Bryant and May Off the Rails (Peculiar Crimes Unit Series #8)

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Arthur Bryant and John May—and their team of proud eccentrics in the Peculiar Crimes Unit—have been given only one week to hunt down a murderer they’ve already caught once, but who somehow escaped from a locked room and killed one of their best and brightest. Facing a shutdown, Bryant and May, men of opposite methods, learn that their nemesis, expertly disguised, has struck again—and now he is luring them down into the vast labyrinth of tunnels and dark shadows of the London Underground. But soon they will ...

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Bryant and May Off the Rails (Peculiar Crimes Unit Series #8)

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Arthur Bryant and John May—and their team of proud eccentrics in the Peculiar Crimes Unit—have been given only one week to hunt down a murderer they’ve already caught once, but who somehow escaped from a locked room and killed one of their best and brightest. Facing a shutdown, Bryant and May, men of opposite methods, learn that their nemesis, expertly disguised, has struck again—and now he is luring them down into the vast labyrinth of tunnels and dark shadows of the London Underground. But soon they will discover a fresh mystery—one as bizarre as anything they have ever faced.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Outstanding . . . a golden age mystery . . . [Christopher] Fowler has few peers when it comes to constructing ingenious plots.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“One of the most delightful series around.”—Library Journal

“Sharp wit, elegant style, and wild imagination.”—The Boston Globe
“Dazzling.”—The Denver Post
“Sparkling.”—The Plain Dealer

Publishers Weekly
Fowler’s unique blend of the comic and the grotesque is on full display in his excellent seventh Peculiar Crimes Unit mystery (after 2008’s The Victoria Vanishes). With the special police unit shut down, Arthur Bryant is feeling withdrawn and depressed while his partner, John May, is considering PI work. When a former team member stumbles on a beheaded corpse in the heart of London’s King’s Cross neighborhood, May artfully uses the discovery to gain the PCU another lease on life. He persuades the higherups that unsolved gang crimes in the area could threaten the economic benefit anticipated from the 2012 Olympics. Given one week to solve the case, without any official sanction or access to police resources, May pulls Bryant out of his doldrums and reassembles the unit. To May’s dismay, his colleague is more interested in reports that a man wearing a stag’s head has been seen in the area. The pacing, prose, planting of clues and characterizations are all top-notch. (Dec.)
Library Journal
London's Peculiar Crimes Unit, disbanded after solving the affair in The Victoria Vanishes, is in disarray. Some team members have found jobs, others are looking for work, and Bryant is wasting away. Then a headless corpse is found in a freezer in a store in the King's Cross area. There is only one crime team capable of solving the bizarre murders that follow—the Peculiar Crimes Unit swings into action. The trail twists and doubles back on itself, and the elderly Bryant and May bicker, but in the end they must acknowledge that they have met another übercriminal. VERDICT It's apparent that after seven Bryant and May titles, Fowler is working his way through the odd and peculiar bits of London history. No one does this better than Fowler, with the possible exception of Peter Ackroyd. [See Prepub Mystery, LJ 7/09.]
Kirkus Reviews
Locked out and disbanded at the end of The Victoria Vanishes (2008), London's Peculiar Crimes Unit comes back from the grave to solve yet another bizarre case. Urban planners have brought exciting new developments to the dicey neighborhood of King's Cross. One is a man wearing a stag's head who's frightening and perhaps abducting passersby. Another is the headless corpse in the freezer of a building that's the new home of the Paradise Chip Shop. The threat of negative publicity for the showcase project is so great that Oskar Kasavian and Leslie Faraday, sworn enemies of the PCU, agree to reconstitute it on an ad hoc basis-"no equipment, no money, no offices, no status, no technical backup, nothing"-if its members can solve the mystery before public confidence is undermined. Although equable John May is eager to go back to work, crusty Arthur Bryant, his fellow chief detective, is less interested in the murder than the stag-head man. Armed with his customary knowledge of all human endeavor, Bryant soon traces the apparent prankster's roots to the mythological Green Man, who "wants to reclaim the ancient woodlands" from the encroachments of railways and urban development. But the unit's investigation of the Albert Dock Architectural Partnership Trust (ADAPT) and its adversaries will lead them off on many tangents before the curtain comes crashing ambiguously down. Neither the mystery nor the solution is up to Fowler's best work. But the reunion of the PCU is cause for such joy that only the most curmudgeonly fans will quibble.
The Barnes & Noble Review
In 1928, Willard Huntington Wright (better known as S. S. Van Dine) set down "Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories", which attempted to cement what should and should not be done in detective fiction. His colleagues and readers took Van Dine's edicts seriously by virtue of the acclaim he'd racked up for his own rule-abiding sleuth, Philo Vance. Eighty-plus years on, the list seems rather quaint. Many of the greatest detective novels written since then gleefully ignore Van Dine's rules-- especially No. 16, which guards against any "long descriptive passages, no literary dallying with side-issues, no subtly worked-out character analyses, no "atmospheric" preoccupations," for "such matters have no vital place in a record of crime and deduction."

