A Comparison of Cumbrian Crime


I rarely visit the library these days, having too many of my own books that need reading to need to borrow others. Usually, I only drop in at the library if I happen to be passing, with time to spare. Last week, on the way back from the dentist, with no work to go to, I stopped for a browse. Gravitating to the Crime Fiction shelves I came out with ‘new’ books by Martin Edwards and Rebecca Tope.

As crime fiction writers, the pair have very little in common. Edwards writes about Cold Case DCI Hannah Scarlett, usually aided by former TV Historian, Daniel Kind, whilst Tope, a very prolific writer with three multi-book series, focuses upon Persimmon ‘Simmy’ Brown, a florist.

Straightaway, you can see the difference. Edwards is about police procedure and grittiness, crimes of anger and violence. Tope is a writer of ‘cozy’ crime fiction, in which violence is kept at a safe, non-threatening distance. A florist who’s a crime-solver versus an experienced Police Inspector: no comparison.

What the two series do have in common is their setting. They are, so far as I am aware, the only crime fiction series set in the Lake District.

I’ve reviewed previous books in both series, and not very favourably, either. Edwards writes out of love of the Lakes, but he’s got an appallingly tin ear when it comes to representing it. No-one in his books sound remotely Cumbrian (I don’t mind writers preferring not to phonenticly reproduce the accent, but you should at least use the local dialect and take a stab at the rythm of speech: you know, sound authentic), his made up names are unimaginative and have no Cumbrian roots and apart from the odd token mention, you’d barely know there were such things as fells and lakes strewn about all over the place.

I’ve read and blogged the six books of the series at different times, but when nothing new appeared, assumed Edwards had come to a conclusion, having finally resolved the by-then tepid sexual tension between Hannah and Daniel by having them finally snog and lay plans for a very forthcoming shagging weekend. I was mildly surprised by the appearance of book seven, The Dungeon House, and even more surprised to discover it’s been out since 2015, and this was the first time I’d seen it.

Tope is a different case. I’d read The Coniston Case, attracted by the name, but not been overly impressed. ‘Cosy’ crime is not my thing, but apart from a couple of errors based on inadequate research, the book, and the other one I read after it, was fairly authentic. Tope confines her stories to within flower-delivering range of Windermere Village and uses real locations with their correct names. Like Edwards, however, she makes no effort to make anybody, no matter how local theey and their roots are, sound remotely Cumbrian, though honesty requries me to state that all her books thus far are set in what was once vanished Westmorland, or Furness Lancashire.

I’d picked up two more of Tope’s books on a recent previous visit. The series now extends to four after The Coniston Case, itself the third book. By chance, I’d picked out books five and seven so in each of them I was having to adjust to background changes that had taken place in the intermediate books. This visit saw me borrow The Troutbeck Testimony (all the books have alliterative titles: Tope’s running out of localities, so I’m eagerly awaiting how she manages to incorporate Kentmere into her running theme).

Back to Edwards and The Dungeon House. Although he’s followed his usual formula of starting with the cold case, twenty years ago (insanely posssessive booze-sodden husband, convinced his seriously attractive MILF wife, is having it off behind his back, candidates multiplying exponentially in his paranoid head, blasts her in the face with a shotgun), Edwards takes a different angle on the contemporary investigation, making this book into almost a Hannah Scarlett solo. Daniel’s there and abouts but he’s mainly a background character, though he does provide a vital clue as the demouement approaches.

Instead, Edwards splits the viewpoint between Hannah and one Joanna Footit, a minor character in the twenty-years-ago prelude who, after two miserable decades away, returns to the area on impulse, aiming to be more positive, whilst still holding a torch for Nigel Whiteley, her ex-boyfriend, the nephew of the murderous Malcolm, who killed his wife, his sixteen year old spoilt brat daughter whom he worshipped and himself.

Nigel’s in the news. His sixteen year old daughter has disappeared. Hannah’s team are involved because three years earlier another young girl, daughter of a local Accountant, also went missing, never found or solved.

