Kinky Friedman "Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned"

News of the impending arrival of The Staggster, an avowed and admitted Kinky Friedman fan, had me doing a quick check of the online sources to check on details of recent fictional efforts by the aforesaid Mr Friedman.

As an aside, re. the current kerfuffle about the effect of online shopping on the Australian retail sector, experience suggests I'm unlikely to find what I'm looking for in a bricks and mortar establishment.

I'd gained the impression that Kinky's recent literary efforts tended towards the non-fiction sphere, heavy on personal reminiscences about political identities and musings on Texas etiquette, rather than the crime fiction based around the misadventures of the fictional Kinkster and the assorted cast of merry associates usually referred to as the Greenwich Village Irregulars.

Investigations revealed attractively-priced copies of Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned ($12.60), The Prisoner of Vandam Street ($8.86) and Ten Little New Yorkers ($9.44), so I figures those titles would round off the Friedman collection on the Little House of Concrete Bookshelves. I wasn't inclined towards What Would Kinky Do? How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World, Kinky Friedman's Guide to Texas Etiquette: Or How to Get to Heaven or Hell Without Going Through Dallas-Fort Worth, Scuse Me While I Whip This Out: Reflections on Country Singers, Presidents and Other Troublemakers or Texas Hold 'em: How I Was Born in a Manger, Died in the Saddle and Came Back as a Horny Toad, even at a substantial discount from RRP.

I've remarked elsewhere that I thought I was going off Kinky Friedman, but there's still a place for these little potboilers in the big picture of Hughesy's reading. For a start, they're relatively lightweight in both the literary and physical sense, provide a chortle or three and make almost ideal in transit reading between The Little House of Concrete and whichever destination we're flying to.

Something to pass the time through the transit lounge, onto the aircraft, during the flight and in transit to wherever we're staying, in other words, and if you don't get all the way through a re-read this time you can always aim to finish it on the return journey or hold it over for next time.

So, yes, I've read everything up to those three titles at least once, and they'll fill a useful function once they're here and have had the rapid first squiz.

There was nothing in the advance publicity to indicate that Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned was anything other than a stock standard Kinkster adventure with all the associated hangers-on, until a glance at the blurb on the back cover revealed the identities of the main characters, novelist Walter Snow, beautiful and intelligent Clyde Potts and the certifiable Fox Harris.

Not, in other words, a Greenwich Village Irregular in sight.

And I'm not entirely sure where the Kill Two Birds bit kicks in either. There's a fairly liberal supply of Malabimbi (sic) Madness which accounts for the & Get Stoned in this tale of recovering alcoholic author Walter Snow and his newfound inspiration at the hands of a couple of leftovers from the Yippe Era of cultural terrorism.

Coming off seven years of writer's block, Walter's chance encounter with an attractive woman who needs access to a safe deposit box to secure her grandmother's Russian heirloom silverware set from the depredations of her mother's gypsy boyfriend seems relatively innocuous, but as things turn out the heirloom silverware is a dead fish, and visiting police officers advise Walter to have nothing further to do with the woman we come to know as Clyde Potts and to contact them if she contacts him.

She does re-establish contact, of course, and, equally predictably, Walter fails to contact the authorities as Clyde Potts and her associate Fox Harris inveigle the author into an escalating series of scams against corporate targets, starting with a fairly straightforward switcheroo con at an operation in the Bennigan's Irish pub-themed restaurant chain, liberating a large Afro-American inmate from a mental hospital, charging a gourmet extravaganza to Donald Trump's credit card and, finally, launching an all-out assault on a Starbucks franchise that has had the temerity to take over the premises formerly occupied by a down at heel neighbourhood Irish bar.

Along the way, Walter picks up the inspiration that gets the creative juices flowing again, though how a supposedly fictional account of these activities equates to the Great Armenian Novel isn't obvious to this reader. Predictably, by the end of the novel Walter's a best-selling author who has been able to move from his basement apartment to a large airy penthouse looking over Central Park.

