In fiction devoted to rural crime, the community is a source of strength, either for or against the main character, and in Jane Harper’s The Dry, the Australian outback community of Kiewarra is very much against Aaron Falk. For the Melbourne-based detective, this comes as no surprise, but the reason why his family had to leave is only revealed gradually. Aaron has returned for the funeral of his old schoolfriend Luke, who died alongside his wife and child. Luke’s parents do not believe it was suicide, and ask Aaron to help convince the local policeman, Raco, to continue with the investigation
This is a strong and confident narrative, and feels like a mid-series novel rather than a debut. The pacing is skilful, the characters have an emotional hinterland, and the devastating effects of a multi-year drought add to the tension of a community under severe stress. (I particularly liked the touch of a local schoolchild’s drawing being of a cow with wings, “My Cow Who is Now in Heaven”.) Highly recommended.
This was an opportune moment to read it, as Harper has just won the CWA Gold Dagger. I was also reading it over the first night of hard frost this winter, and today’s it’s been raining hard. The Dry has reminded me that a small wet island has its advantages.
Devon, this week, for A Cursed Inheritance and Kate Ellis’s DI Wesley Peterson is investigating the death of a crime writer, who has been re-examining a family massacre that took place twenty years ago at Potwoolstan Hall. The writer, Patrick Evans, is found dead in the grounds of the Hall, and as Peterson begins his investigation, it seems that everyone has something to hide, and that more than one guest at the Hall, now run as a New Age healing centre, has not been entirely truthful about their identity.
DI Peterson’s wife, Pam, resentful of the amount of time her husband is spending on his work, is exchanging emails with an archaeologist friend of theirs, Neil, who is in the States, at one of the first 17th-century settlements there, and one of the settlers came from Potwoolstan Hall. A trail of letters from the early settlers gives clues to a much earlier mystery, but how is this connected to the present murders?
There’s a lot of plot in this, if not two books’ worth, and I was left wondering if the American element was a completely separate book that hadn’t quite panned out. The tangle of relationships in the main story becomes ultimately confusing and once the murderer was revealed, the other plot elements were done and dusted in a couple of pages. One two many secret aliases, but otherwise a gripping read.
This week’s country reading has taken me to the Wyre Forest, in the Midlands, the Worcestershire borders, at a time of major flooding. In Green and Pleasant Land, the sixth outing for Judith Cutler’s former DCS Fran Harman, and her husband Mark, also a former high-up detective, the two have been called in to re-examine a cold case by an Assistant Chief Constable who is suspended/ forcibly retired before they even start the job. Twenty years ago, the wife of a well-known footballer disappeared in the forest, in the snow, leaving behind a dead baby still in his car seat. Fran and Mark have to negotiate some tricky internal politics surrounding the investigation, but no one seems to want this case solved.
This is a recognisable public sector, with austerity meaning that most of the former team have scattered to the four winds, laid off in various tranches of redundancy or encouraged to retire early, and there are no resources to investigate former cases, but equally little will to help anyone else trying to do so. The implications of police corruption are spelled out, including the petty nastiness that can be turned on those meant to be on the same side. The PCC (Police and Crime Commissioner) in particular is best described as “a piece of work”. For all that the novel is part of the “cozy” genre, it deals with some uncomfortable themes, quite apart from the disappearance of the footballer’s wife. A pleasant winter’s evening read, but preferably not when there’s a flood warning out.
This week’s reading takes me to central Sweden, to the region round Uppsala, which is the territory of Anne Lindell, Kjell Ericksson’s police detective in Stone Coffin. A woman and her young daughter are found dead at the side of a rural road, victims of a hit and run, and the woman’s husband is missing. He worked for a pharmaceutical research company, and his business partner claims to have no idea why he would disappear. Anne, in the meantime, is trying to decide whether to repair her relationship with her former partner, who lives out in the country, by a lake. She is ambitious, a city cop, while he is happy to be a labourer, and to bring up their sons in peace and quiet. Neither of them has been able to overcome the gap between them and their preferred ways of life, but neither is happy without the other.
The author deals well with the intertwined relationships between the characters, though I wasn’t entirely convinced by the element set in the Dominican Republic. The members of the police force felt real, with a recognisable set of family dilemmas. I had one or two quibbles with the translation (e.g. “buxbom spheres” are “box spheres” – box topiary is well-known in England, but the name of the plant needs translating, and I have no idea what “wiener cousins” are but I’m guessing “foster cousins”?) Ninety-nine per cent of the time this doesn’t read like a translation, so the other one per cent stands out. A not-too-bleak (for a change) Scandinavian detective.
After the reading of recent weeks, I found myself in need of something less dark, so picked up Graham Norton’s Holding. I’ve always had a soft spot for Norton, not so much for his TV chat show, but for some of his earlier work, such as his guide to having a Eurovision hit (long before he took over commenting on the real thing) and the supremely irritating Father Noel in Father Ted.
Holding is set in a remote corner of Ireland (at least I’m guessing so, if Cork is seen as the epitome of big-city excitement), in the village of Duneen, where the local policeman tackles his first murder scene at the age of 53. The victim may or may not have been the boy that two women still living in the village had fought over, many years previously, but he had disappeared without a trace. PJ, the overweight cop, finds himself drawn to both women, and his previously unexciting existence suddenly speeds up.
Norton is good on blighted lives, squandered promise, lost loves and quiet desperation. (His role as the Daily Telegraph’s agony uncle may have helped with that.) He largely resists the temptation to go for cheap laughs, and instead paints a somewhat bleak portrait of the role of women in a conservative rural society – not that the men have vastly more in the way of options. As a police procedural, maybe this isn’t strong on realism, but as a portrayal of loneliness and isolation in an out-of-the-way place this is a compelling read.