Latest Book Reviews
Crimeculture continues its series of book reviews, covering some of the best recently published crime fiction. Read our recommendations and reviews for 2016-17 below.
Jason Pinter, The Castle (2017)
Review by Lee Horsley
Jason Pinter’s The Castle is a tense, fast-moving thriller, a nightmare journey through a contemporary political world that is all too alarmingly familiar to us. Having written the book during the bizarre electoral circus that culminated in the victory of Donald Trump, Pinter “wanted people to be able to read it now right in the wake of the election” (Hudson Reporter), so opted to avoid the delays of conventional publishing by creating a new company, Armina Press, which was able to bring the novel out in June 2017.
In the months following Trump’s election, many have echoed the question posed by the journalist and thriller writer, Jonathan Freedland: “How could any fiction come up with a drama as lurid and compelling as the nightly news from the US?” When the highest office is gained by a chaotic, ignorant, paranoid narcissist, wielding his power with no apparent moral compass, how is it possible to incorporate such a reality into the fictional world of the political thriller? How does a novelist give urgency to his plot when all taboos seem already to have been broken, all lines crossed?
The approach of The Castle to this formidable task is bold and effective. An action-packed thriller can’t really afford to wade into the sort of political quagmire that has been created by the real-life model for Pinter’s man of power. In constructing The Castle, Pinter’s key move is to excise some of the more repetitive and exhausting aspects of the politician represented – the childish petulance, wild inconsistencies, insecurity, absurd lies and weak excuses. Instead, Rawson Griggs, the billionaire arch villain of The Castle, is sharply intelligent and focused – a far more competent and altogether more coherent adversary: “Rawson does what it takes to win. It’s not always pretty. But it’s effective.” There is abundant common ground between actual and fictional worlds: Griggs is bullying, self-centred, hubristic and paranoid. But although this utterly unscrupulous manipulator habitually deceives people, his lies are cunning rather than transparent. His deceptions are the Machiavellian manoeuvres of a strong, determined political operator who, behind the scenes, threatens everyone around him.
The protagonist drawn into this arrogant, aggressive world is Remy Stanton, a young corporate strategist who, in a moment of rash daring, intervenes to rescue two strangers being attacked by a gunman. When it turns out that the lives he has saved are those of Griggs’ daughter and son-in-law, Remy suddenly finds himself a central figure in the third-party political campaign of the powerful business magnate. He is a useful hero of the hour, with a clear role to play in the supporting cast of a populist, nativist bid for the presidency.
It is a far more hazardous and unpredictable role than Remy bargained for. With his talk of unleashing “the Beast Within”, Rawson Griggs is spiralling out of control, and there is no one he won’t sacrifice should they threaten to undermine his cult of personality or to interfere with his rise to power. By turns credulous, appalled and terrified, Remy gives us increasingly alarmed insights into this surreal political landscape, and Pinter creates an unfailingly suspenseful encounter with the underlying brutality of political ambition on this scale: “…it seemed that Rawson had grown unhinged, bolder. And if what Remy Stanton had said was true, Rawson was capable of truly frightening things.”
So many different ways of disappearing: five of the best missing person novels
Reviewed by Lee Horsley
When someone goes missing, Megan Miranda writes, the realization that they’re gone “grows into a hollow terror… a void that gets filled with all the horrible possibilities existing all at once.” Unlike mystery stories that begin with some version of the corpse on the library floor, the missing person narrative keeps us in suspense with a multitude of “horrible possibilities”, and at the same time with the tormenting hope that the missing person might still be found alive and well. Here are some of Crimeculture’s 2015-16 favourites – a selection of five tense, beautifully crafted and very different stories about people who disappear, and about those who might (or might not) succeed in finding them: Megan Miranda’s All the Missing Girls, Lisa Jewell’s I Found You, David Swinson’s The Second Girl, Lisa Ballantyne’s Redemption Road, and Rachel Abbott’s Stranger Child.
Megan Miranda, All the Missing Girls (2016)
”People slipping away right before your eyes”: It happened ten years ago and now it has happened again. In this slow-burning, suspenseful tale another girl has gone missing in the small southern town of Cooley Ridge, and Nic Farrell has been drawn back to a place she thought she had long ago left behind. In order to work out what’s going on, we have to “go back in time”, a recapturing of the past embodied in the novel’s intricate structure, with the central chapters in reverse chronological order. As we move backwards, we come gradually to understand how things have, over the years, slipped away, faded and disappeared – girls, identities, memories, grainy photographs, once-familiar paths through the woods. The mysterious events of the novel keep us guessing to the end. Disappearances are ultimately explained, but at the same time we become increasingly attuned to the narrator’s sense that parts of herself are also missing, perhaps irretrievably: her own lost self is one of the things she is trying to discover, and there are so many “different versions of me”. Is Nic’s lost self innocent or guilty? Will her quest bring closure or will she one day “walk through the woods, fade to nothing”? A teasing, compelling, thoughtful and very cleverly plotted novel.
