Category Archives: Fred Vargas

Just the Few of Us*

There are only so many ‘regular’ characters an author can weave into a series without confusing readers. That’s why, even in crime fiction series that are set in large cities, there’s a relatively small group of ‘focus characters.’ That’s just as true of police procedurals as it is of other sorts of series.

It’s easy enough when a series takes place in a small town. Such places may only have one police station with a relatively small number of people who work there. It’s a bit trickier for series that take places in larger cities. Readers couldn’t, for instance, keep track of every fictional police officer in Sydney, Toronto, London, Los Angeles or Moscow. So, how do authors face this challenge?

Some focus on one geographic area. For example, Ed McBain’s long-running police procedural series mostly features the police who serve in the 87th Precinct of Isola, a thinly-disguised New York City. That precinct has a limited number of officers, and serves a limited geographic area. Fans of the series know that there are occasional forays into other parts of the city. But, because the 87th is a finite group, it’s easier to keep track of Steve Carella and the rest of his team. The reader isn’t faced with the challenge of trying to remember the thousands of fictional police officers who might actually serve in such a large city.

Henry Chang’s Jack Yu series also has a geographic focus: New York City’s Chinatown. Yu was born and raised in that part of the city, and in Chinatown Beat, he’s stationed there. The series does see him temporarily assigned to other places, but he basically stays in Chinatown. This allows readers to get to know the area, as well as the various characters with whom Yu usually interacts. Fans of Fred Vargas’ Commissaire Jean-Baptsite Adamsberg will know that that series, too, focuses on one small geographic part of Paris.

That’s certainly not the only way to address the challenge, though. Some authors focus on just one department (such as Robbery, Homicide, etc.). That’s what Michael Connelly does with his Harry Bosch novels. Fans of this series will know that Bosch has been a member of several L.A.P.D. departments. He’s been a part of Robbery/Homicide, Open/Unsolved, and Homicide Special, among others. This choice has given Connelly (and his readers) some real advantages. One is that, as Bosch works with one team (say, Open/Unsolved), readers get to know that team, and don’t have to try to remember the many other members of other teams. As the series has gone on, and Bosch has been with other departments, it’s kept the series from being restricted to only one small group. This has allowed for different sorts of plots and characters.

Helene Tursten’s Irene Huss also works with a departmental team. She is a member of the Göteborg/Gothenberg Police‘s Violent Crimes Unit. It’s a relatively small unit, with a focus just on murder and other violent crimes. This choice has allowed Tursten to develop her characters over time, as different members of the department evolve. It’s also allowed (as happens naturally) for members to leave and join.

The same thing’s true of Tana French’s Dublin Murder Squad. That team, has a small number of members. So, we get to know them. And different members of the squad ‘star’ in the different novels of the series. So, as members leave, join, and so on, we get to see how the team operates in the real world of a large city like Dublin.

Sometimes, police teams are gathered for a specific purpose. For example, at one point, P.D. James’ Adam Dalgliesh heads up a squad set up specifically for investigations that are likely to attract a lot of media attention. That’s the case in A Taste For Death, when Crown Minister Paul Berowne is murdered. He’s well known and ‘well-born,’ so of course the media take note when he’s killed. The squad, which consists of Dalgliesh, DCI John Massingham, and DI Kate Miskin is assigned to the case. They slowly put the pieces of the puzzle together, and find that this is as much about the victim’s private life as it is about his public life.

There’s also Jussi Adler-Olsen’s ‘Department Q.’ Part of the Copenhagen police force, Department Q is tasked with cases ‘of special interest.’ It was set up in part to appease the government’s (and the public’s) demand that the police show they’re looking into all cases, even those that have ‘gone cold.’ This group is headed by Carl Mørck, a homicide detective who has a reputation of being difficult. In fact, he’s so hard to work with that that’s the reason he was given the department in the first place – to keep him off others’ teams. Mørck is crusty and sometimes truculent. And the department has few resources and only a very few members. But the team gets the job done.

And then there’s Christopher Fowler’s London-based Peculiar Crimes Unit (PCU). That group, led by Arthur Bryant and John May, is tasked with solving strange crimes that the regular police homicide units haven’t been able to solve. It’s a very small group, but that makes it easier for readers to follow the team and get to know the members well.

