Christine Falls by Benjamin Black

This is a murder mystery the like of which I can guarantee you won’t have read before. It’s definitely on the quirky side of the genre, pun intended (the main protagonist goes by the name of ‘Quirke’). Benjamin Black is the alias of John Banville who is an acclaimed literary writer in his own right, and who decided to give the well-trodden mystery path a bash. Not many authors are brave enough to switch genres, I can think only of a couple off the top of my head, JK Rowling under the alias of Robert Galbraith and Tony Parsons. It’s a risky strategy, both financially and in terms of reputation.

However, Black has no worries here on either front as he effortlessly conjures up an instantly-imaginable, if not necessarily lovable, protagonist who drives the narrative almost from the first word (discounting the prologue) with his melancholic, moody and meddling character; though I should warn you that his driving is somewhat erratic, dangerous at times, and drunken. I adore Black’s writing, it’s fresh, lyrical and leaves a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It must be love. With Black I get the best of both my favourite literary worlds; a tight, engaging murder plot with complex, flawed and believable characters and flowing, poetic language.


Black has done his research of the mystery/crime market and his protagonist, a pathologist who works in a dungeon-like workplace, has the suspicion of a Rebus or Morse about him (we only know him as Quirke, no first name is offered) with all the necessary ingredients to make the perfect quasi-detective; a widower, an orphan, childless, partnerless, depressive, a dash of misanthropy, and, most importantly, hopeless at relationships. But, don’t misunderstand me here, Quirke is by no means a pastiche of the genre. Oh no, he is much, much more than that, and will appear in your imagination fully-embodied, albeit somewhat kicking and screaming as he does.

Quirke relentlessly pursues the mystery behind the appearance of an unidentified corpse in his pathology department, despite the connections to his family and the possible resultant shattering that this may reek upon their lives and his. This dogged inquisitiveness also invites the injurious attention from some very unscrupulous factions. The backdrop for the most part is Dublin in the 50s and Quirke lumbers around its streets as if the weight of its woes rest squarely upon his ever-sagging shoulders. It’s like watching the aftermath of a car crash, you know you shouldn’t be looking, but the godless part of you can’t resist. There are twists and turns, shocks and revelations, tears and heartache right to the bitter end; and very gratifying the ending is too.


You won’t come across writing of this calibre too often, so if you do decide to give this novel a whirl, my advice to you is to sip it slowly like a fine wine, or whatever you tipple may be. For this narrative treat was over far too quickly for me; but fortunately there are more Quirke mysteries to savour another time. My review, a wistful 9.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.