My lovely car share friend recommended this to me on Monday and I'm so glad she did (thanks Emily).
It's a cracking adaptation of The Man Who Fell To Earth and is available over at BBC Radio.
I've not read the book, but loved it so much that I decided that I'll put that right very soon.
Excellent work.
Bread is a belter of a book. It's great on a couple of fronts. First of all, the case being investigated is wide and complex. There are a lot of bodies and there's plenty of detection. Secondly, the chemistry of the detectives is effervescent, what with the return of Cotton Hawes and the need for he and Carella to work alongside Ollie Weeks from the 83rd.
It's August and it's hot. Many of the 87th are on vacation, which is why Roger Grimm is forced to come in to the station when the detective handling the case (Andy Parker) of his torched warehouse leaves the investigation to take his break.
Grimm needs a speedy resolution to the arson case in order to convince the insurance companies to pay up so that he can buy his next shipment of small wooden animals and make a killing when he sells them on. Carella's sympathetic to Grimm's cause, after all there would be no logic to Grimm burning his own stock given the way the circumstances are explained.
The only problem is, to proceed with the case, Carella needs to go to speak to Parker. Parker's no friend of Carella at the best of times. Given that he's at home in his shorts and vest with a beer in his hand, he's less inclined to talk about police work than ever. He's the bad apple in the force- violent, opinionated, lazy and racist, to name but a few of his traits. He talks a good game on this one, but when Carella follows up, it's clear that Parker has given his usual below-par minimum.
After Grimm's home is also torched, Carella and Hawes dig deep. In doing so, they set off a chain reaction that make the threads of the case difficult to hold. One of the them is the murder of a suspect in the case, a junkie who wears fine suits and drives a Cadillac, which happens to be in the territory of the 83rd.
Enter Ollie Weeks (aka Big Ollie, aka Fat Ollie), a huge man with personal hygiene issues and a streak of racism running through him that's as wide as he is broad. He digs into a new element of the case, a financial institution looking to clean up Diamondback's slums. He also digs deep into the patience of liberal-minded Cotton Hawes who finds the new working set-up intolerable. It's only Carella who manages to keep Hawes on the case, explaining that while Weeks might be a pig, he also happens to be a tenacious detective with a range of skills that will be useful during this investigation.
The three work together, bringing those threads together to form a curious tapestry.
There's little to be said without giving away spoilers, but suffice to say the interview room set pieces are top drawer and the psychological angles employed by the detectives are spot on.
A great case, then, and fabulous entertainment.
The question is, will we see Ollie Weeks again? Part of me, like Carella and Hawes, hopes he'll disappear into the mist. The other part thinks he's a great asset to the books and the needles he pokes his colleagues with add a nice dose of spice to the series.
'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.'
After I was about a third of the way into this book, I realised that I want my next writing to be in the first person. That desire has something to do with the quips and internal thoughts of Lou Archer, the private investigator protagonist of The Doomsters. I loved the way his descriptions and thoughts are so well outlined and feel that it's because it's in his own words that the crisp cutting edge really works. Which, I guess, gives a strong indication that I enjoyed this book quite a lot.
It has a cracking opening. Carl Hallman, on the run from a psychiatric institution, knocks on the door and asks for help. Hallman is believed to be central to the deaths of his parents, but he has recently come into some information about the family doctor that has set alarm bells ringing wildly in his head. He needs help to delve further into the mire of his past in order to liberate himself from a personal torture.
Archer persuades Hallman to return to the hospital for treatment, promising to work the case while Hallman continues to recover, only on the way back, Hallman knocks him out and steals his car.
That would normally be enough to put a person off, but Archer is attracted to the man's desperation and to the sense that there has been an injustice somewhere along the way that needs righting.
Cue a visit to the Hallman ranch.
The police are out in force awaiting Carl's return. Though there's a policy to take Carl alive, Archer isn't so sure that will be the outcome. He sticks around to meet the other players in Carl's life: his loyal wife, his stoic brother, his sister-in-law and daughter, the family doctor (aka the sister-in-law's lover), the cops and some of the help.
To further the complexity of the case, there's an element of personal involvement for Archer as the junkie who escaped with Hallman happens to be one of Archer's failed projects from way back.
The whole murky pond is full of these sharks who appear to have their eyes on the same prize- the Hallman family fortune.
Needless to say, there's a whole lot of unpicking to be done. While at work, we get to explore the flaws of the family and, perhaps more significantly, the detective doing the digging, which makes this one hell of a journey.
The opening is terrific. The build-up gathers at a pleasing pace. Each individual scene is masterfully handled. Layers are peeled away and added with ease. The bleak explorations into the human condition have real impact. In all these respects, it's excellent.
A few tiny issues. To my mind, there are so many strings to unravel that things became confusing at times and I had to think hard. And the denouement comes in the form of a big reveal, a huge exposition explaining everything away (much as this worked, it also left no room for the this reader's personal satisfaction of being on the right trail at some point along the way).
Lots to love, then, and much to reflect upon.
And regardless of that ending, I'm definitely diving in to write in the first person when my next idea comes along.
It often happens this way. I've chipped away at a work in progress, smoothed off the rough edges, roughed up the smooth. It's been hard work to carry the story and to go with its flow, and then the end is in sight.
I love the feeling that it will all soon be over. That I'll finally have a finished draft and know how things eventually played out. It's one of those magical joys that deserves to be savoured and cherished, each moment treated with respect and reflection. And what do I do? Dash as quickly as I can without a care, like a child sprinting down a mountainside ignoring each and every peril.
The rush is amazing. Not quite the high of a drug or the buzz of a roller coaster, but not far off.
And there it is. Two week's writing crammed into twenty-four hours and it's all done. I can take a planned break to do some emotional and mental recharging.
Which is terrific, isn't it?
Just now I'm not so sure, which may be why I'm here trying to talk myself out of the anti-climax that comes post-completion.
On the face of it, I should be proud and delighted. I now have two finished novellas in the bag, both lying low for now. Without going into too much detail, they're collaborative pieces and the next layer of attention comes from elsewhere. I know they're both brilliant stories and I'm confident that the quality of prose is high. Having them there in the back pocket is a good feeling. One day they'll be released into the world and that will bring a new thrill all of its own.
But today sucks.
Bank Holiday Monday. No teaching to distract. No story to write. There's nothing to do but busy myself with the things I want to do.
Which is the problem.
What I want to do is write. To feed from the adrenaline coasting around my body from the delight of completion. Sketch out a short story or a poem, perhaps. Pick up the trail of something unfinished. Dive right back in and hide from whatever it is that writing allows me to ignore.
And yet, the sensible part of me knows that would be futile. It's the break I need and I'll be all the better for it once I can settle into the temporary rhythm that lies between stories.
So I'm twitching. Typing out this to keep my fingers busy. The washing's done, the bathrooms clean, I have a floor to mop and, later this afternoon, the steady beat of a walk will keep me sane.
It all makes me think of the announcement on the tube when the platform is that little bit further away from the train door that is usual. Be mindful of the gap between stories. Use the time well. If you have any tips on how to do that, I'm open to all advice.