I have a mental image of Arthur St. John Bryant and John May, the London detectives created in Christopher Fowler's continuing series, chancing upon Van Dine's fictional detection guidelines not long after publication. They would have been youngsters then, a couple of years past learning how to read, a decade and change from their first meeting as fresh-faced recruits to the Metropolitan Police Force, and 75 years removed from their first joint appearance in Full Dark House (2003) by their creator. And in my fantastical conjuring I see clearly their respective reactions to Van Dine's treatise: May would have shrugged his shoulders and gone on with whatever more important task he was doing, while Bryant would have noted every word in his head, resolving to do the exact opposite -- especially contradicting rule number eight, "chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics."

I bring up Van Dine because he unknowingly made a fatal error of prediction: detective fiction is not static, and it must change to reflect contemporary culture and human behavior. Yet his twenty rules contain many strands of wisdom about tight plotting and ingenious crimes that are rarely practiced now, for they are out of fashion even with novelists who prefer a lighter, cosier touch with murder. Van Dine would have sniffed at today's crime fiction practitioners, but might well have keeled over in shock at how Fowler has transmogrified those hallowed principles -- and has, in doing so, spun a new and utterly delightful web of tradition-minded mysteries that speak very well to modern tastes.

It's both ironic and fitting that Fowler would pick up this mantle. He cut his wordsmithing teeth writing horror stories bearing demure titles such as Flesh Wounds and Psychoville. More than 100 short stories, a sideline in humor books, and a recent memoir published in his native Britain hint at his range. And Full Dark House defies reader expectation by introducing May, aged 80, mourning the loss of his longtime (and even more elderly) partner in policing, as Bryant is believed killed by a bomb that rips apart the building housing their place of employ. That would be the Peculiar Crimes Unit, designed to combat crimes so bizarre and impossible for standard police sections to handle that the public might be alarmed were they to learn about them. Bryant and May's chief task is to make sure they do not, or find solutions before ordinary citizens know too much and are duly terrified.

Such narrative audacity fades out as the Full Dark House flashes back to the Blitz, when the dynamic duo meet, establish their opposing but complimentary personalities, round up the merry band of irregulars to flesh out the remaining PCU positions, and get to work on solving a fiendishly clue-starved case involving a dancer's death at the Palace Theater. Once the case is solved and the narrative reverts to the present, Bryant's death (to misquote Mark Twain) proves to be highly exaggerated-- and a series is born, albeit in an alternate gear.

Six books after the surprises of Full Dark House, the Bryant and May novels continue to stay within the bounds of formula by straining against them in new ways. The crimes become increasingly outlandish (a river-drowned woman found in a basement in The Water Room; Ten Second Staircase features locked room death by art installation and a person struck dead by lightning...indoors; and in homage to Edmund Crispin's classic-of-classics The Moving Toyshop [1946], a spate of murders in the pub begin with one establishment that, to Bryant's chagrin, disappears entirely when visited a second time) as the PCU's denizens become more fleshed out, their quirks and idiosyncrasies so finely ingrained that it's unthinkable not to care about them.

What's not to love about Oswald Finch, the Unit's resident pathologist, who will not be dissuaded from conducting post-mortems his way, the only way, no matter how much he's hurried? Or Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright, a second-generation member, part shrewd investigator and part keen prism into the complexities of maintaining one's feminine dignity and romantic instincts in middle age? Or especially April, May's granddaughter, who keeps everyone in line as office manager but grapples with agoraphobia so crippling it has brushed her up against death a time or two too much?

