Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of A Question of Trust by Jonathan Pinnock

The first thing you should know is this: I didn’t intend to laugh at 1:17 a.m. on a weekday. But there I was, trying to be a responsible adult, and suddenly snorting into my pillow because a fictional python named Bertrand decided to make his displeasure known. If you’ve ever had a book ambush your sanity at an ungodly hour, you’ll know the exact flavour of joy I’m talking about. And that’s the peculiar magic Jonathan Pinnock brings to A Question of Trust — a mystery that behaves like a mathematical equation gone deliciously rogue.

Pinnock is not your typical “math-meets-thriller” writer. A Cambridge mathematician who also writes poetry and once penned a bio-historico-musicological memoir (say that fast), he creates stories that feel like the collision point between intellect and mischief. His first Mathematical Mystery, The Truth About Archie and Pye, was quirky, witty, and wonderfully bonkers. But this second instalment? It has sharper claws. Bigger laughs. And a surprisingly tender heartbeat beneath all the chaos.

The book opens with Tom Winscombe, who might be the most accident-prone human in literary history, staring into the void his girlfriend Dorothy left behind — an empty office, vanished equipment, drained bank accounts, and a bedsit so grim you can almost smell the dampness through the page. As Tom and Ali (the razor-tongued, hacker extraordinaire) attempt to unravel Dorothy’s disappearance, they stumble into a world pulsing with cryptocurrency scams, suspicious messages from dead men’s LinkedIn accounts, and mathematical clues that feel like breadcrumbs tossed by a slightly drunk genius.

Trying to summarise Pinnock’s premise without giving away its delights is like trying to describe fireworks to someone who’s only seen candles. But here’s the essence: it’s a story where danger wears a comedic mask, where mathematics hides in plain sight, and where every answer opens a trapdoor to a new question. The stakes are surprisingly emotional — not just finding Dorothy, but understanding why she ran, and whether trust is a recyclable resource or a one-time gift.

Pinnock’s prose is wonderfully alive. Sentences snap, twist, wink, and occasionally bite. The pacing is electric — scenes unfold like film reels with caffeine addictions. He blends humour with tension so seamlessly that you barely notice when a joke becomes a clue. And then there are the sensory moments: the metallic chill of a hospital corridor, the greasy hum of dubious pubs, the acrid smell of fear wrapped inside Tom’s clumsy optimism. His writing is never just read — it’s felt.

The characters make everything sing. Tom is lovable because he’s flawed — someone you’d never trust with your passwords but would absolutely trust with your secrets. Ali is fierce, brilliant, and deeply human beneath her weaponised sarcasm. Dorothy, though absent, is a shadow that moves the whole story. And the creatures — Bertrand the python and Maryam the lizard — add a texture of absurdity that somehow deepens the emotional layers rather than diluting them.

The plot hums with cleverness. Pinnock arranges scenes the way mathematicians arrange proofs — not always linear, but always purposeful. There are twists, of course. Reversals you won’t see coming. But what stayed with me wasn’t the cleverness. It was a quieter moment with Tom’s father — naive, hopeful, scammed — that made me think of how quickly our world runs, how easily trust becomes a currency scam artists exploit. It reminded me of conversations with my own father, of the way we try to protect the generation that once protected us.

Emotionally, the book gave me everything: laughter, tension, warmth, a lingering ache I didn’t expect. The strengths? The witty dialogue, the inventive structure, the rich character chemistry. The weakness? Occasionally, the humour spikes so fast it overshadows the emotional beats waiting underneath — but that’s like saying your dessert is so good you temporarily ignore your coffee.

Readers who love smart thrillers, offbeat humour, mathematical Easter eggs, or novels that wink at you when you least expect it — this is your treasure. If you enjoyed The Rosie Project, or the controlled chaos of Douglas Adams, Pinnock will feel like coming home to a slightly unhinged but lovable friend.

I closed the book with a smile, a handful of questions, and a renewed belief that mysteries don’t always need to be grim to be gripping. Sometimes, all they need is a python, a scam, a missing woman, and an author who treats mathematics like mischief.

Give this book a chance. Let it surprise you. Let it remind you that trust, like numbers, can be broken and rebuilt in infinitely creative ways.

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