By the time the book is over, practically every character named – and everyone is in each other’s business and/or pockets to an almost incestuous degree – is found to be guilty of something. But the truth is out, including the truth about the old crime, and what Joanna Footit, with her long, attractive legs and her tits like thimbles, saw that she’s kept secret for twenty years. Both the missing girls are found alive, though yoou can’t say that their futures are going to be free of rocks and shoals after their completely contrasting experiences.

In short, it’s typical of Edwards. It has the same virtues and failings of the earlier books in the series, even down to trying to keep the will-they-won’t-they-oh-who-cares-any-more? tension between Hannah and Daniel alive. She’s living wuith him at Tarn Cottage, beneath Tarn Fell (see what I mean about imagination?) in fictional Brackdale, enjoying herself and getting good sex out of it, but contiinuallyworrying about whether the relationship’s going to be long-term, will he get bored with her? You know, the usual weak and feeble stuff meant to keep things tottering still, but here just annoying. Having brought thetwo together, Edwards should really be about creating a new dynamic appropriate to the changed situation rather than prolonged a clapped-out one no longer fitting the changed emotional environment.

Noticeably, we never get Daniel’s take on this, except that he wants her to stay instead of move out to her own place.

The setting, this time, is West Cumbria, where Edwards has never seen fit to tread before. More specifically, it’s Ravenglass and its local villages, like Seascale and Drigg. Now I’m precious about the Lake District, but that’s nothing to my being precious about Ravenglass, because that’s where my roots spring from. And Edwards presentsa picture of Ravenglass that is superficially accurate but in every important respect doesn’t feel remotely like Ravenglass. He misdescribes the estuary, the triune of the rivers Esk, Mite and Irt, he makes everywhere sound much bigger and busier than it really is (which is colossally stupid in the case of Santon Bridge) and whilst having one of his characters be a landscape painter means he has to recognise more of the fells, all they are are names. Not places. Not places he can evoke the way anyone who sets a story in the Lake District really has to do.

Rebecca Tope’s Simmy Brown (and that is such an awful name on so many levels) is not an amateur detective. The basis of the series is that, as a Windermere-based florist, her flower-delivering brings her to places where murder has either taken place or takes place shortly afterwards. Simmy doesn’t want to know about crime, but keeps getting dragged into it, by constant chance, and by pressure from her two ‘team’-mates, Melanie Brown, her assistant in the shop, and eager, intelligent schoolboy Ben Harkness. Simmy is 38 to their 20 and 17 respectively. The fourth recurring character is DI Nolan Moxon of the Windermere Police, who appears to fancy Simmy, an attraction not reciprocated by the florist, who has come back to Windermere following the end of her marriage in the wake of a stillbirth.

The Troutbeck Testimony is set post-Easter, a year after Simmy opened her shop and several months after both she and Moxon were badly hurt in the previous book. There’s change in the background. Simmy’s having the occasional night in with the unreliable and extremely passive potter, Ninian, Melanie’s job-hunting to further her career and suggests the anorexic Bonnie Lawson to replace her in the shop but, most serious of all, Simmy’s father Russell is sddenlt getting paranoid and fearful, as a consequences of Simmy’s adventures.

Throw in Russell overhearing what appears to be a planned burglary, he and Simmy finding a dead dog on Wansfell Pike, and a man having his throat cut in Troutbeck, the villages in which Simmy lives, and there’s a new complication that, despite all her efforts to remain uninvolved, the florist finds herself once again caught up in.

There’s a lot going on, a lot of new people being introduced and some quite complex background elements to be sorted out, whilst Simmy would rather concentrate on the extensive funeral flowers ordered to commemorate a prominent local citizen, with a wedding hard on its heels, her difficulty in getting to grips with the initislly confusing Bonnie and her Dad’s fears.

It’s a different approach. Melanie’s backing off – the hyper-inteelligent Bonnie is her replacement in more ways than one – and Ben’s being pushed away from the murder, which seems to be at the centre of things but which turns out to be incidental to everything. It’s Simmy who works out who the murderer is, just ahead of the woman coming to give herself up: the closest thing to horror in this mannered version of crime is that the killer made more or less the same mistake everyone’s made, and killed an innocent man.

