This is the sort of low-level armchair mystery that, I assume, is favoured by menopausal women who enjoy books by Ruth Rendell and the like. There's nothing wrong with any of that, of course, but very early into watching this series I began to feel that my intelligence was being insulted.
Surely I cannot be the only one who "solved" the case less than a third of the way in. And I doubt that I was alone in reaching an IMMEDIATE diagnosis for Greig's character's son, despite nearly three episodes of mindless denial from her.
I continued watching the series, mainly because I was hoping to be proved wrong; that there would be some ingenious twist at the end. There wasn't.
I was introduced to a cast of obvious red-herrings, dismissed them one-by-one using minimal amounts of logic and common sense, and arrived at a reasonable and likely conclusion, which was confirmed at the end, leaving me with little more than a mild form of self-satisfaction (which is distasteful and unattractive even to myself), and the rather gloomy thought that I am now three hours closer to my death.
Ultimately I would describe this offering as moderately diverting fluff. Perhaps the most entertaining aspect of the series was racking my brains trying to remember what I recognised Darren Boyd from.
