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*Saint Francis In Meditation* by Caravaggio, c.1606-1607.

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

This month, we’re turning to crime - but not the clean, tightly plotted kind that relies on ticking clocks and elaborate reveals. These are books that go beyond the traditional thriller, each approaching some sort of crime from a different angle: as history, as psychology, as family drama, as social observation, and sometimes as something almost abstract. In some cases the crime sits at the centre; in others it’s more like a lens, shaping everything around it.

Across the selection, you’ll find stolen objects that carry surprising weight, real-life cases rendered with unsettling clarity, suburban lives pushed to their limits, and fictional families whose loyalties are tested in ways that feel both specific and universal. The characters here aren’t detectives in the conventional sense, but rather participants, observers, relatives, bystanders - people who find themselves pulled into situations they didn’t foresee.

Taken together, these books explore what crime does rather than simply what crime is. They ask how people justify their choices, how narratives form around events, and how ordinary lives can be quietly, sometimes irrevocably, altered by a single act. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

This month over at Global Comment, I spent time with Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train and its Hitchcock adaptation, tracing how a cool, unsettling premise shifts tone and emphasis when filtered through different creative lenses. And for this edition of Late To The Movies, I took a tour through film noir - from the hard-edged puzzles of The Maltese Falcon and Out of the Past to the more domestic, character-driven shadows of Mildred Pierce, where crime sits just beneath the surface of ambition, desire, and compromise.

Okay, onto this month’s recommendations!

“Patrick thought more, but didn’t say so. He thought about a lot of things he didn’t say. Unlike Nick, who said a lot of things he didn’t think about.”

So what’s it about? This is a crime novel that begins, improbably, with a bird’s egg. Not just any egg, but a rare, vividly red guillemot egg - the sort obsessively collected (and stolen) in the Victorian and early 20th-century craze for oology. In 1920s Yorkshire, a neglected young girl, Celie, discovers a way to reach a dangerous cliffside nest and retrieves one of these “impossible” eggs, setting off a chain of events that will echo for decades.

A century later, in rural Wales, a young man named Patrick finds that his friend’s house has been broken into. Nothing is taken - except a small carved box containing a single red egg. What follows is part investigation, part caper, as Patrick and Nick try to understand what on earth they’ve stumbled into. The novel moves between past and present, gradually revealing how this peculiar object has drawn people into its orbit - collectors, dealers, obsessives - and how a seemingly niche crime can carry very real consequences.

What’s great about it? What makes this such a satisfying read is precisely how odd it is. Bauer takes something that sounds faintly ridiculous - egg collecting - and treats it with complete seriousness, uncovering a world of obsession, status, greed and risk. And the more you read, the more it makes sense. There’s something quietly brilliant about the way she shifts your perspective, until the theft of an egg feels as charged as any jewel heist.

There’s also a lightness of touch that keeps it from ever becoming heavy. The present-day storyline, in particular, has a slightly offbeat, almost comic energy - two ordinary people blundering into something much larger than themselves. Patrick, especially, is a wonderful protagonist - observant, slightly adrift, and easy to root for, bringing a gentle humanity to the unfolding chaos. It gives the book a warmth and humour that you don’t always find in crime writing, and makes the whole thing feel less like a puzzle to be solved and more like a story about the peculiar things people choose to value - and the trouble that follows when they do.

Give it a try if: you love books with dual timelines; you love books with memorable protagonists; you love books that make you laugh; you love books that inadvertently teach you about something obscure but interesting.

“Once a thing is set to happen, all you can do is hope it won't. Or will-depending. As long as you live, there’s always something waiting, and even if it’s bad, and you know it's bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living.”

So what’s it about? In 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were brutally murdered in their home - a crime that seemed, at first, both motiveless and incomprehensible. Capote reconstructs the case from multiple angles: the lives of the victims, the shockwaves through the local community, and, most unsettlingly, the movements and inner worlds of the two men responsible, Perry Smith and Dick Hickock.

