This is probably not a book to read on the top deck of the bus or on the 09:34 to Chipping Sodbury, if you don’t want to turn heads.
If I had a quid for every time I laughed out loud in the privacy of my own home while reading The Last Dance, the novel would have paid for itself many times over. And yet as a story about murders, psychology, dance, gangland intrigue – oh, and pet rats – it’s by no means a comedy.