This is a classic example of what one critic, perhaps unkindly, called ‘anxiety porn.’ Rosie and Chad Lowan are a young New York couple, she a writer with a moderately successful first novel, but struggling with the second: he is an actor, yearning for the big break. Bit parts in commercials and the role of Third Witch in an adventurous off-Broadway production of The Scottish Play help with the bills, but the couple are just about solvent. Then, fortune seems to smile on them. They have been providing end-of-life care to an Ivan, an elderly journalist who owns an apartment in The Windermere, an exclusive and historic building – think The Dakota, and you are close.

When the old man dies and (ignoring his daughter) leaves the apartment to Rosie and Chad  it looks as if all their Christmases have come at once, but this is a psychological thriller, so we know things are going to turn nasty in short order. The apartment has, apparently, seen its shared of tragedies over the decades and, before long, strange things begin to happen.The Windermere has, shall we say, a lurid history. Built around the shell of a church destroyed by fire in 1920 (but retaining the gargoyles) it has been the scene of several tragedies. In 1932 its architect and builder, ruined by the Great Depression, dived to his death from a high window. Suicides by various methods and defenestrations, while neither regular nor frequent, have lent a certain ‘character’ to the building.

Inexplicable things start to happen to Rosie. She sees a strange little boy, presumably the spectre of a child who died in the elevator shaft; the imperturbable and ever-present doorman, Abi, although suavely polite, exudes menace; Rosie’s immediate neighbours, Charles and Ella seem kind and gentle, but what are they hiding? And why, on the residents’ internet forum, has the thread Ghosts of the Windermere been deleted by the admins?

When Ivan’s daughter, presumably still smarting at losing out on her inheritance, is found dead, hanging from a beam in her photography studio, la merde frappe le ventilateur, as the French probably don’t say. It doesn’t help that Rosie and her editor, Max, are the ones to find the corpse. Apart from a few chapters which are narrated by a woman who lived in the apartment now occupied by Rosie and Chad, Rosie is the principal narrator. and CriFi convention means that if this is still the case half way through the book, then it is highly unlikely that Rosie is a wrong ‘un. So who are the bad guys? Cui bono?

Frequent readers of this kind of psychological thriller will know that only one thing is certain, and that is that most of the supporting actors are either not who they say they are, or have evil intent towards the central character. So it is here, but you can make your own deductions as the pages fly by. I confess that I have a ‘view’ of modern American CriFi. I am a huge fan of, to name but two, Harlan Coben and Jonathan Kellerman. Each book is polished like a gemstone, slickly plotted and with authentic dialogue. Formulaic? Yes, but – like the ‘secret’ recipes of Coca Cola and Kentucky Fried, it works. Every single time. This novel fits that bill perfectly. What we have here is a readable and engaging thriller with surprises lurking at every bend in the road. If it sticks to the rules of the game, then I am not complaining. It is published by Park Row Books and is available now.