The book follows the investigation, the eventual capture of the killers, and the long legal process that leads to their execution. But it’s not written like a conventional true crime account. Instead, Capote builds it with the pacing and texture of a novel, moving back and forth in time, deepening the sense of inevitability even as you wish, irrationally, that events might somehow turn out differently.

What’s great about it? What makes this book endure is the way it quietly reshaped what crime writing could be. Capote called it a “nonfiction novel”, and that’s exactly how it reads - meticulous in its reporting, but immersive, atmospheric, and emotionally complex. He doesn’t just tell you what happened; he makes you feel the weight of it, the stillness of the plains, the ordinariness of the lives that are about to be shattered.

Most striking of all is the attention given to the perpetrators. Capote neither excuses nor sensationalises them, but he does something more uncomfortable: he insists on their humanity. In particular, Perry Smith emerges as a deeply conflicted figure, and the book’s power lies in that tension - between empathy and horror, understanding and judgement. It leaves you with no easy conclusions, only the lingering question of how such violence comes to exist at all.

Give it a try if: you love true crime; you don’t like true crime but you love great writing; you love narrative non-fiction; you like reading about history.

“Don't let anybody kid you. It's all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it's personal as hell. You know where I learned that from? The Don. My old man. The Godfather. If a bolt of lightning hit a friend of his the old man would take it personal. He took my going into the Marines personal. That's what makes him great. The Great Don. He takes everything personal Like God. He knows every feather that falls from the tail of a sparrow or however the hell it goes? Right? And you know something? Accidents don't happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult.”

So what’s it about? Set in mid-20th-century America, this is the story of the Corleone family, one of the most powerful Mafia dynasties in New York. At its centre is Don Vito Corleone, a man who has built an empire on loyalty, influence, and carefully calibrated violence. When a rival syndicate attempts to move into the narcotics trade and seeks the Corleones’ backing, the refusal sets off a chain of reprisals that threatens to destabilise everything.

Running alongside this is the story of Michael Corleone, Vito’s youngest son, who initially stands apart from the family business. Over time - and through a series of escalating events - he is drawn in, step by step, until the line between outsider and heir quietly disappears. The novel moves across the family’s inner workings, their alliances and enemies, and the codes that govern a world where power is both inherited and enforced.

What’s great about it? What’s striking about The Godfather is how little it feels like a conventional crime novel. Yes, there is violence, betrayal, and revenge, but the real engine of the book is family - its obligations, its hierarchies, and its unspoken rules. Puzo has a knack for making this closed world feel both seductive and suffocating, drawing you into its logic even as you recognise its brutality.

It’s also an immensely entertaining read - full of drama, intrigue, and larger-than-life characters. To me, Puzo has something of Jackie Collins about him: that same instinct for storytelling that pulls you along effortlessly, balancing scandal, glamour, and high-stakes emotion with real narrative drive.

And then there’s Michael. His arc is the quiet spine of the novel, and it’s handled with remarkable control. His transformation isn’t dramatic so much as inevitable, which somehow makes it more chilling. By the end, what lingers isn’t just the scale of the Corleone criminal empire, but the cost of belonging to it - and the unsettling sense that, under the right pressures, almost anyone might make the same choices.

Give it a try if: you love Jackie Collins; you love books about the Mafia; you love historical fiction; you love the Godfather movies but have never read the book; you love books about family; you love books which span both the US and Italy.

“Once the policeman has said what he came to say and is ready to leave her alone, at least for the time being, Sally Lambert begins to close her front door. She does it as gradually and quietly as she can, wanting to be able to watch through the gap as he walks away. She has to check he’s really going; can’t wait for her outside not to have him in it anymore. She stares after him – Connor something; she’s already forgotten his surname – as he walks to his car, gets in it and drives to the corner, past The Barn and The Farmhouse. Now he’s slowing to a stop; now he’s indicating. Sally waits, still looking, until his silver Audi turns onto the main road, which isn’t anyone sensible’s idea of a main road but is called that by all the residents of Bussow Court, apart from Sally… Finally, the policeman is gone. Sally pulls her front door wide open, then slams it shut as hard as she can.”

