City of Sinners – A A Dhand

I’ve never had an urge to be famous. I enjoyed acting when I was at school and university but the whole idea of being recognised wherever I went sounds horrid, to be honest. I’m happy that my friends, family and colleagues know who I am and, maybe, that the posts I do for my place of work’s social media (under the store name, not mine) make people laugh, think or want to read a particular book: anything more would be a bit much. But, when a local author opens his latest crime thriller with a body discovered in my actual place of work and asks if it is okay to call the bookseller who discover the body ‘Jane’ then, of course, it would be rude not to say ‘yes’….

36634147City of Sinners is the third outing for unconventional Bradford detective Harry Virdee. He’s used to dealing with murders but this time there are some very odd things about the body – how did a young female bookseller end up hanging from the rafters of a bookshop set in a Victorian wool trading hall, who killed her and why are her eyes both sewn closed and yet still moving….Soon there are more bodies (all female) and Harry can’t work out how they are linked. But when a young student goes missing it soon becomes apparent that she is not yet dead because she is the daughter of the Home Secretary. Harry’s boss needs to transfer the case to a specialist unit but the killer declares he will only deal with Harry: it seems that this case is very, very personal.

This is Bradford Noir at its best. With a real sting in the tail and twistier than barbed wire – don’t miss it (even if just for the cameo role by a real live bookseller….).

Jane

P.S. If you want to meet the creator of Harry Virdee the book will be launched as part of Bradford Literature Festival on Friday 29th June. If you are very good maybe I’ll sign the book for you too – after all, I’m famous now…

 

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Hall of Mirrors – Christopher Fowler

Getting older is a funny thing. Some mornings my knees and ankles try to convince me I’m rapidly approaching decrepitude: at other times I forget I’m not in my twenties anymore…Some fictional characters can be equally confusing. Hercule Poirot was already middle-aged when he is first introduced in 1920 yet he is still solving crimes forty-six years later. For most of those years he is still described as middle-aged and can’t possibly be – surely no-one could consider that time of life to last into one’s 70s or 80s (although I’ll probably still have my moments when I get there…). But characters in long-running series don’t age normally in our minds (the Famous Five seemed to be at school for far longer than educationally possible) unless we are specifically told about it. Harry Potter and his colleagues are an exception. What this means is that, if we meet characters in a series when they are rather old, we often don’t find out about their youth. It is only on tv that we get the story of Inspector Morse’s early years in the police and, up until now, it has been hard to imagine Christopher Fowler’s pair of aging detectives, Bryant and May, as anything but corderoy-wearing, Werthers Original sucking, curmudgeonly old men. In this latest novel, however, we go back to 1969 and find out what they were like as young men.

9780857523440To be honest, we do find out that Arthur Bryant was never really very good at being young. He is even less comfortable with Swinging London, young women or the country house party the two detectives have to attend while trying to protect Monty Hatton-Jones, the star witness in a high-profile court case attempting to prosecute a crooked property developer. He is particularly uncomfortable being away from London  and finds everything about the countryside scary, untrustworthy  and confusing: to be fair, by the time we get through a couple of dead bodies and two or three attempted murders, some catastrophic weather, dead phone lines and a particularly sinful vicar you kind of get his point. As becomes usual through their long career our two heroes are in trouble with their bosses from the start – as usual they use their unique skills to solve this most peculiar of cases. The author says that he wrote the book as a kind of traditional country house crime novel set just as that way of life was being killed off by the modernity of the 1960s – I was fascinated to think that, in fiction at least, that world of weekends in the country and complex period murder plots is still alive and kicking. But we are no longer the centre of the fashionable world – London is as class-bound as it ever was and only the fashions have changed…

Jane

The Smiling Man – Joseph Knox

It seems that lots of book bloggers are writers in the making. Which makes sense – to be a writer you should, first, be a reader and the reviews themselves are often great pieces of writing – but it has never been something I have aspired to. I’m wracking my brains enough just to come up with how I feel about the books I read so it can’t be surprising that sometimes it all comes out a bit incoherently. (Also I know a number of writers and I’ve heard about how much work is involved – I don’t think I could live with all the editing, frankly…) Bookselling is also a career that often leads into writing – Hugh Howey, Lucy Hounsom and David Mitchell did their turn with shelving, dusting and recommending – but I’m still never going to follow in their footsteps. I do, however, take an interest in authors who work for my employer – some of them are so good that I will even commit to reading the second book in a series. Joseph Knox, who used to work in one of our Manchester stores, has certainly gripped me with his thrillers centered around disgraced detective Aiden Waits.

