The chameleon's shadow

Review by New York Times Review

The shades of Frank Norris and Upton Sinclair must have been looking over Loren D. Estleman's shoulder when he wrote GAS CITY (Forge, $24.95). Set in a Midwestern metropolis that grew up around a refinery, his muscular novel initially takes a long view of the cynical bargain struck between civic leaders and organized crime - and only moves in for the kill when a key figure in this devil's dance decides to reform. Like earlier muckraking writers, Estleman is always looking for the tipping point where our frontier values of independent entrepreneurship and community justice tumble into criminality. And his characters never stop asking whether it's possible to go back and get it right. Everyone in Gas City seems to be in on the deal that keeps crime and vice confined to 10 downtown blocks, well away from the commercial and residential districts. Francis X. Russell, the corrupt chief of police, is actually best friends with the mob boss Tony Z. But when Russell's beloved wife dies, he goes into mourning for the lost ideals of the generations of immigrants who built his working-class city and resolves to make peace with his conscience. Police raids close down the most notorious criminal establishments. Illicit income dries up for gangsters and cops on the take. Fortunes shift in the coming mayoral race. But once the delicate powersharing mechanism held by Gas City's legal and illegal bosses breaks down, so does municipal order. At this point, Estleman has to ask whether one crooked cop's personal reformation is worth the chaos it causes. It's a loaded question, since the author has made individual (and perhaps national) redemption his central theme, even to the whimsical point of extending it to a serial killer known as Beaver Cleaver, who has shifted his pattern of butchery. ("My theory," a criminal profiler says, "is he's trying to cut down, like a smoker or an alcoholic tapering off his intake until he's beaten the addiction.") While this parallel plot isn't entirely integrated into the main story, it lets more raffish downtown characters into the mix, adding their irreverent voices to the higher debate over how much it profits a man to build a shining city and lose his faith in himself. Before she loses her nerve in a way that a true queen of the night (like Ruth Rendell or her alter ego, Barbara Vine) never would, Minette Walters spins a gripping tale of suspense in THE CHAMELEON'S SHADOW (Knopf, $24.95). Sticking to her habitual method of storytelling, Walters draws all eyes to Lt. Charles Acland, a 26-year-old British soldier who is gravely injured but escapes death after his armored vehicle is obliterated by terrorist bombs in Iraq. From the time he's first met, badly disfigured and sullenly silent on a hospital ward, Acland commands our attention, which only intensifies as he reveals the anger, grief, guilt and rage that torment him. Walters's portrait of this wounded soldier is so persuasively shaded that when he comes under suspicion as a serial killer we're forced to examine the existential question of whether a personality can truly be destroyed - and what that says about military combat. Unhappily, the story's sensationalism undermines this character study, while the procedural format, with its routine police work and inept cops, only distracts from the deeper issues this psychological thriller raises. The perverse tones of Madeline Dare rake their fingernails across the mental blackboard in THE CRAZY SCHOOL (Grand Central, $23.99). And how nice it is to hear that rebel voice again. After making her nervy debut in "A Field of Darkness," Cornelia Read's renegade debutante took to the hills of New England, and here she is in 1989 in the Berkshires, teaching at the Santangelo Academy, a "therapeutic boarding school" for the troubled progeny of the filthy rich. In addition to appealing to "all manner of seekers and lost boys, wild girls and pagan sprites," and those misguided souls who would teach them more practical social skills, the region also attracts a murderer who kills two students and makes the deaths look like a double suicide. Only the iconoclastic Madeline, who really cares about her vulnerable charges, is skeptical enough to see through the sham. While hardly taxing, the whodunit plot is funny and twisted, and it gives Madeline plenty of opportunities to air her caustic views on the evolutionary decline of her social class. As alluring as it is disorienting, THE RISK OF INFIDELITY INDEX (Atlantic Monthly, $22) introduces American readers to Christopher G. Moore's exotic private-eye mysteries set in Bangkok and featuring an American expatriate named Vincent Calvino. While hard-pressed to maintain his own moral ballast within this permissive society, Calvino has a sense of irony that allows him to work for ex-pat wives who want sordid proof of their husbands' infidelity in the Thai capital, which ranks No. 1 internationally as the "hub of marriage destruction." But this cynical private eye also has a streak of integrity (and a need for cash) that compels him to take up the cause of a client who was murdered when he tried to expose a case of drug piracy so farreaching it could bring down the government. Although the tone of the narrative is slightly off - the general satire seems a bit too blunt, and downright mean in its specific consideration of those expat wives - Moore's flashy style successfully captures the dizzying contradictions of this vertiginous landscape. In Loren D. Estleman's latest novel, a corrupt chief of police tries to make peace with his conscience.