PD James' Adam Dalgliesh was no Poirot or Miss Marple but will be missed dearly

I remember the first time I read a book by PD James. I was 14 or 15 years old and desperately looking for a replacement for Agatha Christie, whose every book I had read at least four times each. So, muttering darkly about favourite authors who do selfish things like grow old and die without a thought for fans bereft of further books, I trundled off to my favourite second-hand bookshop and found what I thought would do: a book by PD James. I hated it.

James' Adam Dalgliesh, policeman and poet, was nothing like Christie's Hercule Poirot or even Miss Marple. He was cold, reserved, private. The writing was dense, with endless paragraphs about architecture and poetry. The author sneered at just about everything. And the corpse was no jolly body in the library. The book was no fun at all. So I shoved it into the back of my bookcase, swearing never to touch PD James again.

I remember the second time I read a book by PD James. I was 41 or 42 years old and desperately looking for more crime writers to read. I'd become hooked to crime fiction a few years earlier and had steadily worked my way through the backlists of all the usual suspects – Donna Leon, Raymond Chandler, Andrea Camilleri, Elizabeth George, the gory gang from Scandinavia; and some never-would-have-suspected them-of-that types – Jane Langton, Nancy Atherton, Lindsey Davis. By then, waiting for each author's next book was all I had left, and I was deeply frustrated. Meanwhile, one crime-loving friend after another had fainted with shock and horror when I said I had read just one PD James and refused to read another. But now I was truly desperate. PD James would have to do.

I can't say I was excited when I finally paid for the James titles I'd ordered. Apprehensive was more like it. The book was delivered on a Saturday, and Saturday is my favourite day to read crime novels. It's when I can stay up all night in my pursuit of she or he whodunnit, without worrying about being late for work the next day. Had I had any other crime novel with me, I'd never have wasted my Saturday on PD James. But I hadn't. So I thought, oh well. Just begin.

On Sunday, I woke up at noon. By my side was my laptop, open. On the screen was an online bookstore's webpage. 'Thank you for your order' it said. And I remembered: as daylight slowly crept through the window after I'd finished the book, I'd bought every available novel by PD James. I love the books.

Adam Dalgliesh is cold, reserved, private. Nothing like other detectives I have met in the pages of a book. But that's his professional image. Beneath it is an empathetic, special man.

The writing is dense, with endless paras about architecture and poetry. But focus a little. Savour it. And see how James's particular image of England is created.

The author sneers at everything. Yes, she does. She sneers at everything that needs to be sneered at: bureaucratese, political correctness without true understanding, poor aesthetics, consumer culture, education that's about attending classes, but not learning.
The corpses are no jolly bodies in the library. No, they are real people, done to death by violence, deprived of life without their consent.

The books are no fun at all – depending on your idea of fun. There isn't much of a sense of humour or even a sense of excitement in James's books. But they're gripping and they keep hold of you to the end and a few days beyond.

James wrote 14 Adam Dalgliesh books. The last was published in 2008, when she was in her late eighties. She passed away at the age of 94 on November 27 this year. There'll be no more Adam Dalgliesh now.

That's the problem with authors. They're selfish. They grow old and die, without a thought for their fans bereft of further books.