Krimi – Political theory and practice

Jack, Jack did it!

The Day of the Jack Russell (2009) by Colin Bateman

Good Reads meta-data is 284 pages, rated 3.96 by 1272 litizens.

DNA: Ulster.

Verdict: More to come.

Tagline: [Woof!]

The man with no name is back, stumbling into the thick of it again. Hiding from the world in his bookshop where customers seldom venture and those few that do are driven away by his indifference or the vitriol his mother, who often fronts the shop, saves for…, well, everyone, he is suborned by a wad of black cash that Inland Revenue will never know about, to track down two yobbos who defaced a billboard featuring the smiling visage of a Freddie Laker. Much offended, this Freddie would like a stern word with them.

Identifying and finding them proves to be easy, but, well, no sooner does he report them to Freddie than the yobbos are topped. Gulp! Has he become an accessory before the gruesome facts? Plod certainly thinks so.

Nameless has no choice but to clear himself by finding the culprit(s). His pregnant on again off again girlfriend is recruited, his layabout sales assistant is conscripted, his poisonous mother gets in the way, and as they bounce around there is the dog. Everyone and I mean everyone seems to be after that Jack Russell, known as Patch: the Northern Ireland Police Service, MI5 and 1/2, Freddie, rival drug dealers, an IRA remnant, and the taxidermist. Yep, taxidermist.

It is almost a mile a minute, apart from innumerable asides about Nameless’s health, his dislike of everyone else, his cantankerous mother, his long suffering girlfriend, and lectures on etymology. While he can and will recite the definitions of ‘focus’ he cannot do it.

Moreover, there is little detecting, and just a string of lucky guesses. Still I enjoyed the sarcasm with a dash of cynicism.

This is a volume in the Mystery Man series that included Dr Yes which I commented on sometime ago. Click on for enlightenment.

He’s back!

The Return of Moriarty (1974) by John Gardner

Good Reads meta-data is 304 pages, rated 3.86 by 982 litizens.

Genre: Sherlock.

DNA: Victorian Britain.

Verdict: Tony needs counselling.

Tagline: Period detail galore.

Tony Moriarty has come back from the dead, making a pact with Sherlock who looms on the horizon but never appears in these pages. Reclaiming the reins of his criminal organisation he dispenses justice, grants favours, invests in heists, and plans his own master stroke. He is one hard working Don. No wonder he needs counselling.

***

The telling is replete with the slang of London lowlife of the time and place. The text is accompanied by footnotes that relate incidents to the Holmes canon, which sometimes offer supplementary fictional text to enrich the soup. One in series starring the professor.

Cult or gang?

Chris McGillion, The Coffin Maker’s Apprentice (2024)

Good Reads meta-data is 288 pages, rated 4.0 by 2 litizens.

DNA: Timor L’este.

Genre: Krimi.

Verdict: Assured.

Tagline: Is a cult a gang?

There is trouble right there in Dili city and Vincintino Cordero sorts it out. East Timor has one of the youngest populations of the world and youth gangs are one by-product of that lopsided demographic profile and skewed economy. Some of these gangsters import and export drugs for fun and profit and when it seems a rival gang is cutting into the action, dead bodies proliferate.

The drug connection is right up Cordero’s alley and so up and down alley’s he goes.Then the innocent apprentice gets caught up in things and it is a full court press.

***

There is much high energy to-ing and fro-ing in Dili, and much cultural background that embeds the story in the time and place.

It rattles along drawing in the usual crew to good effect.

The author is a friend of mine.

The Italian Social Republic?

Ben Pastor, The Venus of Salo (2006).

Good Reads meta-data is 416 pages, rated 4.0 by 2 litizens.

Genre: Krimi.

DNA: Italian.

Tagline: The end of days.

Verdict: A head spinner.

