Love and Anger is a slow-burn, character-driven crime novel introducing Kate Ellis â a rookie British police officer fighting to stay afloat in a force built to shut her out.
New to the job but unwilling to stay silent, Kate quickly learns that doing the right thing wonât win her any allies. Assigned to a station steeped in laddish bravado, cruel misogyny, and quiet corruption, she must navigate a culture where compromise is the route to survival â and integrity can be a liability. Her defiance draws her into fragile alliances, dangerous secrets, and a world where one mistake can cost everything.
As she investigates crimes that blur the line between victim and perpetrator, the personal toll begins to build. Conscience and loyalty clash. Truth becomes a threat. A vibrant new love offers hope â but also risk. And when one case turns violent, the fallout will change her forever â professionally, emotionally, and morally.
Raw, emotionally charged, and steeped in moral tension, Love and Anger is the first book in the Kate Ellis detective series â a gritty feminist procedural about a young detective who refuses to play along, even when the system plays dirty.
Love and Anger is a slow-burn, character-driven crime novel introducing Kate Ellis â a rookie British police officer fighting to stay afloat in a force built to shut her out.
New to the job but unwilling to stay silent, Kate quickly learns that doing the right thing wonât win her any allies. Assigned to a station steeped in laddish bravado, cruel misogyny, and quiet corruption, she must navigate a culture where compromise is the route to survival â and integrity can be a liability. Her defiance draws her into fragile alliances, dangerous secrets, and a world where one mistake can cost everything.
As she investigates crimes that blur the line between victim and perpetrator, the personal toll begins to build. Conscience and loyalty clash. Truth becomes a threat. A vibrant new love offers hope â but also risk. And when one case turns violent, the fallout will change her forever â professionally, emotionally, and morally.
Raw, emotionally charged, and steeped in moral tension, Love and Anger is the first book in the Kate Ellis detective series â a gritty feminist procedural about a young detective who refuses to play along, even when the system plays dirty.
The rattle started before sheâd even made it off Romsey Road. Kate nudged the volume up on the cassette player, hoping to drown it out. It was a new rattle, not the usual squeaking and squealing of the knackered fan which fed the air vents. It sounded like a loose tooth being shaken in a tin can. Beefy, the white Fiat Panda her parents had proudly declared âideal for a girl starting outâ, had ideas above her station. Most days, the rust-bucket only grudgingly agreed to start. Today she was doing her best impression of a box of spanners emptied into a food mixer.
Blurâs Park Life kicked in. It was distorted through the cheap speakers and loose wiring. Kate knew she shouldâve changed the tape for something else. Sheâd been hammering this one for weeks and there was comfort in the repetition, but she had to admit that it was getting stale now. About halfway down Shirley High Street, she gave up and popped it out and slotted in her other favourite; The Cranberries. No Need to Argue. That was a better fit with her mood.
The road was already crawling with early Saturday morning traffic and a journey which should have taken ten minutes seemed set to take thirty. The shops were pushing up their metal shutters and kids were herding around bus stops ready to head into town. The April air was sharp enough to need a coat, but the sun was bright enough to suggest you wouldnât need it for long. Bright light bounced off the top of Beefyâs dashboard, cracked from where Kate regularly had to smack it in order to silence the squealing fan.
When the traffic had crawled as far as the multicoloured, twin-towered, brick block of St Bonifaceâs church, set incongruously between shops, the engine stalled for no apparent reason. She cursed under the gaze of the white marble statue of the saint and turned the key to spark the car back into life.
Finally, she pulled into the car park behind Shirley Police Station, giving the engine a gentle rev in a vain attempt to mask the traditional juddering finish. Beefy subsided with a sigh and a clunk. Kate sat there for a moment, watching a pigeon make a futile attempt to intimidate a squirrel near the bins.
This was her third year of being a copper. That was long enough for the novelty to have thoroughly worn off, but still short enough that she believed she might change the world. At twenty-four, she was ambitious and didnât have quite enough cynicism to survive the working days without picking up scars. She reached into the back of the car for her hat. It resembled a black pudding bowl with a curved rim and a chequered band around it. She ran her fingers over the stiff bun sheâd twisted her light brown hair into that morning. The elastic scrunchy was already losing the battle. Sheâd have to redo it in the locker room when she strapped on the rest of her gear.
