I arrived at this book not as a lover of crime fiction, nor even as a regular reader of novels, but as a fan of Cathi Unsworth since her days as a journalist on sadly missed music weekly Sounds, where her name first became synonymous with witty, savage, thrilling prose in her coverage of all the coolest underground bands of the late 1980s. It was during this period that she began to put her musical background to good use by channeling punk's defiant, questioning spirit into her sharply written reviews, honing her words until she found a way to distill her anger, refining it into a form of literary energy that later evolved into her early books The Not Knowing and The Singer.
Bad Penny Blues shares with its excellent predecessors a dark atmosphere soundtracked by hip tunes from a certain era, but it is also true that in terms of compelling storytelling it marks a huge leap forward. In her new book Unsworth evokes an only partly-fictional world of dead prostitutes, spooky musicians, kinky toffs and bent cops planting bricks on kids at West End Central nick; this is a strictly post-war London landscape, soon to be groovified by the Beatles, but for now it remains monochrome and murderous, inhabited by a sleazy web of criminals and establishment pervs whose paths overlap as a series of gruesome killings remain unsolved, the list of victims growing as the Sixties start to swing.
The trip Unsworth takes us on is often disturbing - particularly as it's based on actual events surrounding the real 'Jack The Stripper' murders, which took place in West London within the same distant yet eerily recent time frame and which, yes, remain unsolved to this day - but she adds humour to the mix plus plenty of switched-on pop winks for those who can tell their Joe Meeks from their Humphrey Lytteltons, so there's no need to be afraid unless, of course, you know more about the quite possibly still alive 'Stripper' than you should...