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Walters' latest suspense tale mixes the creepiness of that old noir movie The Lodger, in which an isolated man may or may not be Jack the Ripper, with a contemporary, ripped-from-the headlines exploration of the aftereffects of traumatic brain injury on soldiers. A British lieutenant in Iraq, a victim of a roadside bombing, is left with traumatic brain injury, horrific deformity on one side of his face, excruciating migraines, and a profound depression and suspicion of others. The first portion of the book chronicles the efforts made by psychiatrists to save Lieutenant Charles Acland from his wounds and his despair and to re-orient him toward civilian life. Walters makes even this clinical overview into a suspenseful struggle, as Acland resists all efforts to save him. Questions that haunt the second portion of the novel arise, as well, centering on his reaction to any mention of his former fiancée. Acland seeks reinstatement in the British armed services, is refused, and drifts into a lonely life in London, punctuated by bizarre bursts of anger and fighting. Later, Acland's well-documented reentry problems and his unprovoked attacks on others make him a natural suspect in a series of murders in London. Solid plotting, superb characterization, and fascinating information on traumatic brain injuries make this compelling thriller a sure winner.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2007 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

One look at Lt. Charles Acland's disfigured face and anyone can see that the Iraqi bomb that blew up two of his men has left him profoundly changed-but have his traumatic brain injuries altered the young British army officer's personality enough to make him a murderer? That's the narrative fuse Edgar-winner Walters (The Devil's Feather) lights to ignite this sizzling psychological thriller. She skillfully interweaves strands of Acland's story, including notes from the military psychiatrist treating him, with the hunt for a serial killer who's claimed at least three victims in South London. Then another man is beaten within an inch of his life not long after Acland's move into the neighborhood. When the lieutenant gets into a near-fatal bar fight with a Pakistani stockbroker, Acland's unlikely savior is a 250-pound lesbian weight lifter and doctor named Jackson. Surprisingly, Jackson is also one of the few convincing characters in this plot-propelled tale, a flaw readers may be willing to ignore-until they slam into a contrived denouement well below Walters's usual standard. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

A British soldier recovering from head injuries sustained in Iraq becomes increasingly isolated, giving way to rages directed mostly at his former fiancee. Is he responsible for a string of recent murders? (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A wounded veteran of the Iraq war returns to a London landscape just as threatening. Since his Scimitar tank was bombed, Lt. Charles Acland, the sole survivor, has been in no mood to brag about his alleged good fortune. He's sustained serious head injuries, lost an eye and become even more skittish about being touched than he was before. Even so, hospital psychiatrist Dr. Robert Willis notes that he's resolute in expressing his wishes about practically everything. On one point he's especially adamant: He wants no further contact with Jennifer Morley, the stage actress with whom he broke off his engagement just before he left for the front. In the fullness of time she turns up at his bedside, and sparks fly over the sharply differing accounts the two lovebirds offer of their relationship and its abrupt ending. What does their abortive romance have to do with the murderous attacks on a series of inoffensive men, most of them gay or bisexual? For a long time it seems that the only connection is that they're all in the same book. But Det. Supt. Brian Jones, who heads the inquiry into the beatings, finds more and more links that can't be coincidental, especially after Acland, who's checked himself out of the hospital and fallen in with a no-nonsense lesbian physician and her pub-owning partner, turns out to be connected to three different victims: one who drank at his pub, one he quarreled with shortly before the victim was attacked and one whose cell phone he gives the police. Despite the red herrings provided by a diabetic young runaway and the homeless man who befriends him, the net tightens around Acland, whose torment is so piercing he might be a holdover from Walters's last outing in Iraq (The Devil's Feather, 2006). Forget the tangled mystery. The dance of death between Acland and his ex-lover is harrowing. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1 When Charles Acland regained consciousness, he thought he was dreaming about a visit to the dentist. Certainly, the numbness in his mouth suggested novocaine even if the rest of the fantasy was absurd. He was lying on his back, staring up at a moving ceiling, and a bell was ringing loudly behind him. An alarm? He tried to raise his head to see where it was, but a hand descended on his chest and a woman's disembodied face loomed over him. The dentist? He watched her lips move, but couldn't make out what she was saying over the insistent clamour of the alarm. He toyed with asking her to turn it off, but doubted that novocaine would allow his words to be understood. She wouldn't be able to hear him anyway. Somewhere at the back of his mind was a lurking fear that he didn't recognize. For no reason that he understood, the closeness of the woman worried him. He'd been in this position before--flat on his back and unable to move--and there was a strong association in his mind with pain. Fleetingly, another woman, slender, dark-haired and graceful, appeared in his line of vision. There were tears in her eyes, but Acland had no idea who she was. His instinctive reaction was dislike. His only points of reference were the alarm and the ceiling moving above his head. Neither had any meaning for him. He could have floated forever in morphine-induced