The Name Of The Sister is the eleventh novel by Australian author, Gail Jones. An emaciated, naked woman is found wandering at night on the road to Broken Hill, apparently unable to speak, and an appeal is launched on TV to identify this Unknown Woman. Freelance journalist Angie is not the only one whose interest is captured: the Crimestoppers phone lines are flooded with calls claiming the young woman.
While they have been close friends since childhood, the officer in charge of the case, DI Beverly Calder really can’t tell Angie anything. But of course, they do talk about it. As Bev sifts through the stories of sisters, fiancées, daughters, and friends, ruling them out, those who want to, talk to Angie. She gets many different perspectives on missing persons and the heartache of those left behind.
In the background is Angie’s marriage to Sam, a high school teacher who criticises her decision to go freelance, trivialises her work. Once, love that conferred a particular joy was reciprocated; now, they seem to have deteriorated to careless but hurtful resentment, tepid reproach: what does the future of their relationship look like?
Eventually, with “Jane” still unable to tell them about the bruises around her neck, the recent pregnancy, the historic fractures, the stagnation of the case send Bev to Broken Hill to investigate further: where was she kept, and by whom?
A tragic incident with a student sees Sam taking a break in New Zealand, so Angie joins Bev. Her ever-intuitive imagination, and what she sees on a visit to a local museum, present a possible lead, but is Bev too busy wrangling chauvinistic local cops to take it seriously?
Jones treats the reader to some wonderfully evocative prose: “Canopies shadowed the suburb with their leafy profusion, the road was glossed by streetlights, soft gleam issued in rectangles from quiet homes” is an example.
Also “She had expected to feel a measure of radical detachment, but instead experienced a powerful drive to attach, to make sense of the crooked fences, and the long, pocked road, turning at the edges to crimson dust, and the scraggly pepper trees and redgums shaking slightly in a faint breeze, and the squat houses, of wood and stone and corrugated iron, with low prospects and rusty water tanks, and poor excuses for a garden.”
An Australian rural crime thriller wrapped in intelligent, sensuous prose. Once again, Jones excels.
This unbiased review is from a copy provided by Text Publishing.