This is Wehrmacht Colonel Martin von Bora’s eighth outing and his steps are weary and sometimes dreary as he tries hold onto this integrity in the cauldron of madness. He is assigned to the fantasy world of the Italian Social Republic (of Salò) in October 1944. For those who cut that class, this republic was the rump of northern Italy where in late September 1943 Hitler installed the recently rescued Ben Mussolini as dictator for an encore. It is a bizarre world, seemingly run by Italians with Germans monitoring everything. Yes, it is a puppet state, if it is a state in anything but name. And it dissolved in late April 1945.

Its ministries and offices were housed in the many luxury hotels, palaces, and grand houses in Brescia along the lakes, some in Salò but also scattered further along the Lemon Coast, as it was once called. Lake Garda was the most well-known feature.

This limbo world is ending with the Allied armies progressing up the spine of Italy day-by-day, the residents of this never-never-land go about their business as usual. The industrialist does industry. The art restorer restores art. The police officer hands out traffic tickets. The gardener gardens. All seeming in ignorance, or defiance, of the fact that the end of their world is nigh and that a night of retribution will follow.

Into this twilight world come the diplomatic representatives of Germany, Japan, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Thailand along with the client states of Croatia, Slovakia, and even Manchukuo. Embassy receptions are the social high point. Although by late 1944 when Bora arrived, the representatives of Bulgaria, Romania, and Hungary were marooned with no homeland to which to return.

Well, not quite in ignorance since partisan raids, bombings, assassinations are weekly, and the flow of retreating and battered Germans northward is obvious, even as the rhetoric of final victory is turned up to deafening. Despite Mussolini’s personal appeals to Hitler, the fate of Italian soldiers, especially in the eastern Mediterranean, disarmed and interned by the Germans was often terminal. But the residents of Salò seem blind to these signals of the coming apocalypse.

On the surface the lakeside town where Bora is assigned is calm and attractive. Many days the war is far away, even if U.S. bombers overfly it en route to or from Turin or Milan. A valuable painting has been stolen from the local German army headquarters and Bora is to find it, and the culprit(s). In the chaos of murder, Jewish round ups, reprisals, and violence he is to find a painting. Then a series of murders cuts across his investigation, and he is off on the scent.

***

It is very well done, though I do find Bora’s hangdog depression repetitive. His problems seem small in the context, and I finished the book wondering about the fate of those he left behind when he was evacuated. The plot is a braid of many strands and left me with a spinning head as above.

By the way the author is…..Maria Verbena Volpi (1950+) who has two other series. Whew!

N.B. This telling has nothing in common with Pier Paolo Pasolini’s nauseating film ‘Salò’ (1975) with its graphic and explicit violence of branding, hanging, and scalping; torture of the tongue, genitals, and eye balls; rape of both men and women, and murder in the same milieu. Enough.

Inspector Ghote inspects

Inspector Ghote Trusts the Heart (1972) by H. R. F. Keating

GoodReads meta-data is 201 pages, rated 3.65 by 100 litizns.

Genre: Krimi.

DNA: Indian; sub-species: Anglo-Indian.

Tagline: High and Low.

Verdict: Diverting.

The ever reliable, though painfully diffident, Inspector Ganesh Ghote does it again with slow and steady perseverance.

A very rich man’s son is kidnapped and a gigantic ransom is demanded. But wait! It is not the rich man’s son but his playmate in a case of mistaken identity. Nonetheless, the kidnappers press their demands.

The rich man would certainly have paid anything for his own son, but for the son of an underling who happened to be playing with his boy, well, that is different, or is it? That is the question.

As usual, Ghote’s approach is compromised and hampered by a bumptious superior. Nor is Ghote aided by the imperious, if confused, father who thinks he knows better than anyone else, including this nondescript police officer.

While the others turn this way and that, Ghote sees what is in plain sight, and follows up on it to discover the plot is nearly home-grown, but…..

***

The portrayal of Indian urban life is rich and provides a crucial context for the story. As well done as it is, I could not help but think of the Akira Kurosawa film High and Low (1963) on the same theme played out with Shakespearean intensity and irony.

Sherlock vs Martians

The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The War of the Worlds (1975) by Manly Wade Wellman and Wade Wellman.

Good Reads meta-data is 226 pages, rater 4.26 by 3,652 litizens.

