Books to Die For

  When I try to express to people what I love about this book, I always explain that it has a bit of everything. The story features two couples, the first being scholars Roland Michell and Maud Bailey, who meet in the present day. While doing research in the London Library, Roland has discovered a slip of paper stuck inside a book that hints at a previously undiscovered acquaintance between Randolph Henry Ash, a supposedly happily married literary lion of the 1850s, and one of his lesser-known contemporaries, the protofeminist (and possibly lesbian) poet Christabel LaMotte. Roland meets up with Maud, an expert on LaMotte, and together they try to discover whether there was a secret relationship between the two poets.

  In the course of their amateur investigation, Roland and Maud visit the crumbling LaMotte family demesne, and stop at the same beaches and waterfalls their subjects had visited in secret 150 years before. And, of course, a parallel relationship springs up between the two literary detectives as they forage in the past, looking for evidence of forbidden passion. Hints and clues and hidden meanings abound. There are mementos of illicit meetings, secret letters, and love that is both repressed and requited. So, in addition to rooting around in dusty, mold-ridden libraries (and there is plenty of that, to be sure!), the characters also get to tear around the countryside on mysterious adventures, looking for elusive clues, and end up wielding shovels in a graveyard.

  The subplot centers on a wrestling match over who will find Ash’s papers (hidden by his wife after the poet’s death), and that’s where extra layers of intrigue, skullduggery, and even a little grave robbing come in. By incorporating secondary characters Fergus Wolff and Mortimer Cropper, Roland’s archrivals for academic glory, Byatt uses her own background as a scholar to celebrate and skewer the dog-eat-dog nature of academia. Here’s where she’s in roman à clef territory, and I’m not sure anyone has ever approached that task more gleefully.

  Some people skip over the poetry contained in Possession and read strictly for plot, but I’m here to tell you that doing so is a grave mistake. After deciding that she was not up to the task of writing poems to include in the text, Byatt had almost decided to slip in some early poems by Ezra Pound because they actually sounded an awful lot like Browning, and would therefore fit the period style of her fictional characters. But on the advice of poet D. J. Enright, who said, “Nonsense—write your own,” Byatt forged ahead and composed every single Victorian-flavored poem contained in the story. Adding to the intrigue is that Byatt claims to have no memory of writing the poems: she says they seemed to flow from her pen almost as if she were . . . possessed. For any avid solver of puzzles, these poems are far more than just stylistically important to the shape and texture of the novel. The great joy is that they also contain essential clues to the mystery. They’re part of what makes Possession one of those books that you can read and reread many times, discovering something new with each effort.

  Although born and raised in the United States, Erin Hart uses Ireland as the setting for her series of mystery novels featuring pathologist Nora Gavin and archaeologist Cormac Maguire. That choice was inspired by a lifelong fascination with Ireland’s history and culture, and by the sad, true tale of a beautiful red-haired girl whose perfectly preserved head was discovered after being hidden for centuries in a desolate Irish bog. Erin and her husband, Irish button accordion master Paddy O’Brien, live in Minnesota, and travel frequently to Ireland. Erin’s latest novel is The Book of Killowen. Visit her online at www.erinhart.com.

  Postmortem

  by Patricia Cornwell (1990)

  KATHRYN FOX

  * * *

  Patricia Cornwell (b. 1956) was born in Miami, Florida, but started her career as a reporter for The Charlotte Observer in North Carolina. Specializing in crime reporting, she eventually took a job as a technical writer and, later, a computer analyst with the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of Virginia, which provided the basis for her most enduring character, the medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta. Postmortem, the first in the Scarpetta series, swept the mystery awards in the year following its publication. It is one of the most important early contributions—if not the most important contribution—to what is now an established subgenre in mystery fiction: mysteries in which the investigation of a murder is primarily conducted not through the questioning of the living, but by the examination of the dead.

  * * *

  Great books seem to have a number of things in common. They have to be emotionally charged, informative, and thought-provoking enough to make a profound impact on the reader. Well-developed, multilayered, engaging characters, and a compelling story, are also essential.

  More importantly, great books are timely—in the context of the world at large, and in the place we are in our lives when we first open the cover. As with the character arc in a story, I hope to be irrevocably changed by the reading experience.

