Italy

Laid back as the residents of Euganean Hills environment may be, nothing could be further from the truth when it comes to blow-in, and investigative journalist, Riccardo Ranieri who has tense, nervous and put-upon down pat.

Starting out reading MURDER ON THE 18TH GREEN, there is the distinct possibility that Ranieri is going to annoy some readers. He’s an odd sort of combination of ego and vulnerability, sincerity and glibness that makes him very hard to pick in the beginning. It doesn’t hurt that for a man who, on moving to this country location, has availed himself of the companionship of two beautiful German Shepherds who he obviously loves. It doesn’t help that his attitude towards their care and feeding seems somewhat haphazard, even allowing for the difficult circumstances Ranieri finds himself in, what with being the man who discovers a friends body, getting shot, finding himself investigating the death, and his own shooting, annoying his neighbours, the police, and half the golf club members along the way. None of which seems to bother him a bit, until it starts to bother him a lot. Needless to say he’s a wonderfully frustrating character and endlessly fascinating. Which is just as well as he’s also just about the entire focus of this novel, although there are some standout cameos from his police bodyguard and others.

There’s such a strong sense of culture and attitude about this novel, that is sweetened all the more by a dry and understated sense of humour. Readers that get that a large percentage of Ranieri’s ego is tempered beautifully with his own ability to poke fun at himself will find him engaging. The plot for the novel is also nicely played out, although to be honest, the ultimate killer might not be that hard to pick, but the machinations along the way are well worth following. This is a lot more about why than necessarily who or how.

Often funny, very engaging, MURDER ON THE 18TH GREEN is well worth a look, although, it might make you think twice about a sauna after a round of golf.

Wonderfully evocative, THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SIGNORA GIULIA imparts much information about the society in which it is set in a short, but beautifully balanced novel.

When Signora Giulia goes missing, police detective Sciancalepre follows the investigation with dogged determination over a number of years. For much of this time it seems that the Signora has simply vanished into thin air. No body is found, nor are there sightings of her that lead to more than new questions. Coming from a small village as they all do, there is however, much gossip about her taciturn, older lawyer husband; about her marriage; and the possibility that she had a much younger lover. 

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SIGNORA GIULIA is a fascinating book - immersed as it is in the place from which it comes, it gives the reader a feeling of being in somewhere completely different, despite it being translated for accessibility. Sciancalepre is somebody that you feel that you'd know if were to come across him in a little cafe, the same with the Signora's husband and his eventual estrangement from his daughter, and the way that he withdraws from his life with his wife, leaving their shared home is quite moving. The way that he starts to appear quietly in the night in the garden of that house, only to be seen by his daughter and new son-in-law is restrained in the telling, but moving nonetheless. Obviously this is a man who is hiding something - but is he the killer of his wife, or does he still mourn for her? 

As well as those character study elements, there's a nicely twisting plot here with lots of possible answers to the fate of Signora Giula, some of which the reader will guess, some of which will come as a surprise. Combine that with the perfect ending for this style of novel (and one most definitely not for fans of absolutes) THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SIGNORA GIULIA is a taste of Italy, granted without the elaborate food descriptions of more well known series, but with everything else you could possibly ask for.

Nadia Dalbuono’s debut novel The Few introduced readers to Italian policeman and son-of-a-mafioso Leone Scarmacio. At that time, it appeared The Few would be the first of a pair of novels to feature Scarmacio, the second promising to focus on the dangling plot threads relating to the protagonist’s past. The American, Dalbuono’s second novel to feature Scarmacio, does not delve too much further into this backstory. It takes Scarmacio off in a new direction and is all the better for it.

A man is found hanging beneath a bridge near the Vatican. The circumstances surrounding his death are reminiscent of the death of Roberto Calvi, known as God’s Banker, found hanging in London in 1982. When the body goes missing following the intervention of some shady Americans and a cardinal is killed in the Vatican, Scarmacio’s antennae start to twitch. Before long he is well and truly in over his head, dealing with forces far beyond those of the Italian police. But Scarmacio is not one to leave a mystery alone.

The American effectively pits the little guy against the global forces that shaped the late twentieth and early twenty first century behind the scenes. The world of espionage and state sponsored terrorism is revealed in all of its ends-justify-means pragmatism. What really happened, and what truth there is to the many conspiracy theories floating around , including 9/11, remains murky. By the end, it is hard to know what to believe, but this is a credit to Dalbuono rather than a criticism.

The feeling of threat, both personal and professional, that was hanging over Scarmacio from The Few escalates considerably in this novel. And the violent scenes, when the threat eventuates, are well handled, often creating a flow-on array of issues for Scarmacio. Dalbuono has refined some of the elements that were not as well handled in The Few, including the flashback sections at the beginning of most chapters which are still slightly opaque but have a greater coherence with the narrative.

In the end, The American is a taut, well constructed thriller. There is no need to have read The Few to enjoy this volume but newcomers are likely to be keen to go back and read the first Scarmacio novel and fill themselves in on some of the backstory. While the main case is wrapped up, the ending, once again, leaves a number of ongoing matters and potential threats unresolved. The American is definitely not the last we will be seeing of Leone Scarmacio and most readers will be hanging on to see what happens next.

The 11th Montalbano book this is a series that I'm tragically reading out of order, behind the publication dates and sadly not often enough.

