Anthony Horowitz – The Sentence Is Death

anthony-horowitz-the-sentence-is-death
Anthony Horowitz – The Sentence Is Death

Why did he ever consent to write three books about Daniel Hawthorne? He can’t remember and now, there is another murder and he has to play the detective’s assistant and document to case to turn into a crime novel. Reluctantly, the narrator comes to the crime scene, but he is soon fascinated by the case. Richard Pryce, a well-known and respected lawyer, is found murdered in his house, killed by a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite worth thousands. On the wall, three greenish digits have been painted: 182. The number of suspects is remarkable, from the victim’s partner to his former clients – many might have wanted to see him dead. But who actually committed the crime?

After “The Word Is Murder”, this is the second instalment of this very unique crime series starring the author as narrator and the very peculiar former police detective Daniel Hawthorne who has his very own way of proceeding. Not to forget: again there are some very obvious hints to the number one crime writer Arthur Conan Doyle. It is not just Horowitz and Hawthorne as a comic version of Watson and Holmes, also the case bears close resemblance to some well-known cases of the private London detective.

The case was without any doubt cleverly constructed and is based on a very human vice. Signs everywhere lead to the murderer, yet, they have to be detected and read in the right way. The narrator is getting better in analysing crime scenes, yet this does not prevent him from coming to coherent, but unfortunately false conclusions. The character of Hawthorne has lost nothing of his peculiarity which made me enjoy reading about him and hating him at the same time. He strongly seems to be somewhere on the autism spectrum with his massive lack of social competence. Most of all, however, I really relished Horowitz’s humour which accounts for most of the fun of the read.

A wonderful series with certainly a highly unique style of narration.

Samantha Downing – My Lovely Wife

samantha-downing-my-lovely-wife
Samantha Downing – My Lovely Wife

They did it before and they are about to do it again. What looks like the absolute average family in Hidden Oaks – the father a tennis coach, the mother in real estates and two lovely kids – is all but average. They have a secret, or better: secrets in plural since they have killed more than one woman. And they are looking for their next victim. They are clever, a lot cleverer than all the other inhabitants of their small community and most certainly smarter than the police who don’t even know that somebody is missing. Yet, every run of luck has an ending and theirs is about to come, isn’t it?

Samantha Downing’s debut is a terrific thriller which combines the core emotions of human beings: love and hate. It’s masterly constructed and when you think you finally know what it all adds up to, you get a big surprise and a twist that takes suspense to another level.

First of all, the couple at the centre of the novel. The story is told from the husband’s point of view – interestingly, he never gets a name, there are only his aliases when he makes contact with possible victims. The point of view is limited of course which will play a major role and undeniably helps to lead you to wrong assumptions. As a reader, I should have known better, but I fell easily prey to Downing. At the beginning, you get the impression that the parents are a bit different, even strange to a certain extent, but even though you know that they have killed before, it doesn’t really keep you from seeing the loving father and mother who try to educate their children and deeply care for them. At some point, I even wished for them to get away with murder. Well, they are great in deceiving their environment and so is the reader.

An impressive psychological thriller which only reveals its full extent at the end of the novel and definitely makes you think about what you really know of the people around you and how easily you can be tricked and misled.