Michael Jecks's Blog, page 5

Review: ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE by Martin Edwards, published by New English Library

I have written already about a Martin Edwards book, THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE. This was the second book of his, which was irritatingly a book earlier in his Harry Devlin series, but which was superbly well written.

Martin’s books had a bit of a choppy beginning, I think. This was originally published by Judy Piatkus Books, then taken on by Bantam, and the current edition is, I think, published by a division of Headline. So Martin has successfully migrated his titles to a better home for crime – which is no surprise. Martin is a very successful lawyer. Doesn’t it just make you sick when someone can be brilliant in two professions?

Let’s get on with the review, though. 

The blurb reads: “Liverpool lawyer Harry Devlin remains infatuated with his wife Liz – even though she has left him for another man.

“When Liz shows up at his flat, obviously frightened, Harry is only too pleased to offer shelter. But any hopes he has for reconciliation are dashed when Liz fails to meet him as planned the next day. And when her body is found in a lonely alleyway, Harry becomes the number one suspect.

“Determined to prove his innocence, Harry’s search for the truth takes him into Liverpool’s sinister underbelly of shady streets and seedy clubs. To see justice done, he must confront an obsessive killer – and have his illusions about Liz shattered for ever.”

It would be hard to expand on that without giving away more of the plot, so I won’t. However, I will say this: a career in the law is a superb training ground for a novelist. Martin has obviously met many strange and interesting people in his professional life, and his observations and dry wit really come across superbly in this tautly plotted story. He writes with a real insight into people and their motivations, and he has a marvellous affection for his characters that shines through in every sentence. And over that is his love for Liverpool, a city of seediness, a city with a great past and uncertain future, but a city full of life and exuberance.

This is a superb novel, with a brilliant plot that keeps you guessing right up until the last few pages. Superbly conceived and executed, this book is one of those I love and deserves space on any crime reader’s shelves.

Really highly recommended, of course.

Review: THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE, by Martin Edwards, first published 1998 by Hodder & Stoughton

Martin Edwards is probably best known for his Liverpool-based stories starring the lawyer Harry Devlin, a series that shows the grimy, gritty (and often pungent) back streets of the city as well as the more salubrious neighbourhoods. There is a lot more to Liverpool than the Liver building and the Beatles, after all.

A lawyer himself, Martin has a talent for simple descriptions that bring an area to life. “Empty burger cartons, chip papers and hot-dog wrappers were strewn along the pavement. He’d read that nutritionists believed there was a link between junk food and delinquency. If they were right, Liverpool was in for a crime wave.” And “Whoever said that April is the cruellest month had never spent January in Merseyside. It was one of the harshest winters he could remember and the forecasters promised worse to come. As his partner Jim Crusoe pointed out, it was perfect weather for probate lawyers. A cold snap that carried off a few elderly clients was always good for a solicitor’s cashflow.”

He has equally strong an eye for describing a character – and their foibles and mannerisms, which means that the reader is soon utterly engaged with each new person and the environment they inhabit. And of course, he has a wonderful way with words, as you would expect from a solicitor. I understand Martin specialises in company law, which may explain Harry Devlin’s exuberant, sometimes wry, sometimes acerbic, comments. He is a down-at-heel lawyer, a man who is keen to see justice done, and who therefore seeks to find the truth. His faith in the judicial system, I think it’s fair to say, is less than total.

This book is all about the shenanigans around a local arts charity, the Kavanaugh Trust. The Trust is not huge, and the money it did once possess is rapidly dwindling, which leads to some rancorous debates amongst the trustees. A very honourable, upright Chairman, a Treasurer who is less than competent, an abrasive loudmouth, and a museum curator who is very keen on the Chairman, a titled newcomer and a nervous, shy member, all lead to interesting discussions with Harry, who is their legal adviser. 

Of course the debates are set to grow even more interesting when it’s discovered that a crucial bequest on which the trustees were counting has suddenly become doubtful. Their benefactor was being looked after, during his last illness, by a helpful carer, Vera Blackhurst. And now a new will has been presented. Whereas all the assets had been promised to the charity (which was set up by the deceased’s father), the new will leaves all the dead man’s artistic works (which are not of high quality and generally worthless) to the trust. All the money, house and other items are to go to Ms Blackhurst. 

It means the charity will be near to collapse. 

