Customer Reviews

BT-HOW DEAD LIVE (The Factory series)

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He knows the brass hates him as he is a British bulldog with no regard to his superiors, procedure, or the media when it comes to solving a case or for that matter keeping apolitically correct silence when some Home Office idiotic suit lectures. His boss can't fire him because he is so successful, but tries to exile him whenever a remote area asks for help.

Thus for opening his mouth during a mandatory class, this Scotland Yard detective finds himself leaving London for tiny Thornhill village in Wiltshire to investigate a missing-person. Apparently Marianne Mardy vanished; her husband Dr. William Mardy has not reported her missing; no one has. Since the local police suffer from duck disease up their arse, he is sent to rusticate make that investigate a possible murder so that his boss can have some needed R&R make that the gossipers can rest easy. In Thornhill, the outsider affirms the local police are uninterested in what happened to Marianne. As he keeps digging, he runs into corruption and soon begins to comprehend what happened to Mrs. Mardy when he learns HOW THE DEAD LIVE, but has problems with insuring justice not legal mumbo jumbo truly occurs.

This is a reprint of the third Factory Scotland Yard thriller written by the late Derek Raymond (see HE DIED WITH HIS EYES OPEN and THE DEVIL'S HOME ON LEAVE; neither read by me). Written two decades ago, the tale is a terrific British police procedural Noir narrated by the unnamed detective who is as excellent at solving cases as he is at annoying his boss. Sub-genre fans will appreciate this engaging one sitting detective tale that exposes the underbelly that society pretends does not exist.

Harriet Klausner

I'm reading Raymond's Factory novels in succession and this one, the third in the series, is the best I've read so far. In all of the Factory novels a nameless police investigator who is too stubborn, too true to himself, and too determined to put the world's villains away tells tales of how he goes about solving the Unexplained Deaths cases that get put to him. The narrator has suffered some horrific tragedies in his personal and family life, sees little hope for the future for himself or anyone else, but what gets him out of bed in the morning is the promise of being able to put away people who take harm other, innocent people - whether the villains be crooks or crooked cops. Raymond is often credited, along with Ted Lewis, as being the originator of British Noir; I can't quite put him up on the pedestal with Ted (very, very few reach that height, in my opinion), but these are certainly some of the better pulp novels I've read. Start with the first two Factory books, He Dies with his Eyes Open and The Devil's Home on Leave, then get this one.

It's sometimes hard to figure out Derek Raymond, well most of the time. Since he was born Robert Cook but went by Robin and then changed his name (for his english publications) so as NOT to be confused with Dr.Robin Cook.
Reading his books will sometimes stretch your credulity as to whether you are reading 'noir' or satire, but probably both.

When his unnamed detective sergeant is sent to the 'country' to look into the disappearance of a woman it's almost as if he's being exiled to Siberia. The town of Thornhill (subtle huh!) is filled with more punters, ex-military and villains then you'ld expect to find in an East End Pub. Our "Hero" first makes his presence known when he get into an argument with the local constabulary because of where he parks his car, and then has it off with the desk sergeant.

After asking around about this well known neighbor that has been missing for six months, everyone plays the dummy. Though no one, including the local detective inspector, seems to care that she's hasn't been seen for a long period of time. Our Sergeant, goes to the local gambling establishment and with two hands of cards proves the place crooked and closes it down all by himself. At two other times he is faced by a shotgun and totally ignores the danger and of course wins (he even makes one of the contract killers cry).

So if you read this as a send-up of an Agatha Christie or P D James novel you will enjoy it immensely. Even if you read it as a straight mystery you will be surprised at some of the turns of events (he breaks the jaw of a 'Serious Crimes' Inspector who he thinks is trying to screw up his case). All-in-all the whole story is a 'hoot', from the language to the characters he creates, Raymond is an original.

NOTE: on the inside cover of the paperback is a picture of Cook/Raymond in a vegetable garden with a knife in his hand; if you look at the picture quickly he could be Malcolm McDowell in "A Clockwork Orange" sans the make-up.

One of the darkest, saddest, and yet funniest books I have ever read. In the third book of the Factory series, Raymond's Nameless Detective is more relentless than ever in his no-compromises pursuit of justice as he travels to a town outside London to investigate the disappearance of a woman after the local police have failed to do so. There is a compelling mystery at the heart of the book, and it has all the noir trappings a reader could ask for, but that isn't the point. The most important parts of the book take place in the Nameless Detective's head as he spins soliloquies about life, death, loss, and redemption and in the long quotations from the husband of the missing woman. The Detective's basic methodology for resolving the case is to hilariously insult everybody he meets--with a few notable exceptions--and to reject the help of anyone, except for his trusted reporter friend who shows up halfway through the book. He is like Hammett's Continental Op in his ability to stir a whole town up for his own purposes.

But this book doesn't take place in the real world at all. It is just as fantastic an atmosphere as Poe's Fall of the House of Usher, which it closely resembles in many ways. The descriptions of the decaying mansion at the center of the book, and, just as fantastically, the way the Detective stares down death at the hands of a rifle toting mother or a hired killer, are something out of a fever dream. On top of the noir and the Poe, there is also the poetry--poems, songs, and prose--that runs throughout the book, often as part of dreams the Detective, as first-person narrator, recounts. So the equation here might best be described as Dashiell Hammett + Edgar Allan Poe + Thomas Wolfe = Derek Raymond. But even that can't do justice to what Raymond has achieved here. For all of its influences, it emerges as a unique, visionary argument that, in the midst of corruption and chaos, one man's unalterable quest for justice can still mean something.

If you try to read this as a regular mystery of piece of detective fiction, you are doomed to miss the point. And if you fall into sync with Raymond's and the Nameless Detective's way of thinking? Then maybe you are just plain doomed. But we don't have to go down without breaking a jaw or two.

Derek Raymond was better than Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, Richard S. Prather, Hammet, James M. Cain--or even Edward Bunker. He was better than John D. McDonald, better than Roger L. Simon...et al.

Derek Raymond was tops.