Broken Harbor

Review by New York Times Review

For a long time, bullheaded Mick hardly seems the ideal narrator for this delicately nuanced nightmare of a story. But he becomes far more interesting once French turns a rather plodding procedural into what it really wants to be - a psychological suspense story about the dangers of suppressing unthinkable thoughts. Like other young couples swept up in Ireland's economic miracle, the Spains couldn't face the shambles the recession had made of their lives. Instead, they focused their fears on a feral animal thought to be moving about in the attic and a silent intruder suspected of slipping into their home. Mick's own personal demons also awaken in this seaside village, once known as Broken Harbor, where his family spent their summer holidays. Something awful happened on their last vacation that traumatized the young Mick and shaped his values as a hard-nosed cop. His mantra - "Murder is chaos. . . . We stand against that, for order" - is the perfect definition of police work, which Mick describes with unexpected eloquence: "What I do is what the first men did. They built walls to keep back the sea. They fought the wolves for the hearth fire." In most crime novels, good cops and decent people court tragedy by disobeying the rules of society. But the stories French tells reflect our own savage times: the real trouble starts when you play fair and do exactly as you're told. It's always a pleasure to watch a keen mind absorbed in a difficult puzzle, which is how Dave Gurney distinguishes himself in John Verdon's tricky whodunits. In "Think of a Number," the retired New York police detective unscrambled data codes. He solved another improbable riddle in "Shut Your Eyes Tight." Now, in LET THE DEVIL SLEEP (Crown, $25), Dave is bedeviled by a psychopath who has resumed the killing spree he began a decade earlier. This time the so-called Good Shepherd is targeting the survivors of his original victims, who have agreed to appear in a TV documentary about the impact of homicide on their own lives. It takes a lot of cajoling on the part of the annoying young woman making this documentary to rouse Dave from the depression he fell into after his last case, which isn't the romantic funk Verdon seems to think it is. Nor is his exhaustive dissection of Dave's dull marriage worth all the verbiage. And while Dave loves to go mano a mano with the F.B.I., points are deducted when the agent is as thick as two planks. You have to admire an author with the guts to make fun of his chosen genre. POTBOILER (Putnam, $25.95) is Jesse Kellerman's parody of the offbeat thrillers he normally writes about clever young men whose sense of adventure draws them into dangerous situations. Arthur Pfefferkorn, his current protagonist, is neither young nor adventurous, having written one novel and then settled into a boring existence as a college professor. But when an old friend, an obscenely successful author of junky thrillers, dies with an unpublished manuscript on his desk, Arthur seizes his chance to co-opt his rival's career. All the air goes out of this satire once Kellerman maneuvers Arthur into a clumsy international espionage plot - but it was fun while it lasted. Print journalists are an endangered species, so it's nice to come across two new sleuths drawn from their thinning ranks. In Joy Castro's first novel, HELL OR HIGH WATER (Thomas Dunne/ St. Martin's, $25.99), a young reporter named Nola Céspedes almost passes up the chance to write an investigative series on the 800 or so sex offenders still on the loose in New Orleans, years after the chaos of Hurricane Katrina. (Ding ding! Here's the first clue that Nola is an amateur at heart. Who would turn down such a sensational assignment?) Once it dawns on her that whoever kidnapped a tourist from the French Quarter might be found among these same "creeps," Nola pursues the story with more passion than professional savvy, and with a soulful affection for her battered yet still beautiful city. On the other hand, Willie Black is all business - newspaper business. In OREGON HILL (Permanent Press, $28), Howard Owen's world-weary crime reporter covers the night beat for a hardpressed daily in Richmond, Va. When Willie's number comes up for downsizing, he wins a reprieve by chasing the terrific story he's working on here - about a headless corpse tossed in the South Anna River. Owen has recruited his sick, sad and creatively crazy characters from a rough neighborhood cut off from the rest of the city when the expressway was built. If anyone is watching out for the forgotten citizens of Oregon Hill, it's Willie, who grew up there and speaks the local language, a crisp and colorful urban idiom we can't wait to hear again. 'What I do is what the first men did. They built walls to keep back the sea. They fought the wolves.'

