Last to Know
Liz Allen
Coronet Books, 2004
Ka-blammo!
Once upon a time a famous publishing company exploded. Blasted into air, gallons of ink splattered flapping paper, driving it into a binding. The combined object was blown through a cutting machine that happened to be flying by at just the right moment, the heat of which melted the cover into a colorful design! What landed on the adjacent booksellers' doorstep, seconds later, was a novel whose spine labelled it an incredible thriller.
If that coincidence is the most implausible thing you have ever heard, you're lucky enough not to have read Liz Allen's Last to Know.
On the plus side, Last to Know doesn't start with ye olde cliched discovery of a beautiful young woman's dead body. It's a raped one.
People are constantly raped up the ass in Liz Allen's Dublin. There are no men who are not purpose-built raping machines. Or paedophiles. Or cunning, scheming backstabbers. Even when- more than half way through- a decent, sympathetic male character finally enters the novel, he's introduced as a man so prejudiced by his own beliefs that he cannot rally to the truth of the heroine's desperate protestations of innocence.
That heroine, late twenty-something Deborah Parker, lives in a constant state of outraged effrontery. "I'm so hard working, ethical, friendly and beautiful. Why is everyone picking on me?" "Everyone" includes caricature gangsters, hounding media types, the colorless boss of her legal firm, buxom co-workers, bland cops and generic college friends. Count critical ol' me in too. She's supposed to be a star solicitor for the most vile, manipulative criminals in Ireland yet she's so thoroughly naïve that she takes everyone at face value? She never notices all the mysterious deposits into her bank account or questions where they came from? The pages assume we readers are climbing into shoes that cannot possibly exist. I couldn't extend any sympathy.
The plot is driven by coincidences that send up more extraordinary flares than do exploding buildings. Readers can enjoyably believe that ancient monsters dwell at the bottom of the ocean. It's exceptionally hard to see anyone suspending and re-suspending disbelief through Last to Know's unlikely revelations.
Yet I have recommended Last to Know. Its one strength is authenticity. Celebrity journalist Liz Allen gave up a career of investigative and crime reporting when she landed a book deal with a big publisher. Last to Know's police procedure is without fault. Details on the legal system- even its unglamorous aspects- ring as true as in any title by Paul Williams. There's truth in there. It was also refreshing to read crime fic that didn't kill people by the zillion.
Ah, hell. Novels are hard to write. Second novels are often leagues ahead of the freshman effort. Maybe Liz Allen will combine her excellent knowledge of crime with a seasoning talent. Maybe I'll give her next release a shot. Maybe Coronet Books will detonate in a cataclysmic burst of flames.
Critical Mick says: reading this novel is better than being raped up the ass, at least.
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