As the trust’s legal adviser, Harry persuades the other members to find out more about the carer, but meanwhile there is another problem. Luke, the Chairman of Trustees, has not arrived for this very important meeting. He has been quiet and anxious recently, and he has mentioned that he has suspicions about another member of the Board. 

All of which comes into sharp focus when he is discovered to have died.

This is a masterful novel, with all the elements of a brilliant writer on display – a very satisfying ending that kept me guessing until the last pages, a wonderful cast of very believable characters, a twisting plot that was utterly engaging, and all orchestrated by  the delightful, self-deprecating Harry Devlin, who is a lawyer I’d employ like a shot – were I to need one! 

Highly recommended, of course!

Review: THE DIPLOMAT’S WIFE by Michael Ridpath

Well, recently I reviewed the first of Michael Ridpath’s books, and it’s only natural that I should follow it up with the latest of his books: THE DIPLOMAT’S WIFE.

Disclosure – I know Michael quiet well, and have enjoyed several glasses of wine with him at crime writer gatherings over the years. In fact, that is why he kindly sent me a copy of this book. Some months ago, he contacted me to ask whether I would mind having my name in his book. I’ve been told that I’ve been put into several other books over the years, by Quintin Jardine and others, but each time it’s been on the entirely reasonable basis that I have been put in as an author the hero or heroine has been reading. Which is fair enough. 

However, Michael Ridpath has a twisted sense of humour. He preferred to see me as a jaded, ancient retainer in his book – I’m the butler. Hurtful.

So, what is this book about?

Ridpath started out as the writer of high-octane thrillers set in the rarified world of finance and the City of London, stories about corrupt bond dealers, money brokers and the like. But over time he has tried his hand very successfully at a number of other ventures, from looking at Scandi-noir style stories to, more recently, recent-past tales. THE DIPLOMAT’S WIFE falls into the second category. 

This story tells of the life of Emma, daughter of Lord Chaddington, who was to become Lady Meeke. But we begin with Phil Dewar, her grandson. It is 1979, and Phil was due to leave England for a trip across Europe with his best friend, a plan that they had developed over their A-Levels before they were to go to university (if they passed well enough). But then Phil had a crash in his father’s car, and the insurance excess was enough to drain all his savings – the trip was off. Until …

His grandmother had been a diplomat’s wife in the 1930s, and she told Phil and his parents that she had a real hankering to travel back through the countries where she had lived in her early married life. But she had been stopped for a speeding offence, and was about to lose her driving licence for a year. So could Phil, perhaps, join her as chauffeur and companion?

So, for Phil, the promise of a break and adventure with his grandmother is soon agreed. Admittedly, it’s not the journey of a lifetime, hitchhiking across Europe with his mate, meeting girls, chatting them up, drinking too much – and yet his grandma is a good old girl, fun and occasionally shocking. 

But before he goes, he’s invited to meet with his old French teacher, who introduces him to a Mr Swann, and suddenly the whole trip takes on a more serious nature. 

One of Ridpath’s skills is to take the reader on a journey back and forth over time, but always logically, dropping clues where relevant, and never clumsily. The reader is fully engaged with the cast of characters, the people whom Emma used to know in the terrible days before the Second World War, the people who appear to want to prevent her road trip from reaching its conclusion, whatever and wherever that might be. You want to find out what she had been doing, what her husband was up to, how the German diplomats, the French artistic groups – and Emma’s mother – all became entangled. 

Ridpath is a master of characterisation, coherence and clarity. His writing is subtle and witty, but always direct and forceful. His works are always packed with twisted plots and just one more little secret that will turn everything on its head, but at their heart is a deep humanity.

Need I say that this is another Highly Recommended?

Review: FREE TO TRADE by Michael Ridpath

First published by William Heinemann, 1995

This was Michael Ridpath’s first novel, and I still rate it very highly. 

Recently I was sent a copy of Ridpath’s THE DIPLOMAT’S WIFE, and it gripped me as Ridpath’s books always do. I read it, and will supply a review shortly, but before I do that, I was grabbed only recently by FREE TO TRADE. Why? Because during the elections two weeks ago, I spent a very quiet day waiting for some eighty-odd electors to come and vote for their local Police and Crime Commissioners. It made for a very slow fifteen hours. However, the polling station was held in a delightful village hall, and in that hall was a library, which held a number of authors’ books, free to borrow. Naturally, as an author who depends on people buying books from bookshops, I don’t like such ideas generally, but it was useful to glance over the eight shelves and see what people were reading – or perhaps what they weren’t!