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 5, 2012]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Each of French's novels (Faithful Place, 2010) offers wonderfully complex and fully realized characters. Broken Harbor offers half a dozen, not least Mick Scorcher Kennedy, the Dublin Garda's top homicide detective. Scorcher is smart, tireless, dutiful, and by-the-book, and he demands no less from coworkers. But when he and his brand-new partner are assigned a savage triple homicide in a distant housing development, abandoned before completion when the Irish housing bubble burst, Scorcher is shaken; the development is located in a place that gave him the best and worst moments of his life. Broken Harbor begins as a compelling and detailed procedural but soon shifts focus to the character of its characters. Whether cops, victims, survivors, witnesses, or suspects, all are brilliantly drawn and ultimately broken by the crime and the events in their lives. Although too little known to U.S. readers, Ireland's ghost estates are a key motif: hundreds of large, abandoned developments with few occupied homes, often shabbily built and lacking critical infrastructure, far from workplaces, being reclaimed by feral nature. French's descriptive powers are both vivid and nuanced, and her deeply creepy ghost estate inspires madness and a subtle kind of gothic horror. French has never been less than very good, but Broken Harbor is a spellbinder.--Gaughan, Thomas Copyright 2010 Booklist

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

You can tell from the very start that Stephen Hogan's narration of French's fourth thriller about the coppers of Dublin's murder squad is going to be a standout. It's not just because his melodic, accented voice is such a perfect fit for the book's protagonist, Mick "Scorcher" Kennedy. It's that Hogan performs French's words, turning Scorcher's first-person narration into a nuanced, naturalistic monologue and his conversations and interrogations into what resemble full-cast ensembles. French's book is a psychological study of its leading characters wrapped in the popular trappings of a police procedural. The case on the murder squad's docket is a brutal attack on the Spains, a family living in a hastily gentrified suburb, that has left the father and two children dead and the mother severely wounded. Hogan does a stellar job capturing the book's gloomy atmosphere (a result of Ireland's economic downturn) and the effect it has on the characters. But Hogan's greatest success is his portrayal of the highly moral Scorcher as he mentors his partner, cares for his unstable and difficult sister, and desperately tries to do the right thing even at the cost of his honor and his job. A Viking hardcover. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

French's fourth novel about the Dublin Murder Squad (In the Woods; The Likeness; Faithful Place) opens with a gruesome triple homicide in a seaside town outside of Dublin. Patrick Spain and his two children are dead, while Spain's wife, Jennie, lands in intensive care. A by-the-book officer with a hard-nosed reputation who is saddled with a rookie partner, Mick "Scorcher" Kennedy discovers further complications when he finds suspicious surveillance equipment near the Spains' apartment. But that's not all: Mick and his troubled sister, Dina, have a disturbing history with the town of Broken Harbor-dating back to a horrific childhood experience with their mentally unstable mother. Following a pattern established with French's first and second novels, this is another "chain-linked" novel, featuring a secondary character from the previous book (in this case, Faithful Place) as the protagonist. Furthermore, French uses Ireland's current economic recession as an effective backdrop for the escalating tension and calamity within the Spain family. VERDICT French's deft psychological thriller, focusing on parallel stories of mentally ill mothers and the tragedy of depression, offers a nuanced take on family relationships that will satisfy her fans and readers of psychological thrillers and police procedurals. [See Prepub Alert, 1/8/12.]-Rebecca M. Marrall, Western Washington Univ. Libs., Bellingham (c) Copyright 2012. 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 mystery that is perfectly in tune with the times, as the ravages of the recession and the reach of the Internet complicate a murder that defies easy explanation within a seemingly loving household. The Irish author continues to distinguish herself with this fourth novel, marked by psychological acuteness and thematic depth. As has previously been the case, a supporting character from a prior work (Faithful Place, 2010, her third and best) takes center stage, as Mick "Scorcher" Kennedy attempts to penetrate the mystery of what transpired during a night that left a husband and two children dead and a wife barely clinging to life, with injuries that couldn't have been self-inflicted. Or could they? This is the most claustrophobic of French's novels, because the