These small units, whether they’re based on geography, on department, or on special assignment, allow the author to develop characters. And they make it much easier for readers to follow along and keep track of those characters. I’ve only mentioned a few; which ones have stayed with you?

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Stephen Sondheim’s It Takes Two.

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Filed under Christopher Fowler, Ed McBain, Fred Vargas, Helene Tursten, Henry Chang, Jussi Adler-Olsen, Michael Connelly, P.D. James, Tana French

To See the Total Eclipse of the Sun*

Yesterday (as this is posted), the US was treated to that astronomical rarity: a total solar eclipse. Scientists took full advantage of the opportunity to study that phenomenon, and so did teachers and professors and their classes. And, of course, millions of people watched the big event in a more casual way.

The more we learn about science, the better we understand phenomena such as eclipses. Still, there’ve also been some fascinating non-scientific explanations, too. And what’s just as interesting (at least to me) is that plenty of societies still have those other beliefs woven in somehow, even as they also embrace more scientific approaches to explaining things.

In real life, there are certainly misunderstandings about eclipses that almost resemble those more ancient beliefs. And that’s true even in today’s world, where the latest scientific developments are easily accessible for a lot of people. For instance, E.C. Krupp, Director of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles, says the observatory gets plenty of calls from people asking whether the eclipse presents a danger to pregnant women or their unborn children. We see that juxtaposition of older beliefs and more modern understanding in crime fiction, too. And that can add interest to a story, as well as insight into a culture.

For example, in Agatha Christie’s Evil Under the Sun, Hercule Poirot is taking what he thinks will be a simple holiday at the Jolly Roger Hotel on Leathercombe Bay. He gets involved in a murder case when fellow hotel guest, famous actress Arlena Stuart Marshall, is killed. At first, her husband, Captain Kenneth Marshall, seems to be the most likely suspect, but he’s soon proven to have a solid alibi. So, Poirot and the police have to look elsewhere for the killer. At one point, there’s an interesting conversation about different ancient beliefs of the area (Devon); one of them is belief in pixies. In fact, even as recently as this novel, people still tell stories about them.

Tony Hillerman’s Jim Chee is a member of the Navajo Nation, as well as a member of the Navajo Tribal Police. He certainly accepts modern science, and has a university education. But at the same time, he is a spiritual person who, for a time, studies to be a Navajo singer/healer. And he’s not alone in accepting both modern science and traditional Navajo beliefs. In Skinwalkers, for instance, we are introduced to Bahe Yellowhorse. He’s a doctor who runs the Badwater Clinic. He is also known as a ‘crystal gazer,’ who uses traditional ways to diagnose and treat patients. Interestingly, he uses both approaches to healing to work with patients, directing them to whichever paths to healing work for them. When the Badwater Clinic becomes the focus of a murder investigation, Chee and Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn get to know Yellowhorse, and we learn how he tries to balance different views of medicine.

Colin Cotterill’s series featuring Dr. Siri Paiboun takes place in 1970s Laos. Dr. Siri is Laos’ only medical examiner, and as such, he is expected to use modern science to explain phenomena that he finds. And he does. Even though his equipment is outdated and he doesn’t have access to all of the modern technology available, he does believe in the scientific method. And he uses it to solve mysteries. However, there are deep spiritual traditions in Laos that go back thousands of years, and Dr. Siri is aware of them, too. And some of those traditions find their way into his perspective and experiences. What’s more, those more ancient explanations for phenomena reflect the way the people of Laos have thought for a long time. So, despite the current government that insists on atheism and disparages ancient beliefs, Dr. Siri finds that those less prosaic beliefs play an important role in what he does.

They do in the world of Tarquin Hall’s Vishwas ‘Vish’ Puri, too. He’s a PI who lives and works in Delhi. Puri believes in science and in scientific explanations for things, although he has a spiritual side. But he also understands that there are other ways of looking at the world. For example, much of the ‘bread and butter’ of his business is ‘vetting’ potential spouses for his clients’ children and grandchildren. So, he sees a lot of what goes into choosing a partner. And one aspect of that choice, for a lot of people, is astrology. It’s believed that successful marriages are at least in part the result of compatible horoscopes. That ancient tradition leads many people to cast horoscopes of promising partners before they do anything else. It’s an interesting case of people who study, contribute to, and believe in science, but who still have ancient explanations woven into their cultures.

