loved the hyperrealisation of upper-class antics in defence of the realm — fighting a German bomber with cricket bats is definitely hyperreal if not delightfully absurd. It took me back into the past to the time when I was young and devoured the works of Sapper (aka Herman Cyril McNeile), particularly favouring the Bulldog Drummond books (later continued through the kindly ministrations of Gerard Fairlie), Dornford Yates (aka Cecil William Mercer) with his Berry books, and so on. There was something inherently pleasing about my betters pretending to be stupid, but actually being ace detectives and crime-fighters on the sly. These Edwardian bods were supposed to be our lords and masters, so I appreciated one or two of them taking time out from their busy schedules of country house parties to solve a few murders and disrupt the operation of some fiendish criminal gangs. It made me think they were worth having around. Indeed, without those literary inspirations, I would more rapidly have turned into the cynical republican I am today. Now I’m all for abolishing the House of Lords and sending the current batch of relics out to pasture. There’s not a decent crime-fighter among them to follow in the tradition of Queen Victoria’s exploits as a demon hunter.
Continuing in this retrospective mood, the problem with the books I read when young was their appalling jingoism and patriarchalism. Think about it. Apart from Molly Robertson-Kirk from Baroness Orczy, Tuppence Beresford and Miss Marple from Agatha Christie, Maud Silver from Patricia Wentworth, Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley from Gladys Mitchell, and Harriet Vane, later Lady Peter Wimsey, from Dorothy Sayers, there were no major female detectives who could interact with the upper classes. They were all so terrible middle class, my dears, apart from Harriet Vane who became respectable through her marriage. To this sexism was added an inherent racism as part of a casual anti-foreigner bias. This was beautifully lampooned by Flanders and Swann who, in the chorus of “A Song of Patriotic Prejudice” assert, “The English, the English, the English are best, I wouldn’t give tuppence for all of the rest!” So reading about the exploits of Blotto and Twinks is very equal opportunities as Twinks has the brain that powers the duo to their successes. Although, truth be told, Blotto can occasionally interject the odd idea of merit when no-one is looking.
So putting all this together, anyone who delights in seeing Edwardian period charm mercilessly deconstructed and ravaged by a senior pro from Dover with an eye for absurdity, will enjoy Blotto, Twinks and the Dead Dowager Duchess. I’m not sure I could read one of these every week. Simon Brett is wonderfully laid back and a consummate professional when it comes to stringing words together, but there’s an inherent shortage of targets. I suspect some aspects of the humour would get monotonous quite quickly. But once in a blue moon, this is the book to lift your spirits and gladden your heart — assuming you enjoy a very English sense of humour, of course.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
Ashes of Candesce by Karl Schroeder (TOR/Forge, 2012) is the fifth and final volume in the Virga series. It’s been quite a long ride since Sun of Suns first appeared from TOR in 2006 as a packaged version of the story serialised in Analog in 2005/6 — the serialisation actually continued with The Queen of Candesce. The main point of interest in this cycle of five books has been the opportunity to explore the environment. In this, it’s a bit like Larry Niven’s Ringworld or Arthur C Clarke’s Rama. This time, we’re inside a fullerine balloon floating in space. That makes it free of gravity so our resourceful inhabitants create their own living cylinders that rotate — ah, the wonders of centrifugal force. Each of these environments is a city state with its own political structures. The main questions to be resolved are how this rather curious habitat came to be built and why there’s a suppressor field limiting the operation of technology within the balloon. This means everything depends on very primitive machinery, operating at a mediaeval level with wooden ships sailing the air currents and quite a lot of piracy.
