I’ve just finished listening to the fifth of David Gatward’s “Grimm Up North” whodunnits, which, like Hidden Norfolk, is written by an author who seems to be able to produce one book a month, which in turn leaves me convinced that they too are written with the aid of AI.
First of all, the core of these books, a small police team solving the dastardly whodunnit, generally works. With the exception of the fifth book, there is nothing odd or seriously off about the puzzle, and, apart from leaning a bit too far towards caricature, the people in the stories can be believable. I’ve met a few people in my time who are their own caricatures, so I forgive him this.
More of an error, though, belongs with the publisher. The editing is dreadful in places, far worse than Hidden Norfolk. There are repeated words in sentences, there are passages saying the same thing as the previous passage in a different way, as though a revision has been inserted without the original deleted.
Unlike Hidden Norfolk, the sense of humour in these books works, even if it is a little off, or even weird. Indeed, the humour allows the author to get away with the title.
“It’s grim up north” is such a cliché, yet the author deviously uses it to make the reader smile whilst giving an important supporting character his annoying characteristic.
There is something about the plots in the books that make me suspect the author is nicking the setting gestalt from other whodunnits. For example, the third book is mostly set in a manor house, with all the suspects carefully assembled in place, although none of them are called Colonel Mustard. The author even has Grimm saying he is no Hercule Poirot.
The fifth book, which I’ve just finished, should have started with “It was a dark and stormy night”. It is too full of melodrama. The book itself took far too long to overcome the rumble of panic, church organ, and thunder, to actually get started.
Spoiler alert: the plot is a bit dubious in a couple of places. One melodramatic incidental–to–the–murder event, involving fishing wire, is not very well described, leaving me wondering whether the author has forgotten that pulling on a wire requires it to be taught. However, that’s an oversight, not a hole, so it’s beside the point. The bigger problem, for me, involves a torch, which wasn’t a laser, but was treated as though it were. Something handheld being blinding in front of the face is not the same as something being blinding at five hundred yards, excepting a laser. Again, though, perhaps I’m deeply ignorant of modern torch technology, so, although I didn’t like it, I chose to suspend disbelief. Again, some decent editing would have sorted this out.
More spoiler alert: the denouement deeply annoyed me. This is where a decent editor was desperately needed. When a character who objects to being conned is shown in a hateful light, you know the author has problems. It’d be less of a problem if she wasn’t so obviously a caricature. It’s as though his own self–delusions had been shown up for what they are, and he needs to get revenge on the person who saw through him, by making her caricature a hateful murderer. I’d guess there’s a personal history behind the writing that has poisoned the book. It’s a novel, so the parts I’m criticising are more complex than I’m saying here, but this, along with the novel’s ridiculous melodrama, are putting me off reading any more of this author’s work. This is a pity, because I actually quite like Grimm and his team of northern clichés.
The reading of these books is excellent. Imagine a voice which is a cross between gruff the gruff and a box of Swan Vesta, and you’ve got it. It was, of course, technically perfect, especially when it flowed perfectly well through glaring editorial errors, such as a diatribe about a baddie, mentioning the baddie’s name a few times, and using the detective’s as the baddie’s name in one place. AI, anyone? Anyway, don’t let me put you off, Aubrey Parson’s narrration is excellent.
Each of Gatward’s books ends with a declaration of love for the Yorkshire Dales. I know what he means, although I’m not there. Of course one holds the homes of childhood in one’s heart, and when that home is a place of stinging beauty, stinging as in hailstones, it’s hardly surprising Gatward likes the place.