This story won an award for a debut crime novel, and I can well see why. Without wishing to suggest that it is `perfect' (whatever that is), I would say it is outstandingly accomplished and exceptionally readable.
I bought it on the strength of its title and absolutely nothing else. Garnethill is an area of Glasgow that I knew very well when I was young, and nostalgia is strong in Glasgow's émigré children. Apart from other factors, this city is full of unique and distinctive place-names, and I was looking longingly to hear them again. In fact the book has less of that than I expected, so I had to concentrate on the story. There is nothing distinctively concerned with Garnethill for one thing, but that makes a better title than, say, Springburn. One flank of Garnethill descends to Sauchiehall Street, the opposite flank to the Cowcaddens, but neither of these gets so much as a mention. If I had hoped to find some such statement as `A man was stabbed in the Gorbals' I did not find that either. The story is the thing, and quite a story it is too.
I liked basically everything about it. The dialogue and patois are distinctive enough to warm an exile's heart, but not so distinctive as to be unintelligible to anyone else. There are some very good lines here and there, most of them too indecorous for quotation in a review. It is all seedy stuff, what we used to call `kitchen sink' material back in the 50's. Being old enough to remember, say, Up The Junction, or A Kind of Loving, I started with a slight suspicion that we were meant to be shocked at such scenarios and goings-on, but happily that was just my own age showing and not the way the book is. In a sense it is pretty grim material, but for all the show of gritty unflinching realism the narrative has a sense of proportion, good taste and even a grimy dignity about it.
The characterisation is distinctly good in my opinion. I could recognise many or most of the types delineated, and there is a particular kind of brutality about Glasgow crime that came over to me very clearly, and that I hope will be recognisable to others lacking my own background, because the sense of it is captured with genuine perceptiveness and sensitivity. The real sleuthing is done by someone with rather an exceptional interest in finding the truth, miles ahead of the police in her thinking while not being any kind of genius, and a real down-to-earth personality rather than any specialist like Poirot or even Marlowe. The characters in this book are never boring or superfluous, but I'd say the best thing about the story is how well the narrative is paced. The identity of the killer emerges gradually and tantalisingly, known to the main participants before they mention it to the rest of us. What happens to the killer is then full of poetic justice and very satisfying, I thought, as well as highly original.
Not a page too long, it seemed to me as I waved farewell to them down Duke Street.