  It is hardly surprising that To Kill a Mockingbird and In Cold Blood are particular standouts from high school days, but one book that changed my life is undoubtedly Patricia Cornwell’s Postmortem. First published in 1990, Cornwell’s fiction debut was an international best seller that received universal critical acclaim reflected in the host of awards it received, including the Edgar, the John Creasey Dagger, the Anthony and Macavity Awards, and the French Prix du Roman D’Aventures. With a heavy emphasis on forensic science, it presaged the popularity of what would become a forensic revolution in popular culture.

  At the time that Postmortem was released, male authors still dominated the crime and thriller lists, and their protagonists were almost all men. Women in crime novels routinely appeared as supporting characters: wives, secretaries, vamps, and victims. Postmortem introduces Dr. Kay Scarpetta, arguably the definitive fictional pathologist. Seventeen books later, the Scarpetta series remains one of the most successful in publishing history.

  We first meet the chief medical examiner of Richmond, Virginia, on a bleak Richmond night, when her tormented sleep is broken by a police call at 2:33 a.m. On this night, a fourth woman has been brutally raped and murdered by a serial killer. Outside the woman’s home, Scarpetta runs the gauntlet of media hounds. Inside, she searches for clues that will steer the investigation in the critical first few hours.

  The crime has taken place off the page, ensuring that we are not exposed to gratuitous violence. Through Scarpetta’s eyes, we begin to learn about the life and death of the victim, Lori Petersen. As she walks through the modest house, noticing personal details such as the medical journals, violin, and music stand, Lori Petersen becomes a character in her own right. We see Lori’s life, and Scarpetta accords her the same respect that she would a living patient. Aware that every aspect of Lori’s life will be scrutinized by the media, lawyers, and police, Kay Scarpetta is the ultimate victim advocate. Emotion does not cloud her observations, which makes what we learn about murder so much more disturbing. This victim is, in every sense of the word, innocent.

  Cornwell cleverly chose to write Postmortem in the first-person voice. This is challenging for any author because it restricts how much information can be imparted to the reader. We see and hear what Scarpetta is privy to, and nothing more. On the other hand, first person is the most intimate point of view. It is what helps us understand Scarpetta’s motivations, reactions, and challenges.

  Evidence suggests the killer entered the house through an unlocked bathroom window. This simple oversight meant the difference between a fulfilling life and an agonizing death. Lori Petersen could have been any one of us, or someone we love. As much as we would like to do so, we cannot detach ourselves from the scene.

  For me, the book’s introduction is exceptionally chilling. Lori Petersen had alarming similarities to my own life. The same medical journals could be found inside my home, along with a music stand and an instrument. The only difference is that I own a harp, not a violin.

  At this point, I had to stop reading and check all the locks in my house. From what reviewers and readers have described, I wasn’t the o
nly one. The visceral response Cornwell evokes is powerful in establishing allegiance to Kay Scarpetta.

  Those involved in the investigation would sleep easier if Lori Petersen were, in some way, to blame for her own demise. It is here that Sergeant Pete Marino is introduced. There is obvious animosity and a degree of distrust between Scarpetta and the man charged with heading the investigation into the murders. The sergeant immediately focuses on Lori’s husband as the most likely suspect, in spite of Scarpetta’s reservations.

  This is the beginning of a complicated relationship that develops throughout the series. As the chief medical officer, Scarpetta has to work with Marino. In her own words, he was “exactly the sort of detective I avoided when given a choice . . . He was pushing fifty, with a face life had chewed on, and long wisps of graying hair parted low on one side and combed over his balding pate. At least six feet tall, he was bay-windowed from decades of bourbon and beer.”

  In contrast to Scarpetta’s organized, controlled approach to work, Marino is tactless, vulgar, obnoxious, and slovenly. He resents people who are educated, and concludes that Lori Petersen’s husband is perverted for writing a dissertation on Tennessee Williams with themes that include sex, violence, and homosexuality. Scarpetta fears the detective’s myopia will compromise the investigation.