Kate climbed out of Beefy, locking the door even though there was nothing inside worth stealing. She nodded to the pair of male PCSOs leaning against the fence, smoking and pretending not to ogle.
âMorning, sweetheart,â one of them called. âNice motor.â
âLovely day,â she replied without breaking stride, eyes dead ahead.
Inside, the building smelled of instant coffee and paperwork. The persistent smell of pee, which always seemed to permeate up from the cells, was particularly strong today. The air was too warm and the strip lights too harsh. She marched past the front desk, and the disconsolate gathering of men reporting to fulfil their bail conditions, and turned into the corridor that led to the womenâs locker room. Her boots echoed on the hard floor, the steps just a beat behind the whir of an overworked office printer.
The locker room was small, square, and painted in the kind of pale green that made everything look vaguely nauseous. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where she and Anisha, the only other female officer based at Shirley, could get a moment of peace from the relentless pressure of male bravado. It was supposed to be, but their fellow officers were no respecters of the rules.
Kate unlatched her locker to get out her tunic and the belt which carried her baton and other kit. As soon as she cracked it open, the smell hit her like a slap in the face. It was fish. Ammonia-laden, oily, and unmistakable. She opened the door fully and gagged. There was a kipper sitting on her neatly folded spare shirt like some grotesque offering from a demented cat. The bottom of the locker glistened. There were fish scales down there too.
âJesus Christ,â she muttered, stepping back.
Behind her, the door swung open and Anisha Patel appeared, already rolling her eyes.
âNot again.â
âKipper this time,â Kate said.
âAt least itâs not another sanitary pad stuck to your epaulettes.â
Kate stared at the oily mess. âI donât get it. Whatâs the joke? How is this funny?â
âWeâre girls,â Anisha said. âThe sole reason for our existence is to be the punchline for those morons.â
She grabbed a wad of toilet roll and started helping Kate remove the fish. They wrapped it in a paper towel and dumped it in the bin under the sink. The stink lingered, though, and Kateâs spare uniform shirt was soaked through with oil.
âI am going to reek of that all day,â Kate said. âItâs got into my tunic. People will think Iâve got a mackerel in my pocket.â
âCould work as a tactic. Distract them with the smell. Slip under their defences and then nick âem.â
There was a knock at the door and then the all-too-familiar voice of PC Darren Fry.
âJust checking everythingâs alright in the harem!â
Kate didnât answer. She finished getting her kit on. Anisha rolled her eyes and mouthed âarseholeâ. Kate smiled, but it didnât quite reach her eyes.
âDo you ever wonder,â she said, âif weâre the only ones playing by the rules here?â
âAll the time,â Anisha replied. âBut itâs a good look for us. Who knows? Someone may finally notice and we might get a reward one day.â
Kate fastened a last button, fixed her tie, and adjusted the radio clipped to her belt. She felt raw already, and the day hadnât even started. But she was here with her boots on, hat straight, teeth gritted. There was work to do and with a lunchtime kick off in the football, things could get messy.
By the time she and Anisha made it into the briefing room, the lads were already spread across the plastic chairs like they owned the very air in the room. Four squads had been called in, with eight men per group, all hand-picked for the match day operation. Every last one of them appeared to have been working out in the gym, for weeks. Burly arms were folded, boots planted wide, and radios were already crackling with self-importance. Shirley station was ready for action.
Kate and Anisha hovered by the wall. There werenât enough chairs, and no one offered to give one up. The room was loud with banter, groans, and the occasional barking laugh at a private joke, but it went dead the moment Superintendent Shepherd sauntered in. He didnât shout. He didnât need to. The man radiated a paternalistic authority that sucked the air out of the space.
âAlright, listen everybody. As you know, this is a Saints versus Pompey derby day, so assume the worst. Theyâve been at each otherâs throats since God was a lad.â
A few of the older men chuckled. One of them muttered something about âblood on the cobbles.â
Shepherd paced the front like he was about to direct a war film. âYouâre split into four squads, each with a designated zone around The Dell. I want high visibility, presence, and no bloody heroics. If you get separated, regroup. If you get provoked, rise above it. If someone throws a bottle at your head, catch it and thank them.â
There was appreciative laughter. âRemember: itâs not about arrests today, itâs about image. We donât want front-page headlines about police brutality. Thatâs Portsmouthâs job.â There was more laughter.
