Whenever I watch a murder mystery – whether it’s Sherlock, Broadchurch or Poirot – I never, ever guess who’s committed the crime. Being so stupid and clueless is a good thing because my enjoyment is enhanced by my genuine surprise when the person I least suspected is revealed as the killer. But when I read The Girl on The Train, the latest much-hyped best seller, I guessed who the baddie was almost immediately. And the more I ploughed on through the lumpen, over-descriptive, creative-writing-school prose, the more clunkingly obvious it became. So when my suspicions were finally confirmed, it was a dreary anti-climax. This can be attributed to one of two things: Either I’ve suddenly become a sharp, deductive genius or this is a truly appalling book. And I don’t think it would take Sherlock to come up with the answer.
The joy of being thick.
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