I am currently reading, and enjoying, The Complaints by Ian Rankin. About 50 pages in, we begin to get to know the protagonist, policeman Malcolm Fox, a little bit, as he returns home from visiting his father. Isn't this just a classic description, and doesn't it depict someone who is instantly recognisable and likeable in the crime fiction genre?:
The mail waiting for him on the hall carpet was the usual stuff: bills and junk and a bank statement. At least the Royal Bank of Scotland was still in business. There was nothing in the envelope with the statement, no letter of grovelling apology for getting above itself and letting down its customers. Lauder Lodge's monthly payment had gone out. The rest seemed to be petrol and groceries. He looked in the
fridge, seeking inspiration for a quick dinner. Denied, he tried the cupboards and emerged with a tin of chilli and a small jar of jalapenos. There was long-grain rice in a jar on the worktop. The radio was tuned to classic FM, but he changed the channel to something he'd come across recently. The station was just called Birdsong and birdsong was precisely what it delivered. He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Appletiser, sat with his drink at the table and rubbed a hand across his face and forehead, kneading his temples and the bridge of his nose. He wondered how he would pay for his nursing home when the time came. He hoped there'd be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.
When the food was ready, he took it through to the living room and switched on the TV. There was birdsong still audible from the kitchen; sometimes he left it on all night. He flicked through the Freeview channels until he found Dave. It was all repeats, but still watchable. Fifth Gear followed by Top Gear followed by another Top Gear.
I am currently on page 240 of 381, so it won't be too long (I hope) before I can write a review of the whole book.