This could be a day like any other. In London, a morning ... He, trendy designer, frica, drugged and aristocratic features the requisite necessary to consider other people as less than nothing, has Wake-on band. In his intercom, a Mr. Kitchen has him buy a used car. The first tone polite, but dry, then comes up quickly digress into the politico-social slip on ... the murder of Mr Kitchen. The time to emerge and put the corpse in the trunk of the car and trouble can (finally) begin ...
With a subject as thunderous start and inimitable English humor, it feels on track for a book that you will win without firing a shot into a good read without the fuss. It's not quite true. For even if the narrator takes control and challenges the reader throughout the book so lively and fun, the incredible adventures of the designer in the role of arrogant looking at all costs to rid the body of Mr. Kitchen are primarily all very repetitive. In
perpetual one-upmanship, history trudging along in the former about to give birth, we present the bosses with small feet, draws an unflattering portrait of parents or stagnant pot of glue on the research staff elusive designer. It remains to add multiple accidents and bloody designer and improbabilities that come all, and this wasted a leaden screenplay inventive step forward which can sometimes resemble a climb of the Col du Galibier by scooter. Especially, that passage, the reader has no empathy for this particular murderer overwhelmed when handling anything at all, but it tries to give the illusion to get out. It jumps up a bit to end this unpleasant character and this book would have undoubtedly benefited from being a little short cut rather than pulled in length.
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