And then there’s Fred Vargas’ Seeking Whom He May Devour. In that novel, which takes place in the French Alps, the residents of Ventebrune and Pierrefor are upset when nine sheep are discovered with their throats slashed. At first, it’s believed that a wolf is responsible, and that’s dangerous enough. But then, a sheep breeder named Suzanne Rosselin is found murdered in one of her sheep pens, killed the same way as the sheep. Now, despite modern beliefs in science and in forensics, whispers start that all of this is the work of a werewolf. In fact, those who believe that say that the werewolf is a loner called Auguste Massart, who’s gone missing. Commissaire Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg travels to the Alps to investigate. As you can guess, there isn’t a werewolf involved. But it’s interesting to see how those ancient beliefs and explanations survive alongside modern science.

Phenomena such as eclipses are fascinating on a lot of levels. One of them is what they say about human thinking. We have modern science, and modern explanations for a lot of what we experience. But those ancient accounts, whether they’re of sky-wolves eating the sun (that was a Viking belief) or of the sun and moon fighting (that belief comes from Togo), are still woven into our psyche at some level.

ps. I don’t live in the path of totality of this latest eclipse, so this beautiful ‘photo comes courtesy of ABC News.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain. 

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Colin Cotterill, Fred Vargas, Tarquin Hall, Tony Hillerman

I Looked in My Mirror, and a Red Light Was Blinkin’

One of the many things police do (and probably the one most of us are most familiar with) is to regulate traffic. It isn’t a high-status job to catch speeders and suspected impaired drivers, but it is important. And you never know where such a stop might lead.

Of course, different places have different laws about what police may do when they stop someone for, say, speeding. And particular circumstances play a role, too. These encounters certainly happen in real life, and they do in crime fiction, as well. That’s not surprising, when you consider that they give an author all sorts of possibilities for plot lines, tension, and more.

For example, in Elijah Ellis’ short story Welcome Stranger, we are introduced to two men, Garvin and Mac. They’re driving near a notorious ‘speed trap’ in the small town of Keysburg. Sure enough, they’re pulled over by Constable Ashley. Very soon, they’re arrested on multiple trumped-up charges, and brought before a corrupt judge. Without spoiling the story, I can say that all is not as it seems in this story. And it’s interesting to see how both sides deal with this traffic stop.

There’s a similar setup in Alex Gaby’s short story The Crooked Road. Henry Adams and his wife are driving on a country road near the small town of Robertsville, when they’re stopped by Officers Charles Bleecker and Carney Tait. Within minutes, it’s clear that this is a ‘speed trap.’ To add to that, the couple’s car is just about forcibly towed to a local garage, which will add quite a bit to their expenses. The police, the local judge, and the towing company are all in on the scam, too. But things don’t turn out quite the way you’d think they would…

In Michael Connelly’s Echo Park, a traffic stop results in a gruesome discovery in a car belonging to Raynard Waits. Based on that evidence, he’s arrested and convicted of two brutal murders. He’s facing the death penalty, so he wants to make a deal with the police in order to avoid execution. His offer is to trade information about other murders in exchange for his life. One of those murders is the Marie Gesto case. Years earlier, she left a Hollywood-area supermarket, but never made it home. At the time, LAPD detective Harry Bosch was assigned to the case, but he never learned the truth. In fact, he missed an important clue and was interested in the wrong suspect. He wants to get some peace for the victim’s family and for himself, so he decides to work with Wait and find out the truth. It’s a complex case, and it shows just how much can come out of a simple traffic stop.

