This is the 13th outing for Jack Taylor, disgraced ex-Garda, heavy drinker, all round misanthrope with a heart of gold - or maybe butter. Now a private detective who gets results, usually by default. Set in Galway on the West coast of Ireland, this city on the edge of the sea before it starts rolling away to America, has much to recommend it as a location for crime fiction. A small city, with an excellent university, myriad bars and restaurants, and tourism an important part of its economy, it offers a wide choice of locations and possible characters for the resourceful writer.
This is my first ever Jack Taylor novel and while I am aware of the awards and praise earned by previous books in this series, there seemed to me to be an awful lot of stuff crammed into a plot that seldom seemed important to Mr Taylor, leaving the reader to ask, ‘Why should I care?’
As the book opens with the murder of two utterly obnoxious twins by a not-so-disabled man in a wheelchair. We then get the quote which seems to be the moto of this book, “The Irish can abide almost anything save silence.”
We next learn that Jack Taylor was happy. A new apartment courtesy of a deceased homicidal goth punk, a new girlfriend and a friendship with a nun – this is Ireland after all. One morning-ish while having his first coffee and Jay*, (Jamison’s) he is approached by the father of the murdered twins who wants him to find the person who killed his sons. So, as Sherlock was fond of muttering, the game was on. We now get over 300 pages of murders, kidnappings, aborted suicides, more murders, interspersed with references to current and historical events, like Trump’s latest atrocity or nuns dropping children’s bodies down a septic tank. There is also a sub-plot involving chess, but I never quite figured that one out.
Each (short) chapter is introduced or ended by a quote, some recognisably real some invented. These are I imagined there to alert us about the salient point of the chater to come or just finishing. I was never sure which. Bruen is also a fan of lists and wonky punctuation and so provides us with many and much...
There is a certain type of wanna-be intellectual that likes to be snotty about the fiction genre known as ‘Chick-lit’. Well, I now want to stake my claim as the inventor of the sobriquet, ‘Guy-lit.’ These can be identified by their fast-paced, short sentences, high-level of erudite trivia and a pervasive anti-modern civilisation, anti-church, anti-authority posturing. Reading one of these is like eating an entire box of Christmas chocolates in one or two sittings. Tasty going down but you wouldn’t want to do it again in a hurry.
As I’d never hear of him before, I looked Ken Bruen up on Wikepedia where he is described as an Irish writer of hard-boiled and noir crime fiction. I’m a Finn living in a Nordic country and lemme tell ya – this is not noir. Only on the last 50 or so pages does this book acquire any sense of danger, horror or real trauma. I’m sorry Mr Bruen 3***