Someone who venerates plot to the extent I do should not have enjoyed this book as much as I did.  There’s a Nancy Drew-esque dollop of convenience at every turn, and a series of coincidences and sudden realisations that just happen to tie these actions together far more tightly than seems possible at first glance…and I should abominate such quick answers.  But, holy hell, it’s also superbly written, and rich in the pulp sensibilities that resulted in me crowning Jim Thompson one of the four most important male crime writers of all time.  Classicaly constructed it isn’t,  but gloriously entertaining it certainly is.

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