In one plot thread of Fred Vargas’ The Ghost Riders of Ordebec, Paris Commissaire Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg and his team investigate a car fire that took the life of wealthy and well-connected Antoine Clermont-Brasseur. The most likely suspect is a local firebug called Momo. But he says he’s innocent, and Adamsberg comes to believe him. Still, Momo does have a record of other arson convictions, and he’s not likely to get a very fair hearing. So, Adamsberg comes up with an unusual plan to keep an innocent man from going to prison. At one point in the novel, Momo is in a car with Adamsberg’s son, Zerk. They’ve approached a traffic stop, and they don’t want any trouble:
 

“New plates, eh?’ he [a gendarme] said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Zerk. ‘I put ‘em on a fortnight ago.’
‘Seven-year-old car, new plates?’
‘That was in Paris, Officer,’ Zerk explained. ‘Plates were knocked in, front and back, had to change ‘em.’
‘Why, weren’t they readable any more?’
‘Yeah, but you know what it’s like, Paris, if your plates are fucked up, they just think they can, like, bash your car any time they park.’
‘You’re not from Paris, then?’
‘O-oh no. Pyrenees, us.’
‘Ha, better than Paris, anyway,’ said the gendarme with the hint of a smile as he handed back their papers.’
 

Zerk comes up with a very neat way to avoid too much attention, and to keep the gendarme from asking too many questions.

And then there’s Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor. He’s a former member of the Garda Síochána who was removed from the force because of excessive drinking that led to a disastrous encounter with a speeder. One evening, Taylor and his police partner, Clancy, were on duty at a speed check when a Mercedes sped by, far exceeding the posted speed limit. Fueled by brandy-laced coffee (much more brandy than coffee), Taylor insisted on stopping the speeder. Clancy saw that the car had government plates, and tried to stop his partner from interfering. Taylor, though, had a different view:
 

‘‘It’s a bloody scandal.’’
 

Things went downhill fast when Taylor had a heated exchange with the car’s officious and rude owner. It all ended up with Taylor assaulting the man. Now he does private investigation, although he still knows several members of the Garda.

There are other examples, too, of crime stories that involve those routine traffic stops. They can be very effective at building suspense, at providing clues, and at showing character, too. And they’re very much a part of real life, too.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Charlie Ryan’s Hot Rod Lincoln. Listen to that version and the recording by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen, and see which you like better.

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Filed under Alex Gaby, Elijah Ellis, Fred Vargas, Ken Bruen, Michael Connelly

She Won’t Join Your Clubs, She Won’t Dance in Your Halls*

groupdynamicsAs I’ve said many times on this blog, well-written crime fiction shows us ourselves. And one of the things we see about ourselves is the way we behave in groups. Humans are social animals, so it’s natural for us to want to belong to a group. And, once in, we try to sort ourselves out. You can call it group dynamics, or group politics, if you will. Whatever you call it, it’s one way people try to impose order on their worlds.

Group dynamics can add much to a crime novel. There’s the tension as people establish the group order. There’s other tension as ‘outsiders’ try to become ‘insiders.’ There’s also the suspense as people try to either stay in the group, or leave it, or gain a particular position within it. There are too many examples in the genre for me to mention them all. Here are just a few.

Claudia Piñeiro’s Thursday Night Widows takes place mostly at the ultra-exclusive Cascade Heights Country Club, located about thirty miles from Buenos Aires. Only the very wealthy can afford to live there, and even they are carefully ‘vetted.’ The community is tightly-knit, and figuratively and literally separated from the outside world. It’s an insular group, and everyone knows the ‘right’ places to shop, the ‘right’ schools for their children, the ‘right’ people to befriend, and the ‘right’ causes to support. Everything changes when Argentina’s financial situation begins to deteriorate (the novel takes place at the end of the 1990s/beginning of 2000). At first, the residents of ‘the Heights’ seem impervious to the developing crisis, but that doesn’t last. The end result is a tragedy, and the residents now have to deal with what’s happened.

Megan Abbott’s Dare Me explores the world of teen social dynamics. Addy Hanlon and Beth Cassidy have been best friends for years. Now, they’re in their last year of high school, and they ‘own’ the school, Beth in particular. They’re both on the cheerleading squad, and getting ready to start their lives after they graduate. Then, the school hires a new cheerleading coach, Collette French. Right from the start, French changes the social order. She makes the cheerleading squad a sort of exclusive club, and Addy is welcomed as an ‘insider.’ Beth, however, is excluded, and becomes an outsider ‘looking in.’ Then, there’s a suicide (or was it?). Now this social group is turned upside down as everyone deals with what’s happened.

