James Fleming’s Cold Blood (Jonathan Cape, £16.99) is set in Russia during the revolution. His previous novel, White Blood, introduced the naturalist Charlie Doig, half-Scottish adventurer, half- Russian aristocrat. Widowed on his honeymoon, Doig has now a single goal in life — the preferably painful destruction of Prokhor Glebov, the man who foully murdered his wife and others he loved. The problem is that Glebov is now high in Lenin’s favour, and Russia is a very big country. None of this matters much to Doig, the sort of hero who could teach Richard Hannay a thing or two about true grit. Commandeering an armoured train, Doig and his allies set on in pursuit of Glebov, now in charge of the Tsar and his family.

The prose is tight, brusque and colourful. The book also gives off a reassuring sense of authority — Fleming clearly knows his stuff. The bare outline gives little idea of the sheer energy of the novel. The story rattles along like an absconding locomotive. It’s not for the squeamish — Fleming’s Russia is a brutal place, but his hero is well able to deal with it on its own terms. Doig may operate in a John Buchan world, but he gives the impression of being permanently high on steroids, amphetamines and the occasional dose of viagra. He is almost as terrifying as the revolution itself. 

Andrew Taylor’s latest novel is Bleeding Heart Square (Penguin).

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