Alan Banks, now a Detective Superintendent in Yorkshire, has been around for more than two dozen novels now, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps he ought to retire, if only because the author appears to be running out of steam and interesting new plotlines. This one starts with the discovery of the body of a nineteen-year-old girl in a broken-down car in a remote rural location. She appears to have taken a load of sleeping pills and then choked to death on her own vomit, but she obviously died elsewhere and the body was moved. Banks’s shrunken homicide team -- now consisting of himself and only three other detectives -- doesn’t know whether she committed suicide, died accidentally, or was murdered, and they begin investigating in an effort to find out.
And then DI Annie Cabot, Banks’s longtime right hand, good friend, and ex-lover, gets another case, this one involving a very wealthy retired banker whose body is found in a ravine up on the moors -- wearing a business suit and expensive shoes. His neck is broken, but did he fall or was he pushed? And then Banks gets a call from a colleague in Leeds, who has a similarly mysterious body on his hands, another beautiful young woman, also found in the middle of nowhere.
Not surprisingly, all three cases eventually begin to merge, but not without a lot of backing and forthing. The problem is, the author apparently decided that three homicides in one book was too many, or something, and the ending of the story is not very satisfactory. And there’s yet another plotline involving an attempt to murder both Banks and Cabot many years (and many books) before, which Abrahams has decided to reanimate, via the new, stunningly beautiful and much younger partner of Annie’s artist father, Ray. She was a victim of sex trafficking and she has come across the would-be killer in her private investigative work for a secretive international agency that pursues traffickers. The whole thing is only borderline believable, and it’s pretty obviously going to become the basis for the next book in the series.
But there’s something else I found irritating, too. Readers of the series know that Banks is a music junkie with an expert knowledge not only of ’60s rock groups but of classical music and also classic jazz. Which is okay, but in recent volumes, the author spends far too much time going into far too much detail about the music Banks listens to, and on which albums it first appeared, and the concerts he attended fifty years ago, and on and on. Robinson could cut this froth by three-quarters, reduce the text by fifty pages, and have the same effect in painting the character. And now Banks is becoming enamored of Russian poets as well. Please, enough!