Murder mystery

I came late to detective fiction, courtesy of Jen. In her reading phases she was voracious, going through a dozen books or more a week. At that rate, she had to be less picky, but she would also come across the odd book she thought I might like. Having fairly high-brow tastes to begin with, I took a little while to come around. At the time our first son was born, we had begun to share the detective fiction of Elizabeth George, and I have hazy memories of trying to fit reading within the sleep-deprived chaos of those first six weeks.

Of course I found in time that detective fiction as a genre is often just a vehicle for another kind of book - an examination of society, or the dynamics of human relationships, or the causes of crime etc - within the outer structure of the crime, the investigation and the puzzle solving. As a reader one often suspends emotion about the horror of the crime, to enjoy the thrill of the chase, or the complexities of the other book. But a few years ago, one of Jen's uncles (long estranged from the family) was murdered in South Australia, and for a while we both felt too close to death to be able to enjoy TV crime shows (Silent Witness was one of our favourites) or crime fiction.

I find now I prefer crime writers who include the human impact of murder, the shock, the loss and the grief. Last week, in a evening of restlessness, I returned to Elizabeth George's book "A Suitable Vengeance", which begins the series. I don't re-read books much, and the trouble with dectective fiction is that one remembers enough to spoil much of the surprise. Yet this felt like a new book, as though I hadn't noticed before half of what was there. One of the key characters, Deborah, lost her mother at age seven or eight. The main detective, Thomas Lynley, had his father die of cancer at seventeen. The book explores the complexities of the destructive power of grief on human relationships, but also the triumphs as well.

It also reminded me of the commonality of grief. I'm wary at times of those who abstract the element of grief in all losses and disappointments, since the true impact of death is so massive in comparison to most other events. But there is a deeper truth that in the aftermath of bereavement, other losses are amplified and seem to become part of that first loss. So for Thomas Lynley, rejection by someone he loved is experienced as a grief that connects with his buried anger and grief for his father.

There's also a moving evocation of the loneliness of grief.

The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it - be they family, friends, or even an entire nation - no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone.

Jen's death has meant sadness for many people. But there is a small group of us for whom it is and will be one of the defining events in our lives. We have lost in her a wife, or a daughter, or a sister, or a mother, or an aunt, or a best friend. For each us our history and experience with Jen, our love for her, is different, and so it the nature of our grief. No-one else really knows what it was like to be married to Jen, and to share those fifteen years - and so for each person. My hope is that we can still care for each other in grief, and not suffer it all alone.