Our understanding of how old this place is starts to become clearer in The Queen of Cenadesce as we get our first sight of those representing Artificial Nature. This “enemy” not unnaturally wants the limit on technology removed, but the main focus remains on the political infighting between the city states. The Pirate Sun finally explains something of the relationship between human society inside the balloon and the post-human civilisation outside, but the action is slowing down. The Sunless Countries moves us closer to the wall of the balloon so we’re further away from the artificial suns that provide the light and nearer points where visitors might come in from outside. It’s here the Home Guard patrols in its largely unacknowledged efforts to keep the inhabitants safe. Although this is interesting in explaining how people survive with even less technology, we move into a more political dimension with an emerging group demanding faith rather than science. The idea of determining truth through a democratic vote gives a new spin on current moves toward the cloud-sourcing of news. Because the main character in this book, Leal Maspeth, is an historian we get more information about what may be going on but, by this point, my interest had begun to flag. There’s still a wow factor in the exploration of the balloon, but the action is more muted. Frankly we’re into the fourth volume and it’s taking too long to solve the essential puzzle of the balloon habitat. You can only derive interest from apparently endless disputes between multiple fictional micro-states for so long. For the same reason, arguments about the uses and abuses of technology grow tiresome after a while.
So, four books later, we come straight in where The Sunless Countries cliffhanger left us. Leal and the surviving members of the team are struggling on, still dogged by the revenant of John Tarvey who’s survived drowning to become the walking embodiment of immortality. The humans are rescued from an avalanche by Keir Chen, an enigmatic but inherently interesting character from the appropriately named Revelation (now relocated to a point they call Renaissance) who’s going through a process called de-indexing. As a being dependent on a sophisticated neural computer support, his wife decided to switch off the machine. Or perhaps that’s a myth. Perhaps he did it to himself. Whoever was responsible, he’s no longer able to access his memories through the electronic index. He must make his own memory links or forget his past. He will, of course, continue to experience life and file memories the human way. It will just all be slower. And the reason for this somewhat dramatic loss of identity? Their computer system was hacked? That’s certainly one possible explanation. . . and he does seem to be getting physically younger as well. In other news, Hayden Griffen is rescued, Admiral Chaison Fanning is still in charge of military matters despite Vanera’s best efforts to make him redundant through her network of spies, and Jacoby Sarto and his more vicious sister Inshiri Ferance continue their sibling rivalry.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like post-Singularity fiction and, more importantly, enjoy puzzle-solving. But this pentalogy squeezed the juice out of the ideas about halfway through The Sunless Countries and left us with this husk. There are set pieces of action in the opening sections and, not surprisingly, there’s a big fight at the end. But in the central sections, there’s just far too much discussion of what technology is and, by implication, how dependent we have become on it. The complex political structure also grows more tedious as the different factions dispute among themselves as to who has the “right” answers. It’s obvious there has to be some degree of unity or else a deus ex machina group will emerge and save everyone regardless of their beliefs.
So what does it come down to when the dust has settled? The virtual world was dehumanised because it was not embodied. Karl Schroeder argues people stop caring what happens to them if they are not tied to a particular body, in a particular time and place. So the emotionless virtuals find the existence of a place where their technology does not work a threat to their belief system. They lose the sense of their own perfection in the face of this barrier to their presence. Hence the need for a war to destroy this human habitat. And the converse? In a Shakespearean spirit, this few, this happy few, this band of human brothers and sisters decide they don’t want the immortality of the virtual world. They want their lives to have meaning through their mortality, and who can blame them.
So, if you enjoyed the four that went before, you need to read Ashes of Candesce to see how it all turns out. If you have no idea who anyone is when you start, you will have even less idea when you finish. This is not something to read as a standalone. If you want to start with the best, read Sun of Suns. It was and remains an excellent adventure novel. For me, this final episode is just going through the motions.
The cover art by Stephan Martiniere is rather beautiful.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
It’s impossible to begin this review of Westward Weird edited by Martin H Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes (DAW Books, 2012) without mentioning the sad death of Martin Greenberg. Over the decades, he’s contrived to stay at the top of the editing pile by consistently producing anthologies of quality. Although he often shared the editorial credits, this is as good a memorial for his talents as you could hope to find. Now a word of reassurance. Yes, this carries the word “weird” on the jacket, but it’s wonderfully eclectic, combining science fiction with fantasy in a complete disregard for genre boundaries as anything and everything spectacularly odd comes to the Wild West and beyond. There literally isn’t a weak story in this anthology and, as befits anything with claims to supernatural overtones, you’re lucky to find thirteen such excellent stories.