On one shelf was Free to Trade, and I picked it up and began to read. And next day, when I got home, I carried on reading, and the day after. It didn’t take long to devour this one. It was as good as when I read it originally some fifteen years ago. 

What is it about?

Michael Ridpath spent his early career as a bond trader in a bank in the City of London, and his early works were heavily influenced by those years. 

In this, Paul Murray is learning the craft. He works for De Jong’s, a small bank, and his manager, Hamilton McKenzie, a sharp, analytical man who never takes risks but only educated and informed investments based on careful analysis. He is the guy Murray wants to become. 

There are not many people in the bank. He works with Rob, who spends his time falling head-over-heels in love with whichever woman appeals to him at that moment; there is Karen, a secretary/gofer; and the compliance officer, Debbie, who calms tensions with her humour and flirting. All in all, Murray is content. He is learning fast how to become a successful trader, and McKenzie seems very pleased with him. His life is full and he is ambitious. 

All this is about to go belly-up, of course. 

We begin the story as things are starting to go wrong:

“I had lost half a million dollars in slightly less than half an hour and the coffee machine didn’t work. This was turning into a bad day. Half a million dollars is a lot of money. And I needed a cup of coffee badly.”

This is the story of how things can go badly wrong. It starts with a few trades and we see Murray’s perspective on them, his reading of the deals proposed, his view of the salesmen trying to persuade him to buy, the lies, the deviousness, the success of charlatans and those with extremely dodgy backgrounds … 

One such case is a new casino being built in Las Vegas. There is something whiffy about this one, and about the man who is selling bonds based on it. It leaves Murray wary, and he begins to research some other deals with Debbie. But then Debbie dies, falling into the Thames and drowning. Except Murray is convinced she must have been murdered. 

And that is when the story takes off as a mystery.

It’s a brilliant read – none the worse for the intervening years – and I doubt much has changed in the bond-trading business. There are as many charlatans, cheats and scoundrels as Ridpath depicts here. As a computer salesman, I can recognise the same characters, the same desperate urges to sell, the same ambitions, the same foolishness. This was very much a book of the 1990s, and perhaps the 1980s. It is definitely a brilliant thriller. 

Yes, of course it’s HIGHLY RECOMMENDED, and you should go and get a copy now. But a Kindle or alternative new copy. Don’t buy or take a second hand version. 

So, have I taken that book back to the library? No. Instead, I’ve given it to my daughter’s young man, who tends to enjoy good thrillers, in the hope that this may become another pleasure for him. He likes my books, after all, so he may well like another Michael’s work. And when he’s done, I’ll take it back to the library to tempt other people.

After all, I have my original copy on my shelves now. And I paid full whack for that.

Get your copy now, and enjoy!

Review: Free to Trade by Michael Ridpath

First published by William Heinemann, 1995

This was Michael Ridpath’s first novel, and I still rate it very highly. 

Recently I was sent a copy of Ridpath’s THE DIPLOMAT’S WIFE, and it gripped me as Ridpath’s books always do. I read it, and will supply a review shortly, but before I do that, I was grabbed only recently by FREE TO TRADE. Why? Because during the elections two weeks ago, I spent a very quiet day waiting for some eighty-odd electors to come and vote for their local Police and Crime Commissioners. It made for a very slow fifteen hours. However, the polling station was held in a delightful village hall, and in that hall was a library, which held a number of authors’ books, free to borrow. Naturally, as an author who depends on people buying books from bookshops, I don’t like such ideas generally, but it was useful to glance over the eight shelves and see what people were reading – or perhaps what they weren’t!

On one shelf was Free to Trade, and I picked it up and began to read. And next day, when I got home, I carried on reading, and the day after. It didn’t take long to devour this one. It was as good as when I read it originally some fifteen years ago. 

What is it about?

Michael Ridpath spent his early career as a bond trader in a bank in the City of London, and his early works were heavily influenced by those years. 

In this, Paul Murray is learning the craft. He works for De Jong’s, a small bank, and his manager, Hamilton McKenzie, a sharp, analytical man who never takes risks but only educated and informed investments based on careful analysis. He is the guy Murray wants to become. 

There are not many people in the bank. He works with Rob, who spends his time falling head-over-heels in love with whichever woman appeals to him at that moment; there is Karen, a secretary/gofer; and the compliance officer, Debbie, who calms tensions with her humour and flirting. All in all, Murray is content. He is learning fast how to become a successful trader, and McKenzie seems very pleased with him. His life is full and he is ambitious. 

