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Writing funny crime novels is a lot harder than it looks and not only because crime fiction readers range from the easily tickled to the seriously ticked-off. It does help, however, to be from Glasgow. See, for example, Christopher Brookmyre and now Donna Moore. Her first novel has its roots in a couple of internet e-lists dedicated to crime fiction, but has grown from those fleeting beginnings to a full-blown, and extremely funny, send-up of every cliche and plot device that a less talented mystery writer might turn to in a desperate attempt to meet a deadline. Helena Handbasket is a PI (unlicensed), who boasts a secretary named Fifi Fofum who speaks an impenetrable hard-boiled jargon that puzzles her boss while brewing up endless cups of something called 'java', an office with a glass door that is constantly being broken, and the capacity to spring back from injuries that would put an ordinary person in hospital for a month. To whom else would Owen Banks bring his brother's severed hands, thoughtfully delivered in a freezer box, with the plea to find his killer? To whom indeed, especially since Helena not only possesses all the time-honoured equipment of every private eye since Sam Spade, but also has her cosy, feminine side as evidenced by her enormously clever cat, who leaves trenchant messages in kitty litter and cat chow that Helena carefully sweeps into the bin. She also has an extensive collection of cocktail recipes that she happily shares (though I rather wish she'd kept the one for a Blood Transfusion to herself.) The final weapon in her arsenal is her inability to ignore any unsigned message requiring her to appear in the dead of night in the closest isolated spot, alone, unarmed, and without her torch. One of the chief delights of this novel is its inventive naming of characters. Among my favourites, the sisters Auora deGreasepaint and Smilla deCrowde and Evan Stubezzi, scion of the family business at the centre of the mystery. For there is a mystery, even if Helena overlooks clues with a blithe indifference matched only by the bone-headed incompetence of the police. If readers don't get there first, they should be ashamed of themselves, but they may be excused if, dissolved in helpless laughter, they were distracted. Though this book will probably be enjoyed most by hard-core readers of crime fiction who will take pleasure in every cliche held up to ridicule, even casual mystery readers will get most of the jokes. Perhaps the only ones who might take offence are those hapless writers who recognize their transgressions, but all names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Reviewed by Yvonne Klein, April 2006
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Contact: Yvonne Klein (ymk@reviewingtheevidence.com)
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