Along the way things flow along at a fairly merry pace without any hint of the cornpone pholosophising we've come to know and mostly love through The Kinkster's oeuvre. There are plenty of other musings there, largely along the lines of wistful reflections of the would-be romantic recovering alcoholic, so while it's a reasonable read with its share of humour it's not quite Kinky Friedman as we've come to know the dude.

Dedicated Friedman fans are, accordingly, advised to approach with caution, while those who find the regular Kinkster offering a bit hard to take might find this alternative offering a little more palatable.

Or not, as the case might be.

Garry Disher "Blood Moon"

Following almost straight on from Chain of Evidence, Blood Moon has Hal Challis back from South Australia with things following a predictable course as far as the house-sitting Ellen Destry is concerned. That course, however, while predictable, has implications for the future of both parties, and there are the predictable moving into a relationship considerations that come where one party moves into the other's pre-existing setup.

As far as the professional futures are concerned it's obvious Challis and Destry can't carry on as part of the same investigative unit, at least not while they're obviously shacked up together. One doesn't notice the same issues rearing their ugly heads in other series where you have colleagues falling into the sack together, but that's presumably because they're able to maintain a fictional independence through separate residential addresses.

That's not the sort of thing, however, that's going to go down well with Superintendent McQuarrie, Challis' boss, who he's crossed swords with in the past, and an interview with the boss early on in proceedings has McQuarrie pointing out in the old days one of you would have been posted to Outer Woop-Woop but to leave it with me and he'll presumably see what he can come up with.

If that's an unexpectedly sympathetic McQuarrie, the form reversal can largely be attributed to the discovery of Lachlan Roe, chaplain at an exclusive private school, bashed and left for dead on his front lawn. Roe has links to Opposition Leader Ollie Hindmarsh, who has been known to be extremely critical of the Victorian Police Force so it's hardly surprising that McQuarrie wants things tackled with kid gloves.

It's not as if that's the only thing the Waterloo Police have to deal with. For a start it's Schoolies' Week with the predictable law enforcement issues as hordes of school leavers move into sex, drugs and rock'n'roll party mode and numbers of older toolies turn up to take advantage of the inebriatedly vulnerable.

Among those ranks is Josh Brownlee, who's bringing his own issues to this year's Schoolies' after being a genuine participant last year, attracting the attention of Kaz Moon, surf boutique manager who's out for revenge for an alleged rape last year and has an imaginative take on the concept of extra-legal revenge.

Then there's the murder of town planning infringements officer Ludmilla Wishart, who has apparently stumbled on evidence of corruption in the approvals process in an area favoured by well-heeled people with money looking to erect substantial monuments to their own lack of taste.

Ludmilla ('Mill' to her close acquaintances) is in a position where she's likely to rub up any number of influential people the wrong way, and is married to architect Adrian, who's the sort of obsessively jealous control freak who may well have done his missus in if he thought she was wandering.

He's the sort of bloke whose microscopic attention to detail would, you'd expect, have any sensible woman terminating the relationship before it got the chance to go anywhere (he's the type to tally up the cost of hot water in showers and monitor the use of toilet paper) and while she's in receipt of advice to do just that she knows that in his own words the only way you'll leave me is in a coffin.

And, as you'd expect, within the police station relationships are reshaping and realigning. Plodding good with detail man Scobie Sutton's ultra-religious wife is veering towards the First Ascensionists, an obscure sect with connections to Lachlan Roe and Ollie Hindmarsh, Pam Murphy, freshly promoted to plainclothes work, is attracted to glamorous city boy cop Andy Cree, getting her ex-operational partner John 'Tank' Tankard's nose out of joint in the process.

As usual, Disher takes the apparently unconnected strands and ongoing issues, winds then neatly around each other and keeps enough unsuspected snippets up his sleeve to add the odd new and unexpected element to the mix as things progress through the lunar eclipse that gives the book its title.