Genre: Holmes +

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Doyle réchauffé.

Tagline: In which H G Wells is corrected.

Those Martians arrived but made the mistake of involving Sherlock Holmes. The story follows in broad the H. G. Wells outline but with vigour and ingenuity that breath life into Wells’s expository lectures. It also integrates some of Wells’s other stories into the account. The mix works well.

Holmes is aided by Dr Watson and also by Doyle’s redoubtable Professor Challenger, the greatest genius among mankind according to Professor Challenger. The action consists of (1) staying out of the clutches of these invaders and (2) observing them closely to find weaknesses. Holmes, of course, is nonpareil at observation (followed by inference), and that makes for fascinating reading. Challenger and Watson also add intel to the picture.

The resolution is neat and simple, even more so than in the original.

Manly Wade Wellman was a prolific author and wrote this title with his son Wade Wellman.

This is not the first title to bring together Wells and Holmes. I read without interest, Sherlock Holmes and the Time Machine (2020) a while back.

Because I read War of the Worlds on Kindle this title was suggested to me, causing me to remember that I read another entry in this series many years (2014) ago involving Teddy Roosevelt (2010) by Paul Jeffries. However I found it lifeless, both Teddy and Sherlock were waxworks. Still I tried another one this time.

Now that I have read this one, the Mechanical Turk at Amazon is offering me more of the same, and I am tempted by some like: Eric Brown, Sherlock Holmes and The Martian Menace (2020) and Doug Murray, Sherlock Holmes: The Case of the Missing Martian (2022). Stay tuned for more.

Thames and more.

Rivers of London (2011) by Ben Aaronovitch

Good Reads meta-data is 392 pages, rated 3.86 by 130,264 litizens.

Genre: Fiction: Species: krimi. Sub-species: Fantasy

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Harry Potter with a body count.

Tagline: Mind the undertow.

Constable guards the perimeter police tape of a crime scene one dreary January night in the cold and mist when an eye witness to that earlier crime appears to him. Training kicked in, Constable opens his notebook to take a statement from this apparition whose address is a graveyard, and he is a ghost as he proves to Constable’s satisfaction and consternation.

By the time Constable’s partner reappears with coffee, ghost has departed (again). Copper dares not tell anyone but, how can he not, so he blurts out this confrontation to his partner, who promises not to tell. As if.

Soon this undistinguished constable is selected for a special squad since it seems he has a gift of sight…into the world of ghosts, goblins, demons, spirits, magic, and such. The Met needs all the help it can get and he becomes, duly sworn in, a sorcerer’s apprentice.

Meanwhile, the bodies keep falling and the plot thickens to curdled cream. The ride is a mile-a-minute, the prose is crisp, the wit is diabolical. There is a melody of irony and humour in it all. There is also infanticide.

This world of magic may be crazy, but is reality any less crazy? There is no easy answer to that when watching the television news. Plenty of child-murder there, too.

It all ends where it began, sort of, though the dog reappears, its agent failed to get it the major part it should have had. Toby you can do better!

It is part of a series.

Of course, what it brings to mind is Wellington Paranormal, which is low key by comparison. Oh, and Punch and Judy.

Paris 1585. Dark, dank, dirty, damp, and disgusting. So little has changed.

Conspiracy (2016) by S. J. Parris

Good Reads meta data is 474 pages, rated 4.20 by 3254 litizens.

Genre: Historical fiction.

DNA: Garlic, oops, Gallic.

Tagline: It is worse than you think.

Verdict: I got lost in the backstabbing and betrayals.

That lady killer Giordano Bruno is at it for the fifth time, now in Paris of 1585. In addition to his harem he encounters a mountain of superfluous historical detail and a confusing cast of characters. Worse, he is inept, as usual, but gets away with it because this is a work of fiction.

Catherine d’ Medici is the villain-in-chief, and she cuts quite a figure. Her nearest rival is the Duke of Guise, who thinks he ought to be king since every mirror confirms that he is so damned kingly. Catherine’s son is King Henri III, and he occasionally, but rarely, acts kingly.

