In 1981, the body of young mother Kate Rokesmith is found on the banks of the river Thames. The only known witness is her four year old son, Jonathan, who is found huddled underneath a nearby statue. He refuses to speak. The mystery remains unsolved. Years later, the lead detective on the case, now retired, passes away of a heart attack. His daughter Stella, who runs a cleaning company, sets out to clear her father’s house. She comes across the Rokesmith case files and in spite of her intentions to get the whole affair over and done with, she is drawn in by the mystery. Aided by her new and decidedly odd employee Jack, she sets out to discover what her father was onto and solve the case.
This book did not sit well with the Goodreads crowd. This is not necessarily a bad thing because most of what they don’t like about it is a matter of preference. The Detective’s Daughter certainly is an atypical book. It’s not perfect, but it’s interesting. The characters are not necessarily likeable. Stella is prickly, reserved and, frankly, boring; not in a way that doesn’t engage the reader, but in the sense that there’s nothing particularly interesting about her. She’s good at her job; she’s terrible at maintaining a private life, cutting off relationships because she finds minor nuisances that tick boxes in the no-column and they add up to form a negative balance. She’s not particularly pretty or funny or intelligent, though she’s no fool and certainly not an idiot, nor is she a bad person; she goes to great lengths to provide services to Isabel Ramsay, an elderly and more than slightly addled client whose demands are increasingly erratic; Stella takes care of her because she feels protective. I liked Stella as a character precisely because she’s ordinary. It makes her relatable. Less relatable but not necessarily more outlandish is Jack, Stella’s latest hire who squirms his way into Stella’s informal investigation in a slightly disconcerting way. Jack clearly has mental problems, though theyŕe not of the sensational kind usually seen in thrillers.
The novel has a slow pace – again, not a favourite with the Goodreads crowd – that meticulously builds tension without being too outlandish, which, in and of itself, makes it stand out. It’s well-written; Thomson is very good at describing homes, areas, rooms, the city itself. So far, so good.
Which is why the eventual conclusion is all the more disappointing; the bad guy is bafflingly obvious, as are some other details which are clearly supposed to make the reader gasp with surprise. It’s the strangest thing because everything else about this novel is handled with complete competence. It’s almost as if ten per cent comes out of a different book.
This book is the first part in a series. I’m not yet sure if I’ll give the other books a go. Part of me was let down, but I am quite curious if Thomson can avoid the obvious pratfalls the second time around. At heart, there is a lot to like here.