With the latest title in the series (Whispering Death) just out there's a natural inclination to rush in and grab a copy, but there's a reluctance, at the same time, to do that right now, given the likely lead-time before a seventh title appears. I have a suspicion that short-term curiosity is going to win out.

Garry Disher "Chain of Evidence"

One of the attractions about reading a series in sequence lies in the speculation regarding future directions the interpersonal relationships between the key players is going to unfold, and having scanned the blurb on the back of the local library's copy of Blood Moon (purely to check where it fitted into the sequence, you understand) I knew that Hal Challis and Ellen Destry were due to become an item, though that hasn't quite transpired yet.

At the same time you can see Disher setting things up so they'll end up there.

Chain of Evidence opens with Challis off the scene called to his ailing father's bedside and finding some family history to keep him occupied as the inevitable decline takes its toll.

That leaves Ellen Destry in charge of the Peninsula East CIU. After the  breakup of her marriage, with the daughter away at University and Challis away there's a certain logic in having her house sit his temporarily vacant home. After all, she needs to live somewhere, and it gives her an excuse to be there when Challis gets back.

Along the way, with the daughter on site after breaking up with the boyfriend and freaking out in the pre-exam swot vac, Disher has the ex-husband arrive on the doorstep, taking daughter Larrayne out for a Thai dinner where he breaks the news that Dad's got a girlfriend.

It's a case of removing the obstacles one by one, after Challis' ex-wife's suicide in prison and the death of newspaper editor Tessa Kane at the hands of Snapshot's hitman and although those matters remain unconsummated at the end of Chain of Evidence the reader gets the feeling that it's only a matter of time before they are.

But that's very much a side issue as Challis delves into his brother-in-law's disappearance and Ellen Destry is faced with the abduction of ten-year-old Katie Blasko. Katie has, however, been known to wander, but having the benefit of inside information the reader's fully aware that there's a paedophile on the loose, and there are early clues that he's part of an organized ring.

Disher works this kind of thing well, with the reader knowing enough of what's going on to appreciate touches like Scobie Sutton's growing awareness of how close his adored daughter may have come to sharing Katie's fate while still leaving room for a sting in the tail of the tale as police corruption issues rise to the surface.

That's because we've actually got three intertwined plot lines here.

There's Challis, at Mawson's Bluff in the back blocks of South Australia with time on his hands and an unexplained family mystery. His brother-in-law, a warden with the RSPCA has disappeared in circumstances that would suggest suicide if it wasn't for the fact that his assumed widow has been receiving unexplained items through the mail.

Destry has the Blasko abduction to pursue, and is forced to do that in an environment where the operational budget is being closely monitored by  Detective Superintendent McQuarrie and the forensic work has been outsourced to a privately operated laboratory where careless procedures leads to contaminated evidence.

And there are other issues within the Waterloo police station, apart from the third element, an on-going frustration at their inability to come up with a conviction that will start to break up the malevolent influence of the Jarretts, a family of petty criminals terrorising their neighbourhood.

Throw in significant professional jealousy in an environment where the uniforms aren't impressed by the rise of the female detectives and each officer has their own personal agenda and, in most cases, some long-simmering resentment against one or more of their colleagues.

Those issues aren't helped when details of the Blasko case are leaked to a TV current affairs show, which the reader knows is due to cash-strapped Constable John Tankard's discovery that his dream car is an unroadworthy lemon that'll cost an arm and a leg to fix up and has already produced a hefty hire purchase debt.

All in all, while we're looking at a police procedural much of the difficulty in the course of the multiple investigations stems from the inability of those involved to follow the appropriate procedures in an environment where personal agendas get right in the way of team cohesion.

I finished Chain of Evidence less than twenty-four hours after Snapshot, and while I've got a couple of other volumes to knock over before I head out to chase down Blood Moon it's very high on the upcoming agenda (as is monitoring the horizon for the imminent Whispering Death).

