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Sunday morning in casa Jordan and Elvis Costello is streaming through the sound system. On this particular a.m. there is a triple bonus to this. First, we don’t listen to this brilliant musician nearly enough. Secondly, he is my Aunt’s favorite performer and this has been her week. At the age of forty-five and twenty-five years into her nursing career she has worked hard and on Thursday morning five hours before the lights went out in Rochester she presented her dissertation and became a Doctor of Nursing. Immense family pride going on here.
Once installed in Newcastle, Waites begins to weave his magic. Revealing little bits of Larkin, creating layers of personality, presenting a crime story to salivate over. It’s a page turner of a book alright, the problem is I found myself rereading sentences. No grogginess was involved, just a “this guy’s got it going on” fear of not remembering. We’re introduced to a cast of remarkable characters from victim Mary to Detective Inspector Moir, a man with demons perhaps more horrific than Larkin’s own. As Larkin probes into the story and prods the action like a master, there’s an infectious quality of consequences be damned that I never feel in my reading. With Waites I do.
This is an awful outing for our man Larkin. A case of pedophilia graphically and beautifully written. New personal circumstances and new characters are introduced. Larkin remains horribly alone. A man who doesn’t probe the case because it is the right thing to do, but because he hopes that for a little while he will feel better about himself. And he makes unforgivable mistakes involving other people. Yet he is forgiven. At the end of this book Waites has not only presented us with a marvel of a story but presented us with fear for the future and an arch-enemy.
Raving over, I’m about to present an argument about these two plots that I
hope comes off favorably.
Unique talent in this genre of mystery fiction is becoming rarer for me. To miss
a grand reading experience because of my own prejudices is a disservice to
myself. I thank Mr. Waites for teaching me that I’m not so different from
those who “don’t do Brit”, ”can’t stand hard-boiled”, “won’t
touch historical”. My reading world has opened yet again. The sentences. Here’s one at random:
Do you really want to miss this? Costello continues to reverberate and on the
headboard, bliss. For there’s Candleland and Born Under Punches. Those
manuscripts may acquire a bit of dust before I get to them.
© Ruth Jordan |
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Finally and to
the point of this article. Elvis Costello is the favorite musician of both 
A
brilliant read. We meet Stephen Larkin. He is a protagonist so tightly written
that I’ve had more than one 3:30 night already and see more in the near
future. As we meet Stephen he is a man in the throws of self pity and self
flagellation. An investigative reporter, the man is punishing himself working
for one of the more notorious tabloids. Informed by his boss that he is to
return to his hometown to write a story on a gangland slaying and the subsequent
trial.
Bleary
eyed I report to Jennifer and Jon that I’m glad I read the book. I write a few
reviews, absorb another book. Manuscripts arrive and I look at them guiltily on
Thursday night as I pick up Little Triggers. Already there is maturity in the
writing.
After twenty years of reading mysteries in a broad range of sub-genres,
locations and tone I go into every book with the preconception of what I find
acceptable and what I don’t. At this point in my reading career there are
certain plot devices that I find totally unacceptable. And after twenty years I
almost always see them coming. Two of my biggest pet peeves are “the contrived
ending” and “vigilantism for the sake of plot”. Or so I thought. Stephen
Larkin and Martyn Waites are making me rethink formerly solid positions. For in
the end the story is the thing. If the words are good enough, if the right
effect has been achieved due to the quality of writing preconceptions must be
thrown out the window.