Sergeant Davies stood near the whiteboard, chewing a pen lid, trying not to grin too openly. Kate noticed he hadnât marked her or Anisha on any of the squad lists.
She raised a hand. âSir. Whatâs our assignment?â
Shepherd squinted at her, then he peered at Davies, who leaned in and said something in his ear. Whatever it was, it made Shepherd snort.
âOh, right. Yes. You two.â He pointed lazily. âYouâre on public order detail. Pub watch. The Swan.â
Davies couldnât resist. âShould suit you, WPC Ellis, a bit of tea and sympathy. You can mop up the tears when they get nicked.â
Some of the men laughed. Anisha didnât even flinch. Kate just gave the nod sheâd perfected over the last year, which was somewhere between ânoted Sirâ and âIâll remember this.â
Shepherd gave Kate a longer look now. She could feel the deep assessing gaze that didnât bother to hide its doubt. âHow tall are you, Ellis?â
âFive-four, sir.â Kate wondered which variation on the âoh, youâre too short to be in this jobâ conversation would follow today.
âBloody hell. Five-four? In my day, we wouldnât have let you in the building without a stepladder.â
That got a big laugh from the men. Davies added, âWeâll issue her with a megaphone and some stilts, sir.â
Shepherd smirked. âJust make sure you donât get yourself trampled, alright? Skinheads out there today would love a go at a copper and you, Ellis, you barely cast a shadow.â
Kate didnât answer. Not out loud, but inside, she cursed him with words that would turn her motherâs hair grey. The tunic that still faintly smelled of kipper clung to her back. Her face burned, but her spine held rigid.
âAnd as for you Patel, just try and stay out of sight. You stick out like a sore thumb and the BNPâd love to give you a kicking.â Shepherd turned back to the board. âRight. Weâre coordinating with the Portswood and Central stations on this. All hands on deck. Squads One and Two, youâre on the stadium perimeter. Three and Four, youâre on the pub routes and doing alley sweeps. Watch the chip shops and kebab houses. No one pisses on this cityâs reputation on our watch.â He barked out his final orders and then dismissed the officers. Radios buzzed and boots scuffed. The men filed out like they were on parade.
Kate held back a moment to let them go. It was easier to step back and avoid the confrontations and the everyday slights, rather than engage with the men en masse. Sheâd learned that the hard way, within the first few weeks in the force. She followed Anisha into the corridor, heading in the same direction as the men.
âI love being visible,â Anisha muttered.
âI love barely casting a shadow,â Kate replied. âIt makes it easier to sneak up on dickheads and slap the cuffs on before theyâve noticed.â
They headed out hitch a ride to their position, stepping out of the side door into the back yard. The sunlight bounced off the black brickwork in that overly hopeful way April sometimes managed. The air was crisp and clean, not yet touched by beer breath, fried onions or whatever else the derby crowds would drag through the town by kick-off. The sky was clear, but it didnât feel like a blue-sky day anymore.
Anisha was a striking presence, taller than Kate by several inches, with a short-cropped haircut that accentuated a strong jawline and intense gaze. Her build was muscular, earned from years of physical training and six years on the force. She moved with an easy confidence, radiating a calm defiance that often drew muttered comments from the male officers but they never rattled her. Although she was only a few years older than Kate, sheâd mastered the art of blending in and not doing anything to draw undue attention from the likes of Fry.
She lit a cigarette with one hand cupped against the wind. Kate didnât smoke but she never minded the smell. At least it helped mask the last of the kipper that still lingered somewhere around her collar. They stood together in that easy silence that happens only when the pressureâs about to build. The squads were already peeling off in their vans and marked cars, radios squawking as they were dispatched to their various posts. Nobody had even bothered to offer the WPCs a lift.
âWe walking then, mate?â Anisha asked, flicking ash toward the drain.
âLooks like it, Nish.â
Anisha stubbed out the cigarette on the wall. It was strictly against regulations to be seen smoking on duty. As she did so a tallish figure in a long coat, unbuttoned and catching the breeze, wandered into the car park from the direction of the bus stop. He walked with the kind of pace that suggested he neither rushed for buses, nor apologised for being late. His tie was slightly askew, like heâd done it up on the move and hadnât bothered to check the look. His hair was dark and tidy, though the wind was having a go at it.
Anisha clocked him first. âThatâs the new duty solicitor,â she murmured.
