Gwen Moffat lives in Cumbria. Her novels are set in remote communities ranging from the Hebrides to the American West. The crimes fit their environment, swelling that dreadful record of sin in the smiling countryside cited by Sherlock Holmes.
An
old school cosy brought up to date, and politically correct, with one of the
main characters a boy-man, twenty years old, with special needs, whom everyone,
including the author, treats with kid gloves.
The
story opens with him, Jamie, at his bedroom window, watching his idol, Kerry,
the girl next door, clearing the poolside after a party to which he was not
invited because he wasn’t a school colleague. But although himself a close and
interested observer Jamie misreads actions and is unaware of consequences so
that when Kerry is hit and falls, to float in the water, he goes down to join
her on the swim. When she doesn’t
respond to him he gives up and goes home to bed, hiding his wet pants and
sneakers – which are found shortly by his mother.
Plot
and action follow predictably, every careful diversion, every Stop sign,
signalled ahead, leading to the next turn. Forensics show Kerry’s skull was
fractured by a heavy blow, the weapon a golf club found on a chaise longue
(where Jamie had placed it for tidiness). Questioned, it transpires that Jamie
had witnessed Kerry’s boyfriend, Alan, returning to the pool after the party, which would have
made Alan the prime suspect except that his three buddies swear to his alibi,
thus turning the spotlight on poor Jamie. This transforms his arthritic and
possessive middle-aged mum into a raging tigress, tearing apart the respectable
Cape Cod neighbourhood, disrupting the high school: its students, their parents
and the authorities.
Investigating
the murder is an unassuming cop, Mike
Wilson, who finds an essential ally (and the love interest) in Aline, the
murdered girl’s older sister. Being a youthful counsellor at the high school
Aline is in the best position to ferret out and explore some momentous secret that is causing trepidation ,
even terror in certain quarters, a secret which has to be the core of the plot.
In
this novel the need to remain correct, and not only politically, means there
are no jokes. There is one glimmer of humour when a first time prisoner, upper
class and sheltered, asks of an old lag: “Is food something you ask for, or do
they bring it when they’re ready?”
For
the rest chapters are short, the style polished, the dialogue inoffensive. The
author is in her advanced years and writing for her age group for whom she
ticks all the boxes.
