Reading David Seabrook's Jack of Jumps, London would seem to have been awash with prostitutes and ponces during the late 1950s and early 1960s. A number of prostitutes were murdered, a total of eight, though not all could have been assigned to the same culprit. Seabrook goes back over all the cases in great detail; these women led roving, itinerant lives, moving their lodgings, their basement flats and staying with other women and with various men, at frequent intervals. No one was ever convicted of killing any of the eight women, though there were a couple of attempts. The problems were ones of confusion, uncertainty, with an embarrassment of likely killers not the least of them. What a stew, what a stinkpot - almost deserving of a writer like Seabrook, misogynistic, sneering and offensively dismissive of the wretched lives of these women who serviced the dregs of London on a nightly basis.
Seabrook is trying to write in the same mode as David Peace (whose books set in West Yorkshire covered the time of the Yorkshire Ripper), or Gordon Burn (who has written of similar murders, including those of Fred West), but the trouble is he does not have the ventriloquistic talents, or the linguistic skills and depth of imagination of Burn, or the gritty realism and passionate intensity of David Peace. Seabrook cannot cut to the quick of an issue - he has to write around it until he's extracted the necessary sneer factor. Unpleasant isn't a strong enough word for this book. I'm not sure there is a word for it, but if so it's a nasty one.