  In a meeting with FBI profiler Benton Wesley, she contemplates Marino’s working-class background, and is anything but sympathetic. “The guy’s only advantage in life is he’s big and white, so he makes himself bigger and whiter by carrying a gun and a badge.” The tension between Scarpetta and Marino heightens the drama, but the detective proves he is streetwise and far more competent than the image he projects.

  Scarpetta functions in a male-dominated field of medicine, having never experienced the support of female peers. Of four women in her year at medical school, one eventually quit, and another suffered what we are told was a complete nervous breakdown. Now she is embroiled in the testosterone-fueled world of police, lawyers, and politicians. Excluded from the camaraderie and nexus of those with influence, she is professionally vulnerable.

  This is a recurring theme for Scarpetta throughout the series. Early in Postmortem she reveals, “Isolation is the cruelest of punishments, and it had never occurred to me that I was something less than human because I wasn’t a man . . . Survival was my only hope, success my only revenge.” We suspect her commitment to work led to the demise of her marriage, and is the reason why she has no children.

  One of the most appealing characteristics of Scarpetta is that she is clearly ambitious without signs of ruthlessness. She maintains her humanity and dignity despite being an outsider in her own domain.

  She is a true crusader for justice.

  In her personal life, Scarpetta struggles with family relationships. In Postmortem, her ten-year-old niece, Lucy, is visiting. The only child of Kay’s sister, Lucy has suffered a life of rejection and abandonment. Her father died when she was two. Now her self-absorbed mother is marrying again, leaving Scarpetta to break the news to the child. Lucy may have a genius IQ, but she lacks the emotional maturity to cope. Scarpetta struggles with Lucy’s erratic behavior and unconditional love.

  Over the course of the series, Lucy grows into a woman, becomes an FBI agent, and then a millionaire by the age of twenty-five with a penchant for computers, helicopters, fast cars, and motorcycles. She also has a number of long-term relationships, one with a sociopath that affects those close to her for years. Scarpetta, meanwhile, experiences love and loss throughout the series, but the focus on her work and scientific skills remains. It is her meticulous attention to detail that solves the case.

  It’s difficult to believe that more than twenty years have passed since Scarpetta first placed a diskette into a computer database and discussed suspects in terms of their blood group as opposed to DNA profile. When Cornwell’s debut was written, DNA had been used in only a handful of criminal cases. At the same time, a technological revolution was taking place that would dramatically change policing and criminal trials. Over the next few years crime scene units were developed and specialties like forensic and legal medicine became more recognized.

  When I first read Postmortem, I had just taken postgraduate medical exams and attained a Fellowship with the Royal Australian College of General Practitioners. I was also attending courses in forensic medicine in order to examine and treat victims of sexual assault. Postmortem was the first time that I found a strong female protagonist who never lost sight of the victim. The emphasis on forensic science was compelling, but without a good plot it would have resembled a lecture. The story was well written, suspenseful, and cost me a night’s sleep—the ultimate compliment from a sleep-deprived physician!

  I had wanted to write a crime novel since high school but was unsure if anyone would want to read a realistic, fictional crime story. Postmortem inspired me to write what I was passionate about, and that happened to be forensic medicine and the ripple effect of crime.

  Patricia Cornwell’s success opened up publishing opportunities for writers like me, and the genre has been rewarded with authors like Kathy Reichs, Linda Fairstein, Jeffery Deaver, and Tess Gerritsen, who continue to bring their unique talents, insights, and experiences to their work. The literary world is richer for it.

  Australian novelist Kathryn Fox is a medical practitioner with a specialty in forensic medicine. Her debut novel, Malicious Intent, was published in 2005, featuring her series heroine, Dr. Anya Crichton. Subsequent novels include Without Consent (2006), Blood Born (2009), and Death Mask (2010). Kathryn has recently set up the “Read For Life” project, which aims to promote literacy by sending children’s books to remote communities. Along with Kathy Reichs, Linda Fairstein, and Robin Burcell, she campaigns against domestic violence toward women. Visit her online at www.kathrynfox.com.

