Inspector Banks has recently relocated form London to sleepy rural Yorkshire and is still getting a feel for the lay of the land (following his first case in Gallows View). One day a retired historian turns up dead in a field near the village of Helmthorpe, leaving Banks with an old-fashioned whodunit. Pretty quickly, the stable of suspects is established: his widow (who inherits a nice legacy), his old friend and publisher, his mystery-writing drinking pal, his local GP and drinking pal, a local entrepreneur developer drinking pal, or the local folk singer he may have had a fling with a decade ago?

Like a latter-day Miss Marple, Banks and his plod underlings go back and forth from house to house, interviewing suspects and trying to tease a semblance of motive and opportunity from their statements. Of course, like the old-fashioned constructions of Christie, we are left with lots of semi-plausible motives and seemingly few opportunities. Banks is convinced the answer lies in a fateful summer ten years ago. Meanwhile, a local teenage girl brags about seeing something the night of the murder, placing herself in danger. Will Banks be able to get to the bottom of things before the killer strikes again?!?!?

It's all pretty bland stuff, and gimmick by which the murderer masks themselves is a bit of a groaner. The clues dovetail nicely, and Robinson's done a capable job of constructing a puzzler, but the story and characters are instantly forgettable. The writing is utterly without style or distinction and the Yorkshire setting never really came alive for me. It seemed a kind of generic green and pastoral land with insular people and cure stone cottages. All in all, very little to recommend here.

The book follows the investigation into the murder of Harry Steadman, an historian, who apparently had no enemies.

I am not usually a fan of thrillers of less than 300 pages as they are often either rushed or lacking in detail. The same cannot be said for this excellent book. The pacing is perfect, and the plot twists back and forth as the investigation of the crime centres on five people who had known Harry for some time. The author skillfully leads you round the houses and from one suspect to the next until pulling the answers out at the end like a rabbit from a magician's hat.

In my opinion, what sets Peter Robinson above the bulk of thriller writers is the believability of his characters. Robinson does not populate his books with larger-than-life characters, but rather with ordinary people, with ordinary jobs and ordinary lives, who commit crimes for motives which can be understood and even empathised with. In this respect, Peter Robinson is rivaled only by Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus series.

Another excellent aspect of Robinson's writing is his description of the area in which his books are set. He vividly conjures mental images of the Yorkshire dales which even those who haven't seen "All creatures great and small" or visited the area would be able to envisage. Once again, comparison's to Rankin's descriptions of Edinburgh and Glasgow are inevitable.

This book carries on where the excellent "Gallows view" left off, and left me itching to read the third book in the series. I am at a total loss to find any areas which could have been improved.

For fans of great detective fiction, this book and it's predecessor are a must-read.