Knowing changes that are to follow in more recent books, I can be appreciative of how Tope doesn’t let her backgrounds go static, and I realise I’ll probably follow this series to keep up with the quasi-soap opera background because I’m engaged at this refreshening. That, for me, puts Tope ahead of Edwards.

The Dungeon House is the most recent to date of Martin Edwards’ Lake District series, and the lapse of time is the longest gap between books, assuming he has plans for more. Rebecca Tope’s series seems too be coming out roughly every eleven to twelve months, so that suggests another in March this year.

They’re neither of them what I want to see in a Lake District crime series, but for that I think you’re going to need a born and bred Cumbrian, someone who will treat the Lakes as more than just a coloured backcloth, and make it integral to the story without being overwhelming. Doesn’t look like anyone on the horizon, yet.

Cheap Cumbrian Thrills – a few additional notes


Re-acquainting myself with the library last month, for the first time since before Christmas, my eyes happened to light upon Martin Edwards’ The Frozen Shroud, the sixth and, to date last, in his Lake District Mysteries series featuring Historian Daniel Kind and Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett of the Cumbria Constabulary Cold Crimes Squad.

Thinking it was a new book, I thought I’d give it a peruse, but I had in fact read it before, but simply not commented upon it. Feeling in the mood for a bit of malicious chastisement, and suffering from sufficient a degree of anal retentivity as to be faintly disturbed at leaving one book out, I thought I’d pass a few comments on the same.

It’s possible that this may be the last book of the series: after all, it ends with the two will-they-won’t-they-oh -get-on-with-it protagonists finally planning a shagging weekend in Wales after assiduously spending over two-thirds of the book avoiding each other rigidly on the grounds that now all complications keeping them from getting it together have been erased that they aren’t actually interested in each other at all. So, bang goes the sexual tension, which is more than the sexual tension had been going in the first place.

Plus Hannah’s publicity-seeking Deputy Chief Constable has legged it out of the Force, no longer blocking Hannah’s route to further promotion.

And, on a more sobering note, the present day murder victim is Hannah’s best friend and polar opposite, Terry, her face battered in in a brutal crime intended to echo two similar incidents – one deeply historical – which have given rise to rumours of a ghost. The killer is the least likely person, naturally, until a motive common to the present killing and the one of five years ago with which Edwards opens the book, presents itself as the closing pages approach.

The setting for this crime is once again Ullswater, in the shape of a fictional peninsula on the east shore of the lake, south of Howtown, which forms an effective closed community, inhabited by flamboyant, arty types. The book’s title is not linked to any pseudo-Cumbrian place or thing, but rather the brutal crime, which is less offensive, but mostly the book’s plus points are negativities: that it doesn’t try too hard to persuade you that it is taking place in the Lakes.

The same old criticisms apply: a complete absence of sense of place (it takes a bit more than placing Helvellyn ‘opposite’ and having Hallin Fell ‘loom’ over the scene at convenient moments when the latter is only a small fell to begin with and far too far north of Helvellyn to be in any meaningful sense opposite). Nor does anyone in the book talk remotely Cumbrian. But I repeat myself. And really, the out-of-place names for places and things are just trite this time instead of unreflective.

As a by the by, this is not the only crime fiction story I’ve read of late to set itself in the Lake District. When I’m after undemanding, easy-to-read fiction that I can just breeze through without being tempted to blog, I’ve read several of Edward Marston’s Railway Detective series: polite, mid-Victorian crime, very professional, slightly formulaic stuff whose selling point is that the crimes are all, in one way or another, connected to or facilitated by the burgeoning rail network of the 1850s. Former Barrister Robert Colbeck of the Metropolitan Police is the go-to guy for any train crime, much to the disgust of his stuffy, ex-Army Superintendent Mr Tallis and his home-loving, train-fearing Sergeant, Victor Leeming.

Marston’s most recent contribution to the series, which now includes a dozen novels, is a collection of short stories, a dozen indeed, spanning the whole country and including, in one tale, Ravenglass Station. Now that’s what you call personal, not merely on behalf of my spiritual county, but my great grandfather, who was Stationmaster at Ravenglass Station. Probably not quite as far back as the Railway Detective’s celebrated visit, but that’s not the point.

