Lines of Inquiry

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at first when *Lines of Inquiry* opened with a drug dealer’s corpse. ‘Another grim cop story,’ I thought. Then Dylan pulled the rug out by making the victim *deserving*—and suddenly, I was hooked on the wrongness of rooting for the killer. Warlow isn’t your typical brooding detective; he’s a man of faith (literally—his Catholic guilt is a character unto itself) in a world where the rules seem written by hypocrites. The beachside setting isn’t just scenic wallpaper; it’s a pressure cooker, with the tide washing away evidence and the locals closing ranks faster than the police can blink. Weatherburn’s performance is *almost* flawless. His Warlow is a masterclass in restrained fury—listen to how his voice tightens when interrogating a priest, or how his Welsh lilt softens during the rare moments of tenderness with his team. My only gripe? The female characters occasionally slip into caricature in his delivery, their voices pitched a touch too breathy or shrill. It’s a minor stumble in an otherwise immersive listen. The pacing, though, is *relentless*. Dylan balances procedural detail with emotional gut-punches, like a scene where Warlow stares at his reflection in a pub window, realizing he’s become the thing he hunts. The production is crisp, with ambient sounds (distant waves, creaking floorboards) used sparingly but effectively—never gimmicky, always serving the mood. If you’re tired of thrillers where the body count outpaces the soul-searching, this is your antidote. Just be warned: the ending doesn’t so much tie up loose ends as it does hand you a knife and ask *you* where to cut.