“The Temptation of Eustace Prudence McAllen” by Jay Lake is a pleasing relocation of the long spoon trope to the cowboy on the range. This sees the Devil happily engaging in a little cattle rustling for BBQ purposes until he’s tracked down by an upright loner. Although we lack some of the sophistication of the storytellers who want to construct a powerful Faustian offer with a clever way of avoiding the soul-loss trap, this more than makes up for it with a nice sense of humour. “The Last Master of Aeronautical Winters” by Larry D Sweazy is a steampunkish city in the sky, partly built using Wild Bill’s savings. When the enterprise is overrun by demons, it comes down to two brave souls to see what they can pull out of the fire (so to speak). Again, this is delightfully knowing as our heroes prepare to ride the elevator of doom up into the sky. “Lowstone” by Anton Strout also has elegant biomechanical additions in this steampunk mining community threatened by zombies. It’s slightly more serious, but no less effective in bending the gender roles to fight the good fight.
“The Flower of Arizona” by Seanan McGuire brings a pleasing touch of whimsy to a hunt for a man-eating chimaera. This is a nice take on the problems faced by the old travelling circus companies when audiences were poor. “Surveyor of Mars” by Christopher McKitterick has us embark on a sequel to H G Wells War of the Worlds. It assumes Earth would have used the Martian technology to colonise Mars. Except, of course, the carpetbaggers would have followed the settlers. In situations where freedom is under threat, what you need is a man embodying the qualities of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. The politics are a bit clunky to European eyes, but the spirit of the story shines through despite the fact that only Americans seem to have had the can-do mechanical skills to get to Mars. It would have been more interesting had the Brits also been able to compete for territorial rights. “Coyote, Spider, Bat” by Steven Saus is a powerful and dark story that sees cultural imperialism come grinding to a halt in the face of even older power. European vampires may think they’re at the top of the food chain but, if they come to America, even in disguise, they might be in for a surprise as they end up on the menu of the local Teddy Bear’s Picnic.
“Maybe Another Time” by Dean Wesley Smith plays with one of my favourite time travel themes perhaps best captured in The Man Who Folded Himself by David Gerrold. In every respect, this is an unexpected delight to find in an anthology supposedly about weird stuff in the Wild West — whichever version of it you care to pick. “Renn and the Little Men” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch is magnificently whimsical, rerunning the Rumpelstiltskin trope in a High Noon showdown to avoid rule by the trolls. Believe me, it makes perfect sense when you read it. This has just the right amount of nuttiness to qualify it as one of the best fantasy stories of the year. Continuing in the same vein, “Showdown At High Noon” by Jennifer Brozek has an earlier version of Bonnie and Clyde caught up in an interplanetary conflict involving Ancient Egyptian scarabs and a Norse shapeshifter. As you might expect, this is delightfully weird.
“The Clockwork Cowboy” by J Steven York is a very clever story Isaac Asimov would have enjoyed. The literal Biblical injunction against killing can be enshrined in the software. This will reflect the thinking of all sections of the community, no matter what its racial background or source of mechanical power. Except, as is always the way when one of the minority breaks the programming, the majority humans don’t take kindly to a killer. “Black Train” by Jeff Mariotte takes aim at the zombie theme through the potential use of technology for military purposes. As with every good invention, you always need an antidote or countermeasure. If you release gas, you need a mask. If you release a virus, you need a vaccine. This speculates on what you might need for a mould. Finally, “Lone Wolf” by Jody Lynn Nye manages to conflate werewolves, an Indian Shaman’s insights into soul mates, and a backwoodsman Edison who would would make even a sober Gallegher proud.
I confess Westward Weird is an anthology I resisted picking up, fearing the genre mixture would be indigestible. In fact, it’s proved to be tasty Wild West victuals for them as likes a hot spicy sauce with their eatings. I find myself recommending this as great fun from start to finish.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
As an author, one of the major problems once you’ve invested in a series character is the dilemma whether to kill him or her off. As Arthur Conan Doyle discovered when he had Sherlock Holmes disappear in the vicinity of the Reichenbach Falls, the complaints of your loyal paying customers make it difficult to keep a good hero in the bottom drawer. In a way, it’s even worse when the author decides to go down the prequel route. Up to this point, we’ve all been on the edge of our seats, worried this is the day when it all might stop. Even Agatha Christie killed off Hercule Poirot, although it was years before she allowed the book to be published. But if the author goes back to the day when it all began, you know the character’s body is protected by authorial kevlar and teflon has been applied to his or her reputation. No matter what happens, this character is untouchable.
