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Every time I pay a visit to the crime section of my local book store, I seem to be confronted by a multitude of titles by new authors, all jostling for position on the already over-populated display tables. Most I've never heard of and probably will never ever read unless some enthusiastic CT review persuades me to part with my cash.Like almost every other genre these days, the province of the crime thriller has reached saturation point. Competition is fierce. There are a lot of good writers already out there, but there are even more poorer ones.Which brings me to Paul Charles's new book. Apparently, this is his second novel, a sort of prequel to last year's well-received debut, I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass. I was not familar with Paul Charles in any shape or form until now, but quite frankly, after struggling through 176 pages of his latest tome, nor do I care to extend my acquaintance. Unfortunately, I have to confess that I cannot remember the last time I read such a flaccid, mediocre crime novel. And let me tell you, its not easy stating this. After all this is someone's work I'm dissecting and believe me, it's as painful for me to wield the critical scalpel as it may be for the author to feel its incision! The whole thing is centred around the novel's main protagonist, DI Christy Kennedy, an affable Irishman whose patch is the Camden Town area of London. Kennedy is, in truth, a likeable creation but armed with an annoying panoply of distuinguishing personal idiosyncrasies, of which the most iritating is the fact that he's an obsessive tea-drinker who brews up at every opportunity. You can imagine this gets pretty tedious through chapter after chapter. Kennedy, it seems, is not your usual uncultured Shut it! prole cop. Oh no, for a city cop, he's unusually compassionate, understanding and is not only respected but liked by his fellow officers. They broke the mould when they made him!The convoluted plot involves the appearance in the local canal of the body belonging to one Dr Berry. It turns out that Berry was blamed for the inexplicable death of a healthy young school-teacher who died suddenly when admitted to the hospital for a seemingly routine treatment procedure. Naturally, the evidence adds up to suicide, but the tenacious Kennedy has a hunch that suggests otherwise. His investigation reveals that something rotten is in the heart of Camden. This is a traditional murder mystery which is more concerned with motive and the mechanics of murder rather than any hard-boiled visceral excitement. What I find puzzling is the killer's need to find a preposterously ingenious way of committing the dirty deed. Is it murder or is it art? I give up!Stylistically, the prose is matter of fact and economical but there are moments of banal, wooden dialogue and some instances of very poor writing.On the plus side of things, Kennedy's burgeoning romance with journalist ann rea (like kd lang, her name always appears in lower case - yawn!) does add a bit of spice to an otherwise insipid concoction.I can imagine this would go down well on TV and expect to see Christy Kennedy join the ranks of Morse and co pretty soon. Maybe I'm just a voice crying in the wilderness, but I found this novel as plodding and pedestrian as a bobby on the beat. I'm inclined to miss this boat and recommend you do too!