For some unintentional reason, I have been finding myself reading quite a lot of murder mystery stories recently. These have ranged from the comic end of the spectrum (Sarah Caudwell) to the decidedly noir end (Mick Herron). Wherever on this spectrum books lie, they are outside my usual reading. Broadly speaking, I have found these all entertaining enough, none of them being a trial to read, but few of them being striking.
Christ Petit’s Ghost Country was recommended to me by a good friend and is firmly at the très noir end of the genre. Having finished it, I would say I found it interesting enough for me to happily continue reading it daily, but without any features that would place it as a more distinguished example.
The idea behind the story, that governments and spy agencies operate outside the sort of moral parameters that we poor individual souls regard as fundamental, is certainly worthy of being the central theme and, in being set in Ireland, it is a theme which is plausibly present. This presents a number of issues which engage with the reader’s ethical framework. This makes for good reading. The central involvement of national leaders in nefarious activities adds further spice to it.
Further to this, the major characters, especially Charlotte, but perhaps also Parker, Cross, Roberts, Moffat and Hopkins, are convincingly portrayed and, while they do not necessarily grow during the story, the reader’s understanding of them is never complete, and does grow.
Those are substantial qualities and make the book thoroughly worthy. By and large, they are about the only qualities I can identify, though.
Frankly, the narrative writing style is wall-to-wall rough and spare and the characters speak roughly and sparely. Descendants of Dashiell Hammett. That all fits consistently enough, but no-one would read the book in order to glory in its writing style. I enjoyed Cross’s mother’s observation: ‘He always was a romantic boy,’ she said. ‘A bit half-baked.’ ‘That nonsense about confession; in my book you never discuss anything with a priest apart from the local tombola.’ But that was about the only humour in the whole work. Unless you count “Outside, the dreariest possible afternoon was no advertisement for life” as humour. Of a dark variety.
The plot was well constructed with lots of obligatory false turns and unexpected surprises sustaining interest. My one complaint would be that the final exposition was really too long. Occupying over ten percent of the book to provide all the explanations and tie up loose ends was excessive and slowed down what had been a fairly fast-moving pace.