Dark Places by Gillian Flynn

Now I realise that the clue to its genre is in the title, so I wasn’t expecting a romantic comedy, but, holy moly!, Flynn sure does take the reader down some very dark alleyways. The writing certainly has a ring of King about it (that’s Stephen King to non-horror fans). The atmosphere oozes the macabre. The main characters are dysfunctional outsiders; they don’t fit the mould. We view much of the narrative, but not all, from the protagonist’s viewpoint which allows us, rather reluctantly, into her warped, chilling, unpredictable mind. It’s an uncomfortable, disturbing process. But then the whole narrative experience is unsettling, like finding someone’s diary and, against one’s better judgement, reading the contents and finding out more than you bargained for.


This is Flynn’s second novel, the one before ‘Gone Girl’ that hurtled her into the stratosphere of best-selling authors with over 10 million sales. ‘Dark Places’ has a very different feel to it than ‘Gone Girl’, much more creepy and gruesome. ‘Gone Girl’ is a psychological thriller with suspense mystery adding to the heady mix, whereas ‘Dark Places’ has charged across the Thriller boundary into Horror territory; and successfully at that. The language wraps the reader in a sinister cloud then soaks you in a drip, drip, drip of menace and gore so that you are left drenched in dread and despair. The imagery Flynn uses to convey her protagonist’s plight to discover the truth about her family’s horrific massacre is uniquely evocative and draws you inexorably into her dark world. Was it her brother who now lies incarcerated in prison for the murders? Or is he hiding something or protecting someone from the world outside his bars? Despite her almost pitiless portrayal of her characters, Flynn leaves enough room there, if only a tiny space, for sympathy and empathy, to give the reader a spark of humanity to latch onto. And the conclusion has a twist that ties up the gory ends with a satisfying sigh. I didn’t see it coming.




This won’t appeal to as wide an audience, as ‘Gone Girl’ clearly did, it’s too unforgiving in its themes, content and language. But it will appeal to those like myself who like to be shocked and shivered, to cringe and grimace, who like to peer above the cushion. It will appeal to the many Stephen King fans like myself. Flynn is a talented writer who has the enviable knack of being able to cross genres effortlessly. I look forward to reading more.
My review, a shaken 8.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

When the Music’s Over by Peter Robinson

I should say first of all that I am a prolific reader of crime fiction. Though, unlike many crime fans, I am not one of those who feel compelled to solve the mystery. For me it’s more about the relationship between the detective and their sidekick, the unfolding of the murder mystery and the denouement. Basically, I like to kick back in my armchair with a cup of tea and let someone else do all the leg work, (or should that be brain work?) while I peer over their shoulder and marvel at (hopefully) their detecting prowess.


This is the 23rd novel in Robinson’s Inspector Banks series and our eponymous detective has been promoted to Superintendent. Unlike the Rebus series and many others, I have read barely a handful of these crime tales with long gaps in between. For this one Robinson has treated the reader to two distinct investigations. One of these involves an historical abuse allegation by a woman who claims she was raped by a celebrity and his associate aged just 14. This follows in the vein of high profile sexual abuse cases such as Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris. The other investigation looks into the death of a young girl who has been gang-raped and then beaten to death, though not necessarily by the same assailants.


Having finished the book, I remember why there have been such long gaps in between my reading stints. Robinson’s writing leaves me feeling somewhat unsatisfied, even disappointed, when I read that last word of his novels. Not a dissimilar feeling to looking forward to a tasty meal out in a restaurant recommended by a friend and discovering that the food has not lived up to expectations. That’s not to say that Robinson has not honed his craft and is not a highly proficient and respected author. He has sold multimillion copies worldwide and Mr Stephen King himself is, purportedly, a true fan, though I must disagree with Mr King; the Alan Banks novels are not the best series on the market. I can think of quite a few more that beat Banks hands down; Morse, Rebus and Dalgliesh for starters.




All the ingredients are there to make a fine story; well-paced plot, credible characters and dialogue and a decent enough denouement. Yet it still feels to me formulaic and predictable; not necessarily in terms of the plot, but as an overall literary piece. The sum does not transcend the parts. That indefinable magic is absent, at least for me. Though I am sure there are quite likely millions of Banks’ fans who may disagree. As a light holiday read by the pool this is perfect fodder. My review. A frustrated 6.5/10.


Thank you for reading my review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

When All is Said by Anne Griffin

I associate reading this story to watching one of those old newsreels of bygone planes making their first attempt to lift their carcases off the runway and into the air. I know, it’s a bit out there, but bear with me on this one. Hearing the excited hubbub surrounding the launch of the book from interviews with the author, then reading the ringing endorsements on the cover of the book was the engine’s roaring crescendo as it readies itself to begin its run up. Then the opening chapter with the zany, humorous voice of its main protagonist, fresh and innovative concept and poetic language was the rushing of the wind as the plane hurtles down the runway in an effort to build up enough speed for take-off. And then, after a number of unconvincing hops and hiccoughs, the plane shudders eventually to a halt. Which is a pity, because this novel showed so much promise.

The plot revolves around an old man of 84 who sits in the bar of an hotel and reminisces about the life he has led through the narratives of the five people that meant the most to him. But as the story unfolds the humour becomes subsumed within the tragedy of these narratives until, by the last few chapters, it has been all but extinguished by the relentless pathos that pervades every sentence. And it was the potentiality of the humour that could have given the book that much needed lift. Now, before you think I have lost the plot, I do realise that there are plenty of books full of woe out there that have received the acclaim they deserve. Let’s not forget Les Misérables, for goodness sake. But to paraphrase that much-loved comedian, Frank Carson (showing my age here!), ‘It’s the way you tell ‘em’.