Garry Disher "Snapshot"

Given the fact that the Inter-Library Loan turned out not being an option, and with no visit to the Gold Coast with the subsequent opportunity to check whether there's a copy in the library there, reading the Challis and Destry novels in sequence meant I was going to have to buy a copy, and a visit to Fishpond produced a US hardback copy from the Soho Crime imprint.

After The Dragon Man and Kittyhawk Down there are a couple of developing inter-personal loose ends that need tidying, and while Snapshot doesn't quite deliver Inspector Challis and Detective Sergeant Ellen Destry into a relationship you can see that's where they're going to end up eventually. Whether that'll be an on-going concern is anybody's guess.

Snapshot starts with a rather clever bit of reader manipulation, with psychological counsellor Janine McQuarrie generating a fair degree of reader sympathy as we learn that having succumbed to her husband's pressure and joined in the erotic adventures on the Mornington Peninsula swingers' circuit she's apparently found the prospect of true love elsewhere.

She's driving her seven-year-old daughter around with her on a pupil-free day as she muses on these matters, before being shot in an obvious contract hit outside a rundown weatherboard house on a quiet country road near Penzance Beach. The daughter would have died as well, but the hit man's pistol misfires.

You get an inkling that she's not quite the assassinated innocent from the fact that she has just posted off some photos from the most recent orgy to several male participants, including her husband. Police inquiries reveal she's not that popular with colleagues or clients either, so there are plenty of possible motives for the hit.

There's also an additional complication since she's the daughter-in-law of Hal Challis' boss Detective Superintendent McQuarrie, who's inclined to meddle even when he's not personally linked to a case. His son, of course, has to be a prime suspect, but he's hardly the only one, and Dad seems more interested in protecting the son than finding the killer.

The reader already knows who carried out the hit, so there's the regular challenge of spotting the way Disher's going to line things up for a solution as the hit man receives frequent instructions via text messages from an anonymous employer and goes about removing various figures around the periphery of the case whose continued existence could prove problematic.

Along the way, as things unfold there are the interpersonal dynamics that drive a good series, both inside Waterloo Police Station and among the officers' nearest and dearest.

Detective Sergeant Destry's marriage continues to disintegrate. Well-meaning Sergeant Scobie Sutton continues to extol the wonders of his ten year old daughter to an uninterested audience while his wife gets the chop from her welfare job with the notification arriving via email. Constables Pam Murphy and John Tankard still manage to only just tolerate each other as they drive a sports car around the district in a public relations exercise, rewarding courteous drivers with bags of goodies.

As has been the case through the other Disher titles I've read, the author integrates these elements seamlessly, switching perspective adroitly and sketching in any relevant details where they need to sneak in without disrupting the flow of the on-going narrative. That means you can read his work out of sequence, handy in a world where some of the earlier titles might not be that easy to track down in your local bookshop, though it also means you aren't going to get the unfolding interpersonal dynamics in quite the same way.

That's a significant consideration because it's the characters as much as the deftness with which Dis\her manipulates the elements in his plot line that are likely to bring the reader back to line up for the next one in the series. Disher's success in that regard can be gauged from the fact that within twenty-four hours of finishing Snapshot I had borrowed Chain of Evidence from the local library, knocking it over within a day, and if it's more than twenty-four hours before I'm queueing up for their copy of Blood Moon that'll only be because I've got a Shane Maloney Murray Whelan trilogy and another title I borrowed at the same time as Chain of Evidence.

Fred Vargas "Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand"

Taking a glance along the bookshelves there are a number of series represented in (almost) their entirety, and in most cases they're, predictably, based around a central character who, in most cases, has some significant degree of eccentricity.

It's easy enough to base a series around a character who's basically a decent bloke (in most cases the key character's male, with Alafair Burke's books the significant exception to the rule) but that means he needs something to add an element of interest and continuity through the series. Peter Robinson's D.I. Banks, for example, has his music while Stephen Booth's Ben Cooper has his family and the on-going prickly interaction with DS Diane Fry, who has her own issues to deal with.

