Not so thrilling after all
Billed as a ‘red-hot thriller’, Peter May’s latest novel strikes Fiona Barber as more akin to a cup of cooling tea.
Forensic specialist Enzo Macleod is in the process of solving a list of cold cases when we pick up this yarn set in France. The skeleton of a missing young woman is revealed after a drought reduces a lake to a puddle, exposing what’s left of her body.
Macleod, a Scotsman with Italian heritage living in France, is called in to investigate. And so begins a journey into the case, its tangents and sinister goings-on in the shadows of his personal life.
Cast Iron is the final book in May’s Enzo Files series.
This tale paints the pony-tailed Macleod as getting-on-in-years, but still utterly mesmerising to women of all ages. As a result, there is a passing parade of females in his life – lover, exlover, wanna-be-lover, almost-lover – who seem bewitched by his charms.
Jack Reacher he ain’t, but even his most recent ex, who professes to loathe him, can’t seem to resist him entirely.
The moth-to-the-flame attraction is integral to the story, but never seems quite credible and it’s a pity these women – and the ones related to him – are sketched in such a onedimensional, cliched way.
There’s no true sense of them at all, even his feisty daughters.
The book is billed as the ‘‘red-hot new thriller in the cold-case series’’. This felt more the temperature of cooling tea, and I found it hard to imagine ever being thrilled by the characters or the plot.
Cast Iron seems a bit like the literary equivalent of TV’s Midsomer Murders, so if you like your ‘‘thrillers’’ more gritty, gnarly and akin to The Bridge or
The Killing, I’d steer well clear of Enzo et al.
I haven’t read Peter May’s books before, and I’m told he’s produced some ripping good stories – his Lewis trilogy and China series attracted legions of fans.
But based on Cast Iron, I won’t be chasing down his back catalogue of Enzo Macleod mysteries. I’ll be seeking out something altogether more thrilling.
The moth-to-the-flame attraction is integral to the story, but never seems quite credible ...