Once again Anthony Horowitz retreats into a narrative quagmire
by telling us the story of an author (himself) struggling to meet a publication
deadline and finding his detective, Daniel Hawthorne, dribbling out bits of an old murder case that
took place in a Thames-side enclosed housing area in Richmond. Every occupant
is a suspect and the past, the sort of past, the present, and the author’s
attempts to write about the case makes for more frustration than I want to keep
track of. The ultimate solution reminded me of one of those orchestral pieces that
seems to have ten conclusions before the real one arrives. The-long winded
back-story takes forever to reveal and the coincidences needed to support the
brilliance of Hawthorne’s detecting just didn’t convince me that it might
happen.
Yes, it kept me turning the pages, but my tolerance for Horowitz
has gone sour. He is getting to be too cute by half.
Give it a 2 out of 5
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