It pains me to say this, but this was a seriously silly book, and was probably the worst I've read by Robinson. In it, a gay British secret agent is seemingly battered to death by his costume designing lover, who promptly went off and hanged himself. Was this a simply a lovers tiff gone horribly wrong, or was there something more sinister (i.e. MI6) at work? Only the main protagonist (Alan Banks) can find our.

So off Banks goes, criss-crossing the country like an impassioned crusader, in search of the truth. All the while you're thinking "Could this get any dafter?" only to discover it could.

The big problem with this book is that I found the central premise unbelievable. If you think you can swallow the central storyline, as I've described it, by all means buy this book. The only problem is, I couldn't.