Review: "A Dying Light," Ann Cleeves

Tide House sits in an enviable spot on the North Devon coast. Hannah Armstrong’s parents own it, and she and her friend, Lottie, head down from London a day ahead of them and her brothers for a getaway. The young women have completed their secondary education and are headed for uni. They are looking forward to a little freedom in a beautiful spot. Plus, a nearby farm is hosting a music festival that could be fun.

But when Hannah’s parents arrive, they find Lottie dead in their pool—and Hannah missing.

Detective Inspector Matthew Venn and his team—DS Jen Rafferty and DC Ross May—are quickly on the case (their fourth outing) in this absorbing and satisfying mystery.

Paul Armstrong is a member of Parliament, which opens up all sorts of possible motives. The team also has its eye on pub owner Jim, who seems to have anger management issues. Lottie had fashioned herself as a snarky influencer, so there could be trouble there too.

The farm’s owners, Bob and Tessa Brennan, are salt of the earth. Their son, Jake, is in a relationship with Hannah. The festival brought in crowds of strangers, and the Brennans also rent out “glamping” pods. The girls were at the concert and could have met any number of strangers.

Then the team discovers that Karen and Geoff Kinzalow, two of the glamping guests, know the Armstrongs. Their daughter was friends with Lottie and Hannah. Are they in the area simply by coincidence?

There are more than enough leads, but the case seems stuck. Matthew finds himself distracted by his husband, Jonathan, who is preparing to meet his birth mother. Jonathan is understandably anxious and while Matthew tries to be understanding, he also feels jealous.

Tensions mount as the team seems to be treading water. Then, suddenly, another young person goes missing…

The truth, when uncovered, is unexpected, yet totally believable.  

Jonathan meets his mother, and that encounter is surprising, too.

Ann Cleeves has once again produced a gentle, solid and very human mystery. She has a knack for final twists that are not shocking or jarring, but just right.

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I read A Dying Light as an advanced reader’s copy provided through NetGalley. It will be published on September 29, 2026.

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From Here: Observing the Natural World

The Frog Chorus

We discovered the frogs the last time we were at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens, in 2024. Several were visible in the Slater Forest Pond, and we spent some time observing them as they called to one another and basked on rocks.

Paul was especially entranced. So I knew we had to find them again when we went back to the gardens the other day.

We could hear the frogs singing as soon as we crossed the bridge from the visitors’ center. And from the second bridge.

But there were none to be seen.

The frogs were vocal in the children’s garden too. We spotted some tadpoles, which was exciting, but no frogs.

The little forest pond was quiet. There were many dragonflies, but no frogs.

“Let’s try the vernal pool walk,” I suggested. Alas. Though there were plenty of mosquitoes, there were no frogs.

We had a few minutes before we wanted to head to lunch, so we went back to the bridge. Paul insisted he didn’t have to see any frogs, but I thought he did.

The frogs were doing a loud call and response. But could we see them? No.

It was time to take out my monocular for its maiden voyage.

Paul gave me the eyepiece earlier in the week as a 70th birthday present. I was eager to use it. I had figured I would mostly use it for birding, but surely it would also help me locate frogs.

I took it out and aimed it at the pond below. I could hear the frogs’ metallic tones so loudly—they had to be right below me, in a thicket of brush in a corner formed  by a lip of land and the end of the bridge.

Twang! Twang! Twang!

I perceived, in my peripheral vision, a couple approaching me. “She’s looking for it,” the man said in a quiet, almost reverential tone.

They peered over the bridge. They whispered to each other. I felt quite important, but I still wasn’t seeing a thing.

“There he is!” The man was pointing triumphantly. “Next to the boulder!”

I lowered the monocular. Yes, there he was, a handsome green frog. Oh, well, so much for gadgetry. No, wait a minute. I raised the monocular again and was delighted to see the frog’s tiny fingers in detail.

A mother and toddler now approached. The little lad fastened himself to the bridge railing. “I see it!” He said.

No he didn’t. Mother called for him to come and he moseyed forward a few feet. He grasped the railing again. “I see it!”

She cajoled him away, but he was undaunted. “I see it!”

I waved at the two. “It’s over here. You can see the frog from over here.”

