This Body of Death (Inspector Lynley Mysteries 16) [Paperback]

What is with with these successful churn-em-out authors? Do they eventually think they are above editing? Do their fans stick to them no-matter-what? Do they believe that more is more and fail to see that it is less? Elizabeth George lost her touch long ago. It has been many years since I manage to wade past the first few chapters, though, bless me, I always make the effort. I really gave this one a good try, but I have to say-what is good is not original, and what is original is not good. The story is a direct lift of the tragedy of James Bulgar, and the subsequent resurfacing of John Venables in the news.She sets the scene well at the start of the novel by moving between seemingly unrelated stories. The social worker's reports are always the most fascinating. But does this story have to be spun out quite so mercilessly? Does George think we have nothing else to do but wade through her verbosity?I gave up at about page 200, and just picked up on the social worker reports to the end to find out what ensued. I did, and it took all of 10 minutes.

After the murder of Helen I almost parted company with Elizabeth George. However I gave Careless in Red a chance which it richly deserved. Now I'm unsure whether I'll continue my love affair with George's books. Her earlier novels were by far the best and whilst she writes with assurance and her prose is beautiful parts of the plot are unneccessarily convoluted and could be condensed without harm to the storyline. Reading the sub-story made me feel uncomfortable with such close parallels to the Bulger story and the police chase after the paranoid schizophrenic was too close to the Jean Charles de Menenes incident. George is taking chances here it seems to me. And an ACC drinking on the job - acting ACC, but even so, I certainly hope not! Was this all a bit over-imaginative? Pushing the boundaries a bit too far. And Lynley acting out of character even given the madness of his grief with the alchoholic Isabelle robbed me of some of my sympathy for him. George's style is evolving, as this must for an author,but it's into something less wholesome than the novels which brought her to prominence.

This Body of Death by Elizabeth George. 'An exercise in self indulgence'.

The author is possessed by self indulgence on a grand scale with 726 pages detailing an enquiry of a murder in a London graveyard. Unnecessary dialogue and a surplus of characters over contributed to this story.

I really strongly objected to the parallel story line of a murder which took place some 20 years previous to the current murder investigation which is intertwined in the main story line. This old case, which is directly relevant to the new case, is almost a copy of the traumatic James Bulger murder which shocked the British public and is deeply etched into the British psyche as a tale so horrific that it is viewed with repellence and repugnance and acute embarrassment that our society could have produced such monsters as the killers. This is insensitive and the author lacks imagination, subtlety or even discretion by bringing this sad story into current literature in the form of thinly disguised fiction. This is very, very bad taste. (Anything to sell a book eh?)

The murder investigation is peopled by too many characters, each acting independently and the supporting cast seems to be also too well populated, what makes it worse, they are unnaturally vociferous in their many conversations which frequently have no bearing on the matter in hand. The murder enquiry has many suspects as who could be the killer, to the reader only there is only one, but it took 726 pages to resolve the case and that is far too many

Whilst the author's geographical research and knowledge are excellent, particularly about the layout of London, her understanding that Maidstone is out in the sticks and that a police inspector from Kent would have little knowledge of London and its travel systems is rubbish. Ms George is obviously unaware of the constant commuting into the capital for business and pleasure. (For instance I live 20 miles from Oxford Circus and would travel easily and confidently around London)

Her main character is Det. Inspector Lynley, returning to the fold after his wife's murder some six months previously. He is a unrealistic character if ever there was one, some sort of current Lord Peter Wimsey; it is hard to imagine the son of a Lord having trod the streets of London as a copper on the beat. This alone is irritating.

Now the author's use of colloquial English as used in English street language is ridiculous. I have never heard such verbose and unnecessary conversations by working class or middle class people. In addition some the words they use have not been in common conversation since Charlotte Bronte was in her prime. Her usage of regional dialect endearments are way off beam too, no landlady in London would call anyone `pet' which is a North East England term. I double checked this with my friend who was brought up in Stoke Newington where a lot of the story line is set, we agreed on the following: For the authors information, the correct terms of endearment as used in London are `lovey' dearie' and `duck, if of a Jewish background then `doll'. At least some the conversations made me laugh, even if they were not meant to. For information Londoners are quick, witty, to the point and do not waste words nor wax lyrical and neither do people talk to the police with detailed information about their opinions and life stories, Oh, and they also swear a great deal. I suppose the author's English editor is ex Cheltenham Ladies' College and has absolutely no idea. It is this inaccuracy on what is English and what isn't that jars so much with the reader.

The other irritant was that most conversations seemed to be psychological warfare between individuals; if we all went about our business in this manner we would have no friends and never get anything done, especially the female Acting Superintendent who is a complete lush and still manages to get promoted in the Met Police. I doubt this appointment very much. I wonder if the Human Resources Department of the Met has contacted the author, I hope so.

By the way where does the term `sluts wool' come from when referring to dust balls? None of my friends in England has ever heard of it, we refer to `dust balls' when we refer to accumulated dust debris; the word isn't even in the Dictionary of Historical Slang, probably another `Americanism' that has sneaked in. Another Americanism is that length of the book, this is not `Gone with The Wind' it is a detective story, I suggest the author reads Peter Robison or Ian Banks to get the idea on what is currently fashionable as a British detective story.

I struggled on with the book until page 576 then skimmed the rest and felt cheated that I had paid for the book at all. I am full of admiration for the expertise of the BBC and the skill of its scrip writers and producers who managed to turn the Lynley series into watchable TV, if they were confronted with such ponderous writing from the author's works then it was a miracle.