I’m currently reading The Murder Road by Stephen Booth, several of whose other works grace my library. The author paints a lengthy word picture of New Mills in Derbyshire some 70 pages into the book – and shoots himself in the foot, according to an acquaintance of mine.
My acquaintance walked through the town literally thousands of times over a period of a couple of decades, travelling from one of its railway stations to the other and back again in the evening. He confirmed that there is a huge sweet factory on the southern side of the river gorge, which divides the area, but he was never, ever, assaulted by a sickly, overpowering smell from it, as Mr. Booth claims there is.
Oh, dear! I wonder what else he gets wrong in his book?
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