So what’s it about? The Lamberts are an ordinary family living an unremarkable suburban life - until a sudden, unexpected turn of events forces them into an extreme and deeply unusual course of action. Faced with the threat of losing their beloved dog, they make a decision that places them outside the bounds of the law and sends them on the run. What begins as a protective instinct quickly escalates into something far more complicated, as their attempt to keep their dog safe draws them into a situation that grows increasingly difficult to control.

As the story unfolds, the narrative revisits and reframes the events leading up to this point, gradually revealing how quickly an apparently normal life can unravel when pushed beyond a certain threshold. Along the way, the book examines not just what the Lamberts do, but how others perceive and interpret their actions, and how a single, unusual decision can ripple outward into something far larger than intended.

What’s great about it? This is a delightfully bonkers novel - the kind that seems to be operating on two levels at once. On the one hand, it follows a seemingly straightforward premise, but on the other it keeps nudging at the edges of that premise, stretching it, reframing it, and occasionally stepping back to comment on its own construction. The result is a book that feels quite meta in places, as though it’s quietly aware of the conventions it’s playing with and gently poking at them.

It’s not especially suspense-driven in the traditional sense, and Hannah doesn’t seem especially interested in delivering her usual tightly wound thriller experience. Instead, there’s a slightly tongue-in-cheek quality running through it, which sits alongside a genuine emotional core - particularly around the central relationship between the Lamberts and their dog. That mix of sincerity and playfulness gives the book its character, making it less about tension and more about ideas, structure, and the peculiar lengths people will go to for the things they love.

Give it a try if: you love books which aren’t afraid to have fun with convention; you love your pet as much as your kids; you love books that have weird and wonderful twists and turns; you love Sophie Hannah’s work but want something less dark than her usual novels.

“I rather doubt he had the sense to see the truth: that there are wounds worse than fatal, which the law's little binary distinctions-guilty/innocent, criminal/victim-cannot fathom, let alone fix. The law is a hammer, not a scalpel.”

So what’s it about? A teenage boy is accused of murdering a classmate in a quiet suburban community, and the case quickly becomes the centre of a legal and emotional storm. Jacob’s father, Andy Barber, is an assistant district attorney who finds himself removed from the prosecution and drawn instead into defending his own son - a role that forces him to confront both the mechanics of the justice system and the limits of his own certainty.

As the investigation unfolds, the evidence, the public scrutiny, and the slow grind of the legal process place increasing strain on the family. What begins as a criminal case becomes something much more personal, as questions about Jacob’s guilt or innocence begin to reshape not only the trial, but the family’s understanding of each other. The novel moves between courtroom proceedings and domestic life, tracing how a single accusation can alter the fabric of everyday existence.

What’s great about it? What Landay does particularly well is ground the story in the everyday reality of a family under pressure. Rather than relying on procedural detail alone, he keeps returning to the emotional centre of the situation - the uncertainty, the fear, and the quiet erosion of normal life. The result is a book that feels less like a puzzle to be solved and more like a prolonged, unavoidable reckoning.

There’s also a compelling moral ambiguity at its heart. The narrative never fully allows you to settle into certainty, and that’s part of its strength. As a reader, you’re pulled into the same tensions the characters face - between belief and doubt, loyalty and objectivity. It’s this sustained unease, rather than any single twist or revelation, that gives the book its lasting impact, as well as the ending, which leaves you questioning what on earth you might do if you ever found yourself in the same situation.

Give it a try if: you love courtroom dramas; you love books about families; you love books with moral quandaries; you’ve ever wondered how far you’d go to protect your own child.

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 Different Angles On The Crime Novel

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