By Val McDermid
Torture porn. That's what you get from Val McDermid. You read the book knowing that it's going to involve someone doing something ghastly, probably getting a sexual high from it, while the good coppers of Bradfield (twinned no doubt with Wakeford) flail about a bit, inflicting mental scars to match the victims physical wounds. Much pain is had by all before the profiler spots the one thing he's got right about the killer, an arrest is made, and everyone goes home, unable to sleep properly.
It's very gripping, and well written torture porn you understand, but you can't shake the feeling that you're vicariously sharing in some sordid pleasure. Reading your first book, when something nasty happens, and then reading more, each time finding some bigger, more intense crime. All while the profilers look on and explain how broken humans need this kind of escalating chain of horrors. Does coming back for book after book show us that we're just as bad as the killers?
I don't come back religiously, but I do come back. Val McDermid's books are very good torture porn. I don't come back all that often - I actually bought this one over a year ago, and have only just gotten round to reading it. It's not the addictive behaviour of the killer.
But there's still something grimy about enjoying such things.
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