Once upon a time, when you and I were young, crime novels invariably finished on page 192. They were tightly written, tightly plotted and made sense. Granted, red herrings were present by the bucketful, but loose ends were usually tucked in, the denouement was carefully explicated, the villain - or villains - were given their just deserts. One knew what to expect from crime fiction in those days, Not any more.
Now big, big, big seems to be the be-all and end-all. Whether this is due to the demands of publishers or the writers losing the run of themselves, I know not. Take Linda Barnes, with her latest Carlotta Carlyle mystery, Cold Case (Hodder & Stoughton, £16.99 in UK). Over 400 pages long, the book for its first two-thirds engages the interest as keenly as a thorn under a fingernail - then unspools it like spindle thread gone mad for the remainder. Pity, for the complicated plot is initially nicely set out. Part-time private eye, part-time Boston taxicab driver Carlotta is hired by mysterious Adam Mayhew to delve into the supposed death of best-selling author Thea Hanis some 24 years ago, just weeks after her stunning debut novel propelled her into the limelight.
It soon turns out that Thea's real name was Dorothea Cameron, said Camerons being the equivalent of the Kennedy dynasty where wealth, influence and political ambition are concerned. Dark secrets begin to surface as this apparently cold case is reheated: new Thea Janis writing appears, a murder is committed, a kidnapping takes place, a retired cop does away with himself. And if Thea is not really dead, then who was buried in her place? We beat on, breathless for answers, only to be rewarded by an incredibly mish-mashed and hurried ending, with our author appearing to panic when she realises she has to stop. Can't beat the traditional 192 pages, that's what I say.
Now Robert Barnard is an old hand, with nearly 30 crime novels behind him, and his No Place of Safety (Harper Collins, £14.99 in UK) runs to 187 pages. Featuring Detective Constable Charlie Peace, the book is a fine example of the neatly-packaged, traditional English whodunit. Two teenagers have disappeared from the same school, the connection between them being that they both helped out at a hostel for homeless street kids. They turn up, but then Charlie becomes embroiled in the battle between warring factions, on the one hand those who want the hostel, on the other those who, for their own nefarious reasons, don't. Nicely drawn characters here, easy writing, but not a lot of excitement. One for the beach, when the rain stops.
For those who like a soupcon of history with their chillers, the new novel by Lindsey Davis, Three Hands in the Fountain (Century, £15.99 in UK), will fit the bill nicely. The protagonist here is Marcus Didius Falco, a kind of ancient Roman private eye, who is hot on the trail of a serial killer who hacks up his victims and deposits their various bits and pieces in the water systems of the city. With his pal, Perronius Longus, in tow, the beautiful Helena Justina to apply healing solace - is that what they called it those days? - and the snake-like Chief Spy Anacrites to avoid, Falco beats his way towards a fittingly upbeat ending. Bizarre, funny and satisfying.
Gregory McDonald is the creator of Fletch, Boston reporter, trouble-shooter and manabout-town, so irritatingly played on the cinema screen by the insufferable Chevy Chase. Skylar in Yankeeland (HarperCollins, £14.99 in UK) is his second novel to feature Skylar Whitfield, a 20-year-old hunk of Southern manhood who has the habit of getting involved in skirmishes of the violent kind. In this one he is visiting his Boston cousins for Labour Day weekend when a teenaged neighbour is found dead on a river bank. Much happens; much hip talk is talked; characters with names like Dufus and Jimmy Bob and Tandy McJane crowd one another for space. I kept hoping for a maniacal Chevy Chase clone to leap in with an Uzi and put manners on them. With David Ignatius's A Fir- ing Offence (Headline, £16.99 in UK) we are back in the realm of the Grishams and the Turows. Fast-paced, slick and surfacy, the story concerns the efforts of ace reporter Eric Truell to get out from under the burden of being leaked information by a maverick CIA agent, one Rupert Cohen. Because of the fact that newspaper people must be seen to be scrupulously objective and unbiased, Truell is in line to lose his job unless he can free himself from Cohen's malign influence. His efforts to do so lead him off on the grand tour - Paris to Beijing to Washington - and us readers on a confusing and confused trail that ends with a dying fall in a small Northern California town. Another one to pass the time until the rain ceases.
Staying in the same territory we have Nicola William's first novel, Without Prejudice (Headline, £16.99 in UK), in which female black barrister Lee Mitchell sets herself up to be knocked down when she takes on the case of financier Clive Omartian, who has been arrested for fraud. Lined up against her is a formidable array of legal eagles, including some from her own practice. Ms Williams, an F.B.B. herself, has written a highly charged and fast-paced page-turner that holds the attention admirably.
FINALLY, a new Archy McNally caper from Lawrence Sanders, McNally's Game (Hodder & Stoughton, £16.99 in UK). Those who are familiar with the series will know what to expect: witty urbanity, a Palm Springs setting, the gentle art of murder, and an investigator who has much in common with amateur sleuths of bygone days such as Philo Vance, The Saint, The Falcon, et al. In this one, Archy is investigating the scam of the Faberge Egg, with a fine crowd of eccentrics pushing and shoving to gain notice. As light as a souffle and as tasty as the roe of the sturgeon, McNally's Gamble is sure to whet the appetite for more.
Michael Painter is a freelance journalist