I look forward to the plot lines that were opened up here for future books. This case was intricate and took us all around London meeting interesting people-magical and not. It feels like the book has the old way on display as we learn about the world, and how Nightingale’s era did things, but it also has the new way, which I hope is hinting to a new generation of magic users. I love his approach to magic, wanting to do all the tests. Caring about those around him, and doing what’s right by them. I don’t know how to explain it, he’s still a pretty crass main character, but he is also becoming less of a solo act I guess. His character growth from the last book to this one is fascinating. Which is fun, because Peters side thoughts are funny, and he tells it in such a laid back manner that you can’t help but want to know more.
These books read like your sitting at a café, and Peter is telling you about his latest case.
It feels like you’re walking the streets with Peter. The love of music, mixed with the love of London, it’s so engulfing. Which is a hilarious way to address the public knowing about magic. Well most usually roll their eyes like it’s some annoying secret of London that they’d rather not have to deal with. It’s so engrained into the society, no one really bats an eye about magic. And maybe once in a career, you're doing it for revenge.I really love the world building in this series. Occasionally you're doing it for justice. That's the thing about policing: most of the time you're doing it to maintain public order. What they leave behind is sickness, failure and broken lives.Īnd as I hunted them, my investigation got tangled up in another story: a brilliant trumpet player, Richard 'Lord' Grant - my father - who managed to destroy his own career, twice. I didn't trust the lovely Simone, Cyrus' ex-lover, professional jazz kitten and as inviting as a Rubens portrait, but I needed her help: there were monsters stalking Soho, creatures feeding off that special gift that separates the great musician from someone who can raise a decent tune. No one was going to let me exhume corpses to see if they were playing my tune, so it was back to old-fashioned legwork, starting in Soho, the heart of the scene. Cyrus Wilkinson, part-time jazz saxophonist and full-time accountant, had apparently dropped dead of a heart attack just after finishing a gig in a Soho jazz club.
Something violently supernatural had happened to the victim, strong enough to leave its imprint like a wax cylinder recording. And it's why, when Dr Walid called me to the morgue to listen to a corpse, I recognised the tune it was playing. I was my dad's vinyl-wallah: I changed his records while he lounged around drinking tea, and that's how I know my Argo from my Tempo.
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