Review: Mr. Miller by Charles Den Tex tr. Nancy Forest-Flier

Today's review is courtesy of CrimeTime's Bob Cornwell

Mr. Miller by Charles Den Tex, tr. Nancy Forest-Flier, 405 pages, June 2015, World Editions, ISBN: 9462380112

MR. MILLER is the first novel in English for Charles Den Tex – and it’s a cracker. He’s a three time winner of the Netherlands’ Golden Noose award for best crime novel (this is the winner from 2006, a best-seller there). It’s a little late in arriving here. But as the debut of Hunted, Channel 4’s electronic surveillance reality show in September demonstrates, the book has lost none of its relevance.

The bottom drops out of the world of Michael Bellicher, high-level EU-serving communications consultant, one afternoon at Schiphol Airport. He’s there with his ‘Bible Belt’ parents to meet the younger brother he hasn’t seen for five and a half years. What is revealed to him there triggers a mental collapse that results in a lost alcohol-fuelled weekend, punctuated by half-heard TV news bulletins (the Netherlands like Britain, appears to be suffering from acute post 9/11 Islamophobia), along with frantic emails from his agitated clients and colleagues. Brought to something like his senses by one from Jessica, his girlfriend in San Francisco, he stumbles into work three days later to find himself on the point of dismissal. Michael decides to work through the night in an effort to rescue his lost credibility. But on the way down to the staff canteen for some refreshment, he is startled to discover the body of a woman, dead. Shortly after he hears the body being removed, only for it to turn up later in the basement car park, with Michael the key suspect in the murder. His nightmare begins.

Right from the start (as you might expect from a writer who once was himself a communications consultant and management advisor) Den Tex succinctly and credibly outlines the world of the consultant. Michael lives for his work, high pressure round the clock influential work, assignments that have brought him “to the heart of every major development”. The company meanwhile knows everything about him, what his favourite music is, his IQ (nothing less than 180 will do), when he last visited the dentist. His friends, including Jessica, fulfil similar demanding requirements, whilst also displaying other “audacious talents and bizarre gifts”. His parents are unhelpful. But one or two friends rally to his cause.

His options at the company starting to run out, he gathers up all the information that he can quickly commandeer, lap-top bag on his shoulder, and decides to go under the radar. Accompanied, it appears, by the mysterious Mr Miller whose website appears amongst a list of email addresses Michael has extracted from the computer of the dead woman. But who is Mr. Miller? And how is Miller tracking him everywhere he goes?

What follows is a fast-moving thriller in which Michael, credit cards invalidated, abandoning cell phones as they become traceable, follows up every lead he has, however unpromising. His predicament has been picked up in the media, friends are endangered or attacked, even Jessica (by email, at first) begins to have her doubts. And, as his investigation starts to reveal the international all-embracing nature of the network – and its malign intent, Michael too begins to question his whole existence. He also uncovers some unexpected sources of help: a reconciliation with that estranged brother that brought about his mental collapse for instance, a South African connection proves fruitful (and how!), as well as a connection with some maverick elements of the computer world itself.

The pace is perfectly judged, the writing astute and perceptive, both economical and expressive (Den Tex acknowledges British thriller writer Desmond Bagley as a key influence, and, I believe significantly, Michael's bookshelves include books by Dashiell Hammett, that master of the taut narrative). Most of all tension is continually raised, up to and including the splendidly engineered, occasionally surreal climax. And it is very readably translated by Nancy Forest-Flier. Miraculously too Den Tex has managed to incorporate without lecturing, themes of work/life balance, the importance of family, and above all, that the most serious risks to democracy come not from the many external threats, but from unbridled abuses within the democratic framework. “An action thriller with brains” said a Netherlands newspaper. I couldn’t put it better myself. Well worth reading.

FOOTNOTE. I have known Charles Den Tex since 2004. For Crime Time magazine in 2008, we collaborated on a Crime Scene: The Netherlands feature, some of which was updated by Charles to appear in Barry Forshaw’s Euro Noir (Pocket Essentials,2014). But apart from that and a short story (Charles, Australian by birth, can write very capably in English), I have never read anything else that he has written. It can be a real test of friendship when finally you get to read something for which you have waited for some time. No such problems here. It’s an excellent novel and I heartily recommend it. Let’s hope World Editions will follow it up, perhaps with others from the Den Tex oeuvre.