Qiu Xiaolong’s Chief Inspector Chen Cao series takes place in Shanghai in the late 1990s, a time of great change in China. There’s still an influence of Maoism, and of some older, even ancient, traditions. But there’s also a newly developing form of capitalism as China continues to work with capitalist nations. China’s bureaucracy is a system of cadres, or social levels. Those in extremely important positions are ‘high cadre’ people, and do not take kindly to any threat, real or imagined, to their status. For that reason, the police have to work very carefully whenever a crime might possibly involve such a person. As the series goes on, we see how these cadres sort themselves out and establish and keep order. The dynamics may change as one or another member’s fortune changes. But the cadre system itself is a well-established and deeply-ingrained social structure.

If you’ve ever worked for a law firm, you know that the attorneys in a firm often form a community. In a large firm, you may find senior partners, junior partners, associates, and contract lawyers. And that’s to say nothing of the legal assistants (such as clerks, paralegals, and legal secretaries) and support staff. Even smaller firms have some sense of community, and, therefore, of social structure. And, even in the most supportive and employee-friendly firms, people sort themselves out. A beginning associate who wants to become a partner needs to know how the firm’s structure works, and what the firm’s priorities are. Crime writers such as Robert Rotenberg, John Grisham and Scott Turow explore not just the particular legal cases at hand, but also the inner workings of law firms. And it’s interesting to see how the social structure at a firm can impact what lawyers do.

Police departments also have their own social structure, and anyone who works in one quickly learns what that structure is. There are many, many police procedural series, some of them outstanding, that depict the ways in which police social structure works. In healthy departments, cases are solved by teams of people who have supportive leadership. Fred Vargas’ Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg novels are like that. And so, arguably, are Helene Tursten’s Irene Huss novels, Katherine Howell’s Ella Marconi novels and Reginald Hill’s Dalziel/Pascoe novels. That’s not to say that the characters are all perfect, with no faults, quirks or weaknesses. Rather, we see how the groups in these novels sort themselves out, and how the people in them work out what their roles are.

Of course, there are plenty of police procedurals where we see a very unhealthy social dynamic. In those novels, ‘patch wars,’ infighting, and even sabotage happen. A few examples are Karin Slaughter’s Cop Town, Simon Lelic’s A Thousand Cuts (AKA Rupture), and Garry Disher’s Bitter Wash Road. There are many others.

And then there’s Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies. That novel’s focus is Piriwee Public School, on Piriwee Peninsula, near Sydney. The main characters are members of three families, all of whom have children in the school’s Kindergarten class. Shortly after the school year begins, there’s a bullying incident. Renata Klein, one of the most influential ‘school mums,’ accuses another child of bullying her daughter. That boy, Ziggy, is the son of a relative newcomer. Ziggy says he didn’t do any bullying, and his mother believes him. And it’s not long before there are two camps. Tension escalates for this and other reasons, until it boils over on Quiz Night, which was planned as a school fundraiser. Tragedy results, and each family is deeply affected by what happens. Throughout this novel, we see the social structure of ‘playground mums’ and some dads, too. The elite group here is called ‘the Blond Bobs’:
 

‘The Blond Bobs rule the school. If you want to be on the PTA, you have to have a blond bob…it’s like a bylaw.’
 

Part of the tension in the story comes from the way this social hierarchy plays out.

And that’s the thing about groups. Almost any time people get together, those dynamics come into play. And they can be very dangerous.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s Actress Hasn’t Learned the Lines.

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Filed under Claudia Piñeiro, Fred Vargas, Helene Tursten, John Grisham, Katherine Howell, Liane Moriarty, Megan Abbott, Qiu Xiaolong, Reginald Hill, Robert Rotenberg, Scott Turow

Suddenly I Don’t Remember the Rules Any More*

crime-fiction-rulesThrough the years, there’ve been several sets of rules for detective fiction, among them S.S. Van Dine’s 20 rules, and Ronald Knox’s 10 rules. In some ways, it can be very helpful for the crime writer to have some guidance for creating a well-written story. This might be especially true for the first-time crime writer.

That said, though, we could also ask whether these rules really are relevant, especially for today’s crime fiction. Is it possible to write an excellent crime novel without each of those rules being followed?

