How We Solve Murders Exposes the Hollow Promise of Social Media Fame

The Thematic Claim: Fame Without Substance Is a Commodity, Not an Achievement

Richard Osman’s We Solve Murders builds its central critique of influencer culture around a deceptively simple irony: Andrew Fairbanks, a minor Instagram fitness guru, achieves the worldwide fame he always craved only after his death. The novel uses this paradox to argue that online notoriety is fleeting, transactional, and ultimately hollow—a commodity exploited by criminals, tolerated by a bored public, and pursued by ordinary people who mistake visibility for value.

Andrew Fairbanks: A Fifteen‑Minute Corpse

Andrew’s murder in the Atlantic—shot, tied to a rope, thrown overboard with a million‑dollar leather bag—gives him the front‑page coverage he never earned while alive. His selfie, shirtless and holding a Krusher Energy Drink, is plastered everywhere. Heart and fire emojis pile up. Yet by Wednesday, his name has already slipped down the rankings, displaced by a baseball star’s scandal and a beauty vlogger’s gaffe. Osman punctures the myth of lasting digital fame: Andrew becomes merely “Tragic Instagram influencer Andrew Fairbanks” for one day, then a footnote, a mention on a true‑crime podcast that may never materialise.

This arc establishes the novel’s first thematic point. Social media does not reward merit or even tragedy; it rewards novelty. Andrew’s murder is consumed as content—trending for a cycle, then forgotten. The satire is sharpest when the narrator notes that, had Andrew survived, he would have been looking for a manager to land protein‑bar deals and teeth‑whitening clinics. The same algorithm that briefly elevated him would have cycled on.

Bonnie Gregor: The Ordinary Dreamer Drawn into the Machine

Bonnie Gregor, a teaching assistant with 14,000 Instagram followers, embodies the aspirational side of influencer culture. She paints a pink toilet door, posts it with the hashtag #LooWithAView, and gradually builds a small but genuine community. Her stickers reading “I LOVE MY ______” and her earnest attempts to “spread a tiny bit of happiness” feel harmless at first. Yet Osman shows how quickly such innocence is commodified. Bonnie dreams of quitting her job; she visits Felicity Woollaston’s agency, desperate for guidance. When she receives a fake booking to São Paulo for a “organic paint” campaign worth £20,000, she weeps with joy—unaware that the offer is a front for money‑smuggling.

Bonnie’s story illustrates the exploitation at the heart of the influencer economy. She does not seek fame for its own sake; she wants economic freedom and validation. But the system that reaches out to her (via Vivid Viral Media Agency) is a criminal enterprise using influencers as unwitting couriers. Her “dream your dream” mantra becomes tragically naïve. Osman does not mock Bonnie—he treats her with genuine pathos—but he exposes how the same platforms that give ordinary people visibility also make them vulnerable.

Felicity Woollaston: The Unwitting Gatekeeper of a Criminal Enterprise

Felicity, a nearly‑retired talent agent whose clients included a disgraced ventriloquist and a panellist on Britain’s Favourite Biscuits, represents the old media world being overrun by the new. She does not understand influencers; she Googles “Vivid Viral Media Agency” and finds only her own address. Still, she accepts monthly payments, forwards emails, and stores pallets of Krusher Energy Drink in her office. She is not malicious, but her passivity makes her complicit. When Bonnie visits, Felicity cannot even tell her what “influencer” means in practice. She relies on her old maxims—“how long is a piece of string?”—while handling cash‑laundering logistics.

Felicity’s arc deepens the critique: the influencer industry does not merely reward the shallow; it actively obscures its own criminal underbelly. The physical products—XPlump Collagen Lip Gel, Bomb Squad Protein Balls, Krusher Energy Drink—are empty props, just as the “influencer” label is a mask for smuggling. Felicity’s ignorance is not innocence; it is willful neglect, and the novel suggests that the entire ecosystem runs on such neglect.

François Loubet: The Criminal Mastermind Who Exploits the System

The villain François Loubet explains the logic behind the scheme in a series of notes rewritten by ChatGPT to erase his personality. Influencers, he says, are the perfect money mules: they fly constantly with bulky luggage, attract no suspicion, and—crucially—are not already rich. They can be bought cheaply. Loubet’s voice is chillingly rational: “Famous people would be the answer … but they’re already rich.” The influencers with limited followers, by contrast, are “perfect couriers” because they have financial desperation and no reputation to lose.

