Like one of those uncommissioned pilots ITV generally shoves out on a wet Wednesday, Stephen Cook's Rotten Apple has a faintly depressing ring about it. It reads like a relic from some bygone age, chocka as it is with pregnant slags, tough-mouthed geezers, and hot shooters in the airing cupboard.

On one side is Victor, a probationer Pc nursing a grudge a mile wide over a cruel initiation rite in the local cemetery. On the other a pair of hapless armed robbers with a too-itchy trigger-finger. Falklands vet turned corrupt copper Boots Ruddock is the filling in this particular criminal sandwich. Victor isn't about to let his humiliation go unpunished, but a string of freak coincidences conspire against all involved, with ultimately fatal results. The distressingly uncharismatic Detective Inspector Judy Best is on hand to clean up after the boys.

Structurally the book is sound, but everything else is just so much stone-cladding. There's a touch of the John Harveys to the dismally familiar city surroundings, but Guardian journo Cook has none of Harvey's grasp of character. Even a poor Resnick can convincingly paper over the most punch-drunk of plots where Cook simply retreats into cliché. His dialogue is abominable.

He might have got away with it in the 70s, even today played as pastiche, but this is strictly second gear all the way. Like Gary Glitter or that maroon Capri you used to covet, this sort of thing just doesn't look sexy any more.

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