THE RUNNING GRAVE

J.K. Rowling’s detective, Cormoran Strike, makes his seventh series appearance in an overlong but reasonably entertaining whodunit.

“We were hippies…We never knew what it was all going to turn into.” So speaks a veteran of a pseudo-religious cult that, when its leaders aren’t busy extracting money from their followers, worships the ascended spirits of members who just happen to be dead. Ah, but why dead? As the pseudonymous Galbraith’s latest opens, emails and letters are flying among the cult’s lawyers, a wealthy chap whose on-the-spectrum son has gone kiting off to join the cult, and a disgruntled former member who’s been writing damaging blog posts about the bunch. Naturally, the last fellow soon exits the stage, the victim of—well, who knows. Enter Strike and sidekick Robin Ellacott, whose friends have been hoping that “she and Strike would become more to each other than detective partners and best friends.” Strike has been nursing just such thoughts, but there’s no time for hanky-panky, since they’ve got an evil cabal of cult masters to take down. Their investigation leads them into tangled situations aplenty, with intimations of pedophilia and indiscreet behavior on the part of cult boss Papa J, “a handsome, tall and fit-looking man in his mid-sixties” who talks a very good game. Robin, natch, goes undercover to try to dislodge the aforementioned neurodivergent cultling from the group’s heavily fortified rural farm—where, she discovers, there are skeletons in every closet, to say nothing of every pigsty. Brexit, Charles Manson, and David Bowie all make appearances in this overstuffed yarn, much in need of streamlining though with plenty of neat plot twists and archly pointed dialogue, as when one interlocutor says of a baddie, “She must have had a dreadful childhood.” Answers Strike, “A lot of people have dreadful childhoods and don’t take to strangling small children.”

More of the same, but Rowling’s fans will be neither dissuaded nor disappointed.