Inspector Hobbes and the Blood

Inspector Hobbes and the Blood (2013) Wilkie Martin

I actually had a great deal off trouble with this book.

At the start of the story, the narrator is an idiot AND rather unlikable.

Unlikable enough that about a third of the way through I was thinking, “if this guy remains this much of an asshole by the end of the book, I am NOT going to forgive the author for making me spend so much time in his head”

I located the bread in a cream-coloured, enamel bread bin with a wooden lid. On opening it, I hit a snag: the bread was all in one lump – and I’d usually known it to come in slices.

That’s not actually the stupidest thing the narrator says.

I groaned, not being keen on dogs since one ate my football when I was six. I’ve always blamed it for my failure to shine as a sportsman. At least, I’ve blamed it when not blaming my father.

It was, in it’s favor, just plain silly, which is why I kept going.

I gulped down air, waiting for my pulse rate to drop to something feasible, and realising I wasn’t as fit as I’d thought, though I’d thought I was pretty unfit.

I removed my jacket, all grimy and soggy, stinking of wet sheep and, more worryingly, urine, and dropped my trousers. They were round my ankles, I was bending to remove them, when the door opened, striking me firmly on the backside.

Mrs Goodfellow entered with the trousers I’d ruined in the morning hanging from her skinny arm. ‘They’re all cleaned and repaired. Have you lost something?’

‘Only my dignity, though there wasn’t much to worry about.’

That was one of the things that made me keep going, hoping that Andy wasn’t quite the complete ass he was making himself out to be.

So he was in idiot, but he did redeem himself (although NOT gracefully). But it was rough going for awhile.

Publisher: The Witcherley Book Company
Rating: 6.5/10

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