It So Happens came to my attention when it was longlisted for the Orange Prize, a couple of years ago I think, but I didn't read it at the time. Earlier this summer I was browsing in the library for slim paperbacks to take on holiday, and was attracted by the originality it promised. It was this line of blurb that got me:

"a gothic tale of crime, blackmail, redemption and the importance of soft furnishings"

It certainly sounded like it would offer something different; I read a lot, for work and for pleasure, and sometimes feel that every book I pick up is remarkably similar to the last one, so I'm always on the look-out for a book that will surprise me, and remind me of why I love reading. This looked like it would appeal to my dark sense of humour.

And on the whole, it delivers. Part Muriel Spark, part Hitchock, it's set in a retirement home for women, run by the sinister Betty Potts. It swings alternately from the domestic to the macabre. There's a wonderful cast of characters, not least the blackmailer / warden Betty Potts ("paperwork had no chance against Betty Potts"), the villain of the piece. Then there's Annie, who seems ridiculous to others, but dignified and intelligent to the reader. The themes of the book range from old age, friendship, disability and mother-daughter relationships on one side, to blackmail, incest, psychics and secrecy on the other.

The only thing I'm not sure about is what the point of the book is. I'd love to ask the author what she was trying to do, or find someone else who's read this book and can share their reaction with me. Is she just having fun, playing with mixing genres? Anyone out there know the answer?

This book is one of those rare things, a book I had to read for work that was worth every minute I invested in it. I can read crime fiction till the cows come home, but I never go near true crime, and I'd have steered clear of a book obviously about Myra Hindley (clue's on the cover, though she's never named); but I had to pick something to read from the World Book Day top ten, and they were all about death anyway, so I thought what the hell. Better than the book about the teenager dying of cancer, which made me cry on the train when I tried to read it.

The story centres on the policeman given the unenviable job of guarding Myra Hindley's body the night before her funeral, and the thought processes he goes through during the hours he spends there. He has plenty of time to think about his relationship with his wife, his struggles with being a dad to a downs syndrome daughter, and his own past. He is even visited by Hindley's ghost, and has conversations with her.

I don't remember much of what I learned during my English degree, but I do remember being told that detective novels give comfort to people, because they take evil and embody it in one person; then they catch that person, lock them up, and the reader feels safer. Evil has been explained, contained. None of this happens on a conscious level, but it makes perfect sense to me, and gives me an answer when I'm asked on occasion, how can you read books about murder for relaxation? I bring this up, because this book does the opposite. The author bravely takes on a figure that so many of us, for generations, have associated with the nature of evil, not wanting to think that there's anything remotely human about her, or that she might have anything in common with us. Rupert Thomson does not for a moment lessen the horror of what Hindley did, or dodge any difficult questions, so I don't believe anyone should be offended by his treatment of the subject. He will make you think, but as any good writer should, does not impose his views on you.

Some crime books are all about the psychological insights into both evil and good minds (and all the grey areas in between); some address current issues in society (Ian Rankin springs to mind); some are just romances dressed up as crime novels - most of the tension in the will-they-won't-they scenarios. Then there are the Whodunnits.

I don't read Whodunnits very often - they're out of fashion, and possibly something you grow out of. But reading Dead Water by Ngaio Marsh, I felt like I was back to being a 13-year-old discovering Agatha Christie - consequently a comforting read. I'd forgotten what it was like to have a fixed number of suspects, and to be playing a guessing game: chapter 6 - it was definitely the Major who done it. Chapter 8 - why does no-one suspect Patrick? Is the author throwing us off the scent? Chapter 9 - got it! Mrs Barrimore! Chapter 10 - oh I don't know...

An old-fashioned read, with a lot of the mechanisms of the plot showing through, but nevertheless I found it a good antidote to all the technology, relentless realism and psychological profiling of modern crime novels (to say nothing of the gore and violence, also spared us here). There's some good characterisation - Emily Pride and Miss Cost in particular - and even, to my delight, the obligatory Poirot-style ending where all prime suspects are gathered in a room and forced to listen to the smug detective spin them a tale, before revealing he knows exactly Whodunnit.

And best of all, not a gimmick in sight (hence the title of this review, in case you were wondering).

Firstly, don't go making the mistake of thinking that monasticism is irrelevant to today's society. Nothing, in my opinion, could be further from the truth.

Secondly, let me explain that the author of this book came to fame in the UK after a reality show where five very different men stayed at Worth Abbey for 40 days; it had a dramatic impact on their lives. He wrote this book as a response to the resulting, overwhelming response the monks received, recognising their way of life holds some valuable solutions to today's ills.

We don't have to look far to see that we're going wrong somewhere; people are more unhappy than ever before, and seeking refuge in unsustainable ways. So although this book looks at themes unfamiliar to the modern mind - silence, solitude, obedience - that's what makes it so exciting. This way of living isn't working - so why not try another?

Yes, Abbot Jamison writes from his own Christian beliefs and Catholic experience, but his agenda is not evangelical, it's compassionate. He has a lot of wisdom to offer, and you don't even have to believe in God to take some of it on board.

I'm not one for reading my way through the bestseller lists; I much prefer hunting down more unusual books that slip by unnoticed, or are just plain unfashionable. For this reason, I love trying debut novels; yet most of them have tell-tale signs of someone still learning their craft. This one - not a flaw in sight. It's so refreshing to read something so unformulaic; you can't see what's coming, although you know it's not going to end well.

It's described by the reviewers as a fable, which is fair, as it serves as a warning - or perhaps a lament, as it's really too late for us - of what we lose when the world changes too quickly. But it's also an engrossing story, with fully realised characters living in an imaginary village that we can nonetheless believe in. (Actually, if I can't live in Hobbiton, I wouldn't object to living in Mandragora.) We see the story through the eyes of Yves, the village inventor and a deep thinker, who takes in the stranger, Ruth; and it is his observations of the differences between her modern way of thinking and questioning, and Mandragora's ability to appreciate and celebrate life as it is - when it's good - that was most hard-hitting for me.

I leave you with the wise words of Mandrik, Yves' brother, the holy man:

"The strangers have shown us many wonders and divers inventions; but they have not shown us any surpassing insight into the human spirit. If it is possible for man to learn so deeply in one field of inquiry, all the while ignoring another, then I must urge you, my brethren, to take heed, for the worst of our sorrows is surely yet to come."

Reviewing detective novels is difficult. How do I convey what a page-turner it is, without resorting to cliches, but also without plot spoilers?

What I love about Elizabeth George, though, is not just her ability to spin a gripping tale, but her characters. All of us who read through series of police procedural novels, with the same detective and trusty sidekick, do so because we love to revisit those characters we've come to know and love. It's a little like watching a soap opera. EG is also blessed with convincing psychological insight into a wide range of personality types. I find myself believing in all her characters, particularly by this point in the series, when it's easier to forget that she's made the annoying error of having her main character be a member of the aristocracy (typical American view of the English!).

In this story, Lynley and Havers take on the investigation of a high-profile kidnapping case, which takes Havers to Wiltshire while Lynley stays behind in London. Add to these two story strands the perspectives of the parents of the kidnapped child, and 600 pages flies by. The strands come together well for a - what is it they say? - 'Thrilling denouement'!