Lisa Jewell, I Found You (2016)
“I don’t know what my name is”: I Found You opens with a man in a fugue state sitting in the rain on a Yorkshire beach. He doesn’t know who he is or where he has come from. A woman who lives near the beach takes him in and looks after him, but no amount of kindness can cancel out his sense that life has gone badly wrong: “‘The longer I’m here, the more I know that I’ve done something really bad…Someone was ringing about me… And maybe it was someone who loves me. Or maybe it was someone who wants to kill me. Or maybe it was someone I’ve hurt.” A second storyline introduces us to a young woman in Surrey desperate to know what has happened to her new husband, who has failed to come home from work. We initially assume, of course, that these mysteries are related. And indeed, in a way, they are, but the complexity of the connections begins to become apparent when a third storyline takes us back to a family holidaying in the same Yorkshire seaside town in the early 1990s. The deaths and disappearances of that earlier decade are brilliantly interwoven with the search for a lost identity and a lost husband twenty years later. The editors of Crimeculture were pleased to read that, the older Lisa Jewell gets, the more she loves writing psychological thrillers (Independent). I Found You is an excellent example of the quirky, nuanced qualities she brings to the genre – the taut, suspenseful plotting of a good thriller combined with an exceptional ability to create relationships imbued with the warmth and humour of domestic drama and romance. Read more, including our reviews of David Swinson, Lisa Ballantyne and Rachel Abbott.
Peter Swanson, The Kind Worth Killing (Feb 2015)
Review by Lee Horsley
In Peter Swanson’s The Kind Worth Killing, murderous plans are initiated in the relaxed, detached atmosphere of an airport lounge: “the rules are different in airport bars”, and it seems much easier to let go of normal conversational inhibitions “in that peculiar bubble known as air travel.” Ted and Lily get to talking in the business lounge at London’s Heathrow as they await a delayed night flight to Boston. When Ted jokingly confesses that he sometimes feels like killing his cheating wife, Lily says “I think you should.” Ted expects some indication that she is joking, but Lily appears to be entirely serious, and, as they cross the Atlantic, she prompts him to play a game of telling the “absolute truth” in which, Ted reflects, she “was suddenly giving me the moral authority to act on my desires.”
Swanson’s indebtedness to Patricia Highsmith is clear, particularly to Strangers on a Train. Like Highsmith, he uses a meeting ‘in transit’ as a temptation scene in which an accidental acquaintance seeks to draw out hidden thoughts, and we, as readers, are teased into reflecting on the self-justifications of the murderer. The scenes in which Lily coaxes Ted to commit murder are very reminiscent of a famous moment in Hitchcock’s film version of the Highsmith novel, in which Bruno Anthony says to Mrs Cunningham, “Everyone has somebody that they want to put out of the way. Oh now surely, Madam, you’re not going to tell me that there hasn’t been a time that you didn’t want to dispose of someone. Your husband, for instance?” Lily’s function, like that of Bruno, is to give expression to unconscious desires – and to the conviction that there are, surely, some people who deserve to die.
Once the plane touches down on the East Coast, the seductive thought that one might commit murder begins, of course, to seem less abstract and more fraught with complications. A somewhat prosaic tech entrepreneur, Ted is besotted with Lily but increasingly uneasy about the course of action to which he is committing himself. Lily sees herself as “special”, as having been “born with a different kind of morality”, and we soon discover that she in fact inhabits a moral universe in which rather many people qualify as deserving murder victims.
Swanson’s plot is deftly and intricately designed, with numerous twists that genuinely take us by surprise. In comparison to Highsmith’s work, this is a novel very much driven by plot rather than by nuanced psychological portraits or morally probing explorations of the choices that people make. But Lily is a strong central figure, and Swanson grips our attention with the deadly cat-and-mouse games being played by several of the main characters. There are two or three murderers or potential murderers, all of whom have their own secrets and their own reasons for wanting to dispose of people. Swanson makes nerve-racking use of the uncertainties this generates. We are kept in suspense about who will survive and who might stand a chance of turning the tables. What will happen as others engineer killings of their own? How far will Lily get with her freedom intact? Does she deserve to be punished? Will she be? Swanson is not unwilling to sacrifice characters to whom we have grown attached, and he keeps us on the edge of our seats til the end. A thoroughly enjoyable and addictive thriller.
Review by Lee Horsley
The Swedish crime writer Hakan Nesser is best known for his highly successful police procedurals, the Van Veeteren series – ten novels (1993-2003), all available in English. He has also, however, written numerous stand-alones, only two of which have been translated into English, both in 2015: A Summer with Kim Novak, originally published in 1998, and The Living and the Dead in Winsford, published in Swedish in 2014. The freshness and immediacy of these stories owe a lot to the fact that (unlike the usual police procedural) they are in the first person. Both carry us touchingly and convincingly into the minds of vulnerable characters living through times of extreme uncertainty and change.
A Summer with Kim Novak is a captivating, well-crafted murder mystery, and readers are kept in suspense until the final pages about who was responsible for “that grisly act”. The narrator, Erik, looking back on his fourteen-year old self, relives “the Incident”: it is the reason he remembers the summer of 1962 “more clearly than any other summer of my youth. It cast its dismal pall over so many things.” But there was also “so much more to it” – most importantly, the experience of being young. In spite of the act of violence at its centre, Nesser’s novel has the charm of a gentle, funny coming-of-age story.