Fowler doesn't live by the credo of "expect the unexpected"; rather the unexpected is expected. The Victoria Vanishes was supposed to close out a six-part-arc: Peculiar Crimes were no longer important, the Unit was disbanded, and while Bryant and May still kicked, they did so with a lesser wallop. But no, here's Bryant & May On the Loose, jump-starting the PCU's defibrillator and setting them an even more ridiculous task: solve a spate of gruesome crimes linking headless corpses, gang warfare in Kings Cross, and a mythical beast resembling "the great god Pan himself, Jack-in-the-Green, London's oldest and most enduring myth" running around the city -- while based in a makeshift space without computers, means of communication or even decent furniture. Oh, and they have a week.

Bryant, too, must be coaxed out of stubborn slide into death by inertia to lead the troops, perking up only when May snaps, "There's a very good reason why you should be interested. It's a case that can bring down the government." The elderly gentleman protests, but "on some subconscious level, Bryant knew that the only way to pull himself out of his self-pitying nosedive was to try and solve a murder that no-one else in Central London was equipped to handle." Murder as confidence booster is, well, peculiar, but so is Arthur Bryant.

The game is on, but Fowler never stops reminding us that there's much more at risk than games of plotting ingenuity. The novel's antagonist, Mr. Fox, is the most nihilistic and unpredictable of all those the detective duo have tackled in large part because he is new to murder and thinks it so fantastic that there's little reason to stop. Bryant defies May's sighing admonitions that "you sidetrack me from the business at hand" with seemingly tangential juxtapositions that, yet again, prove correct. And when Meera, one of the PCU's most recent recruits, disapproves of Bryant's unorthodox methods, May sets her straight: "A week ago he was ready to give up and die. I'd rather have him back in the field investigating feudal rights and necromantic rituals than leave him at home to rot. It doesn't make any difference to the investigation. Show some respect for once in your life."

Respect, in fact, lies at the heart of the Bryant and May mysteries. These two, despite creaking joints, bureaucratic tangles, and dangers lurking outside their peripheral vision, remain so formidable that I don't want the series to end. The books offer joyful entertainment even though darkness never strays too far. Fowler's plots are delights, but he's equally handy manipulating reader emotions, doing so with the aplomb of a master puppeteer. His greatest sleight-of-hand feat: we remain painfully aware of how little time Bryant & May have left, even as it seems unthinkable they could disappear. The series will extend further with next year's installment, Bryant & May Off the Rails. But do they-- and their beloved Peculiar Crimes Unit-- only have nine lives within them? As much as I hope the answer is no, Fowler must respect his vision as an author no matter what-- even if it means saying a tearful goodbye to these two distinguished, conjoined, heart-stealing detectives. --Sarah Weinman

Sarah Weinman reviews crime fiction for the Los Angeles Times and the Baltimore Sun and blogs about the genre at Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind (

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345528285
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/13/2011
  • Series: Peculiar Crimes Unit Series , #8
  • Pages: 384
  • Sales rank: 227,926
  • Product dimensions: 5.52 (w) x 8.34 (h) x 0.80 (d)

Meet the Author

Christopher Fowler is the acclaimed author of sixteen previous novels, including the award-winning Full Dark House and six other Peculiar Crimes Unit mysteries: The Water Room, Seventy-Seven Clocks, Ten Second Staircase, White Corridor, The Victoria Vanishes, and Bryant & May on the Loose. He lives in London, where he is at work on his next Peculiar Crimes Unit novel.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

 A Private Feud    


Dear Raymond,  

With regard to your apprehension of the hired assassin operating in the King's Cross area, this so-called 'King's Cross Executioner' chap, thank you for acting so quickly on the matter, although it's a pity he subsequently managed to give you the slip.I had a bit of trouble opening your report because, frankly, computers have never been my strong point, but the new girl in our office seems to understand these things and printed out a copy for me.  

Following the judicial review we decided to scrap the idea of holding a press conference, but we're speaking to our key contacts today, so we'll have some idea of the headlines likely to run in tomorrow's papers. Always talk to the press, I say, even whenyou've got nothing to tell them. We're hoping that a bit of publicity might flush him out. I'm trying to discourage sensational references to his nickname, without much luck, I'm sorry to say, but when a little boy finds a human head while fishing for eelsin a canal, you can expect the press to react strongly.  