All this is about to go belly-up, of course. 

We begin the story as things are starting to go wrong:

“I had lost half a million dollars in slightly less than half an hour and the coffee machine didn’t work. This was turning into a bad day. Half a million dollars is a lot of money. And I needed a cup of coffee badly.”

This is the story of how things can go badly wrong. It starts with a few trades and we see Murray’s perspective on them, his reading of the deals proposed, his view of the salesmen trying to persuade him to buy, the lies, the deviousness, the success of charlatans and those with extremely dodgy backgrounds … 

One such case is a new casino being built in Las Vegas. There is something whiffy about this one, and about the man who is selling bonds based on it. It leaves Murray wary, and he begins to research some other deals with Debbie. But then Debbie dies, falling into the Thames and drowning. Except Murray is convinced she must have been murdered. 

And that is when the story takes off as a mystery.

It’s a brilliant read – none the worse for the intervening years – and I doubt much has changed in the bond-trading business. There are as many charlatans, cheats and scoundrels as Ridpath depicts here. As a computer salesman, I can recognise the same characters, the same desperate urges to sell, the same ambitions, the same foolishness. This was very much a book of the 1990s, and perhaps the 1980s. It is definitely a brilliant thriller. 

Yes, of course it’s HIGHLY RECOMMENDED, and you should go and get a copy now. But a Kindle or alternative new copy. Don’t buy or take a second hand version. 

So, have I taken that book back to the library? No. Instead, I’ve given it to my daughter’s young man, who tends to enjoy good thrillers, in the hope that this may become another pleasure for him. He likes my books, after all, so he may well like another Michael’s work. And when he’s done, I’ll take it back to the library to tempt other people.

After all, I have my original copy on my shelves now. And I paid full whack for that.

Get your copy now, and enjoy!

Review: LAST DAYS IN CLEAVER SQUARE

A new book by Patrick McGrath is, I am assured, one of those writers who can pull apart our darkest fears and expose them to us without making us flee them, to paraphrase New Statesman. 

I can see why his work is popular. In this story, an old man, Francis McNulty, is coming to terms with the realities of his 1970s life. His daughter is finally moving out. Gillian lives with him in Cleaver Square, the old house McNulty inherited from his father, but she is going to marry, and will move to live with her husband. And since her father is growing more irrational, foolish and drunk, she doesn’t think he should live there on his own. He should join her and her husband in their new, pleasant house in Lord North Street. Sounds like a plan.

Except, of course, it isn’t. McNulty has history in the place in Cleaver Square. His life is there, his memories. 

And not only memories of his childhood. Because we are told in the first chapter that he has a visitor. This is 1975, and Franco, the Generalissimo, fascist ruler of Spain, the man responsible for the deaths of so many communists in the civil war, is dying, and because of that, he is dropping in on McNulty.

No, it’s not the Generalissimo in person: rather, it’s a smelly, unpleasant figure. Always obvious, always unsettling. Especially to Gillian, who cannot see Franco and thinks her father’s going potty. 

It’s not a pleasant thing to have an enemy from your past turn up and sit at the end of your bed, and it’s not surprising that it makes McNulty rather cranky. Because when he was a young man, McNulty went to war, to fight against Franco, and he saw much of the brutality and horror of warfare while he was there. Not only that, he has his own secret from those times, which he still carried about with him. He hasn’t told anyone else, but just now a reporter has started to make his acquaintance, and the young man is fascinated with McNulty’s past and the history of the civil war. 

This is a story told very well, although I did have the feeling I had read it before. The basic premise of the story, a man who is reaching the end of his life, and who doesn’t want to shed his memories and his house, who is attempting to cope with the departure of his sensible, pragmatic daughter, and who dreads being left alone, feels very familiar. Throw in the general comments on Fascism, Nazis and the evils of the Right, and it reads very much like a number of stories from the last forty-odd years, but that is to denigrate the book unfairly. It’s better than that, and it brings a different focus. It brings home the loneliness and existential fear of a man who knows he’s soon to die; a man, furthermore, who has a horrible secret which he has clung hold of for all his adult life, and who now, paradoxically, feels the need to share it. 