With Erik’s whole world overturned by the serious illness of his mother, he spends the summer at the family’s lake-side cottage with his friend Edmund, his elder brother Henry – and, turning up nearby, “Kim Novak”, the very image of the actress, a gorgeous substitute teacher from their school, accompanied by her extremely unpleasant fiancée. The quirkiness of the boys’ adventures and the awkwardness of their adolescence are beautifully conveyed. The pace of the novel captures the leisure of a summer idyll: “On our first few days at Gennesaret, we surveyed our kingdom… In the summertime, there was never any need to rush; time was an ocean one thousand times the size of Möckeln: you did as you pleased.” They seem to float unhurriedly towards calamity and loss of innocence. And, when disaster strikes, we find ourselves completely engrossed by the causes and consequences of “that fateful event”.
Like A Summer with Kim Novak, The Living and the Dead in Winsford is set in an intensely realized landscape and patiently, vividly creates a disempowered character in whose fate we feel very closely involved. Here, we are following a woman on her own, a former TV presenter, Maria Holinek. In contrast to the earlier novel’s poignant tale of the end of innocence, The Living and the Dead creates a tense, edgy account of the dangers confronted by a woman who is far from innocent – the wife of a missing professor who has herself gone missing, fleeing to an isolated cottage in the village of Winsford on Exmoor. She is “writing in order to avoid going mad – the gradual eroding madness of solitude – and in order to outlive my dog.” Maria is at a moral and emotional crossroads, not just in hiding but dislocated from her entire past: “I had gone astray in my inner landscape, and that was due quite simply to the fact that it had been changed. Or erased.” We are only gradually able to piece together the events that have led to her inner turmoil, and we read anxiously to find out what she is escaping from, what happened in a remote bunker on the Baltic coast, and what will become of her.
A Summer with Kim Novak and The Living and the Dead in Winsford are both, quite literally, “blood on the beach” novels, highly recommended as touching, suspenseful, utterly absorbing summer reading.
Review by Kate Horsley
Duane Swierczynski’s Revolver opens in the mid-60s, with two cops, one black and one white, drinking beer in a North Philly taproom when “sunlight blasts into the bar” – along with a man holding a revolver. No one is officially charged with the murder of Officers Stan Walczak and George Wildey, and the sequence of events that unfolded on that spring day in 1965 is only revealed to us at the end of the novel, when the scene of the shooting is recreated in full. For decades after the crime, the pain caused affects the lives of the families of the officers killed, and the unanswered questions drive an obsessive need to find out what happened. Revolver is a complex, compelling account of successive attempts to discover the truth.
We see events primarily through the eyes of Stan Walczak and his family – beginning with the Polish cop’s police work and his growing friendship with his black partner in the months leading up to their deaths. Thirty years on, in 1995, the unsolved case is still tormenting his son Jim, now himself working as a policeman; and the investigation is carried further by his granddaughter Audrey, who returns to Philadelphia in 2015 for a memorial service held on the 50th anniversary of her grandfather’s death. Focusing on these three years – 1965, 1995 and 2015 – Swierczynski teases out the interconnected traumas of private and public life – the guilt, the tangled secrets and long-hidden connections. Audrey reflects that “all this drama in her life and screwed-up family began at that corner of Seventeenth and Fairmount, in a dive bar. And maybe she’s holding on to this foolish dream that if she can figure out what happened back then, she can try to understand what the fuck is happening to them now.” And that is ultimately, of course, not just a personal but a historical question. What happened then to make things the way they are now? How have past wrongs created the calamities of the present?
Swierczynski first thought of writing Revolver when he read a Philadelphia Inquirer piece about the 1963 murders of two police officers and realized that “the bitter anger of their families, even after all these years, was palpable.” It is a novel that movingly captures the ramifications of hurt and anger over the years, amongst the Walczak descendants in particular, but also in terms of the wider and ongoing racial conflicts within Philadelphia. Revolver is based on impressive historical research, ranging from newspapers and academic studies to archival material on the civil rights movement in Philadelphia, establishing a vividly realized sense of the city over a fifty year period.
Within this carefully established historical context, Swierczynski creates powerful images of the conflicts that tear apart both cities and families. A commitment to honourable action persists over the decades, but so does the will to deceive and corrupt, and all of the characters in the novel are mired in the consequences. People long to keep alive the memory of what happened: it is important that Stan’s descendants hear the story of the 1965 shooting because “what happened here needs to be remembered.” But there can be no uncomplicated identification of the guilty party, and there have been many different motives for keeping secrets. What ultimately must be uncovered are personal treacheries, family betrayals and public lies. The public dimension ranges from unprincipled union bosses and gangsters to politically ambitious people anxious to conceal past transgressions on the way to the top – because “the mayor wants to be America’s mayor,” because there might be “a run for the governor’s office, maybe even the White House…” Revolver is an ambitious novel, and one that succeeds in its aim of giving readers uncomfortable insights into a half-century of urban turmoil. It is a story told with great warmth and humour, but also with a dark sense of the ironies and contradictions underlying generations of violence and misunderstanding.