No One Left to Tell by Karen Rose

In taking a workmanlike approach to her 13th thriller, No One Left to Tell, Karen Rose opts for the tried-and-true wrongful imprisonment theme and produces something akin to a Mills & Boon / James Patterson mash-up. The best and most plausible element of the book, which clocks in at an unwarranted 530 pages, is the spine of the storyline, the reasons for the conviction and imprisonment of one Ramon Munoz for a murder in a bar more than five years earlier.

In the opening pages Ramon’s wife Elena, determined to clear his name, hands exculpatory evidence to private investigator Paige Holden. Moments later, Elena is shot dead, and Paige, now joined by assistant state’s attorney Grayson Smith, who led the Munoz prosecution, recognizes a conspiracy to which all supporting parties are vulnerable to summary execution.

Wisely, Rose eschews red herrings when it comes to the hook of her plot – the guilt or innocence of Ramon Munoz – and makes clear to investigator and reader alike that the man was framed. The central perplexity, then, is the identity of the faceless puppet-master. Who set up Munoz, and who is now offing, with clinical ease, all who knew the truth? And, as Paige might think to herself in one of the reflective inner musings of which Rose is tediously fond, ‘For the love of God, why?’

When it emerges that the murdered woman was acquainted with the grandson of a retired United States senator, Paige and Smith begin to suspect that the scheme goes, as they say, all the way to the top. However, the pair’s progress isn’t made with quite the speed that either we or Munoz might hope for, owing to interminable episodes of flirtation and ascetic mutual self-denial on the part of the investigators.

Though both exposition and prose are plodding, the breathless tone and pacing owes a debt to Dan Brown’s kinetic style. Perhaps it’s coincidental, but I’d like to think that the name of No One Left to Tell’s obedient hitman, Silas, is a nod to the self-flagellating antagonist of The Da Vinci Code.

Rose maintains the tension at simmering point through the periodic staging of violent events, each of which prompts seemingly endless pages of debate among the investigators. At first stirring, this technique becomes tiresome and distracting – particularly when Rose wastes dramatic gunpowder on, for instance, the attempted murder of Paige early in the novel.

I thought I had the whodunit solved halfway through, but missed the mark completely. With primary plot being Rose’s strong suit, No One Left to Tell should be a firecracker – but the heavy-handed writing makes for a damp squib. Readers seeking masterful suspense or true, stomach-churning thriller noir would be better off turning to Ian Rankin or Mo Hayder. Those content with consistent daffiness punctuated by sporadic madcap foolishness will be satisfied by this endeavour.

1/5 stars: Turgid and overlong.

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The Impossible Dead by Ian Rankin

Two years after ushering in a new hero, in his first post-Rebus novel The Complaints, the incomparable Ian Rankin returns with the sophomore tale of Scottish DI Malcolm Fox, top man in the Internal Affairs division.

It’s an inspired premise – cops investigating and interrogating other cops can be nothing but rich dramatic ground – and in The Impossible Dead, Rankin marries relentless internecine warfare and a terrorism theme with a practiced hand.

Fox and his team are summoned to Fife to look into a complaint against one Paul Carter, a DC whom a young woman, Teresa Collins, has accused of sexual harassment. After her accusations were made public, two other women emerged with similar stories. Though Carter has three colleagues backing up his version (inoffensive) of events, Fox’s questioning of Alan Carter, Paul’s uncle and a retired cop, gives credence to the allegations.

Fox’s visit to Alan Carter’s home also ushers in the plot proper – in true Rankin style, the opening subplot is merely an amuse-bouche. As Fox and Alan chat, the investigator not only learns everything he needs to about the impeached Paul Carter, he also discovers what is occupying the older man’s time these days: an examination of the apparent suicide 15 years ago of a local lawyer, Francis Vernal, who had ties to Scottish paramilitary groups. Agitating for a separate Parliament, the groups used means both fair and foul to achieve their goal of a legitimate, representative Scottish National Party.

Alan Carter was commissioned to do the work by Charles Mangold, a fellow lawyer who, upon being bailed up by Fox, is cagey as to whether he is motivated by loyalty to an old friend or a greater fealty to Imogen, Vernal’s icy, inscrutable widow.

Shortly thereafter, two key players perish, and The Impossible Dead – the title perhaps a reference both to the monotonous difficulties of homicide investigation and the ability of some deceased to remain a pain-in-the-jacksy for those still living – kicks into high gear. Wiretaps, historical bombings and compromised cop work ensue.

