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Summary
Summary
Inspector Brant is on the trail of a serial killer obsessed with sending Londoners an important message in this lightning-paced, hard-boiled noir from Ken Bruen, Calibre .
Somewhere in the teeming heart of London is a man on a lethal mission. His cause: a long-overdue lesson on the importance of manners. When a man gives a public tongue-lashing to a misbehaving child, or a parking lot attendant is rude to a series of customers, the "Manners Killer" makes sure that the next thing either sees is the beginning of his own grisly end.
When he starts mailing letters to the Southeast London police squad, he'll soon find out just how bad a man's manners can get. The Southeast is dominated by the perpetual sneer of one Inspector Brant, and while he might or might not agree with the killer's cause and can even forgive his tactics to some degree, Brant is just ornery enough to employ his trademark brand of amoral, borderline-criminal policing to the hunt for the Manners Killer. For if there's one thing that drives the incomparable inspector, it's the unshakeable conviction that if anyone is going to be getting away with murder on his patch, it'll be Brant himself, thank you very much.
Author Notes
Ken Bruen was born in 1951 in Galway, Ireland. He was educated at Gormanston College, Meath and later at Trinity College Dublin where he earned a PhD. in metaphysics. He spent 25 years as an English teacher in Africa, Japan, Asia and South America. Ken Bruen's works include the well reeived White Trilogy and a book entitled The Guards, which won a Shamus Award .He also edited an anthology of stories set in Dublin entitled Dublin Noir. His writing speciality is crime fiction. Some of his other works include The Killing of the Tinkers, The Magdalen Martyrs, and The Dramatist and Priest, which was nominated for the 2008 Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel. Ken Bruen is also the recipient of the first David Loeb Gooodis Award in 2008 for his dedication to his art.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In Bruen's superb new pulp-inspired novel featuring Inspector Brant (after 2005's Vixen), the Southeast London Police Squad is plagued by a serial murderer who's determined to give his victims a lesson in manners. Taking a cue from Jim Thompson's The Killer Inside Me, the "Manners Killer" believes that anyone who behaves rudely in public (e.g., verbally abuses a store clerk, slaps a child) is fair game. He soon finds that he's no match for Brant, Bruen's amoral, sociopathic brute of a detective ("He was heavily built with a black Irish face that wasn't so much lived in as squatted upon"). While his methods may be questionable, Brant gets results, and we find ourselves secretly cheering him on. Meanwhile, Brant is writing his first crime novel, Calibre, and aspires to become the English Joseph Wambaugh. Of course, he doesn't let the fact that he can't write deter him; Brant just nicks the stories from his cop buddy Porter Nash. Bruen's furious hard-boiled prose, chopped down to its trademark essence, never fails to astonish. (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Bruen is so prolific that there is mounting evidence he could supply his own book-of-the-month club. It doesn't seem to affect his quality, though: if you like him, you'll still like him; if you don't, you still won't. Switching gears from his Jack Taylor series ( The Dramatist, 2006), Bruen returns to cops-and-robbers London and the cast of characters last seen in Vixen (2005). This postmodern crime novel pits the Ed McBain-loving antihero Sergeant Brant against a new villain, the Jim Thompson--obsessed Manners Killer. Well, against is a strong word in this morally murky universe, but one of them does have a badge. Bruen has referenced McBain's 87th Precinct series often enough that it's clear he is writing his own version, though the brutality, cynicism, and racism of the characters almost guarantee they won't reach as wide an audience. Bruen is so stinting on description that it's hard to keep some of them straight--but the completely corrupt, satanically funny Brant probably could carry the whole thing on his shoulders. Here's to the next Bruen-of-the-Month. --Keir Graff Copyright 2006 Booklist
Kirkus Review
That Iago in bespoke tailoring, Detective Sergeant Tom Brant of the SE London Met, returns to chase a serial killer straight out of Emily Post. His colleagues universally agree that "Brant was a pig," a man absolutely incapable of behavior not directly beneficial to DS Tom Brant. Typically, now, he sidles into the splashy case of London's lethal monitor of manners, convinced it will prove an easy, self-aggrandizing bust. Letters have begun arriving at police headquarters announcing an anonymous citizen's crusade against incivility. If the "manners killer" observes a mother unduly chastising her child, or a shopkeeper treating his customers boorishly, deadly mishaps loom: a stumble from a train platform, a tumble from the window of a high-rise apartment building. Aided by a big-time lead from his personal snitch, Brant happily plots to corner his prey. Meanwhile, his less accomplished Met sidekicks pursue other miscreants and their own elusive demons. In the process, Chief Inspector Roberts gets beaten up, WPC Falls falls for still another in a dismal list of nightmare mates, while PC MacDonald, once a Met golden boy, turns an appalling shade of yellow. Only Brant, cruel as Caligula, amoral as a wharf rat and totally undeserving, emerges unscathed to collect the glittering prizes. Sadly, this time Bruen (The Dramatist, Mar. 2006, etc.) crosses the thin line between noir and sour. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One SHIT FROM SHINOLA. You have to hand it to the goddamn Yanks, they have great verbals, man. I love the way they cuss. I killed my first last Tuesday, I can't believe it was so easy. Remorse? Not a fuckin' trace. Only sorry I didn't do it sooner. I'm forty-four years old, and I guess I'm what you'd call a late starter. Or as them Yanks have it, a late bloomer. Thirty years I could have been mowing down the fucks and what was I doing? Working. A working stiff. I think it was Bob Geldof who said work was the biggest con of all. I listen to The Rats with 'I Don't Like Mondays' and I've got my soundtrack down. They nailed it. The silicon chip inside my head just switched to overload. Been a long time coming. My old man, Anthony Crew, worked in an asbestos factory all his life. The last ten years he spent coughing up blood and gook till his eyes bulged. His employers, did they cover the hospital bills? They did fuck-all. The National Health Service did the best they could but he was fucked and gone; he was dead and didn't know it, wouldn't lie down. The Mick in him, those Paddies, tough sons of bitches. Every Sunday I went round his gaff, a council flat on Railton Road, and listened to him cough. James Joyce is buried in Switzerland near a zoo, and his wife, Nora Barnacle, said: 'He liked to listen to the lions roar.' Brixton is as close to a zoo as it gets. My dad, his face contorted to grotesque degrees of agony, and I wanted to kill some fucker. Now I have: Willeford Woolich Thompson. My heroes. I've read crime fiction for over twenty years, can't get enough, black as it's painted. The classic hard-boiled, though, these guys are the biz. Noir and out. Shit-kickers par excellence. My bookcase is an homage to pulp: James M. Cain Hammett Chandler. Here's a thing. I can't read Chandler's novels any more, but his letters, phew-oh, now you're cooking. They're on my bedside table, resting on my old man's Bible. His book passed down through generations of navvies to land here in Clapham. Could be worse, could be Kilburn. Might be yet. Used to be if you were in a hotel and wanted a hooker, open the Gideon Bible back page, bingo. Not any more. I blame the Internet, all that cybersex and chat rooms, they've taken the zing out of dirt. I'm not going to get caught. I'm due for another kill on Friday, a woman this time, keep the balance. The reason I won't get caught is not just cos I'm smart but I have an edge. I watch CSI. STUDY IT. So I'm au fait . . . With all the DNA fibres, signatures, trophies, crap. Two things in my corner, I'm random and I'm careful. Hard to top. They won't. I've read the true crime books, from Ann Rule through Joe McGinnis to Jack Olsen. Man I know my shit. Am I a psychopath? A sociopath? A paranoid schizophrenic? A narcissistic disorder? A blip on the human radar? Who the fuck cares. What I am is good and angry, like Peter Finch in Network. You think you can label me, tame me? Dream on, sucker. I'm the pale rider of Clapham. But hey, let's get it down. I'm not into weird shit. None of that cannibalism or jerking off on bodies. Jeez, I hate that stuff. Truth to tell, I can't even read about it. And child molesters? Don't get me started. Kids? Would I kill a kid? No way, José. Not unless he was in a boy band. This is my reality TV. Killing for prime time. Here's another thing, hope you're taking notes cos, like, I'll be asking questions. Ever see that profiler shine they pedal? Me now, they'd typically pin as: White (true) Late twenties, early thirties (wrong) Loner (mm . . . mmm) Isolated (nope) Impotent (hey!) Narcissistic (well okay, I'll give 'em that) Low-paying job (nope) No partner (wrong again) Quiet (I'm a party animal). You want to know how they catch serials? Luck, dumb friggin' luck. Bundy got stopped for a busted tail-light. I don't have a damaged vehicle, no sirree. I've got cash; and if I ever get stupid, I'll get a pick-up, a hound dog, and a shitpile of Hank Williams. Music. You ever hear of a killer into tunes? Apart from looney ones? I listen to music all the time. But Time Out. Not the mag, me. I'm beat. This writing isn't as easy as the pulpists would lead you to think. I'm learning the craft from Chandler's letters. All you ever need to know, he not only tells you how but why. Oh and another reason the dumb fucks keep getting apprehended? Someone drops a dime. The Irish disease, like alcoholism, is ratting out. They invented Guinness but also the fink. So don't talk. You don't talk, there's nothing to rat out. 'Loose lips sink ships.' Gotta get some zzzz's. And I'm not lazy, whatever else I am. I'll tell you everything. --Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me Copyright (c) 2006 by Ken Bruen. All rights reserved. Excerpted from Calibre by Ken Bruen 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.