I have passed your conclusions on to my superior and other concerned department heads, and will return with their reactions in due course. I also have to acknowledge the receipt of an additional report on this case from one of your senior detectives, ArthurBryant, although I must admit I was only able to read portions of this document as Bryant's handwriting was extremely small and barely legible, and pages 23 through 31 had some kind of curry sauce spilled over them. Furthermore his account is opinionated andanecdotal in the extreme, and on several occasions, positively offensive. Could you have a word with him about this? 

  Naturally we are all sorry to hear about what happened. It is always with great sadness that one hears of a police officer's demise in the course of his duty, especially in this case, when the officer in question was so highly regarded, and had such abright future ahead of him.  

Although the tribunal was reasonably satisfied that no member of the Peculiar Crimes Unit could be held responsible for the unforeseen events occurring on your premises, we do not feel that full autonomy can be returned to the Unit until a series of regulatorysafeguards have been put in place to ensure that the impossibility of such an incident—     

  'Oh, for God's sake get on with it!' Arthur Bryant complained at the page, balling it up and disdainfully throwing it over his shoulder as he skipped to the final sheet. He had filched the report from Raymond Land's mailbox and was vetting it before theacting chief arrived for work. 'Let's see—"inadequate safeguards" yadda yadda yadda "irregular procedures" yadda yadda "unnecessary risk factors," all predictable stuff. Ah, here's the bit I was expecting—"because the perpetrator of these crimes was allowedto escape and is still at large, he remains a potential menace to society. Therefore we cannot consider fully reinstating the PCU until he is apprehended." In other words, catch him but don't expect us to help you with additional resources. Bloody typical.Oh, listen, you'll like this bit. "Due to the financial reorganisation of the Home Office's outsourced operations units, you have until the end of the week (Saturday at six p.m.) to conclude this and any other unfinished investigations in order to qualify forannual funding." So he wants us to achieve the impossible in less than one week or he and his ghastly boss Oskar Kasavian will cut us off without a penny. "Your Obedient Servant, Leslie Faraday." Who signs their letters like that anymore? Anyway, he's not ourObedient Servant, but I suppose he couldn't sign it Sad Porky Timeserver or Snivelling Little Rodent.'  

With increasing age, the grace notes of temperance, balance, harmony and gentility are supposed to appear in the human heart. This was not entirely true, however, in Arthur Bryant's case. He remained acidulous, stubborn, insensitive and opinionated. Inaddition, he was getting ruder by the day, as the byzantine workings of the British Home Office sucked away his enthusiasm for collaring killers.  

Bryant started to crumple up the rest of the memo, then remembered he wasn't supposed to have seen it, and flattened it out imperfectly. He fished the other pages out of the bin, but now they were smeared with the remains of last night's fish and chips. 

  'I don't know why you get so het up, Arthur. What did you honestly expect?' John May carefully pinched his smart pin-striped trousers at the knee and bent to give him a hand picking up the pages. 'A man kills three times, is arrested by us, breaks outof a locked cell, stabs a police officer in the neck and vanishes. We were hardly going to be rewarded for our efforts.'  

'What about the innocent people we protected? The deaths we prevented?' Bryant demanded, appalled. 

  'I think they're happier counting the millions of pounds we saved them.' May rose, twisted his chair and flopped down, stretching himself into a six-foot line. 'Just think of all the companies that would have pulled out if we hadn't been able to securethe area.' 

  'What a case for my memoirs,' Bryant muttered. 'Three mutilated bodies found on the mean streets of King's Cross. Murders committed solely for financial gain by a slippery, adaptable thief who's grown up in the area around the terminus, a small-time crookpropelled to the status of murderer when a robbery went wrong. You know what's happened, don't you? For the first time in his life this Mr Fox has been made to feel important. The escalation of his criminal status, from burglar to hired killer, has increasedhis determination to stay free.'  

There was a darkness at the heart of this chameleon-like killer that the members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit had underestimated. For a while it had felt as if gang war was breaking out in the area, but by getting to the root of the crimes, the detectiveshad managed to soothe public fears and reassure investors that the newly developing region was still open for business. In the process, however, they had lost an officer, and had been unable to stop their quarry from escaping back into the faceless crowds.  

Bryant pottered over to the sooty, rain-streaked window and tapped it. 'He's still out there somewhere,' he warned, 'and now he'll do one of two things. Having had his fingers badly burned, he'll either vanish completely, never to be seen again, or he'llreturneth like a dog to vomit, just to taunt me further. Proverbs chapter twenty-six, verse eleven.'   'I don't understand,' said May. 'Why are you taking this so personally?'  

