WHY is it that authors of series detective stories feel constrained, after a time, to have their protagonists grow mellow and then saddle them with interfering sidekicks, who merely slow down the action and cause readers like myself to gnaw their nails in frustration? Robert B. Parker did it by introducing the awful Susan Silverman and the posturing Hawk into his Spenser novels, Patricia Cornwell's Scarpetta has the insufferable niece, Lucy, and now Lawrence Block has knocked the rough edges off Mall Scudder, lumbering him with a wife and a street wise smart aleck called TJ in the process.
Once upon a time Scudder was a woebegone alcoholic ex cop, who lived in a seedy hotel room and took cases more out of boredom than anything else. But the books were razor sharp, the plots deep and complex, the morality pared toe the expediency of an eye for an eye, and the dialogue and settings as spare and grey as a pre dawn hangover.
In the latest offering to come my way, Even the Wicked (Orion, £15.99 in UK), Scudder has taken out a licence to practice as a PI, is living in seeming domesticity with ex prostitute Elaine, and has practically adopted slang- spouting and super confident TJ. As he takes on the chore of guarding the back of one Adrian Whitfield, a criminal defence attorney who is being threatened by a serial killer known as Will of the People, Scudder is continually being sidetracked by affairs of the heart and his dogooder's desire to make a proper citizen of TJ.
The plotting is as intricate as ever, but, to me, Scudder has lost his edge. How I'd love to see him fall off the wagon, take his leave of Elaine and give TJ the bum's rush, and get back to hobnobbing with his Irish friend in the butcher's apron who solves his problems with the help of a cleaver and the liberal quaffing of Jameson whiskey to settle any pangs of conscience.
In my opinion the best writer of tough detective fiction at the moment is Michael Connelly. His main man is Harry Bosch, a miserable old fart by any definition, whose jaundiced view of life would leave Job of the sores in the pennyhapenny class. The latest to feature him, The Last Coyote, arriving in a fine paperback from Phoenix (£5.99 in UK), sees Bosch suspended from the LAPD after pushing his superior officer's head through a plate glass panel in the door of his office. At a loose end, he decides to reopen the case of his prostitute mother's murder, an event that took place some thirty three years ago but which he was unwilling to look into up to now.
Stubbornly following the ice cold train, and stymied by friends and enemies alike, he uncovers the usual dirty deeds in high places, smokes too much, drinks too much, hates himself and everybody else, yet at all times remains his own man. For those who like a bit of contrariness and astringency in their heroes, Bosch has to come head of the list.
My advice to you about Tom Clancy's new Jack Ryan novel is not to drop it on your foot. At 874 pages, Executive Orders (HarperCollins, £17.99 in UK) is a real bone crusher and has enough reading in it to keep you going till close to the millennium. A JAL Boeing 747 has made a kamikaze dive on the Capitol building in Washington, wiping out the President and most of Congress and the Supreme Court, leaving Vice President Jack in control. Essentially a man of action, he now has to curb his more savage propensities and become a statesman. How he does so, and in the process cleans up India, China and Iran, and brings far right wing politics to the fore takes up the bulk of the 874 pages. Millions love Mr Clancy and his gung ho tracts, and they're welcome to him.
The Virgin and the Fool, by Douglas Boyd (Little, Brown, £16.99 in UK) is an old fashioned espionage thriller, with the emphasis firmly on pace, action and movement rather than on the psychology or motivation of the characters involved. The hero is ex spy Tom Fielding, who is engaged in a race against time to prevent former enemy Nosarenko, now President of the Ukraine, from wiping out not alone himself but just about everyone else close to him. Another big read, the book is very black and white about its good, guys and its bad guys, heroic sacrifices are made, hair's breadth escapes are effected on every second page and, after a proper blood and thunder climax, everything turns out for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Could one ask for more.
Australian thriller writer Jon Cleary is a professional from way back, and his latest, Endpeace (HarperCollins, £16.99 in UK), shows him in his usual good form. Featuring Detective Inspector Scobie Malone of the Sydney police, it has enough plot twists and conspiracy making ingredients to satisfy the most demanding aficionado of the genre. Basically it is about the murder of newspaper tycoon Sir Harry Huxwood and the jockeying that takes place after it by a disparate band of people who are striving to gain control of his wealth and power. In spite of a number of modern touches, it retains a certain old fashioned air that reminds one of the great days of the whodunnit.
Kensington Court, by Carol Smith (Little, Brown, £15.99 in UK), is set in the eponymous locale of the title, a vast Victorian mansion block to which Kate Ashenberry has fled, seeking some peace and quiet after suffering a violent relationship. At first things go swimmingly, as she meets her fellow tenants and forms a number of friendships. But then the killings start, the once amiable, faces take on a chilling inscrutability, and Kate finds the mansion becoming a prison instead of the haven she had been hoping for. A nicely hair raising one, this, which manages to maintain its air of suspense right to the grisly climax.
Shank by Roderick Anscombe (Bloomsbury, £15.99 in UK), is, as its title might imply, a rather nasty offering which should not under any circumstances be given as Christmas gift to the maiden aunt - that is, unless you want to frighten her to death in order to inherit the millions she's kept hidden all these years under the bed. It is concerned with psychotic Dan, who literally loved his wife Janie to death. Now he's on the run with his new object of obsession, Carol, the prison nurse, and on the trail of a drug baron's hidden million dollars which, like love, he'll find even if it kills him - and most of the people in his vicinity. Written with tongue firmly in cheek, this book will keep you chuckling hollowly even as it trickles ice water down your back.