I love Peter Temple’s crime fiction. The man could write a tax return and I’d still want to read it. But “In the Evil Day” isn’t Jack Irish turf – it’s something murkier, stranger, and very, very dark. Temple takes the bones of a Le Carré-style international conspiracy and smears them with dust, blood and cigarette ash until you can barely make out the shape.
The set-up is pure headache: a scatter of people who, on the face of it, have sod-all to do with each other: a burnt-out journalist, a South African mercenary, a few spooks with their fingers in too many pies. Slowly, grudgingly, Temple winds it into a conspiracy to bury a 20-year-old massacre in Angola. The drip-feed of information is masterful if you’ve the patience for it, although the constant ricochet between characters and locations did my head in.
Con Neimand’s chapters? Magnificent – taut, kinetic, exactly the jolt the story needs. John Anselm’s? Less so. He spends half his time moping about Beirut trauma and the other half doing very little about it. On its own, his arc might’ve made a cracking novel, but here it’s wedged between mercenaries, botched black-ops, blackmail schemes and the occasional detour into the geopolitical weeds. It’s far too much, yet Temple’s prose keeps pulling you back – tight, unsentimental, the kind of writing that trusts you to keep up.
There are surprises everywhere, the sort that sneak up on you in a side street and nick your wallet. When the threads finally come together, the pacing snaps into place and you remember why you stuck with it. It’s not easy reading, but if you like your thrillers with brains, shadows and a whiff of cordite, it’s worth every ounce of focus you can muster.