Library Limelights 215

Fiona Barton. The Suspect. Canada: Penguin, 2019.

Two excited girls, Alex and Rosie, take a post-school vacation trip to Thailand; two weeks later, the girls are found dead in a burned-out Bangkok hostel. The agony of the parents is duly documented by journalist Kate Waters for her newspaper. Alex’s mother Lesley is the most vocal, Rosie’s mother Jenny is in a daze. Media attention becomes overwhelming. The Thai police close their token investigation, while British police prepare for the arrival of the bodies and an inquest. DI Bob Sparkes is the lead cop, consumed as he is with grief for his dying wife, Eileen. We hear perspective from the parents, from Sparkes, occasionally from Alexandra’s emails to a friend, but this is Kate’s story too. Her son Jake is in Thailand, long out of contact.

Kate and the parents and the Brit police travel to Bangkok, hoping to piece together the girls’ last days. Alex and Rosie did not die from effects of the fire; somewhere there is a murder suspect. The holiday had not been a happy one for Alex with the girls’ conflicting personalities and other partying backpackers. Witnesses to the fire are needed, like the enigmatic “Mama” who owned the hostel. Kate, especially, needs more answers when they learn that the still-missing Jake had stayed at the same hostel. It seems parents seldom know what their adult children get up to on social media or otherwise. Sparkes feels nothing but guilt over his absence from Eileen’s deathbed. Well-written and constructed for maximum suspense, guaranteed to keep you engaged, the story offers some painful parental insight. One thing: switching Alex’s voice from her past emails to the here and now is a jarring element.

Kate:

▪ “He has burns to his hands and some scorching on his right cheek and nose.” (114)

▪ Everything I say now will be news. I need to say nothing. (139)

▪ We’re drinking more lately. Taking the edge off the panic that is simmering just below the surface. (194)

▪ What he said, how he looked at her. My son the heartthrob. (272)

Bob:

▪ Sparkes hadn’t liked to say his secret worry about his son was that he was getting old before his time. He was only in his thirties, but his hair was thinning and he wore slippers in the house. (16)

▪ “You set up liaison with the Thais and I’ll talk to my mate at Interpol.” (198)

▪ He put his hands to his eyes in case he’d cried without knowing. It happened sometimes. (211)

Lesley:

▪ “Please don’t touch the body,” said a police officer, an austere man who stood to one side. (102)

▪ “We’re in pieces, Sheila,” Lesley said, her brave face no longer needed. (149)

▪ She couldn’t bear to even try to step forward anymore. (352)

Alex:

▪ She’d had enough of making excuses for Rosie. (207)

▪ Alex’s fears are spelled out in full and I feel for her. She was so out of her depth. At eighteen to be dealing with this must have been terrible. (272)

▪ “Do you think Jake is avoiding me?” (344)

Colleague reactions:

“And poor Jake. Having those terrible things said about him.” 

I could feel myself tense as I waited for the dewy-eyed sympathy to turn to a grilling. 

The thing is, we just can’t help ourselves. We want to know everything, and I know I would have asked some of the same questions: “Didn’t you know about the university issue?” “What do you think he’s been doing out there?” “Do you think he had anything to do with the deaths?” 

When I didn’t come up with the goods, people backed off and started talking about me instead. I got worn down by the bone-aching awkwardness of it all. I’d walk into a room and the conversation would stop. 

I became paranoid when people looked away, pretending to be busy. I couldn’t decide if it was because they think Jake’s bad or I am. (201-2)

Two mothers:

There was a strange stillness in the room, and as Lesley turned to look at Jenny she felt as if she were moving in slow motion. 

“Lies?” she said. The word elongating unnaturally, to fill the air between them. “What on earth do you mean?” 

“I mean, why would Alex write those things? Those awful things,” Jenny gabbled. “Rosie wasn’t like that. Not before your daughter dragged her off to Thailand and put her in danger, anyway. I should never have let her go. Anyway, I think Alex was jealous of her, jealous that all the boys liked her, and she just wrote this stuff out of spite.” (293-4)

International news:

The press had had a field day, beating up the Thai police over the mistakes they’d identified: “The Reasons They Got It Wrong,” “The Devastating Mistakes in Full,” et cetera. It’s a complicated story but the editors had pulled out all the stops—adding value, the watchword on back benches―so there were sidebars, bullet points, and graphics to hammer home every line. (354)

Change of tone:

When she returns, Mama is furious. 

“Who are you?” she hisses from the doorway. 

“I told you, Kate ...” 

“You are British police—my contact told me.” 

“No, of course I’m not. You’re right—the British police are in Bangkok, looking into the death of the two girls. But I’m not with them. I’m the mother of Jake Waters.” 

