I remember this book when it came out in 1978. It was seen as something of a comeback for Davidson, who then went on to triumph with Kolymsky Heights (reviewed below). I remember reading it at the time and wondering what all the fuss was about. Now I've read it again. And I still wonder.
It is a very silly book. It contains none of things I like about Davidson (the breathtaking depth of his research, the ability to evoke absolutely convincing extreme locations, the profoundly conflicted characters). It is a murder book. The murders are excessively gruesome (I wonder if this is what stirred the critics at the time - was Davidson the first to go so far?), the setting very pretension and the characters by and large off-putting. The only exception is the mildly eccentric Mary Mooney, a reporter on the local newspaper and stringer for the nationals. The murderer is not hard to work out although Davidson does a pretty effective job at laying false trails. The dialogue, of which there is far more than usual in Davidson, is really, really bad. Some of the faults are of its time and thankfully we have moved on.
If it was the best thriller of the year it was a very poor year. I see from the back cover that H R F Keating described it as a black comedy. Dark it certainly is. Comedy? Well, perhaps that is what Davidson was trying. Sadly, he failed. Badly.
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