Like The Complaints and Rankin’s earlier, legendary Rebus books, The Impossible Dead is structurally flawless. Even the most experienced crime writers can succumb to the temptation of leaving a truck-sized hole here or there in the interests of narrative momentum, and papering over it with diverting character-work and inventive twists.

Rankin respects his readership, among them many who have followed him since long before he first topped the book lists, and applies an unusual degree of discipline to his writing. Acknowledging the plague that threatens many a writer in the high-octane crime genre, he sticks to an ascetic schedule that allows him to elude the embarrassing trap of confusing characters’ names and deeds or running the narrative off-course. To wit, he started writing The Impossible Dead this past January and finished the first draft in 10 weeks, then spent the next six months editing before hopping on the pre-publication promotional treadmill in September.

Such prolific output could be interpreted as a gimlet-eyed mercenary enterprise, but as Rankin told The Independent in October, writers who have already made a handsome fortune, such as himself, Grisham and Patterson, keep writing because their work is “how [we] make sense of the world, it’s what [we’ve] always done.”

In that, the creator has everything in common with his Mr Fox.

3 / 5 stars: Rankin reigns.

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Bleed for Me by Michael Robotham

The tormented, brilliant detective who doesn’t play well with others but has strong views on how people should comport themselves is a character as old as the crime-thriller genre itself. From Val McDermid’s Tony Hill to Mo Hayder’s Jack Caffery and Ian Rankin’s alluring new protagonist, Malcolm Fox (with a nod to Poirot and Miss Marple), the best investigators possess a strong moral code and know exactly when the lines need to be blurred – and because they’re cleverer than anyone else, they get away with it.

Joseph (Joe) O’Loughlin is a worthy member of the club, both in biography (separated from his wife of 20 years, Julianne, with whom he remains in love, he makes forlorn attempts to re-engage with her while spending time with their two daughters) and personality (his worsening struggle with Parkinson’s disease exacerbates his natural tendency towards dourness).

Bleed for Me is the fourth Robotham novel in which Joe appears and is a swiftly-produced follow-up to last year’s bestselling Shatter, which saw Joe match wits with a demonically intelligent villain called Gideon Tyler.

Joe’s propensity to allow his work to swallow his personal life to the extent of endangering his family is the primary cause of the apparently irreparable rent in the fabric of his marriage, and it is evident he hasn’t learned his lesson when, at the outset of Bleed for Me, he finds his daughter Catherine’s best friend, 14-year-old Sienna Hegarty, barefoot, bleeding and near-catatonic next to a stream. Back at the Hegarty home, Sienna’s father Ray is found bludgeoned to death.

Sienna, the prime suspect, is taken into psychiatric care – but it is immediately apparent to Joe that she is not the culprit.

Robotham likes to pit Joe against a foe who shares his intelligence but lacks his physical frailties – a virile, younger man who represents the darker aspects of the human condition. In Shatter, he created a memorable villain in the form of the sadistic Tyler; in Bleed for Me, Joe’s well-honed sense of there’s-something-off-about-this-guy-I’m-gonna-stalk-him-till-he-snaps is tweaked by Gordon Ellis, a teacher at Sienna and Catherine’s school.

Investigation reveals that Ellis’s first wife vanished, leaving behind their young son. Yet more probing (Joe is an expert prober who hates to miss a chance to provoke) reveals that the wife’s vanishing occurred at the same time that Ellis began an affair with a student, now his second wife.

Joe’s hackles are up, and when it is discovered that Sienna had a recent pregnancy, he feels certain that he’s pieced the puzzle together – but can it be that easy? And how does a high-profile race-hate trial fit into the picture?

Despite the lone-wolf nature of the best fictional detectives, they are invariably accompanied by a handful of offsiders with whom they enjoy gruff, teasing banter and who swoop in to provide vital assistance or succour when things are at their diciest. Joe has such a support in the form of DCI Ronnie Cray, a memorable figure who brings both humour and humanity to what is at times a grim story.

Few thriller writers rival Robotham for plot and pacing. Bleed for Me thrums with electricity and the rhythm, always tricky in such plot-driven works that build to a big pay-off, is pitch-perfect.

3.5 / 5 stars: One for the 2010 top-thriller list.  Click here to view other Easy Mix Book Reviews.