Of course fans know about the food, and the scenery, and the grumpiness of Montalbano. Combine that with the vague lunacy of the members of the rest of the police force he has to work with and there's a sense of affection about these books.

Which stands out markedly against the relationships that Montalbano has with everyone including his on/off/distant/what exactly is their relationship girlfriend Livia.

Around this investigation, which revolves largely around the difficulties in identifying the dead woman, Montalbano's relationship with Livia is off again - and this time it seems terminal.

So stand by for a lot of soul searching, and dithering about with she said / he said / or they simply said nothing because neither wanted to pick up the phone. Add to that the standard pressures from above, the side and below with Montalbano's team also supposed to be investigating the kidnapping of a local man - who everyone, but his wife, thinks has done a runner.

If you love this series, then there's really not a bad book, although there are favoured ones. Perhaps because of the heavy concentration on the relationship between Montalbano and Livia, this does bog a bit on occasion. In the same way that finishing the chocolate dessert might get a bit tricky at the end of a fabulous meal. As always, the real problem with this series is that it's impossible to read any of them and not be hungry. And somewhat disappointed that your fridge doesn't reveal the sorts of delicacies that Montalbano's does.

Italy is fertile ground for crime fiction. With the mafia, political shenanigans and corruption often making international headlines. In addition, it is a beautiful and colourful place with fabulous locations for nefarious acts. Nadia Dalbuono's debut novel, The Few, draws on all of these aspects, and adds a few more to create a heady mix of plot and character.

Detective Leon Scarmacio, like all good crime protagonists, is a policeman with a shady past and on the outer with his colleagues. Son of a famous mafioso, Scarmacio is the white sheep of the family, a fact that is not lost on his less than white colleagues. In The Few, Scarmacio is drawn into the investigation of the death of a male prostitute which also involves blackmail of a senior government minister and shady dealings at all levels of the Government.

Then, following an anonymous tip-off, Scarmacio becomes involved in the investigation of a missing American 7-year-old on the island of Elba. There are a number of these poorly justified tip-offs in the novel, dropped in to keep the investigation (and plot) on track. 

As the plot unfolds on Elba, The Few starts to feel like two, or perhaps three, books shoehorned together. The whole is also not helped by short italicised flashbacks at the beginning of some of the chapters, many of which make little sense and require rereading as plot unfolds. And while the disparate plot strands and flashback sequences do come together towards the end, the novel never escapes the feeling of being overstuffed with plots, characters and connections. In the end, while the central mystery is resolved, there are still a number of side issues, particularly related to Scarmarcio's past, left dangling for an expected sequel.

It's hard not to sympathise with Montalbano about the heat. Especially as I sit here trying to write this note on a 38°C day. With a worse one to come. It's something that was really particularly marked in this book - the way the heat became a part of the story, just as the sense of place, and character is so very strong. You could see Montalbano and his colleagues slogging out an investigation in the dreadful heat. You could sympathise with him when the holiday house from hell reared its ugly head, and you definitely could understand how he might be tempted by the twin-sister of the murder victim, no matter how wrong it seems.

At the heart of the book is another tightly constructed plot with aspects of the political and the Mafia built in, but not in a manner overwhelming. This isn't a story about the Mafia's control, rather it's a story about the possible outcomes, the idea that some people might be protected as a result of their connections. And it's a story, as always, about Montalbano's dogged pursuit of the truth. To the detriment of a lot around him. Except his meals of course. Some things are sacrosanct.

At this time of the year for some reason, goodness knows what, I crave dark, violent, humorous escapism. I crave pulp, noir, hardboiled, I'll even happily take nasty. THE COLOMBIAN MULE delivered exactly what I was looking for.

It doesn't hurt that this isn't a police procedural, a stereotypical lone wolf private detective or any of the expected scenarios as well. Instead we do have a PI, who works with a group of old friends, to solve problems. In this case, the problem is why one man seems to have been set up to take the fall as the recipient of drugs smuggled in by a Columbian man who has a big reason to be worried about himself. What doesn't make sense is why he's seemingly identified the wrong man as his contact. Our hero, ex-con, former blues singer, fixer, secret bar owner and his intrepid team set out to work out what the real story is.

The book is sparse, tight and beautifully balanced, with not an excess word in sight. Peopled with some very original characters, who slide and dodge their way through life, with every action, every act, tempered by the understanding of what doing time in jail will do to a man.
 

There's a Renault Twingo referred to as having "committed suicide" when Gallo, the station's driver, he of the "Indianapolis Complex", slams into it in a spectacular example of mad driving that had me crying with laughter on page 4 of VOICE OF THE VIOLIN. Which is not a bad writing feat at all, in 4 pages you know that Montalbano's in a mood after a fabulous meal was interrupted by his nemesis Catarella. That his car's in the shop and he has to get to a funeral. That Gallo's a madman, and there's now a green Renault Twingo parked on the side of the road that's now got a smashed rear end. And you're laughing.

There's nothing particularly funny about the subsequent discoveries when Montalbano returns more than a bit intrigued as to why nobody has rung the station breathing fire over the damage to their car. And it's not all plain sailing in this case as Montalbano battles mutual dislike between him and his new boss, has the investigation taken off him with dreadful consequences, and stares down a bit of discontent in his team all whilst he battles to come to grips with a major upset in his personal life.

As is expected in this series, tight, descriptive, brilliant storytelling with a wonderfully engaging central character who has raised grumpiness to a glorious art form.