This was a book I had not expected to enjoy, and it was not exactly a rip-roaring read – but it was a considered, thoughtful analysis of an old man and his last thoughts and impressions, his reflections on a long life, and comparing that with those who didn’t survive to see it. And yes, it was gripping, it was insightful, it was a take on a hideous period. 

Only two comments – why use a dash instead of quote marks for all dialogue? Does that just save time in case a film company wants to have a script? And second, yes, this was good. Very good. But I really think stories about good vs evil being simplified as bold communists vs evil Fascists has been done to death. 

So not a “highly recommended”, but a well-worth-reading story. 

Review: Last Days in Cleaver Square

A new book by Patrick McGrath is, I am assured, one of those writers who can pull apart our darkest fears and expose them to us without making us flee them, to paraphrase New Statesman. 

I can see why his work is popular. In this story, an old man, Francis McNulty, is coming to terms with the realities of his 1970s life. His daughter is finally moving out. Gillian lives with him in Cleaver Square, the old house McNulty inherited from his father, but she is going to marry, and will move to live with her husband. And since her father is growing more irrational, foolish and drunk, she doesn’t think he should live there on his own. He should join her and her husband in their new, pleasant house in Lord North Street. Sounds like a plan.

Except, of course, it isn’t. McNulty has history in the place in Cleaver Square. His life is there, his memories. 

And not only memories of his childhood. Because we are told in the first chapter that he has a visitor. This is 1975, and Franco, the Generalissimo, fascist ruler of Spain, the man responsible for the deaths of so many communists in the civil war, is dying, and because of that, he is dropping in on McNulty.

No, it’s not the Generalissimo in person: rather, it’s a smelly, unpleasant figure. Always obvious, always unsettling. Especially to Gillian, who cannot see Franco and thinks her father’s going potty. 

It’s not a pleasant thing to have an enemy from your past turn up and sit at the end of your bed, and it’s not surprising that it makes McNulty rather cranky. Because when he was a young man, McNulty went to war, to fight against Franco, and he saw much of the brutality and horror of warfare while he was there. Not only that, he has his own secret from those times, which he still carried about with him. He hasn’t told anyone else, but just now a reporter has started to make his acquaintance, and the young man is fascinated with McNulty’s past and the history of the civil war. 

This is a story told very well, although I did have the feeling I had read it before. The basic premise of the story, a man who is reaching the end of his life, and who doesn’t want to shed his memories and his house, who is attempting to cope with the departure of his sensible, pragmatic daughter, and who dreads being left alone, feels very familiar. Throw in the general comments on Fascism, Nazis and the evils of the Right, and it reads very much like a number of stories from the last forty-odd years, but that is to denigrate the book unfairly. It’s better than that, and it brings a different focus. It brings home the loneliness and existential fear of a man who knows he’s soon to die; a man, furthermore, who has a horrible secret which he has clung hold of for all his adult life, and who now, paradoxically, feels the need to share it. 

This was a book I had not expected to enjoy, and it was not exactly a rip-roaring read – but it was a considered, thoughtful analysis of an old man and his last thoughts and impressions, his reflections on a long life, and comparing that with those who didn’t survive to see it. And yes, it was gripping, it was insightful, it was a take on a hideous period. 

Only two comments – why use a dash instead of quote marks for all dialogue? Does that just save time in case a film company wants to have a script? And second, yes, this was good. Very good. But I really think stories about good vs evil being simplified as bold communists vs evil Fascists has been done to death. 

So not a “highly recommended”, but a well-worth-reading story. 

Review: THE DROWNED CITY, by K.J. Maitland

Published by Headline Review in hardback, paperback, ebook and audio.

Hardback published 1st April 2021, £16.99

A book by KJ Maitland is always something to savour. She has an enviable reputation both as a crime writer and expert in the beliefs and daily lives of our ancestors.

In previous books she has delved into the superstitions and macabre beliefs of peasants. Always keen to experiment, she has tested some of the stranger notions in her own way, but without murdering a hen or using a cauldron.

This is not a book about ghosts and witches, though. This is a wonderful evocation of England under the new King, James 1, after the death of Elizabeth 1, and at a time of terrible civil distrust. Guy Fawkes and his companions had conspired to blow up Parliament and the King, and hatred of others based on their religion was endemic. This period saw the whole kingdom was on the brink of riots and murder. Catholics were forced to hide; if not, they must run. After the Guy Fawkes plot, no Papist was trusted. Catholic households, or suspected Catholics, were threatened by the mob. Many were dragged from their homes and murdered in the streets.