detachment if increasing awareness hadn't told him this wasn't a dream. He started to experience sensations. A jolt as the trolley crossed a threshold. The sympathetic tightening of stretcher straps as his body shifted. A low ache at the back of his jaw. A brief stabbing pain that knifed up his neck. A puzzled realization that only one of his eyes was open. With a sense of dread, he knew he was awake . . . with no idea who he was, where he was or what had happened to him . . . Subsequent awakenings increased his dread. He came to understand that the ringing was inside his head. It grew more bearable with each return to consciousness, but he couldn't hear what was said by the faces that stared down at him. Their mouths opened and closed but nothing reached him. Nor did he know if his own mouth was relaying the signals his brain was sending to it. He tried to speak of his fears, but the lack of response in the faces above him persuaded him his lips weren't moving. Time was meaningless. He couldn't tell how often he drifted in and out of consciousness or how long his periods of sleep lasted. He convinced himself that days and weeks had passed since he'd been brought to this place, and a slow anger burned inside him as threads of insight began to knit together. Something cataclysmic had happened. He was in hospital. The talking heads were doctors. But they weren't helping him and they couldn't see that he was awake. He had a terrifying anxiety that he was in the hands of enemies-- why? --or that he was trapped forever in a paralysed state that allowed him to think and reason, but left him unable to communicate. The dark-haired woman suffocated him. He hated the smell of her and the touch of her hand on his skin. She was always there, weeping soft, round tears down her pale cheeks, but her sadness failed to move Acland. He knew intuitively that the tears were for show, not for him, and he despised her for her lack of sincerity. He felt he should recognize her. Every time he woke and watched her through a half-closed lid, a sense of familiarity swam just below the surface. He knew his father before he knew her. Recognition of the tired-looking man who hovered at the edges of his vision came like an electric shock. In the next moment, he knew who the woman was and why her touch repulsed him. Other memories flooded back. He recalled his name. Charles Acland. His occupation. Lieutenant, British Army. His last deployment. Iraq. He had a clear recollection, which he played over and over in his mind because it offered an explanation, of boarding an RAF Hercules on the day he left for the Middle East. He guessed the plane must have crashed on take-off, for his last memory was of buckling himself into his seat. "Charles. Wake up, Charles." Fingers pinched the skin on his hand. "There's a good boy. Come on, now. Wake up." He opened his eye and looked at the middle-aged nurse who was bending over him. "I heard you," he said. The words came out as a long slur but he knew he'd said them. "You've had an operation and you're now in recovery," she told him, answering the question she thought he'd asked. Where am I? "If all goes well, you'll be returned to your own bed this afternoon. You're connected to a PCA pump"--she guided his left hand towards a control set--"otherwise known as patient-controlled analgesia. It allows you to be in charge of your own post-operative care. You shouldn't need any pain relief for a while, but if you begin to feel discomfort press the white button. The morphine will help you sleep." He jerked his hand away immediately. "It's up to you," she said easily, "but this way you can manage the pain yourself. The doses are measured and the machine overrides any attempt at self-indulgence." She smiled cheerfully. "You won't be on it long enough to become an addict, Charles. Trust me." He didn't. He had an instant understanding that he didn't trust any woman, although he had no idea why that should be. The nurse held up a black plastic egg-shaped object. "I'm going to put this in your right hand. Tell me if you can feel it." "Yes." "Good man." She placed his thumb on a button at the top. "Push that if you need me. I'll be keeping a close eye on you, but in case of emergencies, holler. You're a lucky fellow. If God hadn't given you a skull like a rhinoceros, you wouldn't have survived." She started to move away but Acland used his free hand to catch at her skirt. "How did it crash?" "Say again." He took the words back into his throat like a ventriloquist and repeated them in slow, guttural fashion. "Khow . . . di' . . . i' . . .  khrash?" "How did what crash?" "The plane." He tried again. "Khe khlane. I was on a khlane." "Don't you remember what happened?" He shook his head. "OK. I'll ask someone to explain it to you." She patted his hand again. "But don't worry, love. You've got a few wires crossed, that's all. They'll right themselves eventually." Time passed and nothing happened. The nurse returned at intervals, but her complacent smiles and inane comments annoyed him. Once or twice, he attempted to remind her that he needed explanations but, out of stupidity or bloody-mindedness, she refused to understand what he was saying. A scream was circling around his head and he found himself struggling with anger in a way that he didn't understand. Everything , from the curtained cubicle he was lying in to the sounds from outside--muted voices, footsteps, a phone ringing--conspired to ratchet up his irritation. Even the nurse had lost interest. He counted off the seconds between her visits. Three hundred. Four hundred. When the interval reached five hundred, he put his finger on the buzzer and kept it there. She bustled in with a stupid laugh and attempted to remove the plastic egg from his hand, but he wrestled it away from her and held it against his chest. "Fuck you." She had no trouble understanding