Benjamin Black is really Booker Prize winner John Banville, and Christine Falls is his inaugural volume in a crime series starring Quirke, a lonely, hard-drinking Dublin pathologist. An orphan, Quirke was raised by a socially prominent Catholic judge, and his brother-in-law is Malachy Griffin, Dublin's most prominent obstetrician. Quirke is surprised and suspicious when he finds Mal in the morgue, late at night, writing a death certificate for one of Quirke's new arrivals, a young woman named Christine Falls. He performs an autopsy and learns that Mal's statements about the cause of death are patently false, prompting him to begin an investigation into what unfolds as a monstrous, transcontinental scandal orchestrated by pillars of Dublin's Catholic society. Christine Falls is deeply atmospheric. Clydesdales drag drays through the streets of 1950s Dublin, and the pubs are "fuggy with turf smoke." Nearly all the characters are painstakingly detailed and developed--even though they're likely to be morally mysterious. But readers' advisors should take note: crime-fiction fans who favor garden-variety mysteries may find this complex and deeply ruminative novel more than they bargained for. Thomas Gaughan
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
"Christine Falls is a triumph, of classical crime fiction, finely, carefully made, not a single false move or wrong word--why oh why don't they write books like this anymore."--Alan Furst
About the Author
Benjamin Black is the pen name of acclaimed author John Banville, who was born in Wexford, Ireland, in 1945. His novels have won numerous awards, most recently the Man Booker Prize in 2005 for The Sea. He lives in Dublin.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One It was not the dead that seemed to quirke uncanny but the living. When he walked into the morgue long after midnight and saw Malachy Griffin there he felt a shiver along his spine that was to prove prophetic, a tremor of troubles to come. Mal was in Quirke's office, sitting at the desk. Quirke stopped in the unlit body room, among the shrouded forms on their trolleys, and watched him through the open doorway. He was seated with his back to the door, leaning forward intently in his steel-framed spectacles, the desk lamp lighting the left side of his face and making an angry pink glow through the shell of his ear. He had a file open on the desk before him and was writing in it with peculiar awkwardness. This would have struck Quirke as stranger than it did if he had not been drunk. The scene sparked a memory in him from their school days together, startlingly clear, of Mal, intent like this, sitting at a desk among fifty other earnest students in a big hushed hall, as he laboriously composed an examination essay, with a beam of sunlight falling slantways on him from a window somewhere high above. A quarter of a century later he still had that smooth seal's head of oiled black hair, scrupulously combed and parted. Sensing a presence behind him, Mal turned his face and peered into the shadowy dark of the body room. Quirke waited a moment and then stepped forward, with some unsteadiness, into the light in the doorway. "Quirke," Mal said, recognizing him with relief and giving an exasperated sigh. "For God's sake." Mal was in evening clothes but uncharacteristically unbuttoned, his bow tie undone and the collar of his white dress shirt open. Quirke, groping in his pockets for his cigarettes, contemplated him, noting the way he put his forearm quickly over the file to hide it, and was reminded again of school. "Working late?" Quirke said, and grinned crookedly, the alcohol allowing him to think it a telling piece of wit. "What are you doing here?" Mal said, too loudly, ignoring the question. He pushed the spectacles up the damp bridge of his nose with a tap of a fingertip. He was nervous. Quirke pointed to the ceiling. "Party," he said. "Upstairs." Mal assumed his consultant's face, frowning imperiously. "Party? What party?" "Brenda Ruttledge," Quirke said. "One of the nurses. Her going-away." Mal's frown deepened. "Ruttledge?" Quirke was suddenly bored. He asked if Mal had a cigarette, for he seemed to have none of his own, but Mal ignored this question too. He stood up, deftly sweeping the file with him, still trying to hide it under his arm. Quirke, though he had to squint, saw the name scrawled in large handwritten letters on the cover of it: Christine Falls. Mal's fountain pen was on the desk, a Parker, fat and black and shiny, with a gold nib, no doubt, twenty-two karat, or more if it was possible; Mal had a taste for rich things, it was one of his few weaknesses. "How is Sarah?" Quirke asked. He let himself droop sideways heavily until his shoulder found the support of the doorjamb. He felt dizzy, and everything was keeping up a flickering, leftward lurch. He was at the rueful stage of having drunk too much and knowing that there was nothing to be done but wait until the effects wore off. Mal had his back to him, putting the file into a drawer of the tall gray filing cabinet. "She's well," Mal said. "We were at a Knights dinner. I sent her home in a taxi." "Knights?" Quirke said, widening his eyes blearily. Mal turned to him a blank, expressionless look, the lenses of his glasses flashing. "Of St. Patrick. As if you didn't know." "Oh," Quirke said. "Right." He looked as if he were trying not to laugh. "Anyway," he said, "never mind about me, what are you doing, down here among the dead men?" Mal had a way of bulging out his eyes and drawing upward sinuously his already long, thin form, as if to the music of a snake charmer's flute. Quirke had to marvel, not for the first time, at the polished luster of that hair, the smoothness of the brow beneath, the untarnished steely blue of his eyes behind the pebble glass of his specs. "I had a thing to do," Mal said. "A thing to check." "What thing?" Mal did