Bristol in particular was thought to be a hotbed of spies for the Catholic states. Elizabeth had ruled with an iron grip under her spymasters, and it was their constant vigilance that kept her kingdom safe, but now that James held the throne, discontent had grown. The English were not convinced of his aims. He brought many Scottish barons with him to London, and appeared to have little respect for Parliament.

And now, in January, a terrible disaster struck: a Tsunami that rushed up the Severn.

The massive wave all but destroyed Bristol, flooding the land for miles all around, rushing up the Bristol Channel, inundating the low-lying regions of Devon, Somerset and beyond. This was no mere chance – it had to be a sign. The dreaded “Papists” were responsible, as the broadsheets proclaimed. Men would ignore this proof of God’s displeasure at their peril. Papists must be rooted out and destroyed.

Into this mix stepped (the newly named) Daniel Pursglove, a convict who had been waiting to die in Newgate, until Charles FitzAlan, an adviser to King James, offered him a job which, if he was successful, would save him from the gibbet. Fail, and his death would be as painful and horrible as any contrived for the Fawkes conspirators. {These first pages are quite superb, giving the best description of life in Newgate I have seen.}

What was known by Cecil, the King’s intelligencer, was that, at the time of the conspiracy, four Jesuits had been captured. What he also knew, but other people did not, was that there was a fifth man called Spero Pettingar. After Fawkes and his conspirators were caught, Pettingar fled, abetted by the Catholic network, and now FitzAlan has reason to believe he is hiding in Bristol. 

All Pursglove had to do was go to Bristol and find this Jesuit. But who exactly was FitzAlan? Could he be trusted? And the Jesuits would not willingly submit. Could Pursglove, on his own, hope to discover the whereabouts of Pettingar, and escape the notice of the enemy’s spies and supporters?

He must search amongst ruins of the city, speaking to those he could find, the tradesmen, while evading the criminal gangs, low-lifes and thieves, and he must put his own life in jeopardy, all in the hope that he might at last win his freedom. But could he trust FitzAlan to hold true to his word?

All right, I’ve given you about the first twenty-five pages in that summary, but that won’t spoil anything. All you need to know about THE DROWNED CITY is that it’s a spy novel, a crime novel, and interwoven with the politics of the time. It is a truly superb evocation of the period and the devastation wrought by the tidal wave that almost destroyed Bristol (yes, it did happen, it’s not made up).

K.J. Maitland is the mistress of genuine research, and she brings all her talents to bear in this book. It’s the kind of story that will keep you up all night (it did with me), with a brilliant, strong cast of characters, a wonderfully edgy atmosphere, and a plot that keeps you guessing right through to the last page. More than that, this book has a brilliantly conceived crime story at the heart of it, which was both deeply satisfying and elegantly described.

Not only that, we’re promised that this is to be the first in a new series – and that is something I am looking forward to immensely. 

Just wonderful. This is a highly recommended historical thriller from a lady who is at the very top of her game. Now I’m just looking forward to the next in the series!

EXTRACT from Headline

Extract from K. J. Maitland’s THE DROWNED CITY

Extract from K. J. Maitland’s THE DROWNED CITY

Managed Isolation Quarantine

Not the view I expected from a break in New Zealand!

The UK is operating a hotel-based isolation system for arrivals to the UK from certain countries and I thought it might be useful to give my own impressions of living in quarantine.

Last year we had bad news. One week after cycling all around Lake Taupo, a total of over 150 km, our brother Alan, who had been living in New Zealand for many years, had contracted cancer.

He had suffered from cancers over the years, and at first we – and he, I think – thought this was just one more of those forms of the disease, one that would cause disruption to his life, but not something that would be actually life-threatening. At least, not in the short term. It was an annoyance, and life would soon return to normal. We were wrong.

This was a much more aggressive cancer, one that would not respond to medication or surgery. In late October we learned he had days to live.

I am fortunate to have two other brothers – and we are all close. In a matter of days tickets were booked, quarantine in a managed facility arranged, and my wife drove me to Heathrow to catch a flight.

Except that Sunday we were not to be allowed on a plane. There was one piece of paperwork we had missed. Although the airline staff were symathetic, the New Zealand authorities would not let us board. We were turned away.

