A competent investigation by a British PI with an American style, this book nonetheless manages to leave a nasty after-taste. Mark Raeburn is a hard-headed Scot pursuing private investigations after a career in the military and the police force. A woman he meets at a party is killed on Wimbledon Common and her husband, himself a suspect, hires Raeburn to find out who did it and why. The police theory favours a Corsican waiter with a history of sex crimes, but Raeburn's investigation uncovers crooked share dealings and adulterous goings-on. Another woman dies before he sorts it all out.
So far so good; but before it's all over Raeburn is exchanging elaborate compliments with a ruthless killer and promising to let him go free. Is it because he recognises his own traits or because the victims were, after all, only women and foreigners? Are there homoerotic overtones here? Either way, Raeburn's moral code leaves a lot to be desired.
It's hard to be rough on a detective who reminisces warmly about dancing with Miss Southern Counties 1949. Somehow I just can't see Sam Spade doing that. But still, perhaps the author should have been the one taking the long hard look.
Jon.
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