Bob Cornwell
October 2015

Euro Crime quoted on Close-Up

One of Maxine at Petrona's recent posts alerted me to the fact that her review is quoted on the first page of the paperback edition of Esther Verhoef's Close-Up. I popped into the library on the way back from collecting my new glasses this morning and there it was on the quick pick stand:



Interestingly, the library has classed it as "adventure" rather than thriller or crime and Waterstone's shelves it in the fiction not crime section.

Read all of Maxine's review here.

Extract from The Reunion by Simone van der Vlugt

The following is an extract from The Reunion by Simone van der Vlugt (translated by Michele Hutchison) which is to be published in March. The Reunion is one of the prizes on offer in this month's Euro Crime competitions.

Prologue

She cycles the last part alone. She waves to her girlfriend and then turns to the road ahead. She sings softly to herself, her back straight, a carefree look in her eyes.

School’s out. It’s Friday afternoon. The weekend can begin.

She’s strapped her jacket onto the luggage rack behind her, over her black canvas school bag. She feels the heat of the sun on her bare arms.

It’s a glorious day, the beginning of a promising summer. The blue sky extends like a high, radiant dome above her.

At the traffic light, she brakes and dismounts. It’s a solitary light, a little outside of the city centre, where the bustle of school children on their bikes, mopeds and car traffic lessens.

She’s completely alone. No cars or buses go by. She looks from left to right, frustrated at the pointlessness of waiting.

A delivery van draws up behind her and stops, its engine throbbing.

Green.

The girl gets back on her bike and rides on. The van overtakes her and envelops her in a thick cloud of diesel smoke. She coughs, flaps her hand at the smoke and stops pedalling.

The van tears away, in the direction of the Dark Dunes. The girl thinks about her meeting. She’s having second thoughts now – perhaps she should have chosen a less isolated place.

1

I stand at the entrance to the beach, my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and look out to sea. It’s 6 May and way too cold for this time of year. Apart from a solitary beachcomber, the beach is deserted. The sea is the colour of lead. Snarling and foaming, it swallows up more and more sand.

A little further up, a young girl sits on a bench. She too looks out to sea, hunched up in her padded jacket. She’s wearing sturdy shoes that can withstand the wind and rain. A school bag lies at her feet. Not far from where she’s sitting, her bike leans against the barbed wire fence. It’s padlocked, even though she’s nearby.

I knew I would find her here.

She stares blindly out to sea. Even the wind, which tugs at her clothing, can’t get a grip on her. It catches her light brown hair whirling around her head, but not her attention.

Despite her insensitivity to the cold, there’s a vulnerability about this girl that touches me.

I know her, yet I hesitate to speak to her because she doesn’t know me. But it’s extremely important that she gets to know me, that she listens to me, that I get through to her.

I walk towards the bench, my gaze fixed on the sea as if I’ve come here to enjoy the angry waves.

The girl looks the other way, her face expressionless. For a moment she seems to want to get up and leave, but then resigns herself to having her solitude invaded.

We sit next to each other on the bench, our hands in our pockets, and watch how air and water merge. I must say something. She’ll leave soon and we won’t have exchanged a word. But what do you say when every word counts?

As I take a deep breath and turn towards her, she looks over at me. Our eyes are the same colour. We probably have the same expression too.

She’s about fifteen. The age Isabel was when she was murdered.



Years ago I went to school in this area. Every day I rode ten kilometres there and back, sometimes with the sea wind behind me, but mostly straight into it.

The wind blew in from the sea, unhindered by anything on the flat polders, the drained fields reclaimed from the sea. It caught up with me on my bike. The daily struggle against it made my body strong. The distance between school and home, that no-man’s-land of meadows and salty wind, was like a buffer zone between the two worlds I inhabited.

I look at the sea, its waves casting up memory after memory. I should never have come back.

What brought me here? That short announcement in the newspaper.

Two weeks ago I was standing at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, leafing through the paper. It was eight o’clock. I was dressed and had eaten breakfast, but I didn’t have much time. A quick glance through the headlines was all I could manage.

I turned the page and a small notice in a side column caught my eye: HELDER HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

My old school, which, in the meantime, has amalgamated with some other schools in Den Helder.

I’m twenty-three. My school days are thankfully long over. I’m not even thinking of going.



