I enjoyed this book, or at least I enjoyed it once I got beyond about page 200 and all the heavy handed time and place setting finished, the superfluous characters more or less disappeared and the author just got on with the story.
Set in the early 1960s and based around a number of grisly murders of prostitutes, Cathi Unsworth seeks to set the book firmly into its period. Unfortunately that means a whole series of gratuitous name and product dropping (Temperance Seven, Teddy Boys, Harold Wilson, Diana Dors, Dansette record player etc) along with some thinly disguised real life characters to whom she gives fictitious, and sometimes ridiculous, names. Freddie Mills the boxer becomes Teddy Hills; James Myers is Joe Meek; Heinz the one hit wonder protégé of Joe Meek is Heinz 57 and so on.
In addition there is a whole raft of characters who appear only to be in the story as basic plot devices and to enable her to show a bit of knowledge of the sixties art and fashion world. Several of them, such as the leading woman’s husband, more or less disappear around half way through and are no loss at all. The dialogue in the case of these characters is very stilted and unbelievable.
There are also some really laboured images, for example; a door “sags on its hinges like an old itinerant stooped over his bundle of rags” – what on earth does that mean? And another one, “The fizzing of the [champagne] bubbles as they slid down the glass matched the effervescence pumping through my veins” - very bizarre imagery, and there were plenty more as odd as those.
Finally in the moaning section of this review, there are a number of factual inaccuracies that a good editor should have spotted. Witnesses do not go into the dock in a court, prisoners do. Police sergeants, like all other sergeants, have three stripes not two. January of 1964 was not freezing cold with blizzards, that was 1963. And were there pool tables in London in 1964? I don’t recall ever seeing one.
Yet suddenly, having gone through all this stuff, and getting to a stage where I almost gave up on the book, it improves dramatically. The plot takes over, the number of allusions to the period drop off, superfluous characters disappear well into the background and a good, well-written thriller emerges. And there is no doubt that Cathi Unsworth can write. And she writes about the dark stuff of life much better than she does about the normal every day. The narrative becomes stronger and the dialogue sharper. The plot doesn't thicken but it does grip more.
Is this, as the blurb on the book jacket states, “the English Black Dahlia”? Probably not, if that is meant to suggest that Ms Unsworth is as good a writer as James Ellroy. However, if she were to concentrate on writing as she does in the second half of this book, sharpens up her use of images and drops the over-dependence on unnecessary period setting, she might get somewhere very near that standard.
I would certainly be willing to have a read of more of her work.