Truly, just awful. I wanted to like it so bad. I read it in two days, there was so much potential in it. But the dialogue was off, completely unbelievable. Especially so for me because the single American character used more British slang than any other character, rookie mistake.
The plot wandered and the scenes were poorly drawn. There were several times I tried to flip back, thinking I'd missed something, but no. It wasn't there, or it was there, I'd read it, and then apparently the characters changed their minds in private, because here they were doing the opposite. So hard to follow. Even within single scenes, I'd struggle to understand precisely what was happening. Especially in the detailed and technical scenes, I think. The description of the construction of the bombs in the factory lost me, for example.
I really liked Eileen Abbott and her father Joe. Good characters, doing their best in difficult times, but they just weren't enough.
My favorite part of the book was the shortest part - those first 8 1/2 pages in the beginning about the bomb girls. Well drawn, fun, interesting. But then the actual story starts and the whole book - the mood, the clothes, the weather - takes a serious downward turn.
The book is, at turns, painfully cheesy and painfully crass. The grittiness feels so fake, so forced, just painful and gross. The pain the characters are feeling, the drama, feels a lot more like angsty teenagers than British cops and soldiers in the 40s.
And I can't think of another book that wrapped up as quickly. It would have been better off to end with Tyler in the midst of an air raid or some brave fire fighting jaunt and use an epilogue to sum up the fate of our characters. So rushed, so ludicrously tied neatly into a neat little bow. No loose ends, save the continuing thread of Tyler's regret and absent loved ones. The multitude of unanswered questions and unexplained horrors conveniently overlooked and forgotten in the blitz (if the characters don't notice, its a bit rude for the readers to ask, isn't it?).
I can't think of another literary detective that was as oblivious to the abundance of crime happening around him, so focused on the task at hand. I can't really figure out what the point was to have the characters off doing awful things, other than to show that they were bad guys. Bizarrely the story moves forward without any real notice of them.
I imagine Maureen Jennings other books must be better. Once the bad taste this left has subsided, I might try to read something else of hers. Based on the success she's had, I must have just picked the wrong book to start with.