I didn’t particularly want to read this book; I wanted to make a start on Babel Tower. But I finished my previous book on the Eurostar, and still had another hour from Waterloo to home. So I splashed out. Could’ve bought a magazine, I suppose, but they all seem so vacuous.
I hesitate to say that I got vacuous anyway, but this novel is entirely predictable from beginning to end. It’s prettily written, but there’s nothing new or original whatsoever within its walls.
The story claims to be based on a real murder, and loosely weaves the victim’s letters into itself; but if you took them out, then nothing would change. They provide the impetus for the obvious ending, but any number of other events could have done the same thing.
It’s not a totally crap read, but you will get nothing out of it.
3/5
