Last Rites by
John Harvey
pbk out September 99
(Arrow)
at £5.99
John Harvey's tenth (and final) Resnick novel opens in splendid style. A woman (wife, lover?) waiting; Resnick stirring in his bed, his cats
Miles and Pepper in attendance, Thelonious Monk on the record player (at 6am!) "stalking Duke's tunes with eloquent uncertainty"; lightning
sketches of Resnicks team as he is briefed on the nights events. The
classic economy of the writing reminds the reader that ten years ago
when the first Resnick book appeared, it was generally to Elmore
Leonard, Ed McBain, George Higgins and all those other American writers
credited in the Coda to this book, that we would turn for authentic
low-life characters, realistic policemen and inner city life portrayed
with some degree of honesty.
Thus, before my usual impatience with series characters set in, I
devoured the first three Resnick novels with relish. A chapter or two
into the new novel and the pages are turning relentlessly. Michael
Preston, serving a life sentence for the murder of his father, is
allowed out of prison for his mothers funeral. And whilst Resnick and
his team are struggling to make the connections between an outbreak of
violence in a nightclub and a shooting in a Burger King, probably
drug-related, Preston escapes. But to what end?
All the old trademarks are here: the intertwining plots, the pace, each
succinctly written scene, now sharper, less densely written, slotting
neatly into place; the lightly sketched look and, particularly, feel of
Nottingham as a place that Harvey, returning to London after 17 years in my old home town, feels he is losing.
Here again is Resnick the loner. There is time spent over
mouth-watering sandwiches or his beloved record collection, now on CD
rather than LP; Resnick the lover, an old relationship cooling, a
sympathetic ear lent elsewhere. But might not Resnick by now have
explored his chosen music beyond its classic era into more modern
manifestations, into say, Bill Frisell or Geri Allen? Might he not have
become a little embittered ten years and still a D.I. or more
cynical over the process of law?
But these are later thoughts. The book reads seamlessly, always edgy,
full of tension, sometimes domestic sometimes out on the street
leading finally to a shattering if predictable climax. And if Resnick is now a familiar, comfortable figure, Harvey knows how and when to drop in a quietly moving scene or two, like those as Lynn Kellogg copes with the final days of a beloved father scenes that remind us that most lives have their share of mute desperation.
John Harvey wants to write "something new". Meanwhile read Last Rites
and enjoy.
