Of these five writers I have read either all or at least ten of their books, and they choose themselves: Raymond Chandler, nonpareil, for his language, his wit, his Los Angeles; John D. MacDonald, for his “coloured” novels, for Travis McGhee and Meyer, for the Busted Flush and all who shipped out in her from the waterfront in Fort Lauderdale; Elmore Leonard for his unmatched genius for telling stories and people in dialogue; Henning Mankell for Inspector Kurt Wallander and for opening our eyes to the sorrowful realities of post-Palme Sweden; Stieg Larsson, maybe the best of them all, who died at 50 leaving three huge novels about a female investigator called Lisbeth Salander whose exploits will be being devoured long after the remorseless deep closes over the head of James Bond. Sébastien Japrisot was a narrative genius, and Arnaldur Indridason is one. Karin Fossum is a poet of atmosphere. And if there are no British crime writers here, it's enough that everyone else loves them, and I haven't read ten of any of them.

As chairman of Harvill Press, Christopher MacLehose published many crime writers in translation

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