This may seem a bit harsh, as it’s a well-crafted piece of art with some recognisable characters and an original concept. But there’s only so much tragedy even my sentimental heart can bear. I know some people have to endure lives filled with loss and heartache; but there was enough tribulation here to fill a small graveyard. It’s a writer’s dilemma; nobody wants to read a book about Mr Happy. I understand that. But there were times, as I waded through this mire of misery, that my heart was screaming, ‘Enough, please!’




I so wanted to love this book, mainly because it’s not often I pick up a book, read the first few lines and know I could be in for a bookish treat. I may be in the minority on this one. Griffin may indeed, and justifiably, declare me a poor audience. I trust you will be a better one, the author deserves it. My book review, a contrite 7.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

The Killing Habit by Mark Billingham

The Killing Habit by Mark Billingham

I have followed the sleuthing exploits of Detective Inspector Tom Thorne since the beginning of Billingham’s series. Fifteen books later and he’s still a detective inspector hunting down a cat murderer around the streets of London because, as all knowledgeable serial killer aficionados and would-be psychologists understand, the killing of animals is often the first chilling steps of a deranged mind on their path to serial killer status.

Tom Thorne is a plausible character, a pedestrian detective who puts in the hours needed to get results. There are no mind-exploding flashes of deductive brilliance, no flamboyant demonstrations of the detective’s investigative genius as he summarises the murderous facts and unveils the killer to the admiration (and relief) of the remaining possible assassins. This is straightforward police work set in the real world of modern-day policing; no frills, no gimmicks. And Billingham’s writing matches the plot and characters; no thrills, no gimmicks. Sounds a bit boring, doesn’t it?

But reading a Billingham crime novel is far from boring as his sales will testify, and I will tell you why. Billingham is a master of psychology. When he tells a story his aim is place the reader inside his characters’ heads and allow them to watch the grisly details unfold through each character’s eyes, through their thoughts. It’s an inspired narrative device, because through this style the reader is drawn inevitably into the characters’ worlds, like it or not. And even more inspired, Billingham includes the mind of the killer themselves, anonymous thoughts that hint at what is motivating their actions and, more scarily, what is yet to come. Enough to intrigue you, enough to keep you reading. Using this device Billingham is able to manipulate the reader by leading them down cul-de-sacs and feeding them morsels of misinformation, thus distracting them from the true culprit. It’s addictive stuff. And the twists and turns keep you guessing right to the last page.

Billingham is a jobbing writer who does his job very well by telling a rattling good yarn. The bottom line is, I enjoy reading his books. So for that reason, and that reason alone, my thumb is definitely up. My review, a contented 8/10.

Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore

Christine Falls by Benjamin Black

This is a murder mystery the like of which I can guarantee you won’t have read before. It’s definitely on the quirky side of the genre, pun intended (the main protagonist goes by the name of ‘Quirke’). Benjamin Black is the alias of John Banville who is an acclaimed literary writer in his own right, and who decided to give the well-trodden mystery path a bash. Not many authors are brave enough to switch genres, I can think only of a couple off the top of my head, JK Rowling under the alias of Robert Galbraith and Tony Parsons. It’s a risky strategy, both financially and in terms of reputation.

However, Black has no worries here on either front as he effortlessly conjures up an instantly-imaginable, if not necessarily lovable, protagonist who drives the narrative almost from the first word (discounting the prologue) with his melancholic, moody and meddling character; though I should warn you that his driving is somewhat erratic, dangerous at times, and drunken. I adore Black’s writing, it’s fresh, lyrical and leaves a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It must be love. With Black I get the best of both my favourite literary worlds; a tight, engaging murder plot with complex, flawed and believable characters and flowing, poetic language.


Black has done his research of the mystery/crime market and his protagonist, a pathologist who works in a dungeon-like workplace, has the suspicion of a Rebus or Morse about him (we only know him as Quirke, no first name is offered) with all the necessary ingredients to make the perfect quasi-detective; a widower, an orphan, childless, partnerless, depressive, a dash of misanthropy, and, most importantly, hopeless at relationships. But, don’t misunderstand me here, Quirke is by no means a pastiche of the genre. Oh no, he is much, much more than that, and will appear in your imagination fully-embodied, albeit somewhat kicking and screaming as he does.

Quirke relentlessly pursues the mystery behind the appearance of an unidentified corpse in his pathology department, despite the connections to his family and the possible resultant shattering that this may reek upon their lives and his. This dogged inquisitiveness also invites the injurious attention from some very unscrupulous factions. The backdrop for the most part is Dublin in the 50s and Quirke lumbers around its streets as if the weight of its woes rest squarely upon his ever-sagging shoulders. It’s like watching the aftermath of a car crash, you know you shouldn’t be looking, but the godless part of you can’t resist. There are twists and turns, shocks and revelations, tears and heartache right to the bitter end; and very gratifying the ending is too.


You won’t come across writing of this calibre too often, so if you do decide to give this novel a whirl, my advice to you is to sip it slowly like a fine wine, or whatever you tipple may be. For this narrative treat was over far too quickly for me; but fortunately there are more Quirke mysteries to savour another time. My review, a wistful 9.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.