not answer. He studied Quirke and saw how drunk he was, and a cold glint of relief came into his eye. "You should go home," he said. Quirke thought to dispute this--the morgue was his territory--but again suddenly he lost all interest. He shrugged, and with Mal still watching him he turned and weaved away among the body-bearing trolleys. Halfway across the room he stumbled and reached out quickly to the edge of a trolley to steady himself but managed only to grab the sheet, which came away in his hand in a hissing white flash. He was struck by the clammy coldness of the nylon; it had a human feel, like a loose, chill cowl of bloodless skin. The corpse was that of a young woman, slim and yellow-haired; she had been pretty, but death had robbed her of her features and now she might be a carving in soapstone, primitive and bland. Something, his pathologist's instinct perhaps, told him what the name would be before he looked at the label tied to her toe. "Christine Falls," he murmured. "You were well named." Looking more closely he noticed the dark roots of her hair at forehead and temples: dead, and not even a real blonde. He woke hours later, curled on his side, with a vague but pressing sense of imminent disaster. He had no memory of lying down here, among the corpses. He was chilled to the bone, and his tie was askew and choking him. He sat up, clearing his throat; how much had he drunk, first in McGonagle's and then at the party upstairs? The door to his office stood open--surely it was a dream that Mal had been there? He swung his legs to the floor and gingerly stood upright. He was light-headed, as if the top of his skull had been lifted clear off. Raising an arm, he gravely saluted the trolleys, Roman-style, and walked stiffly at a tilt out of the room. The walls of the corridor were matte green and the woodwork and the radiators were thick with many coats of a bilious yellow stuff, glossy and glutinous, less like paint than crusted gruel. He paused at the foot of the incongruously grand, sweeping staircase--the building had been originally a club for Regency rakes--and was surprised to hear faint sounds of revelry still filtering down from the fifth floor. He put a foot on the stair, a hand on the banister rail, but paused again. Junior doctors, medical students, nurses beef to the heel: no, thanks, enough of that, and besides, the younger men had not wanted him there in the first place. He moved on along the corridor. He had a premonition of the hangover that was waiting for him, mallet and tongs at the ready. In the night porter's room beside the tall double doors of the main entrance a wireless set was quietly playing to itself. The Ink Spots. Quirke hummed the tune to himself. It's a sin to tell a lie. Well, that was certainly true. When he came out onto the steps the porter was there in his brown dust coat, smoking a cigarette and contemplating a surly dawn breaking behind the dome of the Four Courts. The porter was a dapper little fellow with glasses and dusty hair and a pointed nose that twitched at the tip. In the still-dark street a motorcar oozed past. "Morning, Porter," Quirke said. The porter laughed. "You know the name's not Porter, Mr. Quirke," he said. The way that tuft of dry brown hair was brushed back fiercely from his forehead gave him a look of permanent, vexed surmise. A querulous mouse of a man. "That's right," Quirke said, "you're the porter, but you're not Porter." Behind the Four Courts now a dark-blue cloud with an aspect of grim intent had begun edging its way up the sky, eclipsing the light of an as yet unseen sun. Quirke turned up the collar of his jacket, wondering vaguely what had become of the raincoat he seemed to remember wearing when he had started drinking, many hours ago. And what had become of his cigarette case? "Have you a cigarette itself to lend me?" he said. The porter produced a packet. "They're only Woodbines, Mr. Quirke." Quirke took the cigarette and bent over the cupped flame of his lighter, savoring the brief, flabby reek of burning petrol. He lifted his face to the sky and breathed deep the acrid smoke. How delicious it was, the day's first searing lungful. The lid of the lighter chinked as he flipped it shut. Then he had to cough, making a tearing sound in his throat. "Christ, Porter," he said, his voice wobbling, "how can you smoke these things? Any day now I'll have you on the slab in there. When I open you up your lights will look like kippers." The porter laughed again, a forced, breathy titter. Quirke brusquely walked away from him. As he descended the steps he felt in the nerves of his back the fellow's suddenly laughless eye following him with ill intent. What he did not feel was another, melancholy gaze angled down upon him from a lighted window five stories above, where vague, festive forms were weaving and dipping still. Drifts of soundless summer rain were graying the trees in Merrion Square. Quirke hurried along, keeping close to the railings as if they might shelter him, the lapels of his jacket clutched tight to his throat. It was too early yet for the office workers, and the bro...
Timothy Dalton offers an excellent, fine-tuned narration of this first in a planned series of crime novels by Booker Prize winner John Banville, writing as Benjamin Black. The series will feature Garret Quirke, an alcoholic Dublin pathologist as quirky as his name. The dark, densely plotted novel focuses on illegal transatlantic trafficking in orphans by prominent Catholics who want to create a stockpile of future priests and nuns. Dalton differentiates his Dublin and Boston Irish accents beautifully. He's also adept at creating believable personality studies of a wide range of characters, including women, the very young, and the old. His narration, which grabs the listener's attention from the first, never flags. R.E.K. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine
