The Monogram Murders by Sophie Hannah. The estate of Agatha Christie apparently gave permission for a Poirot novel. Bet they're regretting it now. The plot is indeed gloriously convoluted, in the approved manner but the motive for the murders? Ludicrous. The secondary detective has nothing to recommend him, either. He's constantly having some sort of existential crisis in which he wonders if anybody cares what he thinks. (Spoiler: no, not a soul. Seriously. Not even me.) He doesn't want to do detection, which is a bit of a drawback for a professional police detective. So basically he doesn't do any.
Fortunately I bought the book in a second hand shop. Now it's gone back to one.
Oh, thanks for that. I wondered if the Sophie Hannah books were up to the hype.
This will be a good opportunity to vent about all the books I don't review on my blog. I've promised my subscribers recommendations, so if I can't get behind it, I don't mention it at all.
It will be a relief to unleash the snark.
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