Here’s one example. Both Van Dine and Knox wrote that the solution to a mystery should not be supernatural or otherworldly. They claimed that, to be credible, a mystery has to have a prosaic solution. Most readers seem to agree with this. In fact, one of the major ‘pet peeves’ that I’ve read is when a book lacks credibility, especially if there’s some sort of ghostly or paranormal solution. Some authors (Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, to name just two) have played with this rule. They’ve included characters who believe in the supernatural, for instance, or written stories where the culprit makes the murder look as though it has a supernatural explanation. But there’s nothing otherworldly about the real solution.

Closely related to this, both Van Dine and Knox claim that fictional detectives should not solve crimes through accident, intuition, or other means (Van Dine included unmotivated confession) besides logical deduction. And that was Arthur Conan Doyle’s main argument in creating Sherlock Holmes. He wanted a detective who solved crimes through logical, scientific means, not intuition. Crime fiction fans want their stories credible. That includes the means by which the sleuth gets to the truth. Too much coincidence takes away from that credibility. Seemingly magic intuition does, too. In real life, detectives solve crimes by making sense of evidence and putting the pieces together logically. That doesn’t mean they can’t have creative ideas. Great detectives do. But I think most of us would agree what we don’t want crimes to be solved through a series of happy accidents.

Another rule that both Van Dine and Knox mention is that the detective should not also be the killer. This, to these writers, is not ‘playing fair’ with the reader. What’s interesting about this rule is that there’ve been several novels (I won’t mention them because of spoilers) where the protagonist is, indeed, the killer. And some of those novels have gone on to great success and acclaim. Does this mean this rule isn’t relevant? What do you think? Have you read excellent crime novels where a detective is also the killer?

One rule that really is relevant (at least from my perspective – yours may differ) is that in whodunits, all of the clues have to be there for the reader to find. That is to say, both Van Dine and Knox refer to the need to give the reader the same opportunity as the detective has to solve the murder. I’m sure you can think of at least one novel you’ve read where you thought, ‘Well of course I’d have known who the killer was if I’d known that!’ I think most of us would agree that we want the author of a crime novel to ‘play fair’ and show us all the clues. In fact, the ‘Queen Team’ included asides to the reader in some of the Ellery Queen novels, to the effect that all of the clues are now in the reader’s possession. In a well-written whodunit, the clues may not be glaringly obvious, but they are there for the reader to find.

Van Dine has an interesting rule to the effect that there must be no love interest in a crime novel. He saw a romance angle as ‘cluttering up’ the intellectual exercise of solving a crime. On the one hand, I think most crime fiction fans would agree that too much emphasis on a romance can be a distraction. And, of course, every reader is different with respect to how much romance is ‘too much.’ That said, though, I can think of several highly-regarded crime novels that do include romances. One, for instance, is Dorothy Sayers’ Gaudy Night. Fans of Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey series will know that his romance with detective novelist Harriet Vane is a story arc that ends with their wedding just before Busman’s Honeymoon. Romances are woven into some of Tony Hillerman’s Jim Chee/Joe Leaphorn novels, too. And those are by no means the only examples. What do you folks think? Was Van Dine right that romance should not figure into crime novels?

One of the other rules that Van Dine (but not Knox) proposed was that there should only be one detective – one main character. This one arguably hasn’t held up. If you look at series such as Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse series, or Elly Griffiths’ Ruth Galloway series, or Reginald Hill’s Dalziel and Pascoe series (to name only three), you see how successful fictional partnerships can be. And a quick look at Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series, or Fred Vargas’ Commissaire Adamsberg series, is all you need to see how well ‘ensemble’ series can work.

What about some of Van Dine’s and Knox’s other rules? Knox for instance, claimed that there shouldn’t be twins involved, unless the reader has been prepared for that. Van Dine said that there absolutely must be a corpse:
 

‘Three hundred pages is far too much pother for a crime other than murder.’
 

He also said that all crimes must have a personal motive, among other things.

What do you think of these rules? If they don’t apply, should there be other rules? If you’re a writer, do you follow ‘rules’ as you write your crime fiction?

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Billy Joel’s This Night.

 

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Colin Dexter, Dorothy Sayers, Ed McBain, Elly Griffiths, Fred Vargas, Reginald Hill, Ronald Knox, S.S. Van Dine, Tony Hillerman