Unfortunately, Flynn lacks the panache to make his story sing. It founders under the weight of crudely assimilated exposition, telegraphed humour and tin-eared dialogue – the latter particularly evident in Docker, who often lapses into a risible sub-Chandlerian patter. The plot is busy, but that’s partly because each development is given only cursory treatment. The author struggles to build scenes, and disregards subtleties of mood and character, plumping instead for unvarnished assertion. At times, the story proceeds more like a succession of non sequiturs – the characters displaying reactions and emotions unsupported by what’s happening on the page. By the time both storylines converge on Berlin and the relationship of all the disparate plot elements is made clear, the reader is hard-pressed to care.