But then you have the central characters who have their, shall we say, eccentricities. James Lee Burke's Dave Robichaux and Burke's other key characters have their interactions between alcohol and their pasts, all of which have elements that are going to drive them. George Pelecanos has an ongoing and intersecting circle of Washington-based sociopaths, most of them with an interest in music and a background of substance issues if not actual abuse.

Michael Dibdin's Aurelio Zen has his quirks as far as diet and other matters are concerned as he tries to manoeuvre himself into a comfortable sinecure, something that he never quite manages to achieve.
There are a few of them that are pretty much out there. Kinky Friedman and the Greenwich Village Irregulars, Andrea Camilleri's Montalbano and his merry men and Colin Cotterill's Dr Siri and his social circle being prime examples, but when it comes to characters that are way out there where the buses don't run there aren't too many that are further out there than Fred Vargas' Superintendent Jean Baptiste Adamsberg.

Adamsberg's the leader of a ragtag twenty-seven strong assembly of oddballs, including the alcoholic single father and walking encyclopedia Danglard, the formidably substantial Violette Retancourt and a variety of other individuals who all seem to have some degree of obsessive compulsive disorder with walk on roles for his on and off girlfriend, plumber and musician Camille, mother of his son and recurring source of strange situations.

Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand is the fifth in the Adamsberg series, following on not long after This Night's Foul Work. After a few weeks off work, a new home which may or may not be haunted by a ghost who may or may not only have it in for women there are a couple of new players as Adamsberg engages in the demarcation dispute with the drug squad that's the starting point of another highly coincidental plot line.

He needs an ally to keep the investigation into the possibly drug-related deaths of two large men within his own Serious Crime Squad bailiwick, and the most obvious ally is leading pathologist Ariane Lagarde. There's a back story to their interaction here, involving a clash of opinions over a previous case Ariane had categorized as suicide which Adamsberg, correctly as it turned out, saw as murder.

There's also a back story to the newest member of Adamsberg's team "The New Recruit"  whose home in the Pyrenees is the village next door to Adamsberg's. Eight-year-old Veyrenc was attacked by a gang of four toughs from that village while a fifth boy looked on, and it's soon obvious that the on-looker was Adamsberg.

THe attack left Veyrenc with physical as well as mental scars, and his family background has delivered an extraordinary ability to speak in alexandrines, rhyming lines of twelve syllables that were a staple of Baroque German literature, modern French poetry and English drama before Marlowe and Shakespeare. In another series this would be remarkable, here it's an almost regulation personal quirk.

There's no obvious link between the are they or are they not drug related deaths under investigation and shootings of stags in Normandy, and Adamsberg only encounters those incidents because he's called to babysit young Tom while Camille plays cello in an orchestral concert. The Norman villagers outraged at these seemingly senseless acts have their own foibles, as you'd expect, and Adamsberg's drawn into investigating aspects of those killings which, as readers familiar with the quirks of Vargas' plot lines would have come to expect, turn out to be related to this other case.

The most likely suspect seems to be a recently-escaped elderly district nurse, jailed for more than thirty killings of old people and possibly out for revenge on Adamsberg, who, predictably, cracked  the case and his associated. There's also the possibility that she's gathering the ingredients for a potion that will deliver eternal life, and the deaths that kicked the story off would seem to be part of that. There are a number of seemingly accidental deaths of Norman virgins whose graves have subsequently been disturbed, more than likely by the two men whose bodies Adamsberg wants to keep out of the clutches of the drug squad, as part of the process of gathering those ingredients.

That quest for the eternal elixir might also explain the mysterious disappearance of Violette Retancourt, a matter that is resolved when her unconscious body is located by Snowball the tracker cat.