'Because I'm the one he's after. DuCaine just got in the way.' Bryant had never exhibited much empathy with his co-workers, but this struck May as callous even by his standards.  

'Liberty DuCaine's parents have just lost a son, Arthur, so perhaps you could keep such thoughts to yourself. Don't turn this into a private feud. It concerns all of us.' May rose and left the room in annoyance.  

Bryant was sorry that the lad had died—of course he was upset—but nothing could bring DuCaine back now, and the only way they could truly restore order was by catching the man responsible for his murder. With a sigh he popped open his tobacco tin andstuffed a pipe with 'Old Arabia' Navy Rough-Cut Aromatic Shag. His gut told him that Mr Fox would quickly resurface, not because the killer had any romantic longing to be stopped, but because his rage would make him careless. His sense of respect had been compromised,and he was determined to make the police pay for cornering him.  

I'll get you, sonny, Bryant thought, because I owe it not just to DuCaine, but to every innocent man, woman and child out there who could become another of your statistics. You'll turn up again, soon enough. You've tasted blood now. The need to let otherssee how big you've grown will drive you back out into the light. When that happens, I'll have you.  

Unfortunately, Bryant tried to avoid reminding himself, it would need to happen this week.     

Chapter Two


DC Colin Bimsley and DC Meera Mangeshkar were watching the train station. They had no idea what their suspect might look like, or any reason to assume he would appear suddenly before them on the concourse. But Mr Fox knew his terrain well and rarely leftit, so there was a chance that even now he might be wandering through the Monday morning commuters. And as the St Pancras International surveillance team was more concerned with watching for terrorist suspects after a weekend of worrying intelligence, it fellto the two detective constables to keep an eye out for their man. At least it was warm and dry under the great glass canopy.  

Each circuit of the huge double-tiered terminus took half an hour. Bimsley and Mangeshkar wore jeans and matching black nylon jackets with badges, the closest anyone at the PCU could come to an official uniform, but Bimsley was a foot taller than his partner,and they made an incongruous pair.  

'Down there.' Meera pointed, leaning over the balustrade. 'That's the third time he's crossed between the bookshop and the florist.'  

'You can't arrest someone for browsing,' Bimsley replied. 'Do you want to go and look?' 

  'It's worth checking out.' Meera led the way to the stairs. Colin checked his watch: 8:55 a.m. The Eurostar was offloading passengers from Brussels and Paris, the national rail services brought hordes of commuters from the Midlands and the north, the tubeswere disgorging suburbanites and reconnecting them to overland services. Charity workers were stopping passers-by; others were handing out free newspapers, packets of tissues and bottles of water; a sales team was attempting to sell credit services; the shopson the ground-floor concourse were all open for business—and there was a French cheese fair; tricolour stalls had been set out down the centre of the covered walkway. Travellers seemed adept at negotiating these obstacles while furling their wet umbrellasand manhandling their cases through the crowds. Was a murderer moving among them?  

'There he goes again,' said Meera.  

'You're right, he just bought a newspaper and a doughnut, let's nick him. Uh-oh, look out, he's stopped by the florist. I'll make a note of that; considering the purchase of carnations. Definitely dodgy.'  

'Suppose it's Mr Fox and you just let him walk away?'  

'You want to call it? I mean, if we're going to start stop-and-search procedures down here, we'd better have some clearly defined criteria.' 

  'You can come up with something later—let's take him.' Meera paced up through the crowd, then stopped by the French market, puzzled, looking back. 'Colin?' 

  'What's the matter?' 

  'Something weird.' She pointed to the far side of the concourse. There half a dozen teenagers had suddenly stopped and spaced themselves six feet apart from each other. Bimsley shrugged and pointed to the other wall, where the same thing was happening.'What's going on?' Meera asked.  

All around them, people were freezing in their tracks and slowly turning.  

'They're all wearing phone earpieces,' Meera pointed out.  

Now almost everyone in the centre of the station was standing still and facing front. Beneath the station clock, two young men in grey hooded sweatshirts set an old-fashioned ghetto blaster on a cafe table and hit Play.   As the first notes of 'Rehab' by Amy Winehouse blasted out, the two young men raised their right arms and spun in tight circles. Everyone on the concourse copied them. The choreography had been rehearsed online until it was perfect. The station had suddenlybecome a dance floor.  

