Cleave has become an absolute master at getting readers inside the head of someone with a view well and truly askew, of getting us to care enough about such people (or at least be fascinated by them), despite their failings and faults, to keep us engaged and the pages whirring as we follow their viewpoint throughout his helter-skelter storylines.
Cleave’s work definitely sits at the darker end of the crime fiction spectrum, far away from the cosy country house killings of fellow Cantabrian Dame Ngaio Marsh, whose name and likeness adorns the New Zealand crime writing award that Cleave has won a record three times.
Despite the darkness, Cleave is no schlock-meister; the blood and brutality amongst his pages is merely one part of a compelling tale (although it may be too much for some). He even raises important issues such as violence against women, the lack of support for those with mental difficulties, and the public’s fascination with serial killers – but rather than screaming such issues from the rooftops, they’re just woven through a tale that fizzes with ferocity. They’re texture, not message, in an exciting book where characterisation, such as Tate’s stumble vaguely towards some sort of redemption, shines brightest of all.