Detective novels are a difficult concept to grasp, at some level. Why do we purposely seek out the sort of thing – violence, grisly murders, sex crimes, blood and viscera – we would do anything to avoid in real life? Then there are the tropes of the genre itself that work both for and against it, from the hyperconfident, competent yet over-empathic medical examiner to the tortured detective from a broken home and, more tellingly, the killer’s psychopathy. The majority of all murders are crimes of opportunity, but reading detective novels you’d think it’s Dahmer or bust. Personally I usually find it hard to muster the patience for these stereotypes, so it’s a good thing In the Woods manages to avoid a bunch of them. Sadly, it has a host of other problems instead.
In the mid eighties, during a hot summer in the small community of Knocknaree, just outside of Dublin, three children go missing. Only one, a boy named Adam Ryan, ever resurfaces, his shoes filled with blood and his memory gone. Twenty odd years later that boy – who goes by his middle name, Rob – is working as a homicide detective. He and his partner Cassie are called back to investigate the murder of twelve year old Katy Devlin. The investigation starts of with a promising lead that soon devolves into a tangled mess of dead ends, and Rob’s old life begins to haunt him.
There are many elements at play here that mostly work. Rob and Cassie have no idea where to even start looking. The Devlin family are a dysfunctional bunch, with a neurotic mother doped up on valium and a father who focuses all his anger on a planned motorway running across an archeological dig, and two remaining sisters with the sort of dysfunctional fragility that is almost cartoonish. The town of Knocknaree is close-knit and has plenty of skeletons in its collective closet that Rob knows about, but can’t address as he is the outsider, the one who left. Then there’s the archeologists at the dig, a mixed bag of neuroses and varying degrees of social awkwardness. The investigation jumps from one branch to the other. This is not a criticism; on the contrary, it makes for a realistic and exciting plot that twists and meanders and leads to nowhere. Parts of the mystery remain tantalisingly unresolved, without leaving the reader dissatisfied. So far, so good.
There are a few problems with the novel, though. French does plenty of research, but she clearly knows nothing about ballet (one does not casually wear pointe shoes around the ballet studio because pointe shoes are instruments of torture first and shoes second). I figured out whodunnit about a third of the way in and trust me, I’m as dumb as a pile of bricks when it comes to guessing the killer’s identity (I’d be a terrible detective). This isn’t as much of an issue as you would expect; seeing whether your predictions are correct and witnessing detectives come to the same conclusion is still satisfying, but at the same time it feels like carelessness on the author’s part. There’s also a massive gaping plot hole that I can’t believe is never addressed. Suffice to say that a manipulative character who obsessively exploits every bit of information they get their hands on is curiously silent about the most important titbit.
The novel’s bigger problem, though, is its main character. “I am intensely aware, by the way, that this story does not show me in a particularly flattering light”, Rob opines at a certain point. “But before you decide to despise me too thoroughly, consider this: [antagonist] fooled you too. You had as good a chance as I did.” Which, I’m sorry, but that simply isn’t true. Rob just can’t stand the thought that he messed up: if he is to blame, then at the very least, so are other people.
Is Rob meant to be a sympathetic guy? He’s articulate, compassionate, intelligent and competent, which is good, but he also has a startling lack of agency. He’s the sort of guy who blames others for his misfortunes; when, at a certain point, he initiates sex with another character, he quickly finds a way to blame his regret on that person, and it’s made clear that this is hardly the first time he’s done this. Frankly, it makes him shockingly insufferable. It’s interesting, I’ll give it that, but also tremendously disconcerting (especially, having read the follow up, and knowing that not only does Rob blame his sex partner; they blame themselves, too). Reading this, I am genuinely curious how French intended him to come across.
All in all In the Woods is a pretty solid read, but I’m not sure French wanted the main character to be more offensive than the actual antagonist. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to know.
