2018 mystery. Clare Cassidy's fellow teacher Ella Elphick has been
stabbed to death, in a way that suggests more than casual killing. A
further death, and other odd events, suggest that someone is modelling
the crimes on The Stranger, a story by an obscure Victorian author
that forms part of her creative writing course.
This is a mystery with literary flair. Apart from the notional R.
M. Holland, these people read: Wilkie Collins, Georgette Heyer, P.
G. Wodehouse, are all mentioned in passing. While it's always a bit
iffy for a writer to refer to other books (and two out of the three
are better writers, by my lights anyway), here it makes sense to
explain the characters, and particularly how Cassidy and DS Harbinder
Kaur, the principal investigator, find things to clash about in spite
of their overall similarity of attitude.
I'd benefit too, I thought vaguely; a dog would keep me fit and
allow me to meet other dog-walkers. Much better than a book club
where there was always the danger that someone would suggest The
Girl on the Train.
Regular readers will know that I have my own rules for how mysteries
should work in order not to feel like a cheat. This book follows them.
Nobody here is a liar, or "unreliable narrator". The dog lives.
Literarily competent authors often seem to feel they need to go
outside the mould to do Their Thing, and thereby lose the point of the
story-form completely; this isn't one of those books.
All right, there are three narrative voices, but this allows
everything to be told in tight first-person perspective. (Sometimes
the same scene from different angles, which helps show good intentions
going wrong.) There's a most obvious suspect, and a more subtle
suspect, neither of whom is the actual murderer, whom I didn't spot.
And perhaps I'm just happy to be outfoxed by an author I haven't met
before, who has written several other books that I can now look
forward to. But I think there's a sense of enjoyment here that I've
been missing in other things I've read lately; this is smart writing
that still has a head of department asking Clare to cover up his
little indiscretion…
‘Thank you,’ he says. And I’m embarrassed to see the relief in his
face. ‘It’s just… [my wife]’s very vulnerable at the moment.’
This strikes me as low, even for Rick.
‘It was over,’ he says. ‘It was over between me and Ella back in the
summer.’
Back in the summer is not that long ago and, before that, Rick was
telling me that he’d kill himself if I didn’t sleep with him. I’m
surprised at the anger that suddenly surges through me.
The victim was neither a saint nor a devil. The same applies to
everyone we meet; they all have their good and bad points. There's a
decent sense of place. The writing is competent and pleasant.
Basically, Griffiths has done nothing wrong here, and many things
right.
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