Puzzling case
The engaging plot of James Oswald’s tenth Inspector Mclean novel battles against leaden dialogue and descriptions, writes Chris Mccall
The story of how James Oswald became a bestselling author – the kind who signs six-figure publishing deals – is almost as gripping as the kind of crime fiction he specialises in. When not writing books, he runs a farm near Newburgh in Fife. At first glance, these two worlds could not be further apart. On closer inspection, however, you realise that both demand resilience and the ability to work well on your own.
Oswald took on the family farm in the most horrendous of circumstances in 2008, after his parents were killed in a road accident. He had spent much of his life around farms, but this was his first experience actually running one. Some cautioned him against taking such a leap, but he ploughed on regardless.
This determination to make good in the face of adversity extends to his writing career. Oswald self-published his first novel, sharing it initially for free on Amazon. Its runaway success led to London publishers beating a path to his door. It wasn’t an overnight sensation. Far from it. In 2013, he admitted that he had at least ten unpublished manuscripts lying around, the equivalent to a million words.
Seven years on, and Oswald has now published the tenth instalment of his massively popular Inspector Mclean series. It’s a milestone few authors reach and a testament to Oswald’s consistency. His novels have a graceful flow, like a burn in autumn. Plots are laid out at a brisk pace. Conclusions are reached in a satisfactory manner, with enough twists to keep us entertained. This is a writer who has polished his act. You’re in safe hands from the moment the curtain rises.
Mclean’s latest outing sees a trusted police colleague, Anya Renfrew, fail to turn up for work during a particularly sensitive case. Needless to say, Renfrew’s impeccable professional career masks a colourful personal life. Initial investigations suggest she is also not the first woman to vanish from one particular spot in the Pentland Hills. An air of the supernatural hangs heavy above the woods to the south of Edinburgh.
Oswald’s detectives are professionals. There’s less room for the kind of token office politics, petty disputes, and jostling coppers angling for promotion that fill the pages of other crime writers. But while this adds authenticity, especially in the era of the formica-bland Police Scotland national constabulary, it can make for some rather flat dialogue between characters. There is none of the deadpan humour that sets the likes of Ian Rankin or Quintin Jardine apart. Even moments of real drama seem to be discussed with all the urgency of an MOT appointment. “This is Anya Renfew we’re talking about, Tony. She’s never been late in her life,” one of Mclean’s colleagues informs him early in the story. “OK,” he replies. “I’ll get her next of kin details from personnel and look into it. Sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
This lifelessness extends to setting. Mclean is supposedly an Edinburgh man, but he is so colourless at times that he could easily be from any UK city. There are precious few insights into how the city and the cop have become personally linked.
Descriptions of the Athens of the North itself range from the perfunctory to the anodyne. Take this scene setter: “Mclean stood at the top of a long flight of stone steps leading from the Royal Mile down towards Waverley station, one of the many narrow closes that criss-crossed the Old Town”. Oswald may as well be describing Slough.
Fans of Inspector Mclean will likely dismiss such criticisms. The best detective stories solve complicated puzzles in a timely manner. On this front, Oswald plainly succeeds. But given that this is a landmark outing for his star character, it’s worth asking if more could have been done to celebrate.