9780857524409In the first book, Sirens, Waits gets involved with local drugs gangs in Manchester and manages to help a young woman to escape from their clutches. Sadly some of his actions during that case, and his past history of drug use, mean that he is hanging onto his job by a thread. Even worse, his job is now working the night shift with one of the least popular men on the force, Peter ‘Sutty’ Sutcliffe and his time is spent investigating bin fires. That is until they are called in when a dead man is found in an abandoned city centre hotel: a man whose total anonymity is ensured by his filed-down teeth, non-existent fingerprints and completely label-free clothing. His only distinguishing feature is the rictus smile on his face.  The plot is complicated by the impending messy divorce of the hotel’s owners, a girl compromised after a night at a local private club who appeals to Waits’ chivalrous instincts and the fact that someone is obviously tailing Waits, someone who seems to know more about his past than he does. The story is alternated with that of a young boy, drawn into a life of violence and criminality by a sinister father figure and, as the book progresses, these two plots begin to intertwine.

Joseph Knox shows an almost disturbing detail of knowledge about the worlds of crime, drugs and inner-city policing. I’m assured he’s a lovely chap but I hope, for the sake of the Head Office team he now works with, that he doesn’t take his research into the office with him. He is certainly a crime writer to watch but if he brings muffins in to work I wouldn’t eat them.  Just in case…

Jane

Turning for Home – Barney Norris

A number of my Facebook friends (some writers, some academics, some teachers) have recently been reacting to a Guardian article about modern literary fiction and how it has, in many cases, sacrificed good storytelling on the altar of beautiful writing.  This, to be honest, is one of the reasons why I rarely read or review books from the more literary end of the spectrum. I’ve said it before: I can recognise wonderful use of language when I see it but I prefer to read a gripping story so long as it doesn’t mangle english so much that my brain hurts. Whisper it but, most of the time, I’ll even turn a blind eye to poor spelling, rogue apostrophes or random punctuation so long as I can make out the intended meaning easily enough. Since a large part of what I read is advance reading copies (which have often not yet been proof-read) this is just as well. I did, though, do a degree in English Literature – more years ago than I care to mention – so when language, story and plot do combine I like to think that I can appreciate it. Barney Norris seems to be an author capable of this feat in my eyes.

31551199This, Norris’s second novel, is centred around a party being held by Robert Shawcross a retired senior government official who used to work in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. The party is a big annual family gathering but Robert isn’t looking forward to it – his beloved wife has recently died and he realises that the party was more about family than himself, despite it being held to celebrate his birthday.  His granddaughter, Kate, is staying with him but she seems to have her own problems – this is her first attendance at a party for three years and she is dreading seeing her mother. This domestic scene is set against the Boston Tapes – which really did get made in the early years of the 2000s, a series of recorded interviews with both Loyalist and Republican paramilitaries. The participants were assured of anonymity so they confessed to more than just the motivations the interviewers were expecting – murders and other atrocities – and so, inevitably, the British government is very keen to get hold of the tapes. A figure from Robert’s past, Frank Dunn, arrives at the party to reprise their roles from the 80s – liaisons with the British government and IRA respectively.

All the action in the book takes place over one day – the day of the party – but there are plenty of flashbacks: to the aftermath of Enniskillen, to the early days of Robert’s relationship with his wife, and, in the case Kate, to her difficult relationship with her mother, the love of her young life and the accident and illness which changed her world. This doesn’t sound like a lot of plot or story but there is enough there to keep you thinking about your own life and family. And the way it is written, the actual words on the page, is both beautiful and heartbreaking. Proper literature…

Jane

 

The Travelling Cat Chronicles – Hiro Arikawa (translated by Philip Gabriel)