Kate watched as he approached the station. He didnât look like the other regulars. There was no swagger to him and he came across as very approachable. She spotted the way his eyes took in the yard, the way he noticed them both without lingering, and the way he smiled. It wasnât a creepy undress-you type of smile. He did it politely, almost absent-mindedly, as though it were second nature to him to greet people with a friendly show of teeth.
He nodded. âMorning.â
Kate nodded back. âMatch day,â she said, shrugging.
He glanced toward the sound of a distant chant already rising from the direction of The Dell.
âIâve been on the bus with a few of them,â he said. âThe atmosphereâs building.â
âI hope youâve got a helmet in your bag. Could be busy later. Youâll have some customers for sure.â
That earned a smile, but not a full grin. It suggested that sheâd made a connection.
âNo helmet,â he said, âbut I have a few strongly worded legal arguments.â
Kate raised an eyebrow. âThat should go down well with my sergeant,â she smirked.
He nodded again, with that same self-contained politeness, and then passed through the station doors without another word.
Kate watched the door swing shut behind him.
âSeems decent. New?â she asked.
âThink so,â Anisha said. âIâd not seen him before he rolled up yesterday. Friendly.â
âFriendly's rare round here. I thought he was sweet.â Kate didnât say more, but something about the way heâd looked at her stayed with her. Heâd actually seen her and not just dismissed her on the first glance. She hadnât realised how conditioned she'd become to being sized up by men. That brief flash of neutrality from the solicitor had felt almost like kindness. She shook the moment off. âCome on,â she said. âLetâs go watch some grown men ruin their weekends.â They headed for The Swan following the sound of shouting in the distance.
Walking, it took the women about twenty minutes to reach the pub. The closer they got to the area around The Dell, the more crowded the streets, and the more rowdy the gathering supporters became. Kate was glad that sheâd opted for trousers as Anishaâs skirt and black tights drew ribald comments from some in the gathering crowds. All in all though, the mood was friendly and excited. This route was home supporters only, with the visitors being carefully shepherded up from the railway station.
The Swan was packed, as was normal on a match day, and the drinkers had spilled out into the car park, which was rammed with mostly men, who were standing drinking beer and getting themselves worked up ahead of the match. There were still two hours to go until the kick-off. This was going to be a long day.
Kate and Anisha stood off from the pub as much as they could. Their presence could be seen as inflammatory, so they approached only if necessary. Over to the right they caught sight of a woman who had fallen over, presumably blind drunk, leading to great hilarity from the men around her. Anisha left Kate to keep an eye on the crowd around the pub entrance, and wandered over to see if the fallen woman needed any help. She kept her hand on her radio, ready to summon an ambulance if required.
As luck would have it this was the point, when Kate was left alone with the bulk of the drinkers, that the fight broke out. It started with angry shouting, then a bit of pushing, followed by punches thrown between four men. It ended as quickly as it had begun and had all started to peter out before sheâd taken more than a couple of steps forward to intervene. Two of the fighters were restrained by their mates. Another stared down at the fourth, a youngster in a black bomber jacket, who was on the floor having been put on his arse. The victor offered a hand up, but the felled lad was in no mood to make friends. He launched himself to his feet, grabbed a glass from a bystander and thrust it into the other manâs cheek. His opponent staggered back, clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers in a slick red stream. Someone swore loudly. Someone else laughed, and no one moved to help.
Kateâs heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline spiking as she saw bloody, broken glass in the young manâs hand. The crowd around the bloodied figure was a mass of shock and excitement, but there was no time to think. She pushed her way through the gathered men, all of them eyeing her like she was something to be challenged, but she wasnât having any of it.
The guy with the glass in his hand was now standing over the injured man, looking unsure of whether to swing again or back off. Kate made the decision for him. She moved in fast, tackling him from the side and knocking the glass from his hand. It skittered across the tarmac, leaving a trail of glistening shards in its wake. He was a lot bigger than her, but Kate had done this before. As her training kicked in automatically, she shoved him to the ground, using his own momentum against him. He hit the floor with a thud. He wasnât going quietly, but the moment he started to roll away, she climbed on top, sitting on his back to keep him pinned.
He struggled beneath her, kicking and throwing wild, desperate, clumsy punches that missed as she expertly dodged. She knew exactly where to apply pressure; digging her knees into his ribs and making sure he couldnât get any leverage. He grunted in frustration, but Kate wasnât going anywhere. She had him now. The world narrowed to just the two of them; the manâs windmilling limbs and her steady, controlled force.