She actually laughs. A deep, dirty rumble. “I am glad I’m not,” she says and closes the door on me. (359)

Peter Robinson. The Hanging Valley. 1989. Canada: McClelland & Stewart, 2006.

One of those fillers in a lag between TPL book orders. It’s a very early Inspector Banks mystery, when he’s still rather new to Eastvale in Yorkshire. A defaced dead body is found in an obscure valley near the village of Swainshead. Naturally, Banks and Sgt Hatchley get to meet the local worthies during their investigation, notably the landowning Collier brothers and John Fletcher, as well as B&B owner Sam Greenock. These four habitually spend as much time as possible in the White Rose pub. Sam’s subservient wife Katie, privately longing for release from her dreary life, is a repressed bundle of long-instilled religious admonitions. Some people want to get away from Swainshead forever; others badly want to return.

The body is identified as Bernard Allen, who once lived in the area but had emigrated to Toronto. His death echoes that of a stranger in similar circumstances, unsolved, some five years ago. That man had been a private eye, on what kind of business then, no one knows. Or tells. Of great personal interest is Banks’ trip to Toronto where the city of thirty years ago is described in many pages. He picks up enough information there for a circumstantial case against a Swainshead resident, but not before another dead body or two turn up. A rather mild but satisfying whodunnit. Banks and Superintendent Gristhorpe are already building the endless dry-stone wall that relaxes them when off-duty.

One-liners:

▪ “That gives him a motive for murder, but he’s the one who ends up dead.” (87)

▪ “If she’d stayed we might have got something out of her, but on the other hand something might have happened to her first.” (199)

▪ The Colliers were, when all was said and done, still regarded as lords of the manor. (211)

Multi-liners:

▪ What Stephen had said about her being unhappy was true. Was it so obvious to everyone, or did he really sense a bond between them? (60)

▪ It was after ten when they finally left, and by then Banks felt unusually merry. Because the beer was ice-cold, it had very little taste and, therefore, he had assumed little strength. Wrong. (162)

▪ “There’s one good thing in all this, you know. At least Bernie died in the place he wanted to live.” (181)

At the B&B:

“It was two weeks ago,” Sam said. “There’s been other people in since then. That’s where we took Fellowes after he’d found the body.” 

“We’ll still have to look.” 

“Do you think he’s hidden some secret message there, Inspector? Taped it to the bottom of the dresser drawer, maybe?” 

“You’ve been reading too many espionage novels. And if I were you, I’d cut the bloody sarcasm. You might start me thinking that there’s some reason you don’t want me to look in Bernie Allen’s room. And while we’re at it, he’s not the first person to get killed after leaving this guest house, is he, Sam?” 

“Now wait a minute,” said Sam. If you’re trying to imply—“ 

Banks held his hand up. “I’m not trying to imply anything. What was it the man said: once is happenstance, twice is coincidence? Let’s just hope there’s not a third time.” (72-3)

Domestic abuse:

“Leave me alone!” Sam shouted. “I’ll bloody report you, I will.” 

Banks sneered. “That’s a laugh.” Then he backed away. “Keep out of my sight, Greenock,” he said. “If I want you, I’ll know which rock to look under. And when I do, I’ll have proof. And if I see or hear any more evidence—even the merest hint―that you’ve been hurting your wife again, I’ll make you bloody sorry you were ever born.” (114)

Toronto 1989:

“The subway’s the quickest.” And Gerry told him how to get to Broadview station by streetcar or on foot, where to change trains, and where to get off. 

“There’s another thing. Do you know anything about the English-style pubs in town? Somewhere that sells imported beer?” 

Gerry laughed. “You’ve certainly got your work cut out. There’s dozens of them. The Madison. The Sticky Wicket, Paupers, the Hop and Grape, the Artful Dodger, The Jack Russell, The Spotted Dick, The Feathers, Quigley’s, not to mention a whole dynasty of Dukes. I’ll try and make a list for you.” (137)

Everything is a sin:

All through her childhood, Katie had been forced to go to the Gospel with her grandmother, and the icy devotion of the congregation had scared her half to death. Though they were praising God, they hardly dared sing so loud for fear He would think they were taking pleasure in the hymns. Katie could never understand the readings or the lessons, but she understood the passionate menace in the tones of those who spoke, she understood the meaning of the spittle that sometimes dribbled over their lips, and the way their eyes glazed over. As she grew older, all her fear affixed itself to the sights, sounds and smells of the church: the chill mustiness rising from worn stone flags; the pews creaking as a bored child shifts position; the unearthly echo of the minister’s voice; the wooden board announcing the hymn numbers; the stained glass fragmenting colour like broken souls. Just thirty seconds in a church meant panic for Katie; she couldn’t breathe, she started trembling, and her blood turned to stone. (141)

Graham Hurley. Curtain Call. UK: Severn House Publishers, 2019.

