William Heming loves his leafy, prosperous commuter village, a place of handsome character properties and broad streets lined with hedges. Knowing what’s behind those hedges is Heming’s job: he’s an estate agent. But he’s also a snooper: he keeps the keys of houses he has sold, watches the schedules of residents, and sneaks into their homes, exploring rooms and foraging in fridges. He’s an intriguing narrator, his descriptions couched in estate agent-ese, his moral compass skewed. At times he seems almost benevolent: mischievous but deeply loyal to the manicured bushes and cul-de-sacs of his realm. At others he is far more troubling, a sociopath who lies, stalks women and hides in attics while owners sleep in their bedrooms below. He grows obsessed with boorish philanderer Mr Sharp and his bit-on-the-side, librarian Abigail, and when drama ensues the lurker is pushed into the limelight. Hogan’s fourth novel visits some dark places, and its enigmatic narrator and Middle England setting are brilliantly realised. This is a compelling read that leaves a prickle on the neck and doubts in the mind.
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