The Quaker by Liam McIlvanney: A review

I was a bit confused for the early part of this book. I couldn't decide if it was going to be a serial killer murder mystery or a heist caper. Turns out it was both and the author, whom I had not read before, skillfully wove the two stories together. In the end, everything was interconnected.

Liam McIlvanney's novel is set in Glasgow in 1969 during a brutal winter. Not only is the city having to deal with the beastly weather, it is also going through a phase of urban renewal which has devastated much of the city and left blocks of old tenements empty before their demolition. It is in these derelict tenements that over a period of months the bodies of three raped and murdered young women are found.

The detectives at the Marine Police Station investigate the crimes. The killer is dubbed "The Quaker" based on a perception of his religiosity and those assigned to the investigation are the "Quaker Squad". (It should be noted that the novel is loosely based on the Bible John killings in the Glasgow of that period.)

The Quaker is very adept at leaving no clues behind at the scene of his atrocities and the Quaker Squad is making no progress in discovering his identity. The press, which was initially laudatory in praise of police efforts, begins to turn against them and complain that the murderer is still at large and no closer to being caught.

Enter Detective Inspector Duncan McCormack of the flying squad who is sent to Glasgow to assess the investigation, determine why there has been no progress, and find a way to quietly phase down the operation. You can imagine how popular that makes him with the investigators who have been working overtime for months to catch the killer.

McCormack himself has secrets of his own which make him vulnerable and he is bullied by his fellow policemen. He is the classic lone-wolf detective of noir mysteries, obsessive, brilliant, and utterly committed to fulfilling the task assigned to him. As events unfold, he also becomes obsessed with finding the Quaker.

Meantime, in a sub-plot, a daring burglary is being planned and executed. The gang of thieves makes away with a fortune in jewels. One of their number, the peterman (safecracker), chooses to hole up in a derelict tenement until the heat is off and it is safe for him to get out of town. Unfortunately, the tenement he selects is where another murder victim is found and he is seen by a witness leaving the building and the witness identifies him to the police. It is just the break they've been waiting for! They've found the Quaker!

Except of course they haven't. He isn't a murderer, only the thief. McCormack is not convinced. He knows the man's record as a non-violent petty thief. The justice system grinds on with the suspect in custody, but McCormack keeps digging.

There were several things that I really liked about this book. First among them was the atmosphere of Glasgow in the 1960s. The descriptions were so vivid, I felt like I was there. Secondly, the author respected the victims of the killer. He gave them their own backstories told in their voices. We know them as human beings, not sexualized objects. Also, the character of DI McCormack; he's a complicated man, a closeted gay man who would be vilified if he were open about his own sexuality. I understand that this was the first in a planned series featuring this character. I would say that McIlvanney has made a strong beginning.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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