The story sounds complicated, but it's not. In fact, Thompson shows she has a tight grip of plotting and, despite throwing away the rule book, The Existential Detective is as gripping as any potboiler. What does feel simple is the prose itself. Unadorned and mesmerisingly rhythmic, it's extraordinary how deep Thompson manages to go; how many layers of mood and possible meanings she packs in with such an unaffected style. There are suggestions of several myths - Orpheus, Elektra - of The Magic Flute, and of a whole tradition of Scottish writing from Hogg to Michel Faber. Jack Vettriano gets a mention, and there is something of the mood of his darker paintings in Thompson's writing. More immediately, when we get to the climax of the novel, we're reminded of a very real, ongoing, Scottish tragedy. There is nothing sensationalist or expedient here, rather Thompson imagines and communicates the pain of loss and guilt, and the torments of being forever blinkered.
The Existential Detective is unsettling, unsettlingly erotic, and somehow sadly beautiful. Thompson is fast becoming one of the most original and formidable writers in the English language today.
