100 books like The Silence

Privilege, entitlement, politics, and sleaze, it’s all here, along with the disturbing sense that many perpetrators get away with far too many misdeeds for most of their lives, while their victims’ lives are instantly thrown into crisis. It’s a solid, twisty psychological thriller with hints of the Bullingdon Club and Westminster bad behaviour.

Author Louise Doughty's books demonstrate that psychological suspense and crime novels can be literary fiction. Platform Seven is well-written but opens in a location that’s anything but inspiring – Peterborough railway station. What could possibly happen here? But we’re soon drawn into the isolation and menacing sense that it’s something very bad indeed. This novel could be called a ‘genre splice’ – part domestic noir and part ghost story. Doughty’s genius is laying the breadcrumb trail of clues to keep the reader turning the pages and staying ahead of Lisa, the main character. She seems to be unaware of what’s really going on, or perhaps chooses to ignore the signs. An emotional story with a theme of coercive behaviour for book clubs to discuss. 

A school siege is a theme that will strike terror into the hearts of teachers and parents everywhere. It’s that planned-for scenario that will ‘never happen here’ (rural Somerset). And then it does. Lupton slows down the narrative so it feels as if events are unfolding at a pace close to real time. Alongside the stress and anxiety, Lupton draws on her characters’ stories to examine the world we live in and aspects of humanity. There are stories of first love and parental despair, we glimpse the mind of a psychopath and the stoic heroism of two Syrian refugee brothers, who’ve already been through hell at the hands of people smugglers. Dormant racism rears its ugly head. It’s a poignant read with plenty for book clubs to discuss. 

I was late discovering Lisa Jewell’s psychological thrillers but I’m in awe of how her novels are a masterclass in psychological fiction. I’ve chosen Invisible Girl because it’s rooted firmly in the domestic noir genre with ordinary family life contrasting with what lies beneath. Characters are not what they seem to be. For book club discussion there’s a fascinating theme around how lonely misfit men can be radicalised online into the dark and sinister world of women-hating ‘incels.’ Incel stands for ‘involuntary celibates’: angry men who can’t find a woman to love them and blame all women. At the extreme, these men become unhinged and violent towards women they don’t even know. Others are sad losers, who become victims in other ways. Book clubs will find plenty to discuss in this novel.

Oh, this one? It is everything. The villain is a virgin! Which deep down we all want. Seraphena is promised to him since childhood, groomed into marrying him and killing him in order to save her country. When the wedding night comes – he rejects her, leaving her behind. People blame her. If she hated him before, she loathes him even more. Until he reappears into her life to save her and they both fight this attraction. She still has a mission, and this is her excuse to try to seduce him. He is a tough nut to crack. He is actually more in control of himself than she is. As she grows to know him in his supernatural surroundings, hatred is hard to keep and so is distance…

It’s not often I’m moved to tears by an academic book, but this book did it for me by putting me in the shoes of a Florentine patrician trying to comfort his friend the night before his execution. The main historical source of the book is an extraordinary ‘how-to’ manual: the one used by the ‘comforting confraternities’ of 16th-century Bologna, men who volunteered to spiritually prepare condemned criminals for their final moments on earth and, in so doing, hopefully increase their chances of salvation. The book explains the various methods and tools that the comforter could use, including prayers, songs, and pictures, and reveals the complex rituals of execution that began long before the prisoner’s arrival at the scaffold. A moving account of the realities of historical capital punishment.

This is a much-needed antidote to the navel-gazing tendencies of American criminal justice thought.

Reading contemporary treatments, you might almost be fooled into thinking that certain types of police controversies have a specifically American – or at least modern – origin. They don't. In fact, the peculiar challenges of policing and its inevitable discontents might even be universal.

Certainly, they were present at an early stage in medieval Italy, long before the first English "bobbies" ever dawned a uniform. Use-of-force controversies, weapons prohibitions, reluctant witnesses, hostile crowds, simmering beefs among local gangsters: it's all here. Roberts' medieval world so eerily resembles our own when it comes to law enforcement that one ends up surprised to encounter any differences at all.

Here's one, though: medieval town dwellers did not have cell phones with which to film the cops misdeeds. Instead, they hollered for notaries to scribble records on the spot.

I am apt to come back to the kitchen from the garden or the farmers’ market with a large bag of irresistible vegetables that I have no idea what I’m going to do with. More often than not I turn to Viana La Place’s book for a simple and satisfying recipe that uses Italian ingredients with a touch of California thrown in.

Historical fiction, when well-researched, sometimes brings us uncommon insight into people and their times. This is one of those rare cases.

Very little has been written in English about Maria Carolina of Austria, Queen of Naples and Sicily (later the Two Sicilies) as the consort of Ferdinando I de Bourbon, except in dynastic histories such as those of Harold Acton.

In the absence of a major biography, I recommend this book as a worthy introduction, tracing the queen’s steps and considering her actions as the power behind the throne.

Ada Boni's culinary bible, Il talismano della felicità, first saw the light of day in 1928, six years after Benito Mussolini had succeeded in uniting Italy's quarrelsome regions under the banner of fascism.

Specifically targeted at the nation's housewives - ordinary folk on whose support El Duce rose to power in 1922 - this collection of nearly a thousand simple, practical traditional recipes for regional dishes became the dictator's favourite cookbook, as it did for generations of Italian women (still does). 

I first came across it on an Italian friend's recommendation while researching European Peasant Cookery and attempting to unravel the complicated traditions of a land that remains as fiercely partisan in the kitchen now as then.