The story lacks interest, the writing has awkward pace; there is precious little flair on these pages. It feels as though Welsh has rushed this novella, throwing things into the pot that don't really go. The language is one of the major problems, it being rather less than authentic. If one is going to write Marlowe, one must at least relish in it. Here we get too much of the modern with an occasional, gestural flourish. It's a bit like watching Robin Hood on TV - cheap sets, earnest costume, anachronistic haircuts and dialogue.
In other hands, or on a better day, the story may have been told much better, as there's plenty of material worth exploring, but the book is too short to take it further. Short books are fine but this feels like either a short story that has been stretched, or a full novel that has been skimmed.
A missed opportunity, really. Disappointing.