secrets seemingly lie within that household and with those who were either murdered or attacked within it. The setting is an upscale property development at what had once been Broken Harbor, where Kennedy's family had itself suffered a fatal trauma decades earlier. The property development has been left unfinished due to the economic downturn, which had also cost Patrick Spain his job. He and his wife, Jenny, had done their best to keep up appearances, with their marriage seemingly in harmony. Then came the attack that left Patrick and their two children dead and Jenny in intensive care. The investigative net cast by Kennedy and his younger partner encompasses Jenny's sister and some of their longtime friends, but the focus remains on the insular family. Had Patrick gone insane? Had Jenny? Was this a horrific murder-suicide or had someone targeted a family that had no apparent enemies? Says Scorcher, "In every way there is, murder is chaos. Our job is simple, when you get down to it: we stand against that, for order." Yet Scorcher's own sanity, or at least his rigid notions of right and wrong, will fall into question in a novel that turns the conventional notions of criminals and victims topsy-turvy. The novel rewards the reader's patience: There are complications, deliberations and a riveting resolution.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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I used to know Broken Harbor like the back of my hand, when I was a skinny little guy with home-cut hair and mended jeans. Kids nowadays grew up on sun holidays during the boom, two weeks in the Costa del Sol is their bare minimum. But I'm forty-two and our generation had low expectations. A few days by the Irish Sea in a rented caravan put you ahead of the pack. Broken Harbor was nowhere, back then. A dozen scattered houses full of families named Whelan or Lynch who'd been there since evolution began, a shop called Lynch's and a pub called Whelan's, and a handful of caravan spaces, just a fast barefoot run over slipping sand dunes and between tufts of marram grass to the cream-colored sweep of beach. We got two weeks there every June, in a rusty four-bunker that my dad booked a year in advance. The three of us were up and out at daybreak with a slice of bread and sugar in each hand. We had all-day games of pirates with the kids from the other caravans, went freckly and peeling from salt and windburn and the odd hour of sunshine. For tea my mother would fry up eggs and sausages on a camping stove, and afterwards my father would send us to Lynch's for ice creams. We'd come back to find my mum sitting on his lap, leaning her head into the curve of his neck and smiling dreamily out at the water; he'd wind her hair around his free hand, so the sea breeze wouldn't whip it into her ice cream. I waited all year to see them look like that. Once I got the Beemer off the main roads I started remembering the route, like I had known I would, just a faded sketch at the back of my head: past this clump of trees--taller, now--left at that kink in the stone wall. Right where the water should have risen into view over a low green hill, though, the estate came charging up out of nowhere and blocked our way like a barricade: rows of slate roofs and white gables stretching for what looked like miles in either direction, behind a high breeze-block wall. The signboard at the entrance said, in flamboyant curly lettering the size of my head, WELCOME TO OCEAN VIEW, BRIANSTOWN. A NEW REVELATION IN PREMIER LIVING. LUXURY HOUSES AND APARTMENTS NOW VIEWING. Someone had spray painted a big red cock and balls over it. At first glance, Ocean View looked pretty tasty: big detached houses that gave you something substantial for your money, trim strips of green, quaint signposts pointing you towards LITTLE GEMS CHILDCARE and DIAMONDCUT LEISURE CENTER. Second glance, the grass needed weeding and there were gaps in the footpaths. Third glance, something was wrong. The houses were too much alike. Even on the ones where a triumphant red-and-blue sign yelled SOLD, no one had painted the front door a crap color, put flowerpots on the windowsills or tossed plastic kiddie toys on the lawn. There was a scattering of parked cars, but most of the driveways were empty, and not in a way that said everyone was out powering the economy. You could look straight through three out of four houses, to bare rear windows and gray patches of sky. A heavyset girl in a red anorak was shoving a buggy along a footpath, wind grabbing at her hair. She and her moon-faced kid could have been the only people within miles. "Jaysus," Richie said; in the silence his voice was loud enough that both of us jumped. "The village of the damned." * * * The door of the house was a few inches open, swaying gently when the breeze caught it. When it was in one piece it had looked like solid oak, but where the uniforms had splintered it away from the lock you could see the powdery reconstituted crap underneath. It had probably taken them one shove. Through the crack: a