Crime File: Irish writer Gemma O'Connor ranks up there with writers like P.D. James and Ruth Rendall, while Martin Cruz Smith is back with a bang with his Tokyo Station writes Martin Painter.
Following the Wake. By Gemma O'Connor. Bantam Press Trade, £10.99
Set in a small town on the south-west coast of Ireland, Following the Wake is a follow-up to this author's last thriller, Walking on Water, although they work independently of one another. In the first book, local businessman V.J. Sweeney, who drowned at sea before he could be arrested for the killing, apparently murdered the hated Evangeline Walter. Now it is 10 years later and Sweeney's son Gil has become obsessed with finding out what really happened when he was a little boy of eight.
In the meantime, his mother, who had been abused by her brutal husband, has married local policeman Frank Recaldo; John Spain, who had befriended Gil as a boy and had then been accused of being a paedophile by Evangeline, is dead; and Evangeline's mentally disturbed daughter, Halcyon, is in an asylum.
The sins of the past, however, have a habit of resurfacing, and when Dublin journalist Fiona Moore begins digging for information about the 10-year-old tragedy, the proverbial can of worms begins to disgorge its contents. O'Connor is an old hand at setting up this kind of fester of happenstance, and she orchestrates her large cast of characters with many an intricate wave of her literary baton. You're in the hands of a master of the thriller genre here, one who deserves to be up there with writers like P.D. James and Ruth Rendell.
The Babes in the Wood. By Ruth Rendell. Hutchinson, £16.99
And speaking of Ruth Rendell . . . This, thankfully, is a Chief Inspector Wexford novel and we are back in leafy Kingsmarkham where the River Brede has burst its banks and not a single house in the valley has escaped flooding. A woman, one Mrs Dade, rings the police station to say that her two teenaged children, Giles and Sophie, have disappeared, along with the woman who was baby-sitting them, Joanna Troy.
Mrs Dade is convinced they've drowned, but the house they were in was way above the flood line and anyway they could all swim. Wexford and his trusted subordinate Burden investigate and of course soon find that beneath the placid surface of suburban Kingsmarkham wickedness is seething. A fire and brimstone religious cult is at the heart of the plot, and when such extremism is featured, violence is sure to follow. Wexford, in his usual steadfast, if plodding manner follows the clues and brushes aside the red herrings until he finally comes to a resolution. An earnest, rather than a thrilling read, The Babes in the Wood will still satisfy Rendell's myriad of fans.
Tokyo Station. By Martin Cruz Smith. Macmillan, £16.99
Now here is one to get the teeth into by the author of such outstanding novels as Gorky Park, Havana Bay and the truly wonderful Rose. Starting in 1922, the story follows the often hair-raising life of Harry Niles, abandoned son of American missionaries, who spends his early years in the Tokyo underworld. Learning and fighting alongside young samurai, he encounters the formidable soldier Ishigami, falls foul of him, thus making him an enemy for life. By the early 1940s,Harry has become a nightclub owner, much in the manner of Rick Blaine - Humphrey Bogart in the film Casablanca - American-born but a friend to Japan, and certainly not trusted by either country. As the attack on Pearl Harbour is about to take place, Harry awaits the last plane out of Tokyo, determined to save himself and Alice, the great love of his life. But his enemy, Ishigami has resurfaced, his former lover, the beautiful Machiko, seeks revenge for being scorned, and the local security forces are closing in. Tokyo Station is a splendid adventure novel on the grand scale, and one that deserves to be read by millions.
Serial: A Confession. By Jim Lusby. Orion, £9.99
In Agatha Christie's famous The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the narrative is actually recounted by the killer, a device that often since then has been repeated, but at the time was unique. In Lusby's new novel, a complete new variation on the theme is attempted, most of the time with great success. Murders are committed: a young woman's mutilated body is discovered, then, days later, a middle-aged man's corpse turns up and on him is found a typesheet describing the first killing. The female detective in charge is Kristina Galetti, who is at odds with her colleagues. She has a theory about the murders, which both her superiors and subordinates deride. Written in alternating sections, first person and third, the books plays with the readers' susceptibilities as to what is real and what is imagined, until a final resolution that just about turns everything that has gone before on its head. This is Lusby's bold endeavour to make something new of a genre that is in danger of becoming hackneyed, and fair dues to him for undertaking such an ambitious venture.
A Presumption of Death. By Jill Paton Walsh & Dorothy L. Sayers. Hodder & Stoughton, £16.99
This is Paton Walsh's second time to be the posthumous voice of Dorothy Sayers, her first effort being the completion of this author's unfinished last novel, Thrones, Dominations. This time she has to make the whole thing up herself, helped by a series of pretend letters from the Wimsey family to one another that Sayers published in The Spectator magazine in 1939. It is 1940 and Lord Peter himself is away abroad on a secret and dangerous mission. Wife Harriet and her children have moved from London to the country to be safe from German bombs. It is not long, however, before the body of a land-girl, known for obvious reasons as "Wicked Wendy", is discovered, and of course Harriet, with the support of her husband when he returns from his intelligence duties, has to help the local constabulary to solve the crime. Writing of the time with a nice authentic touch, Paton Walsh offers a leisurely read, especially for Lord Peter Wimsey fans like myself. For more modern readers, brought up on blood, violence and serial killers, the book may prove to be just a little too stolid and slow moving.
Michael Painter is a writer and critic