OK, there are exceptions - I'm not so fond of 'The Pillory', and 'The Devil's Apprentice' loses me about 1/3 of the way in (well after the glass Venetian *g*).
Very small quibbles, barely worth mentioning. In all her work she draws wonderful word pictures with phrases you can feel biting on your tongue as you read - they beg to be spoken out loud:
The Chameleon's Dish
It was as if the time had passed without leaving any impression, almost as if someone else had lived the years for him with his own psyche, soul, self, whatever, in cold storage, waiting. But waiting for what?
He shivered again. Perhaps it wasn't too late, after all.
Feasting with Panthers
Bodie walked into the bedroom to gather a few token bits and pieces together, prepared to leave the field to Doyle for another day.
Well, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.
Smiling faintly to himself he locked up and was whistling as he ran down the stairs, his thoughts already busy plotting Doyle's seduction.
In God's Country
The road to Damascus, as far as William Bodie was concerned, was in the car park at Finchley Central station. Hardly the most exotic location for your world view to be unceremoniously turned upside down, but after thirty years of fairly cynical existence, it hardly came as a surprise. St Paul might get sun, sand, and Nubian dancing girls to ease his way onto the path of the righteous, but W.A.P. Bodie got rain, tarmac, and the acerbic tongue of Ray Doyle.
(this may just be the best opening paragraph _ever_)
A Lever to Move the World
"Just don't! Don't think. Don't pretend." Bodie crossed his arms. "Pub or a fuck, which is it to be?"
City night. Muffled sounds of traffic from the Old Kent Road, shouts in the distance, TV blaring some car chase at full volume. Past midnight. He could almost hear Big Ben ticking, almost see its moonlit shadow spilling over the relentlessly moving river. Tock, tick. Time: weighted and balanced by pennies left over from another century. Leavings of a dead queen. Tick, tock. Parliament, city, gangs, pickpockets, Cowley and a dozen clubs up west. None of them sleeping. Time still notching past. Tick.