Honestly, Marston must have done no research whatsoever into Ravenglass Village, because the kind of community he plonked down for Colbeck to investigate made Edwards’s efforts look like a documentary. If you’re going to be that casual about your subject, bloody well make something up instead, so it doesn’t matter.

Oh well, at least I’ve got that off my chest.

 

Cheap Cumbria Thrills – an epiprologue


Ever the glutton for punishment, I have now read the last – as in the first – Martin Edwards’ Lake District Series, The Coffin Trail
It’s a better book that its successors, mainly because the vast majority of the action takes place in and around Edwards’ fictional south eastern valley, Brackdale, and I’m ok with him concentrating on his made-up names and places since he’s no longer mangling real Lakes places.
Well, you know me, this isn’t going to be entirely free of niggle.
The Coffin Trail hews closest to Edwards’ original intentions, to centre the series upon Daniel Kind, the former Oxford and TV historian downsizing to a new life in the Lakes, with his new partner Miranda. His opposite number, Hannah Scarlett, doesn’t even come into the book in the first near-hundred pages, and though large parts of the book are seen through her POV, she’s clearly meant to be a secondary figure at this stage.
This is evidenced most strongly in the ending of the story when, the cold case having been solved, an innocent man cleared and a brutal, thuggish, obvious killer dead, committing suicide by Police, it is Daniel who unravels the clue that identifies the real villain.
Thankfully, it being the beginning of the series, we get very little sighing and soul-searching over the putative relationship between Daniel and Hannah (we also get the most detailed physical description of Chief Inspector Scarlett in the entire series and I’ve still no real idea what she looks like). There’s just a few mini-thrills in the few and entirely professional meetings between them, and these are almost exclusively on Daniel’s side.
As far as the crime goes, Edwards starts with a brief section on the crime itself, seven years earlier, before relegating it to a Cold Case issue that the newly formed squad haeded by the not-demoted Hannah also picks up. The accepted villain, Barrie Gilpin, was on the Asberger’s spectrum and was seen as a creepy culprit, though his own, accidental death meant he was never questioned. The original officer in chargem, Ben Kind, Hannah’s mentor and Daniel’s father, was never satsified, and Hannah has inherited his scepticism.
Daniel is also interested in the case: he had been friends with Gilpin during a Brackdale holiday and can’t accept him as a killer, he and Miranda buy the old Gilpin cottage (though it’s Miranda’s enthusiasm that drives and Daniel who follows in this project).
With Daniel stirring things up at one end, and the Police at the other, the obvious, thuggish suspect is quickly identified. A mystery telephone voice initially suggesting it has additional information is also quite obviously his put-upon wife. Her death precipitates the violent end to the story. But it’s all too easy to see who the real culprit is, by virtue of her very openness and innocence (not to mention a carefully laid Arthur Ransome clue that I admit I didn’t see the significance of at the time).
As for the Lake District side of things, it’s interesting to note who careful Edwards is to establish Brackdale as a rather major and substantial valley, albeit a quiet one. Later books don’t reinforce this description, giving the impression of the valley as being a backwater in size as well as position.
And Edwards is more detailed in the setting: from later books, you might think (well, I did) that Brackdale has only two features, its unnamed tarn, and one summit, Tarn Fell. From this book, we learn it has a Horseshoe walk that competes with the Kentmere Horseshoe for attractiveness and interest, although Edwards doesn’t really establish any other summits than the flat and prosaic Tarn Fell.
What does bother me is that Brackdale has a coffin trail (hence the title of the book). This refers to an old trail, established centuries earlier, by which coffins were carried from a valley with no consecrated ground for burial in another place. Edwards acknowledges that elsewhere in the Lakes they are also called corpse roads, but to be honest, they are all called corpse roads, and I have never heard the phrase coffin trail until opening this novel.
This is what irritates me so much about this series, that its supposed to be set against the authenticity of the Lake District, and takes pride in being the first to do so, but that Edwards instantly junks a perfectly good and authentic name for a made-up variation that immediately undercuts the reality of the background he wants to make so much of.
On an aesthetic level, it bothered me slightly that Edwards had the corpse road coming into Brackdale from a neighbouring valley, rather than the other way. It’s a personal detail, but it doesn’t feel quite right. It raises Brackdale’s importance, in an area where it is supposed to be isolated, for it have have such a long-established Church and consecrated ground. Not so far north of this fictional valley, the much more substantial Mardale has a corpse road that can still be traced on the ground, but that leads out, via Swindale, to Shap.
It doesn’t quite sit right with me, I’m sorry to say. It inflates Brackdale’s importance in a way that I don’t find consistent.
Anyway, I’ve now read the book, and satisfied my instinctive compulsion to completion. I’m sure more books will be written: I doubt I’ll read them. Martin Edwards can sleep tonight…

