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*The Astronomer* by Johannes Vermeer, c. 1668.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I thought I’d return to my first reading love - detective stories. Long-term readers might remember an article I wrote for Gayla Gray’s So Novelicious quite a while ago where I shared my love of detective fiction (and indeed my earliest childhood career choice - to be a detective). You can read more about that here:

I have previously covered detective stories in a special double edition linked here, here and here).

So this month’s edition is something a little different, in the sense that all of this month’s books are in translation. If you’ve finished off all the Agatha Christies, read all of Sherlock Holmes, Peter Robinson and Ian Rankin, are tired of Morse or Gamache and feel like trying something new, then I hope you’ll find just the thing amongst the books below. From Russia to Iceland, via Japan and Denmark, here are five fantastic detective stories, all with irresistible mysteries and clever solutions.

This month over at Global Comment, I got to write about some really fun stuff. Firstly, for Great Adaptations, I wrote about Lupin, Netflix’s hit series, which was inspired by Maurice LeBlanc’s Arsène Lupin stories, written around the same time as Sherlock Holmes and well worth reading for anyone who loves mysteries, and especially for anyone who loves a great anti-hero. I also absolutely loved the TV series so if you haven’t already seen it then it’s well worth watching.

For Late To The Movies, this month I explored the early origins of animated films, and how this genre got off the ground. This was a lot of fun as I had no idea how far back animation went in the history of cinema. I have loved writing this column and learning more about cinema as an art form - it’s really helped me to appreciate films in a new way.

Okay, onto this month’s recommendations!

“Scientific controversies were par for the course. People had argued whether the earth was flat or round, whether man was related to the apes, the status of the Milky Way compared to the rest of the universe, with a fervour which ceased the moment sufficient evidence became available. The earth is round, man is a primate, and the Milky Way does mainly consist of red stars. However, the controversy surrounding the origins of birds appeared to be different. It rumbled on, even though, scientifically speaking, there was nothing left to discuss.”

So what’s it about? A PhD student working on the saurian theory of bird evolution in the cut-throat world of Danish academia finds herself drawn into a murder investigation when her supervisor is found dead in his office, her blood-stained PhD thesis in his lap. What initially appears to be an isolated crime is soon revealed to be entangled with old rivalries, contested research, and a controversial scientific discovery that once promised fame and now threatens reputations. The investigation gradually uncovers a tangled history of ambition, deception, and moral compromise, showing how far people will go to protect their work - and themselves.

What’s great about it? This is one of the best-written crime novels I’ve ever read - it’s literary but doesn’t sacrifice suspense or intrigue. Gazan takes the familiar territory of university politics - grants, credit, jealousy, prestige - and shows how easily ambition slips into compromise, and compromise into lifelong guilt. The science is fascinating and thoroughly explored, which makes the novel richer, and while it explores the scientific question of dinosaur to bird evolution, it’s also interested n love, in the cost of truth, and in how the decisions we make when we are young and bright slowly harden around us.

Give it a try if: you love intellectual books which have something fascinating to share; you love a complex but satisfying mystery; you usually love literature but feel like dipping a toe into genre fiction; you like Scandi noir.

“Sometimes, a preconceived opinion will make us overlook the obvious. This is a frightening thing. We call it common sense but it often leaves us with a blind spot. Even if something appears to be obvious one should investigate, objectively, to make absolutely sure.”

So what’s it about? When the bodies of a man and a woman are found on a remote beach, the authorities quickly conclude that the couple died by suicide. The case seems straightforward, neat, and emotionally legible. Yet when small irregularities begin to surface, noticed not by dramatic flair but by patient attention to timing, movement, and record-keeping, two detectives determined to solve the case find themselves up against a seemingly impossible crime.

What’s great about it? Tokyo Express is a masterclass in understatement : beautiful, quiet prose with a cleverly constructed crime at the centre. Perhaps most remarkably, Matsumoto builds suspense not through escalation, but through subtraction - fewer suspects, fewer theories, tighter margins for error. This isn’t something I’ve seen often, and I read a lot of mysteries - I imagine it must be difficult to do well, and still keep the book interesting, so I really admired it. The real drama of the book lies in logistics: timetables, alibis, and the grinding persistence of a detective who refuses to accept a neat answer simply because it would be convenient.

It also doubles as a portrait of post-war Japan grappling with corruption and power that operates politely, publicly, and just out of reach. The tone is cool, restrained, and quietly devastating. You finish it with the unsettling feeling that to get away with murder depends not on passion, but on planning – and that many crimes must go completely undiscovered.