Knowing our brother had days to live made our predicament all but intolerable. But with the assistance of staff at New Zealand’s immigration services – and our gratitude cannot be overstated – we managed to complete all the relevant paperwork. No rules were bent, none broken, but – more importantly – no obstacles were dropped in our path. The NZ staff were unfailingly understanding and helpful, and the following Wednesday we flew to the other side of the world.

Landing was a relief after some 27 hours on aircraft, all the time wearing masks, but it took time, while we waited on the plane, to get the airport cleared ready for our arrival.

From the plane we went to a queue, each of us socially distanced, and went through passport control, immigration and customs, before we were reunited with our luggage, and could leave the airport. At no time were we allowed to deviate from the paths we were directed to.

We were taken by coach to the Pullman Hotel. The coach was a large-sized standard version, with a door at the front and a second half-way along the side. Plastic sheeting separated passengers from the masked driver. Passengers were not allowed to use the front door, only the middle one – no one entering New Zealand was allowed to use public transport. Who could think that would be a good idea? 

The Pullman is a large convention centre, with pleasant rooms and views across to the water but for us it this was not to be a holiday location. We were greeted by tall metal fencing, which was removed by men in camouflage uniform while the coach waited, and which was closed again behind the coach. We passengers were told to remain in our seats, and a very pleasant Air Force officer and health official gave us a short talk on security.

Managed Isolation and Quarantine centres, MIQs, were designed to isolate all arrivals to the country. Everyone, no matter where they came from, had to prove that they were not intending to stay, and had to pay in advance the over NZ$3,000 for accommodation, food, and testing while staying there. Certain exceptions were allowed. I believe returning NZ citizens had their quarantine covered by the government. But there was no leaving the hotel, no wandering the streets, no fraternizing with the staff of the hotel or the military personnel guarding the country from us.

We were not to wear masks other than disposable, standard versions. We were not to get to within two metres of other visitors. We were to use hand gel at all possible opportunities. We must wear shoes when leaving our rooms. There was no dining room – food would be brought to our rooms for us and left outside the door. Alcohol was restricted to one bottle of wine, or three 50ml measures of spirits, or four bottles of beer per day. It has to be said, that this is more than any of us needed – but the restriction rankled even so!

As brothers we were allowed to congregate within our own bubble in one or other of our rooms. We were also permitted to leave our rooms for exercise. This involved going downstairs to a small, enclosed yard area, roughly thirty metres square, in which inmates were allowed to walk around, two metres apart at all times, to prevent our expanding too much. In my case this exercise failed utterly. No talking, no dancing, no jogging or running, no singing – only walking, at the same pace as everyone else. 

And so we entered our new existence. It was, needless to say, a strange environment. My brothers and I all live in countryside. To be detained in a building, surrounded by uniformed guards, speaking to no one outside our little family bubble, was odd. To the amusement of my brothers, I developed a possibly unhealthy fascination with the port and six massive cranes which were just visible, perhaps a half mile away. That was my view. I took several photos of them during our stay, and even a couple at night.=

This was been an interesting experience, but one made considerably easier by the staff.

The actual isolation centre is run by the NZ Air Force, but the staff were the employees, I believe, of the Pullman Hotel. They were unfailingly cheerful, friendly and understanding. Not only that, they went out of their way to make our stay there pleasant. At the half-way stage, when we had already spent seven days here, we received cards celebrating the fact that we were half way through. On my birthday I was surprised to receive a knock at the door, with two members of staff presenting me with a cake, candle, card, and best wishes from the hotel. On another day, I received a bottle of Arepa, a “Nootropic Brain Food” drink, which they wished would help me with my next novel. All little kindnesses which were unnecessary, but hugely appreciated.

During our quarantine we were checked daily, questioned about symptoms we might have experienced, and had our temperatures checked. On the third day and the twelfth, we had tests for Covid with long sticks up our noses. My sinus was still bruised two days later – and yet I feel only sympathy for the staff running the tests. The nurses, so we were told, must have that same test every week.

And so, on Friday 13th November, we were released. It was fourteen days to the hour that we had landed. We had been able to hold FaceTime meetings with Alan twice daily – he was too tired for more than that – and I think these meetings, and the knowledge that we had flown over to see him, made him hold on just that little longer. 

We left the Pullman after thanking the Air Force and hotel staff. Again, they could not have been kinder or more understanding. After we had fetched a rental car to drive down to Wellington, a very broad Air Force officer motioned me away when I attempted to go and help fetch our luggage. He brought it to us outside – in a rather brusque manner, I thought. It was presumably so that we wouldn’t return into the hotel’s lobby and potentially infect it. 

