Lin Anderson and Alex Gray are used to murdering people, and on Friday night they toasted their victims in prosecco (which was really water, or so they claimed) to mark the start of Bloody Scotland, their ‘baby’ in the ‘Harrogate of the North.’ (That’s Stirling for the uninitiated.)
They ran through all the reasons for a Scottish crimefest, and then called in Ian Rankin to consider the merits of them, and he seemed to think it was a sound idea. Hard to be sure, because he mumbled a bit from time to time.
But it is a good idea; this ‘weekend to die for.’ The Albert Halls were packed on Friday evening when Lin and Alex and Ian provided the arguments for yet another crime festival. Something for a country with fewer spinsters and tiny gentlemen, and ‘with a bit more gas’ to put it bluntly.
Scotland has plenty of places not yet used in fiction. Everywhere is fair game. And crime is not subsidised or sponsored, so it has to sell. It has to be good. Ian Rankin said he wanted to write what he thought his father might want to read. He himself grew up on Alistair MacLean (well, who didn’t?), but pointed out that all of his books were set outside Scotland.
When they opened the floor to questions the audience was unusually reticent until Barry Forshaw set the ball rolling by wondering if we – they – need to be worried about the Scandinavians.
Yes, they do need to be concerned about the Scandinavians. Especially beware the ones in Stirling this weekend.
Ian moaned about the difference in television hours between Rebus and the Killing, and made the obvious statement that Branagh is Branagh. As for himself he prefers the second Wallander, which is probably Krister Henriksson.
After discussing how it’s harder to murder people with obscure poisons these days, the audience got friskier, culminating in one writer advertising his own crime novels and asking Ian for advice on publishing and ‘how to become a little more rich.’
The move on to sockpuppets was probably unavoidable, although not everyone knew what they are. But as Ian said about himself and his Scottish crime writing peers, ‘we’re the gang.’
This gang drank – another – toast to Bloody Scotland, signed books in the BS bookshop, and then swanned off to a grand dinner at the Highland Hotel.