“The Winds of Change” by an American crime writer called Martha Grimes (the crime takes place in England but the investigating officers or should I say cops, if not themselves American speak in an American way) has nothing to do with The Scorpions song, unless Ms Grimes took the title from the song, which would not surprise me, for I ask myself what is not plagiarised in this unpleasant, poorly written so-called mystery. It is the tale of child abduction, child prostitution and murder, recounted with neither insight nor intelligence, nor for that matter plausibility. I do not know what I can say in favour of this carelessly written, one dimensional and grim airport book. It is my first and definitely last book by yet another jumper on the new generation whodunnit-money milker-best seller-script for TV serial-and then more money- “mystery thriller”. The last book which I had read in this cliché ridden tradition was by P.D..James called The Murder Room. For all the obvious faults and chlichés, P.D. James does display intelligence in her descriptions of scenarios and motivations. That is more than can be said for Martha Grimes, whose name in the tradition of many “mystery thrillers” suggests a salient characteristic of the personality. I was not greatly impressed by PD James but she dazzles in talent compared with Martha Grimes' tabloid style t.v. crime script (it grates to call this entertainment a novel). Martha Grimes shares all the weaknesses of P.D. James but has none of the latter's strengths. We have the same implausible hardened but virtuous police inspectors, so badly drawn as characters and so implausible that they are interchangeable and unmemorable, confronted with uncompromising and crudely drawn evil so psychologically narrow as to be little more than cardboard cutout devils, said inspector cum heros struggling with some personal problems while being very sensitive, loveable and literary /philosophical when they are off duty. P.D: James' hero (Dagleesh or a similar name) is a poet. Martha Grimes goes one better and calls her hero Jury (the presumably symbolically chosen name for her Tweedledum Officer. He represents the condemnation of evil by the people-get it? ) and he is a philospher if you please. I suppose that it is to make the hard jawed plod more appealing to student readers and therefore boost sales by a hundred thousand or so. The book is fine-tuned to increase sales and all quality is sacrificed to that, assuming that is that the writer might be able otherwise to write a story of quality, which is frankly questionable. In case anyone thinks I am negative because of the subject matter, I shall mention Michael Connelly. Michael Connelly wrote a thriller (the name escapes me) with the same theme, but Connell's story was plausible, sounded authentic, with a fine eye for psychological plasuibility and atmosphere, and showed a fine eye for detail of place and character, all missing in Martha Grimes' account.
In both the Martha Grimes and P.D. James murder mysteries which I read, the guilty party was easy to spot, although since the murderer was more or less a caricature in the case of PD James and entirely a caricature in Martha Grimes, there was little interest in the murderer's being unmasked (in marked contrast to Agatha Christie, who really did understand the vagaries of human nature). In the case of Martha Grimes, the guilty party is all but revealed from the beginning, so it is questionable as to whether there can be a spoiler to a whodunnit so pat and obvious that it is not really a whodunit at all. The unpleasant subject of the novel is laced with Daily Mail crusading tabloid spirit and voyeurism. In an especially unpleasant denouement, Martha Grimes sets the reader up to agree with police officers violating liberal impediments to police abuse of power. Jury enters a house without a search warrant and roughs up the person inside it which is all fine because the writer has made the victim so evil as to warrant every conceivable waiving of liberal protection and niceties. In sum: she sets up her villains as sufficiently appalling to get the reader nodding approvingly while reading about the methods of arrest employed by a police state.
As if aware that she needs to lighten the dreary atmosphere she depicts, Martha Grimes makes an attempt at being funny: a friend of the investigating officer (I cannot remember if he is himself an officer or not and frankly can't even be bothered to check) who is called Plant (Ha! Ha!) in one of too many implausible actions poses as a gardener in order to more closely observe the goings on at the house and gardens of a missing girl. The humorous potential lies in the fact that Plant knows nothing about gardening and has chosen an exotic aspect of gardening in the hope that nobody else will question his bone fides. The joke engineered by the writer is that he is constantly forced to bluff his way in conversation as an aficionado of his subject about which he knows nothing. This is the sort of setting which one could expect in a P.G. Wodehouse tale; out of which P.G. Wodehouse would have created hilarious scenes. Alas, Martha Grimes is no more a PG Wodehouse than she is an Agatha Christie, and the humour falls resoundingly flat. It depresses me to know that junk writing such as this, as unhealthy for the brain as junk food for the body, is gobbled up by millions to ensure this writer's enjoys considerable creature comforts, which she undoubtedly does because her books sell well.
The attempt at humour however is the one aspect of The Winds of Change which seems to be original, for the book borrows widely from previous and better writers, and much of it is plagiarism: a highly implausible (the book abounds in implausibilities) conversation with a precocious schoolgirl recalls the talks with the disturbingly prococious Josephine in Agatha Christie's Crooked House. The discovery of a body which the owners of the property cannot identify, recalls Agatha Christie's incomparably better book 4:50 from Paddington and more recently P.D. James' (also better) The Murder Room.
I love books and it normally pains me to throw any away. I have over 4000 books which I shelter from the hawk eyes of my wife, who is keen to swoop and destroy. A book has to be very very bad for me to willingly take it out to the wheely bin of my own free will. It means I even consider the book too bad to lend or try to sell. The last novels I condemned were two numbingly senseless tales by someone called Tim Parks. Martha Grimes now follows Tim Parks and even more deservedly. My wife will be pleased.