After my last post – mostly spent exploring the history of bicycles in Taiwan – we are still in the far east. This time, however, I’m back on the more familiar ground of a novel written from the point of view of an animal. My last pet narrator was a post-apocalyptic dog so a street wise Japanese cat  makes for an interesting contrast. Obviously a much more self-centred sort of character – when I was 6 years old I thought our pet dog was my best friend, now I have a cat who won’t even consider sitting on my lap and spends most of her time sat behind the hi-fi speakers – because, well, cats…

34728079The cat in this story begins as a nameless stray, willing to accept food from a kind-hearted human but happy living on the streets of a Japanese town. He permits himself to be taken in after an incident with a car leaves him with a badly broken leg and soon finds himself a beloved pet, with a name and a strong attachment to Satoru Miyawaki, his rescuer. He has become a fully fledged companion animal and, although he’s sure he could go back to living as a stray, he becomes as attached to Satoru as a cat can. So, when Satoru begins trying to find someone to take the cat, now known as Nana, off his hands we are, initially, confused. As Satoru takes Nana to visit various friends from his childhood and early adulthood (to see if cat and friend are compatible – they never quite are…) we begin to realise that there must be a serious reason for him to be parted from his beloved pet. It didn’t take me until the final scenes of the book to realise what this ‘serious reason’ was but it was only the closing few pages that had me sobbing.

This was a wonderful book. Beautifully written (and translated) with a lovely contrast between the personalities of sensitive, kind Satoru and tough, straight-talking Nana it tells a deceptively simple story of a young man seeking to rehome a pet. But the heart of the book is a reminder of the fact that we are made most human by the love we show for others (even if you are, in fact, a cat).

Jane

 

The Music Shop – Rachel Joyce

Rachel Joyce writes wonderful books. Not necessarily with the most beautiful, flowery language (although they are good words, honest and accessible) but with characters, plots and emotional sucker-punches which make me very, very happy. I’ve never met a Rachel Joyce novel (so far) that I didn’t love but, boy, do they bring a tear to the eye. In an oddly satisfying way. It feels quite hard to describe why I love these books so much beyond the fact that they get me right in the feels (as the kids no longer say…) – lets hope I can convince you to read them and find out for yourselves…

51yytgdLxSL._AC_US218_This book opens in 1988. In a music shop which is resisting the rise of CDs (although not modern music) and the march of progress generally. It is on a street with a small parade of the kind of shops which are closing down all the time – the book opens in a sort of dead-end. But it is the kind of glorious dead end that I, for one, would love to have on my doorstep. The owner of the shop, Frank, is a bit of a lost soul who is still mourning his beloved (but rather difficult) mother, who shies away from relationships and who, despite all this lives to help others through music. The man with the unfaithful wife who listens only to Chopin is reminded that he is not alone via the work of Aretha Franklin; a bank manager’s baby is lulled to sleep by The Troggs Wild Thing. He is, in the early days, pretty astute about music – he’s the only shop locally to stock the Sex Pistols and stocks all the big indy labels – but the rise of CDs is a problem. Frank won’t stock them and he becomes persona non grata with all the reps from record companies.

Of course, if this were just the story of a shop it wouldn’t be quite as satisfying (apart, possibly, to those of us who work in shops and have a vested interest) so there are also some fascinating characters to meet. Frank himself is a gentle, rather shabby, giant of a man who, despite trying to avoid relationships, is essential to the lives of all those around him. Then there are the other residents of Unity Street – a Polish baker, an ex-priest running a religious gift shop, a pair of elderly undertakers, a combative tattooist, little old Mrs Roussos – who are all given life and character and who all become part of Frank’s ‘family’ (for want of a better word). Add into this his hapless (but big-hearted) assistant Kit and a mysterious German woman, Ilse Brauchmann, and it seems that Frank hasn’t been able to avoid all relationships after all.

I loved this book because of those wonderful, warm and complicated human relationships. I loved it because it made me cry as much as it made me smile and I loved it for the music. Frank’s approach to music is unusual, to say the least, since he is possibly the total opposite of High Fidelity’s obsessive alphabetiser but his tastes are broad. I loved the fact that its four parts are presented as being the four side of a double album (a concept album, obviously). And, for my money, any novel which opens with a quote* from Nick Drake deserves all the praise I can give it…

Jane

*Time has told me
You’re a rare, rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind

Nick Drake – Time Has Told Me