Faintly against the thudding of her own heart and her heavy breathing, she heard a low, deep voice cutting through the tension. It was commanding and calm, a stark contrast to the baying of the excited crowd. âLet the little lady get on with her job.â
Kate didnât have time to process that voice, but the effect was instant. The crowd of men that had loomed around her started to fall back, creating a small buffer zone around her and the prisoner. Their faces were twisted in a mix of frustration and resignation, but nobody made any move to interfere. Her hand found the cuffs hanging on a loop of her belt, and she clipped them onto the manâs wrists with a swift, practiced motion. She glanced around to see if anyone was going to step up and make this worse, but they all stood back, muttering among themselves.
A live wire switched on within her, unleashing a surge of adrenaline. This wasnât the usual petty nonsense she dealt with on a daily basis. This wasnât just paperwork and routine calls. This was raw and dangerous police work. With the man cuffed, she took a breath, steadied herself, and gave the caution. âYou are hereby arrested for assault, and you are not free to leave.â Her words were automatic, the phrasing crisp and sharp. She paused to give herself a chance to get her breath back. Then she continued, her voice wavering with the weight of the moment. She was still sitting on the manâs back, and the crowd were starting to press in around her again, their stares heavy. âYou do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court,â she continued. âAnything you do say may be given in evidence.â
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the ladâs mates pushing towards her again. There were at least eight of them; big, loud, tattooed and intimidating. Her stomach twisted in fear, but she stayed steady and drew her canister of CS spray with one hand. Sheâd been trained to handle this and conditioned to keep her head. Help should have been on the way, but there was no sign of Anisha and no sign of any other officers on the horizon. Just as she thought the situation might turn for the worse, she heard that deep voice again, cutting through the noise. âI said. Stand back. Let her do her job.â
It wasnât a request. The approaching men wavered, and Kate felt the pressure ease a fraction. She couldnât see who had spoken, but the effect was immediate. The lads grumbled, but they didnât dare challenge the voice behind them. A few moments later, Anisha was finally by her side, crouching to check the injured man on the ground, and Kate felt her shoulders relax slightly. Anishaâs hand went to her radio, and within seconds, the distant wail of a van siren could be heard. The cavalry was finally on the way.
Kate stayed where she was, holding her position on the prisoner until the van pulled up. As the man was bundled into the van, the adrenaline rush started to ebb. She was left with that familiar exhaustion that followed every high-intensity moment. With the prisoner taken care of, Kate dusted down her uniform, dislodging a wave of kipper smell. A couple of PCSOs arrived to take her spot, the tension in the air already dissipating like smoke. It was just another match day scrap. She sat in the front of the van and they drove back to Shirley with the prisoner. She felt on top of the world. The job wasnât finished, but sheâd made her mark on match day.
Back at the station Kate, assisted by one of the officers from the custody suite, escorted her prisoner to the desk. The anger which had fuelled his attack at the pub seemed to have completely evaporated and he was as docile as a lamb as she led him before the sergeant on duty.
The custody desk stood tall and imposing at the rear of the station. It had been designed to make incoming prisoners feel small and cowed. Anyone under six feet would be barely able to see over the counter, which was topped by tall perspex screens which reached almost to the ceiling. Behind the desk, peering out between a boxy computer monitor and a board bearing information and notices for the unfortunates who had been arrested, was a giant of a man. For the diminutive Kate, approaching the desk with her prisoner always felt like stepping up to a judgeâs bench - a moment of tense formality and sharp-eyed scrutiny.
âWPC Ellis. What have you got for me here then. An early customer from the football?â Sergeant Jones had a deep and kindly voice and was one of the few men in the station who showed her respect in the course of her duties. He had the knack of defusing tension and putting her at her ease.
âThatâs right sergeant. I arrested this gentleman in the car park of The Swan on Hill Lane, at 11:02 today. I witnessed a small fight involving him and three other white men. It was a minor scuffle, but when it was all coming to an end, he took it upon himself to smash a beer glass into one of the other menâs face. WPC Patel is overseeing the transport of the casualty to the General. We are waiting to hear about the seriousness of his injuries.â Kate paused for breath and Sergeant Jones beamed at her indulgently. âI have arrested this man on suspicion of assault, and causing actual bodily harm.â
âThank you WPC Ellis. So,â Jones turned his attention to the prisoner. âNot a great day for you son. Looks like youâll be missing the match. Could you let me know your name please.â
âZane Howe,â the voice was surprisingly effeminate and was totally unexpected from the young hard man.
