Although Sarah Dunant is far better known for her historical fiction she is also the creator of a tough as nails and acerbically funny London based private investigator by the name of Hannah Wolfe. On the wrong side of thirty and stony broke, Hannah is a hardened cynic but underneath her tough demeanour and self-deprecating humour there is a soft centre making for a thoughtful investigator with an impressive moral compunction. This tightly plotted first effort (originally published in 1991) sees Hannah channel-hopping and and in serious danger after being hired to locate a ballet dancer who has gone missing from her London lodgings. Despite its cultural references making apparent its obviously dated setting (EEC, Jiminy Cricket and a lack of mobile phones for starters), Hannah’s internal monologue of barbed observations on life and men still feels just as relevant twenty years later and injects a vibrancy into a gritty case that sees self-effacing Hannah give some serious reflection to her own feelings on motherhood.
Having returned to London after a stint of overseas security work a hard up Hannah taps up her old boss, Frank Comfort (“Comfort by name, Frank by nature”), an ex-CID copper who now runs his own security business. As the man who taught her the job, Frank throws her a bone with a request from Miss Augusta Patrick, an elderly lady who requires assistance in locating her young protégée, twenty-three-year-old Carolyn Hamilton whose gift for dancing has taken her to London. After month of frequent and consistently vacuous postcards (“an anodyne diet of weather and ballet repertoire”), Miss Patrick has heard nothing of her surrogate-daughter figure for the last seven weeks. Returning to London, Hannah finds that Carolyn has been missing for a lot longer than seven weeks and left her last position at an insalubrious second-rate dance company on the Walworth Road six-months previously and been a fleeting figure at her Kilburn flat. As a bleaker picture of debts, drugs and a failed career starts to emerge, Carolyn’s body washes up in the Thames complete with a eight-month-old foetus in her womb, painting a sorry picture of a young woman burdened by expectations and responsibilities. As the police rule Carolyn’s death a suicide for Hannah, the answers seem fudged to fit a convenient picture.
In a case which raises many more questions and some unsatisfactory answers, Hannah keeps digging and soon finds herself on the trail on a lucrative and rather mysterious personal assistant job working at a remote chateau in France for a reclusive Belmont Aviation magnate, Jules Belmont. Unwilling to be fobbed off with shrugs, shakes of the head and Carolyn’s supposed very recent departure from their employment, a determined Hannah keeps digging. But just who is the father of Carolyn’s baby and paying the rent of her flat and given her sojourn in France, just whom has been posting her correspondence to Miss Patrick from London? As Hannah’s quest for the truth takes her into a medical specifics of pregnancy, Sarah Dunant conveys a sense of the true burden that Carolyn would have faced with her obvious confusion as a young woman out of her depth and with nowhere to turn.
Whilst ex boss Frank laments that Hannah is “too political for this business” and jokes about hiring the only Marxist in the security business the mutual affection between the pair is evident in their obvious rapport. Having fallen into the security game after giving up a career in the civil service two-years down the line Hannah is still calling Frank for advice and to test the water of her theories, returning to his mantra of ‘if the answers don’t fit then you’re not asking the right questions’, when she hits a brick wall. Hannah’s eighteen-month older sister and mother of two, Kate, acts as a sounding board for the more emotive side of the investigation with Hannah frequently decamping to Kate’s Islington home for some insight on motherhood and all things maternal. Kate’s insistence that an eight-month pregnant woman would have struggled to commit suicide with a wriggling tot in her belly trumpeting its impending arrival adds weight to Hannah’s concerns.
There are obvious references to the great gumshoe detectives in the world of crime fiction and in a first-person narrative which at times feels like like an intimate audience with Hannah the lyrical prose flows delightfully in a pacy and engaging novel with a more poignant and reflective resolution than usual PI fare. Readers will, however, need to keep their wits about them as some of the finer details of the medical revelations are fleshed out into the closing one hundred pages. The dated references and distinctive London setting make for a highly recommended read full of old-fashioned English charm.
Birth Marks was shortlisted for the 1991 Gold Dagger Award and the second in the Hannah Wolfe trilogy, Fatlands, won the 1993 Silver Dagger Award presented by the CWA.