What could have been an excellent dip into British Noir turns into a predictable hotch-potch of ITV-style crime drama. What sets the book apart from the rest of British crime is the fact that it has no real idea about Britain. There aren't any "elevators" for instance, nor do job centres have spikes to put notes on. And not everyone who's unemployed is an inveterate gambler.

Smalltime falls into too many deeply dubious stereotypes to be of any worth. That's not to say it's not well-written, because it is. Unfortunately, the plot is wafer-thin and the characters sketchy at best. Our main protagonist, Chris, is supposedly some sort of chick-magnet, three girls on the go at the same time, but his appeal is never explained. Dashy's bad homelife is straight out of a bad Ken Loach film. As for Kevin... Well, he's really nothing more than a bad guy.

All in all, it sounds like an American trying to write for a British audience. And it falls flat...Bloodlines should know better.

So-so peek into very small time crime perpetuated by non-criminals. The ostensible hero, Chris, is mugged by the inept Leo, setting into motion a chain of events that will lead Chris, Leo, and Leo's buddy Kevin into a triangle of crime. All three are 25-35 and living dead-end lives in a London suburb. Chris' prospects are starting to look up very slightly (he lives in a YMCA) when he tries to juggle two new women. Predictable results ensue with the women, and the smalltime crime ends up in multiple tragedy. Trés bleak.