This insight ties the theme together. Social‑media fame, in Loubet’s view, is simply a tool for moving illicit cash. The “brand deals” and “campaigns” are window dressing. Andrew Fairbanks died because he stumbled into something he should not have seen—but the system that recruited him was already designed to use and discard people like him. The novel refuses to let readers feel superior: we all participate in the attention economy that makes such exploitation possible.

Steve Wheeler’s Outsider Perspective: The Human Counterweight

Retired detective Steve Wheeler, the moral centre of the book, observes the Andrew Fairbanks case from his small English town. He notes that Fairbanks had only 18,000 followers, which seems low for a “guru.” He finds it odd that a viral video agency would be based in Letchworth Garden City. He sees the inconsistency—but he says, “Someone else’s problem. Someone else’s murder.” Steve represents the reader who knows something is wrong but is initially content to scroll past. His eventual decision to join Amy Wheeler’s detective agency, prompted by a conversation with his dead wife via Dictaphone, signals a move from passive observation to active engagement. The name they choose—“We Solve Murders”—is deliberately unfashionable, a rebuke to the flashy branding of agencies like Vivid Viral Media.

Symbols of Fame and Authenticity

• Krusher Energy Drink: The purple‑glowing product that fills Felicity’s office and appears in Andrew’s selfie. It is a hollow signifier—a brand with no substance, tied to a murder cover‑up. It represents the manufactured glamour of influencer marketing.
• Dictaphone: Steve’s old‑fashioned recording device, used to talk to his late wife. Unlike social media, which broadcasts to millions, the Dictaphone is private, intimate, and honest. It stands for genuine connection versus performative engagement.
• Leather holdall: The bag containing nearly a million dollars, left on the yacht. It is the concrete object that the digital economy tries to make invisible: dirty money. Its materiality contrasts with the ephemeral likes and shares that Andrew craved.
• Trouble the cat: Steve’s feline companion, a creature utterly indifferent to fame. Trouble’s presence grounds Steve in the real world, reminding him—and the reader—that a life lived online is no life at all.

Complexity and Contradiction

Osman does not simply condemn social media. Bonnie Gregor’s small community is real; her stickers spread “a tiny bit of happiness.” Felicity, despite her confusion, is not evil. Rosie D’Antonio is a global celebrity who uses her fame for good, investing in Amy’s agency because she believes in human connection rather than brand sponsorship. The novel acknowledges that platforms can foster genuine support—but it insists that the economic engine driving them is predatory.

The central contradiction is that Andrew Fairbanks finally becomes famous only when he stops being a person and becomes a story. The system rewards tragedy, not talent. And the characters who thrive are those who, like Steve, remain anchored to the real: a bench in Axley, a lost cat, a notebook with a New Forest pony on the cover.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does Andrew Fairbanks’s post‑death fame illustrate the novel’s critique of viral culture?
   Andrew’s fame peaks for one day, then fades as other scandals emerge. Osman shows that online attention is a zero‑sum game: the public consumes his murder as content, then moves on. His death does not create a legacy; it merely generates temporary traffic.

2. What role does Bonnie Gregor play in the theme of influencer exploitation?
   Bonnie represents the aspirational influencer who dreams of quitting her teaching‑assistant job. The fake booking to São Paulo for £20,000 exposes how criminals exploit such dreams. Her innocence is not ridiculed, but the novel warns that the influencer economy preys on financial vulnerability.

3. How does Felicity Woollaston’s ignorance serve as a critique of the industry?
   Felicity operates an agency she does not understand, blindly forwarding emails and accepting payments. Her passivity reflects how the traditional talent‑management world has been co‑opted by shadowy digital enterprises. She is complicit through neglect, not malice.

4. In what way does the Krusher Energy Drink function as a symbol?
   The purple drink is a product with no intrinsic value, used as a prop in Andrew’s selfie and stacked in Felicity’s office. It represents the hollow branding that masks criminal activity—a shiny package for dirty money.

5. Why does Steve Wheeler’s move from observer to participant matter for the theme?
   Steve initially treats the Andrew case as “someone else’s business.” By joining Amy’s agency and naming it “We Solve Murders,” he commits to direct action over passive scrolling. The novel suggests that resisting the culture of curated detachment requires choosing the messy, real work of investigation.