DEATH OF A DEVIL, the third in Derek Farrell's Danny Bird series begins on Halloween as gaggle of ghost-hunters discover a body bricked-up behind the pub's basement wall. Trouble (including the return of a truly malevolent "ghost" from Ali's the past) quickly engulfs everyone Danny (and this reader) loves, threatening the happiness of all.
In DEVIL, Farrell delivers everything his fans have come to love and expect and much, much more. Farrell's plotting is fiendishly clever and gracefully advances to a denouemont as intellectually and emotionally satisfying as any I have ever read.
Danny Bird and his best friend Caz are more endearing and complex. Farrell enriches our understanding of who they are and deftly describes the loving dance that is their deep best friendship. At the end of Devil, I worry less about Danny's ability to handle his complicated relationship with his boyfriend, Nick, or to manage his pub and it's crime boss owner, and more about Caz. Always brave, always insouciant, she seems vulnerable in book three in ways she didn't before. I worry that some rough times are ahead for her, but know too, that Danny will be there to help navigate and keep her head above water.
Which brings me to Farrell the writer. He's the real deal. I'd read anything he writes including recipes or to-do lists. Every word is sharply the right word. Every image fully-realized.
The writing in book three, like the first two, is a total pleasure. A joy. It doesn't matter if Farrel is describing a corpse or a hat—the writing masterful and sure, exulting in its mastery. The writing is always fresh, perfectly hilarious or perfectly tragic, giving the grateful reader constant shocks of pleasure:
"Her hat - resembling a Victorian stovepipe that had been covered in tiny black silk roses, then sat on, hard, by an elephant - had a gauzy black veil hanging down in front of her face. Her every move left clouds of Joy by Patou into her wake…"
"You want a pastry? Have a pastry. Try the pastizzi," he said, like some sort of demented gangland Mary Berry. "It's a Maltese specialty. "I glanced at Caz. "A pastizzi would be lovely," she purred, as she finished applying fresh lipstick…"
"I've handled shooters, Bowie knives, one time a Black & Decker drill - cheap shit; buy Bosch if you want the job done without the fucking engine burning out - and a couple of chainsaws. If I wa to get rid of someone these days, I'd use a wood chipper…"
"Outside the car, the familiar landmarks whizzed by. We crossed Piccadilly, the glaring lights still flaming away; advertising products nobody could really need to a square devoid of consumers. The tiny figure of Eros, dwarfed by the greed and the hammering rain, still balancing on one leg, and tring to find his arrows of love up Piccadilly, through which we now drove."
Too often mysteries are merely plot machines––lovely machines, but machines nonetheless. Too often a disconnected and icy cleverness informs them.
What Farrell accomplishes (again) is to gloriously, hilariously, and movingly warn andhumanize a too-often inhuman genre. His characters, even "minor" ones, are fully realized, distinct, living, breathing and important people. Which is why Derek Farrell's latest novel is truly good––brilliant, and clever but not just excellent in a literary sense. DEATH OF A DEVIL is humane. Benevolent. Lovely. Inspiring. And yes, beautiful.