Cheap Cumbria Thrills 2


As an addendum to my recent piece on Martin Edwards’ Lake District series of detective fiction, I’ve now borrowed and read books four and five.
Neither of them aroused in me the same paroxysms of fury about his supposedly-convincing setting in the County I love, but I was no more impressed by either of the books, as his ear for anything authentically Cumbrian/Old Westmorlandian is still correspondingly tin, as the supposedly ancient Mockbeggar Hall in The Hanging Wood demonstrates. Mockbeggar, I ask you.
I’ll grant that Edwards has done enough research in the latter book to guide his slowly-converging pair of historian Daniel Kind and Cold Case team boss, DCI Hannah Scarlett from the Market Place in Keswick to a rowboat on Derwentwater (as opposed to Derwent Water) with a minimal number of passing references. Mind you, as those mentioned include Market Square and Moot Hall, both of which are invariably described as the Market Square and especially the Moot Hall, perhaps that’s for the best.
It rather reminds me of the days when Tony Blackburn used to present the Top Thirty/Forty rundown on Sunday evenings, and his inability to use the definite article, meaning that we had to grow used to bands called Jam and Stranglers and Ruts.
Incidentally, for a series set in one of the most photogenic regions in the country, Edwards seems ruthlessly determined never to mention the natural architecture: how can you walk your characters past Hope Park and not  mention the stunning view into Borrowdale?
The first of this pair, The Serpent Pool, didn’t ruffle my Cumbrian feathers, but I found myself gravely disappointed in it as a detective story, given that I identified the murderer by the second time he/she (no spoilers) opened his/her mouth.
It reminded me of something I’d long forgotten, which had a lot to do with why I stopped reading detective stories in the first place.
This related to one of the ten cool, elegant crime novels written between 1929 and 1951 by Elizabeth Mackintosh under her pen-name Josephine Tey. The most famous of these, the first of her work that I read, at Grammar School, and the only one of her books still in print, was The Daughter of Time, an audacious switch on the detective story form. Tey’s running character, Inspector Alan Grant (five novels), is laid up in hospital with a broken leg. To occupy his mind, he begins to examine the evidence against Richard III as murderer of the Princes in the Tower, and concludes that the King was innocent. In 1990, the Crime Writer’s Association voted this the best crime novel ever.
However, my experience was with her earlier Miss Pym Disposes. The Miss Pym of the title is a crime fiction writer who returns to her girls’ boarding school to give a speech, but who carries out an amateur investigation into the death of a sixth form pupil.
It was an enjoyable piece of work, but fifty pages before the murder even took place, I had worked out the victim, the girl who would be identified as the killer, and the real, unconvictable killer.
When you can solve a mystery that early, you’ve read too much detective fiction.
So it was with The Serpent Pool. It’s already clear that Edwards’ twist-in-the-tail style of fiction requires a seemingly innocuous, uninvolved party to be the actual murderer, and this one was just too obvious.
As for Daniel and Hannah, over the course of the two books it’s a case of half a step forward and pause. Still no descriptions: Hannah’s even stopped lightening her hair.
Daniel’s broken up with his partner Miranda after book 3, and winds up with his sister living with him for most of the next two books. As for Hannah, it’s clear for most of The Serpent Pool that her long term relationship with bookseller Marc is going downhill, though she ends up saving him from a predatory but drugged pit bull.
They separate, slightly at cross-purposes in this book, though I’d place Marc in a clear lead as to culpability, but though Daniel actually goes ahead and kisses Hannah during this story – on the mouth! – the leading pair put the incident resolutely out of their minds and spend the whole of book four avoiding any romantic suggestion whatsoever. Hannah’s decided it’s over between her and Marc but Marc is being patronising about her knowing her own mind and is determined to get her back.
Gah.
If I get the chance, I’ll read the first book for completeness’ sake, but my main gripe remains: if these were not being marketed as being authentic Lake District settings, I’d have nothing to say about them. Though the will-they-won’t-they is so dreadfully slow, as far as I’m concerned it’s already a who-will-care-when-they-finally-do.

