The central character leaves a provincial town to churn out a series of steadily selling middlebrow novels - now who does that remind me of? This is almost a good book. It has an ingenious mystery at its heart, and Rendell has obviously visited the locations she uses (a rather grim London suburb, a "new-rich" mansion with mirrored walls), a Victorian villa that's seen better days, and taken notes on characters she's observed (a cute Indian girl, a dim gay wine bar owner) but the whole novel seems bolted together from these components. Wexford and his wife Dora and sidekick Burden stubbornly refuse to come to life. And a clunky "relevant" plot strand about women's lib (this is 1979) is dragged in to provide a clue. The whole thing was done much better by Josephine Tey in To Love and Be Wise.