The Dying Light by Ann Cleeves

 

I picked up The Dying Light because my sister in law has enjoyed Ann Cleeves, and, because I had a break between the books in the Booker Prize long list coming to me from the library.

It has the now requisite homosexual male, Detective Inspector Matthew Venn, and his second in command Detective Sergeant Jen Rafferty, both of whom I find rather bland. There doesn’t seem to be any singular quality about them, other than his husband or her red hair. 

They have come to the murder site of two young girls: Hannah Armstrong and her friend, Lottie Cauldwell. Both have been discovered dead in the small town of Millscombe in North Devon. How could they possibly have died?

I didn’t care. I could barely plod on with this rather tedious mystery. 

Why does a third girl, Elizabeth, who also went to school with these two, return to America? Why is anyone reluctant to talk about what happened to her?

Why did Lottie threaten the owner of a pub when he refused to serve her seventeen year old self a gin and tonic? In other words, does he have sufficient cause for retribution after she has disparaged his, and his wife’s, establishment on social media?

Why does Elizabeth’s mother, keep appearing and disappearing in the town, when her daughter has returned to America after suffering a debilitating accident?

Why did I keep reading? I had to know the conclusion, just to complete the story, but I found this a singularly unsatisfying mystery. I am completely baffled as to why Ann Cleeves is considered a preeminent author, especially when I consider the power of other female mysteries writers such as Tana French, or Elizabeth George. To whom Cleeves doesn’t come close.