This writer reminds me of a spider. She sits at the centre of a web which she spins with intricately woven, sometimes bewilderingly complex threads, but the threads themselves are so gossamer fine than the reader sometimes struggles to see or grasp them; only Sandra's tenacious pursuit of the tru...
While the author is a skillful writer with a strong command of language who is adept at creating rich imagery, being able to visualize the setting and maintain a strong sense of place do not compensate for poor character development or disappointing technological detail. I never achieved any emot...
It was a dinky house, she thought, pulling up outside it, a toy house held up off the ground by foundation blocks that looked as though the next gale would split and sunder them, bringing down the child-sized wooden structure in a heap. Yet the building had survived for a hundred and fifty years....
Rita opened the door, her expression hovering between welcoming and apprehensive. The welcoming part won and she gave me a smile. ‘Rite?’ Owen called from the back of the house. ‘He’ll want to know who it is. He’s that bored. And impatient.’ I said ...
She recalled winter mornings, drinking her coffee at one of the front tables with the sun warming her back, while her husband talked business out on the footpath with the other men, in their casual clothes, their European cardigans. The footpath was always crowded on a Sunday morning. Mrs B calle...
‘I called round to Ken Dollimore’s office,’ she told me. ‘He wouldn’t let me in the door.’ ‘Maybe he’s sick of reporters.’ ‘Bullshit. Publicity’s his meat and drink. I went to see his neighbours, asked if anyone saw him on the fourth of January.’ ‘I don’t—’ I began, but Gail went on impatiently. ...