Here I am in a primitive third world country with a fresh CARE package of books. There are enough so that we won't fight over them. My wife has taken some mysteries set in Venice and a Jane Austen. I grabbed this mystery and a history. It is an embarrassment of riches.
This is an unusual surplus of English words on the frontier of a country where few people read and fewer read books. My computer's operating system has decided that my modem shouldn't open and I am deprived of the reading and scanning of the 'net, of Blogcritics and surfing the US and world news. My Internet addiction is quieted to a background compulsion. (I sneak out to the internet cafe for short periods.)
It is a page-turner. It is a formula novel. It is what I normally eschew - a serial killer novel. It is a travel book for the London of New Scotland Yard - not a guided tour kind of place
There are serial killing monsters and they exist, but I don't usually want to get into their heads. They remind me of slasher movies. They are popular and their popularity eludes me. Worse, books about serial killers put me in mind of The Silence of the Lambs, which I could neither watch nor read, even with favorite actors Anthony Hopkins and Jodi Foster.
It is a page-turner. It is and just that fact pulls it up to a much higher level of existence. A book I cannot put down even when I tell myself that I a) don't like it and b) don't approve of it; is a book worth thinking of reading.
It is a formula novel of police procedures in tracking the serial killer who, in this case, kills young boys in London and displays their bodies. I would say it sounds too much like other such novels. On reflection I decide that serial killers may not be society's most creative minds.