THE year is 1922, and the Jazz Age is in full swing. In an American city that never existed, two detectives find a body on the roof of a skyscraper. According to the Guardian’s reviewer: “Francis Spufford’s fabulous third novel is a piece of pulp fiction disguised as speculative history, or possibly vice versa.” How does the author respond?
He professes himself delighted. “In fact, that slightly understates it; it had more than two intentions attached to it. As well as being pulp fiction and speculative history, it’s also…