This sad reality removes any vestige of tension from the scenes when our hero’s life is threatened. We know from the first words on the page that he or she will escape certain death and identify the wrongdoers. We simply wait to see how the escapes are stage-managed. This explains why the first third of The Rope by Nevada Barr is merely interesting and not gripping. Our heroine has the misfortune to stumble upon a rape when out for a walk in Glen Canyon National Park and is dropped down a hole for her troubles. She can’t climb out so the only option is to survive and hope to physically overpower whoever comes down to gloat over her as she lies defeated. Conveniently this happens in the dead of night so she can’t see who it is. This leaves us the remaining two-thirds of the book for her to work out whodunnit to her and to the others when several bodies are dug up or pulled from the water of Lake Powell.
Well, for those of you familiar with Nevada Barr, this is the origin story for Anna Pigeon. There are sixteen other books in the series to tell the story of what happened after she became a law enforcement officer with the US National Park Service. Here’s where it all began. There are several interesting features to this novel. The first is as a study of how the victims of crime can deal with the emotional fall-out. In The Rope, we have two such characters. Anna herself is the classic victim caught up in a situation where she has no control but, when she finds herself trapped, she’s able to maintain a positive attitude. After the rescue, she avoids the traditional post-traumatic stress disorder we so often see in both fiction and among real-world soldiers, fire fighters, police officers and others exposed to acute danger. Through an internalised process of cognitive behavioural therapy — she imagines herself talking to her sister who’s a psychologist — she actually grows emotionally stronger. The second character is Jenny Gorman who was gang-raped at college and has been dealing with her reaction to it over the intervening years.
Jenny leads us into the second area of interest in that she has adjusted to life as a lesbian, keeping men at a social distance. We may think of this as a decision reinforced by her experience as a rape victim and, in part, it sees us back in the same territory Nevada Barr first explored in Bittersweet. Although the characters in this latest novel do not engage in actual sexual contact more serious than a somewhat violently stolen kiss, there’s considerable exploration of emotions by and about Jenny as the explicitly gay ranger. This runs alongside the internal monologue as Anna also wonders about her sexuality given her emotions are tinged with guilt over the death of her husband. It’s brave for a mainstream author to deal so openly with issues of sex, gender roles and sexuality. No matter what level of self-deception we might prefer to practise, homophobia remains normative among significant portions of the community. It might even emerge to restrict sales of this book which would be unfortunate. For all the lack of tension in the early part, this book does build as an effective thriller and deserves to be judged on its merits.
The best way to approach The Rope is as a thriller rather than as a mystery. Although there’s some degree of uncertainty as to who’s ultimately responsible for what has been happening in this part of the back of beyond, that’s somewhat secondary to the emotional journey Anna makes from an untested city “girl” to a woman determined to become a law enforcement officer in the great outdoors. This is captured in the thought, “I believe more women should carry guns. I believe armed women will make the world a better place. Women need to come to think of themselves not as victims but as dangerous.” I’m not entirely sure this would go down too well as a manifesto for the NRA, what with most gun-toting men being more of the macho persuasion, but it does capture the spirit of this book. Nevada Barr writes with a pleasing directness about woman, their gender roles and how they might transcend the prejudices of male expectations as to how they should behave. It may be something as simple as whether they should pump iron in the gym. There are stereotypes as to whether muscular women are sexually attractive or physically threatening. Or how they should dress. There’s cultural significance if a woman wears black in different social contexts. Or whether they should have power over men through serving as law enforcement officers — a direct challenge to the patriarchal assumptions that underpin behaviour in some parts of the community. Nevada Barr discusses these and comparable issues with honesty and a clear sense of social understanding.