Cheap Cumbrian Thrills


I’ve never been a particular fan of detective stories, not in print at any rate. The only crime fiction books I own, and which I’ve kept for thirty years, are the Philip Marlowe books by Raymond Chandler (probably the Twentieth Century’s most frequently – and ineptly – imitated writer), though more recently I had a then-complete collection of the much-missed Reginald Hill’s Dalziel and Pascoe series (in a fantastic variety of paperback editions) which had to go when it became necessary to downsize my collection.

I don’t dislike crime fiction, probably because I don’t read enough of it to get thoroughly tired of its tropes. I read the entirety of Agatha Christie when younger, courtesy of Greater Manchester Libraries, and solved the story before the detective exactly once, and that in a short story, but I couldn’t force myself to read another page of her ever again. I read most of Ellery Queen in the same period, with rather more enjoyment but similar bafflement (I hated that period of ‘his’ career when the crime would get solved about five-sixths of the way in, only for Queen to then pull a completely new fact out of his ass that invalidated everything that had gone before).

Only recently, but long enough ago for me to have completely forgotten how, I came across the name of Martin Edwards, a well-established and highly-respected crime writer based in Liverpool. Edwards was born the same year as I and also became a Solicitor, although he’s still in the profession and has got a lot higher in it than I did. He started off with a Liverpool-set series featuring Solicitor Harry Devlin, but what caught my interest was that he has also written a series of crime novels set in the Lake District, the first ever to do so.

You’re not going to be surprised at me immediately wanting to sample them. Unfortunately, Stockport Central Library could only offer me the latest Harry Devlin book, which was alright, though not particularly special, and that’s allowing for my anti-Liverpool bias. However, a rare visit to a remainders bookshop recently turned up copies of the second and third books in the six-so-far series, cheap enough to indulge myself upon.

It was meant to be light reading, inconsequential entertainment. One unexpected side-effect of this blog is the growing difficulty I have in reading anything without analysing it as if it were to be the subject of a blogpost. Unfortunately, the first one I read was so abysmally shite, despite all the praise Edwards has received – and from people who ought to know what they’re talking about, like the aforementioned Reginald Hill – that, despite the other one being a little better, I found it impossible not set down why these books are such a disappointment.

Let me first make it plain that, as crime books, as detective stories, they’re neither better nor worse than most that I’ve read. The Cipher Garden is an orthodox puzzle, presenting a long series of suspects without ever really tipping its hand about the guilt or innocence of any of them, before revealing the culprit as the only one with no seeming part in the game, right at the very end. The murder is nasty, and there are a couple of other deaths and one psychosexual revelation that ought to have been disturbing but which everybody seemed to take very casually (no, it wasn’t brother and sister for once, thankfully: even Reginald Hill got caught up in that overused cliche, I’m sorry to say).

In contrast, The Arsenic Labyrinth is more of a missing person plot, although the person ends up being missing because she’s dead. This time, it’s pretty clear whodunnit, since he plays a pretty major role in the forefront, the real puzzle being why this has all happened (the death is accidental, more or less, but it’s why the victim was where she was to suffer her accident that eventually unravels), and there’s a pretty similiar last minute death of a perpetrator as in the preceding book.

