The Disappearance of Lindsey Barratt,
by John Wilson (NY: Wm. Morrow & Co., Inc.; 1998) 394 pages
I'm not sure why I include a review of this book at this site, since it isn't a cricket book
at all. Oh, there's cricket in the plot-- and in the plot description, which is why the book was
among the results when I searched on "cricket novel" at eBay (and why I plunked down
the princely sum of $3 for it)-- but the Noble Game is really incidental to the story. Instead,
the book is one of those "psychological thrillers,": you know-- seamy, steamy,
sex-and-violence-and-curse-laden, police-procedural mysteries. But in the interest of providing a
complete look the library I acquired on account of cricket, here's what I thought of it:
We meet the Winstanton School First XI early in the book, and it's clear from the start that
nothing about these chaps is at all cricket. After using their usual intimidating tactics to win
yet another game, the boys "celebrate" by perpetrating a horrific crime, which their
thoroughly nasty (but terribly well-connected) parents and teachers, with a little assist from
Fate, conspire to see that they do not answer for.
Now fast-forward about a decade. The boys have become adults, and they are also, one by one,
becoming victims of the most grisly murders. The killer has been careful, but a clever reporter
has good reason to remember the earlier crime involving the men, and she brings their suspicious
deaths to the attention of the policeman originally assigned to the case. Can he put together
the clues in time to save the last remaining (and least sympathetic) member of the team? And will
he be able, at last, to solve the most baffling part of that long-ago crime: namely, the subsequent
mysterious disappearance of its young victim?
I found this a pretty good read (it's probably quite good of its kind, but my taste in mysteries
has always run more to the "cozy" than to the "thriller"). I must, however,
reiterate my implied warning from the first paragraph above: this is not one for kids...
nor for the squeamish... nor for the refined. It's adult, explicit, and messy.
[Note: this book was originally published in Great Britain in 1997 by HarperCollins UK,
under the title Flatmate.]
(book reviewed 4 January 2001;
page last updated 15 July 2003)