At the start of The Witch Elm, Toby Hennessy introduces himself by saying, “I’ve always considered myself to be, basically, a lucky person”. This is the first line of the novel, in fact, and proves to be the key to its dark heart.
The unfolding story deconstructs that statement. It confronts Toby with the fact that - despite feeling that his life changed beyond recognition after being beaten to oblivion in the early chapters - he has always been, basically, oblivious.
Luck? Is it really ‘luck’ that gave young, white, male, middle-class, able-bodied, straight, handsome Toby Hennessy a leg-up in life? Just dumb luck? This is a novel about power and privilege.
The story is set in the elegantly dilapidated surroundings of the Ivy House, a mansion belonging to uncle Hugo, where Toby spent childhood summers with his cousins, Susanna and Leon. At times, The Witch Elm takes on the air of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, as the three cousins meander through the pages, drinking good wine, slagging less-fortunate ‘skangers’ and philosophising at length. No-one (except uncle Hugo) is especially sympathetic and some of these sections feel directionless.
But French has an important point to make, symbolised by the Ivy House. The cousins inhabit the same world - literally the same house - but different realities. A macabre discovery in a tree in the garden, the wych elm of the title, forces Toby to dig back into their shared and unshared past experiences. He discovers the true meaning of ‘luck’.
A departure from her Dublin Murder Squad series, Tana French once again offers a work of literary fiction that happens to feature a murder. The plot is slow moving and character led. It won’t please fans of a rapid page-turner, although sections of the novel - especially the build up to the ending - are gripping. Both frustrating and brilliant, its strength hits after the ending; rather like the giant wych elm, you only realise the magnitude and scale of the ideas after stepping away and regarding it from a distance.
Review: SNAP by Belinda Bauer
On a broiling summer’s day in 1998, eleven-year-old Jack Bright and his two sisters sit in a broken-down car beside a busy road waiting for their mother who went to get help. No-one stops. No-one notices. No-one comes back.
Jump forward three years and a trio of police officers are hunting the “Goldilocks burglar” who breaks into homes and sleeps in the beds. Is he the same criminal who has left a knife and a threatening letter beside a pregnant woman’s bed?
And how does a burglar who mainly steals healthy food - "When the opportunity arose, he stole organic” - tie in with a cold case of a murdered woman from 1998?
Belinda Bauer’s razor-sharp wit and black humour always freshens my reading palate. Her plotlines and characters are decidedly quirky – even bizarre. In SNAP, a Dickensian vision of three children surviving on the fringes of modern society is touching, at times very funny, and distinctly weird. Minor characters such as "Smooth Louis Bridge", a criminal who obsessively removes his own hair, reveal the extent of her freaky imagination. But an eye for detail brings all this eccentricity back to real life.
Jack Bright’s eyes were narrow as a smoker’s and pale grey, as if all the colour had been cried out of them.
Detective Chief Inspector Marvel wasn’t one for knick-knacks but he did have an ashtray in the shape of lungs.
Belinda Bauer switches perspectives between characters without ever making it feel contrived. She somehow slides from one vivid and fleshed-out internal world to the next, puppet master-style. I love the smoothness and authority of her writing. And the profound characterisation, such as here, when the unveiled burglar reflects on his bad behaviour:
He always knew it wasn’t right, but his anger made it feel fair.
I’m a big fan of Belinda Bauer, as you might tell, although SNAP is an unusually light-hearted crime novel. I love gallows humour as much as the next swinger, but on reflection I didn’t feel much fear related to the actual killer who gets a bit lost in a crowd of cranks and crazies (the police as much as anyone else). It doesn’t matter to me, though – this book is dark, funny and heartfelt - and heroic Jack Bright and his sister's tortoise will live long in my mind.
Review: The Darkness, Ragnar Jonasson
A novel that unflinchingly lives up to its name.
There is lightness in the sympathetic main character of Hulda Hermannsdottir, a police detective in the final days of her long and distinguished career. Her world view feels fresh to crime fiction even while it is jaded to police work.
But all else is bleak - Hulda's unwelcome retirement, the Icelandic landscape, the loneliness of a bereaved mother, the struggle of a woman in a male-dominated job, the social isolation of an older single woman. Add to that a dead refugee and a police force that doesn't much care, and the tragic story unfolds right onto the final page, with its bold final twist.
This is the first in a series and I await the next instalment, hoping it leaves me as thoughtful as this story. The Darkness is a compelling read and Hulda is a magnetic personality, but, goodness, it's pitch black in her world.
My favourite line: "The advantage of the darkness is that there are no shadows."
With thanks to #NetGalley for a review copy
Review: The Likeness, Tana French
In the second of her police procedural series set around the Dublin Murder Squad, Tana French focuses on Detective Cassie Maddox, a traumatised cop who bears an uncanny likeness to a murder victim.
A former undercover police officer, Cassie is recovering from the fallout of a prior case. When her new boyfriend, the solid and dependable detective Sam O’Neill, is called to a crime scene where a woman’s body has been found in a broken down cottage, he at first thinks it is Cassie. Instead, the victim is identified as Lexie Madison, a mature student who lives with a group of intellectual misfits at a grand house in the nearby village.
Although the privileged and aloof gang has a knack of making itself unpopular, there is no obvious motive for Lexie’s murder. With no leads or clues, the police hatch a plan to take advantage of the similarity between Cassie and Lexie to solve the crime. What ensues reveals that the two women may have had more in common than just outward appearance.
This slow-burning suspense invests time in building up characters, motives and tension. With the large cast of housemates and villagers, French expertly allows us to ponder their possible involvement in the killing. The mood of eccentricity, elitism and anachronism that pervades Whitethorn House slowly casts even battle-hardened Cassie under a spell; although the friends will also ring bells with anyone who enjoyed Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History”.
The most engaging element is the collision between personal and professional in Cassie’s mind - we, like her, gradually conflate the officer and the victim until we don’t know where Lexie ends and Cassie begins. This is the heart of the novel: Cassie identifying and healing herself in the guise of the lost woman. So much so that the resolution of the central mystery — who killed Lexie Madison? — is almost an anticlimax that gets in the way of the more compelling curiosity about how Cassie will ever step out from the shadow of her ill-fated doppelgänger.
Review: The Beautiful Dead, Belinda Bauer
Reading Belinda Bauer thrillers when you're alone in the house is never a good idea. Reading her books when you're alone and supposed to be writing your own novel is a terrible idea. With the story dipping and diving between the surface tension of the plot and the depths of the characters, it is hard to come up for air.
Eve Singer is a TV reporter on the 'meat beat' as a crime correspondent. Although a fairly typical hack in terms of ruthlessness and cunning, her squeamishness and aplomb in the face of casual sexism from rival hacks give her instant appeal. Most sympathetic of all, her home life is almost as tragic as the news she covers day-in, day-out. When a serial killer bursts onto the scene - literally, he sees himself as an artist - Eve thinks she has a chance to make the big time. Until she realises that she might become the next item on the evening news.
The baroque nature of the killer, who bears a passing resemblance to whatsisname from Silence of the Lambs, is alluded to in the butterfly-strewn cover art. But that is perhaps the only over-familiar aspect of this elevated crime novel - Bauer rings unusual notes that lift The Beautiful Dead out of the realms of the ordinary; lashings of black humour, a sweet little romance, a touching father-daughter plot line, and a wonderful kick-ass female detective whose diminutive size belies her mad skills.
Fans of crime fiction will love The Beautiful Dead. Fans of a nicely-turned phrase will too.