There’s so much to like about Alan Parks’ Bloody January that I’m almost willing to forgive its many faults. Almost. Not quite.
4-stars is my standard for what I consider a “good read.” 4-stars means the book met the minimum standard for entertainment (and/or education) and quality. I give out 4-stars like its candy. Bloody January should easily slot into a 4-star read.
And yet, it pulls hard on every cliche. The drunk detective with a dark past. The hooker with a heart of gold who can’t shake the drugs. The scheming villains who are inescapably tied to our hero (or anti-hero, I guess, depending on how you look at it) in ridiculously contrived ways. There’s a militantly feminist character who seems interesting but Parks doesn’t give her much to do besides be attracted to our male protagonist (of course).
Cliches are cliches for a reason but they can still produce a good book if used effectively. And to that end, Parks does juuuuuust enough to clear the 4-star bar. We’re talking barely. Because I can’t shake the smell and feel of 70s Glasgow off of me, that’s how well he describes it. His prose is good. And his dialogue is good enough without being too witty or droll.
The case is interesting until it devolves into a conspiracy in which the scheming villains are obvious and like an airplane waiting to land, you’re just waiting patiently to get there. Which helps that Parks is a good writer because otherwise, I would have quit. I’ve often talked about my interest in the whydunnit as opposed to the whodunnit but neither rise to the occasion. Still, there’s enough here to make for an entertaining romp through 70s Glasgow, one I may want to do again.