A witty English version of noir will take you down the recognisable streets of London and Brighton. It’s surprisingly warm and builds the tension as you’ll start to care for the world-weary protagonist’s survival. Full of unexpected observations of people and what they wear, or drive, or eat, it’s a rich and funny read. It was over before I was ready so I turned back and savoured it more slowly second time through.
A cloying thickness of potted shrimp and stewed tea emanated from the remarkable small aperture that was his mouth, looking as if he’d spent an inordinate amount of time holding a shirt button between his lips. He suddenly became remarkably elongated, leaning from the hip and stretching out an articulated arm to open a glass-panelled door, frosted and chased, while guiding me towards it by my elbow. I was momentarily convinced that he possessed four arms, then stepped through into a small room colder than a politician’s heart and a dozen or so church candles in a votive stand …The door clicked behind me and I was alone with whatever remained of Jackie Scarr.
