Adele, by Mary Flanagan (Bloomsbury, £6.99 in UK)

Prostitution of the kinkier kind in 1930s Paris provides the frame around which Mary Flanagan weaves this sordid tale, which has been described as "a scholarly sex-crime thriller" but which, in truth, lacks the sort of narrative momentum and pacing which keeps the pages of even the most routine cop thriller turning. If you're gripped by the idea of an androgynous courtesan with outrageous genitals and an extremely dubious body odour, read on: I have to say that by the final few chapters, with their risible present-day orgy scene, I was more grossed-out than engrossed.