He carried our bags to the car for us, and quietly said, “Mate, we know about your brother. We really hope you get to see him.”

And now, the UK is implementing a similar quarantine system. But this is not a “Managed Isolation” quarantine. Many passengers will land at Heathrow and take public transport from there. Not all are to be isolated. So passengers who want to evade the £3,700 charge may travel from, say, Portugal to Spain or France, and then take a separate flight. For the quarantine to be effective, it has to cover all passengers, as it does in New Zealand. 

The other thing I would say, is that the limits on alcohol in the New Zealand MIQ was not really restrictive, but it was enough to make sure that people did not get ridiculously drunk and then go walkabout in the hotel, where they could well infect others. There was enough for boredom to be allayed, but not enough to make inmates riot. Because there is that risk. It was an unpleasant experience to be locked up in a building, not allowed to go out for any reason other than a little exercise at the speed of the slowest walker. And there were some seriously slow walkers there. 

Another aspect that did reduce tensions was the kindness and understanding of all the staff involved. It made a huge difference. 

We left Auckland and drove south for a day, reaching my brother’s holiday home in a wonderful town called Martinborough. The next day he arrived, and we four brothers had our last reunion for the following ten days. After that, we had to return home, and sadly Alan died a couple of days after our return. 

Alan was a proud Kiwi. He loved his adopted country, and it rewarded him with a good life, a wonderful family, and a huge number of friends. The main dying wish he laid on us, his brothers, was to make it clear just how helpful all the New Zealand officials, hotel staff, Air Force personnel, and the others we met around his home had been to us. 

Review: THE LAST BERSERKER by Angus Donald, Canelo

ISBN e-book:  978 1 80032 186 1        £3.99 

Paperback: 978 1 80032 187 8 £8.99

I am not big on Vikings. I read a lot about them in the 1980s, but there was not a lot in their history that grabbed my attention. I was always more drawn to the first kings of England, and their bold attempts to defend their realm against these brutal invaders.

Not that the Viking only attacked the UK’s shores. They raided, raped and razed villages and towns all along the coasts from Normandy to, it is thought, North America. William the Conqueror’s father, Rollo, was a successful Viking who settled in Normandy after raiding for years. Others travelled to Russia, and set up trading concerns with the local folk. The Vikings were the globalists of their time!

However, no matter what my views on such matters, a new book from Angus Donald is always worth having a look at, and this is no exception. 

The Berserkers were the terrifying fighters who would throw themselves into battle, against any odds, in the attempt to win renown and glory. They were fearsome warriors when they stood against their enemies. The battle at Stamford Bridge saw the Saxon army held up by one berserker, who (according to legend) slaughtered forty of Harold’s men on the choke-point of the bridge before he could be killed. It gave his comrades time to form a shield wall on the other side of the river.

Angus Donald has taken this theme and wound about it a fabulous story. Bjarki has committed murder, trying to defend his woman from a trio of local bullies, and has been condemned to death, when a travelling trader arrives and buys him, paying off the families of the victims and saving his life – why, Bjarki does not know.

The one-eyed traveller who saved him is Valtyr, a mysterious figure, who takes Bjarki with him through the north of Europe, visiting towns and cities, listening to all the gossip about the new Christians and their King. They journey to the north, with a young woman, Tor, who soon demonstrates her skills as a fighter, whether wrestling in a ring, or attacking with weapons. And soon Bjarki discovers that he is to be one of the chosen – he is being taken with Tor to be tested to see whether he can become a Berserker with the others. It’s not an easy training, and they must endure hardship and brutal treatment before they are accepted. Many never succeed, they don’t find their gandr, the divine spirit that gives the Rekkars their ‘fabled strength and reckless courage’. They have a duty to protect the great ash tree, Yggdrasil, the first tree that gave birth to all the forests of the world. 

But while they are at the tree and training, disaster strikes. Tor’s impetuous ambition leads to their being rejected by the Rekkar, and he and Tor must leave. That, of course, is only the beginning.

This is a sweeping saga, a wonderfully imagined adventure that takes the reader on a journey from the small fishing village where Bjarki was born, to the heart of the new Christian empire. On the way Bjarki and Tor must contend with treachery, oath breakers, monsters and deal with the central mystery of their lives.

A wonderful story, brilliantly told by one of the best historical writers – what is not to like?