This book gives us a chance to watch layers of urban socialisation stripped away until we come down to the irreducible core of Anna as a person or, metaphorically, as a force of nature. On balance, I think her practical survival training episodes go on slightly too long, but it’s always fascinating to watch the ugly duckling become a swan. Put all this together and The Rope is definitely of interest to those who are following the series character Anna Pigeon.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
It’s surprising how quickly time seems to fly by when old age starts to affect memory. It seems only yesterday I read The Bottoms, and a few hours ago that I finished the final, immensely satisfying page of A Fine Dark Line. Now I find myself with Edge of Dark Water by Joe R. Lansdale (Mulholland Books, 2012), a third standalone novel that takes us back in time and into the depths of darkest Texas where subsistence communities eked out a living in backwater counties. For all Lansdale is perhaps better known as the author of the Hap and Leonard series, The Bottoms won the Edgar Award for Best Novel and shows that, if he has a mind to, he can write a beautiful mystery novel with thrillerish overtones. What makes these three novels interesting is the decision to use young people as the point of view. Harry Crane and Stanley Mitchell are both thirteen. Here we have another first-person narrative, this time featuring Sue Ellen who’s managed to arrive at sixteen without a major fatal incident affecting her progress. We’re pitched straight into the story when Daddy, Uncle Gene and a young friend, Terry Thomas, pull the body of May Lynn Baxter out of the river. She’s been visiting with the local fish courtesy of a Singer sewing machine tied to her legs. Despite the protests of the adults, Terry insists on reporting the find to the town’s law enforcement officer. They don’t seriously think this will produce any results but, to the young-uns, it feels the right thing to do when one of their own age has been murdered. Later Jinx, the third member of the teen gang, joins in and they go across the river, intending to talk to dead girl’s father. He’s not there, but what they find is the trigger for the story to pick up pace.
One of the young’s more endearing qualities is their innocence. Most lose it quite early on in life but, when it’s running at full throttle, it can pick them up and move them along without any sense of danger. In this instance, what our heroes hoped would be a quick search and rescue mission becomes complicated when they find more than they bargained for. Moments later, what had been a dream of leaving and finding somewhere better to live becomes an urgent necessity. Yet, of course, running away when you’re in the back of beyond and can’t drive is something of a challenge. So begins the dance between pursuers and pursued. Which way would they go and how fast could they travel? Ah, the niceties of these little judgements. And those running should do well to remember their school lessons and the perils of the lotus eaters.
This is a book about the casual violence found in these small communities. Death is not something to make a fuss about. It happens and the law is never really interested unless the wrong people die. Husbands abuse their wives and children. The strong bully the weak. In such circumstances, only the more intelligent and sensitive ever feel guilt over the things they see, hear and do. Most ignore moral considerations. Survival is all that matters. As in other novels, Joe R. Lansdale also deals with the institutionalised racism of the South. A few years before this is set, lynching was the easy way out for a black man accused of crime. If it was considered a bad offence, he might find himself castrated and set on fire — the later hanging would come as a welcome release. In this novel, the treatment the young Jinx receives shows how social attitudes are hard-wired into the communities. On the way, we also meet a young family who’ve been caught up in the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. They are living as hobos, hopping trains from here to there. It’s a hard life for most in the Great Depression.
In terms of plot, I was reminded of Deliverance by James Dickey, but the real resonance comes from The Executioners by John D. MacDonald as adapted for the screen by J Lee Thompson and, in the remake, by Martin Scorsese. The film versions carrying the title Cape Fear crackle with the same malevolence as Max Cady stalks the family in their houseboat. To keep the censors happy, the directors water down the central message from both Dickey and MacDonald’s originals: that the use of deadly force in defence of yourself and others you care about is always justified in the last resort. Joe R. Lansdale is not subject to the cultural restrictions of the cinema so, when it comes to this group floating down the river on their raft, particularly in dealing with the final confrontation between the hunted and their hunter, he can let his creative juices flow. The set-up is handled beautifully. The first mentions of the man on their trail already begin the process of mythologising him. When we are allowed a view of the results of his work, it confirms the myths may have erred on the side of generosity. This is a real monster as the rising body count testifies.
As always, the use of language is half the interest in the reading. It wouldn’t be a Joe R. Lansdale book unless it made you smile and, occasionally, laugh out loud. He has a rare talent with words and finds humour in even the darkest of moments. Edge of Dark Water is very much a thriller with only a minor mystery element to resolve. The young trio that must contend for their lives are racially and sexually diverse. Jinx is probably the most self-aware and certainly gives as good as she gets. Sue Ellen quickly comes to see the world more clearly and Terry Thomas has real problems to resolve. Merely surviving is the rite of passage for them as the river carries them further away from home but not into a safer place. It’s an exciting edge-of-the-seat ride for us, making this is one of the best thrillers of the last five and more years. It’s destined to become a classic like Deliverance, The Executioners and their film versions. Read it or miss out!