  I Was Dora Suarez

  by Derek Raymond (1990)

  IAN RANKIN

  * * *

  Derek Raymond (1931–1994) was the pen name of the English crime writer Robert Cook, the son of a wealthy textile magnate. Following a period of compulsory National Service, he drifted through Europe and the United States, rejecting his privileged upbringing in favor of an ongoing exploration of the possibilities offered by downward mobility. His lifestyle, which included flirtations with criminality, gave him firsthand experience of the low-life milieu about which he eventually chose to write, and provided the basis for the novel sequence on which much of his reputation still rests: the “Factory” books, regarded by many as the cornerstone of the British noir tradition.

  * * *

  If even half the stories are true . . .

  I don’t mean the stories he wrote; I mean the life.

  To start with, he wasn’t even Derek Raymond. He was born Robert Cook, the son of a wealthy businessman. Dropped out of Eton and did his National Service, then sloped off to Paris, mixing with the likes of Burroughs and Ginsberg. Moved to Manhattan and married an heiress. That didn’t last, so it was back to Europe and smuggling art, apparently. Even a bit of chokey in Spain; then London, where he became Robin Cook and wrote The Crust on Its Uppers. This was the early 1960s and his street smarts went down well. Married again and enjoyed some Soho interludes (vice and gambling, since you ask). Then Italy for a time, before returning to London and yet another marriage, with some taxi driving thrown in. He tried France after that, working on vineyards and as a roofer. London again and wife number four, followed by divorce number four. He went back to the taxis, took on the name Derek Raymond (with a nod to Soho’s Raymond Revuebar?), and tried his hand at another novel. This was He Died With His Eyes Open (1984), the first of the “Factory” series featuring an unnamed London-based detective sergeant as the hero. It went down well in France, where, along with its successor (The Devil’s Home on Leave), it was turned into a film. Nineteen-eighty-six saw How the Dead Live and in 1990 came I Was Dora Suarez, the book that, more than any other, blew the bloody doors off. Did Raymond’s publisher real
ly throw up after reading the manuscript? It’s certainly a visceral and gut-churning piece of prose, one of those stories that never quite leave you in peace once you’ve finished—if you can finish.

  Its author’s next marriage ended and he produced the fifth and final “Factory” novel, Dead Man Upright, in 1993. A year later he was dead himself at the age of sixty-three.

  I’m reminded of the title of a book by Terence Blacker, You Cannot Live As I Have Lived and Not End Up Like This. Blacker was writing about another notorious literary figure, William Donaldson. Derek Raymond certainly lived a life worthy of a darkly picaresque novel in its own right. I remember the first time I met him. It was at a party at Maxim Jakubowski’s Murder One bookshop on Charing Cross Road. The usual suspects were there: Mike Ripley, Mark Timlin, probably Denise Danks. I don’t remember Michael Dibdin and Philip Kerr, though they were part of the gang we all thought of as “Fresh Blood.” I was living in France at the time and had seen Raymond (or “Cookie Boy” as Timlin called him) on late-night TV, wearing his trademark beret and discussing anything and everything in fluent French.

  In the flesh, he was tall, stick-thin, and had a wineglass welded to one hand. Yes, he wore the beret, and his eyes managed to be milky yet piercing at the same time—reminded me of Keith Richards, actually—eyes that had seen things you hadn’t and never would.

  Charming, too, though. Signed a book to me with the words “Best of luck” and “love.” That book was Dora Suarez, a novel the Times had already described as having “a metaphysical intensity that recalls the Jacobeans more than any of Raymond’s contemporaries. I cannot think of another writer in this field so obsessed with the skull beneath the skin.”

  A previous “Factory” novel had been reviewed in another paper as “a study in absolute, awful evil,” so you get the drift—we are a long way from Poirot and Dixon of Dock Green. Raymond’s prose is clipped, mordant, angular. His style reminds me of Joseph Conrad, a writer whose second language was English. But this angularity suits the stories, which are full of dread, dislocation, and atomization. The unnamed Detective Sergeant who leads us through these horrors works for the Unexplained Deaths department, based at a cop shop in Poland Street W1, known to everyone as “the Factory.” He tells us that he likes his job because “I can get on with it, as a rule, almost entirely on my own, without a load of keen idiots tripping all over my feet.” So he works almost as an American-style private eye—even carrying a gun—but with the resources of the police at his disposal should he need them. He operates in a world untroubled by political correctness or form filling. Suspects are leaned on, rules bent and broken.