Both novels include a sub-plot mystery, one involving the titular Cipher Garden and what exactly it is concealing, the other a second, much older murder victim found in the same Arsenic Labyrinth. In both cases, the sub-plot has nothing to do with the story, not even as a reflection or complement.

But then I don’t read crime fiction for the crime or, primarily, the solving of it. I read it for the characters involved: for Marlowe’s cynicism and dry wit nevertheless not concealing a code of ethics that, battered and strained as it may be, is the bedrock of what he has to see when he looks in that mirror, or Mid-Yorkshire’s finest trio, the Fat Man, the Graduate Copper and the Impassive Model of Efficiency.

So who does The Lake District Series offer? It’s basically a two-hander, one pro, one amateur. Or should that be the other way around? Edwards’ blog indicates that he first grew interested in the amateur, Daniel Kind: former Oxford Don, a historian who approaches history as a detective, puzzling out the truuth of the past, and thus an interestingly plausible character as an amateur detective in the present. To counterbalance him, Edwards wanted a strong female character, hence Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett who, to complement the historical theme, is the head of the recently formed Cumbria Cold Case Review team.

Both characters come with baggage designed to clog down the seemingly inevitable (and horribly slow on the evidence of these two books) progression into each other’s bed (or at least a common one). Daniel has recently lost his partner Aimee to a suicide for which he feels guilty. His life has been changed by the beautiful, passionate livewire magazine writer Miranda, who persuades him to downsize from job, home and TV career and relocate with her to a remote cottage in the remote (and fictional) Lake District valley of Brackdale.

Hannah, in contrast, is a rising figure in the Cumbria Constabulary, that is until she makes a mess of the Rao trial (which may or may not be further explicated in the first book), allowing the accused to go free. Because of this mess, she has been shunted sideways to head the newly formed Cold Case team, complete with a former Detective hired as a civilian consultant (hark, do I hear Denis Waterman singing, ‘it’s alright, it’s ok’? …). Hannah lives with her long-term partner, bookseller Mark Amos, and, coincidentally, is linked to Daniel by the fact that her mentor in the force was Daniel’s estranged father Ben Kind (now deceased), who abandoned his wife and two children years earlier for a younger woman.

So Hannah investigates cold cases, whilst Daniel gets intrigued by historical incidents that somehow end up overlapping with these cases, and both spend lots of time trying to put the other out of their mind because they, just like the other, have a partner they are at the very least turned on by (so far, the copious, but only lightly described sex is between our couples), whilst trying not to come on too personally to each other when they do cross trails, in case the other gets the wrong, i.e., right idea. The fact that Miranda breaks up with Daniel at the end of book 3 no doubt does nothing to accelerate this pair’s progress.

Curiously, though perhaps not so curiously, whilst Edwards is always quick to provide brief descriptions of all the supporting characters (especially when it comes to the skirt levels of the females), he doesn’t provide any substantial descriptions of either Daniel or Hannah. We know that the latter is gradually lightening her hair a shade at a time from book to book, on the way to being dazzlingly blonde, and that she doesn’t have pneumatic breasts, but that’s as far as it goes.

Nor are we given any hints as to their ages, which are presumably contemporary to some degree. Hannah’s young enough to get pregnant (but suffer a very early miscarriage) in The Cipher Garden but given the respective career paths to be travelled to reach, on one side, a Detective Chief Inspectorship and, on the other hand, a professorship at Oxford, I’d have though the pair must be in their forties at least. Six months pass between the two books, and Daniel shoots off to America after the latter, delaying book four until his return, so tempus is fugiting, yet Hannah’s Mark (who doesn’t want to become a father) is still plausibly arguing they have years yet to make a decision

I can’t say I’m impressed by either of them, as you may have guessed by describing the first of these two reads as ‘absolute shite’ and, if you’re the kind of perceptive reader I think you are, who knows how much I love the Lake District, and who has noted that whilst I said I was interested in these books because that’s where they’re set, but I haven’t mentioned that side of it yet, you’ve no doubt guessed by now what part of these two books I am SERIOUSLY not impressed with. So here we go.

