Andrew Martin hails from Yorkshire, and he is fascinated by railways (he has has recently made an excellent BBC documentary on the social impact of railways since their beginnings). So this book set in a Yorkshire village with its tiny railway station ticks both boxes. This brings up intriguing titbits, such as that the current station-master only wears a bowler-hat while his predecessor had a topper...
Yet as a "thriller", something is lacking. Perhaps because the action is slow, or because there are really two plots and the connection between them is flimsy. I could not get excited about either of them.
I think the main problem is a lack of characterisation, especially as regards the central actor, the plodding railway policeman. Think of the great writers of detective novels and in each case we find an unforgettable detective: Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Mrs Marple, perhaps even Lord Peter Wimsey (or Maigret, if we include the French contribution). Here, Sergeant Stringer is eminently forgettable (the author has not helped himself by having him tell the story in the first person). As I ploughed through, I had hopes of his wife ("the wife", as he refers to her in what I suppose is Yorkshire parlance): she seems at times much more acute, but she is not allowed to develop.
All in all, this does not incite me to buy other works in the series.