Sad to hear that Dick Francis has died. He was 89. I probably have more Dick Francis books knocking around my scattered library than any other author, with the possible exception of Georgette Heyer. Like Heyer, Francis was amazingly prolific – publishing around 40 novels – and both had the same ability with plot and dialogue. I could instantly recognise a Dick Francis novel if you read me a paragraph at random, because he had such a particular tone and way of writing – one that I liked very much – and obviously lots of other people did too, because his books sold and sold. They are good, solid, suspenseful thrillers, always with some connection to the horse-racing world which Francis knew well (he was a jockey before becoming a writer) and loved. The hero could be anyone, a jockey, a photographer, an insurance agent or a diplomat – it didn't matter because he was always essentially the same character in whose company you could very happily spend a few hours (which is pretty much all it takes to polish off a Dick Francis novel) figuring out who the villain was and setting the world to rights again.
Anyone who has never read Dick Francis, look out for them in secondhand bookshops. It doesn't really matter which one you pick – they're pretty interchangable. But always well-written and enjoyable, and that was the thing about him, really – he knew his stuff, he loved his subject, and that pleasure comes across in the writing.