It would be quite possible to go further into the intricacies and interlinkings as Adamsberg goes about another instinctive investigation, but out of consideration for the reader, I'm inclined to draw a veil over those matters, pausing only, on the way out, to point out that Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand is another worthy addition to a series that will eventually find its way, complete, onto Hughesy's bookshelves. Between public libraries in Bowen and southport and book shop purchases I've read the remainder of the series, and as we keep our eyes peeled for the forthcoming An Uncertain Place and subsequent volumes there's definitely a place for rereading their precedents, which means they need to find their way onto the shelves, don't they?

Fred Vargas "An Uncertain Place"

Towards the end of An Uncertain Place, having cracked the case and tied the ends together, Commissaire Adamsberg phones the Serb translator who has helped sort things out. Asked about plans for the future, the translator replies that he's off to a conference and will be back on the straight and narrow which as you know does not exist and is neither straight nor narrow.

Which is, looking at it, a remarkably accurate summary of both existence and your typical Adamsberg story.

In both cases there's an apparent progression through a seemingly continuous narrative which simultaneously unfolds and jumps from place to place without apparent rhyme or reason as influences you thought were unrelated turn out to be intertwined.

You can, of course, take most detective novels and reduce them to a straightforward formulaic plot line. Detective is presented with challenging case and solves the mystery which turns out to have an unexpected element or consequence.

The first thing your average writer will do is to throw that plot line into an environment with a group of characters whose interactions are going to keep things going and add subplots and other intriguing influences to the mix.

Fred Vargas (the nom de plume of French historian and archaeologist Frédérique Audouin-Rouzeau), as anyone who has read her fiction knows, does all that at the start and then takes things off in directions that increasingly defy your expectations even when, having read everything you've been able to get your hands on. you don't actually have any.

My invariable reaction to an Adamsberg story is to scratch my head and ask myself how the (expletive deleted) could anyone come up with that?

For a start, having noted the rise of a substantial genre involving (teenage? dunno, haven't actually read, not really interested) vampires I hadn't anticipated reading any of it since that whole Nosferatu/Vlad the Impaler thing doesn't really float my boat, yet here we are wandering off to not-quite-Transylvania to track down a case that seemingly involves interactions between and among the undead and their legacy.

Then there's the strange coincidence of people who've got it in for Adamsberg who turn out to be related in unexpected ways, and not necessarily related to Adamsberg.

Or not. As the case may be.

The key point is, I think, that when you pick up an Adamsberg novel you know you're headed for strange territory, so it's a case of suspending logic and any set of expectations and settle down for the ride.

Put bluntly, this time around Adamsberg starts off at a a three-day conference in London where he encounters (shock! horror!) a macabre, bizarre and brutal case. Returning to Paris he encounters a second case which turns out to be related to the first one and needs an excursion to Serbia to tie the elements together.

Oh, yes, and the whole thing centres around the undead and represents the culmination of themes that run back a couple of centuries.

Along the way you know you're going to encounter an extravagance of eccentricities, and once again they're present in spades. Adamsberg, for a start, blithely wanders through a conference conducted in a language he doesn't speak while his translator, the encyclopedic Danglard becomes smitten by a female participant whose name appears to be Abstract. Apart from his lack of English, there's Adamsberg's inability to remember precise detail, so New Scotland Yard's Inspector Radstock becomes Stock, and London's baroque old Highgate Cemetery becomes Higg-gate. It's all in the detail, you see.

The starting point for the ride, once the scene has been set, is a collection of seventeen shoes, each containing a severed foot, apparently seeking admission to the cemetery. Danglard notices that some of the shoes are French, but Adamsberg cautions him against getting involves. Let the English handle it, and all that.

Back in Paris, there's a brutal murder in suburbia where the victim's body has been pulverized by a miscellaneous assortment of sharp, blunt and powered devices to the point where there's nothing left to identify him except for traces of DNA and there's some sort of logic behind the apparently random scattering of body parts around the crime scene.

The victim, a rich semi-retired legal-journalist who was not quite cordially disliked by almost everybody, including his son (who describes him as chateau-bottled shit), has left most of his fortune to his gardener, who happens to have a criminal record involving a number of violent offences, which naturally puts him straight into the frame.

