Mini reviews of All the Colours of Darkness and The Birthday Present.
Unfortunately, this has become the fate of Peter Robinson's long-serving DCI Banks who, after some 18 adventures, is left cold, wet and disillusioned at the end of All the Colours of Darkness (Hodder & Stoughton, pbk, $38.99).
It begins - and at the end returns to - a simple murder-suicide that Banks, in his usual stubborn manner, tries to turn into a major international spy story.
Padding out what would have been an excellent short story about the original crime are lengthy descriptions of minor characters and North Yorkshire and London scenes, enough product placement to make it look like a novel scrawled on the back of a large shopping list, and a drawn-out London terrorist bombing incident that has no connection to the story.
Banks never did make it up the ladder to superintendent and this seems like a good time for him to retire. - Geoffrey Vine
Barbara Vine, aka Ruth Rendell, excels at creating complex, carefully drawn-out psychological stories that show up the vanities and frailties of human beings.
The Birthday Present (Viking, pbk, $37) has all of these factors, being the description of how high-flying MP Ivor Tesham seeks to hide his involvement in the death of his mistress, Hebe Furnal.
The two had a steamy affair rather complicated by the fact that Hebe was married, necessitating the use of Hebe's friend Jane as an alibi.
Ivor's birthday present to Hebe backfires tragically (he had arranged for her to be kidnapped and delivered to him bound and gagged), and the resulting deaths become the focus of a media frenzy.
Although Ivor manages to keep his name out of the story, there are several people who know some or all of it, including Jane.
She has always resented the disparity between her drab life on the edge of poverty and that of the beautiful, spoiled Hebe and her wealthy lover.
Vine's skill at scene-setting and observation of people and their weaknesses makes this a very enjoyable read, slow-paced but with a satisfying tie-up of all the loose ends. - Helen Adams
