In my limited experience, Minette Walters's output is very up and down. The best of them (for me, so far, The Shape of Snakes, Disordered Minds and The Chameleon's Shadow) are tremendous -- just about as good as crime fiction gets -- but, on the other hand, there's, well, The Echo.
Journalist Michael Deacon is writing a story on the fates of the homeless, and his editor insists he interview Amanda Powell, a wealthy architect who, a few months ago, discovered that a homeless man, known on the street as Billy Blake, had died of malnutrition in her garage. Attracted to Amanda -- whom he soon discovers is really Amanda Streeter, whose husband James vanished a few years back under mysterious circumstances while suspected of a massive bank fraud -- Michael is soon likewise attracted to the story of Billy Blake. As he investigates further he gathers around himself an unlikely group of friends and allies. Between them they uncover old crimes and some modern brutalities.
Even Walters's least satisfying novels are generally extremely readable, and this is no exception: the pages turned like calling cards at a cathouse. At the same time, it gives the impression of being an early, unpublished work that Walters stuck in the drawer before writing The Ice House, her first published novel, then was persuaded to dig out once her career had fully kicked into gear.
(a) The worst single bit by far is that, months after Billy's death and cremation, Amanda's house begins to stink overwhelmingly of death and decay, because it's the supernatural's way of telling her to focus on her own sins. Implausible? "There are more things in heaven and earth . . ." one of the characters observed as I started to beat my head against the floor.
(b) Almost equally bad is the dialogue spoken by Terry Dalton, a young homeless person who gives Michael some help and is then offered lodgings over Christmas by the journalist (because soft-hearted journalists are always doing this kind of thing); the copious effing and blinding aside, Terry sounds like one of those working-class characters you come across in 1930s novels whose authors thought they were being affectionate in the depiction rather than drearily inauthentic and desperately patronizing -- "Coo, blimey, guv, 'e were a proper corker, strewth, wot the old Bill knew fancied anuvver man's well trouble and strife, 'e did" sort of thing. It's painful to read.
Some of the other dialogue's pretty ropy, too. Time and time again people come out with sentences or even paragraphs whose wording is that of not spoken but written English, as if the characters were citing passages from books.
(c) In places Walters seems to be trying to shock us with gratuitous profanity and smut, apparently wanting to prove she can be every bit as unsuitable for a vicarage tea party as some of her male counterparts. I'm pretty inured to cussing and scatology, gratuitous or otherwise, but here it's too often like one's pre-teen daughter trying to impress the grown-ups by scattering the conversation with four-letter words and dick jokes. As an example, one character is nabbed by the old Bill (good lord, it's infectious) while wanking (Walters's repeated term) over a photo of Amanda, so excited was he by having spied on her having sex the day before. Fair enough . . . except that the, er, wanker in question is gay.
(d) There are several digressions in the story that seem to have nothing whatsoever to do with either the plot or the creation of the characters. There's a longish section, for example, where Michael takes Terry to visit Michael's battleax old mum, who takes a real shine to the illiterate young teenager, bats not an eyelid at his effing and blinding (op cit), and has a middle-aged Irish nurse who, unsurprisingly, is called Siobhan and could talk the hind legs off a donkey, sure she could. The visit may or may not serve to heal the rifts within Michael's fractured family; by the end of the book we still don't know if they have . . . so the section's just a bridge to nowhere.
(e) The last oodle or three of pages is taken up with overlapping explanations of the underpinnings of the plot -- who killed whom, beat up whom, raped whom, committed suicide, etc., and why they did so. By the end of these explanations what I'd formerly found fairly followable -- although perhaps a paragraph or two of clarification might have been nice -- was suddenly going all opaque on me, so that now, less than an hour later, I'm wholly uncertain as to most of the motivations in the book.
There's more I could whinge about, but I won't. My purpose isn't to slam Walters or even this book but to reassure those whose first dip into her work this novel might have been, and who're consequently baffled as to what all the fuss is about, that The Echo is very much less than Walters at her best. She's a mightily talented writer; please, please persevere. This is the sort of Amazon Createspace version of Walters: highly readable, full of promise, but crying out to be smacked into proper shape.