I’m writing this having just received a text from my local Indian restaurant, offering a 20% discount on takeaways ordered and collected this weekend. Already – and apologies for the disgusting image so early on – I can feel my salivary glands beginning to drool. It’s really only the fact that the rain is currently hammering down outside that’s stopping me from heading straight out of the front door and tucking in to their chicken or lamb jaipuri (there is a veggie version too if you prefer it). Yes, they do serve other dishes too. Lots of them, in fact. But this particular one is to die for.
I do wonder, though, what an actual restaurant critic would make of the place if they happened to dine there. And I suspect the most likely answer is: not a great deal. I’ve no doubt that other restaurants exist that are, oh, I don’t know, more comfortable, more exclusive, more memorable. Possibly even ones which, technically, serve better food. Which is why I kind of hope that no such connoisseur ever discovers the place. I don’t want to read any of their critical comments, or for the staff to have to read them either. Because for me, on a Saturday evening when I can’t be bothered to cook, it’s just perfect.
Unfortunately for any crime fiction authors, it’s really this same issue that gives them a problem when it comes to me reading their books. Because, when it comes to this particular genre, I sort of am that connoisseur. I’ve been a crime fiction fan for almost my whole life, having begun with Enid Blyton almost as soon as I could read, and have been lucky enough to have read a countless number of books by a large number of authors.
This means, however, that for a new, or new-to-me author to rank amongst my favourites, whose next books I want to read just as soon as I get my hands on them – which means virtually mixing with the likes of the great Peter James, the incredible Ian Rankin, the explosively fabulous Angela Marsons and the fiendishly clever Gillian McAllister – well, that’s a challenge. It means that it’s not enough for me to simply like a new author’s first book. Their writing has to feel somehow special. That’s not an impossible task, because in recent years I can think of three authors – Jo Callaghan, G D Wright and the sadly now departed Mark Richards – who have managed it. But it is difficult. And there are quite a lot of authors – very good, and successful authors, let’s be clear about that – who have not.
So – drum roll – has Shocking Crimes, the latest in his current series of fourteen novels, done enough to add new-to-me author Michael Hambling to my exclusive list of favourites?
Well, he definitely has some points in his favour. For a start, there’s the explosive opening: a harrowing case of a young child’s body being found in a suitcase. There’s the intrigue of an apparently separate case of a young woman being jabbed in the thigh with a potentially lethal drug whilst on the dancefloor in a nightclub. And what develops from there is a cleverly-plotted, and clearly well-researched storyline. There’s also the point that the setting for the book is real (Bournemouth). I prefer this over the use of a fictional location; it feels more authentic somehow.
The police procedural elements are believable without being overpowering – never an easy balance to find – and the portrayal of some of the secondary characters is very good too. I’ll limit the details for fear of spoilers, but there’s one person who I longed to slap and another who, even though he/she clearly wasn’t entirely innocent, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for.
All of which is great, as far as it goes. But for me, I’m afraid there were two problems. The first is one that I can hardly blame the author for, because I don’t think it’s helped that I’ve come late into an already well-established series. But after finishing this book I don’t feel that I ‘know’ Sophie Allen or her team – certainly not in the way that I ‘know’ the fictional detective characters of John Rebus, Roy Grace or Kim Stone. On top of that, there seemed to be enough police and other characters to leave me feeling a little bewildered. Perhaps if I’d been introduced to them in earlier novels, this wouldn’t have been an issue, but as it is I sometimes felt confused as to who was who.
My second problem is that, even though I read and enjoyed the book, I found myself struggling to think of what it did best. For example, it lacked the frantic pace and fierce tension of an Angela Marsons novel, or the emotional connection that makes G D Wright’s books shine. It also seemed to miss out on the psychological character study that the likes of Mark Richards and Susie Steiner were able to write so well, and in this particular instalment in the series at least, didn’t manage to turn Bournemouth into a character in itself, in the way that Ian Rankin has been able to do with Edinburgh or Peter James with Brighton.
Sadly, this means that even though I liked it, I have to be honest and say that Shocking Crimes hasn’t done enough to become one of my top-rated books of the year, in the same way that my local Indian restaurant probably wouldn’t light any sparks for a professional critic. Please don’t let that put you off reading it, though. Because if you’re less fussy, due to being less thoroughly spoilt than myself, and especially if you’re looking for a new, well-written and well-plotted crime fiction series, there’s no reason to suppose that Michael Hambling’s books won’t suit you just fine.
My thanks to Zooloo’s Book Tours for my inclusion on the blog tour for this book, which was published by Joffe Books on 13th November. I have reviewed it voluntarily and honestly.