that, he thought, watching her smile disappear. "I can't turn it off if you keep your finger on it," she said, indicating a bleeping light on a remote receiver clipped to her waistband. "You'll have everyone in here if you don't let go." "Good." "I'll disconnect it," she warned. "You're not the only patient who's had surgery today." She held out her palm. "Come on, Charles. Give me a break, eh? I've made the call. It's not my fault it's taking so long. This is a National Health Service hospital, and there's only one psychiatric consultant on call at the moment. He'll be here before long. You have to trust me on that." He tried to say he didn't need a psychiatrist. There was nothing wrong with his brain. He simply wanted to know what had happened. There were other men on the plane. Had they survived? But the concentration needed to speak the words (which were incomprehensible even to his own ears) was so intense that the woman easily deprived him of his buzzer. He swore at her again. She checked the PCA, saw that he hadn't used it. "Is it pain that's making you angry?" "No." She didn't believe him. "No one expects you to be a hero, Charles. Pain-free sleep will do you more good than staying awake and becoming frustrated." She shook her head. "You shouldn't be this alert anyway, not after what you've been through." When the psychiatrist finally arrived, he said much the same thing. "You look brighter than I was expecting." He introduced himself as Dr. Robert Willis and drew up a chair beside Acland's recovery-room trolley. He was mid-fifties, thin and bespectacled, with a habit of staring into his patients' eyes when he wasn't consulting a computer printout of their notes, which he placed on his knees. He confirmed Acland's name and rank, then asked him what his last memory was. "Khetting o' kh' khlane." "In England?" Acland stuck a thumb in the air. Willis smiled. "Right. I think it might be better if I do the talking. We don't want to make this painful for you . . . or for me. Give me a thumbs-up for yes and a thumbs-down for no. Let's start with a simple question. Do you understand what I'm saying?" He watched the lieutenant's thumb shoot up. "Good. Do you know what happened to you?" Acland jabbed repeatedly towards the floor. The man nodded. "Then we'll take this slowly. Do you remember arriving in Iraq? No. Do you remember anything about Iraq?" Repeated downward jabs of the thumb. "Nothing at all? Your base? Your command? Your squad?" Acland shook his head. "Right. Well, I can only go by the medical and regimental reports that came with you, and the newspaper coverage that I've just taken off the net, but I'll tell you as much as I know. If there's anything you want repeated, raise your hand." Acland learned that he'd spent eight weeks attached to one of the U.K. military bases near Basra. He had taken command of a four-Scimitar, twelve-man reconnaissance troop whose task was to search out insurgent crossing points along the Iraq/Iran border. He and his troopers made two recce patrols, each of three weeks' duration, which were described by his CO as "extremely successful." Following a few days R&R, his troop was then deployed to recce ahead of a convoy on the Baghdad-to-Basra highway. As commander, Acland was in the lead Scimitar with his two most experienced troopers, Lance Corporals Barry Williams and Doug Hughes. The vehicle had been attacked by an improvised explosive device buried in a roadside culvert. The two lance corporals had died in the explosion, but Acland had been thrown clear. All three men had been recommended for decoration. Willis turned a piece of paper towards the young lieutenant. It was a printout of a newspaper article with a banner headline saying: Our Heroes . To the side, under a photograph of him at his passing-out parade, were two portraits of smiling men, posing with their wives and children, over the caption: Devastated families mourn brave dads . His own caption read: Seriously injured but alive . "Do you recognize them, Charles? This"--he touched a face--"is Barry Williams and this is Doug Hughes." Acland stared at the pictures, trying to find something he remembered--a feature, a smile--but he might have been looking at strangers for all the recognition he had of them. He suppressed a surge of panic because he'd shared a Scimitar with these men on two extended recce trips and knew how close he must have grown to them. Or should have done. It didn't make sense that he could forget his men so easily. "No." Perhaps Willis noticed his concern, because he told him not to worry about it. "You took a hell of a knock to the head. It's not surprising you have holes in your memory. It's usually just a question of time before things start to return." "Khow khong?" "How long? It depends how bad your concussion is. A few days, perhaps. You won't remember everything all at once . . . We tend to retrieve memory bit by bit, but--" He broke off as Acland shook his head. "Khow khong"--he pointed to himself--"khere?" "How long have you been here?" Acland nodded. "About thirty hours. You're in a hospital on the outskirts of Birmingham. It's Tuesday, 28 November. The attack happened on Friday and you arrived here early yesterday. You had a CAT scan during the afternoon and an operation this morning to plate the bones in your left cheek and above your left eye." Willis smiled. "You're in pretty good shape, all things considered." Acland raised his thumb in acknowledgement, but the conversation had done little to allay his fears or his sense of resentment. How could he forget eight weeks of his life? How could thirty hours have turned into an eternity? Why had the nurse said his wires were crossed? What was wrong with him? Excerpted from The Chameleon's Shadow by Minette Walters All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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