The Cuckoo's Calling

Author: Robert Galbraith (or J.K Rowling, as he's better known)
Series: Cormoran Strike

Year: 2013

Pages: 464

Time It Took To Read: Three days

That J.K Rowling's a wily one. Instead of writing an encyclopedia of Potterdom (which she should), she diverts us by writing a detective story in the guise of a man. And I absolutely understand why, and why she adopted a pseudonym. I haven't read The Casual Vacancy, because I'm not a massive fan of fiction (not that you'd know, reading this blog), but my sister lent me this and I was in PAROXYSMS of AWE throughout.

Everyone knows you can't have a normal detective. Detectives always have a flaw, preferably several. They smoke, they drink, they're ugly, they can't keep relationships down, they are shit fathers, they cry out for vengeance, they are gruff, they have no friends, they enclose themselves in such a cloak of dour arseholeness that nobody wants to work with them. Cormoran Strike, the detective of this book, has many of the above flaws, plus an absence of leg, but manages not to be either defined by his flaws, or irritatingly unlikeable because of them. 

Detectives also need a long suffering sidekick. Holmes had his Watson, Morse had his Lewis, and Strike has his Robin. Robin, a temp, turns out to be surprisingly good at detective groundwork. Which is handy. 

And the victim, a beautiful, fucked-up model, has fallen to her death from her luxurious mansion. None of the police involved go quite as far as saying "Are yew saying it was MUR-DUR?" like Doris in Hot Fuzz, but that's the general gist. 

I loved it. It was immersive, on the nose with celebrity culture, and not too obvious. I can't wait for the next one, which is apparently due out June.

Book count: 7/50