Chief Superintendent Kinsey

Jade Kinsey’s a short, short-haired, short-tempered woman in her mid-forties, who despite continuing and heroic efforts has entirely failed to moderate her industrial-grade profanity in the presence of the monarch. Apart from the servants she’s the only person here without a device; but she’s been dealing with them in her professional life since a decade ago, when Jory, then bearing the shield of Sir Gawain, seriously annoyed her by beheading the bondsman of a cannibalistic giant named Retho of Arvaius on her patch.

‘We’ve searched Brewster’s house,’ Kinsey’s reporting. ‘Textbook stuff, literally. Bastard had Morte D’Arthur and Idylls of the King on his Kindle, and a volume of post-Vulgate nicked from the UCL library. Every last bloody reference to Sir Garlon the Red bookmarked and highlighted. Doesn’t get much more open-and-shut than that, sir.’

Ten years ago Kinsey had barely heard of Tennyson, let alone the Old French post-Vulgate texts, but she’s, if not a quick learner, then at least a dogged one.

Trojans, pp50-51

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Smart, contemporary political thrillers. A new kind of urban fantasy,

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