The girl has left. I let her escape while I was deep in thought. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see her again.

The wind blows my hair into my face and every so often steals my breath. Yes, this is just how it used to be. I’d pedal into the wind with tears running down my cheeks. I’d put my hair up in a ponytail, otherwise it would get hopelessly knotted. When I washed it in the evening, it would smell of sea salt.

The scent of the beach is the same, of course. Its familiarity takes me by surprise, bringing back old memories and allowing me into the dark corners of my mind.

Why did I come back? What did I hope to achieve?

The only thing that might come of it is more clarity. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

As I stroll back to my car sand flurries around me and the wind pushes at my back, urging me to hurry. I’m not welcome here. I don’t belong here anymore.

But I’m not planning to return to Amsterdam yet. Even when it begins to pour, I don’t quicken my pace. My car stands alone in the large carpark. Normally it would be packed here, but summer has abandoned us temporarily. I think about the rows of cars parked here on hot days, glistening in the sun. It was good to live on the coast. You could ride right past the sweaty drivers stranded in traffic jams, throw your bike against the fence, pull your towel out from the luggage rack and look for a place to stretch out in the sun. In Zandvoort these days, you can’t find a spot anymore if you’re not on the beach by nine.

Heating on, radio on, a bag of liquorice on the seat next to me, I drive out of the abandoned carpark, past the woods, the Dark Dunes, towards the town centre.

Den Helder is not a comforting sight in the rain. Neither is Amsterdam, but at least Amsterdam stays alive. Den Helder looks like a city where the air-raid sirens have just gone off. I haven’t been back since my parents moved to Spain five years ago.

I love cities with a soul, with a historic centre. But the only thing old about Den Helder are the people who live there. All the young people go to Alkmaar and Amsterdam when they leave school. The only people left are sailors and tourists taking the boat to Texel.

I drive along the Middenweg towards my old school. When I reach it, the school grounds are almost empty. A small group of students are defying the drizzle to get a fix of nicotine that will help them through the day.

Once around the school and then along the same route I used to ride home, past the military camp towards the Lange Vliet. The cross wind can’t touch me now. In the corner of my eye I can see the bike path.

Isabel lived in the same village as me. We didn’t ride home together that day, but she must have taken the Lange Vliet route. I saw her ride out of the school grounds. I’d deliberately lingered before leaving. If I’d ridden after her, nothing might have happened.

I accelerate and drive at the speed limit along the Lange Vliet. At Juliana Village I take the first left onto the motorway. As I drive along the canal I change into fifth and turn up the radio.

Out of here. Back to Amsterdam.

I sing along at the top of my voice to the chart hits blaring out of the radio and fish one piece of liquorice after the other out of the bag next to me. Only when Alkmaar is behind me do I return to the present. I think about my work. The Bank. I have to go back on Monday. It’s Thursday today, I still have three days to myself. Even though I don’t want to go back to work, I think it will be good for me. I’ve been home alone for too long, watching unexpected and incomprehensible images passing like dreams before my eyes. I’m starting back on a trial basis - mornings only, to see how I feel.

That’s what the doctor ordered, after all.

A new Dutch author for the database

Simone van der Vlugt's The Reunion is to be published in English for the first time next month by Text Publishing in Australia.

Synopsis:
When I read back through my diaries or listen to Robin's stories, I come across completely unknown events, as if another person lived that time in my place. And still, a recollection can suddenly knife its way through my mind, a spark that lights up the grey matter of my memory.

If you could go back, what would you say to your younger self? Would you reach out and hug her?

Sabine was fifteen when Isabel disappeared - isolated at school and tormented by her former friend. What if she'd seen something back then, nine years ago, the day of Isabel's disappearance? What if she'd blocked it out almost entirely? What if her memory was returning to her? And what if it was dangerous?

This riveting and disturbing psychological thriller will appeal to fans of Nicci French and Ruth Rendell. Simone van der Vlugt draws characters brilliantly, and builds tension with the touch of a master as the novel draws to its unexpected and terrifying conclusion.

The Reunion is the author's first adult novel having written several young adult books before. Part of her website is available in English. The Reunion is listed on the Australian bookshop, Abbeys but not yet on the Australian Online Bookshop (I've used the latter before to order Kerry Greenwood books.)