It’s Christmastime, 1947, in the City of London’s square mile of high finance. An apparent vice killing spooks a City councillor into hiring Newman, an American private eye out of kilter with this island he has called home for twenty years to keep his name out of a murder case.
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Two candles flaring at a Christmas crib. A nurse who steps inside a church to light them. A gunshot emptied in a man’s head in the creaking stillness before dawn, that the nurse says she didn’t hear.
It’s 1947 in the snowbound, war-scarred City of London, where Pandora’s Box just got opened in the ruins, City Police has a vice killing on its hands, and a spooked councilor hires a shamus to help spare his blushes. Like the Buddha says, everything is connected. So it all can be explained. But that’s a little cryptic when you happen to be the shamus, and you’re standing over a corpse.
"Elegant and spare but still cloaks itself in a terrific atmosphere. I liked the backstreet whores and the tipster barbers; the gold-leaf dining rooms and the tenement bedrooms. For me, it rang of Chandler - a grey-skied, British 'Big Sleep'." -ATLANTIC BOOKS
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