I hardly know what to think about this miniature British version of ‘Crime and Punishment.’ It is no spoiler to write that Mr. Bowling kills, again and again, out of boredom or narcissism or annoyance at people who seem to have it better than him. They are all small, harmless people whom he barely knows—with the exception of the first—and the crimes are not even particularly clever so that he waits for the law to catch up with him. But London is preoccupied with the war and his victims *are* not important people. Henderson has built a world in this book, of thwarted ambition and helplessness and desperation and alcoholism and yet you cannot help turning the pages to see what will happen next. Thank goodness there were newspapers or Mr. Bowling could barely be sure he lived a life.