The first of these two books is set east of Esthwaite Water, around a fictional village of Old Sawrey that’s an addition to the real landscape of Near and Far Sawrey, with their Beatrix Potter connections. The second is set in Coniston Village, with an added post-industrial feature transplanted from elsewhere in the form of the Arsenic Labyrinth. Cumbria Constabulary Divisional HQ seems, somewhat improbably, to be set in Kendal rather than the more obvious Carlisle (Kendal having been part of the long-obliterated Westmorland, pre-1974). Daniel and Miranda’s Brackdale feels to be somewhere in the south-east Lakes in the first book, though it’s never defined: indeed Edwards on his blog confirms that he visualises it being between Kentmere and Longsleddale, so score one for my perceptions.

And Edwards admits to fictionalising geography to one degree or another. As for the rest of it, his research has been thorough, detailed and a genuine pleasure for him. And, as far as I am able to discern, from a Cumbrian grandfather and an association with the Lakes stretching back over fifty years now, conducted with a completely tin ear. There is nothing, and no-one in either of these boks that remotely suggests the Lake District. There are place names, bandied about with no context but names, there are fells that are named with no thought for what they look like, what shape they give to the landscape – fur hilven, the word fell only appears once in either of these books, as part of the generic name of the fictional Tarn Fell in Brackdale: every single reference to the fells is as mountains! There are no fucking mountains anywhere near Esthwaite Water, the whole point of the place is that it is purely pastoral.

And not a single person in either of these books sounds like a Cumbrian for so much as a sentence. I’m not asking for dialect and phonetic spelling, but please, if this is supposed to be authentic, why does nobody speak with the slightest inflection in their voice, the slightest suggestion of Cumbrian rhythm, not even a suggestion of any slowness of speech. There is nobody in either book who sounds as if they have ever been to the Lakes for more than a half day trip, no matter how long they’re supposed to have lived there.

And Edwards seems obsessed by the idea that there is a motor-route called the Hardknott Pass. Not once does it get mentioned as anything other than the (as opposed to any of the other Hardknotts sprinkled round the place, or maybe the other Passes, not one of which has a name remotely like Hardknott) Hardknott (as opposed to, ooh, say, Hard Knott – since it’s name is derived from the definitely-spelt-as-two-words fell overlooking it) Pass. It’s Hard Knott Pass, and it’s universally referred to as Hard Knott, because there is probably only one person in every thousand who knows there is even a Hard Knott fell, and no-one in my fifty eight years of life has ever referred to it as the Hardknott.

That little gem featured prominently throught The Cipher Garden where it was the scene of a long ago alibi, and where it was the Hardknott Pass to Wasdale, which it is if you ignore the fact that it comes down into Eskdale, down which you have to travel a long way before there’s a road round into Wasdale – and that’s Eskdale, by the way, not, as people seem to think in the other book, the Eskdale Valley. As for the oh so closely researched The Arsenic Garden, much of the action, and indeed the murder, takes place in Coppermines Valley, between the Old Man and Wetherlem, Coppermines Valley, the scene of quarrying and mining, centuries worth, Coppermines Valley, which rises to the largest body of water this side of the Coniston Fells, Levers Water.

That’s Levers Water with an ‘R’. It is not Levens Water, NOT Levens Water with an ‘N’, is there nobody with an ounce of knowledge of the Lakes who could at least proof-read these books?

So pardon me if I cannot sympathise with the ultimately banal concerns of Hannah Scarlett and Daniel Kind and in which book they will eventually satisfy their non-existent sexual tension (there was more tension in the relationship between Daniel and his law lecturer sister than I could finding his essentially schoolboy yearnings about the equally schoolgirlish DCI). I am thoroughly repelled by the complete lack of understanding or conviction on the writer’s part about the Lakes, the balloon thin conviction of place and the smugness with which he thinks he’s got it.

Try reading Reginald Hill’s The Woodcutter instead. It might have a brother and sister having it off, and a highly melodramatic climax atop Pillar Rock, but if you want to feel that you’re in the Lakes, you’ll know it.