The Book Of Dead Authors
Emlyn Rees
Review pbk, £9.99
Review by Gerald Houghton (1997)
More rejection slips from the know-nothing publishing gnomes? Ha! She's drawing a line in the sand. That's why, when acclaimed author Adam Appleton answers her knock he signs his own death warrant. She's making a list. Checking it twice.
The Book of Dead Authors is by Theatre of Blood out of Dr Phibbs; let the punishment fit the crime. Appleton tossed-off pseudonymous one-handed pot-boilers. Pop-author Mick Roper didn't even write his own crud. And Hermione Shortbottom? She peddles ring-wing clap-trap, so, hey, fair enough.
Enter Jack Jackson, the loser brother who finds hugely successful moralist novelist twin David dead. Hanging. Outfitted by an M&S lingerie department. And rather than blow the pretence, Jack pulls a Tom Ripley, fitting himself for David's life. And you, dear reader, get to connect the dots.
Which is why we ask what there is here that there hasn't been all over the likes of, say, Jon Wright's Spitting Distance or anything by Nicolas Blincoe. It's markedly better written, but you do stagger out convinced the sound you hear is Rees' talent being squandered. A poison-nibbed satirist like Will Self could make it sing, but the final 'twist' here might as well come tooting a trumpet for the surprise it pulls. Let's damn with faint praise: if UK crime has to come sticky with gags then better your tenner goes down for this than Jello Salad.
Still, given Blincoe, PD James and, oh god, Patricia Cornwall...you must admit Rees' killer has a point. * 1/2