Give it a try if: you love clever mysteries; you’re not a fan of thriller-style detective stories but like books that are more calm and measured; you love books with memorable detectives or main characters; you love books which capture and particular time and place.

“In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual puzzle. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.”

So what’s it about? In cult classic The Decagon House Murders, a group of mystery-loving university students travel to a small, isolated island to stay in an unusual, decagon-shaped house. The site is infamous: some years earlier, a series of brutal murders took place there, and the house itself has become a kind of architectural memorial to violence. Soon after the students’ arrival, history begins to repeat itself. Will any of the students make it out alive?

What’s great about it? This book is pure intellectual pleasure. Ayatsuji writes with one eye permanently winking at the reader, constructing a puzzle that is both homage and critique of classic whodunits, especially Agatha Christie. It’s playful without being silly, rigorous without being dry - and profoundly satisfying if you enjoy spotting the clues and trying to solve the mystery yourself: all the clues are there. The author never cheats. If you miss the solution, it’s because you looked where he wanted you to look. It’s the literary equivalent of a beautifully designed maze - and a reminder of how exhilarating clever plotting can be when it’s done with confidence.

Give it a try if: you love Agatha Christie or any of the other Golden Age writers; you love seemingly-impossible mysteries; you like books with atmosphere.

“Clothes maketh the man, say those who can afford the best. And by their shoes ye shall know them.”

So what’s it about? A young German student researching Icelandic witchcraft texts is found murdered in his Reykjavík apartment, his death marked by disturbing ritualistic elements. Thóra Guðmundsdóttir, a lawyer with a knack for investigation, is asked to assist, drawn into a case that sits uneasily between ancient belief and modern brutality, drawing in medieval manuscripts, academic obsession, and personal histories as the investigation progresses.

What’s great about it? This is classic Nordic noir, but with a twist of warmth. Thóra is pragmatic, funny, and refreshingly unimpressed by melodrama, which only makes the darkness around her feel more real. The Icelandic setting is used brilliantly, not as atmosphere for atmosphere’s sake, but as a culture shaped by isolation, history, and long memory.

This is much darker than this month’s other recommendations, but it balances its brutality with intelligence and restraint. The past is never romanticised, and belief is treated as a force that can both sustain and destroy. The story is chilling without being gratuitous and anchored by a protagonist you quickly come to trust, which is no small thing in a book this bleak.

Give it a try if: you love Scandi noir; you like your mysteries dark; you love books set in Iceland; you love female protagonists who are both capable and funny.

“The titular counselor buttoned up his collar and replied seriously: ‘If you live in a state, you should either ch-cherish it or leave it—anything else is either parasitism or mere lackeys’ gossip’.”

So what’s it about? I’ve written before about this series and the wonderful Erast Fandorin, so this is the second book in the series. Set during the Russo-Turkish War of the 1870s, the novel follows Fandorin, a clever and observant diplomat, as he becomes entangled in a web of espionage and political intrigue. Rumours of a high-level spy threaten military strategy, and Fandorin is tasked with uncovering the truth amid shifting alliances and active battlefields.

As the investigation unfolds, the novel ranges widely - across camps, cities, and social classes - revealing a world where information is as valuable as weaponry. Misdirection, coded signals, and carefully managed appearances drive the plot forward. The result is a crime story shaped by war, where certainty is rare and loyalty always provisional.

What’s great about it? Akunin is enormously fun, but never lightweight. The plotting is intricate, the pacing immaculate, and the historical detail worn lightly. You learn a great deal without ever feeling lectured. Fandorin himself is one of crime fiction’s great creations - intelligent, observant, and quietly moral in a world that rewards neither quality.

What really makes this book stand out is the blend of genres: spy novel, detective story, historical adventure - it has a bit of everything but all of it works. It’s clever, elegant, and sharply aware of how narratives are manipulated in wartime. You close the book aware that “truth” is often just the most convincing version of events - and that good storytelling has always been a strategic weapon.

Give it a try if: you love books with brilliant, charismatic, likeable heroes; you love mysteries that have a bit of extra depth; you love historical fiction; you love books set in Russia.

I hope you found something good to read here. As ever, I’d love to hear if you’ve read and loved (or even hated) any of the books here, and which ones you’d add to the list. You can reply directly to this email or leave a comment by clicking the button below.

Five Books For Mystery Connoisseurs

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