âDate of birth please, Zane.â
âThe fifth of November, 1979.â
âAnd your address?â
â22 Mandela Terrace, Southampton.â
âAh right. Youâre Tommy Howeâs boy then. First time with us?â
âYes,â the boy was subdued, almost embarrassed at his predicament.
Once the paperwork was complete, Kate led Zane down the corridor to the holding cells, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the well-worn linoleum floor. Sergeant Jones, standing behind the custody desk, gave her a broad thumbs-up as she led him away. That silent nod of approval warmed her more than she'd admit. If there was anyone in the station that she could look up to it was Jones.
Reaching the cells, she unlocked the heavy door of a vacant room and gestured for Zane to step inside. He removed his shoes and handed them over without protest. All of his earlier bravado had been replaced with subdued cooperation. Once he was inside, she removed his handcuffs and stepped back, allowing the door to swing shut with a resonant clang.
"You'll be here for a while," she informed him through the small observation window. "It's a busy day, so sit tight.â
Turning on her heel, Kate made her way back toward the custody desk. As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with a man entering the suite. It was the smiling solicitor sheâd seen earlier.
"Apologies," he said, stepping aside. "I'm Billy Lewis, the duty solicitor. I've been allocated to Zane Howe."
Kate smiled, extending her hand. âI saw you in the car park earlier. WPC Kate Ellis. I just brought him in. Youâre quick off the mark. Keen are you?â
They shook hands. It was a brief but firm exchange. There was a flicker of something, curiosity, perhaps, but it remained unspoken, tucked neatly beneath their professional facades. As Billy moved toward the custody desk, Kate glanced down and noticed a dark stain on her shirt sleeve. It was blood. She sighed, recalling the scuffle outside The Swan. Changing into her spare shirt wasn't an option; it was stained with fish oil from the earlier prank. With a resigned shrug, she rolled up her sleeves, determined to finish her shift before worrying about laundry. Around her the station buzzed with activity, but for a moment, Kate allowed herself a brief pause, collecting her thoughts before diving back into the fray.
The balance between love and anger is tipped in favour of anger in this book. Itâs set in 1977 in a misogynistic and racist police station typical of the era so there is much to be angry about. Kate Ellis, a rookie police officer, is subjected to a lot of sexist abuse disguised as banter by most of the male officers and she and Anisha, the only other woman police officer in the team, are side-lined and given only mundane tasks to perform. The implication being that that as women they will be incapable of any true police work. Even when Kate brings in Zane Howe, son of a known criminal, for attacking someone with a broken bottle the charges mysteriously disappear. But when she is sent to a run-of-the-mill contraband-cigarettes case and discovers from one of the shopkeepers that there is a protection racket linked to the Howes running in the neighbourhood her suspicions of corruption seem justified and she starts to build her case.
Interwoven with Kateâs investigation is her somewhat tepid romance with Billy Lewis, the stationâs duty solicitor, a kindly but inexperienced young man. In fact the male contingent on display are, in general, either gross and crude misogynists or those who can represent no threat to the status quo whatsoever, such as Billy or the father figure of Sergeant Jones. The one who Kate suspects of corruption, DCI Hunter, is openly contemptuous, saying things like, âLeave the real work to those of us with a bit more experience, eh sweetheart?â Anisha, on the other hand, is a well-rounded character as is Kateâs eventual soulmate, the photographer Alice, and the plot is carefully worked out, with a surprise twist at the end.
Nevertheless, perhaps because the novel is set in an era nearly fifty years ago, it seems to have less relevance to the modern world; though sexism and racism still exist (and in the police force doubly so apparently) they are likely to be expressed in much more subtle ways. Most of the male characters therefore sounded like caricatures, unleavened by any redeeming features so I occasionally felt as if I was being bludgeoned into accepting a feminist view. Even one of the characters says to Kate, âYou sound like a feminist manifesto.â
This is not to deny that this is a rattlingly good police procedural along with a heart-felt romance and will be much enjoyed by lovers of the genre.