“Burke shows again that he’s not just a comic genius, but also a fine dramatic writer and storyteller.” – Booklist. “Prose both scabrous and poetic.” – Publishers Weekly. “Proust meets Chandler over a pint of Guinness.” – Spectator. “Among the most memorable books of the year, of any genre.” – Sunday Times. “A hardboiled delight.” – Guardian. “Imagine Donald Westlake and Richard Stark collaborating on a screwball noir.” – Kirkus Reviews. “A cross between Raymond Chandler and Flann O’Brien.” – John Banville.

Friday, November 30, 2007

The Jules In Our Crown

How come we’re always the last to know? Julie Parsons has a new novel for your delectation, folks: apparently I SAW YOU has been adorning the shelves since last month, but – oh, the humanity! – we have yet to see it. Did no one think to get in touch with us? Or is it that the barring order dear Jules had to get against the CAP elves after the unpleasantness with the belly-dancing dwarves is still in force? Anyhoo, never being ones to hold a grudge, we quoth the Macmillan blurb elves hencely:
For ten years, newly retired policeman Michael McLoughlin has been haunted by the case of a young woman brutally murdered and the affection he felt for the victim’s mother, Margaret. A favour for a friend leads him to another woman who has lost a child – her daughter has been found drowned in the same lake her stepfather died in years earlier. Was it an accident, suicide or murder? Margaret thought she could escape her past but the memories of her daughter and of her killer give her no peace and she finally returns to Dublin to face her demons. A chance encounter with a young girl in a graveyard leads her to back to a man she never thought she’d see again and a mother with a grief to match her own. This is a chilling and dark novel of love, revenge and atonement from the author of MARY, MARY, THE COURTSHIP GIFT and THE HOURGLASS.
Jules? If you’re reading this, we just want you to know that all the belly-dancing dwarves have been deported back to Bolivia, along with that nasty marching-powder they were snorting out of the elves’ belly-buttons. Can’t we be friends again?

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