Enthralling trio of tricky tales

First of this threesome plucked from the pile comes from the fertile and quirky mind of Mark Billingham, the crime writer who, in this reader’s eyes, can do no wrong when it comes to providing a first-rate yarn.

He continually blends the gruesome and the thrilling with a delightful line of patter and laughs. Giggles among the ghouls. Good all-round entertainment without short-changing readers on either score.

The Wrong Hands is the second in his Detective Declan Miller series. In other words, more mayhem among the misfits.

True to genre, the careworn Miller has his quirks and problematic back story. Where would crime fiction be without such detours from the main theme?

For Miller they include tracking down the killers of his policewoman wife, Alex. He is convinced her murderer is known by the suspects he is pursuing in his current money laundering case.

It is a burdensome and deeply personal task made all the worse for being classed as a cold case by his bosses. He is  thus denied any resources for getting justicre for Alex.

On top of all this he carries the stress of  caring for pet rats Fred and Ginger while trying to meet the demands of his weekly ballroom dancing sessions.  

A tough and complex life indeed.  

So many distractions to intrude on his daily grind of chasing the lowlifes and crooks who infest the seedy underbelly of Blackpool; a fading resort barely clinging to its past fame thanks to its Eiffel-like tower, seafront illuminations and the annual visit of the Strictly Come Dancing glitter-fest.

It is drear and dreary. And Miller and his colleagues and associates are a fitting match to their surroundings. Even his frequent attempts at jokey chatter and mood-lifting puns fail to shift the gloom.

Not so for readers. A hilarious prelude sets the tone as it tells of a stake-out by bumbling detectives that goes horribly wrong at rush hour in the Gents at Blackpool’s railway station. Piling chaos upon chaos the heist that these latter-day Keystone Kops are supposed to be preventing then dives even deeper into Crazy Gang territory. 

We are off to a rollicking start that rarely lets up as the crooks discover the contents of the briefcase they mistaklenly snatched.

True to the tradition that every investigator has a sidekick to denigrate, castigate and be the butt of their jokes, Miller has detective sergeant Sara Xiu to draw a veil over his  errors and fetch and carry whatever sustenance he demands.

Xiu is  a heavy  metal fan who uses gigs at the local pub to unwind while picking up a date for the night without being too choosy about their gender.

It’s a winning combination. Xiu tolerates Miller’s tangental thinking, which often has little to do with the case they are working on, and provides another platform for more of Billingham’s witty  asides. 

Gore and bruising encounters abound.

Nail guns, abattoirs, chainsaws and sundry other tools are the weapons of choice.  But their use is decribed as much for humorous effect as for the shock quotient.

This is black humour from a master in this dark art.

It hardly ranks as a spoiler alert to say that Miller and Xiu eventually get their man. 

It is the telling of their exhilarating journey rather than its conclusion that provides the joy, excitement and sheer fun within.

It’s a topnotch tail-twister of a thrilling ride through the grubby underbelly of this gaudy painted tart of British resorts.

Crime fiction legend holds mirror to dark truths

There is nothing new in an author using their fiction as a plaform for social commentary. Many a plot and narrative has been created to throw a brighter light on issues that have remained too long in the dark.

The extensive works of Charles Dickens are a prime example.  Many of his novels began life as daily newssheets which were sold on the street to readers thirsting for the next dramatic instalment.

He brought social ills and shortcomings to a mass audience.  His stories highlight corruption, malfaisance, bribery,  deceit and a roll call of other sins where none were supposed to exist.

But always the story takes centre stage. It is the subtly wielded whip used to drive the action forward while making point after forcible point about the injustices underpinning the entire work..

Which is not always the case.  Too often an author’s worthy dedication to a cause buries plot and characters under the weight of the argument. Both story and cause fail to gain the  attention they deserve.

This was the feeling generated by following Det Inspector Vera Stanhope in her latest trudge around the gloomy Northumbrian landscape.

Or simply Vera, as she is familiarly known to millions not only through almost a dozen books but also seen in endless rotation on TV screens around the world.   Much followed and much loved and rightly so.

But in The Dark Wives,  author and Ann Cleeves uses her doughty creation to headline a cause in which she fervently believes. And it shows.

She says the book is dedicated “to teens everywhere” and especially to the titular Dark Wives – “uppity young women with minds of their own, struggling to find a place in a difficult world”.

She further elaborates in an author’s note that the idea for the book was triggered (everyone appears to be triggered by something or someone these days) by a BBC Radio 4  investigation into private children’s homes.

The novel is entirely fictitious with none of its  instituations or characters based on reality.  But the real world is very much close at hand. The author’s cause is never far away.

Fair enough. After all, that’s nothing new. Hundreds of novels owe their beginnings to real events and actual people. And often only thinly disguised as such.

