Every time I pay a visit to the crime section of my local book store, I seem to be confronted by a multitude of titles by new authors, all jostling for position on the already over-populated display tables. Most I've never heard of and probably will never ever read unless some enthusiastic CT review persuades me to part with my cash. Like almost every other genre these days, the province of the crime thriller has reached saturation point.
Competition is fierce.
There are a lot of good writers already out there, but there are even more poorer ones. Which brings me to Paul Charles's new book. Apparently, this is his second novel, a sort of prequel to last year's well-received debut, I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass. I was not familar with Paul Charles in any shape or form until now, but quite frankly, after struggling through 176 pages of his latest tome, nor do I care to extend my acquaintance. Unfortunately, I have to confess that I cannot remember the last time I read such a flaccid, mediocre crime novel.