We like to feel we’re right (or at least, justified) in the things we do. Of course, we all make mistakes, but even then, we want to feel we’ve done whatever-it-is for a good reason, or at least, intending no harm. That may be why people like to explain themselves, even to the point of writing ‘tell-all’ books. It certainly happens often enough in real life, and it happens in crime fiction, too.

In Agatha Christie’s Lord Edgware Dies, for instance, Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings investigate when the Fourth Baron Edgware is murdered in his study one night. The most likely suspect is his estranged wife, famous actress Jane Wilkinson. She wanted a divorce so that she could marry the Duke of Merton; in fact, she even hired Hercule Poirot to approach Edgware about the matter. However, she claims that she was at a dinner party in another part of London at the time of the murder, and twelve people are prepared to swear that she was there. So, Poirot and Chief Inspector Japp have to look elsewhere for the killer. It’s not an easy case to solve, but Poirot puts the pieces together. At the end, the killer sends Poirot a letter explaining everything and justifying what happened. In a sense, it’s a very chilling letter, because the murderer displays no remorse at all.

A sort of similar letter figures into Jane Casey’s The Burning, the first of her novels featuring Detective Constable (DC) Maeve Kerrigan. In the story, Kerrigan and her Met colleagues are trying to catch a killer dubbed the Burning Man, because he tries to incinerate his victims’ bodies. When the body of Rebecca Haworth is discovered, it looks at first like the work of the Burning Man. But there are some little signs the this might be a ‘copycat killer.’ If so, then the Met’s got two killers to find. Kerrigan wants to keep working on the Burning Man case, but she’s told to focus on the Haworth murder. Slowly, she puts together a picture of the victim’s life and the people in it. It turns out that more than one person could have had a motive for murder. At the end of the novel, Kerrigan receives a letter from the killer, in which all is explained. Again, there is no real remorse for anything that’s happened. There is, though, a sense that the murderer really wanted to be heard.

Paddy Richardson’s Traces of Red begins as Wellington journalist Rebecca Thorne hears of a case that could make for a remarkable story. Connor Bligh has been in prison for years for the murders of his sister, Angela Dickson; her husband, Rowan; and their son, Sam. Only their daughter, Katy, survived, because she wasn’t home at the time of the murders. Everyone assumed that Bligh was guilty (most people still do).  But there are little bits of evidence that suggest that he might be innocent. If so, then this could be the story to make Thorne’s career. So, she starts asking questions and digging for evidence. At one point, she visits Bligh in prison, since she wants to hear his side of things. He ends up writing her long letters from prison in which he tells her the story of his life and gives background on the family. The letters don’t contain a confession, as Bligh says that he is not guilty. But they do explain his point of view, and they justify some of the things he’s done in his life.

Steph Avery’s Our Trespasses begins as the South London police receive a strange anonymous letter from a person who seems to be an elderly lady. The writer confesses to killing a vagrant whose body was discovered at an Underground station. The police can’t do much about the letter, and at first, they wonder whether it’s genuine. It turns out that it very much is. The story then shifts to 1966 South East London, where teenage sisters Bridget ‘Bridey’ and Madeline ‘Midge’ Dolan are eager to be a part of the music and fashion scene. One night, they get their mother’s permission to go dancing at the Palais Royale, so long as their cousin Jimmy takes them and picks them up. They agree, and the evening begins. The night leads to tragedy that will impact everyone involved for the rest of their lives.

And then there’s Caroline Overington’s Sisters of Mercy. In that novel, New South Wales journalist Jack ‘Tap’ Fawcett is covering the story of Agnes Moore, a visitor from England who went missing during a dangerous dust storm. It’s not a particularly compelling story at first. But then, Fawcett learns that Agnes had come to Australia to meet up with her long-lost sister. Fawcett decides to do a series of pieces on this story, and that leads to a series of letters from that sister, Sally Narelle ‘Snow’ Delaney. It seems that she’s in prison (we learn why as the story goes on) and she feels he’s got the story wrong in some ways, so she wants to set him straight. We then learn about Agnes’ and Snow’s lives, why they are living in different countries, and why Agnes returned. We also learn about Snow’s history, and how she ended up in prison. Throughout the novel, the letters explain Snow’s point of view, and they justify the things she’s done. It’s an interesting case of a character who wants to be heard.

And that’s the thing. People want to be heard. They want to explain themselves and, sometimes, justify themselves. So, it’s little wonder we see these sorts of characters in crime fiction.

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Paul Simon’s Slip Sliding Away.