I stepped aside. Mother took her son to the spot. Paul and I stood farther down, enjoying the sun, scanning the pond.

They stayed for several minutes, watching the plump amphibian and discussing it intently before they moved off, probably to visit the nearby giant troll, Rosvka.

Paul and I took one last look at the green frog glistening in the sun. I declared “mission accomplished, with the help of a small village.

It was time for lunch.

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 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "London Falling," Patrick Radden Keefe

In 2019, nineteen-year-old Zac Brettler fell from the balcony of a luxury riverside apartment in London and died. His body was found in the Thames days later.

Or was he pushed?

Or was he trying to escape from a terrifying situation?

Zac came from a close-knit, well-off family and had attended private schools. His father, Matthew worked in finance; his mother, Rachelle, was a freelance writer. He had an older brother, Joe.

Both of his grandparents were Holocuast survivors. Baruch “Benny” Brettler had escaped from Germany on one of the last “Kindertransports” out of the country. Hugo Gryn survived Auschwitz to become a well-known, well-loved rabbi with his own radio show.

But Zac seemed obsessed with wealth from an early age. He had a fascination, for example, with luxury cars. Zac had an impressive memory, perhaps inherited from Benny. He was glib and charming from an early age. At four or five, an older girl teased him at a family function asking him to read something. Zac said, “I didn’t bring my glasses.”

His quirky humor attracted many friends as he became a teenager and entered a private school. But after a while, his lies and exaggerations turned them off.

Zac told people he was unbelievably wealthy. He claimed he was the son of a Russian oligarch. 

Matthew and Rachelle were concerned about their son. He was moody and seemed to lack ambition for following a normal career path. But they had no idea of how he was presenting himself, or the bad actors—true villains— he would eventually get involved with.

In the late 20th century, London transformed itself from the moribund Thatcher years. It’s now a thriving financial center. Oligarchs and sultans own lavish estates that stand empty most of the year. Money flows freely and illegally. There was plenty of trouble for a boy like Zac—ambitious in ways he kept hidden from his parents—to get into.

And he did—with a shady businessman, Akbar Shamji, and a gangster called “Indian Dave.” The latter, real name Verinder Sharma, was known for his involvement in violent activity.

It would seem obvious to an outside observer that Zac’s charade couldn’t last long with those two. Apparently, it didn’t.

Patrick Radden Keefe has written a gripping, meticulously researched account of Zac’s life and death, the murky, treacherous careers of Shamji and Sharma, and the ordeal of Matthew and Rachelle. They were determined to find out what really happened to Zac, but it was a long and frustrating process. 

In the end, Keefe paints a plausible (but horrifying) scenario for Zac’s last hours. It is an amazing, touching, sad story, all told, with a dark, secret London at its core.

Essay: Adventures in digital living

 

I came downstairs to hear the sound of music.

“What are you listening to?” I asked Paul.

“That’s you.”

I held up my phone and shook my head. I had been listening to the jazz show “Afterglow,” but it was done.

He shrugged and pointed to the Echo Dot, which sits on a stand next to a small television.

I wandered over to it. Had we said something in passing that led Ziggy (I got tired of Alexa and her Valley Girl voice) to think we wanted to listen to—hmm, some kind of electronic pop?

“Ziggy, stop.”

The music did not stop.

“Ziggy. End the music.”

The music played on.

“Unplug it,” Paul helpfully suggested.

“I will as a last resort,” I said. “The television will have to reset if I do that.” I always get nervous when the TV goes through its gyrations. My own plans for “fixing” any problems I encounter with it involve switching the power cord on and off.

I stood for several minutes, alternately googling possible solutions and yelling at Ziggy. I envisioned myself taking the Echo to the deck and using a sledgehammer on it. Finally I gave in and switched everything off, then on again.

Ah, silence.

The Echo turned several different colors and settled down. The television flickered and then—wait—turned itself on? This was not normal. I turned the TV on, then off. The TV flickered and went off. But why had it been on to begin with?

The flashbulb clicked.

It had been the TV the whole time. I guess I had left it on earlier and it went into screensaver mode. The screen dimmed, the music played.

A smart TV indeed.

As Gilda Radner’s character Emily Litella would say, “Never mind.”

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 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com