I am usually pretty forgiving to novels set in parts of the wold that I know and love. The implausibility of this poor excuse for a murder mystery made me give up after about 100 pages (it was a book club selection, so I soldiered on). I skimmed the rest, and it didn't get any better.
Big city detectives are called to village on the banks of one of the more remote lakes of England's Lake District, to investigate the disappearance of two small children. The senior detective *immediately* (I mean, he doesn't even unpack his toothbrush) has sex on the lakeside beach with the teenager who last saw the children. Yep, that happens. Because, y'know, he's "troubled." While that's going on, the junior detective ingratiates herself with the locals by pretending she's one of the lads, downing shots and talking B.S.
Are you surprised I made it to 100 pages? Me, too. Utter, utter codswallop.
Big city detectives are called to village on the banks of one of the more remote lakes of England's Lake District, to investigate the disappearance of two small children. The senior detective *immediately* (I mean, he doesn't even unpack his toothbrush) has sex on the lakeside beach with the teenager who last saw the children. Yep, that happens. Because, y'know, he's "troubled." While that's going on, the junior detective ingratiates herself with the locals by pretending she's one of the lads, downing shots and talking B.S.
Are you surprised I made it to 100 pages? Me, too. Utter, utter codswallop.