Characteristically, Adamsberg doesn't think he did it and isn't inclined to expend too much energy when he escapes, having managed to disable two police guards.

Checks reveal a similar death in Austria, where the killer has been labelled Zerquetscher, the Crusher, an epithet Adamsberg diminished to Zerk, who eventually arrives in Adamsberg's home, claiming to be his son.

These things happen all the time when Adamsberg's about.

There are also the regulation complications among Adamsberg's squad, with Danglard distracted by Abstract and the usually efficient Inspector Mordent distracted by his teenage daughter, who's facing serious criminal charges and provides an excuse for someone to get at her father.

That someone, it seems, has contacts among the upper echelons of the French political and legal establishment and is in a position to conceal the identity of the culprit and simultaneously destroy Adamsberg’s career.

Faced with that threat, Adamsberg makes himself scarce, heading to Serbia and a village close to the Romanian border, which turns out to be the victim's ancestral home and gives Vargas the chance to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of vampire-related folklore.

The sojourn also gives Adamsberg the chance to tie things together, though the vital clue, as usually happens, passes you unnoticed until the Aha! moment, when, of course, you find yourself wondering why you didn't notice that at the time.

Or at least, on this occasion wrapped up in the developing narrative, I did.

And that, I think is the point. An Adamsberg story develops throws up a bewildering range of apparently unrelated elements as Jean-Baptiste and his colleagues set about their investigations with Adamsberg adopting a scatter-gun approach and seemingly investigating everything that might be relevant and quite a bit that probably isn't but, in some cases, turns out to be.

If you're a fan of logical development through forensic analysis and standard procedures there's every chance Fred Vargas isn't quite your cup of tea. On the other hand, each of the Adamsberg stories has rolled along quite marvellously as a remarkable character and his inimitable squad wander through a surreal world that parallels reality but doesn't quite manage to exist within it.

An eighth title, L'armée furieuse is already out in France. Hopefully we're not looking at a repetition of the three years An Uncertain Place spent in translation. though these matters cannot and definitely should not be hurried.

James Lee Burke "The Glass Rainbow"

Eighteen titles, twenty-three years and the Dave Robicheaux series is still going strong, though The Glass Rainbow has the New Iberia detective picking up ominous signs.

I've seen suggestions that, with Robicheaux and long-time associate Clete Purcel seriously wounded at the end of the story this may well be the end of the series, but I'd counter that with an if Dave Robicheaux's dead how come we're getting a first person narrator?

There are a couple of things that come in handy when you're looking at an extended series of crime fiction, and James Lee Burke continues to tick most of those boxes along the way.

For a start, in the absence of the long term good guy/bad guy scenario you find operating between Ian Rankin's Rebus and Big Ger Cafferty or Graham Hurley's Joe Faraday and Bazza McKenzie you need an on-going ability to roll out convincing psycho and sociopaths.

While you'd think that Burke could roll these characters out in his sleep bestselling celebrity ex-convict author Robert Weingart is right up there with the best of his villains, pulling the strings and manipulating those around him a Robicheaux digs around the latest in a series of brutal murders in neighbouring Jefferson Davis Parish.

Then there's the psychotic  Vidor Perkins, a truly nasty piece of work who gets his comeuppance in a salutary manner shortly before a close Robicheaux escape from the same fate at the hands of a ruthless batch of hired hands.

Or pimp/crack dealer Herman Stanga, beaten up by Clete Purcel and subsequently shot beside the swimming pool that's the only attractive feature of his increasingly dilapidated residence in a previously upmarket neighbourhood.

Most authors would probably draw a line around there but Burke goes further.

There's novelist and scion of local local landowning family Kermit Abelard, who's become involved with Robicheaux's stepdaughter Alafair, who's in the process of embarking on a literary career.

You can add local boy made good investment tycoon Layton Blanchet, on the verge of going under in the wake of a Ponzi scheme, his scheming wife Carolyn, who's got form relating to Robicheaux's boss Sheriff Helen Soilau and Mississippi prison gun bull Jimmy Darl Thigpin to that little array of nasties.

