Really Good Books About Fake Murder

There is nothing quite so wonderful as fake murder. Now, I will admit to a certain tenacious fondness for [books about] actual murder as well, but it seemed…inappropriate to combine the two genres into a single reading list. TONE, right? Happily, none of these deaths are real. Well, except for the one inspired by an 1893 murder. And the one based on the life of Grace Marks. And the one which is kind of obviously about Andrei Chikatilo.

Come to think of it, Anne Perry is actually a murderess. And, to be entirely accurate, the Princes in the Tower are certainly dead by now, either way.

Crumbs.

Anyway, these are all novels, at any rate, and fabulous ones at that. Enjoy!

Innocent Blood, P.D. James — If you don’t want to commit to the entire saga of Adam Dalgliesh (grrr, what’s wrong with you?), this creeeeepy stand-alone was James’ first international success, and deservedly so. Like all truly great mysteries, it is a superb novel, and we must seek to overthrow the critical establishment that neglects the genre! To the barricades!

Knots and Crosses, Ian Rankin — Rankin was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the world of the “crime writer,” but I’m very glad for it. His Inspector Rebus novels are glorious and depressing and Scottish and miserable.

Old Bones, Aaron Elkins — You can pick up Elkins’ Gideon Oliver series at any point, and this is the best of them. Curses! is great too. And Twenty Blue Devils. Quick, fun reads.

The Complete Ripley Novels, Patricia Highsmith — Don’t buy the version I’ve linked to, you can cobble together the individual novels more cheaply, but DO read them all, will you? Ripley is the most sympathetic sociopath in literature, except, perhaps, for Scarlett O’Hara. I find myself constantly saying: “Ripley, kill this aggravating little functionary at once, so you can return to your art and your garden and your pleasant wife and your wine cellar.”

The Wench Is Dead, Colin Dexter / The Daughter of Time, Josephine Tey — Next time a friend of yours is taken ill, immediately purchase these two books for them. Or either one! Because they’re the same book, honestly. (Sick person stuck in bed reads about historical crime, seeks to solve it!) The Dexter is better than the Tey (the pupil has defeated his master), but both are lovely. What a perfect title for the Dexter, too. Perhaps you should re-read The Jew of Malta?

A Dark-Adapted Eye, Barbara Vine — CHILLS, everyone. Barbara Vine is the pen name of Ruth Rendell, who writes the Inspector Wexford mysteries as the latter. Her Barbara Vine books are HORRIFYING and WONDERFUL. Ugh, I hope never to read one again, but I always do. I feel the same way about Minette Walters. Hm.

The Scold’s Bridle, Minette Walters — see above. Also, see Kate Atkinson.

Longshot, Dick Francis — Francis died a few years ago (and was predeceased by his brilliant wife Mary, who was almost certainly the stealth author of all of his books) and I have not yet gained enough emotional distance from that sad event to discuss how much I adore these horsey, crime-y books. This one is a great personal favourite, as are The Edge, Break In, and Bolt. I have a little sport pony I named after the protagonist of The Edge. Email me c/o Edith if you’d like to buy a little sport pony named after the protagonist of The Edge. He’s cute, honest to the fences, and has never murdered a soul.

Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood — Atwood. Historical fiction. Southern Ontario Gothic. Unreliable narrators. 470 pages.

The Cater Street Hangman, Anne Perry — This is the first of Perry’s Thomas and Charlotte Pitt mysteries, which are universally regarded as not quite as good as her moody, award-winning William Monk series. But I like them much better.

Child 44, Tom Rob Smith — There are two types of people in the world. People who say, “oooh, a book about a gruesome serial killer operating within the Soviet Union!” and people who say, “yuck, I’m just going to re-read Possession, listen to Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, masturbate, and go to bed.” And both of those types of people are wonderful.

We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver — She’s only a genius, nothing to see here. I sent it to my father with a note about not reversing his vasectomy. It worked.

A Touch of Frost, R.D. Wingfield — Perfect. And there are about four of them, but Wingfield is dead now, so savor each word carefully!

The Judas Goat, Robert Parker — Parker’s Spenser mysteries are a thing of beauty, or, rather, they were for about twenty years, and then he started running out of juice and blathering on too much about Spenser and Susan’s chocolate lab, Pearl.

The Hard Case Crime Series, various — Fake pulps! No, really. A bunch of great crime writers have written or unearthed these completely delicious old-school novels from their slush pile, thrown fantastic covers on them, and sold them as cheap paperbacks. Lawrence Block’s Grifter’s Game is a stand-out, but you should honestly just buy them in bulk and strew them around your apartment next to half-empty bourbon bottles.

(Fake murder classics Running Wild and When the Sacred Ginmill Closes have already been featured on previous reading lists. And, really, no one needs to tell you to read Wilkie Collins or Raymond Chandler or Agatha Christie or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, right?)