But the thought kept intruding that The Dark Wives was overburdened by its factual roots.  And that plot and narrative were tailored to make a point; to enforce on readers the full weight of a situation crying out for urgent action and support.

As ever, Vera is the instrument used to hammer home the author’s concerns. True to past form she’s not a great devotee of  the gentle and sensitive approach.  Especially not with the members of the hard-worked team she leads.

She’s always been a rough rider, barking orders at her long-suffering collagues, stubbornly right even when shown to be wrong,  and with no concept of rest and relaxation. 

Maybe there’s a softer heart of gold within, but deep digging is needed to reveal it.

In The Dark Wives the irrascible Vera comes across as more brusque than ever, and even more more intolerant of fools, prevaricators and the indolent than in previous outings.

She sets the pace, and the mood, and there are no excuses tolerated from those who fall behind. Others must  keep up – or else. 

With Vera as her mouthpiece, the author’s campaigning voice thus comes through loud and clear, but perhaps too loud and too clear.  Which rather lessened the book’s pleasure level for this reader. At times it felt more akin to a promo for a cause than the usual taut and tricksy Vera tale.

Similarly with the ancient standing stones of the title – the Three Dark Wives.  They are spasmodically highighted  in the narrative to provide an air of mystery and danger based on folklore and legends.  

Yet their menace factor is lacking. They come across as tacked on tokens, inserted to ramp up the spooky atmosphere when the action shifts to a night time chase across the Northumberland moors. Far from fearsome.  

The focus of the tale is a remote care home for a handful of “difficult” teenagers. The murder of a staff member and the disappearance of one of the teenagers give Vera and her team plenty to grapple with. Especially when they disturb a hornet’s nest of bitter rivalries, bureaucratic bungling and a lack of the care the youngsters desperatively need.

Nor are they helped by having to adjust to the arrival of the ambitious Rosie Bell as a replacement for the recently killed and much-loved Holly.

Rosie is about as different as it is possible to be from her predecessor.  Feathers are soon ruffled.  

So much going on, so many threads to unravel, a murky maze of deceits, petty rivalries and stubborn  officials.

However, on this occasion less would have been more.  An expose of the crisis in the care home sector alongside a plodding police procedural are uneasy bedfellows. 

When one is not suffocating the other, all is well. There are narratives and characters to be savoured. And everything is underscored by Cleeves at her usual high standard. 

A gruesome weekend of glitz, glamour and murder

When the pseudo rich, beautiful and glamourous gather things tend to go wrong. Very wrong.

Their gatherings provide a gorgeous display of excess and villany, and the fabric from which authors and screenwriters weave many a sumptuous tale.

It is a scenario frequently presented in visual tittilating excess in numerous films, soaps and books. Think Succession, Big Little Lies,  the several series of The White Lotus and the.endless stream of fantasy romance novels

And the well is far from dry, as author Lucy Foley amply demonstrates in The Midnight Feast, a heady pot-pourri of glamour, betrayal, revenge and excess in all departments.

It all combines to create an entertai ning and baffling clash of genres,. Readers are treated to a Christie-like country house mystery that e mbraces so much more – a sudden death policier, two lovers’ bitter affair,  a grudge-fuelled pursuit of vicious revenge, folklore used to wreak fear and terror, and continual permutations  of all these threads as they come to the fore, add to the intrigue then fade only to return in a different role.

Much is over the top. Excess heaped upon excess.

Nothing quite fits. Who are the bad guys, who are good guys?  It’s another puzzle to unravel as the cast of multi-faceted characters come and go in different guises.

Adding to the weekend’s out-of-kilter feeling is  the location. Rather than some sun-blessed exotic and exclusively remote setting, Foley sets her shenanigans in dear old Dorset. In a sparkling white gated resort (a nod to The White Lotus?) on its Channel-facing shores. 

The mundanity of the surroundings – the usual Brit resort tattiness, a pub and a dreary caravan park as a neighbour – is an unsettling master stroke from the author, especially when the English weather comes to play.  

Disaster is the one certainty. And there is plenty of that, and not all of it is weather-related by any means.

It is a mystery with a slow reveal.  So many disparate souls with hidden agendas, usually with murderous intent. 

With back-story secrets, too.

Pupeteer in chief Francesca Meadows has created The Manor as “the new jewel of the Dorset coastline”.  She has hand-picked her guests for an intensely curated opening weekend. 

Beyond the marbled swimming pool for the sun-seekers and posers there are dangerous cliffs and coves.

Strange goings-on occur in eerie woodlands of  legendary evil that border the high security enclave. Employess are mainly duplicitous locals whose welcoming smiles mask vengeful intent.

Chapters switch quickly from character to character as they relate their thoughts, actions and interactions.

It’s all fast paced.  Full of sudden unexpected reveals as two  bumbling detectives try to unravel plot and killers.

Dark humour among the killings and excesses.  A page-turner of a read.