Expecting a brisk, police-driven murder mystery ‒ as per Hurley’s two excellent series set in Portsmouth (“Pompey”) – I waited in vain for the punch line, a death to investigate. No, this is a departure for Hurley into a more laidback probe of crime and psychology. Enora Andresson is a middling, successful actress in the throes of divorce from Berndt, prominent Swedish film director. She’s recovering from an operation to remove a brain tumour when she meets Mitch, a journalist who enlists her to dig up information on Hayden Prentice, a very wealthy man she had a long-ago, one-night stand with. Enora’s beloved son Malo went with his father when the couple separated. She’s overjoyed when the aimless seventeen-year-old arrives on her doorstep, fed up with Berndt.

Mother and son soon become involved with Prentice (call me “H”) who had once captured Enora’s fascination with his down-to-earth charm. H puts Malo to work on restoring an old trawler and managing a maiden tour on it to France. Enora is astonished at the turnaround in her son, his newly-exhibited abilities to make the project happen. So where is the crime, the mystery? It’s a slow buildup to H’s background of wealth founded on ruthless ambition, starting with Pompey thuggery until he mastered laundering money, then making donations to political causes; possibly he left a body or two in his wake. Mitch risks great wrath when he publishes some details gleaned from Enora, and wrath duly descends. A hair-raising crossing of the English Channel comes along. The big question is, will Enora still care for H, knowing his dark side. The conclusion is not unanticipated.

One-liners:

▪ Things I once viewed as important ‒ an evil review, for instance – have joined the rest of the background static in my life. (22)

▪ He once boasted to me that he could talk any woman into bed without laying a finger on her. (27)

▪ The day after we leave the European Union, millions of ex-pats are going to find themselves suddenly stripped of medical care. (139)

▪ “That man’s out of his depth in a puddle.” (177)

▪ In no time at all, this young asylum seeker has acquired an almost mythical status. (246)

Multi-liners:

▪ Enora is Breton in origin, homage to a saint of the same name. St Enora is celebrated for entering a convent on the day she got married. Maybe I should have listened harder and picked up the hint. (16)

▪ “This is a guy with no gearbox. It’s stop or flat out. And stop bores him stupid.” (148)

▪ What the fuck have I done, I wonder. First Berndt, and now someone altogether more terrifying. (190)

Meeting again, H is in hospital:

The sister in charge is sipping a mug of tea while she scrolls through endless emails on her PC. She barely looks up when Malo enquires about Mr Prentice. 

“Does he know you?” 

“He knows my mum. They were big friends once.” 

“Really?” This time she spares me a proper look. 

I nod. Smile. Me and Mr Prentice? Best buddies. Malo gives her our names. She gets up and disappears into a side room at the other end of the open-plan ward.A minute or so later, she’s back. 

“He’s in a bit of a state at the moment. That’s his description not mine. If you’ve got a sense of humour, he says you’re very welcome. Otherwise he won’t be offended if you bugger off.” (73)

Angry friends:

Mitch very rarely swears. He’s as angry as I am. I get to my feet. I’ve had enough of this. It wasn’t me who made the phone call in the first place, who stood outside my flat and suggested breakfast. It wasn’t me who’s been on my case ever since, pushing me gently towards H and his mates. 

“You’ve been very kind to me,” I tell him. “You’ve been there when it mattered and I really appreciate that. You’ve probably got me down as a spoiled celeb with more money than sense. For the record I do care about democracy and the health service and pot holes and libraries and all the rest of it, but where we’re heading at the moment is, to be frank, just a wee bit personal. So you’ll forgive me for skipping lunch.” (137-8)

A different world:

Through no fault of my own, unless you count Antibes, I appear to have ended up in a weird cult of ex-gangsters who’ve made their money but still can’t quite believe it. I know very little about drug dealing and even less about putting all that loot through what H quaintly calls ‘the laundromat’ but I can only take H at his word. 

We live in a free market. You source something that people need badly. You charge the earth, watch your back, and make a fortune. Everything you do, everything you touch, is illegal but if you hire the right advice and pay the right money you’re home free. This is the kind of conjuring trick that makes good guys like Mitch Culligan froth at the mouth ‒ and I don’t blame him because even to me the implications are troublesome. (143)

Not the Chunnel:

Then, above the shriek of the wind in the rigging, I hear my name. It’s Rhys. He wants me back on the wheel. I get to my feet, steady myself, check my safety harness, and wait for that fleeting moment of steadiness when I can move again. Rhys has managed to maintain the new course. The pump is working, and so now he has to go below to help organize a chain of buckets while Georgie and Jack do their best with getting the spare sail over the hole in the hull. (242)