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
John Donne started the ball rolling with the idea that, “no man is an island. . every man is a piece of the continent. . .”. In our postmodernist times, we routinely accept the idea that we only understand the present by placing our “man” in his social context and then interrogating the past. We aim to learn about him by identifying the “facts” reported about him, determining whether they are salient and then forming them into an evidential pattern. In such archaeological diggings, sometimes we identify significant silences and they are just as eloquent as the apparent facts. Once we have all the available evidence, there’s always going to be an argument about what it tells us. Given all our current theories and and beliefs, it’s unlikely one interpretation is always going to be better than any others. That would be the triumph of prejudice. In the best objective sense, we should always be looking for explanations of the past that give the best fit with the “facts” as we have them. So, when searching for a reasoned way of resolving the debate, it may be necessary to conclude one interpretation is right because all the others are wrong. As Sherlock Holmes used to say, “. . .when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Ah, the “truth” — such a complicated concept in these relativistic times.
Such are the games played by those who put together the plots of the better detective stories. When it comes to the blend between current reality and history, I don’t think anyone has more consistently hit the bullseye than Anthony Price. His early books are masterful in their exploration of the relationship between people and their past. He specialised in the construction of meditative dialogues as the lead characters discussed how they should view and then solve their problems which were always rooted in relevant history. So, in The Labyrinth Makers, a missing Dakota aircraft resurfaces. It had been presumed lost at sea shortly after the end of the WWII, so to find it at the bottom of a recently drained lake is disconcerting. That it then triggers interest from the Russian intelligence service brings our series hero, David Audley, into play. If you have not read this book, you should. It won the Silver Dagger Award in 1971.
All of which brings us to Chelsea Mansions by Barry Maitland (Minotaur Books, 2011). This is the eleventh police procedural featuring DCI David Brock and DI Kathy Kolla so, in novelist terms, this is a mature partnership. They know each other well and, together with their Serious Crime team, enjoy tight mutual loyalty. We start off with what might look a random crime. An elderly American tourist is literally thrown under a bus when walking back from the Chelsea Flower Show to her hotel. There’s no obvious motive of a robbery gone wrong. The first theory is mistaken identity yet no-one can suggest whom she might resemble and so justify death. Our heroes are just getting started with the investigation looking at her hotel in Chelsea when the rich Russian who lives next door is also murdered. In a hastily convened meeting between the police and the Intelligence Services, it’s now suggested that our American might look like the dead Russian’s mother. Quite why this has prompted the death of the Russian son is not explained, but it becomes a kind of official assumption for those at the meeting.
Needless to say, our heroes are sceptical. Well, that should be Kathy Kolla who’s sceptical. Brock has succumbed to a mystery bug and the team is covering for his absence while he tries to sleep it off. The problem, of course, is how an elderly American woman might be related to a Russian multi-millionaire. This is where the history comes into play. At first, Kathy Kolla is on her own but she comes across a youngish Canadian attending a conference in London. He’s staying at the same hotel as the dead American and proves to have forensic document skills. In due course, he’s recruited as an independent expert and begins his own parallel investigation. As Brock slowly gets back on his feet, the investigation goes through various crises and changes in manpower. Slowly, they begin to sense the wider picture and, after a trip to America, they have a much better idea of how the two victims may be linked.
Except, of course, the fact a link has been found between the two victims does not explain why they were killed nor by whom. This drives them back into the history and, when some bones come to light, they finally get the answer. Anthony Price would approve of this plot! It’s beautifully managed. What may initially look contrived ends up perfectly explained. We even get a little more background on David Brock as some of his own history resurfaces in an unexpected way. In Chelsea Mansions, Barry Maitland has produced one of the best detective/police procedurals of the last year. If you see it on a shelf, grab a copy and reserve the time necessary to read it. You will not be disappointed.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.