Thigpin inconveniently disposes of a black convict whose sister, high school honour student Bernadette Latiolais is one of the seven  women who have been brutally murdered. in the neighbouring county.

Given the wealth and quality of villains in the area, I tend to start a new James Lee Burke with an intention to explore the story a chapter or two at a time in a limited bit by bit strategy. Inevitably, however, the narrative drags you in to polish the rest of the story off is a flurry of reading activity.

You want to take your time, savouring Burke's seamless prose without overdosing on the thugs and low lives and end up churning through the pages to see how it all works out.

Another factor in the continuing series side of things is a certain degree of timelessness. Do the maths. Robicheaux and Clete Purcel served in Vietnam. You're not sure when, but given the fact that they started Vietnamization after January 1968's Tet Offensive and US forces were gone from the country by 1973, thirty-six years later those who served in Vietnam are going to be pushing sixty, hardly the age to be living the Clete Purcel lifestyle or engaging in running gun battles.

Burke describes the way it went down in the year 2009, but apart from that and passing references to a hurricane that could provide a  point on a timeline there isn't much to date the story. People use mobile phones, there are issues when they're out of range and a couple of references to the internet, but they've been doing those things for a good fifteen years now, and an absence of other specifics makes it easy for the reader to avoid having his or her attention drawn to things that mightn't quite add up.

But more than anything else the would-be author of a lengthy crime series needs a setting that will accommodate a variety of plot lines, the authorial skills to carry it off and, almost invariably a strong moral element in the protagonist's commitment to getting to the heart of the matter.

Michael Dibdin's Aurelio Zen might be a time server who keeps getting into matters he'd prefer not to become involved with along the way but he's operating in a society where corruption and individual shortcuts are an accepted way of getting through everyday life.

When it comes to societies teetering on the edge of dysfunction it's hard to come up with a better long term example than Louisiana, where the issues that came to light in the days after Katrina were expressions of long standing social divisions that come directly out of the region's history and will, more than likely still be there in a century's time.

An awareness of that history, and a righteous indignation at continuing injustice is the main motivation that drives Dave Robicheaux, and when he's called to interview a convict on a chain gang it trips off a chain reaction that draws the reader in as Robicheaux struggles with his stepdaughter's involvement with Kermit Abelard who's ten years older and also closely involved with the manipulative Robert Weingart.

Robicheaux's reaction to the relationship might be seen as the response of an over-protective parent, but there's definitely something there from the earliest stages of the story that doesn't quite add up.

And doesn't quite add up is probably a fair assessment of Clete Purcel's continued survival, having broken most of the rules and seemingly avoided official or unofficial retribution. Robicheaux, of course, is inclined to ascribe that survival to fear on the part of the Mob and the hapless army of miscreants that dwelled like slugs on the underside of the city based on a recognition of Purcel's unwillingness to obey rules or recognize traditional protocol but as he continues to wreak random havoc through the narrative the reader is left scratching his head on the basis that Clete's run of luck can't last forever.

But, of course, it does, even if it means a serious wound as he takes out a bunch of skilled operatives who've been together Senegal to South Africa, Uzbekistan to the Argentine.

Some readers may take issue with the fact that the story ends shortly thereafter without a neat tying together of the various threads, but that's fine with me. While we don't have all the details of the two killings that provided Robicheaux's motive to go digging we're pretty sure of the who and the where, and there's a fair chunk of why taken care of as things get shaken out.

There's nothing much that's new or different here, but The Glass Rainbow gives the reader another chance to roam through Burke's fictional world, and as a long-time fan with an interest in most things to do with Louisiana I have to admit a reluctance to actually experience the Gulf coast environment.

Somehow I suspect that the reality would fall short of Burke's shimmering prose, and there's always the chance that he's on the money when it comes to the psycho- and sociopaths...