“CRIME: Blood Money By Arlene Hunt Hachette Books Ireland, 352pp. £12.99

NOW THAT THE fizz has gone out of chick lit and paperbacks with pink covers no longer dominate the bestseller lists, popular fiction has tilted in the direction of crime, with Irish women writers taking on the murder and mayhem that’s the stock in trade of the genre.

Arlene Hunt is something of an old hand, as Blood Money is her sixth novel. It’s an assured crime read centred on an upmarket plastic-surgery clinic in Dublin run by the icy Frieda Mayweather.

Shambolic PI John Quigley has been commissioned by Rose Butler to investigate her daughter’s death. The police think it’s suicide, but Rose can’t believe that her caring mother-of-two doctor daughter could have died this way, and she wants answers. Not being exactly busy, Quigley, whose personal problems include the hole left in his heart by his partner who has fled – he’s an interesting, complex character – takes on the case and uncovers an illegal organ-transplant business being run out of the clinic.

The organs come from eastern Europe, and as the nip-and-tuck business in Dublin has collapsed because of the recession, the brutal and scheming Mayweather has hit on this new lucrative income stream, and she doesn’t care how the organs are harvested.

As Quigley gets close to the truth, super-violent Pavel Sunic is on the rampage from Minsk, looking for the person responsible for the death of his beloved sister, who died when she sold her kidney in exchange for his freedom from prison.

Hunt is a skilled crime writer, able to build and sustain suspense – but never at the expense of credibility – and her dialogue zings with authenticity. The clever plot is carried by a cast of deftly drawn characters, who are all as recognisable as the Dublin locations Hunt puts them in. And there’s humour here, too, mostly in Quigley’s realisation that he’s in danger of becoming a sad, lonely loser and, if he’s not careful, a cliche of a private investigator. He’s a character worth watching out for in future.”

Bernice Harrison.

Though I was not aware the ‘fizz’ had gone out of romantic fiction – I was almost crushed under a pile of Amanda Brunker novels at the airport – this review did fizz up my own morning in a rather pleasant manner. I am ridiculously fond of John Quigley as a character and care deeply how he goes about his shenanigans, so it brings a broad smile to my chops when another reader ‘gets him’, so to speak.

Take a gander here.

L-R we have Stuart Neville, John McAllister, T.A. Moore, me, Tony Bailie, Brian McGilloway and the delightful Ger Brennan, main man and big chief behind Requiems for the Departed.

If you’re ever up in Belfast to pop along to No Alibis, it’s a truly great independent book shop.

But forget my shame and let’s indulge in my delight. First and foremost I would like to congratulate Ger Brennan for  the publication of Requiems for the Departed.  I think it was Brian McGilloway who mentioned last night that it’s hard enough trying to get one author to follow a time line, try doing that with a number if ‘em. But Ger did and did so brilliantly and I hope after all his hard work this book flies off the shelves.

A big thank you to David, and the much introduced Jill for a genial welcome and some fine wine, thank you very much folks. David’s shop, No Alibis, is an absolute gem and another solid brick in my belief foundation that independent books shops should be supported and cherished. The ceiling mounted Columbo alone is worth a visit (but you should buy a book once there).

It was great to catch up with Brian McGilloway and Stuart Neville again, and lovely to meet John McAllister, Tony Bailie and Tammy Moore.

I’d like to say thank you to all the people who took the time to come out and support the launch, it was lovely to meet so many of you and I am sorry it was only a flying visit. I intend to make a weekend trip up in the near future so that I can best enjoy the food and hospitality.
Thank you again for a wonderful evening.

Arlene Hunt.

I will be in the Flora Mini Marathon on Monday and running to raise money for Debra Ireland. The link is below, any and all contributions woulld be most welcome as they are a terrific charity.

You can go to charity page here.

Take care.

A

Next Monday I’ll run the mini Marathon for a charity, the following Thursday I am off to Belfast to the launch of Requiems For The Departed in No Alibis book shop.

See?

Busy.

Oh yes, and I’ve to write a book. Yes, a book, this book. The one I’ve been dithering over. The one with all the notes. ‘Mid july’ I airily mentioned completion to my agent.

Well it’s bloomin’ June, which means mid July approacheth. I need to stop dithering immediately. If not sooner.

Procrastination, thy name is Hunt.

Fortunately he has always been a trooper about everything in life, so despite his worsening sight and the wobble in his back legs when he gets out of bed first, he still goes out for his tour of the block and goes up and down the stairs countless times a day. If he’s okay with being blind I can’t complain too badly. As long as he’s happy enough bombing about the place that is all that matters.

What I will complain about is my inability to write a synopsis. I’m mean how many years am I doing this now? Don’t answer that.

Being a Hunt through and through, the gift of the gab is not something I have ever struggled with. Condensing that yappity yip is a whole other matter.

‘Just a short page,’ Faith said to me this morning over coffee in The Rathgar Bookshop, ‘to have should we need it.’

Oh yes, it’s all good and well saying ‘just a short page’ to me, but what does it mean?

How am I supposed to shorten an entire unwritten novel into a short page and still make it zing? I’ve reread what I wrote earlier, it does not zing, it flaulumps, and I think we can all agree flaulumping is not zinging. Nope, I am afraid it is 1000 words of leaden poop.

I will look to the basset on this matter. Perhaps I am relying to much on one sense and not the others? Perhaps if I stop squinting angrily at the screen the answer to my minuscule task will slap me up side the head in a flurry of inspiration.

How hard can it be?

Don’t answer that either.

On his thirteenth birthday, the basset found he was  drawn inexplicably to flame.

But alas I will do no such thing. I have a new book to write and  – since it steadfastly refuses to write itself – this requires me to put in at the very least four hours of solid work. The sun shine will have to wait, the bumblebees can bumble in peace, the dog remains in my office ( he could go down himself if he wishes, but he won’t).

But at least I can start my working day on a high note.  It is with great pleasure I find that I am featured on a list of Irish crime writers to look out for, many of whom I admire greatly.

This pleasure is further heightened by yesterday’s piece in the Sunday Independent by Declan Burke.

It is no secret that I am a huge fan of crime fiction as well as being a writer of the same. I am quite cheerfully a nerd like fan. A quick glance over my shelves reveals the extent and longevity of my passion for the genre, from very early Wambaugh, PD James, Dexter, Chandler, Lee Burke, Mankell, Ellroy, Christy, Pelecanos, Crais. But now those names are joined by a different crew. Now, more and more often the names of Connolly, McGilloway, Hughes, Burke, French, Bateman and Bruen stand tall and firm beside the thaumaturges from across the waters.

It is a fine pleasure to be included with such folk, and makes days like today,  when lounging in the garden is out of the question, tolerable and indeed preferable.

The sun will wait, the words will not, and hopefully later this year I will have another novel to slot onto the shelves beside those of my friends and colleagues.