Triffids Beard 2 - The Bearded Triffid

As I collected my luggage, the clouds continued to roll in and obscure the view. We were the only
aircraft to land that afternoon -- nobody else was mad enough to try and get through such thick low
cloud.
The taxi driver expressed surprise when I opened the door of his cab.
"Has something landed?" he asked, bewildered.
"Yes," I said. "The pilot had to get home. He thought he might have left the gas on."
With one exception the Cornwell books concern themselves with the tribulations of one Dr. Kay
Scarpetta, a forensic pathologist in Virginia. In a sense the plots are somewhat formulaic -- someone is
done to death in a gruesome manner. Dr Scarpetta conducts a post mortem (we are spared no details
here) and everyone agrees that the case is puzzling, odd and bizarre. Further horrible things happen,
Kay's family and friends become involved, a culprit is identified and a satisfying conclusion is reached. If
that was all there was to them, the books would quickly become repetitively dull.
Fortunately there is much more. There is the obvious attractiveness of the secrets of the post mortem -
- Cornwell herself has worked in a pathology laboratory and she pulls no punches with the gory details.
The icky bits are magnificently evoked; don't read these books while eating your tea.
The character development is also first rate -- the people leap off the page, perfectly realised, their faults
and foibles searingly exposed under Cornwell's searchlight prose. Furthermore they change and grow as
their experiences mould them, and these changes are faithfully reflected as book follows book.
And the stories themselves are satisfyingly complex, no formulaic thud and blunder here, just taut, wellobserved
action that is sometimes quite emotionally wrenching.
So there I was, all alone in Wellington, indulging in Patricia Cornwell, when I met a man called Andrew
Mason.
Now as it happens, I already know a man called Andrew Mason, and he knows me. I would imagine that
every so often he tells new acquaintances, "Hey, I know a man called Alan Robson", and they probably
nod knowingly and agree that this is indeed a privilege.
Anyway, the Andrew Mason I met was not the Andrew Mason I know. It was a completely different
Andrew Mason (still with me? Good). During the course of conversation with this new Andrew Mason, I
was quite stunned to discover that he was well acquainted with a man called Alan Robson who is not me,
but is someone else entirely.
It gives me statistical shivers to realise that in New Zealand there exist two Andrew Masons, neither of
whom knows the other and each of whom knows an Alan Robson. And furthermore, the two Alan
Robsons have never met each other either! Take that, Gods of Probability!
A constant theme in the Patricia Cornwell books concerns the progressive computerisation of the
various arms of the police force, both on the front line and behind the scenes. We see ever more
elaborate computer systems as the series progresses, with ever more exciting developments pushing
the edge of the envelope. Again, to an extent, she is using her own background here. For a time,
according to the blurb biographies, Cornwell herself worked as a computer analyst in the chief medical
examiner's office in Virginia. There is no doubt that she is well acquainted with computer technology. Her
descriptions of what computers can do and the things you see on the screen while they are doing them
are invariably accurate and incisive. However the technogibberish she uses to describe just how the
computers perform their routine miracles is such complete and utter nonsense that either she is
deliberately dumbing down for her audience, or else she has no proper understanding of the technology
she used for so long in real life (maybe that's why she started writing novels).
In some ways this is a very small nit to pick. Few except the specialists, nerds and geeks among us will
ever notice her errors. The majority of readers will doubtless be impressed with yet more evidence of