I've been reviewing crime books on a monthly basis for over 11 years now (first for Time Out and then the Guardian) and I must confess there have been one or two occasions when, unimpressed by a title, I may have distractedly skipped the odd boring descriptive passage in order to file my review on time. However, I have always made it my duty to, more or less, read the whole book before reviewing it. As an author myself, I see this as an inherent contract between critic and writer, even though I have read several reviews of my own books which appeared to have been inspired more by the accompanying press release than by the actual book (a British regional press speciality).
Swedish crime writer Britt-Marie Mattsson's new novel Fruktans Makt (The Power of Fear) has however just suffered a fate worse than death. In a review by the critic, fellow author and poet Kristian Lundberg in the leading Swedish daily, Helsingborgs Dagblad, she learned that her book's plot was "predictable" and that the characterisations were one-dimensional. All part of day's work for any novelist, one supposes, but there was a problem: Mattsson had not actually written the novel in question. It had been signed up, on the strength of an outline, by her publishers, Piratforlaget, and listed on their catalogue, but the author, for personal reasons, hadn't yet completed or delivered it.
Needless to say, Lundberg has found himself in hot water. "The foundation of all journalism is credibility. This is also true of cultural journalism. We have therefore decided that Kristian Lundberg will no longer review books for Helsingborgs Dagblad," declared the paper's culture editor, Gunnar Bergdahl, who made an "unreserved apology" to Mattsson. The errant reviewer was however both less apologetic and frankly candid, telling Svensk Bokhandel magazine that he had "got worked up in advance about Britt-Marie Mattsson because I detest her so very greatly. But let's hope the book is published so I get the chance to say it for real." And some people still think writers and reviewers are all part of a jolly old back-scratching conspiracy!
Which mischievously reminds me of another true reviewing story: some 10 years ago, a crime critic of my acquaintance, who shall remain nameless, had just come out of a torrid affair with a book editor. Out of spite he tore to shreds in his column, for several months in succession, every novel the female editor in question had been involved in. Who said the book world was genteel?
