I loved the beginning of this book, the idea of the transcriptionist sitting alone in what felt like an abandoned part of a huge newspaper building, doing her job, transcribing recorded stories from reporters who were in the field. Feeding a pigeon that was stuck to the windowsill. Wandering in the empty halls. The atmosphere of the book appealed to me. Reminded me of Gormenghast, weirdly, because of the emptiness of the building, as if it went on forever, and our puny modern day could only manage to fill part of it. I liked, not loved, the ending of the book where it becomes a kind of thriller. It’s well managed and plausible, and even satisfying. But doesn’t altogether live up to the atmosphere of the beginning. There is a good reason for the shift in tone; the book examines the ethics of modern journalism. Tiny quibble for a good book. There’s just something so seductive about the first half of it, though. I’d like to write an alternate second half. Well, I wouldn’t actually want to do that, but you know, stray thought. I worked as a transcriptionist for some years, on the night shift in a huge public hospital that was mostly empty on my shift. Gave me a feeling for what Rowland is talking about.