geometric black-and-white rug, high-trend with a high price tag to match. I said to Richie, "This is just a preliminary walk-through. The serious stuff can wait till the Bureau lads have the scene on record. For now, we don't touch anything, we try not to stand on anything, we try not to breathe on anything, we get a basic sense of what we're dealing with and we get out. Ready?" He nodded. I pushed the door open with one fingertip on the splintered edge. My first thought was that if this was what Garda Whatever called disorder, he had OCD issues. The hallway was dim and perfect: sparkling mirror, organized coatrack, smell of lemon room freshener. The walls were clean. On one of them was a watercolor, something green and peaceful with cows. My second thought: the Spains had had an alarm system. The panel was a fancy modern one, discreetly tucked away behind the door. The OFF light was a steady yellow. Then I saw the hole in the wall. Someone had moved the phone table in front of it, but it was big enough that a jagged half-moon still poked out. That was when I felt it: that needle-fine vibration, starting in my temples and moving down the bones into my eardrums. Some detectives feel it in the backs of their necks, some get it in the hair on their arms--I know one poor sap who gets it in the bladder, which can be inconvenient--but all the good ones feel it somewhere. It gets me in the skull bones. Call it what you want--social deviance, psychological disturbance, the animal within, evil if you believe in that: it's the thing we spend our lives chasing. All the training in the world won't give you that warning when it comes close. You get it or you don't. I took a quick look at Richie: grimacing and licking his lips, like an animal that's tasted something putrid. He got it in his mouth, which he would need to learn to hide, but at least he got it. Off to our left was a half-open door: sitting room. Straight ahead, the stairs and the kitchen. Someone had put time into doing up the sitting room. Brown leather sofas, sleek chrome-and-glass coffee table, one wall painted butter yellow for one of those reasons that only women and interior designers understand. For the lived-in look, there was a good big telly, a Wii, a scattering of glossy gadgets, a little shelf for paperbacks and another one for DVDs and games, candles and blond photos on the mantelpiece of the gas fire. It should have felt welcoming, but damp had buckled the flooring and blotched a wall, and the low ceiling and the just-wrong proportions were stubborn. They outweighed all that loving care and turned the room cramped and dim, a place where no one could feel comfortable for long. Curtains almost drawn, just the crack that the uniforms had looked through. Standing lamps on. Whatever had happened, it had happened at night, or someone wanted me to think it had. Above the gas fire was another hole in the wall, about the size of a dinner plate. There was a bigger one by the sofa. Pipes and straggling wires half showed from the dark inside. Beside me Richie was trying to keep the fidgeting down to a minimum, but I could feel one knee jiggling. He wanted the bad moments over and done with. I said, "Kitchen." It was hard to believe that the same guy who had designed the sitting room had come up with this. It was a kitchen-cum-dining-room-cum-playroom, running the whole length of the back of the house, and it was mostly made of glass. Outside the day was still gray, but the light in that room was full and dazzling enough to make you blink, with a lift and a clarity that told you the sea was very near. I've never been able to see why it's supposed to be a plus if your neighbors can check out what you're having for breakfast--give me net-curtain privacy any day, trendy or not--but that light almost made me understand. The room was an estate agent's dream, except that it was impossible to imagine anyone living there, ever again. Some frantic struggle had thrown the table over, slamming one corner into a window and cracking a great star across the glass. More holes in the walls: one high above the table, a big one behind an overturned Lego castle. A beanbag had burst open and spilled tiny white pellets everywhere; a trail of cookbooks fanned out across the floor, shards of glass glinted where a picture frame had smashed. The blood was everywhere: fans of spatter flying up the walls, crazy trails of drips and footprints crisscrossing the tile floor, wide smears on the windows, thick clumps soaked into the yellow fabric of the chairs. A few inches from my feet was one ripped half of a height chart, big beanstalk leaves and a climbing cartoon kid, Emma 17/06/09 almost obliterated by clotting red. Reprinted by arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., from Broken Harbor by Tana French. Copyright © 2012 by Tana French. Available July 24, 2012 wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Broken Harbor: A Novel by Tana French 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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