I still think our finest fiction writer of crime – which is not the same as crime fiction writer – was Maurice Gee. See Loving Ways, In My Father’s Den, Access Road, Going West, Blindsight, Meg and – of course – Crime Story. Gee’s masterly studies of apparently conventional Kiwi lives and his taut, forensic prose were often counterpointed by jolting episodes of illegality, violence and death.
We also have our tradies. I use the word approvingly. They’re the ones you can rely on to provide a crafted, competent-sometimes-plus narrative, intriguing job details, plausibly flawed characters and a decent dollop of drama. Fiona Sussman is one.
Her fifth novel re-partners the duo of DS Ramesh Bandara and his trail-running companion Constable Hilary Stark from Family Harm. Summoned to “Magical Mangawhai” after the death by asphyxiation of a burly, boorish builder, Ramesh is soon dealing with a touchy local cop, a winsome assistant, a puzzling widow, a dirtily dreadlocked sparky, and a suspiciously smashed security camera. And still more local colour.
There are multiple possibilities, but none seem to lead anywhere. Then Hilary finds a missing link, and Operation Black Swamp X starts to crank up.
Much contemporary crime fiction seems to feel the need to inject some social issue, and in Hooked Up it’s the exploitation and damage reality TV can bring in spite of its toothy, matey image.
So, we’re taken back a decade to Hilary’s first case, with a quiz-show connection that Sussman ingeniously builds towards the Northland killing.
Along the way, she makes effective use of the dynamics between the police pairing. They’re both outsiders. Ramesh’s ethnicity, his perceived city-slicker background, his dietary preferences, history of depression, repaired cleft lip and palate – yes, there’s quite a list – plus “tense and terse” Hilary’s skill at getting any interview off to a bad start ensure there’s plenty of abrasion.
There are plenty of events as well. Every quiz contestant they hear of or from among the “F---ing Fab Five” has things to hide, and their revelations form the plot’s busy middle. We get suicide, kohl-rimmed eyes and “Paris-red lips”, a pair of bow ties, a producer with a sniff of international fame, a gloriously loathsome pool-valet stud, a “successful match, married with kids”, and more than one murder, with sinister, shrinking intervals.
Things accelerate to a climax and denouement that show you should never underestimate a “story writer”, a chance bookshop encounter, an (almost) Head Girl, or a dog called Gavin.
I don’t mean to be flippant. It’s part of a crime writer’s job to scatter red herrings, white lies and black deeds. Sussman uses the palette energetically. She shows us a lot; tells us rather a lot as well. There are the almost obligatory clipped sentences, paragraphs, chapters. Packed, pacy writing, occasionally braked by moralising or philosophising, ensures enough twists and revelations.
It’s evident at the end that the disparate duo will be back. They’ll be welcomed.
Hooked Up, by Fiona Sussman (Bateman Books, $38.99), is out now.