'It's a flash mob,' Meera called wearily. The Internet phenomenon had popularised the craze for virally organised mass dancing in public places, but she had assumed it had fallen out of fashion a couple of years ago.  

'I took part in a flash-freeze in Victoria Station once,' Bimsley told her, watching happily. 'Four hundred of us pretending to be statues. It's just a bit of harmless fun.'   'Well, our man's using it to cover his escape.'  

'Meera, he's not our man, he's just a guy buying a newspaper and catching a train.'   But the diminutive DC did not hear. She was already running across the concourse, weaving a path between the performers. The song could be heard bleeding from hundreds of earpieces as the entire station danced. The tune hit its chorus—they tried to makeme go to rehab, but I said no, no, no—and the choreography grew more complex. Colin could no longer see who Meera was chasing. Even the transport police were standing back and watching the dancers with smiles on their faces.  

As the song reached its conclusion there was a concerted burst of leaping and twirling. Then, just as if the music had never played, everyone went back to the business of the day, catching trains and heading to the office. Meera was glaring at Colin throughthe crowds, furious to find that her target had disappeared. But just as Meera started walking toward Colin, someone grabbed at his shoulder.  

Colin turned to find himself facing a portly, florid-faced businessman who was slapping the pockets of his jacket and shouting incoherently. 'Hey, calm down, tell me the problem,' Bimsley advised.  

'You are police, yes?' screeched the man. 'I have been robbed. Just now. I was crossing station and this stupid dancing begins, and I stop to watch because I cannot cross, you know, and my bag is taken right from my hand.'  

'Do we look like the police?' Colin asked Meera via his headset.  

Her derisive snort crackled back. 'What else could you be?'  

'Did you see who took it?' Bimsley asked the businessman. 'What was the bag like?'  

'Of course I did not see! You think I talk to you if I see? I would stop him! Is bag, black leather bag, is all. I am Turkish Cypriot, on my way to Paris. The receipts are in my bag.'  

'What receipts?' 

  'My restaurants! Six restaurants! All the money is in cash.' 

  'How much?'  

'You think I have time to count it? This is not my job. Maybe sixty thousand, maybe seventy thousand pounds.'   'Wait a minute,' said Bimsley, 'you're telling me you were carrying over sixty thousand on you—in cash?'  

'Of course is cash. I always do this on same Monday every month.' 

  'Always the same day?' Bimsley was incredulous. How could anyone be so stupid?  

'Yes, and is perfectly safe because no-one knows I carry this money, how could they?'  

'Well, what about somebody from one of your restaurants?'  

'You tell me I should not trust my own countrymen? My own flesh and blood? Is always safe and I have no trouble, is routine, is what I always do. But today the music start up and everybody dance and someone snatch the bag from me. Look.' The irate businessmanheld up his left wrist. Dangling from it was a length of plastic cable, snipped neatly through.  

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 10 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Posted August 13, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    excellent police procedural

    The London based Peculiar Crimes Unit elderly lead detectives Arthur Bryant and John May, capture the King's Cross Executioner, who sliced off the heads of his victims. However, before they could bring this Mr. Fox to justice, he escapes (see Bryant & May on the Loose).

    The brass is horrified by their failure especially since Fox murdered a constable as he fled custody. There is a new move to retire the senior PCU leaders and end funding for the unit. As time is running out, the team seeks to recapture the elusive sly Mr. Fox who they believe is the culprit behind lethal incidents in the London Underground in which a single mother fell down a stairwell to her death and an intoxicated student disappeared and is assumed dead.

    This excellent Peculiar Crimes Unit police procedural will grip readers from the start to finish as the history of the unit's members, specially their geriatric leaders, enhance a strong contemporary mystery. Amusing yet also perplexing as the baffled senior pair and their subordinates wok the Fox fiasco while the brass want the senior pair retired and the unit shut down permanently. Christopher Fowler's talent is affirmed by the audience not having to read the previous Fox fable, though it is worth doing, as Bryant & May are on the case.

    Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 24, 2014

    Read this series!

    I love the Bryant and May books. They are intricate mysteries with lots and lots of arcane knowledge to impart. The characters are delightful and unique and each story in the series is a stand alone good read, while reading the series in order provides additional insight.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2011

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