The wheels are turning for another religious ceremony of mutual slaughter since it has been so long since the last one in 1572. Check Saint Bartholomew’s CV for details. Along the way we get detailed descriptions of torture, not once but twice, and a recurrent emphasis on the smells of the city in those days before Pine-o-Scent.

I needed a score card to keep track of the characters, but the important ones are clearly differentiated: Catherine, Henri III, Guise, and, especially, Charles Paget, who plays all sides against the others. Also noteworthy was the anonymous doorman who wants no friends.

The tie-up to the plot is genetic. Catherine does what she does because she is a Medici. Why dig any deeper than the name? Very unsatisfactory.

Shape shifting

Tony Hillerman, Shape Shifter (2006).

GoodReads meta-data is 276 pages, rated 4.03 by 9151 litizens

Genre: Krimie.

DNA: Navajo.

Tagline: The first shall be last.

Verdict: School’s out.

A neat plot buried under a weight of exposition. The shape shifter idea is cleverly used, but it would have read better without fifty pages of explanation, comparison, and pedantry in the middle.

Because of that expository snowdrift, the villain is, to this reader, undercooked. Quite why such a master of malice as this would stoop to robbing a desert convenience store, or display and allow to be photographed for publication some of his ill gotten gains did not make sense. Would Moriaty knock over a 7/Eleven? Would Fantomas invite a journalist to photograph the stolen crown jewels and publish the picture?

No 18 in the series.

That is Broome, not broom.

The Widows of Broome (1950) by Arthur Upfield.

GoodReads meta-data is 256 pages rated 4.07 by 388 litizens.

Genre: krimi.

Verdict: a slow start but a fast finish.

Tagline: Bony to the rescue!

Broome, WA (population 800) of 1950, once the capital of the pearl industry, has not yet recovered from the war years, but it is peaceful and stable until… Murder!

Two widows are strangled one after another over a fortnight. No one seems much bothered though a considerable point is made that both were attractive women. Had they not been attractive, perhaps there would have been no investigation at all. What investigation is there? The local plod, noble chaps to a man, cannot both keep their pencils sharpened for inspection and find the wily culprit who failed to leave finger prints, a calling card, or a self-addressed stamped envelope. Perth homicide detectives fly in to irritate and annoy everyone, but fail to scapegoat a local aborigine or Asian: A strange omission for this time and place.

Pearling is a dangerous business, the Japanese bombed Broome, and many men went to war. Consequently, there are other widows in Broome who may be in peril. Their fears are barely noticed by plod who seems more focussed on a some cattle that have gone missing. Finding a murderer is just too hard.

There’s only one thing for it! Bony! That is, Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte (whose name is never explained) arrives incognito. As if! In his three-piece suit, with theatrical manners, dark skin, Siberian husky blue eyes, and superior attitude, he is dead obvious to one and all, who politely feign ignorance to humour his colossal ego. He soon finds his only intellectual equal in the environs is the town drunk. (Really.) These two form a partnership of sorts. The drunk, being furniture, is never noticed by the locals but, since he sleeps most nights on a bench in the street, he sees and hears much which he passes onto Bony who in return supports his alcoholism.

Broome of the time is described by the numbers, not with the imagery that Upfield sometimes conjures. But in the last third, when most of the scene is nocturnal in the bushes, Upfield is at his best in making the time of night, the place, and expectation all characters in the drama. The book is a time capsule of the attitudes, mores, and opinions of the day about women, children, religion, aboriginal, Asians, alcohol, manly men, effete intellectuals, and more. Take that or leave it.

When he started writing the Bony books, Upfield was travelling around Australia in a caravan working as a Jackeroo by day and typing his stories by kerosine lamp by night. His descriptions of many of these places, and the people who live there, are sometimes compelling, as is about the last third of this tale.

This is number thirteen in a series that started in 1928 and ended in 1966 to a total of nearly thirty. They are set wherever he parked that caravan.

Homework for our forthcoming trip to the Kimberley Coast.